The View From the Deck Plate

I’m looking for a hero.  Or, to be more specific, I’m looking for the name of a hero.  What will I do with this name when I get my hands on it?  I’m glad you asked…

I’d like to use it as the name of a fictional U.S. Navy destroyer in my latest naval action thriller, Sword of Shiva.  Can’t I just invent a name for the ship?  Of course I can.  I’m a writer.  I make up stuff all the time, and not just names.  I’ve invented countries, weapons, battle tactics, and whole branches of technology.  But I’d rather name the ship after a real person, or – to be exact – a real hero.

I first did this in The Seventh Angel, when I chose the name USS Albert D. Kaplan, for one of the Flight III Arliegh Burke class destroyers in the book.  If you’ve never heard of the real Albert D. Kaplan before, you’re not alone.  He had a long and distinguished career as a naval officer, but my decision to use his name was based on a single event that (as far as I can tell) never made it into the history books.  As the Executive Officer of a Navy vessel during World War II (I believe it was a destroyer escort), he conducted what may have been the only face-to-face shootout in history between a warship and ground force tanks.  Yes, I mean the kind of tanks with treads, heavy armor, and massive guns.

The exact circumstances of the duel escape my memory now, but his younger brother told me all about the incident several years ago, as I was working on The Seventh Angel.  In essence, the Commanding Officer of the ship was incapacitated by serious illness, putting Mr. Kaplan in temporary command.  When his ship was ordered to escort assault boats to a landing beach in Europe, Kaplan suddenly discovered that he was within range of a group of German battle tanks on a hilltop overlooking the beach.  What followed was a slugfest between his ship’s guns, and the turret guns of the German tanks.

Albert Kaplan was not actually the CO at the time, and somehow that caused him to be overlooked when it came time to hand out medals.  His younger brother always felt that — at the very least — the Navy should have named a ship after him.

That never happened.  At least not in real life.  But, at the suggestion of that same younger brother, I named a fictional warship after Albert D. Kaplan in The Seventh Angel.  I did it partly for fun, but mostly because his was an unusual act of heroism that will never be recognized by the formal authorities.

So…  Here I am again, neck deep in another naval action novel, and I suddenly find myself in need of a name for a fictional destroyer.  If you know of some unsung hero and you’d like to suggest their name, please drop me an email or a tweet.  I’d love to have another chance to honor real life hero whose name will probably not ever achieve the fame he or she deserves.

It doesn’t have to be a military hero.  It could be a firefighter, a police officer, a civil engineer, or any person who did the right thing (and the hard thing) while history was looking in the other direction.

I should warn you up front that I’m not exactly sure what will happen to the ship in question.  It may be sunk in a horrific sea battle, or it may do great and cool things, or it may only be mentioned in passing.  As my current story arc goes, the USS Hero’sNameHere will play an extremely minor role in the plot, and may only have the briefest of mentions.  Still, minor plot details have a tendency to seize control of my books, so the ship in question may go on perform great deeds which are not any part of my carefully laid out plans.  I honestly don’t know, so I won’t try to oversell it.  Let’s just assume that the ship will be mentioned in passing, and we’ll find out later if any surprises are in store.

Update:  I appreciate all of the excellent suggestions.  I’ve made a selection, but I’ll let you know when I need ideas for something else.  Thanks! – Jeff

My father died when I was seven years old, making my brother, Paul, the self-proclaimed ‘man of the house.’  Paul was two years older than me, and his duties as lord of the manor seemed to primarily consist of ordering me to do his share of the household chores in addition to my own.

For reasons that now escape me, I went along with this plan until I was about ten.  Then, I finally put my foot down, and refused to continue in the role of servant.  Paul — who had come to think of my coerced labor as his rightful due — saw my sudden refusal as outright mutiny…  an open challenge to his authority.  Thus began a war that raged for a number of years.

Like most young brothers, Paul and I had scuffled periodically pretty much since I learned to walk, but our battles had generally been rare and low-key.  When I refused to resume doing his chores, Paul branded me as his personal enemy.  Hostilities between us intensified, and stayed that way.

