Doc Malone - USS La Salle

 

First Morning Aboard – Continued

The steady thump of helicopter rotors overhead rattled through the ship’s bulkheads, dragging Malone from the depths of exhausted sleep. He groaned, rubbing his face before rolling out of his rack. The air was thick with the mingling scents of old coffee, machine oil, and the musty tang of a ship that had seen years at sea.

A cold shower jolted him fully awake—two minutes under water barely above freezing, Navy luxury at its finest. A quick shave, fresh khakis, and he was squared away. With his cover tucked under his arm, he stepped out into the passageway, navigating the labyrinthine corridors like a man who had yet to memorize the ship’s layout.

His first stop was the main enlisted galley. The scent of breakfast—eggs, bacon, and something vaguely resembling coffee—wafted through the passageways as he entered. The controlled chaos of a Navy galley was in full swing. Culinary specialists moved in a well-practiced dance, flipping eggs, slapping bacon onto trays, and shouting orders over the din of clanging metal.

At the center of it all stood Senior Chief Mess Specialist Herrera, a thickset man with graying hair, an apron over his khakis, and the unmistakable air of someone who had been running galleys longer than most sailors had been alive. He turned as Malone entered, his brow furrowed in curiosity.

“You must be the new Doc,” he said, his voice gravelly from years of barking orders in hot kitchens.

“HMC Malone,” he replied with a polite nod. “Figured I’d introduce myself before I start snooping around your galley.”

Herrera wiped his hands on a rag and crossed his arms. “Senior Chief Herrera. You inspect my kitchen, but don’t get in my way.”

Malone chuckled. “Wouldn’t dream of it. But I do have to check food safety, temperatures, and, you know, make sure we’re not cultivating new biological weapons in the ice machine.”

That earned a short, knowing laugh. “You Corpsmen. Always with the damn ice machines.”

He shrugged, grabbing a clipboard from the counter. “It’s where the nightmares live, Senior.”

Herrera grunted and gestured for him to follow, leading him through the galley. Malone glanced at the sailors manning the grills, taking mental notes of hygiene practices, food prep procedures, and whether anyone looked like they were cutting corners. Foodborne illness was a sailor’s worst nightmare at sea. A few days of bad chow, and half the crew could be out of commission with gut-wrenching misery.

He dipped a thermometer into a vat of eggs. Perfect temp. A glance at the storage area—labels were in order, no cross-contamination. The ice machine? Spotless. Damn. He almost felt disappointed.

Herrera watched him with a raised brow as he straightened up. “Satisfied, Doc?”

Malone tapped the clipboard with his pen. “You run a tight galley, Senior. I like that.”

Herrera smirked, arms still crossed. “Good. I don’t need some Corpsman breathing down my neck every week.”

Malone grinned. “Oh, don’t worry. I’ll still drop in unexpectedly. Gotta keep you on your toes.”

Herrera rolled his eyes but couldn’t quite hide his amusement. “Finish your damn inspection and get out of my galley, Chief.”

Malone laughed, but instead of leaving, he hooked a thumb toward the serving line. “I’d love to, but I still have to walk the food line and check what we’re serving.”

Herrera exhaled dramatically, shaking his head. “Fine. Just don’t slow my guys down. We got a hungry crew to feed.”

Malone gave a knowing smirk. “Wouldn’t dream of it, Senior.”

He stepped over to the serving line, clipboard in hand, eyeing the steaming trays of food while sailors shuffled through with their trays. He watched as one of the junior culinary specialists spooned out a portion of reconstituted eggs and powdered gravy onto a sailor’s plate.

Malone leaned in slightly. “How’s the consistency on those eggs, CS3?”

The Culinary Specialist Third Class glanced at him, then at the eggs, then back at him again. “Uh… fluffy, Chief?”

Malone raised a brow and speared a bit with his fork, giving it a quick taste. Not bad. Not great, but not bad. He made a few notes and moved down the line, checking the bacon for proper crispness, making sure the biscuits weren’t rock hard, and ensuring the fruit wasn’t on the verge of fermentation.

Herrera leaned against the counter, watching with mild amusement. “Well, Doc? You gonna let the crew eat, or you gonna keep standing in the way?”

Malone smirked. “Relax, Senior. Just making sure we’re not running a science experiment here.”

Herrera snorted. “You Corpsmen… always looking for trouble where there ain’t any.”

Malone jotted a final note on his clipboard, stepping aside. “I wouldn’t be doing my job otherwise.”

With that, he gave Herrera a respectful nod and made his way out of the galley, ready to tackle the rest of his first day aboard.

After wrapping up his inspection in the galley, Malone took a deep breath and started navigating his way to Sickbay. Unlike the sprawling hospital wings of the naval bases he had been stationed at, shipboard medical spaces were compact and utilitarian—efficient but cramped.

