A DICK English version

                Foreword

   A curse seemed to haunt the captains of the fleet’s flagship. In under two years, three highly capable Captains (Navy) lost their commands and were sent ashore. The first was dismissed following a recommendation from an officers' court of honor, the second reassigned to a staff position, and the third was exiled so far away that few even knew his location.

   My story centers on this third captain, but it would be incomplete without briefly explaining how his two predecessors lost their posts in such quick succession.

   Let me state this plainly: becoming the captain of any ship, whether a corvette or frigate, is no easy feat. Commanding a large anti-submarine ship is even harder, and captaining a missile cruiser borders on impossible. But to lead a floating base, whose displacement is twice that of the aforementioned cruiser, requires nothing short of divine intervention.

   However, for those chosen to command at sea, divine favor comes only once. The Lord gives them a chance, then steps back to observe: “Alright, Captain, it’s on you now.”

   And that’s where the real stories begin.

               
                A Wrong Approach to Command

   The officers' mess aboard the fleet’s only floating base buzzed with festive energy. After months of repairs, the shipbuilders had finally resolved the steam turbine issue, and the ship was bound for open waters.

   The captain dined separately, with a steward standing nearby, ready to fulfill his commands. For this forty-year-old officer, it was his first deployment with his new crew, and he intended to win their loyalty by appealing to their stomachs.

   “Invite the Head of Combat Unit Five to my table,” he instructed the steward, without lifting his gaze from his soup.

   “You called?” asked the stocky young officer, approaching the captain's table. Following naval tradition, formal greetings weren’t exchanged in the officers' mess.

   “Take a seat, Lieutenant Commander,” the captain said, then turned to the steward. “Bring him the second course at my table.”

   As the steward left, the captain addressed the head of the ship’s electrical engineering division.;“You also oversee the diving team, correct?”

   “Yes, Captain. We have four divers at our disposal,” the officer replied.

   “I have an idea. For the next week, we’ll be cruising near our warships, replenishing their supplies. Then we’ll anchor in coastal waters for ten to twelve days, awaiting the return of the fleet. During that time, your divers can inspect and clean the ship’s hull. Why not also clear the seabed of lobsters and crabs? It would be a welcome addition to the crew’s diet.”

   “Great idea, Captain. If conditions are right, we’ll have crustaceans on the table, including spiny lobsters and sea truffles. I’ll ensure it, and if you approve, I’ll dive with the team myself.”

   “I’ll make sure the conditions are right. But you won’t be diving. You might as well take that diver certification off your cabin wall—I won’t allow my combat unit leader underwater. You’ve got enough on your plate,” the captain replied.


   Within a week, tender white lobster meat graced the crew’s menu. Divers spent hours underwater, and deckhands pulled up nets of marine bounty. But this bounty couldn’t last indefinitely, and soon the waters around the floating base were emptied. This shift was immediately reflected in the meals for junior enlisted and non-commissioned officers. At first, the crew understood the change. But when the daily crustacean haul fell from hundreds to only a few dozen, and the captain ordered that the delicacies be reserved exclusively for the officers, murmurs of discontent began to spread.

   Soon, frustration grew among the “blue-collar” sailors about how lobsters they helped catch were being prepared solely for the officers. The discontent reached the captain, who quickly ordered the harvest to stop.
But it was too late.

   The captain’s “noble endeavor” had not gone unnoticed. During the seabed harvest, the military police had already received several anonymous complaints from the ship. The reports increased as the crustaceans became scarce. As a result, a task force was dispatched from the garrison days before the ship’s return. Just minutes after the vessel docked, representatives of the military prosecutor’s office boarded and began questioning the crew about “Operation Lobster.” By day’s end, it was clear the captain’s actions might fall under multiple criminal charges related to poaching.

   “Since the harvest was conducted by a group, in large quantities, and with abuse of official position, this will be considered an aggravated offense,” the investigator informed the captain. “And pray no evidence surfaces that your divers poached from local fishermen’s traps, or your sentence may double.”

