(Author Note: This story is based on characters and situations introduced in the CP novels, Camp Torowa Falls and Camp Torowa Falls 1964.
It may be read independently of those stories.)

Corey Lane groaned as he rolled out of his bunk in response to the klaxon. Despite being at the peak of physical fitness, the nineteen-year-old almost immediately started to sweat as he struggled to pull on his uniform in the eerie semi-darkness of the red emergency lights. The ship's air conditioning system was barely able to cope with the summer heat while sailing in tropical waters and the air in the bunk room was stifling.

"Move your ass, Corey!" yelled Phil Rollins. "It's general quarters!"

"Coming, Phil!" said Corey wearily as he finished dressing and dashed out of the enlisted bunkroom after his "running mate" - the enlisted man chosen to be his mentor - for Corey's summer cruise as a Third Class Midshipman.

On his way out of the bunkroom he glanced at a pinup calendar on the wall - it was now July 1970. Corey had just completed his first year at the United States Naval Academy in Annapolis, Maryland and was spending the summer experiencing life as an enlisted man aboard USS Ranger, a Forrestal-class aircraft carrier. The naval brass thought it was a good idea for future officers to find out what life was like for the men they would one day command. The 8-week-long Third Class summer enlisted training cruise provided that experience.

The first two weeks of Corey's stay aboard the huge ship had been daunting. The aircraft carrier was literally a 1046-foot-long maze of twisting metal passages that all looked alike to the uninitiated. Corey could still get lost if he strayed from the areas he knew well unless he had an experienced escort.

Corey and his fellow Third Class Midshipmen, some from the Naval Academy, and some from Naval Reserve Officer Training Corps (NROTC) programs at colleges and universities around the United States, were filling enlisted billets in the various operational departments around the huge ship during their summer training cruise. The intensive on-the-job experiences in their "home department" were supplemented by classroom training conducted by a Naval Academy training officer, Lieutenant Denison. Each midshipman also had a chance to stand watches in other departments, under instructional supervision, on a rotational basis. Corey had been assigned to the Engineering Department for his "home", battle station assignment for the cruise.

Electrician's Mate 2nd Class Phillip Rollins was a good mentor, and Corey could have found their general quarters station - the #3 Generator Room - without help. Phil and Corey were part of the team responsible for keeping that generator - along with all the supporting switching gear, environmental gear and controls - going at all times, including in an emergency.

Corey was fairly certain this wasn't an emergency, just another general quarters drill at - he checked his watch as he ran - 6:44 AM. Normally getting up early wasn't a problem for Corey. But his entire team had been on duty the night before getting their generator back online after a bearing failed. Corey had climbed into his bunk well after 2 AM, and now he was being called back to his duty station after just a few hours of precious sleep.

"Rollins and Lane - last as usual," said Matt Donnelly, the Chief Petty Officer in charge of their team, as Phil and Corey entered their workspace on the run. His voice was dripping with sarcasm. "You gents have a nice stroll?" Neither of them chose to answer the taunt from their boss. Chief Donnelly was a cranky old son of a bitch, but he was also an excellent electrician and mechanic. Corey had learned a lot from him in the past two weeks.

Corey moved to his place next to Phil at the auxilliary switchboard for their generator and immediately began sweating even more, something he found hard to believe. As hot as the bunkroom and corridors were, the #3 Generator Room was even hotter. All the machinery was operating and it was obvious, even from Corey's limited experience, that the Ranger was moving at high speed. The 80,000 ton ship was pounding her way south through the warm Pacific Ocean waters towards the west coast of South America. In just three days' time the Ranger would cross the equator east of the Galapagos Islands. This last fact was a cause of some concern for the young midshipman, because Corey Lane was a Pollywog.

Men have been sailing the oceans of planet Earth for thousands of years. During that time numerous nautical traditions and rituals have taken shape, many of which are quite curious and unbelievable to landlubbers. Among the more curious and unbelievable are the Ancient Rites surrounding the first time a novice mariner crosses "the Line".

"The Line", in this case refers to the equator. In wartime or in peacetime, the United States Navy (borrowing a tradition from Britain's Royal Navy) makes its crossing an occasion for celebration whenever there are Pollywogs aboard its ships. And rare is the ship without them.

A Pollywog is any person who:

1. Has never crossed the Line.
2. Has never genuflected to Neptunus Rex; or
3. Is in the unfortunate position of being unable to prove that he has done both of the above.

Aboard the Ranger on this voyage were more than 600 Pollywogs, out of a ship's complement of approximately 3,900. They ranged in age and rank from young enlisted boys 17 or 18 years old and fresh out of Boot Camp to ensigns and young lieutenants in their mid-twenties who had never crossed into the realm of King Neptune. Corey Lane and his 34 fellow midshipmen Pollywogs fell somewhere in the middle.

Corey had heard a few stories through the years about the hazing involved in "Crossing the Line" from his father, who served aboard the aircraft carrier Philippine Sea during the Korean War and had experienced the Ancient Rites first as a Pollywog, and then as a Shellback.

A Shellback is, of course, anyone aboard ship who could prove that they had been initiated and had crossed the Line. They were the people who got to have the real fun during the festivities. Corey was accustomed to suffering humiliation at the hands of others, and knew intellectually that the hazing wouldn't be allowed to get out of hand. Even so, Chief Donnelly's assurance that "It had been years since any Pollywog had died during initiation" had done little to relieve Corey's misgivings regarding the upcoming celebration.

The GQ drill was followed by another day of air operations. An aircraft carrier has to steam into the wind when launching and recovering aircraft, so it takes longer to travel from one place to another than if the ships in the task force could continuously follow the normal great circle route towards their destination.

The Ranger and her escorts were headed for international waters off the west coast of South America. The exact reason for the trip had not been announced. Scuttlebutt was rampant, and two main theories were being discussed in the enlisted messhalls and bunk rooms. One held that they were on a classified training mission, possibly involving new anti-submarine warfare techniques. The other theory was that the U.S. government was trying to project power in the region, with the aim of slowing the advance of communism and socialism.

Corey found it ironic that one explanation called for a covert mission, whereas the other called for the task force to deliberately make its presence in the area known. Whatever the real reason, Ranger was going to spend her summer between Vietnam deployments cruising the waters of the southeast Pacific, rather than doing her customary training cruise off the west coast of North America.

One of the main advantages of serving in an aircraft carrier task force is regular mail delivery, at least when the ships are operating in coastal waters. A C-2 Greyhound transport aircraft had delivered the mail to the Ranger from a base in Panama, so that evening Corey had the real treat of two letters to read. He lay in his bunk, utterly exhausted but far too excited to get any sleep until he had read his letters.

The first letter Corey read was from his little sister, Becky. She was about to enter her senior year of high school and was still blissfully unaware that she was a millionaire. Corey and Rebecca Lane had been raised in typical middle class fashion in a three bedroom duplex house in a small town in eastern Pennsylvania. They knew that their father's parents were wealthy, but it had always looked to them like their branch of the family had been cut off from the Lane family fortune.

Corey still had no idea what their father did in his youth to arouse the ire of his own parents and get cut off from the family fortune. Corey had grown to accept that he would never see any of that money and was totally shocked when, after graduating from high school at the age of 18, his grandfather had informed Corey that a trust fund had been established in his name when he was five years old. The balance had been more than one million dollars when Corey learned of the trust fund a year ago, and it was up to just over 1.1 million dollars by the time he left for his summer cruise. Corey would not gain full control over the money until he turned 25 years old - and had graduated from an accredited four-year college or university.

Corey was immediately able to start drawing an allowance from the trust fund - and enough money to pay for college. But since he was attending the Naval Academy - which was free - he didn't need the money for educational expenses. In fact the sole extravagence Corey had engaged in since discovering he was rich was buying the 1970 Ford Mustang Mach I sports car he had secretly stored in a rented garage back home. Even that was an investment - Corey was convinced that some day his orange Mustang would be considered a classic.

According to Becky's letter, she had decided to apply to Penn State University, their parents' alma mater. Corey thought that was a good place for her to start her college education. After she found out about her trust fund - and spent a year or two in Happy Valley - she might decide to transfer to one of the big-name private universities. Corey and his sister didn't agree on a whole lot, but he fervently hoped that Becky would concur with his decision not to tell any of their friends about their newly-discovered wealth.

The ironic part was that Corey's best friend, Jerry Farnham, had been telling him he was rich since they were 13-years-old. Corey dreaded the day he would have to confess the truth to Jerry - he'd never hear the end of it. Corey read Jerry's letter next.

Jerry Farnham, an orphan who had been raised by his aunt and uncle in Elmira, NY, was also a Third Class Midshipman at the Naval Academy. Corey and Jerry had met when they were both 10-year-old campers at an Adirondack Mountain summer camp in upstate New York called Camp Torowa Falls. Jerry was serving his summer enlisted training cruise aboard USS Guadalcanal, an Iwo Jima-class Amphibious Assault Ship based in Little Creek, Virginia. Jerry intended to take a commission as a Marine Corps officer when he graduated from the Naval Academy. According to Jerry's letter, the Guadalcanal was expected to spend the summer cruising along the east coast and in the Caribbean. The lucky pup was not likely to be crossing the equator that summer.

Neither was Eric Linsey, Corey and Jerry's mutual friend from their summer camp days who had finally chosen to attend the Naval Academy with them. Eric was assigned to the Sturgeon-class nuclear attack submarine USS Tautog, based in Bremerton, Washington for his summer enlisted training cruise. In Eric's last letter he mentioned that the Tautog might be going on an Arctic cruise that summer - headed in the opposite direction from the equator. In any event submarines don't get mail service when they're at sea so Corey wouldn't be hearing from Eric again until the Tautog returned to base.

The following day Phil and Corey were assigned to a Tiger Team created to fix a failure in the AN/SPS-10B system, the Ranger's main surface search radar. As members of the Engineering Department, Electrical Division (Distribution) - commonly known as E-Div (Distro) - they were tasked with confirming that the proper amount of power was getting to the SPS-10B antenna assembly, which was located high on the antenna mast atop the ship's island. This didn't provide any major technical challenge, but unfortunately it required them to climb the antenna mast.

Corey hated to admit it - even to himself - but he was afraid of heights, at least in certain situations. He never had trouble climbing mountains - as long as they weren't sheer cliffs - which was a good thing since he had attended a mountain summer camp all through his youth. But Corey had never been thrilled with climbing ladders, even just to help his father fix the roof of their two story house back home. He wasn't a big fan of climbing trees, either.

Suddenly Corey found himself required to climb the antenna mast of one of the largest warships on the planet. The SPS-10B antenna was located nearly 200 feet above the surface of the water. Even worse, the antenna was at least 80 feet above the armored steel surface of the flight deck. First the team checked the power at the base of the antenna mast, but they already knew that was working since other radars on the mast were still operational. Corey was extremely nervous, but managed to follow Phil and Electronics Technician 2nd Class Wally Minter up the mast to the SPS-10B antenna, which was 11 feet wide and situated on its own small platform on the front of the mast.

