Fic- H50 "Distant Shores" (1/3)
Title: Distant Shores
Author: kristen999
Recipient: delicatale
Characters/Pairing: Steve/Danny, Chin
Word Count: 23k
Rating: R
Warnings: Sailor language, ethnic slurs associated with the era, and war violence.
Summary: WWII Pacific Theater based AU. Danny's left dumbstruck with the trust suddenly hoisted onto his shoulders. He wants to ask the guy if he's lost his mind, but then again, frogmen wade out in the middle of the ocean with explosives strapped around their waists, so McGarrett is obviously already bonkers. But for some reason Danny simply nods when asked to join the team and the lieutenant smiles at him in return.
Also on On A03
Written for the h50_holidayswap
Author's Notes There was an immense amount of research involved in this undertaking; however, I am not a historian, so there will probably be some inaccuracies and errors for creative license reasons.
I owe so much love to my wonderful betas! Thank you mischief5 for all your help throughout this process. From the random e-mails to the long discussions. Without you hon, I'm not sure if I would have made it! And huge thanks to esteefee for her pom-pom waving, encouragement, and wonderful suggestions. You guys are amazing.
Also hugs to those on my cheerleading squad! You know who you are!
Now with beautiful cover art by pluxaplong
***
Water gently laps the shore while Danny takes a drag off one of his Luckies, blowing out a puff of smoke. There's only one day left at port before it's full speed ahead to next set of islands. Too bad, Majuro's kind of nice. Fresh fruit and coconut milk beats C-rations any day.
He's longed for dry land and curls his toes into the white sand while listening to his transistor radio.
"This is the Allied Radio Network, May 22nd, 1944. In American League news, Hal Newhouser of the Detroit Tigers was traded to..."
He doesn't want to hear about trades right now, not after the Cardinals beat the Browns in the World Series, so he switches off the radio. He doesn't even remember what five-cent hotdogs at the ballpark smell or taste like anymore. The Marshall Islands are peaceful, but it's not Beach Heaven. He even misses the annoying seagulls.
From here, he can see the Colhan sail into port, the hulking destroyer dwarfing his baby. There's a whole night of ahead of him and he'll spend it getting drunk and re-reading his letter from home for the thousandth time-yet Danny can't take his eyes off the USS Barr.
It may only be a tiny fast transport vessel, but it's been his life the last eighteen months.
And the foreseeable future.
***
He can't turn his back for two seconds let alone two days. Danny blows his whistle, the shrilling sound ushering six seamen to deck, their eyes wide in trepidation.
"I'm gone for forty-eight hours! Two days! Away from humming engines, groaning rivets, and the collective smell of two hundred of my closest buddies. And what did I say before debarking? Anyone? Anyone at all?"
No one dares raise his hand and Danny takes a deep breath. "I said I don't want to see a single new scratch. No dings or dents on my baby. And what did I discover when I came aboard?" He doesn't wait for an answer, waving at the long gouges beneath his feet. "Did you guys drag knives across the deck or play hockey? I want these scratches repaired and polished before we start loading cargo!"
No one hops to and Danny blows his pipe again, shouting, "Come on? What are you waiting for? Roust out and shine, roust out and shine!"
The boys scatter, nearly running into each other before getting to work.
"Hey, Boats! Didn't dry land do anything for that grumpy disposition?"
Danny rolls his eyes at the familiar Kansas drawl and watches the human beanpole wander his way over. "It did until I returned to see what those rascals did to my ship!"
"You need to ease up, Williams."
"Oh, do I, Erwin? You're the gunner's mate. You're here to shoot things. I'm the boatswain's mate. Ergo, every surface inch of this ship is my responsibility. Rigging, deck equipment, bo-"
"All right, all right. I get it. This ain't basic."
He doesn't feel like arguing. Erwin's a good kid and they get along pretty well even if they're complete opposites. Danny drags his gaze toward the boys scrambling around repairing the damage to the deck, not a single one old enough to drink. He knows Jenkins and O'Connor lied about their ages; both are only sixteen.
"We still got a couple days before...where are we headin' again?"
"Biak," Danny says, shaking his head.
"Hey, all I do is blow stuff up," Erwin snorts, pulling out a stick of gum to chew. "I don't care where we're goin' next. You're the one that takes those frogmen to shore. I don't get those guys. You have to be nuts to face the Japs with nothin' but swim trunks and a knife."
"Well, it's my job to get those loons to the beach and back. Without damaging my other baby," Danny says, wondering if he should inspect the landing craft one more time.
"Speaking of...did ya know we're picking up UDT-7?"
Danny doesn't really care. That's what they do, transport different underwater demolition teams around. When they came to the Marshall Islands, it was to re-stock and switch out personnel. "Yeah, so?"
Erwin's freckled face busts out into a huge grin. "You didn't hear the scuttlebutt from last week? When they were transferring some Tetrytol from the Stringham onto the Clemson , a fire broke out, spreading to both ships. Everyone started jumpin' overboard, thinking it was gonna explode, but get this. Unit Seven stayed on deck and threw the burning explosives overboard and saved both ships."
Great. Frogmen were all daredevils, but nooooo, that's not enough. He has to be assigned to the really crazy ones.
"Tetrytol is fucking volatile; I hate having so much of it on board," Danny growls, caressing the railing of his ship protectively.
Erwin watches Danny pet the rail and shakes his head. "You know what, Boats? I think there's a reason why you and the frogmen work so well together."
"Yeah? Why's that?"
"You're all crackerjacks."
Danny doesn't get a chance to chase Erwin away before the deck officer rounds the corner, barking orders about today's supply transfer.
***
It takes twelve hours to stow all the ammunition, fuel, and general wares. His back hurts, both knees ache, and his ears still ring from blowing his pipe so much. How hard is it to get people stack things in a certain order?
After doing all the safety checks, Danny makes quick work of a full plate of stew and potato hash in the mess, then retires to his quarters.
Lying on his bunk, he flips on the radio, closing his eyes to Benny Goodman's clarinet. Sighing, he traces his finger around the red bathing suit of the pin-up plastered over the matt-white painted deck head. "Guess it's just you and me, doll."
"You talkin' to Betty again, Boats?" Erwin asks from the bottom bunk.
"That's Ms. Grable to you, asshole. Now, please shut up so I can have some pleasant dreams."
"Just don't snore; you sound like my Aunt Helga."
Danny ignores him, his eyes drifting close, the thrum of the boiler room sending him to sleep.
***
He wakes up before dawn, the nagging need to do a quick check of things before the call for morning chow. He pulls on his Dungaree trousers, steps into his shoes, throws on his blue chambray shirt, and grabs his cap. After such a large supply transfer, he wants to make sure the ship didn't get too banged up. If he doesn't, the first lieutenant will give him an earful if there's any damage.
Danny climbs the ladders two levels to the deck and spots someone climbing around his landing boat. "Hey! What the hell do you think you're doing?"
The seaman doesn't pay him any attention. The guy accosting his baby is shirtless with dark hair and all long lean muscle, both biceps covered in tattoos. "Are you deaf or just dumb? Excuse me, Curious George! Get off my landing craft!"
"Your landing craft?" the guy asks.
"You're damned straight. Now get off her or I'll-"
"You'll what?"
"Excuse me?"
"Well, it sounds like you're threatening me. I want to know what you'll do if I don't comply?"
Now the guy's staring at Danny with a goofy smile, like this whole situation is amusing.
"You're out of uniform," Danny counters but can't continue ranting without knowing who he's yelling at.
“Says who? Since you haven’t identified yourself.”
"Danny Williams, Boatswain's Mate. Which doesn't change the fact that you're not authorized to be on this equipment," Danny growls.
"Actually I am." The guy jumps down, wiping his tanned hands. "Lieutenant Steve McGarrett. Normally the rank goes before the name. Just in case you're confused."
Shit.
"Yes, sir. I'm well aware of that, sir," Danny grits out and stands at attention.
McGarrett just stands there smirking and Danny really wishes the guy would just chew him out already. Although in all fairness, how was Danny to know he was yelling at an officer? The guy's clad only in olive swim trunks and dog tags for crying out loud!
"I was just checking out your LCP," McGarrett remarks offhandedly. "She's been nicely maintained. The deck compartment doesn't have any damage."
"Considering I have to haul frogmen back and forth on a daily basis, call me crazy, but I thought it was a good idea to keep the landing craft in decent working order."
"Good," McGarrett answers, ignoring his thick air of sarcasm. "I consider the LCP an important part of our equipment."
"Our?" Danny can't help how the word spills out of his mouth.
"I command UDT-7. And I want this LCP and you as the boatswain for my platoon."
"You want what?"
Where does this guy get off singling out Danny and his baby for such an assignment? During each mission, members of the demolition team gather on deck, grab a boat and her boys, and go out. That's how it is. Platoons are not assigned to specific landing craft.
"And I want a maintenance log kept daily," McGarrett continues.
"I already have one. It's kept with the other ship's logs."
"Really?"
"Yes, really." Because Danny's didn't just fall off the back of a turnip truck, thank you very much.
"Good. But I still want you to do a full inspection of the rest of the boats and LCPs."
"Aye, aye, sir."
They stand there, mirroring each other's crossed arms.
McGarrett clears his throat, breaking the silence, his face all business. "Well, I've got to study some aerial maps. We've got a mission tomorrow and I'll need you at the briefing."
"You want me at the briefing?"
"You're part of the team, Williams. We work together."
"But I have my duties to complete, including the inspections you just asked me to do. I can't just drop what I'm doing."
"Fair enough. I'll ensure you get notes and I'll arrange it with your CO that you're to attend all our briefings for now on."
Danny's left dumbstruck with the trust suddenly hoisted onto his shoulders. He wants to ask the guy if he's lost his mind, but then again, frogmen wade out in the middle of the ocean with explosives strapped around their waists, so McGarrett is obviously already bonkers. But for some reason Danny simply nods and the lieutenant smiles at him in return.
