WWII - 1942 - Coastal South Carolina Twenty year old Bruce Weber is arrested, accused of running bootleg whiskey in his souped up hot rod. He is given the option of going to jail or enlisting in the V-5 US Naval Aviation Cadet Program (that does not all

NavCad

By David G. Weaver

AuthorHouse

Copyright © 2012 David G. Weaver
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4685-7358-9

Chapter One

"You again!" Judge Wade Hampton Bleese bellowed from his seat on the high bench. He propped his beefy hands on the desktop and leaned forward to stare angrily down at the youthful prisoner. Then, without shifting his eyes to Charleston County Policeman Eugene Salmon, standing behind the accused young man, he asked, "What is it this time, Officer?"

Bruce Weber stood mute. His pale blue eyes returned the magistrate's bellicose stare without blinking. He'd been there before and all they ever did was warn him that, one of these days, he might get a prison sentence. Might, Bruce thought, that's the operative word. That's what the old, addled-brained judge always said. "Might!" Hah! I'm not old enough to be sent to the state prison up in Columbia yet, so why worry?

"Same ol' thang, Yoah Honah," Salmon drawled, frowning and shaking his head slowly from side to side as he extracted a small notebook from his right shirt pocket. "Got behine 'im on Route 52 at Ten Mile Hill. Got his tag numbah but couldn't no way ketch up with that souped up hotrod of his'n." Salmon glanced down at his notebook, then continued, "Speedin', reckless drivin', maybe haulin' bootleg whiskey, Judge." He spoke without raising his face, flipping through the booklet rapidly as if searching for some particular entry.

"What do you mean, `Maybe hauling whiskey'? Don't you know if he was or wasn't?" Judge Bleese roared, his voice rising in exasperation.

"Ah couldn't ketch up with 'im, Yoah Honah." Salmon explained weakly. "He has that danged Ford so souped up, ain't nobody kin ketch 'im. Ah was jus' lucky ta git 'is tag befoah he hit them dirt roads behine da ayah port. Aftah dat, it was Katie bah da doah. He was long gone."

"Ummm huh!" Wade Bleese mused as he pursed his lips in deep thought. He shifted his gaze back and forth between the policeman and the culprit. Then, he concentrated on Bruce, peering over his wire rimmed glasses for a long, thoughtful moment. Cocking his head to one side, he asked, "What do you have to say about those charges, young man?" He paused for a second then, in a lighter, softer tone, said, "You know, boy, you're not a bad looking lad. You might have a pretty bright future if you'd just settle down. The way you're going, though, you're going to kill yourself or commit mayhem before you're a grown man." He rested his bulky frame on his elbows, concern evident on his puffy face.

For the very first time, Bruce examined the judge's features closely. He saw care in the judge's amber eyes and noted that the old man's silver-gray hair was combed straight back. Bruce thought the judge looked a lot like the statue of John C. Calhoun atop the tall column on Marion Square.

"Well, boy, what do you have to say for yourself this time?" Bleese thundered.

"Nuthin'," Bruce muttered, lowering his eyes again and letting his shoulders slump.

"Speak up, boy!" Bleese shouted. "What did you say?"

Bruce glared at the magistrate for a long, defiant moment then, turning partially toward the door, yelled, "Nuthin'!"

Officer Salmon grabbed the prisoner's arm and jerked him around to face the bench. "Watch yoah lip, boy!" he grated. "Sho' sum ra-spec' ah yore gonna wish you had."

"Sorry, Judge," Bruce said a bit more civilly. "I didn't mean anything. Just seems old Fishface Salmon, here, is always out there just looking for me. All I was doing was hurrying home for a date."

"Date, huh?" Gene Salmon spat out. "More'n likely a date with sum bootleggah, Ah bet."

"Now, Officer," Bleese cautioned, "you're just guessing about that. You have no proof your prisoner was actually hauling stumphole. But one thing is certain, this young pup is a danger on our highways. We have to do something about his speeding. How many times have you brought him in now, Gene? Five? Six?"

"Eight, Yoah Honah," Salmon said. "Seems lak Ah have ta eat 'is dus' jus' 'bout every month ah so." He glared at the prisoner and scowled.