The most stupid part of it was that there was really nothing Corey could do but watch while Phil and Wally, the two experienced technicians, worked on the radar. They were being supervised by Lieutenant Lennox, the Electronics Division officer in the Operations department, who followed the three enlisted men up the mast. Mister Lennox, as he was called by the enlisted personnel, was responsible for all the radar systems on board ship.

Mister Lennox was anxious to get the radar fixed ASAP, so Phil and Wally couldn't take the time to show Corey what they were doing to troubleshoot the situation. Corey tried to pay close attention so he could ask Phil questions about it later. It wasn't easy to pay attention due to his natural nervousness at being 20 stories up in the air on a two foot diameter mast with a warm 20 knot breeze blowing past him.

The fact that Mister Lennox was there chivvying them along like a nervous mother hen, and that half the brass was watching from the bridge wing down on the island didn't help matters much. Corey was fairly certain he spotted the CO himself, Captain Coleman, watching their progress. The team was able to get the radar working again within a half hour, which eliminated the need for the ship to head for a base. It also allowed Corey to get back down to the security of having a strong steel deck beneath his feet, for which he was profoundly grateful.

The final supply plane from Panama arrived that afternoon. The Ranger wouldn't get more supplies - or mail - from base until she returned from the southern hemisphere. Corey was pleasantly surprised at mail call, held just before dinner, when he received another letter. Unfortunately the letter - from his girlfriend - would have to wait. For the trials of the Pollywogs would begin immediately after evening mess. In fact collection of the names of the Pollywogs on board had begun almost as soon as the Ranger left her home port of Alameda, California. By an amazing coincidence, none of the Pollywogs were scheduled for duty on the second evening before the ship would cross the equator.

Midshipmen are a special breed of sailor in the US Navy. Not yet officers, they are also not technically enlisted personnel. About half of the 42 midshipmen aboard Ranger for this cruise were First Class Midshipmen making their second and final summer training cruise. These senior midshipmen had completed their enlisted training cruise two years before and this summer were serving in the capacity of junior officers in various divisions around the ship. A few of the senior midshipmen had actually crossed the line during their enlisted training cruise two years before, and therefore were Shellbacks.

Corey Lane and his 21 fellow Third Class Midshipmen were serving as enlisted personnel on board ship, so they could have reasonably expected to be initiated into the mysteries of Neptunus Rex with their enlisted brethern. Alas, that was not to be. The Chiefs in the enlisted messhalls already had hundreds of newly minted enlisted sailors - fresh out of boot camp or specialist school - to torment. Conversely, the wardrooms only had a few dozen junior officers to initiate - all members of the Junior Wardroom. In fact the First Class Midshipmen (commonly nicknamed Firsties) were serving as junior officers for this cruise and on that basis were also members of the Junior Wardroom. This left the Senior Wardroom without any Pollywogs of its own to torment, until the Executive Officer (XO) pulled rank and ordered all the Third Class Midshipmen to the Senior Wardroom for 'training purposes' during the Pollywog trials. Corey couldn't figure out if he and his fellow Third Years were better off with this new arrangement or not. Either way, it didn't figure to be a pleasant experience.

They made an interesting sight, Corey decided. He looked around as they were lined up waiting in the corridor outside the Senior Wardroom. Here they were, a group of smart, proud young college students - future officers and gentlemen all. Yet at that moment they looked like nothing more than a bunch of nervous high school boys waiting outside the vice-principal's office to be paddled for some misdemeanor. From the stories Corey had heard, they would be damned lucky to get out of this with just a simple paddling.

The Senior Wardroom was an intimidating place for the 22 young Third Class midshipmen for more than one reason. They had been dining in the enlisted mess halls so far this cruise. The large enlisted mess halls all operated cafeteria style and the atmosphere was relatively informal for all meals. The wardrooms were more formal, at least for dinner, and especially in the case of the Senior Wardroom, which was presided over by the Executive Officer himself. This explained why all the middies were attired in their formal "Summer Whites" dress uniforms. Despite this being the first time they would step into a wardroom they had some idea of what to expect. They had received an extensive briefing on wardroom etiquette from their training officer, Mister Denison.

Finally the door to the Senior Wardroom opened and the "Youngsters" (the nickname commonly given to Third Class midshipmen) were invited inside. As the young midshipmen filed into the room full of senior officers, who were all standing behind a chair at one of the six long tables, it became apparent that three or four seats had been left open at the foot of each table. As each midshipman passed the head table, he asked permission of the XO to join the wardroom. The smiling Executive Officer invariably said, "Please", in response to this question. The young men moved to fill the open spaces at the tables.

Corey ended up standing behind a dark wooden chair at the foot of one of the dark wooden tables near the middle of the large, square, white-painted room. On his right was Kevin Groen, a middie from Iowa State University. On his left was Carl Fleming, a middie from Auburn University. As the only Academy midshipman at that table, Corey defaulted as the senior middie present. Academy midshipmen became regular unrestricted line officers in the Navy or Marine Corps upon graduation, whereas NROTC midshipmen became reserve officers in one of the two sea services. Even the uniform insignia worn by Academy midshipmen were slightly different than those worn by NROTC midshipmen, making it obvious who was "regular Navy" and who was a "reservist".

After all the midshipmen had taken a place at a table. The XO called for everyone to be seated. The XO, a full Commander, sat down first, followed by the next most senior officers at the head table. The Lieutenant Commander at the head of Corey's table sat first, followed down the line by the less senior officers along the table. Of course the midshipmen at the foot of each table were last to be seated. Once everyone was seated the mess stewards began taking orders and serving the meal. It turned out that the Senior Wardroom operated a bit like an upscale restaurant with a limited menu, albeit one without a liquor license, since the Ranger, like all US Navy ships, was officially "dry."

Corey introduced himself to the officers at their table and his two fellow midshipmen followed suit. The three middies in turn met the officers with whom they would be dining. These turned out to be a rather eclectic mix of senior and middle-rank officers from the ship's company and from Attack Carrier Air Wing 2, the combat air wing currently embarked on the Ranger.

One of the younger Lieutenants sitting near the midshipmen turned out to be not only a naval aviator, but a section leader for the Black Knights of VF-154, one of Air Wing 2's fighter squadrons. Lieutenant Roy Harrison was a real live MiG-killer, with a North Vietnamese flag painted on the side of his F-4J Phantom. After having started the meal with his heart in his throat, Corey was surprised at how easy-going the officers at his table were. They talked freely with the young midshipmen, who were soon smiling and at ease. Corey loved to hear sea stories, and the officers at his table had plenty of them to tell.

It seemed like no time at all had passed before the mess stewards were clearing away the dessert and the officers were lingering over their coffee. Then the atmosphere in the room changed drastically. The XO transformed from being the tough but congenial Executive Officer of USS Ranger to being the Grand Inquisitor, the direct representive of King Neptune in these parts. Another senior officer became the court scribe, representing Davy Jones, who is well known as King Neptune's personal clerk. These two court officials were joined by a large number of Shellback fellow-inquisitors, tormentors and kibitzers. These "Trusty Shellbacks" had been through this same ritual as Pollywogs early in their own careers, and now they eyed the 22 young midshipmen Pollywogs like a school of piranha stalking a gaggle of wounded guppies.

So began the preliminary trials of the Pollywogs. These were trials in name only, of course. In this kangaroo court the verdicts were already decided. The trials were simply a opportunity for the Shellbacks to taunt and humiliate the Pollywogs. It was an opportunity the Shellbacks seized with both hands.

The scribe called the Pollywogs forward to face the court one at a time, in alphabetical order. Midshipman Third Class Charles Abernathy, USNR. was the first unlucky victim. Determining guilt took almost no time at all, since unless you had crossed the line on a naval vessel and had the certificate to prove it you were automatically a Pollywog. Abernathy knew which way the wind was blowing, of course, and immediately admitted to being a Pollywog. This actually enraged the members of the court, and the Grand Inquisitor asked, "what school admitted such a spineless creature to their naval training program?"

"Umm, Texas A&M, sir," said Abernathy, his voice shaking slightly.

This information brought hoots of derision and shouts of dismay from the assembled Shellbacks. "I don't believe it!" said Lieutenant Commander Bill Carney, an A6 Intruder pilot who was the XO of one of Air Wing 2's attack squadrons. "Speaking as a Texan, I don't believe for a second that such a worthless wog with no backbone would ever be admitted to our finest technical school, much less it's midshipmen battalion."

Abernathy tried to explain about how he had been admitted to Texas A&M, and about his fine high school record, but he was shouted down by the assembled Shellbacks. Indeed, the boy was immediately convicted of being the lowliest, most spineless Pollywog that any of the assembled Shellbacks had ever seen. The crestfallen Abernathy was ordered to report back to the Senior Wardroom the following night, whereupon his sentence would be pronounced.

So went the preliminary trials of the Pollywogs. A few middies tried to show some backbone and avoid Abernathy's fate, but were promptly stepped on anyway, criticised for one thing or another, usually including commentary on the pathetic school they attended, and found guilty in the end.

Corey had held out some hope that the Naval Academy midshipmen would be accorded at a modicum of respect, at least compared to their NROTC peers. Most of the senior officers were, after all, Academy alumni. This particular hope died quickly when Ray Danziger, the first Academy middie, stepped forward. Danziger received, if anything, an even stronger dose of derision from the assembled Shellbacks, who wondered aloud at the slipping standards of the grand old Naval Academy if such a specimen as Ray Danziger had not only been admitted there, but had somehow escaped the culling of Plebe Year.

Carl Fleming, the Auburn University midshipman seated next to Corey tried what he apparently believed to be a novel defence when his turn came. He claimed to have crossed the Line on a cruise ship several years before. In fact this worked as well as kicking over a hornet's nest. The assembled Shellbacks shouted in an enraged, confused frenzy. When they finally quieted down a bit the furious Grand Inquisitor asked Fleming if he had mistaken the United States Navy for some kind of cruise line? The flabbergasted Fleming was assured that he would not be enjoying the remainder of this cruise.

The whole affair had Corey in a kind of daze by the time the Court Scribe called his name to step forward for his trial. But he had already decided to deny being any kind of spineless Pollywog. In fact he proudly announced that as an Annapolis man he had plenty of starch in his spine. Of course the kangaroo court of Shellbacks were having none of it, and Midshipman Third Class Corey Lane, USN. was promptly found guilty of being the lowliest spineless Pollywog, who could only ever dream being a vertibrate creature. As for Corey's appointment to the Naval Academy, one of the kibitzers actually questioned the sanity of the member of Congress who had nominated him in the first place. Once the lambasting ended, Corey was inevitably ordered back to the Senior Wardroom the following evening for his sentencing.

