Excerpt from "The Last Gun Ship - History of USS Mullinnix DD-944"
A Historical Novel By Frank A. Wood
"The Saga of the Teasure Map!"
Majorca is one of the four islands that compounds the Balearic Archipelago and is the largest. Back in seafaring days Majorca was the gateway to one of the busiest sea-lanes of the Portuguese, Spanish, and Italian fleets. With commerce came pirates, shipwrecks, far-eastern spices, near-eastern fabrics and oils, and stories of lost treasures. Much of this colorful history is conserved with numerous historical traces.
Towards the north-west, the landscape changes drastically. At the beginning of Sierra Tramontana many magical and mysterious villages surrounded by mountains can be experienced. At the north and also to the south there are fantastic beaches with hidden coves and numerous caves. To the east, there are the caves of Arta in the village of Canyamel; the caves of Drac with a large subterranean lake, and the caves of Dels Hams in Portocristo.
Majorca cuisine offers a taste of all the cultures that have shaped its personality. Thus variety is one of its hallmarks, combining superb dishes which can be tasted in the "cellars", old canteens or taverns specializing in local menus generally situated in old cellars or basements. Some of the typical dishes served were scaldums, poultry stews with potatoes and almonds; lechona and cabrit torrat, the ensaimada and sobrasada, and delicious fresh grouper cooked Majorcan style.
Many of the older cellars were filled with dark haired dark eyed relics discarded from the sea. Some completely harmless, some not so.
His short hair was dusty with grey sea salt, his dark heavily lidded eyes glassy from drinking aperitif, a local drink derived from caramelized sugar. His face stretched over a strong jutting jaw and uncompromising mouth.
He'd left the sea years earlier; his beaten body couldn't continue the rough and tough way of sea-life. But he hated the land, hated the people who lived on it even worse. This attitude made it difficult to hold a job for long. Considered a trouble maker and loner, he drifted from village to village. Never happy, not knowing what happiness was or even smelled like. The sweet smell of the sea however, warmed him from the inside like a bottle of aperitif.
The fleet was in. All he had to do was sit here. Here, being his favorite cellar with what its historical timbers, bar, dark atmosphere, and sea tales. Sit and wait, that's all. They'd come. They would, eventually, find this place. They always had.
"Let's pull in here," announced Benson, "Looks like our kind of place."
"What’s that? A rotting building that smells of piss and beer?" joked Stretch.
Added Bull, "Yeah, someplace to keep us out of this sunshine and fresh air."
"I don't know why I run around with you three," Questioned Mansen. "You’re a bad influence."
"Where else are you going to find this kind of entertainment? For Free?" asked Bull.
"Let’s go then," surrendered Mansen, knowing he wouldn't dream of being any other place than with these three. They made navy life tolerable.
Breaking the plane of the doorway they followed the ancient stone stairway down into the stone-built structure topped with a gray slate roof. What they found was a stuffy little room reeking of smoke. The tavern was almost completely dark with a low, dark beamed ceiling and dark, oak-planked bar with room to stand maybe 4 thin sailors. A couple small tables scattered about, just big enough for glasses, ash tray, maybe an elbow or two.
They ordered two shots, each, with beer chasers. Then again.
"Bull, you OK? You gonna be able to hang with us this time around?" laughed Stretch.
"You assholes came within an inch of screw'in my life up but good with that stupid-ass stunt in St. Raphael. On top of that, you dipshits lying to the Captain like that! Man, I thought I was gonna shit-a-brick."
"Stop you're wine'n deuce bag. You loved every minute," said Benson.
In a rare example of horseplay, Mansen said, "No one on the boat is a better liar than Benson. The man could throw a pork chop past a wolf."
"That's a no-shitter!"
"Let's change the subject you sonuvabiytches. We didn't get sent on no shit details and that's what counts. Right?"
"Yes Sir-ee!"
"Give that man a cigar!"
Then they spotted him. He was watching the coils of smoke form his cigarette curl slowly up to the oppressively low ceiling. An old man? No, just a man that looked old.