We didn’t quarrel; we fought — verbally, physically, psychologically, and in every other manner we could devise.  Paul had two years of growth on me, so I nearly always came out on the short end when our clashes escalated to physical violence.  I say nearly always, as I was not above fighting dirty to compensate for his greater size and strength.  More than once, he won the initial fight by beating the crap out of me, only to have me whack him soundly in the back of the head with a blunt object when his back was turned.  Sorry Mom, but not all of the stitches that went into my dear older brother’s scalp were the result of accidents.

In the terminology of current-day combat tactics, I utilized force multipliers and asymmetric warfare techniques to counter a superior adversary.  Stripped of all the impressive buzz words, I blindsided my loving brother with rocks, broom handles, and once a can of Beefaroni, after he had legitimately defeated me on the field of battle.  I can’t pretend that I’m proud of my underhanded tactics, but my brother did eventually get the message that his ability to inflict pain on me did not guarantee a clean victory.  I could (and would) return the favor.

Needless to say, Mom was not completely oblivious to our brawls.  We were rough-and-tumble kids by nature, and one or the other of us was always getting hurt, so she may not have guessed how many of our respective injuries came from fraternal violence.  But Mom definitely knew that Paul and I were not getting along.

She tried most of the usual methods to smooth the waters between us, but Paul and I were locked in mortal combat, and neither of us was interested in making peace.  Appeals to our reason were no good.  Parental warnings went unheeded, and we ignored threats of disciplinary consequences.  When punishment actually came, it only inflamed the situation, as each of us instantly blamed our sufferings on the other — adding to our mutual hostility.

By the time Mom’s intercessory efforts began, the war had been going on too long for easy or direct solutions.  So my mother eventually resorted to an approach so indirect that Paul and I completely failed to recognize it for what it was.  She bought me a copy of the classic nineteenth-century novel, The Swiss Family Robinson, by Johann David Wyss.

At first glance, this odd little intervention might not seem to qualify as a peace-making tactic, but my mother is a pretty sharp cookie.  She knew that four things would happen after she gave me the book.

#1  I would read it from cover to cover.

#2  Paul would not read it.

#3  I would taunt Paul with nasty little hints about his intellectual shortcomings.  (Mom gave me this novel because she knew that I would understand it.  She gave you a belt, to hold up your pants.)

#4  Paul would badger, cajole, and threaten me until I revealed everything about the contents of the mysterious book.

And that’s exactly how things transpired.  It turns out that Mom has a few psychological warfare tactics of her own.

If you’ve never read The Swiss Family Robinson, you might wonder why she selected that particular book.  I think she chose it because one of the story’s major themes is cooperation between brothers.  When their family becomes shipwrecked on an uninhabited island, the Robinson brothers must work together in order to survive.  Their mutual support ultimately leads to safety and prosperity for their family, and along the way they have the kind of adventures that every boy dreams of.

In hindsight, Mom obviously hoped that her two oldest sons would soak up the message of fraternal collaboration.  I’m sorry to say that her hopes were misplaced.  Paul and I did find something powerful and inspiring in the pages of that old book, but it wasn’t quite what Mom had in mind.  It was the formula for gunpowder.

Not good.  Neither of us were beacons of self-restraint, and any good judgment we may have eventually developed was still years in the future.  With this single discovery, our capacity for wreaking havoc was amplified by several orders of magnitude.  We had acquired the ability to blow stuff up.  Not good at all…

I’m not going to mention the three substances required to produce gunpowder, and I won’t discuss the necessary ratios of the ingredients, or even the simple mixing process.  All of that information is available easily these days, but I don’t want to be responsible for starting anyone down the path of potential destruction that begins with homemade explosives.

When I was a boy, long before the flower of knowledge and communication now known as the internet, the perilous formula for gunpowder was not readily available to the average preadolescent child.  But there I had found it, in the pages of a classic novel, given from the hands of my mother, the would-be peace-maker.

Unfortunately for our neighbors, two of the constituent chemicals were available over the counter at Ekerd Drugs for well under a dollar a pound.  (They even came in white plastic jars that handily matched the necessary proportions.)  The third ingredient was readily at hand in most of the backyards in our neighborhood, and only required a bit of grinding and sifting to achieve the required consistency.