The remainder of the midshipmen were duly tried in turn, and Corey didn't remember most of it, except for the part when Commander Jules Nowick, the CO of Carrier Air Wing 2, whose official title on board was Commander, Air Group (CAG), expressed his annoyance at all the reserve midshipmen the Ranger had been saddled with, and wondered aloud if "NROTC" was actually an abbreviation for "neurotic". It comforted Corey a bit to know that at least one officer there had some respect for Academy middies. Well, at least compared to Reserve middies.

Once the Pollywog trials were over the midshipmen guests were dismissed from the Senior Wardroom. Corey found out later that the First Class Midshipman Pollywogs were allowed to remain, since they were in officer billets and were actually members of the Junior Wardroom for the duration of the training cruise. It was a crestfallen group of Third Class Midshipmen who made their way back to their berthing spaces that evening. The next 36 hours looked to be rough ones for all those young men.

Corey felt strangely exhausted from his dinner time ordeal and relieved when he got back to his bunk. He was finally able to read his letter in private. It was from Anna Belling, Corey's girlfriend. They had met at summer camp when Corey was 12-years-old. Anna, who was a year older than Corey, was the granddaughter of the Reverend Arthur Belling, the camp chaplain at Camp Torowa Falls. In the fall Anna was going to be a junior at St. John's College, a private school whose main campus was in Annapolis, Maryland.

Anna was also going to be Corey's wife someday. He had long hoped that would be the case, but he became certain of it when he heard that she had chosen to attend St. John's College. It was well known that Corey would be attending the Naval Academy if at all possible, so it was far too much of a coincidence when Anna, a lifelong resident of the New York City area, chose to attend the only other institution of higher learning in the small Maryland city of Annapolis. In fact St. Johns College was immediately adjacent to the Naval Academy grounds.

Anna had tried to portray it as a coincidence, but Corey never believed that for a second. In fact from their very first kiss seven years before, Anna had taken the initiative in pursuing him. Corey, for his part, had largely taken their relationship for granted, at least until now, since the next year promised to be absolute torture for him. Anna has planning to spend her junior year at the other campus of St. John's College, which was located thousands of miles from away from Annapolis - in Santa Fe, New Mexico.

Gone would be the Saturdays spent together with Anna wandering the streets of Annapolis - Saturdays which had gotten Corey through the difficult "Plebe Year", his first year at the Naval Academy. Anna had actually suggested they each date other people during their year apart, but Corey knew that it just wouldn't be the same. Corey longed for his summer cruise to end - Anna's letter included an invitation to spend a week in late August with her and her family at their house on Long Island. Of course he would accept.

Corey's big problem was when to tell Anna about his trust fund. Obviously he should tell her before he asked her to marry him - and when would he do that? It wasn't like Anna was a golddigger - her family was more wealthy than the Lanes. Well, at least they were more wealthy than Corey himself would ever be. Anna's parents seemed to like Corey and approve of their daughter's interest in him. So the fact that he actually had some money now shouldn't affect his potential marriage to Anna at all. But that fact didn't make it any easier to decide on when to tell her.

Corey's thoughts were interrupted by music coming from a nearby bunk. Terrific! Phil Rollins was using his new Compact Cassette player again, playing music from his favorite band, the stupid Beatles. Corey had been trying to learn to like The Beatles, but it was tough going. Some of their later stuff wasn't too bad, but they could never hold a candle to The King, at least in Corey's opinion. He lay in his bunk listening until they started playing "Penny Lane". He groaned and rolled over, covering his ears with his pillow. Corey was really irritated by that song, since his mother was named Penelope Lane, but everyone called her Penny. Corey wasn't sure if he was more irritated by the song that shared his mother's name, or the fact that his mom actually liked the song.

The next morning all the midshipmen had a training class with Lieutenant Denison, their training officer. They started out reviewing the Law of the Sea, then proceded to Navigation. After class Mister Denison took the Firsties up to the ship's navigation bridge. The senior middies were taking turns making a noon navigational sighting with a sextant. The Youngsters might get a chance to do the same later on in the cruise. But today the Third Class middies were needed on the hangar deck. They were ordered to report to Chief Shumer by the Portside Elevator.

The flight deck and hangar deck of an aircraft carrier are both hives of frenzied activity anytime flight operations are underway. But that day preparations for the Crossing the Line festivities were ongoing simultaneously, so the hangar deck was a complete madhouse. The Youngsters managed to dodge all the crewmen scurrying this way and that on the hangar deck, made their way past parked aircraft and finally found Chief Shumer. "Ah, there you kids are!" said the big man, wiping the sweat from his face with a handkerchief. "Okay, how many of you lads can do a bit of carpentry without nailing yourself to the project, or each other?"

Corey wasn't all the great at carpentry, though he got by when helping his dad. He looked around and fortunately several other middies had raised their hands. Chief Shumer split the middies into two groups. The twelve who had admitted to carpentry skills were set to work building a large wooden framework in a space adjacent to the Portside Elevator.

Chief Shumer led Corey and the other nine Youngsters starboard past an A-7 Corsair light attack aircraft being worked on by aviation mechanics. Corey was wondering what the non-carpenters were going to work on. He was still hoping to be a naval aviator someday, so working on one of the aircraft would be really cool. The chief approached one of the large forward storage lockers. He unlatched a closed locker door and swung it open. It looked like they were gonna work on a... horse?

Corey was staring at the huge white horse standing in the locker, wondering what the hell was going on.... "Hi Ho, Silver!" yelled Bill Tuerk, a middie from the University of Arizona.

"You're right, son," said Chief Shumer. "That's Silver."

"We have a real horse on board?" said Sam Ridge, another Academy middie.

"No," said Bill, "it's a statue made of styrofoam."

Chief Shumer laughed heartily. "Not styrofoam, it's fiberglass. And it's the Ranger's mascot."

"We have a mascot?" said Carl Fleming.

"Yep," said Chief Shumer, "we bring him out when we leave and enter port, and for special events."

"One of the junior officers gets dressed up as the Lone Ranger and rides it up and down the flight deck," said Bill.

"How do you know that?" said Sam.

"Cause I saw him when we left Alameda," said Bill. "I was up on the signal bridge."

"Oh," said Sam. "I was stuck below decks when we left port."

"Me too," said Corey. He had been down in the #3 Generator Room when the Ranger left port. He had been sorry to miss seeing the Golden Gate Bridge from the water as the ship sailed underneath it. Now Corey realized that he had missed lots of stuff being stuck below deck as they left port.

Suddenly Corey realized that he had been lost in thought when Chief Shumer was giving orders. The other nine middies had started moving away, so Corey hurried to follow them. He caught up with Jim Nolan, a Marquette University middie whom Corey thought of as one of the most serious-minded reserve midshipmen in the group. He whispered, "So what are we doing again? I didn't catch all of what the Chief said."

Jim snickered, "It didn't look to me like you caught any of it."

"Yeah, okay," admitted Corey, "I was thinking about all the stuff I'm missing when stuck below deck in my generator room."

"It's okay," said Jim. "No way any of us can see everything happening on a ship this big, no matter how much we try."

"True enough," said Corey, "So what gives?"

"We're washing Silver," said Jim.

"Washing Silver?" said Corey. "The statue? It looked clean enough to me already."

"To me too," said Jim, "but those were the Chief's orders."

"Busy work," said Corey in disgust.

"No doubt about that," said Jim. He looked suddenly pensive as the group began retrieving buckets and brushes from a storage locker. "Do you think tomorrow will be really bad?"

"I'm afraid so," said Corey. "My dad says that an aircraft carrier is the worst possible ship type to be on as a Pollywog."

"Your dad served on a carrier?" said Carl. The other middies had overheard Corey's last comment and were all looking at him anxiously.

"Yep," said Corey. "Damage control officer on USS Philippine Sea from 1950-51. Including a Korean War cruise."

"But that was 20 years ago," said Sam as they filled their buckets with water. "They might not be so rough on us anymore."

"I wouldn't be so sure," said Corey. "Plus these new Forrestal-class carriers are huge compared to the old Essex-class ones that my dad served on. They're more than 100 feet longer, for a start."

"There's a happy thought," said Jim. "a 100 foot longer gauntlet to run." He shivered involuntarily. "Let's get to work."

"So how to does this thing move across the flight deck?" asked Sam a few minutes later as the boys scrubbed down the life-sized fiberglass horse statue.

"They put it on one of those tractors they use to tow the planes around the deck," said Bill.

"Hey, what's this symbol?" said Jim as he scrubbed the left thigh of the statue. Corey joined the other middies gathered around the spot to have a look. It looked like some kind of logo with three letters printed in black. There was a "T" and "G" on top with a line drawn beneath them. Below the line was the letter "O".

"T - G - O?" said Carl.

"It's a brand," said Chief Shumer, who had returned to check on their work. "It reads 'Top Gun Bar None'."

"Top Gun Bar None?" said Jim.

"That's right," said Chief Shumer. "Ranger is known as the 'Top Gun of the Fleet'. One of the officers on the last cruise even had the brand registered in the State of... Wyoming, I think."

"Wow," said Carl.

"Yeah," said Chief Shumer. "Now you boys quit gawkin' and start cleaning! I have a lot more work for you gentlemen to do when you're done here."

"Yes, Chief!" chorused the young middies as they got back to work.

The day passed slowly, with the midshipmen engaged in busy work. The irony of having to help prepare the ship for the torments to be visited on them the following day was not lost on these young men, and it was mentioned frequently as the afternoon wore on.

That evening the 22 Third Class Midshipmen found themselves waiting once again outside the Senior Wardroom. Considering what had transpired after the meal the previous evening, they were all more than a little nervous. Eventually they were invited inside, requested permission of the XO to join the wardroom, and took the same places they had occupied the night before. The young midshipmen were understandably subdued during the meal that evening, although Corey had to admit that the meal itself was even better. If the food in all US Navy wardrooms was this good, Corey was really going to enjoy that part of his career as a naval officer.

As far as Corey was concerned the sentencing wasn't nearly as bad as the trials themselves. The reconvened court reminded the convicted middies of their status as lowly, spineless Pollywogs. Each middie was given a written subpeona detailing the specific charges against him.

Corey read his subpeona. It had loads of printed pseudo-legal boilerplate, and listed three hand-written charges for which he had been convicted:

1. Being a lowly Pollywog.
2. Impersonating a vertibrate.
3. Selling starch within the royal domain without a license.

Each subpeona ended with an order for the convicted wog to present himself before the Royal Court the following morning at 0800 to suffer severe, and well deserved, punishment for his heinous crimes against King Neptune and all the denizens of the sea, as detailed above.

During the presentation of the subpeonas the Pollywogs were closely watched by the members of the court, seeking out any possible excuse to charge the convicts with "contempt of court". In this kangaroo court nearly anything could, and would, be considered contempt. This included such offences as the wog's tie not being on straight or his uniform trousers not being properly creased. The penalty for this contempt always seemed to take the form of buying ice cream or soft drinks for all the Shellbacks at their table.