McGarrett grabs his shoes sitting on the deck, squeezes the water out, and stuffs his feet into them.
"Hey, wait!" Danny yells when McGarrett turns to leave. "What were you doing earlier? Before climbing around my boat like a monkey? Or do you do all your inspections in trunks?"
"I went for a swim."
"We're sailing at ten knots."
"We were at a full stop during an engine check. I wanted to do a little recon of the water," McGarrett says, still sporting an idiotic grin. "I'll catch you later."
"Um, yeah. Catch you later," Danny answers, wondering what the hell just happened.
***
Apparently, keeping detailed maintenance records isn't enough for McGarrett, and Danny spends the rest of his day pulling apart landing craft. He starts with the large rubber boats, the ones for six and eight men teams, searching for wear in the seams and the patch jobs from repairing holes in the rubber.
Then he moves to the large personnel landing craft - these are the big boys, the ones that can carry a platoon of twenty men. He starts inspecting the one Curious George had jumped around in. And what was up with the guy claiming Danny as his platoon's personal sailor?
Crazy, deranged frogman.
Danny checks where the armor plates attach to the wood and then ensures the ramp and inner safety door are functional.
By the time he files all the paperwork again, it's past the bell for dinner mess and he's last in line.
The mess cook gives Danny a sympathetic expression, scraping the bottom of the pan, and dumping the last of the meatloaf onto his plate.
"Maybe I should've stuck to C-rations," he mumbles and takes a seat in the corner to eat.
Shipboard radio news drones on about the Germans' surrender in Crimea, and Danny has to wait for the announcer to tell him where the hell that is. Oh, Russia. Sometimes, he forgets the Commies are fighting the Nazis, too.
He clutches his gut with a groan as the meatloaf sinks like a stone in his belly. Danny decides to hit the sack early, skipping poker night, and stumbles toward his quarters.
And nearly runs into a tree.
"Hey! Watch it," he grumbles.
"Maybe you ought to try paying attention to where you're walking? I hear looking up works really well."
Danny has to stop himself from mouthing off when he realizes that said tree is Lt. McGarrett. He looks different with his uniform on. "Oh, it's you." McGarrett quirks an amused eyebrow and Danny hastily adds, "Sir."
Ignoring the slip-up, McGarrett hands Danny a folder. "Here's the briefing on the area where we'll be landing tomorrow. Review and memorize it."
"You know that I just finished a sixteen hour shift," Danny begins, but McGarrett's looking at him like he's speaking Yiddish. "Of course, I'll set everything to memory. Sir."
"Good. We're heading out at 0200."
"In," Danny checks his watch. "Four hours?"
"The last I did the math."
"What? Since you're part fish, you don't require sleep?"
"Not really," McGarrett says.
Danny wants to ask him if he's related to Aquaman, and if so, could he ask his buddy Superman to return to Earth and kick Hitler's ass? But Danny keeps his mouth shut and rubs a hand over his face.
"Hey. You okay?" McGarrett asks, going from gung-ho frogman to human being. "You don't look so good."
"The chow's not sitting well with me."
"You mean the corned beef? That was great."
Danny really, really wants to punch McGarrett. "I'm sure in the officer's mess, you got corned beef. But that's not what the crew's cook slopped on my plate."
"Do you want me to find the corpsman?"
"No, I'm fine, nothing that sleep won't cure. Oh wait, I can't count on that, so maybe if you would move, I could hit the rack, memorize the mission briefing, and catch a few Zs."
"If you're sure."
"I'm good," Danny insists, and he takes a second to enjoy the fact that another person genuinely seems concerned about him. Even if said person is blocking the path to his bunk.
"All right." But McGarrett hangs around a little longer, like he's assessing Danny and decides that everything is satisfactory. "I'll see you above deck in the morning."
Danny finally drags his feet into his quarters and settles into his bunk, flipping on a flashlight to study the map.
"Hey, Boats. You still up?"
Danny wonders what he has to do to get a moment's peace. "Since I just climbed into my rack, yeah, Erwin."
"Did you hear that one of the platoons has a Jap Frogman?"
"What the hell are you talking about?"
"I ain't kidding. I saw him doin' drills on deck."
"Erwin. You're from Kansas. Have you ever seen a Jap before?"
"No, but..."
"Then how do you know what one looks like?"
"Well, you'll get to see for yourself, since he's the new Lieutenant's XO."
That's got Danny's attention and he sits up straighter. "McGarrett's?"
"Yeah."
"Since you're part of the ship's sewing circle, what's his story?"
"The LT?"
Oh, for crying out loud, Danny wants to scream. "Yes, numb nuts."
"McGarrett's real gung ho. He started on UDT-2. Can you believe that? He was on one of the first underwater demolition units. Then he actually turned down teaching other teams and got put on UDT-7."
"He turned down a fat cat's posting?"
"Yep."
Not only is McGarrett crazy, Danny thinks, but he's probably one of those guys who was in the Navy before the war.
"Did you know he was at Truk?" Erwin rattles on like he's smitten with the guy. "Heard his team went out once just as their transport got hit. But McGarrett still led his guys without support fire and did the recon even though the Japs were shelling them from the beach. Sounds like he's got balls of steel! You're in for a hell of a ride, Boats."
Danny's so dead. He should probably write out his will now. Except he has a map to study and a mission tonight. And no, he didn't sign-up to be McGarrett's personal boatswain, but he's damn well going to do his job and do it well.
***
Steve doesn't actually hit the rack before missions, in order to keep the briefing details sharp and in focus. Sleep is for afterward. Either he'll catch a few hours, or he'll have nothing to worry about if things end badly.
His routine varies. Gear checks, then reading a book or doing one of his crosswords. It's always a solitary experience, sitting quietly in his bunk or out on deck somewhere. He doesn't exert himself physically, in order to conserve energy, but tonight he'll stretch his legs. Take a walk around the newest ship.
The Barr is like all other fast transports. Small complement, able to outrun most of the large clunky destroyers, and give his team support with her guns and people.
Steve chuckles to himself; yeah, this one has an interesting crew. Especially Williams. Most enlisted ask how high when Steve tells them to jump. But not this guy. Boatswain's mates are always uptight loud mouths. Makes them good at what they do, but Williams-he's a real firecracker. Probably responds well to pressure, and Steve needs a guy like him.
Steve cranes his neck, searches the stars, watching the half-moon over the ocean.
It's almost time.
***
Steve trusts every member of his team to have his back, to get the job done. But he trusts Chin Ho Kelly even more. Steve is honest with Chin, sharing his uncertainties and asking for second opinions. He doesn't do that with anyone else.
"What's your biggest worry?" he asks him.
Chin gets a thoughtful look about him. "The beaches aren't rocky enough. And those hills? The machine gun nests have the high ground, but the darkness should keep us out of sight. "
Steve braces against the bulkhead, the ship shuddering as she fires her heavy guns. "Agreed. The group's been pounding the shore at irregular intervals so the Japanese won't be on to us, but I asked the skipper to pound the shore a little extra."
"That'll help," Chin answers, grabbing a paintbrush and sighing a little. "Try not to squirm too much this time, brah."
Steve grits his jaw. "Press down harder or it'll tickle."
Chin snorts, applying the paint to Steve's torso as Steve resists laughing. He doesn't budge as Chin draws another black mark around his fourth rib.
The bristles hit a particularly sensitive spot just as Williams bounds over and stops dead in his tracks. "Whoa, um...I'm sorry, but I...uh..."
"At ease," Steve tells him, although clearly Williams was never at attention. In fact, he's staring at Steve slack jawed. "Something the matter?"
"Other than the fact that you're having lines painted on you?"
Steve chuckles and Chin gives him a dirty look for screwing up his stroke. "It's kind of a new method we picked up from UDT-3. Have you seen string reconnaissance yet?"
"String reconnaissance? Sorry, all I see is the outline for a new tattoo, although I don't know why you'd want to look like a bumble bee."
Chin bursts out in laughter, dripping paint on the floor and drawing Williams' attention from the mark Chin was drawing below Steve's navel.
"The lines are painted every six inches so we can gauge our depth in the water," Steve explains.
"That makes sense, but I don't see how string plays a part in it?"
"We use fishing line tied off with knots at a regular distances, letting us know how much line's been played out by which knot is in our hand," Chin explains, grabbing a cloth to clean up the paint. "Once the fishing line is anchored at a known point, we use the distances with those from the beach to tabulate the underwater beach contours and obstructions."
Williams stares at Chin in contemplation and snorts, "You're definitely not Japanese. Sir."
"Not since the last time I checked," Chin answers, obviously used to the ridiculous misconception. "I'm Hawaiian. And yes, a lot of us serve."
Williams nods. "I look forward to working with you, sir."
"BM Danny Williams, this is my XO. Lt JG Chin Ho Kelly," Steve says.
Danny squares his shoulders, giving a salute. Chin gives a halfhearted one in return, which puts Williams at ease enough to ask. "You're a Junior Lieutenant, sir?"
"You sayin' I'm too old, Boats?" Chin asks with a smile. "I was a CPO and got promoted after Pearl. Let's say there was a shortage of experienced officers there for a while."
Williams grimaces.
Steve checks his watch and all pleasantries disappear. "We've got twenty minutes. Chin, I'll map you up."
Steve doesn't dismiss Williams, and he can feel the man's eyes on him, watching his every move. Steve takes the brush, dips it in the can of paint, Chin quirking a curious eyebrow at him.
"Did you memorize the terrain?" Steve directs his question at his platoon's newest member.
"You mean that chicken scratch? Yes, sir. Judging by the random squiggly lines, I'd say we have our work cut out for us."
"That's why we do this job," Steve tells him.
***
The landing craft's motor hums along as Steve squeezes between both rows of men, slapping their backs as he heads to the bow. UDT-7 disembarks in five landing craft, twenty frogmen to a boat. The destroyer's big guns have been shelling the shore off and on for hours, allowing them to slip in under the cover of night in between bombardments.
