Rough Waters: The Life of a Naval Intelligence Officer

by Doctor Jac

Overview

Michael grew up in a small town but always had his eye on something big. He wasn't sure what to do with his life until he joined the Navy and found his place in the world. It wasn't always easy. Being the newbie came with its downsides, but Michael was smart and learned fast and soon made his way up the ranks.

Professionally, he falls in with Navy intelligence. He infiltrates China for secret information. He leads a successful mission to Vietnam and uncovers fraud within the officer ranks. He blocks missions and exposes black market thieving of government property. Still, Michael's life is not all work and no play.

In his personal life Michael struggles for years before finding true love. He travels extensively through Japan, Korea, Taiwan, Hong Kong, and the Philippines. He lives a life of passion and excitement but always remembers the small town boy he once was. Michael is a man we all can relate to with dreams and the passion to follow them, even into the path of danger.

Product Details

ISBN-13:	9781458216373
Publisher:	Abbott Press
Publication date:	06/13/2014
Pages:	242
Sales rank:	1,738,005
Product dimensions:	6.00(w) x 9.00(h) x 0.55(d)

Read an Excerpt

Rough Waters

The Life Of A Naval Intelligence Officer

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By Doctor Jac

Abbott Press

Copyright © 2014 John A. Fitzenz
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4582-1637-3

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CHAPTER 1

HOT LAUNCH

An early June Morning in 1942 - - the last week of school. The blacktop in front of our house at the corner of Downer Street and Huron Boulevard is already steaming. The smell of tar is everywhere. Even the cement sidewalk is hot. I start walking the two blocks on Huron to Sacred Heart School at 8 am. I'm wearing a short-sleeve shirt and short brown pants, but feel like I'm in a bearskin coat. Along the right side of the sidewalk is a block-long vacant lot. There's only one house, and it's a little white thing on the opposite corner. In the middle of the lot is a pond made from rain water with an inviting layer of cool mud. Tempting, but I'm late already. The day is turning into a scorcher. Little do I know how hot it's going to make me.

I've done well in the first two grades and am looking forward to the summer. Final tests have been taken and the inmates are anxious to escape their confinement. I imagine that the nuns in their long black robes and starched white head gear are even happier to see the term ending. As I climb the stairs to the second floor classrooms over the church I'm excited too.

When I enter my classroom Sister Mary Clare tells me that Sister Mary Frances, the principal of our little citadel of education, wants to see me. This can only be bad news. On the short walk to her office I nervously play back what I've been doing the past week. I can't think of any rules I've violated. I'm innocent. I knock on sister's open door and she beckons me into her stiflingly hot office. The window is open, but it's still hot and will be sizzling very soon inside and outside that little closet. There are the usual decorations on the wall of the Blessed Virgin Mary, Jesus Christ of the Sacred Heart and a crucifix with a dried out palm leaf wrapped around it. There is a faint odor of incense. It could be Sister Mary Francis. She daubs the sweat off her face as she fusses with the mountain of paper in front of her. In the corner a small electric fan pushes the heat around the room.

Sister is a round little thing seated behind the standard worn yellow oak desk. She's generally serious and has a smile that can go from angelic to satanic in a split second. While I sit stewing, she mines the mountain. At last, she finds what she's searching for, digs it out and looks up. She starts with a semi-angelic smile beginning to tell me why she wanted to see me.

"You've done very well, Michael" - - - that's my name, Michael Still. I'm momentarily relieved. "I've been looking at your grades, and you have an A in every class. You scored 100 on every one of your final exams." My stomach starts to relax, and the beginnings of an actual smile edges at the corners of my mouth. It is not to last. "That is perfect. I've never seen it in over thirty years of teaching. But this is a problem. You know don't you that perfection is not possible in this world, Michael? Only God in heaven is perfect." With that her expression cools and she lays it on me. "I'm going to have to lower your arithmetic grade to 95". From that moment on I've hated math and I don't care much for Sister MF thereafter either.