Once the assembled Shellbacks had consumed all the ice cream and soft drinks they desired, the XO read a message from the CO. Captain Coleman had accepted the request from King Neptune to rendevous at zero degrees lattitude the next morning in order to receive the King and his Royal Court aboard the Ranger. Each Youngster was then turned over to two Shellbacks who would prepare him for and guide him through his initiation. Corey was turned over to the tender mercies of Lieutenant Commander Marlin Hale, the Assistant Chief Engineering Officer, and Lieutenant Commander Bill Carney, the A6 Intruder pilot from Texas who had been one of the leading commentators when the Pollywogs were grilled the previous evening.

Hale and Carney sized up Corey from head to toe, then Hale said, "Follow us, Lane." The engineer immediately strode off, making for the lounge area of the Senior Wardroom, a space Corey had not seen before. Carney fell in behind Hale, and Corey fell in behind Carney. Corey looked around at the lavish furnishings of this new part of the wardroom. He saw a painting of what appeared to be the original USS Ranger, a sailing warship of the Continental Navy that had at one time during the Revolutionary War been commanded by John Paul Jones himself. Hale located a small cluster of comfortable chairs that were unoccupied and set course for them. The two senior officers seated themselves and then invited Corey to sit in another chair facing them.

After Corey sat down a minute or so of silence ensued while Hale stoked up his pipe and lit it, and Carney lit another cigarette. Corey had noticed that many naval aviators seemed to smoke a lot. That was not a habit he intended to take up, even if he made it into naval aviation. "So, Lane," said Carney, "what do you think of our little wardroom here?"

"Oh, it's very impressive, sir," said Corey. "I noticed that very nice painting of the original Ranger that we passed on the way in."

"You noticed that, did you, lad?" said Hale, between puffs on his pipe.

"Oh yes, sir."

"Familiar with all of JPJ's old commands, are you?" said Carney, chuckling.

"JPJ?" said Corey. "Oh, John Paul Jones. Yes, sir."

"Looks like we have another historian on our hands, Marlin," said Carney.

"Could be, yes," said Hale, somehow managing to chuckle a bit while still puffing away on his pipe. He suddenly looked thoughtful. "Lane, is it? You're in my department this summer, aren't you?"

"Yes, sir," said Corey, "E-Div(Distro), in the #3 Generator Room."

"I see," said Hale. "That's Matt Donnelly's crew, isn't it?"

"Yes, sir," said Corey, nodding.

"Tell me," said Hale, looking at Corey carefully, "What do you think of Chief Donnelly?"

Corey took a deep breath, "Well sir, with all due respect to Chief Donnelly, I think he can be a bit cranky at times."

Hale had to remove the pipe from his mouth to laugh out loud. "Cranky? Yes, I suppose that could be one way of putting it."

Corey nervously added, "But Chief Donnelly is an excellent electrician, sir. I've learned a lot from him so far this summer."

"Yes, I can believe that," said Hale. The engineer suddenly looked at Corey oddly. "Loosen up, for heaven's sake, lad. You're sitting there stiff as a board."

"You do look a bit ridiculous," said Carney.

Corey realized that he had been sitting stiffly upright in the padded leather covered chair. He forced himself to relax, resting his arms on the padded arms of the chair. "Sorry, sirs."

"Here's the thing, Youngster," said Carney. "We're supposed to be making up some stupid and humiliating task for you to do tomorrow morning before the ceremony starts, but we're just not in the mood to think of anything tonight. Do you have any ideas?"

Corey was certain that question must have been addressed to Hale, but Carney had been looking directly at Corey when he said it. "Do I have any ideas?"

"Yes, you," said Hale. "Down in the engine rooms we usually do things like make the wogs go fetch a bucket of steam or send them all around the ship trying to find a left-handed monkey wrench. But those ideas aren't appropriate for the electrical division."

"Look, Marlin," said Carney, "Are you sure we can't use my idea? If you could rig it up so he could light up a lightbulb in his mouth like Uncle Fester from the Addams Family, it would be so funny."

"How many times do I have to tell you, Bill?" said Hale. "This is not a television sound stage. It would be far too dangerous. Do you seriously want to risk electrocuting one of the few wogs that actually showed a little backbone this year?"

Carney looked Corey up and down, then shrugged, "No, I guess not. Wouldn't be worth all the paperwork."

"I should say not," said Hale. "In any event, let's move this along, shall we?"

"Sure," said Carney. He turned his attention to Corey. "Are you ready for your instructions for tomorrow morning?"

"Yes sir," said Corey.

"For starters," said Carney, "you may want to avoid eating a big breakfast tomorrow."

"Trust us on that one," said Hale. "Then you need to hightail it back to your bunk and change into your uniform for initiation."

"Yes, sir," said Corey. "Which uniform is that?"

"White boxer shorts," said Carney.

Corey waited for Carney to continue, then said, "That's it?"

"Yes," said Hale. "White boxer shorts, not briefs. I wouldn't wear your favorite ones, either. They might not survive the ceremony."

"I could end up naked?"

"It's been known to happen," said Carney. "Are you one of those Youngsters who's shy about being naked in front of other guys?"

"Oh no, sir," said Corey. "I went skinny dipping all the time with my friends back home."

"Good," said Hale. "Oh, and no dog tags. But don't forget to put your dog tags back on as soon as the ceremony is over."

"Okay," said Corey. He couldn't imagine why dog tags were banned. That actually scared him more than anything he had heard so far.

"Okay," said Carney. "Pollywogs will need to muster on the hangar deck near the Starboard Aft Elevator, in uniform, at 0730."

"Will I meet you both there?" said Corey.

"No," said Carney. "One of us will try to drop by and make sure you're there. But we could have other duties. It's mainly the non-comms who run the initiation."

"Besides," said Hale, "somebody has to be down below running the ship while you kids are playing up on the weather decks."

"It'll be painful, son," said Carney, "but it won't be the end of the world."

"Indeed," said Hale, "Just do whatever the Shellbacks tell you to do. They can beat you and humiliate you, but they can't kill you."

"Yes, sir," said Corey.

"Well thats all I had," said Hale. "Anything else, Bill?"

"Nope," said Carney, lighting another cigarette, "I'm good."

"Well unless you have any questions for us," said Hale, "that will be all for this evening."

"No questions, sir," said Corey. "I'd like to thank you both for your advice."

"No problem," said Hale as Corey rose from his chair. "Good luck, Youngster."

"Yes, good luck, Lane," said Carney. "And goodnight."

"Thank you, sirs," said Corey. "Goodnight."

When Corey got back to his bunk room that evening Phil Rollins was entertaining a guest. Phil and his friend Charlie McMahon, a Corporal with the Marine Corps Security Detachment, were listening to music on Phil's cassette player. Of course the two enlisted Shellbacks insisted on reading Corey's subpoena.

"Selling starch without a license," read Phil, tsking his disapproval. "What a shocking thing for a future 'officer and a gentleman' to do."

"Ouch!" yelped Charlie, rubbing the seat of his camo pants like he had just been whacked hard on the backside. "I would not wanna be in your boxers tomorrow, buddy!"

"Yeah, yeah," said Corey. "I'm not that worried. I already know you guys can't kills us Pollywogs."

Charlie dropped his voice to an ominous tone. "There are things worse than death, kid."

"You don't have progressive parents, do you, Corey?" said Phil.

"Progressive parents?" said Corey. "They're both democrats, if that's what you mean."

"No dummy," said Charlie. "He's asking if you ever got your ass whacked by your parents or teachers when you were a naughty little boy."

"Or did your parents go for all that new child psychology stuff?" said Phil.

"No," said Corey, "my parents were very old fashioned in that way. And my teachers, and my camp counselors, not to mention assorted relatives and neighbors. Let's just say that my ass got whacked plenty of times."

"Aww," said Charlie, "that's too bad. There's nothing quite like a young, virgin, unspanked ass on a wog."

"The look of shock on their faces is priceless!" said Phil.

"Well sorry to disappoint you guys," said Corey, "but you will be hard pressed to shock me when it comes to that." Corey grabbed his toiletry bag and headed for the head. He needed to brush his teeth before hitting the sack.

"Hey kid," said Charlie, "you might want to borrow a crowbar while you're out."

"A crowbar?" said Corey. "Why?"

"To get your boxers off when you get back here tomorrow after initiation," said Charlie. "You ass is gonna be so swollen by the time we get done with it. Ouch!"

"Yeah right," said Corey, as he walked out the door. So much for ending the day on a positive note.

Corey had to hustle the next morning to be in formation on the hangar deck by 0730. He had never traversed the steel decks and ladders in bare feet before, and it was surprisingly painful. Corey looked around - he had never seen so many guys in their underwear at the same time before. Just over 600 men were standing around in their skivvies, most of them ranging in age from 17 to about 24. There were maybe a dozen older men in the mix who could have been in their 30s or even 40s. Approximately 100 of the men appeared to be of African descent, and a handful were Asians, while the rest were of Northern European or Mediterranean descent.

Corey had stood around in groups of guys waiting to get their asses whacked before, on more occasions than he cared to remember. But this was well and truly the largest such group he had ever been in, by a few orders of magnitude. At nineteen years of age, Corey found himself hoping that it might be the last such group he might ever be a part of.

Looking around the hangar deck, it was certainly easy to tell the sheep from the wolves in this scenario. The 600+ Pollywogs were all standing there clad only in white underpants. At least 95% of the wogs, including Corey, were wearing white boxer shorts. Just under 5% of the wogs were wearing briefs, or some kind of tightey-whiteys. Whatever the specific configuration of wog underpants, they were easily distinguishable from the roughly 200 Shellbacks guarding them, who were mostly wearing cutoff blue dungarees and were mainly clad in shirts. It almost looked like some kind of huge "shirts vs skins" competition was about to start.

A fair number of Shellbacks were wearing headbands along the lines of pirate kerchiefs in various colors, or in a few cases outright pirate hats. Most of the actual pirate hats were black. The most disturbing aspect of the Shellbacks, at least from the point of view of the Pollywogs, was not their colorful clothing. It was the shillelaghs that most of the Shellbacks had armed themselves with. These shillelaghs were actually 2 to 3 foot lengths of canvas hose that had been stuffed with wet rags, wet paper, or who knows what? The way the Shellbacks were swinging their shillelaghs around left little doubt that they would be painful if and when they connected with the hindquarters of a Pollywog, even if said hindquarters were protected by a single thin layer of white cotton.

Corey had noticed Bill Carney appear on the hangar deck shortly after he arrived. The two men acknowledged each other with a quick wave, and Carney had disappeared shortly thereafter. Corey spotted a couple of his fellow midshipmen shortly after Carney left, and was now standing in a small cluster of midshipmen Pollywogs near the forward edge of the white-clad group.

Rick Graham was a Firstie from the Academy and therefore the ranking member of their little group, not that ranks meant much in this particular situation. Sam Ridge, Ray Danziger and Corey were the Academy Youngsters in their group. They were joined by five reserve middies - all Youngsters - Kevin Groen, Carl Fleming, Bill Tuerk, Jim Nolan, and Glenn Springer, who Corey remembered was studying at the University of Florida.

