The waters rose faster than we did. Tiny island nations slipped beneath the waves, sending their people to uncertain and often violent higher ground. Ocean currents changed or outright disappeared. The Gulf Stream shut down, making the shrunken British Isles more like Lapland. Fjords filled from Norway to New Zealand. The Sea of Cortez surged north to free the enslaved Colorado River. Florida got circumcised. My beloved barrier islands in New Jersey are now a ghostly diver’s paradise.

But this isn’t why the United States Navy is paying me a visit.

Changing currents in the Pacific swept up flotsam from the vanished islands, adding to the sprawling blankets of trash that were already smothering the oceans. Futile efforts to clear this detritus produced an unexpected harvest: dozens of messages in bottles.

Some of them were experiments in mapping ocean currents, from the days of tall ships, long before satellites. Some were notes from schoolchildren hoping to receive a letter or postcard from some exotic land, sent in the days before the Internet, when there was still mystery and romance in the world.

But most were pleas for help from the physically or emotionally desolate. One was actually from Amelia Earhart. Three were from Japanese soldiers forgotten by their defeated empire. So many shipwrecked souls. So many longing to be heard.

The Navy wants to see me about a bottle, from a World War II sailor. He served aboard the USS Barton. He was my friend. His name was Jack. I’ve been told his message mentions me, Willard Paten. Call me Will. I am the last remaining U.S. Navy veteran of World War II. I am 119 years old. Not much to look at, but I still get around, and my mind is sharp as ever. The planet may be going to hell, but medical science is still making miracles.

Just be careful what you wish for. Live long enough and your past catches up with you.

Still, what can they possibly do to me at my age?

In the summer of 1941, I was seventeen years old with limited prospects. Our family had barely come through the Great Depression. My father was a conniving alcoholic who engaged in a continuous dish-throwing battle with my mother. Meals were meager and clothes were threadbare. I had managed only a fifth-grade education. So I joined the Navy. Six months later Pearl Harbor was attacked.

The Barton was my second ship, a new destroyer having her shakedown out of Boston. Shakedowns are sea trials, where you put a ship through her paces to work out any kinks before sending her into service. She was ready for a fight: two five-inch gun turrets forward and two more aft, a bank of torpedo tubes between her smokestacks, racks of depth charges on the fantail, and anti-aircraft guns. Not as big as a battleship, but she looked good to me.

I stowed my gear and reported to the dynamo room. I was an electrician’s mate; my job was to keep the lights on and the radio working. Everyone in the electrical gang hit it off right away. Except for this one guy, who’d come aboard just before I did.

Jackson Golinski was a skinny blond kid right off the farm. He wasn’t one for small talk. Even in the mess, he was always in the corner with his back against the bulkhead, eyes on his food, occasionally looking up with a half smile or a snort if something somebody said struck him as funny. If you tried to draw him out, it was always one word answers: Wisconsin. Cows. Cubs. Eighteen. Sometimes. Nope. Most of the guys just shrugged him off.

Me? I liked him immediately. Maybe because he reminded me of me. I had rheumatic fever as a kid, spent almost a year in bed. After that, my brothers always treated me like I was still sick, leaving me out of their hunting and fishing and general hell raising.

Maybe because, when I would sit topside some evenings playing this little concertina I picked up while on my last ship, I sometimes saw Jack sitting half hidden by one of the gun placements, nodding his head to the music and staring into the night like he was watching a movie.

The fellas were content to leave him be. But there was one chief petty officer — Mike Marzano — who seemed to have it in for him. I couldn’t figure it. Jack did his work, but Marzano always had him do things twice. Was always calling him Jackie under his breath, busting on him for being so skinny. Boot camp stuff. It’s part of how they break you. But this was just mean. Which didn’t make a lot of sense to me, because the chief seemed okay otherwise. That is, until we got underway for Haiti.

Somewhere off the coast of Florida I was up top playing the concertina. The chief came by, asked where I had gotten the squeezebox. He didn’t look drunk, but I could spot his kind a mile away: a high-functioning alcoholic like my old man. I knew guys like that on my old ship, too. Some needed it so bad they’d drink wood alcohol during long stretches at sea.

I told the chief about this dusty little music shop in Wellington, New Zealand, how the concertina looked like one my mother had. I handed it to him and he looked it over, admiring the hand-carved woodwork and the smooth action of the buttons.

“How much you want for it?” he said. I hadn’t really thought I would ever sell it, so I gave him a price that would net me a little profit. He searched my eyes like I might be trying to put something over on him. Then he grinned, reached into his pocket, handed me the cash, and threw the thing overboard. Didn’t say a word. Just walked away whistling the last tune I had played. Once Marzano was out of sight, Jack came out of the shadows.

