A New Duty - Homer Olsen Chapter 1

6/1/2026

Homer Olsen came up swinging. He threw blows like a machine gun, but it didn’t seem to bother his opponent. His opponent looked soft with a rotund face and a bulge at his beltline, but his guts felt like a brick wall to Olsen’s fists.

“Give up, kid,” the bigger man laughed. “This ain’t no place for a scrawny deck ape like you.”

Olsen danced in, never minding them chevrons stenciled on the man’s sleeve. He popped once, twice with his left, moved sharply to avoid the petty officer’s hammer of a fist, and delivered the wicked right to his chin.

“You’ve got balls trying to steal from me,” Olsen barked.

Moorsby circled. They danced beside the ship’s rail, twenty feet above the water. If they went overboard, no one would notice. The ship wouldn’t turn back even if a lookout spotted them. No one turned back in a convoy. Not when there were Germans prowling the Atlantic.

A blow sent Olsen reeling. He backed up to gain room and found himself against the bulkhead. Moorsby jumped, coming in fast. Olsen ducked and spun, a fist crashing past his head. He gave two hard blows to the gut and one to the kidney, spinning Moorsby around.

The bigger man reeled on his feet. Never one to let up, Olsen stepped in and mashed Moorsby again, opening the man’s cheek.

Before he could do more damage, several pairs of hands seized him, gripping Olsen’s arms tight to his sides. More men surrounded Moorsby.

“What’s the meaning of this, Petty Officer?” the Chief of the Watch barked.

“He was asleep on the deck, he was. Came up swinging when I tried to wake him.”

“That’s a lie!” Olsen shouted, straining against the men holding him. “Check his pockets. You’ll find a silver Dunhill. My father gave it to me. Check it!”

The Chief glanced between the two men, then nodded. A sailor dug roughly through Moorsby’s pockets and came up with the lighter.

“It’s mine!” Moorsby exclaimed.

The Chief flipped the cap and sparked the wheel.

Olsen struggled forward, but the hands kept him in place.

A voice whispered in his ear. “Easy, shipmate, you’ll not be wantin’ to get your block knocked off again.”

“There’s my initials on the side: H.O.”

The Chief examined the lighter, and seeing the initials as Olsen claimed, he snapped it closed.

“Moorsby, is it?” the Chief asked, studying the faded stenciling on the man’s shirt.

“Aye, Chief. An’ I’m no thief. Olsen put that lighter in me pocket.”

“Fair enough. I’ll let the captain sort it out. Confine ’em to the brig.”

The deck gang forced Olsen and Moorsby into their cells and slammed the doors. Olsen stretched out on the bunk. The canvas sagged under his weight. Up a few decks, he had a hammock issued to him during boot camp. It was more comfortable. The roll of the ship gave it a nice swing. Other than the stench of unwashed men and fuel oil, one could get a pleasant night's rest. At least in the brig, he had a room to himself.

Olsen awoke with a start when the bosun piped morning reveille. Rolling over, he put his hands over his ears and tried to go back to sleep.

“On your feet, prisoners!” the Chief Master-at-Arms cried, raking his baton across the bars. “No rest for you lousy lot.”

The Chief was a big, beefy man with a florid face and a brutal scar above his left eye. He paced the deck with his hands clasped behind his back as another MA unlocked Olsen’s door. They led him to the berthing deck and waited while he changed into his dress uniform. Olsen climbed the ladder to the old man’s cabin and stood outside with his minder until Moorsby arrived.

Inside, the old man wore a starched khaki uniform and sat at his desk with his legs crossed. As the two prisoners stood at attention, Captain Dickerson packed his pipe, taking his time, following a ritual he’d done hundreds, if not thousands, of times. He struck a match and lit the tobacco, pulling smoke through the stem and exhaling into the room.

Looking up at the two prisoners, he said, “You two look like you’ve been through the grinder.”

Neither man spoke. Olsen’s hands had swollen, busted knuckles crusted with scabs. The ship’s doc had tended to the cut on Moorsby’s cheek. Both men sported black eyes and split lips.

Dickerson puffed on his pipe. “Now, Moorsby, you had this man’s lighter in your pocket. Theft is a serious crime aboard ship, and I will not tolerate it. What do you have to say for yourself?”

“He loaned it to me yesterday, he did.”

Olsen ground his teeth. “If I loaned him my lighter, I would expect him to return it the moment he finished using it.”

Dickerson picked up the lighter. “It is his lighter, correct, Moorsby? I see his initials on it.”

“Yes, sir. As I said, he—”

The old man cut him off with a wave of his hand. He bounced the lighter in his palm and then spun it to Olsen, who snatched it out of the air. “Chief Sullivan,” he said, turning to the Master-at-Arms. “Thirty days confinement and extra duty for Petty Officer Moorsby.”

“Aye, sir,” Sullivan replied.

“That is all,” Captain Dickerson said sternly. “Dismissed.”

Olsen and Moorsby came to attention and turned toward the door.

“A moment, Olsen,” the captain said.

Olsen froze as Sullivan escorted his prisoner from the cabin. He knew Moorsby’s fate. Thirty days of scrubbing deck plates and swabbing the bilges. Hard, dirty work beneath the blistering heat of the engine.

Captain Dickerson tapped the ash from his pipe. “I’ve been asked to furnish a crew member for an Armed Guard detachment. You just volunteered, son. When we make Saint-Nazaire, you’ll report to the detachment officer. Maybe some time on a troop ship will teach you to keep your fists in your pockets.”

Olsen said nothing, his heart sinking at the prospect of leaving the destroyer. But the captain was God and master aboard his ship, and Olsen was but a lowly boatswain. The scrawny kid with black hair and dancing blue eyes wasn’t even old enough to drive, having lied about his age to enlist to fight in the Great War.

Dickerson gave a thin smile as if bemused by Olsen’s reaction. “Dismissed.”

Olsen stepped out, the hatch clanging behind him. He had no idea what the Armed Guard meant, but anything was better than thirty days in the bilges.

He shrugged and headed topside, already tasting warm red wine and thinking about the French lasses in Saint-Nazaire.

© 2026 Evan Graver