On The Scene: Vigilance At Sea

It's 7 p.m. - 11 a.m. in NYC - and I'm sitting at one of only three computers that those of us assigned to this workroom can send e-mail on. So naturally, it's first come, first serve and at crunch time it can be very dicey. On top of that, the Navy has started blackout periods, called "River City." During those hours there is no e-mail, no phone access, no video feeds. It's done so that "the enemy won't know which blackout signals the start of war," or A-day (attack day) as the Admiral calls it.

I share a small room with two women who work for Reuters out of Berlin. Inke and Pilar have spent a lot of time on board. They are very hard-working and fun and are so well-known on the Lincoln they are nicknamed "Double Trouble."

They got here first which means they got the bunk beds...and I got the cot. After struggling on its rock-like surface for one night I began adding different ingredients to make it more palatable (make that palletable): two heavy blankets doubled, then a sleeping bag doubled, then my bottom sheet, then my top sheet, and two more blankets on top. Of course you can't fold things in on a cot so there's lots of sliding around. I feel a bit like the Princess and the Pea.

Our assigned "head" or bathroom is a long way off. Several turns through several doorways down long narrow halls through several hatches and (gasp) finally you are there. It's like a locker room facility with toilets on one side and several showers on the other. But remember you must take Navy showers, that is, get wet, soap up, then rinse. No basking under the warm jets here.

And no lying around in bed, either. Six a.m. is time to get up. And the Navy lets you know it. Alarms ring over loudspeakers and a voice informs you "Reveille, reveille, all hands up!" I give thanks that I'm not in the Navy so I can shrug and roll over, but not for long because then other announcements follow. Like morning prayer - and the call for Happy Hour, which isn't what you think.

That's the hour the ship is cleaned, but not before the morning message that's my personal favorite. It goes like this, "Good morning warriors. You are doing the Navy proud. We really appreciate those 18 hour days many of you are putting in. You know who you are, pat yourselves on the back. But we are getting lax with dirt. It's building up on hatches and in corners. Folks, we've got the shiniest dirt in the world, cause we keep waxing over it! Let's get the dirt up and make this great warship shine." All I know is I wouldn't want the commanding officer looking at my house!

Meals are served early and often. Six to eight, eleven to one, and four to six. It seems like every time I turn around I'm eating and for the most part it's standard cafeteria fare. There is usually a meat offering, a few vegetables, and then a salad bar. Most of us opt for that. There are several places to eat on board: with the officers, or the chief petty officers, or the enlisted mess. That one is off limits to us, but I walk by longingly because they seem to have bananas and the rest don't.

For being confined to such a finite space, basically the length of three and half football fields, there are tons of passageways and dozens of ladders. That's what they call stairs on a ship and they truly are more ladder-like. No level is exactly like another, so much of my time is spent following my escort down one hall that looks just like the other, every ten feet or so stepping over a hatch or pushing through a door. Had Dante see this, inside of a carrier, it could have been one of the levels of Hell.

It's just very easy to get lost. I pride myself on being able to get from my room to the workspace swiftly and confidently. But if you do get lost, there are plenty of friendly sailors willing to help you get back on track. There doesn't seem to be the level of suspicion of the press we sometimes encounter in the so-called real world. And since there are only so many corridors, you find yourself passing the same people over and over again. It's kind of like a recurring dream.

Ten percent of the sailors on board are women. Some of them are fighter pilots. I've met two. Heather O'Donnell and Shannon Callahan.

Boy, do they have to put up with a lot of ribbing. Well, actually all the pilots do. They seem to enjoy pushing your buttons and seeing what makes you lose our temper. Nicknames are a part of that. Each pilot has one and they are generally not nicknames you would choose for yourself.

For example, Shannon is called "Toonces," after a cat on Saturday Night Live, a cat who was a notoriously bad driver.

The female pilots are six to a room. So there isn't much privacy on board. It's even worse for the other enlisted men and women, sometimes they are more than 60 to a room, in bunks stacked 3 high with only a narrow walkway between the rows.

We can't log onto the Internet from here, so we are reliant on whatever news Armed Forces Network is carrying. We were taken to the "war room" and Rear Admiral John Kelly showed us where all the US forces are in the Gulf, and what would happen in the event of war. But even he carefully says, "in the event of war."

At the beginning of the year, Admiral Kelly made the decision to U-turn this carrier. It was headed to its home port in Everett, Washington, but he offered its services to the Department of Defense. Now it has been at sea eight months, the longest deployment in a decade and the sailors feel every minute of it.

Airplane mechanic Sam Montoya told me he misses home, but after 19 years he takes the good with the bad - and he's ready and willing to do whatever is asked to serve his country. He did acknowlege, though, that his 8-year-old daughter asks him in every e-mail, "Daddy how many days until I see you?" He paused and told me: "That's a hard question to answer."

Many of the teenage sailors aren't as accepting. They come up and ask if I'm in the media and tell me, "Ma'am, I don't understand this war. Why now? And we were only supposed to be out six months, it's been eight." As I walked through the little store on board, I noticed young sailors who seemed so sad. I could tell by their demeanor and their stance as they bought their dental floss and bath soap that maybe the Navy's not what they thought it would be. But of course they have no choice but to carry on.

It's much the same for us. The days begin to blend together. The joke on board is that pizza is served every Saturday, so you'll know it's Saturday. Every day I'm asked, "How long are you here for?" And like Sam Montoya, I say, "That's a hard question to answer."

By Cynthia Bowers