“Asshole.” It was the first time I’d ever heard him cuss.

“I only know five songs,” I said. “Guess he got tired of hearing ‘em.” Jack turned away. I grabbed his sleeve and he stiffened, wheeled around and looked like he would take a swing at me.

“Easy,” I said, backing up. “I just want to ask you something.” His eyes darted from side to side and he relaxed a little bit.

“What?” was all he said.

“What did you do to piss off Marzano? You ain’t been here all that long.”

“I don’t wanna talk about it.”

“It had to be something . . .”

“I liked listenin’ to you play. What he did was really shitty.”

“At least he paid me,” I said, stifling a laugh. I could see Jack was in no mood. But he was talking. “Do you play?”

“Nah. It just reminded me of barn dances back home.”

“Barn dances? Geez, you really are off the farm.” He winced and I took another tack. “Where’s home?”

“A little place outside of Wautoma. Just me and my folks.”

“Must be tough for them with you away.”

“I guess.”

“You got a girl back there outside of Wautoma?” His jaw tightened and he looked down at the deck.

“I did.”

“You get a letter?”

“Nah,” he said, shuffling his feet and kneading his palm. “I just don’t think it’s gonna work out.” Then, like he suddenly remembered how conversation was supposed to work, he said, “Wha — what about you?”

“A girl? I met a nice one in New Zealand. Don’t know if she’s gonna wanna come to Hoboken though.” That got a little snort out of him. “So c’mon, what’s with the chief?” He stiffened up again.

“I know him from boot camp. Guess I just rub him the wrong way is all.” He was kneading his palm harder now. “First chance I get, I’m gettin’ off this tub.”

“You gonna jump ship? A guy on my last ship did that in Australia.”

He looked at me sideways. “Can’t do that to my folks. They need the money I send ‘em. But soon as I can get a transfer, I’m takin’ it.”

Haiti is an overcrowded lifeboat these days. The rising seas turned Cuba into a sliver, sent refugees to the higher, not-so-welcoming ground of Hispaniola.

But in 1942, Haiti was a rough, lovely jewel. Port-au-Prince was steamy inside and out, intoxicating in all the right ways. The best part of the city clung to the piers and was swarming with Shore Patrol. We were told to stay in that part of town. The farther out you went, the more dangerous it became; there was still resentment over the American occupation. So naturally, when it came time for shore leave, we hightailed it to the fringe. Not quite the slums, but where all the real action could be found.

This was the first port of call outside the States for a lot of us, so we made sure to stick together. The houses all offered the same thing — booze, gambling, and girls. But some had a better atmosphere than others, and we bounced from one to another until we found one that felt right. Or maybe we were just too drunk to care anymore.

I kept a journal then. But I never wrote about what went on in these places. I had it in the back of my mind that my future wife and kids would read it one day. I never did have kids, but I was married to a truly great woman for fifty-three years. Though it would not have shocked Marie in the least, I never talked about these things around her.

This particular house was one of the taller buildings in the neighborhood, a grand old throwback to French colonial days. The air was thick with the smell of liquor and cigarettes and sweat and the din of loud-mouthed sailors. People danced in the parlor to a wobbly Victrola, or hunched over the bar, or passed out at tables. I staggered halfway down the staircase and surveyed the room. Two of my guys were still upstairs, and I saw two more at the bar. But no Jack.

He said he just liked to hear the girls talk, even though he couldn’t understand a word. I don’t know if they were too dark or he was too shy, but Jack was content to sit at a corner table, coddling a warm beer. I didn’t think he’d go back to the ship without us. I walked out back to check the latrine. Outside I heard a couple of swabs having a scuffle, so I went to break it up; nobody wanted to give Shore Patrol a reason to come in. In the pale light I saw Marzano had Jack pinned face-first against a wall. Jack was fighting, but he was half Marzano’s weight. The chief was pushing against him and pulling at his belt.

“Let him go, Chief!”

“Get lost Paten . . .” he slurred. I grabbed his arm and he turned and took a drunken swing at me. I laid him out with one punch.

Jack’s chest heaved and his mouth was bloody. I tried to help him straighten up and he shoved me away. Marzano was out cold. I told Jack to clean himself up. I went inside and got the others, told them the chief had passed out.

Let him sleep it off in the latrine I heard someone say. It was starting to rain.

“We have to get him back to the ship,” I said.

It’s a long walk, Will. I’m not carrying that lug.

We gave a couple of bucks to a local to borrow his donkey and propped the chief up in the saddle. On the slow walk back, Jack kept his distance.

The guys had a good laugh at the chief’s expense. In that climate, you go ashore in your dress whites. They must have used some pretty cheap saddle soap in Haiti. When we pulled the chief off that donkey after a mile in the rain, he looked like he’d shit his pants. Jack and I didn’t laugh.