"What’s he doing?" wondered Mansen.
"Why don’t you go over and asked if you can play," kidded Bull.
"Fuck off!"
He looked like a tough man that'd been forced to eat life raw at a young age.
"Buy you a drink buddy?" offered Benson.
He looked up with a mysterious knowing gleam in his eyes. They always came. They always had.
"Sure my friend."
He slowly stood up and with a slight hunch shuffled to the bar, blue smoke rapidly imploding behind him in slow moving concentric swirls in the space his body just departed. Reaching the bar, he settled between the four, laying down an old document on the bar. The smell of fish rose powerfully from his body causing both Stretch and Mansen to involuntarily flinch.
"Shit, man," mumbled Bull.
He ordered aperitif.
"What do you people do for excitement around here?," asked Benson. "...other than drinking."
He appeared to have a tremendous amount of power in his broad chest and well-muscled arms. His rectangular face bore a strong jaw line highlighted by several day’s growth of whiskers. He pulled out a pack of mutilated Lucky Strikes. Bull lit it with his Mullinnix lighter, hoping the flame would eat some of the man’s body odor.
In broken English he explained, "Most people, they fish. Some, they work the land. Most fish and live off the sea."
"What about you? You a seaman?" asked Stretch.
"Use to be," offered the man, "I spend many years on the sea. After a time, my body, it tell me to stop. I'm not old but the sea is hard. It fights you. It wants to win. It always wins."
"What do you do these days," asked Mansen.
"I still love the sea. I help others work the sea. Repair nets. Work on boats." Lighting another smoke of the dying one, he continues, "Help when, n' where I can. Do some treasure hunting. Still a little fishing. Things like that," said the man.
"Did you say treasure hunting?" questioned Bull.
"Si."
"Every have any luck?"
"Si, sometimes."
"Hell, how do you know where to look? The Med is a big sea."
"Si, it is," said the man, "It helps if you have map."
"Map?"
"Si."
"Hell man, how do you find a map to a treasure?"
They were hooked. He knew the look. He knew the questions. He could see it in their eyes. He had them. All he had to do was bring them into the boat.
"This area, was full of pirates in the old days. Many pirates. Many raids, Many treasures stolen, Many lost, Many maps drawn," he said. Looking down, "Here, this is a map I have studied for many days."
The four peered down through the stench, Bull lit cigarettes all around clearing the air ever so slightly.
"I think it is good," the man said.
"Why?"
Pointing, "The coast is marked with the names of old. You can see here. And here. And again here."
"So, what do you think's there?" wondered Benson.
"Hard to say. But I think it is good."
Skeptical, Mansen asked, "So why are you sitting here with us instead out on the coast look'n?"
Smiling, the man answered, "Remember. The sea. It is hard. Me no think my body can do it."
"Need any help?" asked Mansen.
Stretch jammed his index finger into Mansen's ribs, whispering, "You crazy shit. Whad'a you thinking?"
Ignoring the disagreement between the sailors, the old man continues, "And, my friend needs my help on his boat."
Silence. Smoke crawls upwards from five cigarettes.
Benson breaks the silence, "Stretch, can I talked to you a minute. Outside."
The pair follow the stairs up, out into the day light.
"Do you believe him?" asked Benson.
"Are you kidding me Benson? Come on! He reminds me of Kramer in S division. When Kramer isn't lying he is the most honorable man you'll ever meet. Come on, you ain't falling for this shit are you?"
"Hold up a minute, will ya?" said Benson, "he hasn't ask us to buy the damn thing has he?"
"No, I guess he hasn't," admitted Stretch.
"So, I'm just thinking we don't have much to do for the next few days. Hell, we'll probably spend most of it in shit holes like this one. Why don't we see if the old guy will sell us his map, that's all."
"You know your fuck'n nuts? You know that, don't you?" asked Stretch.
"Maybe."
"You've went to zero to stupid in 25 seconds, Benson."