   Prosecutors are skilled at painting grim scenarios—it’s their role. But the fate of captains isn’t decided by prosecutors; it rests with other captains. Ultimately, the offense, initially classified as a criminal act under aggravating circumstances, was reduced to an administrative violation, and the captain was brought not before a military tribunal but an officers’ court of honor.

   “As an officer and commander, you are bound to uphold the core moral principles of service,” a gray-haired rear admiral declared, enumerating the charges on his fingers.;“You forgot about courage, honesty, and justice. You broke the law, showed cowardice, and attempted to lie to escape responsibility. I can’t accuse you of outright betrayal—only because I lack proof. By decision of this court, you are stripped of the right to bear the honored title of ‘officer.’ It is strongly recommended that you promptly submit your resignation from the Armed Forces. You may appeal within three days by submitting a report to the fleet commander.”

          
                Low Qualifications

   The next commander of the floating base had previously led a large anti-submarine frigate and was held in high regard by everyone, from ordinary sailors to the fleet commander. An intellectual to his core, the "Captain" was a slightly taller-than-average, slim officer who enjoyed running, swimming, and playing soccer, volleyball, basketball, and hockey. He spoke softly to subordinates but was persuasive and deeply knowledgeable. When he needed a specialist's advice, he would go to their station rather than summoning them to his cabin or the bridge.

   Under no circumstances did the Captain use foul language or raise his voice. He awarded distinguished crew members medals, certificates, or valuable gifts against the backdrop of the national flag, ensuring a photographer was present. When discipline was necessary, he would call the offender to his cabin and quietly inform them of his decision. He would then email an order to the entire crew about the disciplinary actions taken, omitting the offender’s rank or name. The message would read something like this:

   “1. Informing the crew that six individuals went ashore without permission over the past week. Three of them are first-time offenders and will forfeit a quarter of their salary. One second-time offender will forfeit fifty percent, while two habitual offenders forfeit their full monthly salary.

    2. Nine crew members are barred from shore leave for a month due to excessive alcohol consumption.

   3. A Petty Officer 2nd Class has been demoted to Master Seaman for neglect of duty and rudeness toward an officer.”

 The crew respected the commander deeply and worked hard to meet his standards, yet even his carefully managed authority couldn't ultimately safeguard his position.

 
 As part of the combat training regimen, the crew had to practice docking multiple times at their home pier before a major ocean deployment. The exercise involved sailing out to the bay near the coastal town, then returning to dock—a task that didn't always go smoothly.;The 24,000-ton vessel would sometimes stop 30 feet from the rubber fender on the pier or risk hitting the concrete at full speed. Two tireless tugboats corrected the Captain’s positioning, either nudging the ship closer to the fender or adjusting the ropes at the bow and stern to prevent a collision. Without showing any frustration, the Captain repeated the docking drill, bringing the ship back out to the bay for another attempt. It wasn’t just his training; the nearly three-hundred-member crew rehearsed as well, preparing all the ship’s services and combat divisions.

   By the week’s end, the Captain was ready to showcase his skill for a three-member commission from Fleet Headquarters. Confident, he maneuvered the ship into the bay, turned it 180 degrees, and began the approach parallel to the shore, forming a slight arc toward the pier. Docking on the starboard side is trickier for single-propeller ships with fixed-pitch propellers, and experienced captains rarely use tugboats at their home base to avoid the stigma of relying on assistance.

   Determined to prove himself, the Captain decided to dock without them.

   “Starboard side and no tugboats,” he announced to the officers on the bridge.

   The head of the examination commission nodded approvingly, making a note in his journal, while the two senior captains behind him exchanged skeptical glances, their expressions questioning, “Why take the risk?” and “Who’s he trying to impress?”

   “Five knots… four… three… two. Stop engines, full reverse,” the Captain commanded as the ship approached the pier.

   The floating base obeyed reluctantly, requiring a considerable distance to come to a full stop. The Captain focused intently on halting the vessel precisely within reach of the mooring posts. Although the forward speed was controlled, the ship’s sideward momentum, increased by a daytime breeze and lack of countermeasures, worked against him.

