Victory at Sea

What is one of the coolest gifts anyone ever gave you?

Note: I took a little liberty with the question.

I held my breath as I used tweezers to glue the last tiny anti-aircraft gun to the USS Missouri.  Slightly pop-eyed and with an aching back, I sat up and dropped the tweezers in the box with the plastic scrap, glue and paint.

I looked at it with satisfaction as it sat on my desk. It was the first of the WWII Iowa-class battleships in my growing fleet, and half again as big as my next-biggest dreadnaught.

I could hardly wait to sink it.

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As a kid, I was a voracious reader and one of my favorites was WWII military history, especially naval battles in the South Pacific. Nothing was better than lying on my bed during a Florida afternoon downpour and reading about the battle of the Coral Sea, Midway, or daring PT-boat raids against Japanese cruisers in the Solomon Islands.

I used my chore money on WWII scale model ships, and my best friend Kent did the same. We had an arms race going as we’d build and meet for our weekly naval engagements in the pool. I could just picture his dismay at my latest addition; Admiral Yamamoto peering through binoculars at a huge new American warship emerging from the fog.

Battles were fun; we threw C and D batteries near each other’s ships, little geysers of water erupting, trying to sink them and win by having the last ship afloat. With face masks, we’d watch each stricken ship slowly settle to the bottom.

The battle ended with a cherished ritual: Victory at Sea. We found that by standing on the steps with an inflatable raft and pushing it repeatedly up and down, we could turn the placid pool water into a sea of whitecaps. We’d put all the ships in the pool, get the sea churned up, then watch as one doomed ship after another quickly capsized and drifted to the bottom.

If it was a bigger ship and refused to go down, it was helped along by a perilously close cannonball, not unlike the atomic bomb tests on ships at Bikini Atoll.

Pop got home from work at around 5:30, so we were always careful to wrap up Victory at Sea by 4:30. He’d see the lake on the pool patio, frown, and just assume it was from swimming. He’d have his pre-dinner bourbon and coke, lift the lids of the pots with interest and by the time we sat down, he was fine.

But once he came home early. He saw me with the raft, big waves slopping gallon after gallon onto the patio…and Kent doing cannonballs right next to the edge for good measure. Suddenly he realized why he was adding 100 gallons each week of extra make-up water to the pool. Dopey kid. 

There was a double bourbon-and-coke that evening, a lot of yelling, and the sad end to Victory at Sea.

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Years later, we were in Hungate’s hobby store after church and I was staring, like I did every week, at a box. It was DD680, the WWII Fletcher-Class destroyer USS Melvin.

Going to the mall after church became our tradition and while Sue and the kids were getting pretzels or riding the carousel, I was in Hungates drooling over the Blue Devil destroyer.

There was nothing like it when I was a kid. It was motorized, and the guns, radar, and torpedo tubes turned as it sailed. It was three feet long…twice as big as the Missouri…and could sail in either a straight line, a circle, a figure eight, or a square. The level of detail was superb. But it was roughly $150 in today’s dollars and I simply didn’t have the money.

Six months later, Sue reached behind the couch and handed me final birthday present, a big wrapped box about three feet long. I shook it and heard that old familiar sound of plastic parts. No! Could it be…? Sue grinned.

“I made some extra money babysitting,” she said as I tore off the wrapper and held the thing I had so long admired. Wow. I was speechless and the kids jumped up and down in excitement. 

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We lived next to a two-acre pond ringed by houses in our neighborhood that would be perfect for the Melvin. I worked for weeks, using my best craftsmanship, knowing it was never gonna have a D battery thrown at it or almost hit by a cannonball.

Finally, it was ready for sea trials. I positioned my oldest kid, Kristen, on the other side of the pond, set the course for straight, and turned it on. Twin propellors spun under the power of six D batteries inside the hull. I put it in the water, aimed it Kristen, and let go.

It was magnificent: The famous destroyer of WWII glided gracefully on open water, radar, guns, and torpedo tubes turning, making a respectable wake. Kristen picked it up and sent it back. Its tiny flags fluttered on the return trip. We tried the other courses and they were equally impressive.

As fall turned to winter, the leaves dropped from the trees and the other neighbors could see the pond. Kristen and I continued to send the Melvin on its voyages as folks on their decks watched with interest.

That December was particularly cold and ice was around the edges of the pond each morning. On a frigid day, Kristen and I were bundled in winter gear, doing our thing, when disaster struck. 

The Melvin suddenly started going in circles. It was out in the middle of the pond and the circles were not the usual wide, generous ones that brought it close to shore. They were tight, close, keeping the Melvin spinning in a small circle in the middle of the pond.

Even more alarmingly, it started listing to one side. It had obviously sprung a leak, and settled lower and lower. It was minutes from sinking; but this time, no face masks, no interested observing, no picking it up and dumping the water out; it was about to sink into murky, inaccessible depths. Goodbye, USS Melvin.

I had to act. I ripped off my gloves, parka, sweater, boots. Off came my shirt and jeans. In my boxers, I jumped into the pond and started swimming. 

A neighbor had been watching and started yelling. Almost instantly, one neighbor after another stepped out onto their decks to see what was going on. Seeing a guy swimming in an icy December pond elicited catcalls, hoots, and laughter. Dopey kid.

I reached the Melvin just before the bow slipped below the surface. Carrying it back over my head made swimming difficult, but I made it back with a sort of one-armed dog paddle.

When I emerged, I was shivering with muddy feet, teeth chattering, stinking of fetid pond water. As I bent over to retrieve my clothes, someone blew an air horn and at that moment, the incident went into neighborhood legend. At block parties, cookouts, and pool parties for years after, the story about Darryl’s December swim in the pond was retold. And with each re-telling, it grew wilder: I was naked; I was hammered; I almost drowned.

But no matter; I had I saved the Melvin. 

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Twenty years later, the Melvin sits on the shelf above my workbench. It’s battered and busted and the engine no longer works. But it it retains a quiet dignity and reminds me of childhood days in the pool and adult days in the pond.

These days, I’m in declutterring mode and I have a few M-80s laying around somewhere.

Maybe it’s time to give the old girl a proper Victory at Sea sendoff. 😎

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