Bang!  The Edwards Brothers Gunpowder Factory was in business.  (And I do mean bang…)

We analyzed our first batch of homebrewed boom powder by igniting small samples on a large sheet of discarded corrugated tin roofing, which served as a combination test platform and fire barrier.  The results were good, and Paul and I quickly made them even better by making minor adjustments to the proportions of the ingredients.  It didn’t take us very long to zero in on what we considered to be the optimal mixture.  Looking back, I don’t know if our recipe was truly optimal.  If we had continued our experiments, we might have gotten even more impressive results.  I don’t know, and I’m not even slightly tempted to find out.

I do know that our final formula was quite dangerous enough.  We were two half-wild boys with a ready supply of gunpowder, and we were not afraid to use it.

We blew up soda cans, detonated plastic models, and tried our hands at building and launching solid-fuel rockets.  We constructed several wooden cannons—bored out with a Black and Decker power drill that was Paul’s prized possession.  Some of the cannons failed; some of them worked, and some exploded violently.  We even tried to fire a billiard ball from a real Civil War cannon in one of the local parks.  That attempt was thwarted by a concrete plug that some safety-minded city engineer had wisely used to block the cannon barrel.

I hate to think what might have happened if we had actually managed to fire that cannon.  At the time, we assumed that our ‘cannon ball’ would travel a few hundred feet and fall safely among the Azalea bushes that lined the park perimeter.  But what if it hadn’t?  When I play the scene through in my head, I see dreadful images of our billiard ball projectile slamming into a passing car during rush hour traffic.

We were lucky.  Any one of our explosive projects could have easily killed us, along with any number of innocent bystanders.  We could have destroyed or damaged major property.  We might have been arrested.  (Probably, we should have been arrested.)  But none of those things ever happened.  We never caused a single injury, either to ourselves, or to anyone else.  We never blew up anything that didn’t belong to us, so our mother was never slapped with a lawsuit that would have bankrupted our struggling family.  Our increasingly violent pyrotechnics did get our family evicted from the apartment complex where we lived, but Mom managed to move us into a big old ramshackle house with plenty of room for our antics, so that wasn’t the disaster that it might have been.

Paul and I were not terrorists.  We weren’t even being deliberately destructive, except when we blew up model ships or fighter jets, to simulate the kinds of explosions we saw in action movies.  Since the models in question belonged to us, we didn’t consider that much of a crime.  We never took any of our explosives projects to school, and we rarely invited anyone else to participate in our activities, so the neighborhood kids were relatively safe.  As I say, we were lucky.

Eventually, our mutual fascination with fiery demolitions faded, and we both moved on to other interests.  It finally occurred to me that something else had faded as well.  The war.  Somewhere in the process of learning to make things that go boom, our own explosions of mutual violence had ceased.  Paul had stopped beating the hell out of me, and I had stopped trying to send him to the Emergency Room in retaliation.

I’m not saying that we were enveloped by a wave of perfect love and harmony.  It didn’t happen that way.  We still argued.  We still needled each other the way that young brothers often do.  Our disagreements occasionally spilled over into physical tussles, but real fights were infrequent, and the deep-seated ferocity was gone.  In teaching ourselves to concoct explosive chemicals and rig hazardous experiments, we had begun to rely on each other.  We had learned to respect one another.

In discovering the secret of gunpowder, we had both gotten our hands on a weapon more deadly than anything either of us had ever touched.  But somehow, we didn’t use our newfound power to attack each other.  Instead, it became a bond that drew us together.

I seriously doubt that Mom predicted our descent into pyrotechnic madness when she handed me that tattered old copy of The Swiss Family Robison.  Even so, Paul and I eventually wound up exactly where she wanted us to be.  I’m not sure if that qualifies as irony, brilliant planning, or simple coincidence.  All I know is that Mom was the only one of us to achieve her final military objective.  I guess that makes her the ultimate victor in my long-running war with my older brother.

Go Mom!  That woman deserves a medal…

I write fiction, but the plot lines of my novels tend to be anchored in real world events or situations.  Given that fact, I shouldn’t really be surprised when something I’ve written about in a fictional context shows up in the news.  Nevertheless, I am always a bit surprised when it happens.  Apparently, my readers are surprised as well.

In January of 2008, when Iranian gunboats made international news by harassing U.S. Navy warships in the Strait of Hormuz, I got a flood of emails from readers pointing out parallels to the first action scene in Sea of Shadows.  (In print at that time under the title Torpedo.)