   With a shuddering impact, the floating base struck the pier, rupturing its metal hull in several places just above the waterline. The onshore wind, combined with the ship’s considerable surface area and superstructure, proved a disastrous combination, turning the Captain’s show of skill into a serious accident.

   An investigation confirmed the Captain’s responsibility for the incident. The damage was extensive, costing the state significantly, and the vessel was rendered unfit for deployment for an extended period. However, since the accident stemmed from a lack of skill rather than negligence or reckless behavior, the Captain was reassigned to a ground-based military post, critical to fleet operations but far from his previous command. The fact that three senior officers—including a highly experienced deputy fleet commander—had been present on the bridge during the incident and hadn’t intervened also contributed to the leniency in the final decision.

   Three captains in two years—or five in three if you count both their predecessor and successor. Such a turbulent command history gave the ship a complicated reputation and created a challenging life for its crew. It’s no wonder there’s a proverb: “With too many nannies, the child is neglected.”


                The New Captain

   The third captain of the floating base was transferred from the comfort of a coastal town to a remote northern garrison. His less-than-ideal personal qualities made him a poor match for a crew already adrift from weak leadership.

   The fleet’s supply ship had just completed a grueling five-month mission and docked at a friendly nation’s port to replenish supplies and give the crew a much-needed rest.

   “Crew, commence large-scale cleaning,” the ship’s loudspeakers blared with the voice of the First Officer.

   The crew sprang into action. Sailors, petty officers, and warrant officers scrambled to form lines across all six decks, while junior officers—some smiling, others visibly irritated—jostled into position. Senior officers stood at intervals along the upper decks, supervising as thousands of plastic bags, cardboard boxes, and crates of empty cans and bottles were passed from hand to hand down the nearly 600-foot-long ship, toward containers on the dock.

   Meanwhile, the supply officer—a lieutenant commander in his forties—was in the galley, double-checking remaining stocks of food, water, alcohol, fuel, and supplies against his records. When the young Second Officer called over the radio, summoning him to the captain, the supply officer was busy updating inventory entries on his tablet. He also managed to intercept the ship’s bartender, who, looking to avoid a run-in, reluctantly agreed to deliver a detailed alcohol inventory later that evening.

   Minutes later, the supply officer stood before the captain in his cabin.

   “I ordered the cleaning to be done by 5:30 p.m. and for everyone to be ready to celebrate,” the captain said with a broad smile, seemingly pleased with himself.

   “I want the bars stocked to the brim. We’re marking our first mission together, and I intend for this crew to remember it. I’m ordering you to stock the bars with five times the usual daily alcohol ration.”

   “I’m afraid I can’t do that, Captain,” the supply officer replied, choosing his words carefully. “It would violate the supply service manual, and I wouldn’t be able to cover up the overrun. According to regulations, I’ll issue drink coupons for department heads—two cans of beer, two glasses of wine, or two shots of whiskey per person. Anything beyond that will have to be paid for. I can’t afford to get 290 people drunk on my own dime.”

   The captain’s face went from flushed to pale, save for two bright red patches high on his cheekbones. He took a step closer, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper.;“I order you to serve unlimited beer, wine, rum, brandy, and whiskey to everyone, from the lowest-ranking sailor to the XO. What part of that don’t you understand, Lieutenant Commander?”

   While a young, freshly-minted graduate of the military academy might have been intimidated, the supply officer—an experienced finance professional and former chief accountant—was not so easily swayed.

   “I’ll report your order to the base’s head of logistics,” he said calmly, “and if he confirms it in writing, it will be carried out. Otherwise, there will be no free alcohol beyond the daily limit.”

   The supply officer knew he was risking a confrontation with a powerful commander, but he was confident that fleet logistics would back him. He was still new to the navy, unfamiliar with the culture of the crew, and hadn’t yet realized how vindictive his captain could be.