Kevin Groen was sporting white Fruit of the Loom brand briefs, instead of the white boxers worn by the other middies. "You're out of uniform, Groen," noted Rick Graham, eyeing the younger middie's tightey-whiteys.

"This is all I have," complained Kevin. "I don't own any boxers, much less have any with me."

"Why didn't you ask to borrow a pair from one of us?" said Bill. Several other members of the group nodded in agreement at this.

"Well I just found out about it last night," said Kevin. "And it's not like we're all bunking together. I'm lucky if I can find my own bunk space on this barge, never mind any of yours."

"Well, I hope the penalty for being out of uniform isn't too severe," said Rick Graham.

"I hope so too," said Kevin, looking more than a little crestfallen. His boyish undies made him really look like a schoolboy who had been caught at some misdemeanor and was about to be soundly spanked for it. Corey figured the "about to be soundly spanked" part of it was just about right.

Eventually one of the Shellbacks produced a bullhorn and began making announcements. "Alright! Attention all Wogs! We have about 20 minutes yet until the Royal Party comes aboard, so it's time for a little calisthenics. All wogs spread out so you can get some execise."

Corey and the other Pollywogs moved to spread themselves out but it wasn't easy in the confined space of the hangar deck. Soon the wogs were doing pushups, situps and squat thusts, being criticized by the Shellbacks all the way. Corey and his fellow midshipmen had little trouble with the exercises, since this sort of thing was still part of their regular training regimen. Besides, they weren't being asked to do too many reps. But a few of the older wogs were apparently a little out of shape. This gave the delighted Shellbacks a chance to humiliate these older, and mostly senior men, who had somehow made it through significant careers in the navy without having ever crossed the equator.

Eventually the chaos on the hangar deck was interrupted by an announcement on the 1MC, the ship's main public address system. First the whistle of a Boatswain's Call was heard, then the announcement, "Now Hear This! Now Hear This! Royal party approaching! Honor guard man The Side!"

Corey had to laugh to himself. The brass were going all the way with this fiction of a rendevous with "King Neptune's Court". The announcement meant that the Officer of the Deck (OOD) and the chosen sideboys were currently taking their places on the flight deck to welcome the visiting dignitaries. Of course normally this only happened in port and the dignitaries were coming up the gangway to the quarterdeck, but Corey could see through the open hangar deck doors that the Ranger was not only still at sea, but underway, albeit at a fairly slow speed. Fixed-wing flight ops had clearly been suspended for the duration of the ceremonies. Soon enough the pulsing sounds of a helicopter approaching the ship could be heard. The "Royal Party" was probably arriving on one of the UH-2C Seasprite Seach and Rescue helicopters operated by Carrier Air Wing 2.

The Pollywogs were finally ordered to stop exercising as the helo landed on the flight deck above. They were ordered to form into ranks and "make themselves presentable" for the Royal visitors. Corey ran a hand over his hair. No problems there, he had a haircut just a week ago and his hair was still quite short. He made sure his boxers were hiked up all the way, and that was about all the preparation possible in his current circumstances.

The 1MC sounded again with the Boatswain's Call of 'Piping Aboard'. Then the announcement was made, "Raging Main, arriving."

This brought cheers from the assembled Shellbacks, many of whom waved their shillelaghs around in excitemnent.

"Who is 'Raging Main'?" said Carl Fleming, obviously confused by the 1MC call, and no doubt the reaction of the Shellbacks.

Corey thought he knew the answer, but wasn't sure how to explain it to Carl.

"It means King Neptune," said Rick Graham, "since he is the 'Ruler of the Raging Main'. High ranking visitors to US Navy ships are announced by the name of their command, not their personal name."

"Okay," said Bill Tuerk, "So if the Chief of Naval Operations paid us a visit, the announcement would be....?"

"Naval Operations, arriving," said Rick. "And if our CO was returning aboard from a visit ashore, the call would be 'USS Ranger, arriving'."

"That's a really odd custom," said Carl.

"Odd?" said Corey, "As opposed to all the other stuff going on here today?"

Carl chuckled, shrugged, and said, "Touche."

It only took about 15 minutes or so to assemble the Pollywogs at the rear of the flight deck. Each of the two aircraft elevators aft of the island were able to hold 60 or so Pollywogs, plus some Shellback guards for each trip. Corey and his small group of fellow middies had been among the first group brought up on the forward elevator.

Almost immediately after arriving on deck Corey had noticed that the national ensign that normally flew from the flagstaff atop the island when Ranger was underway had been replaced with the skull and crossbones of the Jolly Roger. He pointed this fact out to his fellows. In fact the middies soon noticed that the escorting ships that were in view from the flight deck were all steaming slowly south in formation with their flagship, and were all flying the Jolly Roger. The mighty Ranger carrier task force had become a pirate fleet for the day!

"You know," said Jim Nolan. "It's kinda weird that they took down Old Glory on Independence Day, no matter what else is going on."

"Oh yeah!" said Carl Fleming, "It's the 4th of July already. I had completely forgotten about that."

"Me too," said Corey. "Well, we've all had a lot on our minds lately."

"That's true," said Carl.

Corey wondered how his family was doing back home with their traditional July 4th picnic. It was a cinch that they were gonna have a better time than he was that day.

As the rear elevators continued to bring the Pollywogs and their Shellback guards up from the hangar deck, Corey scanned the flight deck forward, trying to work out what was in store for himself and his mates. About half of the aircraft from Air Wing 2 were stored on the forward part of the deck, wings folded and tied down to the steel deck. The portside elevator was missing, obviously in the down position. Presumably it had transported the helicopter that brought in the Royal Party back down to the hangar deck for storage, since there were no helos visible on the flight deck.

A platform had been erected next to the island, evidently to be used as a sort of dais for the Royal Party. The CO and the CAG were there in their dress whites chatting with King Neptune, who was really one of the oldest and most senior non-commissioned Shellbacks on board clad in a blue robe and fake long white beard, topped off with a crown and holding the tradtional trident. Next to the King was his consort, Queen Amphitrite, portrayed by one of the younger non-comms wearing a long blonde wig topped with a tiara, and a teal gown sporting cleavage that barely concealed the two coconut halves that had been attached to his chest as fake bosums. Flanking the queen on the other side was the fearsome Davy Jones, the Clerk of the Royal Court, actually another senior chief dressed in full pirate regalia.

A few other members of the Royal Party were down on the deck near the dais, which was not large enough for all the visitors. Corey was immediately able to spot the Royal Baby, the Royal Cook, and what may have been the Royal Doctor? They were accompanied by two giant boatswain's mates dressed as some kind of guards, or, given the nature of the morning's proceedings, executioners.

All around the flight deck were Shellbacks, well over a thousand of them, dressed in various states of pirate attire and nearly all wielding shillelaghs. More Shellbacks, a few of them in actual working uniforms, watched the proceedings from every gallery, nook and cranny available on the inboard side of the island.

Once all the Pollywogs had been assembled on the flight deck they were marched forward to face Neptune and his Court. The escorting Shellbacks ordered the Pollywogs to fall to their knees in the royal presence. The steel deck was already quite warm at midmorning, heated by the equitorial sun climbing the sky. It hadn't bothered Corey's feet too much, but he knees quickly began to feel the heat.

"So," said King Neptune, "these are the filthy Pollywogs who have dared enter my domain without my royal permission?"

"Aye, my liege," said the CO, "but they are worthy members of my ship's company. I beseech thee to accept them into the ranks of your most humble servants."

"Impossible!" said King Neptune. "For my loyal scribe, Davy Jones, has informed me that these vermin have committed many other criminal acts within my domain." Upon hearing this Davy Jones pointed sternly at various Pollywogs kneeling in front of the dais. Corey almost imagined that he was one of the wogs that Jones had pointed out.

"Oh great ruler," pleaded the CO, "Is there no hope for these wretches, or are they to be consigned this day to Davy Jones' Locker for their unspeakable crimes?"

King Neptune considered this for a moment. He turned to Davy Jones. "What say you, Davy? Do you wish these wretches consigned to your locker?"

"Hmm," said Davy, looking a bit embarrased. "Well you see, my liege, the thing is, my locker is a bit overcrowded at the moment. Need to get it expanded by order of a federal court, put out contracts for low bids, that sort of thing, I'm sure you understand."

King Neptune feigned exasperation with his scribe, "Oh, yes, I understand all too well." The Shellbacks roared with laughter at this routine, as did a few of the Pollywogs, including Corey. "Silence, wogs!" yelled King Neptune, who was unmistakably looking directly at Corey in the third row. "Silence in the presence of your betters or I'll have your tongues nailed to the mizzen mast!"

Corey stared down at the deck and gulped, feeling a surprising amount of actual fear, particularly since Ranger didn't have a mizzen mast. Neptune turned back to his servant. "Well, Master Jones, since you have failed me with your locker, I have another task for you today."

"I live but to serve you, my liege," said Jones, his head bowed.

"Good," said Neptune. "I want you take command of this brave company of Shellbacks, and to prepare these slimy wogs so that as many as possible may be fit to join my domain as Trusty Shellbacks."

Davy Jones looked skeptically at the kneeling wogs, then back to Neptune. "That's a pretty tall order, my liege. There's very little to work with here. These are the worst wogs I've ever seen."

"Did I ask you your opinion, Jones?" said Neptune, in a dangerous tone.

"No, my liege."

"I didn't think so," said Neptune. "I want them flayed, I want them humiliated, and then I want them cleansed, so that they might be fit for decent company. And I want it done... NOW!"

"At once, my liege!" said Jones, who bowed to Neptune and then dashed down off the dais. "Alright, me hearties...."

"First things first," interrupted Neptune, as he and his queen seated themselves on the dais. "We tire of looking at so many slimy wogs at close range - get them out of here!"

"At once, great king!" said Jones. "Alright, lads, you all heard the King. Guards, get these scum on their feet and move them back to the stern while we prepare a little reception for them."

"Aye, aye!" said the Shellback guards surrounding the Pollywogs. "All right you slimy wogs, on your feet! Double time it back to the stern!"

"You know, when I woke up today I couldn't wait for this whole thing to be over as fast as possible," said Sam Ridge, as they stood around near the stern of the carrier waiting for the Shellbacks to finish preparations for the initiation. "But now I can't wait for the stupid thing to start."

Corey chuckled, "I'm with you there, buddy."

"So are a lot of other people, I bet," said Kevin Groen.

Whatever was going to happen was apparently going to happen to two distinct groups. Shortly after arriving at the stern the order was passed to split the Pollywogs up into two groups. Corey ended up in the group on the port side of the angled flight deck section, which Corey knew was 250 feet wide at its widest point, not to mention nearly 600 feet long on the angled runway. Sam Ridge, Kevin Groen and Glenn Springer were on the same side. The other middies they had been with before ended up on the starboard side of the angled flight deck.

"Yeah, it's gonna be a gauntlet," said Sam. "You can see them forming up, but into three lines?"