Williams pushes up his helmet to wash the spray off his face and adjusts his flak jacket. He's like a mini-tank ready to roll into battle. "We're ten minutes from the drop off."
"Anchor eight hundred meters from shore," Steve orders. "We'll signal when we need a pickup. The enemy's buried in the hills, so the LCP should be safe from fire."
"And if I don't see a signal?"
"You'll see one."
"I'll see one, he says. Okay and do you have an estimated completion time for when I should start worrying about grabbing you guys?"
"Four hours max. Don't look for us. I don't want to risk missing your position. My men will find you if they get injured or get into trouble."
"Aye, aye, sir." Williams turns to his mate and gunner, issuing orders.
Steve does a quick equipment check. His coils of fishing line are attached to loops sewn to his swimming trunks, along with three red grease pencils, his knife, and his flashlight. He tugs on the writing board hanging around his neck by a lanyard.
"You've checked your supplies like three times already," Williams says coming up behind him. "If you keep messing with everything, you're bound to break something. I'm just saying."
"Have you been keeping count?" Steve asks.
"Your fidgeting makes me nervous," Williams grumbles.
Steve laughs. "We're headed to a beach with thousands of Japanese troops and I'm making you nervous?"
"That about sums it up,” Williams answers glumly.
"I'll keep that in mind for the future,” Steve tells him.
Williams gnaws on his bottom lip, visibly fighting to keep himself in check, and any other time, Steve would find it fun to test the guy's limits. But not now.
They putter along a while and Williams checks the stars with his sextant then his compass before consulting his chart. He orders the helmsman to kill the engines and looks over at Steve, giving him the all clear.
Steve nods, then he and his platoon slip on their fins and pair off with their swim buddies. Giving the thumbs up to his men, Steve goes over the side of the boat, Chin splashing into the ocean after him.
Steve treads in place until his entire team is in the water and then gives them the hand signal to begin.
***
All five platoons surface swim, fanning out to cover three miles of coastline. Steve actually loves this part.
It's all about finding the rhythm of motion. He extends his arms fully, initiating the pull of his biceps, then triceps, his hands breaking the surface. He follows it up by scissor-kicking forward, corkscrewing his body around to take a breath.
Then glide and repeat.
In half an hour, he's less than a tenth of a mile from shore, treading water, and signals Chin a few meters away to begin the recon.
Steve uncoils the long length of fishing line, and dives, his flashlight providing only a few inches of visibility. He goes slow, not wanting to crack his skull on anything. Using his hands, he finds his way down to the bottom, searches for a rock to tie his line to.
He finds a piece of coral, anchors the line, and heads to the surface, pulling the nylon along with him. Breathing and treading in place, his fingers rub over the square knot. Ninety-five meters. Steve records the depth on the piece of Plexiglas around his neck. Swimming a few meters ahead, he repeats the process.
Dive. Locate a piece of coral. Tie the line and breach the surface to record the depth.
The underwater reefs are complicated, with drop-offs and large faces of coral. He swims across sandy sections, locates, and dismisses chunks that won't harm ships.
He does this for three hours, maybe more, but Steve knows something's off. The water is shoaling, the waves slowing then increasing in height. He discovers where the coral flourishes, sections jutting out and twisting into shelves.
This is where hundreds of boats will get ripped apart, leaving thousands of marines cut down by machine guns or left to drown, weighed down by boots and equipment.
This is what fuels his fatigued legs and arms to keep moving, to keep pushing.
Dive.
Breathe.
Finger the butterfly knot. Record the depth.
Dive.
Breathe.
Finger the cloth hitch knot. Record the depth.
He maps out the obstacles that they'll blow up tomorrow. But it's taking much longer than expected and sun is creeping up on the horizon. There's no coming back out to measure some more, not with an invasion force arriving in three days.
They have to stay out here, record everything, because UDT-7 doesn't make mistakes.
Chin swims over to him, exhaustion lining his face. "It's going to take at least another hour to measure the last sixty meters to shore."
"How are you holding up?"
"I'm good."
"If you need to take a break..."
"I'll take one when you do."
Steve squeezes Chin's shoulder. "Signal Williams that we'll be out here a little longer, then relay the order to the other platoons."
"Copy that," Chin says, grabbing his flashlight to send the message.
***
The weapons fire starts at dawn. The enemy probably spotted the landing craft, and thank goodness, those guys are far enough away from being hit. The Japanese don't know the team's exact position; they're firing blindly, artillery shells landing in the shallow end of shore.
The Barr returns fire, blasting the bunkers on the beach. Steve doesn't think about the mortars landing in the water or the explosions rocking the ocean. All his focus is on mapping out the last vital shore positions.
A shell explodes ten meters from his location, generating gigantic waves that almost sweep him under.
His legs are rubber, his head woozy from constantly testing his oxygen levels.
"McGarrett! We're done!" Chin yells. "The other platoons are signaling that the task is complete."
Steve scribbles the last measurement, his fingers waterlogged. "Okay, let them know to return to the boats."
His muscles are so damned tired, but he can't give in to their protests. He has to dig deep and muster his reserves. Fate intervenes, and not in a good way, as the shelling changes to machine gun fire and that spells trouble. The Japanese have left the safety of their bunkers.
"Let's go!" Steve yells at Chin over the barrage.
Steve's arms slice the water as he kicks with all his might.
He and Chin swim for a hundred meters before he notices the change in waves, spotting the landing craft heading their way as it fires at the shoreline.
What the hell is it doing here?
But Steve doesn't question it any further, swimming with renewed energy alongside it, and a set of arms appears to lift him on board. He waits on Chin, watches until his XO is pulled out of the water before accepting the next set of hands.
Fingers wrap around his wrists and yank him over the gunwale, banging his knees against the hull in the process.
"Come on, jeesh, you need to lay off the second helpings."
Steve lands, sprawled on his back. "Report," he wheezes.
"All platoons are accounted for and all landing craft are returning to the Barr," Williams shouts over the shelling.
"Who told you...to break position?"
"No one. It was my decision when I saw the Japs switch from mortars to machine guns," Williams yells.
"And who told the boats to grab the rest of the team?"
Williams helps Steve toward a seat and keeps him from falling when Steve's knees decide not to work. "I did, sir."
Steve grips Williams' shoulders, uses them to regain his footing, and digs his fingers into the hard muscle. "You do realize that wasn't the plan?"
"Yes, sir."
Steve's never heard the words 'yes, sir' sound so defiant. "Do I have to make my instructions a direct order for you to follow them the next time?"
"Permission to speak freely, sir?"
"Granted."
"I can't sit on my hands and watch you guys get shot at from a mile away. Not when I can do something about it."
"If I give a direct order, you will very well obey it. Orders are not for thinking. Is that clear?"
"Aye, aye, sir."
Steve finds his equilibrium and grabs the gunwale as the boat bounces over the water. "But since you didn't break any orders... that was a good call."
"Sir?"
"I said you thought well on your feet. I'm not above acknowledging that."
"Thank you, sir." Williams scans the rest of the platoon in the landing craft. "I've got a suspicion this is the norm for your team?"
"Our team."
"Maybe it's not too late to request a transfer?"
"Not gonna happen, Danny."
Water drips down Danny's face, but he just stands there gaping at Steve. "Um… sir?"
"You just saved my whole team. I'll call you by your first name when I damn well feel like it," Steve answers with a smile.
***
Danny sleeps like rock after his newest adventure with the edge of sanity.
But soon his dreams become nightmares, filled with blood and the screams of sailors as they're blown apart. He bolts awake, twisting his legs with the sheets, his face soaked with sweat.
Rubbing a hand over his jaw, Danny realizes his face hasn't seen a razor in days. He goes to the communal washroom and shaves away the scruff, almost cutting his throat when the Barr starts blasting her guns along with the other big destroyers.
The battle group is shelling the island again.
When he arrives at the mess for the lunch bell, most of the crew is chatting about last night's mission like a bunch of clucking chickens. It's amazing they can hear each other over the noise of .50 caliber guns. They can swap stories all they want; it's easy to do it from the safe confines of a ship. He doesn't look up as his fellow seamen walk by, stirring his bowl of mush while he goes over all the maintenance needed before going back out to shore tonight.
***
Preparation for the mission starts with the transfer of thousands of pounds of Tetrytol. The stuff scares the crap out of Danny and overseeing it get loaded onto his boat will probably give him a stroke.
McGarrett wanders over, black paint accenting the contours of his torso. He chats with his men as they prep and allows Chin to secure four wads of explosives inside the ammo belt snug around his waist. Danny just stands there, unsure if he's witnessing an act of valor or pure stupidity. He can't stop gawking because, hello, the guy's a walking bomb!
It's not like he hasn't transferred UDTs back and forth a thousand times, but he's never been singled out to work for a specific platoon - where he'll learn their names and get to know them beyond just random frogmen to drop off and on.
"You're staring again," McGarrett says, watching Danny watch him.
"Maybe it's because I'm about to helm a boat that doesn't exactly cross the ocean in a smooth manner and, in fact, will probably encounter rough chop while I'm surrounded by twenty guys with things that go boom strapped around their waists."
"Then I promise we'll try not to go boom until we're in the water," McGarrett answers, adjusting the belt.
"Do you think this is funny?"
"No. Because ten thousand men are counting on us to clear that beach so they can go to shore."
Danny knows McGarrett is right but that doesn't ease the knots in his gut.
***
The destroyer group continues to pound the coast only a quarter of a mile from their location. It's risky. A stray round could kill them all, but hopefully the Japs won't suspect a thing.
The strategy pays off. Danny drops off his swimmers close to shore, manning the helm and watching the team's progress. The frogmen dive down with their bomb-strapped bodies, setting their charges, and returning to the boat to blow up the coral.
It's nail-biting work, moving a hundred meters at a time, dragging sopping wet frogmen on board so they can insert more wads of Tetrytol into their ammo belts and dive back down.