   Within an hour, he exchanged several emails with the base’s logistics head and the fleet’s chief logistics officer. Satisfied with their responses, he printed the emails, filed them under “Classified,” and made his way to find the captain.
When he entered the officers’ wardroom, the atmosphere was tense. Nearly forty officers stood gathered, half-encircling the captain, who was leaning against the bar and recounting his frustrations.

   “Gentlemen,” the captain said, half-turned toward his men, “I regret that we won’t be celebrating as promised. This logistics rat here,” he nodded toward the supply officer, “complained to his protectors. I’m sure they’ll back him up, too. Oh, look—there he is now, with his little folder of excuses.”

   A few voices muttered in agreement, and the supply officer, stony-faced, turned and left the room without a word.

   For the next few hours, he sat in his cabin, reflecting on the confrontation. Reviewing his actions step by step, he reassured himself that he had no other choice.

   “I did what I had to,” he repeated under his breath. Taking a deep breath, he tried to distract himself, pulling Confessions of an Economic Hitman from his nightstand and losing himself in the political thriller.

   At 10:30 p.m., the cabin door flew open, and in stumbled a clearly drunk female lieutenant commander—the same officer who had been on duty on the bridge that morning. Without a word, she glared at him, then slowly unzipped her pants, lowering them to her calves.

   The book dropped to his chest as he watched, frozen in shock, torn between disbelief and revulsion. She held his gaze contemptuously, then looked down and released a steady stream of urine onto his cabin floor and onto his sneakers, lying carelessly by his bed.

   “Like what you see?” she sneered. Then, crouching down, she used his towel to wipe herself, tossing it to the floor before pulling up her pants and slamming the door behind her as she left.

   The supply officer couldn’t bear to stay in the cabin. He fled to the upper deck, breathing in the warm tropical air in an effort to calm himself. Strolling slowly toward the helicopter pad, he tried to work through the emotions roiling within him.

   'What now? How was he supposed to endure the rest of this deployment, with home base still two thousand nautical miles away—almost six days at sea? What options did he have?'

   Thoughts of revenge, vigilante justice, and even suicide crossed his mind, but he dismissed them. Instead, he would rely on formal channels, methodically filing complaints and documenting every incident until someone took action.

   “If they all think I’m nothing but a nuisance, then I’ll be the best nuisance they’ve ever met,” he resolved, his gaze fixed on the horizon.

   The following morning, the officers' mess was quiet, sparsely populated by five or six officers sipping coffee and picking at croissants, some reluctantly spooning through fruit yogurts. Conversations drifted between impressions of the previous evening’s party and plans for shore leave. When the supply officer walked in, conversations fell silent. As he called for a steward to bring his breakfast, the other officers quickly followed suit, summoning the steward with pointed looks and commands. Caught in the middle, the steward hesitated—he was, after all, under the supply officer’s charge, yet protocol dictated that the officers who arrived first should be served first. Torn, he scurried back and forth, tray in hand, as the officers called him to and fro, leaving no moment to serve the “outcast.”

   Realizing the nature of the game, the supply officer left the mess, heading to the galley to arrange his breakfast. He found a free steward and requested his meal be brought to his cabin. Then he remembered the lingering stench in his quarters and decided to eat in the serving area where his stewards prepared meals for the senior officers. After his essential morning coffee, he made his way to the first officer, who was responsible for maintaining order and discipline aboard.

   On the way, he stopped by his cabin to retrieve his still-wet sneakers, now sealed in a plastic bag. Knocking on the first officer’s door and hearing a brisk “Come in,” he took a deep breath and began what he hoped would be a call for justice. He outlined his disagreement with the captain and described his female colleague’s behavior, setting his sneakers on the table and reaching to untie the bag.

   “Enough,” the first officer interrupted. “No need to show me your sneakers drenched in that foolish woman’s piss. If it weren’t for headquarters’ obsession with diversity stats, people like her wouldn’t be let near a ship—probably not even onto the pier. Now, let’s get to the point: I won’t intervene in your conflict with the captain. Take it up with supply command when we return to base. You’re their man, after all, temporarily attached to us. This may well be your first and last voyage with this crew. Next time, someone else will join us, and you’ll sail on a destroyer or an LPD; you know that. As for the ‘offender,’ I’ll handle her today. I won’t tolerate intentional destruction of personal property.”