I skulk back to Sister Mary Clare's class. The other kids look at me for a clue as to how bad it's been. Sister MF never brought good news. They can see I'm crushed. Fortunately, no one is grading my attitude that morning or I'd have had an F minus. How can they do this to me? What is the point of being a good boy, doing everything you're told and working hard when in the end you get conned?

After stewing in the classroom pressure cooker for another four hours we are freed, finally. As I trudge back down Huron Street toward home I struggle to hold back the tears. Remember, mother told me boys don't cry. Okay, so I turn the frustration into anger. Passing the vacant lot, I look at that pond again. This is the perfect place to blow off some of my steam and take a measure of revenge. I walk right over and start jumping up and down in the dirty water. I don't know the right curse words then, but in retrospect they would have been something like son-of-a-bitch.

When I get home I leave my dirty shoes on the back step. I find Mom in the kitchen sweating over a pot of boiling spaghetti sauce. I tell her, "Mom, sister Mary Francis said I had perfect grades but that only god is perfect. So, she cut my math grade from 100 to 95. It's not fair to be cut for being too perfect". But Mom, who is quite religious at the time, agrees with Sister MF and on top of that is mad at me for my mud-caked shoes. She gives me a stiff brush and commands, "Go outside and brush those shoes off. Make sure that you get every last spot of mud off them. Then, you ask Dad for his polishing kit and polish them so they look brand new." I'm going from bad to worse.

When Dad comes home from work I look for sympathy from him as well. He doesn't share my mother's religious viewpoint, but his cynicism is just as useless. He just lights another of his endless chain of cigarettes and chuckles, "Son, life isn't fair. This won't be the last time someone screws you. The world is full of idiots. Just do your best, and leave the garbage behind."

Still looking for an ally, my last hope is my new baby brother Bob, who is about a year old. Lying in his crib, he looks up at me with big innocent eyes as I explain to him what has happened to me and how unfair it is. All my hard work, all my beautiful perfect scores have been stolen from me by the black habit thieves at Sacred Heart, backed by my spineless parents. Bob just smiles up at me, gurgles and drools.

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My parents had reason for their desperation. They were married in the heart of the Depression, 1933. My mother, Irma, delivered me on a blisteringly hot July 30th in 1935. The hospital was not air conditioned. The stuffy delivery room must have been a hundred degrees adding to the pain of child birth. She never tired of telling me how difficult her labor had been and how insensitive the nurses were. She talked as though the nurses and I had somehow conspired to make it difficult for her. I tire of hearing it, but she never lets it go.

Now, in 1942 the worst of the Depression is over, but the effects still linger. We're among the lucky ones because my father has a job at a local factory that makes farm machinery. He's in the accounting department. It's not an exciting job unless you're an accountant, which he isn't. He's good with numbers so they start him out as a bookkeeper and he's thankful for the job. When he gets home at night he tells us stories about the people and the job.

We're happy to have Dad's paycheck every two weeks. Once a month he and Mom sit down at the dining room table after dinner and get all the bills out to see if they have enough money to pay them. I like to watch them do it and hear what they have to say to each other. I always like to listen to the big people when they sit at our house and talk. My parents make sure that with his salary of $200 they can always keep up with the $30 monthly rent for our brown shingled bungalow. All other bills come after that. I remember one night when we've had some unexpected medical expenses there isn't enough money to cover all the bills. They talk about it a long time. Mom say, "We could cut down on meat for dinner for a week. That will save two dollars. Dad says, "Why don't you cut my hair? That will save fifty cents." Back and forth they go looking for a few pennies here and there so that they won't be late or be in debt. Finally, Dad says, "There's no way out of it. We have to dip into our savings for fifteen dollars." Mom starts to cry, "That money is for us to go to the lake for a week next summer." Dad agrees, "Yes, but maybe we can stay for five days instead of seven. Maybe I can find an odd job to make it up." Mom jumps up and says, "I forgot about that. Mrs. Solis is looking for a housemaid for a week to help her with spring cleaning. She's getting old and can't do it all by herself. Mr. Solis is almost bed ridden now and he can't help her. She told me that she would pay someone ten dollars to help her for four days. I can do that and still have time to take care of our house." Dad smiled and said, "I think old Mr. Burns at work was hinting that he could use some help picking cherries in his yard. He had two or three trees and they are too much for him to keep up with. I can probably get at least five dollars doing that for him." They sit back and smile. Then they hug, which they don't do very often. "We're gonna make it hon," he shouts with a big smile. The pressure was off, at least for another month.