Danny watches the sea, ensures his boat is far enough from danger, but close enough to grab his swimmers. He checks on his machine guns to the chagrin of the seaman manning them. "I've got this, Boats," he's told.
Dawn's approaching, and if the Japs fire on them while his boat is loaded down with explosives, well, Danny won't let panic set in. He scans the sea in search of his guys, spotting two familiar heads pop out of the water - the ocean exploding behind them.
"Shit!" Danny curses, steering the boat around, scanning for signs of life.
Shrapnel could have hit his guys or the explosion could have knocked them both out. He grabs a flashlight and searches the waves.
There. Both heads pop again beside the landing craft. "Come on," he yells at one of his mates and they both reach out to drag the frogmen aboard.
Danny's helmet gets knocked off and he bangs the back of his head as all six foot one of Curious George lands on top of his chest. "Is this going to be a habit?" he gasps. "Because... I really like to know if my job is going to be saving your ass all the time, sir."
McGarrett rolls off him, shakes water from his hair, and glares at his bare feet. "Damn it. I lost my fins."
"Again?" Chin mocks. "Those are the third pair in a month."
"Well, if someone hadn't set the charges off early, I might not have lost them," McGarrett says.
"Hey, that wasn't my fault," Chin says, unbuckling his empty ammo belt.
"Excuse me?" Danny snaps. "Hello? I'm talking here!"
"Bring the boat around for a pass of the shore to pick up the rest of the team. We've completed removing the reef obstacles," McGarrett instructs as he pulls himself to his feet and but stays low to keep cover. When Danny doesn't move right away, McGarrett stares at him. "What? You want a hug or something, sailor?"
"No, sir!" Danny growls, grabbing his pipe and blowing it at his two mates. "Come on. You heard the lieutenant. Let's grab the rest of our people before the sun shines a big bull's eye across our bow."
Taking the controls, Danny brings the craft around, feeling someone standing behind him, drops of water splashing the back of his neck.
"Thanks for fishing me and Chin out back there. But I doubt it'll be the last time. Or that one day, neither one of us will make it back to grab at all."
Danny grips the throttle, keeps his eyes out on the water. "Since you choose me as your personal boatswain, I just wanted to know what that entailed. I'll add pulling you guys out of sticky situations to my duty roster."
"We're going to get along just fine," McGarrett says, and Danny knows the guy is grinning like a loon.
It might not be too late to write his will.
***
Danny wakes up in time to grab afternoon chow before reporting to duty. A few sailors sit at various mess tables. Some read, others write letters home, a few gather in the corner, watching a hard fought game of chess. One of the guys fills an iron with hot water to press his collar. Danny wanders over to the galley and claps his hands together in anticipation. It'll be weeks before they stock up again, so he gets exited at the prospect of something fresh. And today's lunch is sliced ham.
He eagerly holds his tray out while the orange-freckled cook loads it with can-pressed ham. How does he know it's can-pressed? Because it's still cube-shaped!
"What the hell is this?"
The kid stares at Danny's plate. "Lunch."
"No. No, it's not. Because this is ham from a tin."
"Yeah."
"It's a loaf of salt and jelly and chunks of meat pressed together."
"Uh-huh."
"What happened to the baked, sliced ham? The good stuff that I oversaw the loading of just the other day? The actually tasty meal we were supposed to be served?"
"Oh, that," the cook says with a shrug. "There wasn't enough, so the officer's mess got it. The crew's mess got the canned stuff."
Danny chuckles sarcastically. "There are less than twenty officers on board. How in the world could-"
"Don't know what ta tell ya."
There's a cough and Danny notices the line of hungry seamen waiting behind him.
"Fine." Danny stalks over to a table and slams his tray down. He grabs his fork, and realizes in his anger, he forgot to take any cornbread or potatoes.
Yeah. Today's going to suck.
***
He has just enough time to make over to the fantail for a quick smoke before his turn at helmsman. Danny scales the ladders two decks down to the hanger level and pulls out his pack of Luckies and his Zippo.
Flicking the flint, Danny stands with his back to the wind waiting for a flame, but after three tries, he has nothing.
"For crying out loud!" he yells, realizing it's out of butane.
"Here," a voice calls out of the shadows.
Of course. Because all Danny wants during his last moments of peace is to spend them with Lt. Steve McGarrett. At least out here, rank's not observed, and Danny doesn't have to be nice and respectful.
He offers quick thanks when McGarrett lights his cigarette and has the observation skills to know Danny isn't in the mood to chat.
Or maybe not, since McGarrett starts talking anyway. "You don't look happy."
"No, I'm not."
"Is it something specific or is this your normal disposition?"
"I'm actually a happy-go-lucky type of a guy, thank you very much. It just so happens that I didn't have a great start to my day."
McGarrett digs out a pack out of his shirt pocket and lights his own smoke. "This is normally when someone continues their end of the conversation."
"Excuse me. I wasn't aware that we were having one, but since you asked, I'm ticked off about the cooked ham that you stole."
"The ham that I stole?"
"Yes, the cooked ham that was brought on board for all of us to enjoy. You know, the crew that fastens rivets, cleans out the gun barrels, and repairs every machine part on this ship?" Danny practically chews on the end of his smoke. "But, nooooo. Apparently, we don't get any. No, we get pressed ham. Pressed, cubed bricks of ham. While the officers got the sliced ham."
"You ever thought about diving? You have the lung capacity for it."
Danny wonders if he'd get court-martialed for decking an officer in an 'off service zone.'
McGarrett presses the end of his cigarette to his lips as if in deep thought. "Sorry about the ham. Wouldn't know anything about it. My team and I were out conducting practice exercises."
"Oh," Danny says.
"I'll be sure to mention something to the Chief Petty Officer about it, though."
"Um, no, you don't have to do that."
But McGarrett is already gone, leaving Danny in the company of the ship's engines.
***
It's Danny's turn to serve as watchman for the helm for his entire duty. Which is abnormal for a larger ship, but they have to make do with the number of able-bodied seamen aboard. It's tedious and boring, but thank goodness, not anchor detail. He hates doing that more than anything.
"Boatswain's Mate Williams at the helm, sir, course 135," he reports. "Steady as she goes, sir."
"Very good," the third mate replies.
He spends hours calling out their course to the third mate while manning the rudder controls of the ship. He doesn't actually mind this at all. Except for the repetitiveness.
Every hour, they adjust course.
"Come left to course south 180 degrees and west 270 degrees. Steady as you go," the third mate calls out.
"Coming left: south 180 degrees and west 270 degrees. Steady as she goes," Danny answers.
He gabs with the quartermaster who's supervising him and the two debate if Bob Hope is actually a funny guy or full of hot air.
Frankly, Danny thinks Hope is overrated; he'd take Sinatra at the USO any day.
***
Danny completes his duty shift, wanders back to his rack after chow, and notices a box sitting on top of his bunk.
Checking to see if anyone is around, he pulls apart the cardboard folds and discovers six large Hersey bars inside. He really can't believe his eyes. These are enough to get him more smokes, fresh veggies, or even some of Pete Hasskis' swill he calls alcohol.
There's a note inside and Danny pulls out the piece of paper.
Most of the cooked ham was spoiled so they substituted the crew's mess with canned. Hope the chocolate makes up for it. Give it to our boat's crew or keep it.
McGarrett
Our boat's crew. Seriously? Damn it all. Because Danny doesn't want to feel grateful to some crazy frogman.
***
The inspection of the deck takes up Danny's entire day, and after assigning all the boys their maintenance and painting tasks, he sneaks away to the fantail for another smoke. Of course, McGarrett's there and out of uniform again.
It's damn distracting how fit the guy is. Maybe it has something to do with swimming for miles a day. But Danny's no slouch; he used to hit the boxing gym back home daily because, let's face it, being out of work is a real drag and hitting a bag kept his temper in check.
It's the first time he's noticed McGarrett's ink in the daylight. They're not the typical naval designs of anchors or crossbones. They're made up of intricate lines and symbols.
He catches himself staring again and looks up with a smirk. "Let me guess. Going out for another swim?"
"Nope. There's an issue with the rudder, so I told the captain I'd go down and take a look at it."
"Of course you did. In between practice exercises, missions, and other duties, you spend your spare time playing engineer. You really don't sleep, do you?" McGarrett just stares at him, and Danny takes a drag off his smoke. "What makes you qualified to inspect the rudder?"
McGarrett taps out another smoke and crumples his pack. "Used to be in the Seabees before I joined the UDTs."
"Naval construction battalion?"
"Yeah."
"And before that?"
"What makes you think I've been in the service that long?"
"You, my friend, are a lifer."
McGarrett chuckles. "Joined when I was eighteen. Started off as a diver."
"Huh. We're the same age," Danny remarks. "Hopefully, we'll both see our thirtieth birthdays."
"Yeah. Hope so."
There's this doubt in McGarrett's voice. This sense of finality that scares the crap out of Danny. "Hey. What's with the hope so?" He gives McGarrett a sidelong look. "Normally, you're supposed to respond with something positive in return."
There's a hard edge to McGarrett's face, a haunted weariness that makes him seem older.
"You're not like one of those kamikazes are you?" Danny demands. "Because you picked me as your boatswain's mate. Your personal sailor, remember? And I need to know if you're some gung-ho crazy type."
"I'm not crazy. But there are some missions...well, some are more dangerous than others. My team's the best. And if we're the only ones that can do the job, then we'll do it. No matter what the risks."
There's a fire behind McGarrett's eyes, a smoldering flame of fury. For the first time, Danny gets the sense that there's something more. Something McGarrett has tightly bottled up under that cocky exterior.
"This seems personal," Danny says casually.
"We're at war," McGarrett snaps, stepping closer, his breathing faster. "Thousands are dying every day. If our missions play in some small part, any part, at ending it, then we should do it. Duty or not. So, yeah. It's personal."
This time, McGarrett storms off before Danny's brain catches up to his mouth. And the only thing his shell-shocked mind can think of is he forgot to thank McGarrett for the Hersey bars.