   “Thank you, First Officer.”

   “If that’s all, you’re dismissed,” the first officer grunted, signaling the conversation’s end.

   The supply officer buried himself in his duties, receiving deliveries of food and water for the crew, fuel for the ship and aircraft, signing off on receipts, and contacting suppliers to resolve invoice discrepancies. By mid-afternoon, the activity settled. With the ship fully provisioned, he granted his stewards shore leave. Most of the crew had already gone ashore, and only the duty watch and a handful of officers remained on board, uninterested in the charms of the local beaches, the nightlife, or the persistent “amigos” offering trinkets.

   At sunset, the supply officer sat on a pair of stern bollards, shaded by a satellite dish near the poop deck, a steel hatch cover placed beneath him. Squinting as he watched the sun sink into the ocean, he thought, If only I could bring my wife and daughter here. He recalled the morning of his departure, the last quiet moment with his family. He’d been sitting in the bathroom, lost in thought, when his two-year-old daughter shuffled in, her small feet padding on the tiles. She’d handed him her stuffed bear, saying, “Here, Papa.”

   Tenderness mixed with a swell of resentment toward his colleagues, stirring his emotions so intensely he almost felt ready to take drastic action. Just then, he spotted her: the blonde lieutenant commander, walking lightly along the quarterdeck towards him. She wore a breezy, short dress, sandals, and carried a bag with a trendy sports store logo.

   If she comes any closer, I’ll throw her overboard, he thought, eyeing the empty deck. But just 200 feet away, a cruise liner was docked at the opposite pier, its upper decks dotted with passengers strolling to soft jazz drifting from above.

   'They might see. Let her live, for now.'

   “This is for you,” she said, placing the bag beside him.
 
   “What is it?” he asked.

   “Your new sneakers,” she replied, turning to walk away. Over her shoulder, she added, “Sorry about yesterday.”

   That evening, after eating alone in the serving area, he returned to his cabin.
The room was still uninhabitable; the stench from the rubber floor seemed only to have intensified despite the open porthole. He set the sneaker box from the paper bag on his desk and stepped back out for fresh air.

   'One more day in port, then six days at sea, he thought. Underway, time would pass faster, and back at base… someone else can deal with them.'

   As night fell, he decided to sleep in the helicopter hangar, away from the lingering odor in his quarters. Grabbing his mattress and pillow, he left his cabin, but as he closed his door, something caught his eye—a paper taped over his nameplate.

                WOMEN’S RESTROOM

   He clenched his jaw, ripping down the paper and crumpling it. Inside, he found yet another surprise. His new sneakers stood between his bed and desk, each with a note tucked inside:

                Piss here.

   His mind reeled. Time to take this to the captain. The first officer clearly won’t tame these scumbags. Carefully placing the sneakers and notes back into the bag, the supply officer made his way to the bridge, knowing the captain would be there, reporting the day's events to fleet command and coordinating the ship’s next steps. When he entered the bridge, he found the captain deep in conversation with the chief engineer, the weapons officer, and the third navigator on duty, who wore an armband on his left sleeve.

   The captain’s expression soured as he noticed the supply officer. "What do you want?" he asked, his tone sharp.

   The supply officer recounted the events of the past 24 hours, detailing the harassment he’d endured. The navigation officer frowned, clearly uneasy about his subordinate’s behavior and silently calculating his options. If the captain snaps at him, I’ll have to discipline her, he thought. If not, maybe I can let it slide.
The communications officer and watch officer exchanged smirks, while the captain’s frown slowly transformed into a smirk of his own as he delivered what would become an infamous line among the ship’s officers:

   “You shouldn’t complain. A lot of men pay good money to see that.”