"Eight? You're sure about that, Officer? When was the first time?" Bleese peered down at the policeman.

Salmon quickly flipped the pages of his notebook then looked up at the judge. "Firs' tahm was las' yeah on June tweney secun, Judge. Then again in Septembah, in Novembah an' Decembah. This here yeah it's bin January, March, April an' then today, Suh."

Wade Bleese turned a penetrating stare to Bruce's face, his tiger-yellow eyes seeming to bore into flesh and bone. "How old are you, boy?" he demanded.

"Be twenty-one next March," Bruce answered, his voice sullen and hoarse.

"Suh! Say, `suh' when yew speak ta da judge, boy!" Gene Salmon ordered, ramming a stiff thumb into the youngster's ribs.

"Sir," Bruce gritted, his teeth tightly clenched.

"Twenty-one next spring, eh?" Bleese mused as he pondered the situation for a few seconds. "Uh, huh. That means you'll probably be drafted right away then. Well, that might get you off the roads for a while."

Shrugging, Bruce inhaled a deep breath and turned his head so he could look out the open window. Get it over with, you old coot, go ahead. Lay it on me and get it over with.

"No," Judge Bleese was saying. "No. That won't do. Even in the Army you'll still be able to drive. I'll have to figure out some other way." He twisted his head toward Salmon and scowled. "Lock this young perpetrator up, Officer Salmon, and bring him back at 10 o'clock tomorrow. I'll have made my decision by then."

"Yes, Suh," the policeman said, jotting a note on his pocket pad: "Weber in court 10 AM, July 20, 1942." Then, taking Bruce by one arm, he shoved him out through the open door into the hot, humid afternoon air.

* * *

County Policeman Salmon ushered his prisoner into the courtroom at precisely 10 AM. The place was quiet except for the chirping of birds in the azalea bushes outside the open windows. Heated by the morning sun beating against its clapboard walls, the courtroom was already sultry.

"You look ha'fway decent this mawnin'" Salmon said in a gruff voice. "Dat might he'p you sum, butchew bettah watch dat surly lip of yore'n. Dat damn tongue of yore'n'll git you inta a peck uv trouble fas' as dat hotrod yew're so proud uv. An' it'll git you inta jus' 'bout as much trouble too."

Bruce simply glared at the county policeman without speaking. He was well aware that he was presentable. He certainly didn't need any damned hick cop to tell him. He'd spent long minutes before the jailhouse mirror combing his wavy brown hair, trying to make a stray cowlick stay down. The light khaki shirt set off his suntanned face and eyes that sparkled like aquamarine jewels. Women considered him handsome, but Bruce doubted that would be of any avail when he faced grouchy old Wade Hampton Bleese. Good looks might go over big with the gals, but they wouldn't keep him out of a juvenile correctional institution.

Gene Salmon shoved Bruce toward the front of the room where the empty high bench waited. "Git on up dere," he ordered, "don' wanna keep da judge waitin', do ya?"

In front of the judicial bench, Bruce stood rigidly erect, trying to make his five-feet-eleven-inch frame appear a bit taller. He sniffed the sweet aroma of honeysuckle blooming outside. He listened impatiently to the trilling of a mocking bird somewhere in the moss draped live oaks that shaded the east wall of the building and held back a smidgeon of the oppressive low-country heat of that July morning. "Where the hell is he," he groused, his voice heavy with sarcasm as he looked first at Salmon then at the closed door behind the bench and high-backed leatherette chair.

"Shut yoah trap, boy! Da judge'll git heah when he's good 'n ready." Boredom was evident in Salmon's voice and the way his body sagged.

Just then the door swung open and Wade Bleese stalked into the room. His long black robe was unbuttoned, flapping about his knees. He swiped a yellowish-white handkerchief across his forehead as he flopped into his chair.

Bruce felt himself stiffen. He was anxious to learn the verdict. He had trouble keeping from asking, as he stood, staring open-mouthed at the man in the black robe.

The judge planted both elbows on the desk and leaned forward, partially lifting himself out of the chair, looking down at the two men. Switching his eyes to look directly at Bruce, he asked, "Where are your parents, young fellow?"