In May of 2011, when the German government announced a massive plan to retire every nuclear power plant on German soil, I got a similar spate of emails from readers.  “Hey, didn’t you write about that in Sea of Shadows?”

A few days ago, Der Spiegel published an article about the rapid increase of major armament exports from Germany, including state-of-the art diesel submarines.  So far, only one reader has contacted me to mention the connection to certain elements from Sea of Shadows, but I’ll probably hear from other readers on the subject as the Der Spiegel story percolates through the web.

Am I predicting the future?  Of course not.  The parallels, when they exist at all, are only roughly analogous.  I haven’t ‘predicted’ anything exactly (or even closely), and it seems likely that I never will.  I’m not clairvoyant.  I just look at emerging technologies or geopolitical situations, and try to mentally extrapolate where they might be headed.  If the resulting concepts seem interesting or exciting, I start trying to weave a plot around them, and see where I end up.  Sometimes, my extrapolations are later echoed by real events and sometimes they’re not.  I know there’s no magic to it, and I know that any apparent congruities are purely coincidence.

Even so, the growing list of apparent real world echoes from Sea of Shadows has convinced me of one thing…  I absolutely do not want any of the events in The Seventh Angel to come true.

Not even approximately.

The idea for this story popped into my head a few years ago, when I was flying home from a business trip to the East Coast.  Usually when inspiration strikes me, it comes in the form of a plot concept, or an interesting idea for a new character.  But this time, I found myself scribbling three sentences on the back of an airline napkin…

Elizabeth Sawyer first saw the boy on her thirtieth birthday.  After that, she saw him at least once a day.  It took her a week to figure out that no one else could see him.

It seemed like the opening lines to a story, but I had no idea what it was supposed to be about.  I didn’t know anything about this Elizabeth person, or why she might be seeing visions of a strange boy who was invisible to other people.

I tucked the napkin into my pocket, and forgot about it until a couple of months later, when I was asked to teach a writing course to a class of advanced fifth grade students.  I jotted those opening lines on the white board, and had a wonderful discussion with the kids about where the story might be heading.  By the end of the class, we agreed that each of us would take those same opening sentences, and write a story about Elizabeth Sawyer and the mysterious boy.

We decided to collect those stories into an anthology called The Boy, and publish them in paperback.  The kids got pretty excited when they realized that they were about to become published authors, and they had a lot of fun writing and polishing their stories.  Come to think of it, I had a good time working on my own version of the story.

It’s quite unlike anything else I’ve ever written, and I thought it would be fun to post it here.  So without further ado, here is my version of… 

The Boy

Elizabeth Sawyer first saw the boy on her thirtieth birthday.  After that, she saw him at least once a day.  It took her a week to figure out that no one else could see him.

The boy showed up on the trolley, at the grocery store, outside of the office building where Elizabeth worked, and even in a parking garage.  It was the same every time.  The boy would appear without warning, stepping out from behind a bush, or a car, or a sign, or the corner of a building.  He would glance around quickly, make eye contact with Elizabeth for two or three seconds; then he’d step around a corner, or into a shadow, and he’d be gone.

None of her friends or coworkers ever saw the boy, even when Elizabeth tried pointing directly at him.  Could she be imagining him?  Elizabeth didn’t like that idea very much, but she had to admit to herself that the boy might a hallucination.  Could she be losing her mind?  What if the boy wasn’t even real?

The boy certainly looked real enough.  He had black hair, and dark almond-shaped eyes.  Elizabeth thought he might be Asian, but it was difficult to get a good enough look at him to be sure.  He looked to be about eight or nine years old, but he carried himself with a seriousness that made him seem at least two or three years older.  Whenever Elizabeth saw him, he was always dressed in loose-fitting black pants, and a short robe or jacket of gray silk.  Wrapped around his waist was a red sash, knotted in the front, with the ends dangling near his knees.  Like his features, the boy’s clothes looked Asian, but very old-fashioned.  They might have looked at home in a movie about Ancient Japan.

On Saturday afternoon of the second week, he stepped out from behind a rack of magazines in Elizabeth’s favorite bookstore.

Before he could turn to leave, Elizabeth help up a hand.  “Stop!” she said.  It almost came out as a shout.  “I mean, please,” Elizabeth said.  “Don’t go.”

The boy froze in place.  He turned slowly to face Elizabeth.  He watched her without speaking, his face much too serious for a child so young.