   The supply officer’s face flushed with humiliation, but he pressed on, showing the captain the paper he’d torn from his door and handing over the notes he’d found stuffed in his new sneakers, hoping for a shred of understanding. The captain glanced at them dismissively and said, "You brought this on yourself. No one forced you to turn the entire crew against you. Learn not to spit into the wind—especially in the navy.”

   Descending the ladders to the lower decks, the supply officer faced a harsh dilemma: how to make it through the upcoming days. With the crew and command against me, how am I supposed to survive until we reach base? he thought, running through the options. Sleeping in his cabin was unbearable without replacing the rubber floor, bunking with the junior crew was humiliating, and while he could sleep on the open deck near the helicopter platform for now, once they headed north, the cold would make that impossible.

   'To hell with them all, he decided abruptly. Let them get home without me.'

   In his cabin, he changed into civilian clothes, packed his uniform in his service bag, and placed his personal items in a suitcase. He secured the urine-soaked sneakers and the “Piss Here” and “Women’s Toilet” notes in a waterproof bag, added them to his document folder, and called a taxi.

   With ten minutes to spare, he hurried back to the bridge, where the duty officer was now alone. Informing him of his intent to leave the ship, he barely waited for the officer to start dialing the captain before he descended the gangway, tossed his luggage into the trunk of a pink Oldsmobile, and said to the driver, "To the airport."

   
   At his home city’s international airport, his wife was waiting for him, eyes red from crying. After he explained his decision and the events that had led to it, she took his hand.

   "Home?" she asked, voice wavering.

   "No. First, to the military police. I have to surrender myself, speak to a prosecutor and a lawyer, and then, if they let me go, we’ll go home."

   
   The investigation stretched over eight grueling months. When the case finally went to a military tribunal, the hearings lasted two weeks. Dozens of witnesses testified, and every one of his former commanders spoke in his defense, including the rear fleet logistics director and the head of the naval base. The head logistician personally vouched for him, asserting that he was the best supply officer the base had seen in 25 years.

   Though regulations mandated a potential five-year sentence, everyone present, including the tribunal chairman, recognized that such a penalty would be profoundly unjust. The tribunal deliberated in the admiral’s office, where the justice colonel asked the admiral,

   "What do you suggest for the floating base case, Admiral?"

   The admiral, gazing through the wide window at the docked warships, replied,

  "Dock the supply officer a month’s pay and issue a formal reprimand. Give strict reprimands to the first mate and the commander of the first division. As for the woman who urinated in his sneakers—she’s out of the navy. Send the ship’s commander to the farthest northern garrison, and make it an island.”

   The military judge nodded, but added,

   "We need to address the crew as well. They’ve become far too lax.”

   The admiral’s eyes settled on the supply ship, rising like a nine-story building above the dock, its pale blue underskirt exposed now that its 18,000 tons of diesel fuel were unloaded.

   “I’ll deal with the crew myself. I’ll put a real watchdog in charge, someone who won’t leave them a spare moment for idle distractions. They’ll be too busy with drills and exercises to even think about fooling around.”


   That evening, as the admiral and colonel finalized their decisions, a familiar figure at the garrison pool—known as the “Swim Enthusiast,” or "SE" — went for his usual swim. SE, a seasoned Lieutenant (Navy), spent five days a week behind double steel doors, eight yards underground, and simply needed some fresh air and exercise.

   Changing in the massive locker room, he walked past a sign that read:

           ENTRY TO THE POOL IN OUTDOOR SHOES IS STRICTLY PROHIBITED

   He glanced at it out of habit, then proceeded to the pool.

   By then, “sports swimming” hours had ended. The pool was crowded with children splashing around in inflatable rings, though one lane had been left for swimmers serious about logging laps. At the far end of this lane, a young man, perhaps 18, was swimming under the watchful eye of his coach, who knelt by the pool’s edge.

   “Buckle the strap around your ankles and work only with your arms,” the coach instructed. “Stretch the resistance band a third of the pool’s length and hold that tension for five minutes.”

   SE grasped the metal handrail and began to descend, only to be halted by the coach’s sharp command.