"You know I'm an orphan," Bruce responded in a surly voice.

Salmon immediately grabbed Bruce's arm and spun him around. "Ah tol' you ta watch dat lip, didn't Ah? Can't you heah?" he growled.

"I hear you," Bruce retorted with equal hostility.

"Den shape up, boy, ah else!" The policeman placed his face just inches of Bruce's as he spoke.

Bleese leaned back in his throne-like chair and looked up at the high fly-specked ceiling. He held his fingers laced across his ample belly, his shoulders lifting and lowering in deep sighs. At length he lowered his eyes and leaned forward again, resting his elbows on the flat desk surface. Raising his hands, he cupped his chin in them and stared again at the prisoner. He said nothing.

Bruce tried to meet the judge's stare but squirmed uncomfortably under that penetrating gaze. The amber eyes peered at him from under bushy gray brows and seemed to be probing his inner being. Unable to hold eye contact, Bruce lowered his gaze and looked down at the varnished hardwood floor.

"Well, then, who is your legal guardian?" Bleese pressed.

Without lifting his head, Bruce raised his shoulders in a slight shrug.

Bleese then shot a quick, questioning glance at the policeman, his eyebrows arched and forehead wrinkled.

"None listed, Yoah Honah," Salmon responded, both hands waist high, palms up.

"Well, well, then, it appears you are a ward of this court, my boy," Bleese said in a paternal tone, a broad, malicious grin on his ruddy face. He hooked the shoulders of his robe with his thumbs and flipped the cloth away from his body. With elbows on the desk again, he leaned forward and looked calmly down into Bruce's anxious eyes.

"If you say so," Bruce slurred and immediately received a jab from the policeman's thumb. Quickly, he added, "Sir."

"Young man," Bleese began, "I have made a few inquiries and I do believe I have discovered the ideal solution to our predicament."

Bruce stiffened his back, his eyes wide in anticipation of the judge's decision. Yeah, yeah. What is it? he thought, while staring up into Bleese's face.

"It appears that there is one branch of the military services that prohibits its members from driving automobiles while in training," Bleese said very slowly. "With that in mind, I'm going to give you an option, Bruce Weber. Either you voluntarily enlist in the United States Navy's Aviation Cadet Program or you go to reform school until your twenty-first birthday." The judge's voice rang with finality.

"Me? Fly an airplane? I don't know nothin' 'bout flying planes, "Bruce protested, looking first at the judge then at the cop. "I'm a driver, not a flyer."

"Well, boy," Bleese said, the hint of a smile playing around the corners of his mouth, "that's something you will have to face. That's exactly what the Navy will teach you."

"You can't do that!" Bruce yelled. "You can't make me enlist. You can't sentence me to the Navy."

"Calm down, boy. Don't presume to tell me what I can and cannot do," Wade Bleese thundered. "I'm giving you a break. You're practically of legal age. I can lock you up and throw the key away. I can do that, but our country is at war. So, Bruce Weber, I'm offering you a chance to do your patriotic duty and, at the same time, clear your record."

Bruce's eyes popped wide open. "Clear my record? How can that happen?" he asked with anxiety.

"I'll instruct the Clerk of Court to seal your file, my boy." Bleese smirked down at the prisoner. "I can do that, you know. Now, you go down to the recruiting office and enlist, keep your nose clean and finish that cadet program, and I'll see to it that your records are destroyed. It's as simple as that."

"Yeah? But what if I flunk out? What then? Suppose I get in trouble with the brass hats or the navy police, what then?" Bruce's tone switched to one of anxious interest.

"That will be your problem, young man. Your problem! I'm offering you a chance, not a promise," Wade Bleese said as he settled back in his chair and waited. He wiped away tiny beads of perspiration from his upper lip and forehead.

"All right. What's to keep me from saying I'll do it, then taking it on the lam?" Bruce asked, grinning weakly.

"Officer Salmon will take you down to the recruiting office this afternoon. He'll stay with you until you are sworn in. After that, by God, it's twix you and the Navy, my boy. You duck out on your enlistment oath to Uncle Sam and you'll wind up before a firing squad. It's wartime, remember?" Wade Bleese pursed his lips and nodded solemnly. "Okay. Now what'll it be?"