Mom and Dad are very proud that they always pay their own way. If someone invites them on a trip, even if it is only one day, they always insist in paying their share. One time Dad is invited to go on a short golf trip with some of the executives of the company. He declines because he won't let anyone else pay his expenses. He tells me, "You've got to be responsible for yourself. Self-reliance is important. If you can't afford to do something don't expect someone else to pay for you. Be a man and take care of yourself."

While we're lucky to have a roof over our heads, even if it is small, old, frequently drafty or leaking, it requires endless labor to maintain it. The landlord said, "You live in it you take care of it." The little brown shingled house had a small porch in front, two bedrooms and one bath, no shower. In the basement there was a coal-burning furnace, a coal bin, laundry sink, work bench and space for a reclaimed pool table.

On warm nights I like to sit on the porch with Dad after dinner and watch the sun go down. He smokes his cigarettes and blows smoke rings for me. I try to put my fingers into the hole but the ring always breaks up. As the sun sets the shadows creep slowly up our street from the west. Then, the street lights go on and the bugs start buzzing around them. Sometimes we talk about life and how to live it. Even though I'm no more than eleven years old I have lots of questions about the world, people and myself. Dad answers my questions if they aren't too obtuse. His basic advice is always, "Pay attention to what is happening around you. Watch people carefully to know if they are honest with you. Then do what you think is right."

If we have rain sometimes we go out onto the lawn with flashlights and look for night crawlers, big worms. If there's a lot of rain the worm holes are flooded and they come out onto the grass. When someone is going fishing we give the worms to them for bait. Dad, Pa and I go fishing a couple times on the river that divides our town. We hook the worms with our fish hooks and drop them into the murky river water. I remember the only things we catch are a couple of small bass, too small to cook, so we throw them back. Once we caught a bullhead. It is a bottom feeder that is thick, dirty gray, with whiskers like a catfish and pretty ugly. It was only about eight inches long so it went back into the river too. Even if we had kept it no one would have wanted to eat it except a cat.

In the basement of our little place I often help Dad shovel coal, scooping out the dusty pellets and dropping them into the hopper that feeds the furnace. It makes me proud to help with this because this is what my grandfather does for a living. He shovels coal for the railroad. The hopper feeds the coal pellets into a large donut shape in the furnace. Every day or two Dad reaches into the furnace with a long hook and pulls the burned coal out. The hot donut is about twenty inches in diameter and is called a clinker. Dad breaks it into a couple smaller pieces and drops them it into an ashcan. Once as I turned from the coal hopper to get another shovel full from the bin, Dad turned with his shovel and hit me in the forehead. I was showered in coal dust and pellets. The impact made me see stars. Dad dropped his shovel and went to his knees, checking my head. When he was sure he hadn't nearly decapitated me, he helped me take off my dirty clothes, gave me a big hug and said he was sorry. Then, he sent me upstairs for a bath. My head pounding, my legs shaking from the impact, I open the basement door to the kitchen where Mom is toiling over her second hour of ironing. Turning toward me with fatigue covering her body she snaps, "What happened to you? You're a mess. Get into the bathroom and take a bath this minute. And make sure you don't leave coal dust all over everything for me to clean up." She never asks about the red bump on my forehead. I grit my teeth and do as I'm told.