Corey had already worked out the gauntlet thing a few minutes before, but the three lines of shillelagh-wielding Shellbacks running almost the entire length of the angled flight deck runway confused him a bit, too. As he understood it the traditional number was two lines. "I dunno what the deal is either."

Finally a shellback moved through their section of the crowd and explained it. "Alright you slimy wogs, we have 628 of you to get through and we don't want it to take all day. So we'll be running two parallel gauntlets down the flight deck runway. You guys will be running the port side gauntlet, and the other crew will run down the starboard side. That should be easy enough for even you idiots to understand."

"I already know your first question. We will be starting each lane about 5 or 10 seconds apart. So the middle row of Shellbacks will turn and whack wogs running down both lanes. When you get to the head of the line, wait by the starter. Do not start running until the starter yells 'Start!' and whacks you on the ass with his shillelagh. If you fuck it up we'll make you run the gauntlet over and over until you get it right in both lanes. Questions?"

"What do we do when we get to the other end of the gauntlet?" asked someone in the crowd Corey couldn't see.

"Hmm, a surprisingly good question... for a moron. First of all, be sure to stop quickly at the end. If not, you could run out into thin air and fall into the drink. Then we'd have to figure out whether you're worth turning a Forrestal-class carrier around to go pick up. Simple answer guys, none of you slimy morons are remotely worth it. Look it's simple, the gauntlet is a straight shot. When you see people standing straight ahead signalling you to stop, STOP!"

"And then what happens once we stop?" said a young kid who looked to Corey like an 18-year-old recent enlistee.

"Then you follow the instructions given to you by the Shellbacks in the area," said the Shellback who was coaching them. He looked around quickly. "Seriously, guys. Just do what the Shellbacks tell you to do and you should be fine, other than wounded pride and sore asses. But it's better than not doing what the Shellbacks tell you to do and getting hurt, right?"

"Right," said several people in the crowd of Pollywogs. Corey nodded his agreement but remain silent. That matched what his officer mentors had told him the night before. Corey silently vowed to do whatever the Shellbacks told him to do, no matter how ridiculous or scary it might seem.

Then it started. A shout was heard from the triple column of Shellbacks lining the angled flight deck runway. This was closely followed by a "plock, plock, clop" sound that Corey soon realized was the sound of canvas hose shillelaghs connecting sharply with cotton covered Pollywog rumps.

As the line inched forward, Corey tried to see what was going on. All he could really see was the port-most line of Shellbacks, and he could see them wind up and swing at a passing Pollywog every few seconds, with the constant plock, clop, plock sound in the air.

"Oh God," said Kevin Groen. "I just counted 116 Shellbacks in that line."

"What?" said Sam, "That's about 38 guys per row?"

"No," said Kevin, "There are 116 Shellbacks in the row closest to us. That means that we're gonna get whacked by well over 200 shillelaghs as we run the gauntlet."

"There's a happy thought," said Corey. "Let's just hope all the blows land on our butts. At least we have some padding there."

The Pollywogs in their part of the line quieted down at that point, each lost in his own thoughts. The line was moving fast, which was a good thing. There were 300+ guys in their line waiting to run the gauntlet. At first it was hard to tell how many guys were still in line in front of them. All you heard was the yells and taunts of the Shellbacks and the constant "plock, plock, clop" of canvas hose shillelaghs striking cotton covered Pollywog asses.

There were maybe 20 guys in front of him when Corey became aware of his position in line. Something like 3-4 minutes until he would need to make his mad dash down the steel flight deck while being thrashed. Corey prayed fervently to God that he wouldn't fall during the run, or screw up to the point where he would be forced back to run both lanes. That would be no fun at all.

Corey was more nervous that he expected and very glad he had visited the head immediately before reporting to the hangar deck. Analyzing his nervousness briefly, he realized that it was the lack of information more than anything that was bothering him. He had never been spanked with anything remotely like a canvas hose shillelagh, so he had no idea what he was in for. Plus when he was waiting to "get it" as a kid, he would typically be able to see the asses of the other boys suffering before him, even if the implement was entirely new to him. In this case the asses of the Pollywogs who had made it through the gauntlet were now about 600 feet away at the other end of the angled flight deck runway. Corey had no way of knowing what shape those asses, or their owners, were in. Plus God only knew what the freshly beaten wogs had to do next.

Only eight guys between Corey and destiny now, with well over 100 guys still behind him in line. He was glad that he was somewhere in the middle of the pack, since hopefully the Shellbacks would be a bit bored with the whole thing around this time and not hitting quite as hard. All the Shellbacks he had seen in the rows so far sure looked like they were strong enough to have plenty of stamina. Plus they were only hitting each Pollywog once.

Just three more young enlisted-looking guys and Sam Ridge left in front of Corey now. Kevin Groen and Glenn Springer were next after him. Corey suddenly wondered if any of his fellow middies had ever done any sprinting. Corey never had any training in sprints, except occasional wind sprints when training for baseball. Today he needed to set a personal best in what looked like the nearly 200 yard dash.

Now Sam is at the head of the line, set and ready to go. Corey left a few feet between them to give the starter room to swing his shillelagh. Which he had just done to his right to 'Start!' a 20-something looking guy down the starboard gauntlet. The Plock, Plock, Clops were much louder from this range.

"Start!" yelled the starter, giving Sam a hefty whack on the seat of his boxers and then Sam was in motion. As Corey moved up into the starting position, he got all too clear a view of those shillelaghs swinging down with great force and Plocking loudly into the churning, boxer-clad backside of Sam, who was sprinting for all he was worth. It almost looked like the shillelaghs were pushing Sam faster down the deck.

"Start!" Plock! Corey felt nothing, so obviously the Pollywog in the starboard lane had just started his sprint. Yes, he could see the Shellbacks in the middle row had turned and were swinging at this new target. However all too soon they had turned back and were looking at Corey expectantly, with sweat pouring off their arms. Midshipman Corey Lane was now number one on the runway for takeoff.

"Start!" Plocckk! Yikes! Corey was off, accelerating as fast as his legs could manage. The starter's Plock was a shock, despite how much it had been expected, though it didn't really hurt much. As he ran the shillelaghs were swinging down so fast that he could barely feel the individual hits. The overall effect was that his backside was in pain. Worse yet, some of these big lugs were strong, but not terribly acccurate. A few of the blows hit the backs of his thighs or even his lower back.

After Corey had settled into his fastest possible stride, it did feel a bit like the shillelaghs were propelling him down the deck. But at the cost of increasingly sore hindquarters. Several of the Shellbacks yelled taunts at the sprinting middie as he pounded down the deck. "Slowpoke!" "Slimy wog!" "Get a cane, grandpa!" Corey was able to easily ignore their taunts, but it was increasingly difficult to ignore the mounting pain in his derriere from the massive number of shillelagh blows it had absorbed and was absorbing nearly every stride. Eventually there was light at the end of the tunnel, or rather several big guys standing near the deck edge up ahead signalling Corey to stop.

Corey was profoundly grateful that the end of this nightmare was approaching. The problem was Corey didn't want to slow down until he had gotten past the last shillelagh-wielding Shellbacks, but that didn't look possible. He waited until the last possible second to put on the brakes. He thought he'd be able to stop in time, until his feet hit a wet patch on the deck and began skidding. Fortunately two of the deck edge guards were able to grab Corey and stop him before he slipped off the forward edge of the runway. Corey got a glance at the ocean waves well over 100 feet below the deck and gulped. That had been close!

Then the deck edge guards bodily shoved Corey away from them - to the left and towards the center line of the ship. Corey stopped about 20 feet away, puffing a bit, wondering why the deck had been wet. He was also rubbing the seat of his boxers and the backs of his thighs, which were definitely stinging. Suddenly he was hit with a huge splash of water. Some of it went in his mouth and he could tell it was sea water. One of the nearby Shellbacks had hit him with a long burst from a high pressure fire hose. Well, that explained the wet deck.

"Move, wog!" shouted a nearby Shellback. "Get over here and away from the end of the gauntlet."

The now dripping wet Corey moved toward the Shellback who spoke to him, and looked at the man questioningly.

"Down on your knees, wog!" the Shellback said. "Crawl down that path!" He indicated a path where the deck had been covered with some kind of matting.

Corey moved to the edge of the matting, got down on his hands and knees and began crawling. The path was lined with Shellbacks, many of them armed with shillelaghs. Although the shillelagh-wielding Shellbacks did whack Corey as he crawled past, they were love taps compared to the full blooded Plocks he had received running the gauntlet. Of course the down side was that his boxers were now soaking wet, which made them cling to his bottom cheeks and seemed to add a bit to any sting from shillelagh hits received. The good news was that the matting, he thought it might be straw, protected his knees from most of the damage they might have otherwise received from crawling along the steel deck.

The matted path made several turns and Corey lost any sense he might have had about where on the huge flight deck he might be. Finally he made a turn and saw another crawling Pollywog on the path in front of him. That Pollywog was being "fed" by the Royal Cook, another member of the erstwhile Royal Court there to torment Pollywogs. Corey had no idea of who the wog in front of him was. All Corey saw was dark wet matted hair on the head and soaking wet boxers that clung to the youngish-looking backside. As the wog finished his repast and crawled away Corey spotted some red marks on the back of his thighs, presumably the result of running the gauntlet. Corey realized that the way his thighs felt, he was probably providing a similar rear view to any wog behind him.

"Come, wog," said the Royal Cook as Corey crawled up to him, "Mangia, boy!" He showed Corey a box marked "Purina Wog Chow", then spilled a little bit of it into a bowl and held the bowl up to Corey's mouth. "Eat, boy." It was clearly an order, not a request.

Corey eyed the contents of the bowl suspiciously. Whatever it was, it was green and consisted of small circular shapes. What the hell! Corey stuck his mouth in the bowl and began eating. It actually didn't taste all that bad. In fact it almost seemed to Corey like the "cook" had just added a disgusting food coloring to some Cheerios. He finished it off quickly. "Good wog," said the Cook, patting Corey affectionately on the head. "Now continue down the path."

As Corey crawled away, he stole a glance back, and sure enough, there another wog back there. In fact it was Donnie Sauder, another Youngster from Corey's Academy class! Corey hadn't spotted Donnie in the mob of guys waiting for the gauntlet. Donnie must have been waiting in the starboard starting gate when Corey began his run on the port side.

The next challenge Corey encountered along the path was the Royal Doctor. His job was to decide that each Pollywog was sick, and to spray various "medicines" (noxious tasting fluids) into the victim's mouth. Yuck! That sure was a lot worse than the stupid green Cheerios, but it was also strangely like going to a real doctor.

As Corey continued crawling along the apparently endless, zigzagging path, all those "love tap" pops of the shillelaghs began to add up into a very sore and stinging backside. It didn't help that Corey now seemed to be in some sort of traffic jam. The wog in front of Corey had stopped, and it looked like Sam was stopped in front of him. In fact he could see at least two more boxer-clad forms stopped in the path beyond Sam. Corey wondered what the holdup could be. After a minute or two the line moved up one wog-length. Sheesh, this was taking forever. Finally he sighed and drooped his head from exhaustion.