"Tell you what, if Bull and Mansen buy in, you in?"
"Yea right. Good ole' steady Mansen buying a treasure map. Next thing you tell me is you've got a damn bridge you'll sell me. Like hell."
"We got a deal?"
"Tell you what," offered Stretch, "I'm in only if Mansen and Bull are in. And, if you lose, you buy all my booze until we leave this place. Deal?"
"Deal," answered Benson.
Entering the cellar once again Stretch went to the bar and ordered another round, keeping the man occupied. Benson, meanwhile, motioned the other two to joined him in the corner. He briefly explained the plan to both. Bull was in but as Stretch suspected Mansen wasn't biting.
Benson pulled his ace from his sleeve, knowing Mansen had a weakness for redheads, he promised to hook him up with the one they'd met at The Bittersweet earlier. Mansen was in.
Returning to the bar, Benson said, "I was just thinking. If you don't think you can search out this supposed treasure, maybe we could buy the map from you."
Stretch damn near choke on his Chesterfield. Shaking his head, he rolled his eyes to the roof as if praying to God to help him out of this madness.
"Maybe. Maybe I can do that," said the man. "Let me think a bit." With that he walked slowly back to the corner table, pulling on his old oilskin jacket from the back of the chair.
"Yes. I will sell you the map," he said, "But I must warn you. The map may be bad. No one can tell for sure."
God must have had more pressing matters to attend to, as they handed over the agreed sum. Assuring the man they would keep him posted of their progress, they left the same way they had entered, just lighter in the wallet.
Once outside, "I've seen it all. Today marks the fucking day, I've seen it all." Yelled Stretch, "The day Paul C. Mansen bought into an abso-fucking-lutely crazy idea. Man-o-man, what a day indeed!"
"Come on Stretch, nothing is ever as bad as it seems," said Mansen, "I'm still the same ole' level-headed shipmate you've always known and loved."
"Yea, sometimes they're worse." Answered Stretch, "I feel I've been hit by a drive-by shitbomb!"
"Come on you guys, we've got a date with a redhead." Said Benson.
Off they went. Mixed emotions all around about had happened. They'd agreed to sleep on it, but only after a night on the town.
The following morning, in their compartment before quarters, the four were studying the map in detail, ignoring the catcalls and ridicule from the shipmates who saw what they were doing. Ignoring comments like, "Your suck meters just red-lined you crazy shits."
"I've heard that before and I didn't give a shit then, either," responded Bull.
"I never dreamed I would see four shit birds sitting around the same table," offered another shipmate.
"I got 'stay the fuck out of it' on a stone tablet in my rack, why don't you go rotate on it asshole," suggested Benson.
Things took a turn for the worse when the chief slipped down the ladder into the compartment. He was a caustic soup of neurosis. The worst of the Navy, the depth of depravity, a born prick, nobody liked him. He'd been in the Navy since Moses had been a sailor.
"What's this I hear you candy asses bought a fuck'n treasure map? Are you shit'n me or what?"
"Yea Chief, we did."
"You're idiots. I should send the lot of you in the fuckin' hole, but I've got a certain respect for snipes."
It was like wasting a good fly on a dead fish, but Bull said, "Come on Chief. Hell, it'll keep us out of the bars for a day or two."
Dragging at his smoke, "Get your asses to quarters."
After the Chief clawed, and farted, his way up the ladder, Stretch said, "He's the whole damn Navy in one pair of pants."
"Red meat makes him aggressive," offered Benson.
As they had a few more minutes before quarters they returned to the map. "I agree, it's possible," said Mansen.
"Good. I can go on living," Bull returned.
The four had a short work day with liberty at noon. The plan was to investigate the map. Namely, to make an attempt to follow it and see what laid at the end. The old man had suggested a location just east and south of town telling the Muxmen that the first landmark shouldn't be hard to find.