Bruce looked at Salmon as if asking if what the judge said was true. The cop stuck out his lower lip and diverted his eyes.

"What do you say, Bruce Weber?" Bleese persisted.

"I, I, I reckon I'll try that Navy stuff, Judge," Bruce said in a low, trembling voice. "What do I have to do now?"

Wade Bleese handed Gene Salmon a legal size envelope. "Give this to Chief O'Neil down at the recruiting office in the Old Citadel Building, Officer Salmon," he instructed. "It's the court's permission for an underage enlistment."

"But what do I have to do, Judge?" Bruce insisted.

"You, lad, will be required to make written reports to me each month. If you are late by more than one week, I'll alert the Navy people. If you get into any kind of trouble and they kick you out, I'll see to it that you rot in jail. If you flunk out of the cadet program, Chief O'Neil tells me, you will be required to remain in the Navy as a regular sailor until the war is over. You'd better make the best of this opportunity, Bruce Weber, it's the only one you're going to get," Bleese said, slamming his fist down on the desk and wincing at the stab of pain. "Understand?"

"Deal!" Bruce exclaimed.

"Come along, boy," Salmon ordered, tugging at Bruce's arm.

Jerking free of the policeman's grasp, Bruce glared maliciously at the cop then stalked toward the door.

Gene Salmon looked up at the man on the bench and shrugged. "Ah don' know, Judge," he said. "Ah'm not at all shoah this is gonna work." Then he turned quickly and hurried after his prisoner.

* * *

Officer Gene Salmon opened the curb side door of his official black, four-door Dodge sedan and roughly pushed Bruce onto the front passenger seat. Saying nothing, he then stalked around the car and slid in under the steering wheel. With one quick, clouded glance at his prisoner, he twisted the ignition switch key and stepped on the floor-mounted starter button. The engine roared to life and Salmon pulled away from the curb without bothering to look back and clear traffic. He drove down King Street to the old, yellow-brown, turreted building facing Marion Square and Calhoun's statue. He then turned into the brand new parking lot at the front of the building which housed the US Navy recruiting office. "You wait right chuh, boy!" he ordered. "Ah'm gonna go in an' see dat recruitah. Be back in a few minutes."

Bruce scrunched down on the cushion and nervously tapped his foot on the floor board as he waited impatiently for what seemed like hours until the policeman returned.

Salmon jerked open the passenger door and pointed toward the building. "Aw, right, Webah," he growled, "dey're waitin' faw you in dere. Git out an' git yoah butt in dere!" He glowered menacingly at Bruce. "Don' fergit what da judge tol' ya."

Slowly, but resolutely, Bruce made his way into the inner quad of the fortress-like building, head down, studying the pavement. He paused at the screen door of the recruiting office and looked around the enclosed patio. There was no one else in sight. Uncertain of his next step, but keenly aware of Wade Bleese's warning, he sucked in a deep breath, bit his lower lip, and stepped up onto the single concrete step. With his hand on the door handle, he glanced around the courtyard again as he tried to buck up his courage. Then, bracing his shoulders, he thrust out his chest and yanked the door open.

Inside, he had to blink his eyes several times to adjust them to the relative darkness of the room. After a few seconds he was able to discern the bulky shape of a figure seated behind a large wooden desk near the center of the space. There was no one else in the room.

The man behind the desk stirred and Bruce was able to make out the khaki uniform of a US Navy Chief Petty Officer. Beyond the desk, a dress khaki blouse hung on a wire coat hanger suspended from an old fashioned wall rack. Above the jacket there was a military combination cap. On one sleeve of that tunic, inside the ellipse of the rating badge, were two crossed anchors.

His hands steepled, fingers spread, the recruiter quietly observed the newcomer with a practiced eye. He rocked his considerable bulk forward in his armed chair, causing the springs to squeak. "Can I help you, young fellow?" he asked in a voice that rumbled like distant thunder. His ham-like hands were now placed, palms down, on the desk top.

(Continues...)

Excerpted from NavCad by David G. Weaver Copyright © 2012 by David G. Weaver. Excerpted by permission of AuthorHouse. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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