While my dad's week is regulated by factory work and house maintenance, my mom's week has its own seemingly endless cycle of chores. There is an unending pile of washing, daily cooking meals for a husband and son ... later two boys, beating back the dust and grime her husband and sons bring into the house, day after day. Every Saturday it is laundry day. We have a blue enamel, round washing machine on wheels with a hand wringer on top. Soap comes from shaving off a large bar of pure white soap about four inches long. Clothes go into the tub with the soap shavings and hot water from the laundry tub. A small electric motor turns the rotor in the tub. This draws the hot soapy water back and forth through the clothes to release the dirt. After washing a load, rinsing it in the two tubs and running it through the hand wringer Mom gives the clothes to Dad and me to hang while she continues to run more heavy loads through the machine. We must do at least a dozen loads counting clothes, linens and towels. In the summer we hang the clothes outside on a couple of lines that run from the house to poles next to our detached garage. In the winter we have to hang the clothes in the basement. It takes several days for them to dry that way. The basement, with its cement block walls and concrete floor smells moldy all winter. About the time the clothes are dry it was time to start laundry day again. The cycle of heavy labor was enough to break the spirit of some people. But for most of us it was the only choice.

Like most households my mother has a small Victory Garden during the war. She continues it until brother Bob goes to school. Then, she went to work at an office and didn't have time to tend a garden. Although it wasn't very big it took a good bit of labor to dig, fertilize with real cow manure, plant, weed and harvest. That is just the beginning. Then, she still has to prepare and serve meals using the produce. Behind the garage, where the garden is located, Mom grows lettuce, peas, corn and other vegetables I don't care for. Our daily meals are basically northern European style, namely meat, potatoes, bread and butter, milk or coffee and, in the winter, canned vegetables. In the summer, along with vegetables, Mom's garden produces my favorite, strawberries. On Thursdays, the entrée is usually liver and onions, which look, smell and taste like the sole of a shoe. Since we're Catholic, Friday is fish day. Living in the Midwest the seafood selection is limited. The local rivers produce only a few fish that you really don't want to eat. Mostly we eat frozen halibut that has the consistency of thick cardboard.

We have a small yard on the front and west side of the house. It's big enough for Dad and me to play catch after work. He bounces the ball at me or throws it as high as he can. I run under it and try to catch it. It's fun and helps develop my baseball fielding skills. In the back is the fence and a double garage. The owner rents the other half to someone who often leaves disgusting things in the bed of his dump truck. I recall vividly the smell the night he left a dead horse in it.

(Continues...)

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Excerpted from Rough Waters by Doctor Jac. Copyright © 2014 John A. Fitzenz. Excerpted by permission of Abbott Press.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

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Table of Contents

Contents

1. Hot Launch: Learning life's lessons early, Perfection is not rewarded, Mom versus Dad in the little brown house, Surviving the Depression, 1,
2. Smooth Sailing: Great times at St. Nicks, My friend Patsy, Discovering golf, Comical first date, A willing widow, Oh Danny boy, 13,
3. Surf City: Cross country on the California Zephyr, Growing up in La La Land, Winning or else, Flo vs. Burnee, Who would believe Christmas in Palm Springs?, 29,
4. Maiden Voyage: Officer Candidate School, Near death experience, First duty station - Hawaii, Two Commanding Officers, An extraordinary woman, 58,
5. Home Port: Intelligence and Chinese language schools, Senator Blank at Congressional, Golf at Pebble and Cypress Point, the Arbuckles, Big wedding, Ambushed., 76,
6. Shipping Out: First sea duty, Off the coast of Vietnam, The big raid, Briefing the US Consul in Hong Kong, Abduction., 94,
7. Beached: Letterman Hospital, Meeting my son, Rehab in Monterey, Cooling marriage, Lynda's discovery, 112,
8. The Storm: My first investigation, Navy Kids Fraud, Mr. Feng and the Naval Intelligence School redesign, 128,
9. Rip Tide: Defense Investigation Service, San Diego shooter, The unfit hero, Lieutenant Jenny, Playing with Davey, Psychiatrist's diagnosis, 143,
10. Double Duty: Secret China landing, Joint Intelligence tour: Korea - Japan - Okinawa - Taiwan - The Philippines, New Year's Eve in Misawa, Busting the black market ring, 174,
11. S.O.S: Sudden unspeakable tragedy, Alaskan detour, Hiding the pain, Lynda's reaction, 197,
12. Calm Sea: Peace of mind, Davey's pictures, The most generous gift, 217,
13. Safe Harbor: Stopover in San Francisco, the Arbuckles gift, Going home to Nowhere, Mom's transformation, United Nations duty, a wonderful surprise, 222,