"Well, hello Corey!" Whack!

"Hey!" exclaimed Corey involuntarily from the sudden pain of the extremely powerful shillelagh blow. He looked up past the familiar camoflage pants to see, "Charlie McMahon!"

"Live and in person," said Charlie, bowing grandly to Corey. Then he straightened up, reared back, and delivered another almigthy Whack! of his shillelagh to the seat of Corey's wet boxers.

"Owww!" said Corey, "Quit it, Charlie! Can't you see I'm stuck here?"

"I know," said Charlie, shivering with delight. "That's why I love hanging out here."

"Why are we stopped, anyway?" asked Donnie Sauder from behind Corey.

"Waiting for the pillories," said Charlie. "The purifications can take some time." He dashed back and administered one of his colossal shillelagh Whacks to Donnie's backside.

"Pillories?" said Corey. "How long are we put in those?" He suddenly had visions of being in bondage most of the day.

"Just long enough to purify you of your sins," said Charlie. Whack!

Corey choked back his yell of pain that time. He started praying that the line would move again and get him away from this sadistic marine. And then it did, moving two spots at once.

Unfortunately Charlie got one more terrific Whack! in as Corey crawled out of the area he had staked out. "I told you to borrow a crowbar!"

A few minutes later Corey had finally crawled into the Purification Zone, which featured two pillories. These were set up near the dais so King Neptune and Queen Amphitrite could personally view the punishments. He saw Sam Ridge and the unknown wog directly in front of him placed into the pillories within about a minute of each other. Each wog was required to recite, one at a time, the charges against him as written on his subpoena. Neptune then decreed the number of strokes for the offense in question (8 to 10 in most cases), which were promptly delivered by the Royal Executioners, two huge boatswain's mates who wielded the biggest shillelaghs Corey had yet seen, at least four feet long.

The Royal Executioners scared Corey, he had to admit to himself. The blows they landed on the boxer-clad seats of the wogs in the pillories made the extremely painful blows dealt out by Charlie McMahon look like love taps. Sam was yelping by the time he was being purified of his third and final sin. The other man never made a sound. Then the two captives were released. Corey was placed in the left-hand pillory and Donnie Sauder in the right.

"You," said Neptune, looking at Corey. "How many crimes were you convicted of?"

"Three, your majesty."

"Well then," said Neptune. Then he got a very odd look on his face and he examined Corey carefully. "You're the laugher, aren't you?"

"Laugher, your majesty?"

"Don't answer my questions with questions, you insolent wog! Did you or did you not laugh when I was speaking to Davy Jones earlier?"

Corey saw no point in lying, since the man clearly recognized him. "Yes, your majesty, I did laugh. But it was purely a reflex and I meant no disrespect."

"No disrespect, eh?" said Neptune. He pointed at Corey. "Strip this one, executioner."

"At once, my liege," Corey heard from behind him. He quickly felt strong hands grab the waistband of his boxers, and then, Rip! The boxers were torn from Corey in a moment and he was left in his birthday suit.

"Give the insolent wog 10 strokes," ordered Neptune. "Five for showing disrespect, and five for lying about it."

Corey had to look at the ground and clench his teeth to stop himself from protesting this injustice, and from showing a flash of the hatred for the pompous chief that he felt at that moment. As he looked at the ground nearby he noticed that his torn boxers had been discarded on top of a small pile of ripped underwear. At least he had not been the first prisoner stripped for his punishment.

Whaackk! Woah! This was gonna be bad. Whaackk! Whaackk! Whaackk! Whaackk! Yep, those blows from Charlie were mere feather touches compared to this. Whaackk! Whaackk! Whaackk! Whaackk! Whaackk!

Somehow Corey had managed not to cry out, but his eyes were quite watery. He could clearly hear the whacks as Donnie paid the piper for his first offence.

Neptune was looking at Corey as Donnie absorbed his final Whacks. "What was the first of the three crimes you committed?"

"Being a lowly Pollywog, your majesty."

"Give him eight," said Neptune.

Whaackk! Whaackk! Whaackk! Whaackk! Whaackk! Whaackk! Whaackk! Whaackk! Corey was just barely keeping his mouth shut through those.

Corey recited his second crime, "Impersonating a vertibrate" as Donnie absorbed his second dose of whacks.

"Give him eight," said Neptune.

Whaackk! Whaackk! Whaackk! Whaackk! Whaackk! "Ahhh!" Whaackk! "Ssssss." Whaackk! Whaackk! Corey was no longer was able to contain his agony.

Donnie was already getting his final whacks by the time Corey recited his third and final crime, "Selling starch within the royal domain without a licence."

"Hmm," said Neptune, looking thoughtful. He looked at his consort. "What say you, my queen?"

Queen Amphitrite thought for a few seconds, then shook her head and gave the 'thumbs down' sign.

"Very well then," said Neptune, "Give him ten!"

Corey bit his lip, this was gonna be bad. Meanwhile Donnie was released and another wog took his place. Whaackk! Whaackk! Whaackk! "Oww!" Corey looked up at the dais and not only was Queen Amphitrite watching his whacking and smiling, 'she' was sporting a very unladylike bulge in her gown below the waistline, front and center. Whaackk! Whaackk! "Ahhh!" Whaackk! Nice to know his pain was entertaining somebody. Whaackk! Whaackk! "Ssssss!" Whaackk! "Ahh!" Whaackk! "Aahh!"

"Very well, release him," ordered Neptune.

As Corey straightened up from the pillory his ass was going up in flames. He sure hoped this was almost over, or he wasn't gonna make it. As he limped away towards the exit path he noticed that Kevin Groen was in the right-hand pillory, and that he too was bare-assed. As the executioner's oversized shillelagh slammed into Kevin's naked, quivering behind, it was clear that he had just been stripped. In fact Kevin's ripped Fruit of the Loom briefs were on top of the torn undies pile on that side of the punishment area. It actually looked like most of the torn undies in that pile were tightey-whiteys of some kind or another. As Corey lowered himself to the mat and crawled towards his next challenge he realized that they were serious about this "out of uniform" thing.

As Corey crawled down the mat he was aware of the proximity of the ship's island, with its galleries full of gawking Shellbacks, looming just to his left. The next challenge was not far away. It was the Royal Baby. The fattest chief on the ship was dressed up in a diaper and a ridiculous-looking nursery bonnet. Corey had heard about this one from his father. He would have to kiss the belly of the Royal Baby. The big question was, what kind of noxious compound had been placed on the baby's belly?

It turned out to be oil, possibly cooking oil. But the stupid baby forced Corey to kiss his oil soaked belly three times before he was satisfied. As he crawled away, Corey suspected that was the single weirdest thing he had ever done. And considering what had happened to him just since he woke up that morning, that was saying something.

Well, as long as all the rest of the challenges were as easy on his blazing ass, he wouldn't complain. It turned out the next challenge was to crawl through a large canvas tube. Great! Now we get to the obstacle course portion of the ordeal. He looked back, nobody right behind him. The first problem was the Shellbacks guarding the tube. They had shillelaghs and they weren't afraid to use them. Corey quickly crawled into the tube to escape their Plocks.

Yuck! The second problem was that it quickly became apparent that the tube was filled with yucky, stinky garbage! Corey tried to close his nose as much as possible while crawling on all fours, the garbage squishing in a disgusting manner, and he crawled for all he was worth. It seemed like hours but probably only a couple of minutes before Corey emerged from the other side. Then he was forced to keep crawling furiously to escape the shillelagh Plocks from the Shellbacks on that side of the tube.

The matted pathway continued for another 20 feet or so and then ended, just about even with the aft edge of the island. The Shellback there told Corey to stand up. The crawling part of the festivities were over. Corey was ordered to follow another Shellback, who led him over to the edge of the first elevator behind the island - the same elevator that Corey and his companions had rode up to the flight deck on at the beginning of this insanity. Only now the elevator sat down at hangar deck level, and had a large, fairly deep looking canvas pool on it. "This is your final challenge, Wog," said the Shellback. "Jump into this pool and you will prove you're not a spineless Pollywog, but a valiant, Trusty Shellback."

Corey looked at the pool far below. It looked like at least a 60 or 70 foot drop. He couldn't decide if there was enough water down there. Then, remembering all the admonitions from everyone to trust the Shellbacks, he said "What the hell," choked down his fear of heights and took a step towards the edge.

"Whoa!" said the Shellback, grabbing Corey and pulling him back from the edge. "Not now! First of all we need to clean all that garbage off of you. Plus you didn't let me finish. You have to make the jump blindfolded."

"Blindfolded?"

"Yes, blindfolded," said the Shellback. "Let's go get you cleaned up." He led Corey away from the elevator edge and back to the island.

"Alright, Corey, stand over there by the island," said a very familiar voice.

"Chief Donnelly?" said Corey, staring in amazement at his boss, who was looking very dapper in his pirate getup and wielding a fire hose.

"So, the prodigal midshipman returns," said Chief Donnelly. He opened up the fire hose and directed the stream at Corey.

"Yes, Chief," spluttered Corey, as he danced around in the water stream so it could clean all the garbage off him, while carefully guarding his genitals so the full force of the fire hose wouldn't hit them.

"We missed you in #3 Generator Room yesterday," said Chief Donnelly. He turned off the hose when Corey was clean. "You do know you're scheduled back on the watch bill at 2000 tonight with Phil, right?"

"Yes, Chief," said Corey. "Umm, what time is it now?"

Chief Donnelly glanced at his watch. "It's 1105 right now." He turned to the other Shellbacks, "This one's mine. I'll finish him off."

"So I still have time to get dressed and get to lunch on time," said Corey as he followed Chief Donnelly.

"Yes," said Chief Donnelly, "if you manage not to screw this up." He picked up a blindfold from a small portable table and began putting it on Corey. "Speaking of screwing things up, what happened to your shorts? Did you piss 'em?"

"No," said Corey. "But I did piss off King Neptune by laughing when he and Davy Jones were cutting up about his locker being overcrowded."

"He specifically caught you laughing at that?" said Chief Donnelly.

"Yes, he was looking right at me when he talked about nailing tongues to mizzen masts."

Chief Donnelly whistled in dismay as he led the blindfolded midshipman across the deck. "What did he do?"

"He recognized me when I was in the pillory and had me stripped. Then he had the executioner give me ten extra whacks."

"Ouch," said Chief Donnelly. "Yeah, you do look quite sore back there. You gonna be okay?"

"Yes, Chief, I'll be fine," said Corey.

"That's the brave lad," said Chief Donnelly. "Which brings us down to your final challenge. Keep the blindfold on until told to remove it. You are standing at the elevator edge and the pool is clear below. When you're ready, step forward and you'll become a Shellback."