They walked along the pier, looking at gear and breathing in the rich smells of the sea, salt, and fish and that almost-impossible-to-describe scent of block and tackle and nets that have long lived in the water and grown stiff with it. Following an alley to the first left turn, figuring it ran along the rear of the shops facing the street, they headed in the direction were they'd figured the map started. It was wide enough for one car, if it could make its way around the piles of garbage and empty boxes stacked up against the buildings. The flat paving stones were greasy with the remains of whatever people tossed out of their backdoors, and the smell of heated, rotting garbage rose up and slammed in to their nostrils. The insects were thick. As they walked by each pile of refuse, fat flies rose up, confused about whether to continue feasting on the slop or to begin to play in their eyes and ears.
They came to a large square, filled with locals walking among market stalls and vendors selling leather bags, dates, nuts, melons, and drugs. Strange smells filled the air, the stink of unwashed bodies and garbage out too long in the sun mixing with spices from the cooking pots in the stalls.
"Man, if the women smell like these people, I'm in serious trouble," offered Mansen.
"You can always go over in a dark corner and beat off," suggested Bull.
"Fuck you", Mansen said.
Clouds of flies rose from heaps of rotting fruit piled up against the walls.
"Boy, talk about gagging a maggot that just came off a gut-wagon," said Stretch.
Barefoot kids in rags darted around them, in and out of the stalls, begging money or anything else the sailors were willing to part with. Soon, they could hear the muted crash of the waves. The outcrop shaped vaguely like a pair of horse heads blocked there view momentarily but they knew they were near enough to the sea as gulls creaked overhead. They could hear waves smacking against the beach, then receding with a sucking sound, like the underpinnings of the earth itself sliding down the continental shelf.
The map was faded in spots making the identification of the next landmark more challenging. The shipmates saw that the low rolling hills and tundra were broken by a network of ravines with twisting cliffs creating the illusion of an island writhing in pain. The white lines of surf crashed against the high seawall as if on the edge of a storm. The sky was a frozen darkening purple.
The quartet were looking for a coal black rock surrounded by smaller white rocks. The patches of grass between the rocks in this area were bright green, the huge boulders with their planes of silvery granite looked carefully placed and there hung, from the crevices, a profusion of yellow-and-white spongy-leaved flowers. Seagulls fluttered and squeaked overhead.
A sickening stench of decay belched from the ooze below. It was low tide and several yards of stinking mud fringed the sinister black slide of the coastline. Stinking dead fish had washed ashore and insulted every nostril.
Frustrated, "You know, everyone could be right. We could be a bunch of dipshits!" said Stretch.
"Hell, with a little luck we could be the ones laughing," suggested Benson.
Not convinced, "Well let's see now. On one hand we're dipshits but on the other we could be the ones yelling 'dipshits'. That’s a hell'uva wide space between those two extremes."
"Come on you two, let's keep looking," demanded Bull.
As they rounded the out-cropping, the pear-shaped island came into view. Easily identified by the candy-striped red-and-white lighthouse that stood on its rocking shore. A large yacht was off shore about a thousand yards. With a black hull and brown woodwork, from which 2 huge fishing rods stuck out skywards, it looked like an amphibious insect.
The wax myrtle trees were thickening up. The aromatic scent escaped as the four crushed their gray-green and yellow-green leaves. Wax myrtles send up multiple trunks that can grow as high as twenty five feet. This made it increasing difficult to spot the black rock.
"Stop! I need a smoke," said Mansen.
Nobody argued. They lit up, squatting between towering wax myrtles. The sharp smell of salty brine mingled with the scent of myrtles and cigarettes. Clouds were streaming from the northwest.
"So, who is ready to give up and head back to town?" asked Stretch.
"We had a deal Stretch," said Benson.
"Fuck me!"
"Are you ready to kick ass?" asked Mansen.
"I'm always ready, just like boiled ham," answered Stretch.
"Well, let's shit and get then," said Bull, crushing his butt into the moist soil.