We got the chief on board, left him on his bunk in his shitty wet uniform. Down in the crew’s quarters, Jack threw his stuff in his bag, washed up, and slammed himself into his bunk. He slept like he always did: on his side with his shoulders pulled in tight and his back against the bulkhead.

A day out of Port-au-Prince we hit a squall. The sky was black at noon and the rain felt like it could cut you. I have never been on a ship that pitched that hard. I’ve never seen or smelled so much puke in my life. The swells would swallow the bow as we plowed ahead. Troughs would open up so deep that the screws came out of the water, making the whole ship shudder. Sometimes she would heel over and hang there like she might capsize, groaning and straining while I pleaded with her: C’mon baby. You can do it.

Marzano recovered, didn’t write me up for slugging him, if he even remembered.

Jack pulled the midnight afterwatch, and I was his relief. The weather wasn’t much better by the time I woke up. I pulled on my rain gear, staggered to the ladder, grabbing bunk rails as the ship rolled, and went topside. Standing watch on a night like that was hard going, and the aft watch could be pretty lonely.

When I got to my station Jack wasn’t there. I could barely see the deck. Eventually I could make out two figures: it was goddamn Marzano wrangling with Jack. They separated just as I got to them, the ship pitched, and the chief went over the side. I went to sound the alarm and Jack bear-hugged me hard, pushing me back. I shoved him to the deck.

“Don’t,” was all he said. I went for the alarm again and he grabbed my leg. “Let him go.”

“Are you nuts?” He was shaking. I turned to see no one else on deck.

“I don’t know what he was doing. I tried to get him inside,” he said, getting to his feet. Our voices struggled against the roar of wind and waves.

“So he had it in for you,” I said. “So what? You can’t do this.”

“It’s not like that, Will.”

“Not like what? Tell me what it’s like, Jack.”

“I can’t.” He slumped back to the deck. His face was wet from the rain, but he still looked like he was bawling. He was shaking more now. “The bastard put me in the hospital back in Norfolk.”

“What the hell happened?”

“I can’t tell you. I — I’m beggin’ you to stop askin’.”

Scenarios ran through my head, none of them good. How do we make like nothing happened? How do we pull that off? I stared at him sobbing on the deck.

“Listen,” I said. “You saw nothing. I didn’t see nothing. Dry up and get below.” Off he went into the night. I couldn’t help thinking he’d just exchanged one demon for another. And now I had one, too. I spent my watch begging God’s forgiveness in the middle of the black unforgiving ocean.

In the morning the crew searched every inch of the ship. If the skipper had doubts about our reports, he never let on.

I knew what Jack couldn’t bring himself to say. I don’t know why I tried to make him say it. Even now, it’s nothing I’m comfortable talking about. You can’t do that to a man. You beat a dog too much and they might lash out, but more likely they’ll just cower the rest of their lives.

And then there are times — call it karma or some kind of strange grace if you want — when you might witness your oppressor’s demise. Sometimes justice is letting evil drown.

It was smoother sailing as we made for Charleston. I was on my way to the dynamo room when the ship suddenly rolled and I nearly took a header down the ladder. Someone on his way up caught me. He stood me back up and I fell on my ass. I pulled myself up and went right down again. The ship wasn’t rolling. I just couldn’t keep my balance.

In sick bay the doc took a look at my ears. He asked about the left one. I told him it felt clogged, that I figured it was water or a cold from being out in the squall. He swabbed it and took another look. He told me to stay off my feet and that he was sending me to the hospital once we were in port.

Some microscopic fungus had eaten through my left eardrum. I didn’t hear anything out of that ear for the next seventy-nine years.

It works like a charm now.

I asked if I got the bug in Haiti. They said it had been in there much longer, and the infection was making me wobbly. I wrote about this to my mom, and my hometown paper ran a story that said I was deafened by bombs. The docs told me I’d be laid up for at least a week.

Meanwhile, my ship had been ordered to the Pacific.

The day before the Barton left, Jack came to say his goodbyes.

“Just you?” I said.

“They’re downstairs trying to make some nurses. They’ll be up.” Jack pulled a chair alongside the bed.

“You okay?” I said.

“Sure. About time we saw some action.”

“That’s not what I mean.” It was the first time either of us tried to bring up Marzano. Before he could say anything the rest of the guys came bursting in and Jack got to his feet. They snuck in a cold quart of beer and some smokes, and joked about a friendly nurse who’d visit me around midnight. They were the best guys I ever knew.

Don’t get me wrong. Some of them could be real pains in the ass. You put men in close quarters for any length of time and they learn pretty fast what bugs them about each other. But they look out for each other, too.