"Part Two"
Author: kristen999
Recipient: delicatale
Characters/Pairing: Steve/Danny, Chin
Word Count: 23k
Rating: R
Warnings: Sailor language, ethnic slurs associated with the era, and war violence.
Summary: WWII Pacific Theater based AU. Danny's left dumbstruck with the trust suddenly hoisted onto his shoulders. He wants to ask the guy if he's lost his mind, but then again, frogmen wade out in the middle of the ocean with explosives strapped around their waists, so McGarrett is obviously already bonkers. But for some reason Danny simply nods when asked to join the team and the lieutenant smiles at him in return.
Also on On A03
Written for the h50_holidayswap
Author's Notes There was an immense amount of research involved in this undertaking; however, I am not a historian, so there will probably be some inaccuracies and errors for creative license reasons.
I owe so much love to my wonderful betas! Thank you mischief5 for all your help throughout this process. From the random e-mails to the long discussions. Without you hon, I'm not sure if I would have made it! And huge thanks to esteefee for her pom-pom waving, encouragement, and wonderful suggestions. You guys are amazing.
Also hugs to those on my cheerleading squad! You know who you are!
Now with beautiful cover art by pluxaplong
***
Water gently laps the shore while Danny takes a drag off one of his Luckies, blowing out a puff of smoke. There's only one day left at port before it's full speed ahead to next set of islands. Too bad, Majuro's kind of nice. Fresh fruit and coconut milk beats C-rations any day.
He's longed for dry land and curls his toes into the white sand while listening to his transistor radio.
"This is the Allied Radio Network, May 22nd, 1944. In American League news, Hal Newhouser of the Detroit Tigers was traded to..."
He doesn't want to hear about trades right now, not after the Cardinals beat the Browns in the World Series, so he switches off the radio. He doesn't even remember what five-cent hotdogs at the ballpark smell or taste like anymore. The Marshall Islands are peaceful, but it's not Beach Heaven. He even misses the annoying seagulls.
From here, he can see the Colhan sail into port, the hulking destroyer dwarfing his baby. There's a whole night of ahead of him and he'll spend it getting drunk and re-reading his letter from home for the thousandth time-yet Danny can't take his eyes off the USS Barr.
It may only be a tiny fast transport vessel, but it's been his life the last eighteen months.
And the foreseeable future.
***
He can't turn his back for two seconds let alone two days. Danny blows his whistle, the shrilling sound ushering six seamen to deck, their eyes wide in trepidation.
"I'm gone for forty-eight hours! Two days! Away from humming engines, groaning rivets, and the collective smell of two hundred of my closest buddies. And what did I say before debarking? Anyone? Anyone at all?"
No one dares raise his hand and Danny takes a deep breath. "I said I don't want to see a single new scratch. No dings or dents on my baby. And what did I discover when I came aboard?" He doesn't wait for an answer, waving at the long gouges beneath his feet. "Did you guys drag knives across the deck or play hockey? I want these scratches repaired and polished before we start loading cargo!"
No one hops to and Danny blows his pipe again, shouting, "Come on? What are you waiting for? Roust out and shine, roust out and shine!"
The boys scatter, nearly running into each other before getting to work.
"Hey, Boats! Didn't dry land do anything for that grumpy disposition?"
Danny rolls his eyes at the familiar Kansas drawl and watches the human beanpole wander his way over. "It did until I returned to see what those rascals did to my ship!"
"You need to ease up, Williams."
"Oh, do I, Erwin? You're the gunner's mate. You're here to shoot things. I'm the boatswain's mate. Ergo, every surface inch of this ship is my responsibility. Rigging, deck equipment, bo-"
"All right, all right. I get it. This ain't basic."
He doesn't feel like arguing. Erwin's a good kid and they get along pretty well even if they're complete opposites. Danny drags his gaze toward the boys scrambling around repairing the damage to the deck, not a single one old enough to drink. He knows Jenkins and O'Connor lied about their ages; both are only sixteen.
"We still got a couple days before...where are we headin' again?"
"Biak," Danny says, shaking his head.
"Hey, all I do is blow stuff up," Erwin snorts, pulling out a stick of gum to chew. "I don't care where we're goin' next. You're the one that takes those frogmen to shore. I don't get those guys. You have to be nuts to face the Japs with nothin' but swim trunks and a knife."
"Well, it's my job to get those loons to the beach and back. Without damaging my other baby," Danny says, wondering if he should inspect the landing craft one more time.
"Speaking of...did ya know we're picking up UDT-7?"
Danny doesn't really care. That's what they do, transport different underwater demolition teams around. When they came to the Marshall Islands, it was to re-stock and switch out personnel. "Yeah, so?"
Erwin's freckled face busts out into a huge grin. "You didn't hear the scuttlebutt from last week? When they were transferring some Tetrytol from the Stringham onto the Clemson , a fire broke out, spreading to both ships. Everyone started jumpin' overboard, thinking it was gonna explode, but get this. Unit Seven stayed on deck and threw the burning explosives overboard and saved both ships."
Great. Frogmen were all daredevils, but nooooo, that's not enough. He has to be assigned to the really crazy ones.
"Tetrytol is fucking volatile; I hate having so much of it on board," Danny growls, caressing the railing of his ship protectively.
Erwin watches Danny pet the rail and shakes his head. "You know what, Boats? I think there's a reason why you and the frogmen work so well together."
"Yeah? Why's that?"
"You're all crackerjacks."
Danny doesn't get a chance to chase Erwin away before the deck officer rounds the corner, barking orders about today's supply transfer.
***
It takes twelve hours to stow all the ammunition, fuel, and general wares. His back hurts, both knees ache, and his ears still ring from blowing his pipe so much. How hard is it to get people stack things in a certain order?
After doing all the safety checks, Danny makes quick work of a full plate of stew and potato hash in the mess, then retires to his quarters.
Lying on his bunk, he flips on the radio, closing his eyes to Benny Goodman's clarinet. Sighing, he traces his finger around the red bathing suit of the pin-up plastered over the matt-white painted deck head. "Guess it's just you and me, doll."
"You talkin' to Betty again, Boats?" Erwin asks from the bottom bunk.
"That's Ms. Grable to you, asshole. Now, please shut up so I can have some pleasant dreams."
"Just don't snore; you sound like my Aunt Helga."
Danny ignores him, his eyes drifting close, the thrum of the boiler room sending him to sleep.
***
He wakes up before dawn, the nagging need to do a quick check of things before the call for morning chow. He pulls on his Dungaree trousers, steps into his shoes, throws on his blue chambray shirt, and grabs his cap. After such a large supply transfer, he wants to make sure the ship didn't get too banged up. If he doesn't, the first lieutenant will give him an earful if there's any damage.
Danny climbs the ladders two levels to the deck and spots someone climbing around his landing boat. "Hey! What the hell do you think you're doing?"
The seaman doesn't pay him any attention. The guy accosting his baby is shirtless with dark hair and all long lean muscle, both biceps covered in tattoos. "Are you deaf or just dumb? Excuse me, Curious George! Get off my landing craft!"
"Your landing craft?" the guy asks.
"You're damned straight. Now get off her or I'll-"
"You'll what?"
"Excuse me?"
"Well, it sounds like you're threatening me. I want to know what you'll do if I don't comply?"
Now the guy's staring at Danny with a goofy smile, like this whole situation is amusing.
"You're out of uniform," Danny counters but can't continue ranting without knowing who he's yelling at.
“Says who? Since you haven’t identified yourself.”
"Danny Williams, Boatswain's Mate. Which doesn't change the fact that you're not authorized to be on this equipment," Danny growls.
"Actually I am." The guy jumps down, wiping his tanned hands. "Lieutenant Steve McGarrett. Normally the rank goes before the name. Just in case you're confused."
Shit.
"Yes, sir. I'm well aware of that, sir," Danny grits out and stands at attention.
McGarrett just stands there smirking and Danny really wishes the guy would just chew him out already. Although in all fairness, how was Danny to know he was yelling at an officer? The guy's clad only in olive swim trunks and dog tags for crying out loud!
"I was just checking out your LCP," McGarrett remarks offhandedly. "She's been nicely maintained. The deck compartment doesn't have any damage."
"Considering I have to haul frogmen back and forth on a daily basis, call me crazy, but I thought it was a good idea to keep the landing craft in decent working order."
"Good," McGarrett answers, ignoring his thick air of sarcasm. "I consider the LCP an important part of our equipment."
"Our?" Danny can't help how the word spills out of his mouth.
"I command UDT-7. And I want this LCP and you as the boatswain for my platoon."
"You want what?"
Where does this guy get off singling out Danny and his baby for such an assignment? During each mission, members of the demolition team gather on deck, grab a boat and her boys, and go out. That's how it is. Platoons are not assigned to specific landing craft.
"And I want a maintenance log kept daily," McGarrett continues.
"I already have one. It's kept with the other ship's logs."
"Really?"
"Yes, really." Because Danny's didn't just fall off the back of a turnip truck, thank you very much.
"Good. But I still want you to do a full inspection of the rest of the boats and LCPs."
"Aye, aye, sir."
They stand there, mirroring each other's crossed arms.
McGarrett clears his throat, breaking the silence, his face all business. "Well, I've got to study some aerial maps. We've got a mission tomorrow and I'll need you at the briefing."
"You want me at the briefing?"
"You're part of the team, Williams. We work together."
"But I have my duties to complete, including the inspections you just asked me to do. I can't just drop what I'm doing."
"Fair enough. I'll ensure you get notes and I'll arrange it with your CO that you're to attend all our briefings for now on."
Danny's left dumbstruck with the trust suddenly hoisted onto his shoulders. He wants to ask the guy if he's lost his mind, but then again, frogmen wade out in the middle of the ocean with explosives strapped around their waists, so McGarrett is obviously already bonkers. But for some reason Danny simply nods and the lieutenant smiles at him in return.