Another fifteen minutes crawling through thick myrtles and the crew was close to admitting defeat. Tiny bees, wasps, and multi-colored flies clouded from the fragrant flowers. Terns, gulls, and skimmers filled the sky overhead, and occasional shadow slipping across one of their faces. The clouds had thinned to a dark haze but threatened to regroup at any time.
Suddenly, the thicket ended, giving way to a magnificent meeting place of land and water, a beach of pristine white sand. The tide sliding in and leaving behind tiny shells, sea urchins, sea grass, sand dollars, a cigarette butt, and two beer cans - the detritus humanity drops carelessly like a trail of crumbs. The sea was a pearl-gray.
The out cropping of rocks appeared out of place - the inherit ugliness a stain on the otherwise stunning view. Rocks ranging in a dulled revolting paint wheel of grays, browns, dark tans, even black. Then - there it was. Were the sand gave way to a rugged rock-invested landscape, was the black rock.
"Damn, man!" yelled Benson.
"In-fucking-possible!" offered Stretch.
"Sonuvabiytch!" added Bull.
"Looks like that ole' eagle may have just shit early today, huh boys?" said Mansen.
On approaching the black out-cropping, they confirmed the ring of smaller white rocks that appeared to be gypsum, hydrated calcium sulfate, formed at the bottom of shallow pools of saltwater containing calcium and sulphur. As the saltwater evaporates, the dissolved calcium and sulphur in the water become concentrated and precipitate as the mineral gypsum.
Excited, pointing, "OK now, the shallow cave is supposed to be in that direction," said Benson.
"Let's shit and get then."
They continued on, spotting a small inlet of churning sea. The rhythmic crash of the waves against unyielding granite rock. Approaching the cliff face, the roar of the ocean pounded in their ears, they spotted what appeared to be a narrow opening.
"There, over there, see it?" asked Benson.
Spray rose in a white mist as the waves broke in thunderous explosions against the cliff face. The shadow of clouds slipping across his face, "Yea, Yea I do," answered Mansen.
Hidden in the ragged rock face, was an opening. Small, and narrow, but definitely an opening.
Somewhat leery of the water, "Who's going to go check it out?" asked Bull.
"This is his wagon train. Benson, you go check it out," ordered Stretch.
Telling Stretch to go fuck himself, Benson proceeded to shinny over the rocks like a giant crab. As he mounted the slippery stone, a roll of distant thunder rumbled across the water, and a few drops of rain spatter his shoulders. A storm was brewing. By the time he climbed all the way to the cave mouth, a fierce wind lashed the rock wall, and the ground vibrated with a clap of thunder that followed a flash of green lightning.
The wall swallowed him up as he entered the opening. Foul air greeted Benson’s arrival. He was glad to be out of the approaching storm, but the sweet stench of decay that assailed his nostrils made him hesitate just inside the entrance. The cave was a complex, deep, three-dimensional-maze with beautiful marble banding and a small stream running quietly near the left face. The mineral-colored rocks gave off unusual colors including blue, green, yellow and black.
Time slowed to a standstill. The trio yelled his name, knowing he probably couldn't hear them over the sound of the surf. The tide was sliding high up on the sand and the rocks appeared to be running into the waves, leaping in the froth that sucked back over their tanned and blackened bodies. Gloomy multi-hued clouds layered upon one another like plies of fall leaves cast dark dancing shadows as the rain drops grew larger.
Five minutes. Ten. Thinking, "We're SOL?"
It was warm and cool at the same time, the air smelling like rain when it first strikes a hot deck. Fifteen.
Emerging from the gaping hole, Benson gave out a shrill yell. He was waving a small leather satchel. Maneuvering back to his shipmates, Benson was all grin - from ear to shining ear.
"What'd you find? What'd you find you fucker?"
"Haven't opened it yet, asshole."
Benson knelt down on the wet sand, the others hanging over him like Spanish moss on an old oak tree. The leather-like bag had seen better days. It wasn't wet, but yet, it wasn't dry. It was stained in a myriad of yellows and browns with splotches of black and green moss on one torn corner.