When it was time for them to leave, I thought I’d bust their chops one more time.

“So long suckers!” I said with a wave of my hand. “I got the racket here!”

Jack was the only one who didn’t laugh.

The Barton was sunk off Guadalcanal, split in half by Japanese torpedoes. One of them hit right below my battle station. I owe my life to some microscopic bug that ate my eardrum.

The skipper and most of the crew went down with her. That was all I could find out during the war.

I had a photo of me and Jack that was taken in Boston. I sent it to his folks when I got out of the Navy in ’46, with a letter telling them what a great guy their son was, and how sorry I felt that I wasn’t there for him. I simply addressed it to Mr. and Mrs. Golinski, Wautoma, Wisconsin. I got a nice phone call from them.

I didn’t learn anything else about the Barton until the Internet came around. The Internet was pretty useful at one time. Now it’s about as worthless as television.

But during its golden age, I found photos of what was left of the Barton, taken by Robert Ballard, the explorer who had taken the first detailed photos of the broken Titanic. All that remained of my old ship was the bow section, lying on its side, her guns trained to port, their barrels sticking in the mud.

And I learned more about what happened that dreadful night. The battle was described as a barroom brawl after the lights had been shot out. The Barton came to a full stop to avoid colliding with another ship. That’s when the torpedoes hit. Crewmen who managed to get off were surrounded by burning oil. Some were run down by other ships. One survivor described feeling crushed by Barton’s unused depth charges going off as the aft portion of the ship plummeted to the bottom. Anyone still alive at sunrise was rescued by Higgins boats coming from Guadalcanal Island.

I was able to find articles about the captain and some of my shipmates. I never found anything about Jack. Or Marzano.

So I thought there was nothing new the Navy could tell me about the Barton. I was wrong.

There’s plenty I could tell them. Like I said, what can they do to me now?

A single black car glides to a stop in front of Will Paten’s modest house. He has asked for this to be low key. It’s a balmy autumn morning. The leaves have turned, but only a few have fallen. Their colors are dull. There hasn’t been a lot of rain.

A Navy officer and a seaman emerge in dress blue uniforms. The seaman is carrying a felt box like it’s a folded flag for a grieving spouse. Will watches them from his living room window. He allows them the formality of ringing the doorbell.

“Do I have the honor of addressing Electrician’s Mate Second Class Willard Paten?”

“That was me a hundred years ago, Lieutenant. Call me Will.”

They salute him. He returns it slowly and asks them inside.

“Sir, the Secretary of the Navy sends her regards and has asked me to deliver this package.” The seaman steps forward and hands the blue felt box to the officer who then hands it to Will. It is practically weightless.

“The Secretary has seen what’s in this box, Lieutenant?”

“Yes sir, she has.”

“Does she have any questions for me?”

“No sir.”

Will takes a slow, deep breath. “Have either of you seen what’s in here?”

They both answer no.

“If you wouldn’t mind, Lieutenant, I would like to look at this alone.”

“Very good, sir.” They salute and pivot to leave. The seaman stops and turns to face Will again.

“Sir, if I may?”

“Sure son. Go ahead.”

“About the battle . . .”

“I was sick, son, and my ship left without me. That’s the only reason I’m here. Sorry to disappoint.”

“No sir. It’s an honor to meet you.” And with that the two Navy men step out to the porch and close the door behind them.

Will sits at his kitchen table and stares at the box. With gnarled hands, he lifts the lid. There is a small cloudy bottle sitting in a felt tray. Underneath the tray is a yellowed paper with faint words in pencil. There is also a printed transcription of the yellowed paper’s text. Will ignores it. Another miracle of modern medicine is that he can read the original without glasses.

It is addressed to Jack’s parents. Will hesitates. But the Navy has said Jack has no living relatives, so he reads on.

Jack had awoken alone on a beach, surrounded by debris. That’s how he managed to put the message together. He could only crawl. He apologized to his parents.

Warm tears fill the deep creases in Will’s face. Not for everything that kid went through. Not for the secret they kept. They’re for Jack’s parents. For stupid last words. For not being there.

A radio jabbers in the next room. Another report about how we are running out of space and running out of time. Will wipes his eyes to read the message offered up by the indifferent sea: Tell Will Paten from Hoboken we all get what’s coming to us. No hard feelings.

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Bill Merklee’s work has appeared in numerous journals and in Best Microfiction, and has been nominated for Best Small Fictions. He was short-listed for the Bath Novella-in-Flash Award and the Fractured Lit Chapbook Prize, and long-listed for the Wigleaf Top 50. He lives in New Jersey.

Bluesky: @bmerklee.bsky.social
Website: billmerklee.com

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