The Strange Case of the Stolen Keys

June 1986

Sometime in 1982, under the Stewardship of Admiral Oscar Stanley Dawson, the Navy decided to revamp Operation Awkward and Exercise Gemini of WWII vintage and rename these contingencies Operation Barracuda and Exercise Piranha. Old wine in new bottles. These Naval exercises were designed to protect ships from the threat of underwater saboteurs, surprise raids and terrorist attacks. Detailed orders were documented in a Classified Document, which we used to page muster every day religiously and put back into the safe like gold earrings in a jewelry box, lest the enemy found out our directives and quickly copied them! Eventually the unclassified version was published in the new edition of INBR 1524 and the Junior TAS Manual in 1986.
As in every Organisation, every event in the Navy began with a meeting. So the FOCEF (Flag Officer Commanding Eastern Fleet) held a meeting and reprimanded his Fleet for slacking during night hours and on weekends thus compromising the ship’s security. Commanding Officers held meetings on board their ships and went one step ahead by ordering their OODs to be present on the gangway round the clock, in addition to a quartermaster and the side-boy. (Thus effectively cutting their efficiency by half the next day). Some over-zealous ones insisted on a jetty patrol (consisting of two sentries with whistle, baton and torch) additionally. One Commanding Officer reprimanded his officers for growing thick in the pants because they were watching too many blue movies over the weekend and paying less attention to the security of the ship.
In short the seafarers were being trained for a call they were hoping would never come. But in truth, these highly trained personnel were being forced to spend most of their duty hours looking out for Flag cars and blowing the still pipe – ceremonies which the Royal Navy and the USN discarded decades ago.
I was careering on bravely on INS Androth as Senior Watch-Keeping Officer with two other watch-keeping officers, thereby putting myself on a 24-hour duty cycle every third day at the gangway, with a separate roster for Sundays and holidays. I don’t remember doing very much else except stand at the gangway waiting for time to pass. I now sometimes weep at the thought of having one-third of my life excised in this fashion. Each ship also had two Sub-Lieutenants, who were learning the ropes on board.
Then things took a curious turn. It soon came in vogue to steal another ship’s boat or gangway books at night and return them the next day. The intention was to keep the other ship’s gangway staff alert during silent hours, which in turn would lead to improved security and safety of the whole Fleet. Captains of ships actually encouraged their young guns to show their smartness and perhaps get even with a competitor as a last laugh. With so much time at hand (doing gangway watches) it wasn’t impossible to dream up schemes of daring, deceit, and dacoity.
We used to hold elaborate cloak-and-dagger meetings on board to discuss our weekend strategy.  The last two weekends we had collected a case of beer each from INS Andaman and INS Amini. I was hoping I wouldn’t have to shell out beer to some ship for this weekend’s sloppiness. That Sunday morning the gangway QM sheepishly reported to me that our ship’s keys had been whacked from the gangway. SLt Shiv Bhagwan had buzzed him at 2 a.m. and told him to check the rat traps in the galley. Before leaving the gangway, he had secured the books under lock and key but unknown to him the keys were kept on a nail above his head with a prominent signage ‘KEYS’, which the neighboring ship had obviously seen. What was he to do, poor chap? He was a simple village beatnik. In a manner of speaking it was all Bhagwan’s fault!
I looked across the finger jetty and saw the OOD on INS Arnala waiving my ship’s keys at me and gesturing with his thumb and little finger at his ear to talk on the telephone. Then he began to rock his hips in a lewd mimicry of a sexual act, indicating that I was screwed. This really got my juices flowing. Soon the telephone rang. I picked up the receiver and he said “Good morning. I am the Captain speaking”. I replied knowingly “Good for you! And I am the Fleet Commander, you Son-of-a-Bitch. Stop fornicating and return my keys, else I’ll come over there and kick you in the gonads!”
A quick intake of breath on the other end of the line followed by a long pause alerted me to the fact that it was really my Ship’s Captain on the telephone line. I held the phone in one hand and instinctively brought the other hand to my stomach, where fear and dread were twisting together. My stomach pole vaulted over my spleen and the light bulbs in my head began to dim rapidly.
After recovering from this rather unusual Sunday morning greeting the real Captain went on to give me instructions for the day with all the enthusiasm of a terminally ill patient. I was halfway through a polite excuse, when I realized that he had hung up. He hadn’t even given me a chance to explain my virtuosity. That morning I was hoping that some merciful tidal wave would sweep me out to sea for a day. I had no alternative, I was already dead! I figured that I had to do something to secure my moorings on board.
The more I thought, the more I felt that confusion had ambushed me! At lunch time, I doddered to the wardroom bar, and in deference to the temperature outside, got myself a glass of chilled Heineken beer and dropped a depth charge of Old Monk rum in it. Then I sat in a corner and drank deeply from this brutal mix. I guess every boss deserves to be kicked in the pants once in a while, but the irony of my having to spell out it out to my boss would not be lost on him for sure. How could I even tangentially defend such an action? The hollow feeling in my stomach grew more pronounced. My thoughts swirled and mixed, just like the deadly cocktail that I was drinking.