Elizabeth felt her cheeks go warm, and she knew that she was blushing.  Now that she had the boy’s attention, she had no idea what to say or do next.

She had never been this close to him before, and she realized that he had an unusual but rather pleasant smell about him: a strange combination of fireworks and cherry blossoms.

She coughed to hide her nervousness, and then blurted out the first thing that popped into her mind.  “What’s your name?”

The boy bowed politely.  “Watashi wa Hiroki desu.”

Elizabeth frowned.  “Excuse me?”

The boy bowed again.  “I am sorry,” he said in English.  “My name is Hiroki.  It means big tree.”

“I see,” said Elizabeth, who didn’t really see at all.

“It is a good name, I think,” Hiroki said proudly  “A wizard’s name.”

That took Elizabeth by surprise.  “A wizard’s name?  Are you a wizard?”

“Hai!” Hiroki said.  “I mean, yes.  I am a wizard.”  He paused.  “Or at least, I will be a wizard, when my grandfather finishes teaching me the Mahou: the way of the magic.”

“I see,” Elizabeth said again.  “My name is Elizabeth.”  She thought about bowing, but decided that she didn’t know how to do it properly.

Hiroki nodded.  “I know your name,” he said.  “I have been watching you.”

It was Elizabeth’s turn to nod.  “I’ve noticed that.”

“I don’t mean to frighten you,” Hiroki said seriously.  “I am looking for Kazumi.  I believe that she will come to you soon.”  He glanced around.  “Perhaps even today.”

“I don’t understand,” Elizabeth said.  “Who is Kazumi?  And why would she be coming to me?”

“Kazumi is a dragon,” Hiroki said.  “Her name means harmony and beauty.”  He nodded gravely.  “That is a good name for a dragon, don’t you think?”

Elizabeth shook her head.  This was getting too weird.

“I don’t believe in dragons,” she said.  “And I don’t mean to be rude, but I don’t really believe in wizards either.”

“Ah,” said Hiroki.  “But Kazumi is only a baby dragon.  She’s barely out of the egg, and she is much smaller than an adult.”

He held up an arm and wiggled his fingers.  “She is perhaps the size of your hand.  Just a tiny thing.  Much easier to believe in than a full grown dragon, don’t you agree?”

Elizabeth sighed.  “No.  I don’t agree at all.”

“I don’t believe in any dragons,” she said.  “I don’t believe in little ones, or big ones, or medium-sized ones, or any size, shape, or color.  And I don’t believe in wizards.”

“Then how do explain the footprints?” Hiroki asked.

Elizabeth scratched the back of her head.  “What footprints?”

“The footprints in your butter,” Hiroki said.  “If you don’t believe in dragons, then where do you think the footprints came from?”

“There are no footprints in my butter,” Elizabeth said.

Hiroki smiled.  “Are you sure?”

“Yes,” Elizabeth said.  “I’m sure.”

“Have you checked?” Hiroki asked.

Elizabeth opened her mouth to say something, and then stopped.  “What?”

“Have you checked your butter for dragon prints?”

“Of course not,” Elizabeth said.

Hiroki toyed with the red sash around his waist.  “Then how can you be sure they aren’t there?”

“I don’t want to be rude,” Elizabeth said, “but I don’t believe in any of this.”

“That’s okay,” Hiroki said.  “My grandfather doesn’t believe in televisions, or microwave ovens, or skateboards.  And I can’t really blame him.  They don’t leave footprints in the butter, so it’s pretty hard to prove that they exist.”

Elizabeth snorted.  “Okay, that’s quite enough.  You seem like a nice boy, Hiroki, but I’m through with this conversation.  There are no wizards.  There are no dragons, and there are no footprints in my butter.  Zero.  None.  Zip.  Nada.”

Hiroki’s face went completely serious again.  “If you say so,” he said.

He stepped around the magazine rack before Elizabeth could stop him.  She hurried around the rack, no more than a second behind him, but the boy was gone again.

Elizabeth had lost her appetite for reading.  She left the bookstore and headed toward her apartment, walking slowly.  There wouldn’t be footprints in the butter; she was sure of that.

The whole idea was silly; wasn’t it?  There were no such things as dragons.  Everybody knew that.