The passageway leading to Sickbay was long and narrow, the bulkheads painted the standard dull gray. When he reached the designated area, he took a quick survey of his new domain. The main ward had seven bunks, tight but serviceable. There was a small at-sea treatment suite, a tiny office, a modest pharmacy stocked with just enough meds to keep a crew afloat, and an X-ray machine, because nothing said “shipboard medicine” like a 20-year-old piece of radiographic equipment held together with sheer will and outdated maintenance manuals.

But this was home now.

First Formation

Malone stepped into the passageway and took a deep breath before calling out, “All hands, muster in the passageway! Let’s go, ladies! I ain't got all day!”

A shuffle of boots echoed from the Sickbay as his five corpsmen and two technicians emerged, some looking half-curious, others with the weary skepticism of enlisted men who had seen their fair share of chiefs come and go.

As they formed up loosely in the passageway, Malone could already tell this was a group with personality. They weren’t standing at attention—hell, this wasn’t boot camp—but they had that natural military slouch that said “we respect you, but let’s see if you deserve it.”

He gave them a once-over, arms crossed. “Alright, I’m HMC Malone. You can call me ‘Doc,’ you can call me ‘Chief,’ but if any of you call me ‘Sir,’ I’ll assume you’re either sucking up or you hit your head. Either way, it means extra duty. Got it?”

A few chuckles and nods rippled through the group.

Malone smirked and pointed to the tallest guy, a burly HM2 with a regulation fade and the build of a linebacker. “Alright, let’s start with you, big guy.”

The X-ray Tech, HM2 Walker, straightened up. “HM2 Walker, Chief. X-ray technician. Been in for eight years, three ships, and one failed marriage. I take pictures of bones and complain about my ex-wife in my free time.”

The group chuckled. Malone grinned. “Solid. You’re our X-ray whisperer. Keep the machine running, and I’ll do my best to keep your stress levels low—no promises on the ex-wife situation, though.”

Next up was a lean HM3 with dark-rimmed glasses, a perpetual squint, and the unmistakable air of a guy who would rather be reading a book than standing in formation.

“HM3 Patel, Chief. General service corpsman. Been in four years. Last command was shore duty in San Diego. Looking forward to getting some real hands-on experience out here.”

Malone nodded. “San Diego to this? You must’ve really pissed someone off, Patel.”

Patel smirked. “You have no idea.”

Next was a scruffy, broad-shouldered HM2 with a devil-may-care grin that screamed ‘lifelong enlisted man.’

“HM2 Givens, pharmacy tech. Seven years in, last ship was a destroyer where the doc barely knew what meds we had. I make sure no one dies from taking the wrong pills. Most of the time.”

Malone arched a brow. “Most of the time?”

Givens shrugged. “Hey, Chief, you ever read the labels on half this stuff? Might as well say ‘take this and pray.’”

Malone let out a laugh. “Alright, fine. Just keep the antibiotics and pain meds sorted, and I won’t ask too many questions.”

Next in line was a shorter, stocky HM3 who had the relaxed posture of someone who had already accepted ship life with all its flaws.

“HM3 Lewis, Chief. General service corpsman. Five years in. Spent my last tour on a carrier Sickbay, patching up knuckleheads who thought they could outdrink aviation fuel.”

Malone chuckled. “Let me guess—spoiler alert, they couldn’t?”

Lewis nodded. “Not a single one, Chief.”

Finally, the last guy in the lineup, a wiry HM3 with a cocky smirk, arms crossed like he had just won a bet before even saying a word.

“HM3 Taylor. Lab tech. Four years in. Last assignment was a hospital in Japan, where people were actually polite. Not sure what I did wrong to get sent here, but I’ll make the most of it.”

Malone chuckled. “Oh, don’t worry, Taylor. You’ll find plenty of impolite people here to toughen you up.”

Taylor grinned. “Looking forward to it, Chief.”

First Impressions

Malone looked them all over, rocking back on his heels. He’d seen enough commands to know that a good medical team could make or break a deployment. And these guys? They had just the right balance of sarcasm, competence, and controlled chaos.

He nodded, grinning. “Alright, gentlemen, I think we’re gonna get along just fine.”

A round of low chuckles and nods followed.

With that, Malone clapped his hands together. “Alright, let’s get to work. Walker, let’s check out the X-ray machine—see if it’s actually older than you. Givens, I want a rundown of what we’ve got in the pharmacy. Lewis, Patel, and Taylor, you’re with me for a tour of the ward.”

The corpsmen broke formation, ready to start their day, but not before Givens leaned over to Taylor and whispered, “Fifty bucks says Chief gets lost before lunch.”

Malone caught that, pointing at them with a smirk. “If I do, you’re both on ice machine duty for a week.”

A collective groan rippled through the group as they all laughed, heading into their respective areas.

Yeah, this was gonna be a good crew.

Copyright ©, 2025, Matthew W. Bowers