McGarrett grabs his shoes sitting on the deck, squeezes the water out, and stuffs his feet into them.
"Hey, wait!" Danny yells when McGarrett turns to leave. "What were you doing earlier? Before climbing around my boat like a monkey? Or do you do all your inspections in trunks?"
"I went for a swim."
"We're sailing at ten knots."
"We were at a full stop during an engine check. I wanted to do a little recon of the water," McGarrett says, still sporting an idiotic grin. "I'll catch you later."
"Um, yeah. Catch you later," Danny answers, wondering what the hell just happened.
***
Apparently, keeping detailed maintenance records isn't enough for McGarrett, and Danny spends the rest of his day pulling apart landing craft. He starts with the large rubber boats, the ones for six and eight men teams, searching for wear in the seams and the patch jobs from repairing holes in the rubber.
Then he moves to the large personnel landing craft - these are the big boys, the ones that can carry a platoon of twenty men. He starts inspecting the one Curious George had jumped around in. And what was up with the guy claiming Danny as his platoon's personal sailor?
Crazy, deranged frogman.
Danny checks where the armor plates attach to the wood and then ensures the ramp and inner safety door are functional.
By the time he files all the paperwork again, it's past the bell for dinner mess and he's last in line.
The mess cook gives Danny a sympathetic expression, scraping the bottom of the pan, and dumping the last of the meatloaf onto his plate.
"Maybe I should've stuck to C-rations," he mumbles and takes a seat in the corner to eat.
Shipboard radio news drones on about the Germans' surrender in Crimea, and Danny has to wait for the announcer to tell him where the hell that is. Oh, Russia. Sometimes, he forgets the Commies are fighting the Nazis, too.
He clutches his gut with a groan as the meatloaf sinks like a stone in his belly. Danny decides to hit the sack early, skipping poker night, and stumbles toward his quarters.
And nearly runs into a tree.
"Hey! Watch it," he grumbles.
"Maybe you ought to try paying attention to where you're walking? I hear looking up works really well."
Danny has to stop himself from mouthing off when he realizes that said tree is Lt. McGarrett. He looks different with his uniform on. "Oh, it's you." McGarrett quirks an amused eyebrow and Danny hastily adds, "Sir."
Ignoring the slip-up, McGarrett hands Danny a folder. "Here's the briefing on the area where we'll be landing tomorrow. Review and memorize it."
"You know that I just finished a sixteen hour shift," Danny begins, but McGarrett's looking at him like he's speaking Yiddish. "Of course, I'll set everything to memory. Sir."
"Good. We're heading out at 0200."
"In," Danny checks his watch. "Four hours?"
"The last I did the math."
"What? Since you're part fish, you don't require sleep?"
"Not really," McGarrett says.
Danny wants to ask him if he's related to Aquaman, and if so, could he ask his buddy Superman to return to Earth and kick Hitler's ass? But Danny keeps his mouth shut and rubs a hand over his face.
"Hey. You okay?" McGarrett asks, going from gung-ho frogman to human being. "You don't look so good."
"The chow's not sitting well with me."
"You mean the corned beef? That was great."
Danny really, really wants to punch McGarrett. "I'm sure in the officer's mess, you got corned beef. But that's not what the crew's cook slopped on my plate."
"Do you want me to find the corpsman?"
"No, I'm fine, nothing that sleep won't cure. Oh wait, I can't count on that, so maybe if you would move, I could hit the rack, memorize the mission briefing, and catch a few Zs."
"If you're sure."
"I'm good," Danny insists, and he takes a second to enjoy the fact that another person genuinely seems concerned about him. Even if said person is blocking the path to his bunk.
"All right." But McGarrett hangs around a little longer, like he's assessing Danny and decides that everything is satisfactory. "I'll see you above deck in the morning."
Danny finally drags his feet into his quarters and settles into his bunk, flipping on a flashlight to study the map.
"Hey, Boats. You still up?"
Danny wonders what he has to do to get a moment's peace. "Since I just climbed into my rack, yeah, Erwin."
"Did you hear that one of the platoons has a Jap Frogman?"
"What the hell are you talking about?"
"I ain't kidding. I saw him doin' drills on deck."
"Erwin. You're from Kansas. Have you ever seen a Jap before?"
"No, but..."
"Then how do you know what one looks like?"
"Well, you'll get to see for yourself, since he's the new Lieutenant's XO."
That's got Danny's attention and he sits up straighter. "McGarrett's?"
"Yeah."
"Since you're part of the ship's sewing circle, what's his story?"
"The LT?"
Oh, for crying out loud, Danny wants to scream. "Yes, numb nuts."
"McGarrett's real gung ho. He started on UDT-2. Can you believe that? He was on one of the first underwater demolition units. Then he actually turned down teaching other teams and got put on UDT-7."
"He turned down a fat cat's posting?"
"Yep."
Not only is McGarrett crazy, Danny thinks, but he's probably one of those guys who was in the Navy before the war.
"Did you know he was at Truk?" Erwin rattles on like he's smitten with the guy. "Heard his team went out once just as their transport got hit. But McGarrett still led his guys without support fire and did the recon even though the Japs were shelling them from the beach. Sounds like he's got balls of steel! You're in for a hell of a ride, Boats."
Danny's so dead. He should probably write out his will now. Except he has a map to study and a mission tonight. And no, he didn't sign-up to be McGarrett's personal boatswain, but he's damn well going to do his job and do it well.
***
Steve doesn't actually hit the rack before missions, in order to keep the briefing details sharp and in focus. Sleep is for afterward. Either he'll catch a few hours, or he'll have nothing to worry about if things end badly.
His routine varies. Gear checks, then reading a book or doing one of his crosswords. It's always a solitary experience, sitting quietly in his bunk or out on deck somewhere. He doesn't exert himself physically, in order to conserve energy, but tonight he'll stretch his legs. Take a walk around the newest ship.
The Barr is like all other fast transports. Small complement, able to outrun most of the large clunky destroyers, and give his team support with her guns and people.
Steve chuckles to himself; yeah, this one has an interesting crew. Especially Williams. Most enlisted ask how high when Steve tells them to jump. But not this guy. Boatswain's mates are always uptight loud mouths. Makes them good at what they do, but Williams-he's a real firecracker. Probably responds well to pressure, and Steve needs a guy like him.
Steve cranes his neck, searches the stars, watching the half-moon over the ocean.
It's almost time.
***
Steve trusts every member of his team to have his back, to get the job done. But he trusts Chin Ho Kelly even more. Steve is honest with Chin, sharing his uncertainties and asking for second opinions. He doesn't do that with anyone else.
"What's your biggest worry?" he asks him.
Chin gets a thoughtful look about him. "The beaches aren't rocky enough. And those hills? The machine gun nests have the high ground, but the darkness should keep us out of sight. "
Steve braces against the bulkhead, the ship shuddering as she fires her heavy guns. "Agreed. The group's been pounding the shore at irregular intervals so the Japanese won't be on to us, but I asked the skipper to pound the shore a little extra."
"That'll help," Chin answers, grabbing a paintbrush and sighing a little. "Try not to squirm too much this time, brah."
Steve grits his jaw. "Press down harder or it'll tickle."
Chin snorts, applying the paint to Steve's torso as Steve resists laughing. He doesn't budge as Chin draws another black mark around his fourth rib.
The bristles hit a particularly sensitive spot just as Williams bounds over and stops dead in his tracks. "Whoa, um...I'm sorry, but I...uh..."
"At ease," Steve tells him, although clearly Williams was never at attention. In fact, he's staring at Steve slack jawed. "Something the matter?"
"Other than the fact that you're having lines painted on you?"
Steve chuckles and Chin gives him a dirty look for screwing up his stroke. "It's kind of a new method we picked up from UDT-3. Have you seen string reconnaissance yet?"
"String reconnaissance? Sorry, all I see is the outline for a new tattoo, although I don't know why you'd want to look like a bumble bee."
Chin bursts out in laughter, dripping paint on the floor and drawing Williams' attention from the mark Chin was drawing below Steve's navel.
"The lines are painted every six inches so we can gauge our depth in the water," Steve explains.
"That makes sense, but I don't see how string plays a part in it?"
"We use fishing line tied off with knots at a regular distances, letting us know how much line's been played out by which knot is in our hand," Chin explains, grabbing a cloth to clean up the paint. "Once the fishing line is anchored at a known point, we use the distances with those from the beach to tabulate the underwater beach contours and obstructions."
Williams stares at Chin in contemplation and snorts, "You're definitely not Japanese. Sir."
"Not since the last time I checked," Chin answers, obviously used to the ridiculous misconception. "I'm Hawaiian. And yes, a lot of us serve."
Williams nods. "I look forward to working with you, sir."
"BM Danny Williams, this is my XO. Lt JG Chin Ho Kelly," Steve says.
Danny squares his shoulders, giving a salute. Chin gives a halfhearted one in return, which puts Williams at ease enough to ask. "You're a Junior Lieutenant, sir?"
"You sayin' I'm too old, Boats?" Chin asks with a smile. "I was a CPO and got promoted after Pearl. Let's say there was a shortage of experienced officers there for a while."
Williams grimaces.
Steve checks his watch and all pleasantries disappear. "We've got twenty minutes. Chin, I'll map you up."
Steve doesn't dismiss Williams, and he can feel the man's eyes on him, watching his every move. Steve takes the brush, dips it in the can of paint, Chin quirking a curious eyebrow at him.
"Did you memorize the terrain?" Steve directs his question at his platoon's newest member.
"You mean that chicken scratch? Yes, sir. Judging by the random squiggly lines, I'd say we have our work cut out for us."
"That's why we do this job," Steve tells him.
***
The landing craft's motor hums along as Steve squeezes between both rows of men, slapping their backs as he heads to the bow. UDT-7 disembarks in five landing craft, twenty frogmen to a boat. The destroyer's big guns have been shelling the shore off and on for hours, allowing them to slip in under the cover of night in between bombardments.
