CHAPTER 1
10 January, 1952; Norfolk, Virginia
She was a small seaplane tender, three hundred and eleven feet in length, but appeared much smaller in Drydock #2 at the Portsmouth Naval Shipyard. The ship appeared to be resting in a gigantic bathtub, with all her hull and most of the upper decks below the ground level of the drydock. The gangway "brow," from the edge of the drydock to the ship, entered the vessel at the bridge level, or "03," as it was called. She was shored up with bracing from the hull to the drydock, and heavy timbers kept her rigidly in place on gigantic wooden chocks underneath her hull at the keel. All of this was covered with a canvas tarp from stem to stern, causing the ship to take on the appearance of a very large, dust- and soot- covered cocoon.
Scott observed the loathsome sight from his vantage point at the head of the dock. For the past two years, he had served on a sister ship; otherwise he would not have been able to make out her lines and recognize bow from fantail.
The prospect of spending the next few years onboard did not appeal to the Senior Petty Officer. He had just been ordered aboard that morning from his comfortable billet aboard the sister ship, and did not relish the idea of having a new crew to break in. Rumor had it that the Val's equipment was run down and suffered from misuse and age, all of which was soon to be confirmed.
Scott lifted the heavy canvas "roll" that contained all of his worldly goods and placed it across his left shoulder. It contained his sea bag, ditty bag, hammock, and was lashed in sea-going fashion after the method of bygone times. He was one of the few ole-timers still clinging to his hammock. They had not been issued for years; he had, however, considered it a status symbol of the Old Navy, and it marked him as a veteran of World War II.
With a sigh of resignation, he placed one foot on the shaky brow, tested its slack, and mounted the makeshift gangway in order to enter the vessel. A single word escaped from his lips; "Shit." A cold wind had whistled across the gangway and found its way into and through his pea coat and blues chilling him, causing his skin, and all appendages to shrink, seeking the warmth of nature's nest in his crotch.
Scott saluted the quarterdeck and the fantail, although the colors was not in sight. Then he addressed the gangway watch; "Scott, Electrician First, reporting."
"Welcome aboard, Sparks," responded the seaman. "We've been hearing you was coming. The Chief wants to see you in quarters as soon as you get onboard."
Scott made his way down the midship's portside ladder and headed forward to Chief's quarters. The deck and passageway were littered with trash and spare parts, and were crowded with yard workers and fire-watch sailors. The air was filled with smoke and dust from the cutting and welding. The burning paint and other equally unpleasant odors permeated Scott's respiratory system, causing him to stop and purge his nostrils several times; the discharge from his nose contained thick, black mucous with heavy particulate matter and some items that defied recognition; "no wonder these yard birds die early with their lungs full of shit," he muttered.
Entering the Chief's quarters and closing the watertight door behind him, relieved some of the putrid air. He found himself in the sleeping compartment. The chain-suspended bunks were only two-high in Chief's country, rather then three- or four- high as in the "white hats" compartment. Chiefs being older and fatter, Scott presumed, they could not climb that high. "Permission to enter," he shouted.
"What the hell ya want?" came the reply, from a rather pudgy man lying in his bunk with only his skivvie shorts for cover. "Reporting to the Chief Electrician," Scott replied.
"He's up forward on the mess — name's Smith — Ignorant Smith," came the reply. Scott made his way through the littered passageway to the Chiefs' Galley and entered without knocking. Several senior Chief Petty Officers (C.P.O.'s) were seated at the mess table.
"Chief Smith?" Scott asked.
"Yeah, here," answered a short, heavy-set man, probably in his forties.
"Scott, Electrician First reporting, Chief."
The Chief rose and extended his hand to Scott. "Glad to have you aboard, Scott. I've been waiting for ya; I hear you know your shit!"
"I know this one, Chief. She's a sister to mine."
"We got us a job here, Mate — she's tore all to hell — she's got
W. W. II gear of "make-do" equipment, and the damn stuff's never been indexed — can't even find the spares. Buships don't even carry spares on the books."
"I just left her sister, Chief — she's a whore, too," said Scott. "Knock off the shit, Smith, and get out of my light — I can't see what I'm eating!" shouted another younger Chief at the table.
The younger offending chief, apparently a Boson, was clean and dressed in a proper uniform — white shirt, tie, and the works — just got off watch or was going on duty. Chief Smith gently picked up a large butcher-knife from the mess table and, almost in slow motion, deftly cut the man's tie off at the knot, and dunked it in his coffee cup.
The Chief Boson recoiled in horror, too stunned to reply. He sputtered coffee and egg over the front of his starched white shirt, and soon retreated to the living compartment.