"Here goes nothing," opening the broken lock and peering inside, Benson reached in. What emerged from was met by eight bulging eyeballs.
"Holeeeey Shit," screamed Bull as Benson pulled a fist full of shaggy, blackened, and deteriorating wad of ten thousand French Franc bills.
"Anymore?"
Turning the satchel upside down, a stream of Francs poured out onto the beach.
"Good Lord!" someone whispered.
Mansen couldn't believe his eyes. Unbelievable, a small fortune. His eyes were not looking into the small darkness of the satchel; they were looking farther and to a place about which they did not know.
"Mansen, what is it?" His voice, sharp with annoyance, recalled him to the present. His mind spun back through a kaleidoscope of spinning years, through superimposed whirling images of childhood and youth, to that last unforgettable image, still, perfectly in focus, patterned forever in his memory, the fortune he never knew.
"Are any of them in one piece?" cut in Stretch.
Spreading the pile of bills flatter, that didn't appear to be the case.
"Shit, are any of them in good enough shape to spend?" asked Bull.
Still shifting through the currency, "It doesn't look like it boys," offered Benson.
"Fuck me!"
He stared at the glass surface of the puddle nearby that reflected the clouds passing overhead. It seemed like everything in the world was moving. "So close, but yet so far away," said Mansen. "Story of my f-u-c-k-i-n-g life!"
"Hold on. Here is a couple that look in decent shape," said Benson. "Here's two more. An another."
They'd each got a souvenir for their trouble. Damn. The biggest problem loomed ahead of them - their shipmates would ride them until the end of the cruise. They would be the butt of any and every joke for weeks to come. Double damn...
"Let's flash them around the ship. Those idiots won't know the difference," suggested Bull.
Begrudgingly agreeing to Bull's stupid suggestion and emotionally drained, they tore the map into little pieces, dropping them into the stagnant water. The bits of paper looked like the alphabet soup they'd eaten as a kid.
_______________
Back on board ship, someone is reading a local newspaper and spots an article about the 10th anniversary of one of France's most publicized bank robberies. The notorious Jacques Spee gang had gotten away with hundreds of thousands of Francs. They had eventually caught the entire gang, but the money was never recovered. Rumors swept the ship like wildfire. Could it be? Could their shipmates have found all that missing loot? Hounded constantly with questions, admiration, and envy the four remained silent. The less they said the better it got.
Who were the shitbirds now?
_______________
Whiskey fumes, cigar smoke and sweet perfume waffled through the warm stale air. The putrid reek of old beer and garbage mingling from behind the back wall. He sat in another one of his favorite cellars. Yet another soiled, faded map in hand. They'll come. They always had - they always will.
_______________
A ship is not a geographical place. A ship is a condition. It rings with the sounds of naval tradition, the metallic whirring of the gun mounts in motion as the gunners run their preventive maintenance, the laughter and broom-ball games on the fantail of the snipes after another dehydrating shift in the hole, their baby-white chests ready to explode in the sun's penetrating fire. Faint odor of smoke racing down the starboard side from the mess-cooks on break hanging over the life-line. The unmistakable sound of a signal-flag line being ripped through metal eyelets as the signalmen communicate with other ships. Their laundry-language unfamiliar to all like it was some sacred hazing ritual that was to be protected at all costs. A cornucopia of colors snapping stiffly in the wind just forward of the stacks.
Mansen, Benson, Stretch, and Bull were the talk of the ship - on the mess deck, engineering spaces, and at every watch station. Deep down the crew knew what they wanted, not what they said they wanted, but want they really wanted. Deep down in their being, were most things don't come close to entering in a sailor's life, they wanted it bad - real BAD. They wanted to believe the four were telling the truth. They wanted to believe that the sailors from the Mullinnix and won one for a change. It had brought them closer. This floating maze of steely corridors had become one. Destroyer sailors, like no others, understood the relationship between each other, their ship and the sea. In the end, the best a ship could hope to do was to break even. But a crew could unite - ever under the most extraordinary circumstances.