Williams pushes up his helmet to wash the spray off his face and adjusts his flak jacket. He's like a mini-tank ready to roll into battle. "We're ten minutes from the drop off."
"Anchor eight hundred meters from shore," Steve orders. "We'll signal when we need a pickup. The enemy's buried in the hills, so the LCP should be safe from fire."
"And if I don't see a signal?"
"You'll see one."
"I'll see one, he says. Okay and do you have an estimated completion time for when I should start worrying about grabbing you guys?"
"Four hours max. Don't look for us. I don't want to risk missing your position. My men will find you if they get injured or get into trouble."
"Aye, aye, sir." Williams turns to his mate and gunner, issuing orders.
Steve does a quick equipment check. His coils of fishing line are attached to loops sewn to his swimming trunks, along with three red grease pencils, his knife, and his flashlight. He tugs on the writing board hanging around his neck by a lanyard.
"You've checked your supplies like three times already," Williams says coming up behind him. "If you keep messing with everything, you're bound to break something. I'm just saying."
"Have you been keeping count?" Steve asks.
"Your fidgeting makes me nervous," Williams grumbles.
Steve laughs. "We're headed to a beach with thousands of Japanese troops and I'm making you nervous?"
"That about sums it up,” Williams answers glumly.
"I'll keep that in mind for the future,” Steve tells him.
Williams gnaws on his bottom lip, visibly fighting to keep himself in check, and any other time, Steve would find it fun to test the guy's limits. But not now.
They putter along a while and Williams checks the stars with his sextant then his compass before consulting his chart. He orders the helmsman to kill the engines and looks over at Steve, giving him the all clear.
Steve nods, then he and his platoon slip on their fins and pair off with their swim buddies. Giving the thumbs up to his men, Steve goes over the side of the boat, Chin splashing into the ocean after him.
Steve treads in place until his entire team is in the water and then gives them the hand signal to begin.
***
All five platoons surface swim, fanning out to cover three miles of coastline. Steve actually loves this part.
It's all about finding the rhythm of motion. He extends his arms fully, initiating the pull of his biceps, then triceps, his hands breaking the surface. He follows it up by scissor-kicking forward, corkscrewing his body around to take a breath.
Then glide and repeat.
In half an hour, he's less than a tenth of a mile from shore, treading water, and signals Chin a few meters away to begin the recon.
Steve uncoils the long length of fishing line, and dives, his flashlight providing only a few inches of visibility. He goes slow, not wanting to crack his skull on anything. Using his hands, he finds his way down to the bottom, searches for a rock to tie his line to.
He finds a piece of coral, anchors the line, and heads to the surface, pulling the nylon along with him. Breathing and treading in place, his fingers rub over the square knot. Ninety-five meters. Steve records the depth on the piece of Plexiglas around his neck. Swimming a few meters ahead, he repeats the process.
Dive. Locate a piece of coral. Tie the line and breach the surface to record the depth.
The underwater reefs are complicated, with drop-offs and large faces of coral. He swims across sandy sections, locates, and dismisses chunks that won't harm ships.
He does this for three hours, maybe more, but Steve knows something's off. The water is shoaling, the waves slowing then increasing in height. He discovers where the coral flourishes, sections jutting out and twisting into shelves.
This is where hundreds of boats will get ripped apart, leaving thousands of marines cut down by machine guns or left to drown, weighed down by boots and equipment.
This is what fuels his fatigued legs and arms to keep moving, to keep pushing.
Dive.
Breathe.
Finger the butterfly knot. Record the depth.
Dive.
Breathe.
Finger the cloth hitch knot. Record the depth.
He maps out the obstacles that they'll blow up tomorrow. But it's taking much longer than expected and sun is creeping up on the horizon. There's no coming back out to measure some more, not with an invasion force arriving in three days.
They have to stay out here, record everything, because UDT-7 doesn't make mistakes.
Chin swims over to him, exhaustion lining his face. "It's going to take at least another hour to measure the last sixty meters to shore."
"How are you holding up?"
"I'm good."
"If you need to take a break..."
"I'll take one when you do."
Steve squeezes Chin's shoulder. "Signal Williams that we'll be out here a little longer, then relay the order to the other platoons."
"Copy that," Chin says, grabbing his flashlight to send the message.
***
The weapons fire starts at dawn. The enemy probably spotted the landing craft, and thank goodness, those guys are far enough away from being hit. The Japanese don't know the team's exact position; they're firing blindly, artillery shells landing in the shallow end of shore.
The Barr returns fire, blasting the bunkers on the beach. Steve doesn't think about the mortars landing in the water or the explosions rocking the ocean. All his focus is on mapping out the last vital shore positions.
A shell explodes ten meters from his location, generating gigantic waves that almost sweep him under.
His legs are rubber, his head woozy from constantly testing his oxygen levels.
"McGarrett! We're done!" Chin yells. "The other platoons are signaling that the task is complete."
Steve scribbles the last measurement, his fingers waterlogged. "Okay, let them know to return to the boats."
His muscles are so damned tired, but he can't give in to their protests. He has to dig deep and muster his reserves. Fate intervenes, and not in a good way, as the shelling changes to machine gun fire and that spells trouble. The Japanese have left the safety of their bunkers.
"Let's go!" Steve yells at Chin over the barrage.
Steve's arms slice the water as he kicks with all his might.
He and Chin swim for a hundred meters before he notices the change in waves, spotting the landing craft heading their way as it fires at the shoreline.
What the hell is it doing here?
But Steve doesn't question it any further, swimming with renewed energy alongside it, and a set of arms appears to lift him on board. He waits on Chin, watches until his XO is pulled out of the water before accepting the next set of hands.
Fingers wrap around his wrists and yank him over the gunwale, banging his knees against the hull in the process.
"Come on, jeesh, you need to lay off the second helpings."
Steve lands, sprawled on his back. "Report," he wheezes.
"All platoons are accounted for and all landing craft are returning to the Barr," Williams shouts over the shelling.
"Who told you...to break position?"
"No one. It was my decision when I saw the Japs switch from mortars to machine guns," Williams yells.
"And who told the boats to grab the rest of the team?"
Williams helps Steve toward a seat and keeps him from falling when Steve's knees decide not to work. "I did, sir."
Steve grips Williams' shoulders, uses them to regain his footing, and digs his fingers into the hard muscle. "You do realize that wasn't the plan?"
"Yes, sir."
Steve's never heard the words 'yes, sir' sound so defiant. "Do I have to make my instructions a direct order for you to follow them the next time?"
"Permission to speak freely, sir?"
"Granted."
"I can't sit on my hands and watch you guys get shot at from a mile away. Not when I can do something about it."
"If I give a direct order, you will very well obey it. Orders are not for thinking. Is that clear?"
"Aye, aye, sir."
Steve finds his equilibrium and grabs the gunwale as the boat bounces over the water. "But since you didn't break any orders... that was a good call."
"Sir?"
"I said you thought well on your feet. I'm not above acknowledging that."
"Thank you, sir." Williams scans the rest of the platoon in the landing craft. "I've got a suspicion this is the norm for your team?"
"Our team."
"Maybe it's not too late to request a transfer?"
"Not gonna happen, Danny."
Water drips down Danny's face, but he just stands there gaping at Steve. "Um… sir?"
"You just saved my whole team. I'll call you by your first name when I damn well feel like it," Steve answers with a smile.
***
Danny sleeps like rock after his newest adventure with the edge of sanity.
But soon his dreams become nightmares, filled with blood and the screams of sailors as they're blown apart. He bolts awake, twisting his legs with the sheets, his face soaked with sweat.
Rubbing a hand over his jaw, Danny realizes his face hasn't seen a razor in days. He goes to the communal washroom and shaves away the scruff, almost cutting his throat when the Barr starts blasting her guns along with the other big destroyers.
The battle group is shelling the island again.
When he arrives at the mess for the lunch bell, most of the crew is chatting about last night's mission like a bunch of clucking chickens. It's amazing they can hear each other over the noise of .50 caliber guns. They can swap stories all they want; it's easy to do it from the safe confines of a ship. He doesn't look up as his fellow seamen walk by, stirring his bowl of mush while he goes over all the maintenance needed before going back out to shore tonight.
***
Preparation for the mission starts with the transfer of thousands of pounds of Tetrytol. The stuff scares the crap out of Danny and overseeing it get loaded onto his boat will probably give him a stroke.
McGarrett wanders over, black paint accenting the contours of his torso. He chats with his men as they prep and allows Chin to secure four wads of explosives inside the ammo belt snug around his waist. Danny just stands there, unsure if he's witnessing an act of valor or pure stupidity. He can't stop gawking because, hello, the guy's a walking bomb!
It's not like he hasn't transferred UDTs back and forth a thousand times, but he's never been singled out to work for a specific platoon - where he'll learn their names and get to know them beyond just random frogmen to drop off and on.
"You're staring again," McGarrett says, watching Danny watch him.
"Maybe it's because I'm about to helm a boat that doesn't exactly cross the ocean in a smooth manner and, in fact, will probably encounter rough chop while I'm surrounded by twenty guys with things that go boom strapped around their waists."
"Then I promise we'll try not to go boom until we're in the water," McGarrett answers, adjusting the belt.
"Do you think this is funny?"
"No. Because ten thousand men are counting on us to clear that beach so they can go to shore."
Danny knows McGarrett is right but that doesn't ease the knots in his gut.
***
The destroyer group continues to pound the coast only a quarter of a mile from their location. It's risky. A stray round could kill them all, but hopefully the Japs won't suspect a thing.
The strategy pays off. Danny drops off his swimmers close to shore, manning the helm and watching the team's progress. The frogmen dive down with their bomb-strapped bodies, setting their charges, and returning to the boat to blow up the coral.
It's nail-biting work, moving a hundred meters at a time, dragging sopping wet frogmen on board so they can insert more wads of Tetrytol into their ammo belts and dive back down.