"Damn slick-arm kids can't keep their shitting mouths shut!" — Smith's only comment as he replaced the knife.
"Ya know where yer shop is?" Smith addressed Scott.
"Yeah, Chief, portside aft, right?"
"Right!" Smith replied. "Ya got fourteen men in the gang. Find 'em, and try to get 'em squared away for quarters in the morning. Stop by the X.O.'s (Executive Officer) office if you go ashore tonight. I'll have your liberty card signed for ya!"
"Thanks, Chief," Scott replied, and turned to leave the Chief's Quarters. "Damn, crazy ole bastard," Scott muttered to himself. "No wonder they call him Ignorant Smith!"
Scott managed to find eight of his crewmembers before liberty call. The others were either ashore, at schools, on leave, or perhaps were just outside the Navy Yard gate in some High Street beer joint, screwing off. The eight men that he was able to locate seemed rather reluctant to talk and Scott sensed a "stand-offish" attitude. He felt that he was to be isolated as the new man onboard, probably because of some misguided loyalty to the man now in charge of the shop, a Second Class Petty Officer by the name of Deno Pescatello — Italian, no doubt. Come to think of it, all eight of the men that he had located appeared to be Italian northerners from New York and New Jersey.
"That's all this ole country boy needs," he thought. "Me, a Scotch-Irish Protestant Southerner, with a Yankee crew of Mediterranean Irishmen — shit."
He left the ship at sundown by the after brow, went down the gangway, and along the crane rails toward the main gate, walking slowly and almost reluctantly. Things were just not going right. New ship's in a hell of a mess, with a crazy-assed ole chief, and a crew of misfits who already hated his ass. He could feel his men's resentment for the disruption of their turf controlled by Pescatello.
Got to get ashore, he thought, out to the county; get shot in the ass and maybe see Rusty — Rusty! His mind suddenly shifted to a higher gear. That girl could make things right just by touching him. Hell, she didn't even have to touch him; just say, "hello," and he was a new man. "All better" would be her words for his improved condition.
Rusty, Rusty, Rusty ... His mind trained in and locked on the red-haired beauty. She was a "B-girl" dance hostess at the Checker Board, a roadhouse out in Princess Anne County. A rare beauty who was intelligent and clean-talking, Rusty was his one true friend in this world.
Scott tried to reason out his feelings and relationship with Rusty and classify her, but she did not fit the slots. She was not a sister-type, nor motherly, nor was she just his lover; although he loved her, and she him. It was a unique love not clearly defined: hot, passionate, loving, gentle, tender, yet forceful and, at times, almost brutal sex, followed by tender, soft caressing and concern for each other, yet with no apologies for the pure animal attraction. Scott's mind could not grasp its depths and dismissed the topic.
He reasoned that it was too early to head for the Checker Board, but decided to go anyway, since it was a late-night/early-morning spot where the patrons engaged in the unlawful pursuit of craps, cards, booze, sex, and all manner of sinful activity. He approached a cabstand on High Street, expecting to find "his" driver, Faulkner, or, as he was called locally, "Fuc'ner."
The lone cabbie at the stand answered Scott's query; "he ain't on tonight — his ole lady is sick in bed and Fuc'ner's got to stay home with her ... But I can take ya out, Mate. Where ya headed?"
"East Main," Scott replied, as he entered the cab's front passenger-side seat.
East Main Street, Norfolk, Virginia was probably the worst place for a young sailor to spend time on the face of the earth. It was a stretch of some 28 city blocks of beer joints with upstairs hotel "hot-sheet" rooms, and penny-arcade gambling establishments. The drifters, hipsters, and whores were all hellbent on taking the sailors for every nickel of the hard-earned Naval stipends as quickly as possible.
Entering The Krazy Kat, Scott stood for a moment, allowing his eyes to adjust to the darkened room, and he surveyed the crowded bar and over-filled booths. White-hat sailors, six deep at standing room only, in direct violation of building codes and the no standing and drinking rules of the A.B.C. Board. Little heed was paid to rules on East Main Street, the only law being Shore Patrol sailors with leggings and nightsticks, whose principal concern was protecting themselves from attack.
As Scott approached the bar, the white-hats made way for the Senior Petty Officer. He bellied-up in a choice spot, and ordered a beer with one index finger, the international sign for service. A "hey, Suga," came from the hefty, tattooed barmaid. "Beer all ya want?"
"That'll do it right now, sweetheart," was his stock reply. Her puckered lips gave him a smackingly-suggestive reply, as the mug slid into position in front of him. She turned away, looked back over her shoulder, and did a little hop-skip-wiggle with her ample behind. "God, no," he thought, "I wouldn't touch that with a borrowed dick!"