The following morning, when the Captain came on board, my knees were clanking like castanets. His response to my “Good morning sir” was visceral. He walked up the gangway and barked “TAS! In my cabin – NOW! I entered his cabin full of apprehension. “It appears to me that you’ve lost the OOD keys to some ship and you’ve threatened to kick your Captain in his private parts!  You better have a damn good reason for both your actions, tough guy.”
Having said this, he slid off the edge of the desk and stood up ready to deflect any physical assault if need be. Then he folded his hands in a V-shape in front of his body, as if bracing against a kick from me. Soon he felt a tightness in his throat and chest, as a feeling of claustrophobia and confusion began descending on him like a shroud, when he saw me standing meekly at the door.  Eventually he pulled up a chair and sat down.
I could see the sharp edges of anger in his eyes. I took a couple of moments to answer while I watched him sitting there letting the anger work out of him like the heat from the grill of a radiator. His cheeks appeared as pale as recycled paper plates. In psychology this behavior is known as the ‘mad minute’. It is a way of describing a violent outburst that has its roots in several pressures on an individual. It builds up and is released in a quick moment – usually violently, and often against a target not wholly responsible for the pressure.
I took a deep purifying breath. Basically, I was simply waiting for the sails of his anger to lose the wind. “May I sit down, sir? I asked politely. “No, you may not!” came his curt reply. He was certainly suffering from post-traumatic stress syndrome, as if he had just returned from war, where he was a frontline contender in the crisis, and now he had a bogus job to contend with. I decided to give it my best shot after two more seconds.  “Sir, every time you build a better mouse trap, the mice get smarter!” I said. It was a damp squib, but at least it was a start. “What on earth are you talking about – mouse traps and mice?” he replied. His eyes had widened as if trying to soak up more information from me.
I now had his complete attention, so I got down to the explanation. “Sir, believe me, we run a tight ship. What actually happened was this – The bunch of keys was a fake set. We had set ourselves up to use the same tactics the Army uses ‘Maneuver and Defend’. At least, that was the theory and it worked perfectly well. The fake keys were used to draw the Sub-Lieutenants and QM from INS Arnala to our ship, while our boys were getting hold of their OBM[1] and the ship’s binoculars from their Bridge. So in effect we gave them a fake set of keys and breeched their citadel and took two very important equipment from under their noses. In the evening we traded both items for a case of beer. Like I said sir, we set up a classic rattrap and rang the bell to catch the rats.”
The Captain drummed his pencil on the table before taking up the slack. “Hmmm” he said after several moments. My explanation made him feel confused, guilty and a bit relieved, all at the same time. He nodded as if our ship had scored a point in a game he wasn’t sure how to play. Sometimes, the less you know the better. Then he furrowed his brow. “So what you’re telling me is that our boys were not sleeping and that you used a ruse to fool Arnala and everything is okay on our ship?”
There was a pitch of triumph in my voice. “Exactly sir”, I replied while making a mental note of his quick assessment of the whole situation. His cheeks regained colour. I took it as a sign of declining stress levels. I smiled and flicked my eyes at the only other pair of eyes looking at us in the cabin (The President of India, stuck in a framed portrait). I wanted the Captain to realize the value of Anil Gonsalves and Associates to his ship! This was not the last time he as learning something for the first time on his ship!
“The part relating to knocking you in the nuts can be put down to friendly fire or fratricide or collateral damage. I was actually on the phone with OOD Arnala when we got cross connected. I spoke in Punjabi as friendly banter for my friend across the jetty. Sorry about that sir. ”
He chided me “You’re a saint, buddy. You really are the best. Your skills at deception are only exceeded by your ability to work miracles and then convince me of things even my wife can’t.” I was hoping he would remember this when he wrote my report. And then to lighten the mood he continued “At least I know my heart is strong now. Otherwise I would’ve dropped from a coronary. One thing I haven’t figured out though – if I was fornicating, why would I be calling you?”
Just then the Steward walked in with two cups of tea. “Please sit”, my boss said. “Have a cup of tea”. It was a peace offering, which he pushed across the table. He then smiled at me for the first time that day and said “I liked the term ‘gonads’! Actually I’ve been wanting to improve my own Punjabi for a particular reason. You see, my upstairs neighbor washes his balcony every day and the dirty water falls into my house and creates a mess. I want to call him that… that…, but in a friendly sort of way. Do you have any suggestions?
For a brief second I was taken aback. “Yes sir. I would recommend ‘Dickhead’. You could shout from your window ‘Who is that dickhead who is throwing water into my house? “
“That sounds good TAS.” and he dismissed me.
“Sir, would you care to join us for a beer in the wardroom, at lunch time?” I asked enthusiastically. “We could fill you with the details of our heist.” “Will do. Thanks.” He replied.
Well, it’s not every day that your boss thanks you for threatening to kick him where it hurts the most, and then raises a toast to it!
That weekend CO INS Arnala, who was also the Senior Officer 31^st Patrol Vessel Squadron and the Fleet Captain, held a meeting of all Commanding Officers on board his ship and called for a truce. They concluded that the junior officers were allowed to watch their Blue movies or do whatever it was that they did on weekends.
This was an agreement that could be sold on both sides as a success!