Danny watches the sea, ensures his boat is far enough from danger, but close enough to grab his swimmers. He checks on his machine guns to the chagrin of the seaman manning them. "I've got this, Boats," he's told.
Dawn's approaching, and if the Japs fire on them while his boat is loaded down with explosives, well, Danny won't let panic set in. He scans the sea in search of his guys, spotting two familiar heads pop out of the water - the ocean exploding behind them.
"Shit!" Danny curses, steering the boat around, scanning for signs of life.
Shrapnel could have hit his guys or the explosion could have knocked them both out. He grabs a flashlight and searches the waves.
There. Both heads pop again beside the landing craft. "Come on," he yells at one of his mates and they both reach out to drag the frogmen aboard.
Danny's helmet gets knocked off and he bangs the back of his head as all six foot one of Curious George lands on top of his chest. "Is this going to be a habit?" he gasps. "Because... I really like to know if my job is going to be saving your ass all the time, sir."
McGarrett rolls off him, shakes water from his hair, and glares at his bare feet. "Damn it. I lost my fins."
"Again?" Chin mocks. "Those are the third pair in a month."
"Well, if someone hadn't set the charges off early, I might not have lost them," McGarrett says.
"Hey, that wasn't my fault," Chin says, unbuckling his empty ammo belt.
"Excuse me?" Danny snaps. "Hello? I'm talking here!"
"Bring the boat around for a pass of the shore to pick up the rest of the team. We've completed removing the reef obstacles," McGarrett instructs as he pulls himself to his feet and but stays low to keep cover. When Danny doesn't move right away, McGarrett stares at him. "What? You want a hug or something, sailor?"
"No, sir!" Danny growls, grabbing his pipe and blowing it at his two mates. "Come on. You heard the lieutenant. Let's grab the rest of our people before the sun shines a big bull's eye across our bow."
Taking the controls, Danny brings the craft around, feeling someone standing behind him, drops of water splashing the back of his neck.
"Thanks for fishing me and Chin out back there. But I doubt it'll be the last time. Or that one day, neither one of us will make it back to grab at all."
Danny grips the throttle, keeps his eyes out on the water. "Since you choose me as your personal boatswain, I just wanted to know what that entailed. I'll add pulling you guys out of sticky situations to my duty roster."
"We're going to get along just fine," McGarrett says, and Danny knows the guy is grinning like a loon.
It might not be too late to write his will.
***
Danny wakes up in time to grab afternoon chow before reporting to duty. A few sailors sit at various mess tables. Some read, others write letters home, a few gather in the corner, watching a hard fought game of chess. One of the guys fills an iron with hot water to press his collar. Danny wanders over to the galley and claps his hands together in anticipation. It'll be weeks before they stock up again, so he gets exited at the prospect of something fresh. And today's lunch is sliced ham.
He eagerly holds his tray out while the orange-freckled cook loads it with can-pressed ham. How does he know it's can-pressed? Because it's still cube-shaped!
"What the hell is this?"
The kid stares at Danny's plate. "Lunch."
"No. No, it's not. Because this is ham from a tin."
"Yeah."
"It's a loaf of salt and jelly and chunks of meat pressed together."
"Uh-huh."
"What happened to the baked, sliced ham? The good stuff that I oversaw the loading of just the other day? The actually tasty meal we were supposed to be served?"
"Oh, that," the cook says with a shrug. "There wasn't enough, so the officer's mess got it. The crew's mess got the canned stuff."
Danny chuckles sarcastically. "There are less than twenty officers on board. How in the world could-"
"Don't know what ta tell ya."
There's a cough and Danny notices the line of hungry seamen waiting behind him.
"Fine." Danny stalks over to a table and slams his tray down. He grabs his fork, and realizes in his anger, he forgot to take any cornbread or potatoes.
Yeah. Today's going to suck.
***
He has just enough time to make over to the fantail for a quick smoke before his turn at helmsman. Danny scales the ladders two decks down to the hanger level and pulls out his pack of Luckies and his Zippo.
Flicking the flint, Danny stands with his back to the wind waiting for a flame, but after three tries, he has nothing.
"For crying out loud!" he yells, realizing it's out of butane.
"Here," a voice calls out of the shadows.
Of course. Because all Danny wants during his last moments of peace is to spend them with Lt. Steve McGarrett. At least out here, rank's not observed, and Danny doesn't have to be nice and respectful.
He offers quick thanks when McGarrett lights his cigarette and has the observation skills to know Danny isn't in the mood to chat.
Or maybe not, since McGarrett starts talking anyway. "You don't look happy."
"No, I'm not."
"Is it something specific or is this your normal disposition?"
"I'm actually a happy-go-lucky type of a guy, thank you very much. It just so happens that I didn't have a great start to my day."
McGarrett digs out a pack out of his shirt pocket and lights his own smoke. "This is normally when someone continues their end of the conversation."
"Excuse me. I wasn't aware that we were having one, but since you asked, I'm ticked off about the cooked ham that you stole."
"The ham that I stole?"
"Yes, the cooked ham that was brought on board for all of us to enjoy. You know, the crew that fastens rivets, cleans out the gun barrels, and repairs every machine part on this ship?" Danny practically chews on the end of his smoke. "But, nooooo. Apparently, we don't get any. No, we get pressed ham. Pressed, cubed bricks of ham. While the officers got the sliced ham."
"You ever thought about diving? You have the lung capacity for it."
Danny wonders if he'd get court-martialed for decking an officer in an 'off service zone.'
McGarrett presses the end of his cigarette to his lips as if in deep thought. "Sorry about the ham. Wouldn't know anything about it. My team and I were out conducting practice exercises."
"Oh," Danny says.
"I'll be sure to mention something to the Chief Petty Officer about it, though."
"Um, no, you don't have to do that."
But McGarrett is already gone, leaving Danny in the company of the ship's engines.
***
It's Danny's turn to serve as watchman for the helm for his entire duty. Which is abnormal for a larger ship, but they have to make do with the number of able-bodied seamen aboard. It's tedious and boring, but thank goodness, not anchor detail. He hates doing that more than anything.
"Boatswain's Mate Williams at the helm, sir, course 135," he reports. "Steady as she goes, sir."
"Very good," the third mate replies.
He spends hours calling out their course to the third mate while manning the rudder controls of the ship. He doesn't actually mind this at all. Except for the repetitiveness.
Every hour, they adjust course.
"Come left to course south 180 degrees and west 270 degrees. Steady as you go," the third mate calls out.
"Coming left: south 180 degrees and west 270 degrees. Steady as she goes," Danny answers.
He gabs with the quartermaster who's supervising him and the two debate if Bob Hope is actually a funny guy or full of hot air.
Frankly, Danny thinks Hope is overrated; he'd take Sinatra at the USO any day.
***
Danny completes his duty shift, wanders back to his rack after chow, and notices a box sitting on top of his bunk.
Checking to see if anyone is around, he pulls apart the cardboard folds and discovers six large Hersey bars inside. He really can't believe his eyes. These are enough to get him more smokes, fresh veggies, or even some of Pete Hasskis' swill he calls alcohol.
There's a note inside and Danny pulls out the piece of paper.
Most of the cooked ham was spoiled so they substituted the crew's mess with canned. Hope the chocolate makes up for it. Give it to our boat's crew or keep it.
McGarrett
Our boat's crew. Seriously? Damn it all. Because Danny doesn't want to feel grateful to some crazy frogman.
***
The inspection of the deck takes up Danny's entire day, and after assigning all the boys their maintenance and painting tasks, he sneaks away to the fantail for another smoke. Of course, McGarrett's there and out of uniform again.
It's damn distracting how fit the guy is. Maybe it has something to do with swimming for miles a day. But Danny's no slouch; he used to hit the boxing gym back home daily because, let's face it, being out of work is a real drag and hitting a bag kept his temper in check.
It's the first time he's noticed McGarrett's ink in the daylight. They're not the typical naval designs of anchors or crossbones. They're made up of intricate lines and symbols.
He catches himself staring again and looks up with a smirk. "Let me guess. Going out for another swim?"
"Nope. There's an issue with the rudder, so I told the captain I'd go down and take a look at it."
"Of course you did. In between practice exercises, missions, and other duties, you spend your spare time playing engineer. You really don't sleep, do you?" McGarrett just stares at him, and Danny takes a drag off his smoke. "What makes you qualified to inspect the rudder?"
McGarrett taps out another smoke and crumples his pack. "Used to be in the Seabees before I joined the UDTs."
"Naval construction battalion?"
"Yeah."
"And before that?"
"What makes you think I've been in the service that long?"
"You, my friend, are a lifer."
McGarrett chuckles. "Joined when I was eighteen. Started off as a diver."
"Huh. We're the same age," Danny remarks. "Hopefully, we'll both see our thirtieth birthdays."
"Yeah. Hope so."
There's this doubt in McGarrett's voice. This sense of finality that scares the crap out of Danny. "Hey. What's with the hope so?" He gives McGarrett a sidelong look. "Normally, you're supposed to respond with something positive in return."
There's a hard edge to McGarrett's face, a haunted weariness that makes him seem older.
"You're not like one of those kamikazes are you?" Danny demands. "Because you picked me as your boatswain's mate. Your personal sailor, remember? And I need to know if you're some gung-ho crazy type."
"I'm not crazy. But there are some missions...well, some are more dangerous than others. My team's the best. And if we're the only ones that can do the job, then we'll do it. No matter what the risks."
There's a fire behind McGarrett's eyes, a smoldering flame of fury. For the first time, Danny gets the sense that there's something more. Something McGarrett has tightly bottled up under that cocky exterior.
"This seems personal," Danny says casually.
"We're at war," McGarrett snaps, stepping closer, his breathing faster. "Thousands are dying every day. If our missions play in some small part, any part, at ending it, then we should do it. Duty or not. So, yeah. It's personal."
This time, McGarrett storms off before Danny's brain catches up to his mouth. And the only thing his shell-shocked mind can think of is he forgot to thank McGarrett for the Hersey bars.
"Part Two"