The Krazy Kat, better known as The Insane Pussy, was one of the better establishments on East Main. The beer wasn't watered down, and all the barmaids had health cards displayed behind the bar. The mugs and glasses tasted like Clorox, so you knew that they were devoid of those little bugs that gave one the squirts; all in all, not a bad place.
The jukebox screamed country music, and some tunes could be recognized above the profanely-shouted conversation of the sailors. A particularly obnoxious group of young slick-arm (no hash mark) sailors occupied a wooden booth just to Scott's left. Their cursing was not in the time-honored expletives of the Fleet, but rather was common filth, expressed in a manner that drew the attention of an older group of seated men in an adjacent booth. One of the Senior Petty Officers addressed the Wild Ones; "hey, Mates, knock off the bullshit — I've got my mother's picture in my wallet."
"We ain't said nothin' the bitch ain't heard," was the instant reply.
In the words of the prophet, the shit hit the fan. What ensued was a maze of assholes and elbows, and all hands backed down to give the participants room to express their displeasure.
After some ten minutes of combat, only one man was left standing, a rather thin, bald Boson. He addressed the fallen seamen; "I told you all not to start no shit and there wouldn't be none!" He promptly sat down and raised an index finger for his next beer. The waitress made her way around the fallen warriors and delivered his mug. Scott turned back to the bar, and promptly dismissed the incident.
As he gathered his thoughts and attention and isolated himself from the hubbub about him, Scott concentrated on the foam at the top of his mug; he wondered at the collection of little white bubbles: what caused them to form? Hell, who cares.
2300 hours (eleven o'clock) and Scott was still belly to the bar. The tattooed barmaid had made her play and he had attempted to ignore her as much as possible, but she was persistent, with cute little advances to attract his attention. Winking, pursing her lips, and exposing as much of her ample, bra-less bosom as she could manage, her elbows were on the bar in front of the hapless seaman, his gaze restricted to the valley between those watermelons.
Scott pushed all his change on the bar in her direction, and with a "got to go, sweetheart," he turned without looking back, and left the bar. A cold chill rushed up his spine as he thought back on the "lady" behind the bar. He spat in the street and muttered, "that ain't none of my supper," after his childhood fashion when sighting a dead animal on the road.
CHAPTER 2
11 January, 1952; Norfolk, Virginia
Scott entered the cabstand at the end of the block and gave directions to The Checker Board. The cab was well underway before he realized that the driver was the same man who had delivered him from Portsmouth to The Krazy Kat. "Things is slow tonight, Mate," was all the cabbie said. "Sure I can't getcha somepin?" came the cabbie's offer.
"Like what?"
"Anything ya want, Mate; girls, booze, or guys, if that's yer calling."
"Forget it! I don't need any help." Scott's abrupt answer silenced the man.
The cab slid to a halt on the gravel lot in front of The Checker Board club. Scott left the cab and handed over two bills to the driver without looking back at him. No tip for you, asshole, he thought.
The cabbie mumbled, as if hearing him. As Scott stepped away from the cab, he paused, and looked back at the driver, who turned away quickly and cranked up his hack, then drove off. Scott entered the club and was greeted by Sal, the doorman bouncer. "Hey, Sparks, whatcha got?"
"Nothing but crabs," came the reply. Sal was not a talker. He greeted each customer with the same, stale phrase and did not expect, or listen to, the response. His practiced eye was on each entrant for hidden bottles in waistbands, or perhaps for the telltale bump or bulge of a stashed weapon. The scars on his head and face justified his concern. Scott tried to engage Sal in some kind of conversation, without success, for his answer to any query was, "uh huh," or, "I heard that," without commitment or reason.
Scott turned away from Sal and tried to adjust his eyes to the darkness, looking across the crowded dance floor. Between the shuffling couples, he could just make out the red hair of the object of his quest — Rusty. She was seated at the bar with a young, clean-cut sailor, in deep conversation, with her left hand lightly touching his knee, and her attention devoted to his face; one could see that she was interested in his responses to her gentle questioning.
She was working, as she always concerned herself with one at a time, and her concern for her customer was genuine. She did not, as did others, spend her time casing the room looking for a "live one" or perhaps some better-looking stud. She was professional and kind; half of the seamen in port were in love with her. She was big sister and mother to half the fleet and, Scott suspected, lover to the other half — although her time with him seemed his alone, and her love for him was deep and abiding — then again, maybe she made them all feel special. She was a professional, alright.
Scott moved behind her customer, into Rusty's line of vision, at the end of the bar. He was some twenty feet away and, with right index finger, Scott ordered a draft. Her only response after sighting him was a slight nod in his direction, and she immediately returned to her duties with her current project.