   “Sir, can’t you see the lane is occupied?”

   “The lane can accommodate at least two swimmers,” he replied, a note of irritation in his voice.

   “Not today,” she replied curtly.

   'Looks like I’ll be stuck in the kiddie pool,' SE thought with a grimace. 'This is pointless. I can’t even put my head under here without hitting someone or getting jumped on.'

   He waded into the shallow side, noting a pair of "VIPs" seated by the water, still in outdoor clothes. Their boots had left small puddles on the tile floor. They were clearly the young swimmer’s parents, watching him struggle against the resistance band with proud smiles.

   After about ten minutes, SE saw his chance. As the young swimmer paused near his coach, SE approached and asked, loud enough to be heard by everyone nearby,

   “May I use the lane now?”

   The young man glanced at SE and nodded, briefly looking back to his coach.

   "Sure, go ahead," he replied.

   “I’m not asking you,” SE said, his irritation barely contained. Raising his voice, he repeated, “Instructor, may I use the lane?”

   The instructor, a broad-shouldered woman in her thirties, exchanged a few words with the young swimmer before striding over to SE. Leaning down at the edge of the pool, she whispered, “Why are you speaking to me so rudely?”

   “Rudely? Not at all. You ignored me the first time, so I repeated myself to get your attention—and to get your permission,” SE replied with a smirk, drawing out the word “permission” to emphasize the irony of the situation.

   “You’d already been given an answer on my behalf. There was no need to make a scene.”
 
   “Nothing private about a public pool,” SE retorted. “And certainly no need to give anyone exclusive rights outside of working hours. And why should I need permission from some kid? You’re the one imposing the restriction.”

   “Do you even know whose son that is?” she hissed.
   “Nope. And I don’t care,” SE replied before diving into the water, gliding along the black tile line at the bottom of the pool, savoring his small act of defiance.

   
   Meanwhile, in the sports complex lobby, dimly lit in the evening, a group of men in uniform sat waiting on couches and armchairs as their wives finished their workouts. Sports bags and backpacks lay at their feet, and a few of the men idly flipped through magazines from the coffee table, while others watched golf on a large, wall-mounted TV.

   Near the duty counter, a man in a fur coat—a “gentleman” of the garrison—was speaking in hushed but agitated tones to the retired boatswain stationed there.

The moment SE emerged from the locker room, the “gentleman” intercepted him.

   “Show me your ID,” the man demanded, handing SE a business card emblazoned with:

                DEPARTMENT OF NATIONAL DEFENSE
               
                NAVY
               
                Captain (N) So-and-So.

   SE took out his wallet and, with a flick, displayed his own ID in the clear vinyl window.

   The Captain(Navy jotted down SE’s details and asked,

   “What unit are you with?”

   When SE answered, the captain paused for a beat, then replied,

   “I know your commander well. I took over from him on my ship. I’ll be calling him first thing tomorrow to report this… incident.”

   “And what exactly is the offense?” SE asked, unfazed despite his lower rank. “That I was put off by the special privileges given to your son?”

   The captain’s expression darkened. “He’s not just my son; he’s a young sailor on one of our ships. You might one day have the honor of leading him or others like him. Perhaps you could benefit from a lesson in respect, and I trust my friend will make that very clear to you.”

   
   The next morning, SE’s office phone rang.

   “Come see me,” said his commander’s voice, giving no further explanation.

   Shutting down his computers, SE reluctantly left his seat. Standing in the transition chamber between two steel doors, he waited as the hissing of pneumatic hoses filled the space, the air pressure equalizing. He thought to himself,

   'That jerk actually reported me.'

   He was right.


   “My replacement from the floating base called half an hour ago,” his commander began, barely able to hide his amusement, as if pleased by the trouble his subordinate had stirred up. “He was practically foaming at the mouth. Now, tell me what happened at the pool.”

   SE recounted the entire incident, including the exchange in the sports complex lobby.

   His commander listened intently, then, with a knowing grin, leaned back and said,
                “Forget about him. He’s just a dick.”