But where did Hiroki come from?  How did he appear so suddenly?  Where did he disappear to, so quickly and completely?  And why couldn’t any of Elizabeth’s friends see him?  He couldn’t really be a wizard, could he?

Elizabeth reached her apartment at last, and she decided to take the stairs instead of the elevator.  “There are no footprints in the butter,” she said as she reached the top of the staircase.

“There are no footprints in the butter,” she said again as she unlocked the front door of her apartment.

“There are no footprints in the butter,” she repeated as she walked into her neat little kitchen.

She wrapped her fingers around the handle of the refrigerator door.  “There are absolutely, positively no footprints in the butter,” she whispered to herself.

She opened the refrigerator door.

There – neatly outlined in the butter – were a half-dozen tiny little three-toed indentations, as though a creature the size of Elizabeth’s palm had taken a stroll through the butter dish.

Elizabeth closed the door of the refrigerator. “There are footprints in my butter,” she said softly.

Again, she smelled the odd fragrance of fireworks and cherry blossoms.  And that’s when things really started to get weird.

I’m the writer guy.  If you’re not sure what that means, allow me to explain…

Being the writer guy is like being the guy with the truck.  If you’ve ever been the guy with the truck, you know exactly what I’m talking about.  You’re the person everyone calls when they want to move to a new apartment.  Or when they buy a major appliance and can’t afford to shell out the additional cash for delivery.  Or when they need someone to haul 16 pallets of peat moss to revive their dying azaleas.  Owning a truck automatically brands you as the default delivery service for every friend, relative, and distant acquaintance with access to your phone number or email address.  If you’re lucky, they pay you with pizza and beer, and maybe $5.00 to cover the half tank of fuel you burn making 32 round trips to their new dwelling of-choice.

Being the writer guy is sort of like that, except you don’t get the pizza and beer.  Or the $5.00.  When you’re the writer guy, you become the editor and ghostwriter for every neighbor or coworker who needs to string together more than three coherent sentences in written form.

I’ve been asked to look over and critique just about every kind of written material you can imagine, from technical manuals to love letters.  (By the way, the phrase ‘look over and critique’ is code.  It roughly translates as, “please turn my four paragraphs of rambling notes into eight pages of scintillating prose, preferably with footnotes, a bibliography, and a cover page.”)

Over the years, I’ve written (or re-written) a master’s thesis, two doctoral dissertations, four or five major contract proposals, and every kind of report, performance evaluation, and letter of complaint that you can imagine.  I’ve ghostwritten so many term papers that I’m prepared to audit nearly any college course you care to name.  I’ve drafted so many resumes that I could probably get a porcupine hired to work in a balloon factory.  I’ve used the writer mojo to help love struck males woo women I’ve never even met, and — when the letters did the trick — I’ve even helped a few happy couples craft their engagement announcements.

Fiction or nonfiction, official or unofficial, platonic or romantic, I’ve helped people write flyers, posters, newsletters, brochures, school plays, formal grant requests, and children’s books.  So far, no one has asked me to assist with horoscopes, fortune cookies, or pornographic memoirs, but it’s probably only a matter of time.

If there are words to be written, somebody calls me.  I’m the writer guy.  I’m not the only one, thank God.  I have lots of brothers and sisters out there, each doing his or her part to keep the written language alive.  Otherwise, I’d never get around to working on my own stuff.

I know it sounds like I’m complaining, but I’m not.  Oh, I may grumble a bit when you ask me to spruce up your thirty-page report about rodent control in housing developments adjacent to canyons, especially if you attach an unreasonable deadline.  (No hurry.  Anytime this afternoon is fine.)

But the truth is, I like being the writer guy.  I take pleasure in finding new ways to communicate via the written word.  I enjoy the challenge of trying to match the tone of the work to whomever I’m writing on behalf of.  A report by Bill Jenkins should at least sound as though Bill could have written it.  This can be especially entertaining if the supposed author has a vocabulary of fewer than thirty words, but that’s another blog for another day.

Being the writer guy can be time consuming, and sometimes it gets in the way of my personal plans and my professional agenda.  The gig rarely pays off, not even in beer and pizza.  But I can’t stop doing it, because it’s part of who I am.  The sense of satisfaction that comes from cranking out a good piece of writing far outweighs any minor inconveniences, or the impact to my personal schedule.

Unfortunately, I also happen to be the guy with the truck…