Corey slid his bare left foot forward and felt the elevator edge. He said, "Thanks for everything, Chief." Then he said a brief, silent prayer, took a deep breath and stepped confidently forward. He felt himself plunge through open space, but only for a split second. He splashed down in relatively shallow water and came up gasping. What the hell? Then he felt the elevator moving downwards and started laughing. Those devious Shellbacks had shown him the elevator down on the hangar deck, then moved it back up while he was being washed down and blindfolded. It had probably been only 5 or 10 feet below the flight deck when Corey jumped.

"Okay, lad," said a voice in the dark once the elevator stopped moving. "Follow my voice and feel for my hands."

Corey felt around the edge of the canvas pool until he felt hands. Strong hands, it turned out - that grasped him and bodily dragged him over the edge of the pool, depositing him on the steel deck of the elevator. "Let's get off the elevator quickly," said his rescuer. He led Corey off the elevator and on to the main hangar deck.

"Now, lad, tell me. What are you?"

A broad smile broke across Corey's blindfolded face and he said, "I'm a Trusty Shellback!"

It was a very weary, sore and still-naked Corey who finally made it back to his bunkroom just after noon. The Shellbacks on the hangar deck had taken one look at his swollen, bruised backside and escorted him to see the doctor who had set up shop further forward on the hangar deck. The navy physician poked, prodded and pinched the young midshipman's maddeningly sore buttocks until their owner couldn't help yelping in distress. The doctor told him he would probably live. Did everybody have to try to be a comedian?

When told that Corey was scheduled on watch that night and that his job required spending much of the time sitting down, the doctor gave him a one day supply of non-prescription pain killers. The doctor made Corey promise that if his bottom was still swollen after 24 hours he would report to sick bay. The bruises would probably last a few days. Only after seeing the doctor would the Shellbacks give Corey his documents certifying that he was now a Trusty Shellback.

Remembering Lieutenant Commander Hale's admonition from the night before, the first thing Corey did when getting back to his bunk was to put on his dog tags. He still wasn't entirely clear on why they were banned during the ceremony in the first place. Then he locked up his Shellback documents to keep them safe. He had paid dearly for them, both in pain and humiliation.

Corey lay facedown on his bunk. He needed a few minutes rest before pulling on some clothes and getting some lunch. A few minutes was all he got before the door opened and Phil Rollins strolled in, dressed as a pirate with shillelagh in hand.

"Well, now," said Phil, eyeing Corey's gaudily bruised backside, "there's a tempting target."

"Don't even think about it!" said Corey, rolling sideways to keep his sore bottom turned away from the door, and Phil's shillelagh. He reached back to rub his throbbing globes. "No way am I letting you hit this."

Phil chuckled. "Too late, I already hit it a couple hours ago, with this." He indicated the shillelagh in his hand.

"You hit me?" said Corey, totally surprised. "Why didn't you say 'hi' or something? Charlie sure did."

Phil laughed and tossed his shillelagh on his bunk. "Well, you were moving a bit too quickly for conversation when you dashed past me and my mates."

"The gauntlet?"

"Yep, I was about the 40th guy from the start on your port side. You were already pumping at full speed. I did manage to clip you good on the undercurve of your right cheek. Just to help keep you from dawdling, you understand."

"Hmm," said Corey, rubbing the aching undercurve of his right lower cheek. "Some friend."

"Hey, just doing my job as a Shellback, helping to educate the ignorant Pollywogs." Phil glanced around the room suddenly. "What happened to your boxers, by the way? Did you take 'em off in here?"

"Nah," said Corey. "I got stripped at the stupid pillory."

"Oww!" said Phil making a face. "That promises to be an interesting tale."

"Well, it was stupid," said Corey.

"Tell you what," said Phil. "You get dressed while I hit the head. Then we can go grab lunch. During which you can tell me all about your trip through Neverland, including how and why you lost your boxers."

A Steel Beach Picnic was held during the dog watches that afternoon and evening to celebrate Independence Day. The cooks set up grills on the flight deck after the initiation maze was torn down and removed. The dais was left standing and was now serving as a stage for any member of the ship's company who wanted to perform some music for the assembled crowd.

Although Corey had been playing guitar for more than five years, and fancied himself to be pretty good at it, he hadn't brought a guitar with him since it was only an eight week cruise and midshipmen are told to pack very light. Besides, he had never performed for a group this large before. Nearly half the ship's company was there, approximately 2000 people. Silver had been brought up on deck, mounted on an airplane tow tractor. Periodically a young officer dressed as The Lone Ranger would climb aboard the statue and fire off his six guns, which were loaded with blanks, as the tractor towed the horse and rider back and forth on the flight deck.

Most of the Third Class Middies clustered in one corner of the flight deck enjoying their first evening as Shellbacks. Yes, they had all made it through the ordeal, although with various levels and types of problems. They shared their stories and laughed at each other's misfortune, yet also consoled each other.

Corey once again had to tell the tale of how he had been one of several Pollywogs laughing at Neptune and Davy Jones, but the only one actually caught in the act by Neptune. So he ended up losing his boxers and gaining ten bonus whacks of the extra long shillelagh wielded by the Royal Executioner. His colleagues agreed that it had been a lousy trade. Corey secretly would have loved to mention his true feelings: that the Chief playing Neptune had been a real prick about it. But it hardly seemed like a good idea for a junior midshipman to go around bad-mouthing one of the most senior enlisted men on the whole ship.

As embarrassed as Corey was about his ordeal, Carl Fleming had made the worst mistake of all the Youngsters on that cruise. After climbing out of the final pool blindfolded Carl had answered "Pollywog" when asked what he was. Even worse he answered the same way a second time when asked for clarification. "Hey, I thought it was a trick question!" was his excuse. The Shellbacks took him at his word and marched him back up to the flight deck. They made him go through the whole ordeal again, including running the gauntlet. The only break he caught the second time around was that the 'purification' spankings in the pillory were only the minimum of 5 strokes per offense and not laid on as hard.

Still, Carl joined Corey as middies who preferred to stand or kneel as opposed to sit for the time being. Someone managed to find a few of the straw mats so those who preferred could lay prone or on their sides and enjoy the festivities while protecting their sore backsides. Corey had taken one of the pain killers the doctor gave him with lunch, and it seemed to help a bit.

Although Carl and Corey were probably first and second when it came to the sheer number of shillelagh whacks they had received that day, Ray Danziger had suffered the most painful individual shillelagh blow of any of the assembled middies. Just over half way through his run down the gauntlet a shillelagh had wrapped around his right thigh and cracked the back of his swinging nut sack. The stricken middie dropped like a pole axed cow, skidding to a stop across the steel deck plates. The poor guy ended up with badly skinned knees and elbows, as well as assorted other scrapes and cuts - not to mention, of course, throbbing balls. Ray was a trooper about it, and after being treated by the doctor down on the hangar deck he was brought back up to the flight deck and completed the ordeal, although he was allowed to restart past the gauntlet.

Kevin Groen and Charles Abernathy had both worn briefs for the ordeal and both had been stripped and given 5 extra whacks for "being out of uniform" when they were in the pillories. They were kidded, in a good-natured way, for having the most boring stories of anyone in their group who had received extra whacks.

Glenn Springer was trying to figure out how many total shillelagh whacks he had received during the entire ordeal. Corey couldn't imagine how that could be possible. Just during the gauntlet the whacks were coming so fast as to defy counting. Not to mention all the random whacks administered as the Pollywogs crawled their way around the maze. About the only easily quantifiable part of it was the whacks received during the 'purification' in the pillories.

Eventually the assembled middies tired of talking about their ordeal, and Pollywogs and Shellbacks, having thought about little else for the past several days. They ended up discussing their various schools, which inevitably led to discussions of Academy vs NROTC middies. Lots of good-natured ribbing was given and taken on both sides of that coin.

In was probably inevitable, given that it was the summer of 1970, that the topic of conversation eventually turned to politics, and all the insanity going on back in the States. The Kent State shootings had happened exactly two months before.

Corey and his fellow Naval Academy midshipmen could barely grasp what was going on in their own country. It was understandable that the NROTC midshipmen were a lot more connected to the general atmosphere of unrest that was sweeping American college campuses at that time. It was probably Jim Nolan who said it best.

"Look, it's all too easy for you Annapolis guys. You live on what amounts to a Naval base, immersed in this stuff 24/7. Plus you're protected by an elite Marine Corps security team. Of course you don't know what's going on out in the real world."

"We NROTC guys have to live on campus with the rest of the student body, many of whom do not remotely share our attitudes about our country and our military. We have to worry about loonies trying to blow up our ROTC buildings with real bombs. And if they call in the National Guard pukes, they're just as likely to shoot innocent and/or patriotic students as the troublemakers and communists."

There wasn't a whole hell of a lot that Corey or the other Annapolis middies could say to that. It sure was another very weird year to live in the United States. Corey thought that made it three such years in a row. Had somebody put something in the water?

Eventually Corey was forced to leave the picnic early, since he had to go back on duty standing watches in the #3 Generator Room with Phil Rollins. They would be on duty from 2000 to 0000 that night.

Before heading below Corey looked up at the island mast and saw Old Glory flying in its customary place on the flagstaff. The Star Spangled Banner waved gently in the breeze as the Ranger glided south through the warm Pacific Ocean water at about 5 knots (a speed designed to accomodate the picnic on deck), headed towards Callao, Peru. Oddly enough, their destination had been first revealed to the crew by the Shellback Certificates awarded to the newly minted Sons of Neptune after they completed their initiation.

Corey was now the proud possessor of a colorful piece of paper certifying that Midshipman Third Class Corey W. Lane, USN. had first crossed the equator and became a Trusty Shellback on 4 July 1970 at 87 degrees, 21 minutes West Longitude in the Pacific Ocean while serving aboard USS Ranger (CV-61) and sailing for Callao, Peru. The paper was signed by Captain G. Coleman, USN., the personal representative of Neptunus Rex aboard.

The Shellback certificate was very nice and colorful, and would likely end up framed and occupying a place of pride in Corey's home office or den someday. But the really important document he had received that day was the wallet-sized version of the same information that Corey would carry with him on all future naval voyages, both as a midshipman and later as a fully-fledged naval officer. This would insure that Corey Lane would always be recognized as a Trusty Shellback, and never again have to suffer the indignity of being considered a lowly Pollywog.

Author Note: This story was inspired by real life tales of naval "Crossing the Line" ceremonies. The most specific inspiration was Queen of the Flat-Tops by Stanley Johnston. This 1942 classic of war reporting tells the tale of the fleet carrier USS Lexington (CV-2) and her final voyage culminating in the Battle of the Coral Sea, where that valiant ship was lost in action, along with more than 300 members of her gallant crew. The first chapter of that book, "The Lex Crosses the Line" contains several story elements that were borrowed for use in this story.

DEDICATION: The author wishes to dedicate this story to all the brave men and women who have ever served on aircraft carriers, which are among the most dangerous workplaces in the world, even in peace time.