Punk's War

by Ward Carroll

  “So, why did you stay in, Spud?” Biff asked. Always one with a sense for theater, Spud took the floor, tossed the balance of his first stogie into the embers, and waited for the imaginary stagehands to rearrange the set for his soliloquy. He reached into his coat with one hand and produced another cigar. He found the nipper in the deep recesses of the other pocket and began to work on the tip of the cigar with a pediatrician’s concern.

  Spud brought the cigar to life with his torch and took several healthy puffs to ensure it was fully lit before he spoke. “My situation is different than Smoke’s. In fact, as I look at the faces around this fire, I’m sure my situation is much different than any of you guys.” Spud rose, stretched, and began to walk a slow circle behind the group at the fire’s edge. “I enlisted in the Navy not because of patriotism, but, to be completely honest, because of something somewhere between civil disobedience and cowardice.” Punk smiled at Spud’s philosophical air. “You see, gentlemen,” Spud continued, “we had this little thing called the Vietnam Conflict going on when I was a younger man. Vietnam forced a guy to figure out pretty quickly where he stood, and it was a lot more complicated than simply being for or against the war. I wasn’t chicken-shit enough to dodge the draft and I wasn’t opposed to the war enough to go to jail over it. So, in the most clinical terms, I joined the Navy because I was apathetic.

  “But that’s not what kept me in the Navy all these years. The Navy gave me all the time I needed to grow up, like a parent with unlimited patience. The Navy sent me to college, gave me a place to get married, and delivered my kids. The Navy let me make a living flying jets. The Navy let me make a living defending the right thing to do after Vietnam. So, now you’re inferring I should forget all of that because of a few losers in our current chain of command? I don’t think so. When you look at the circumstances that led me here, I’m pretty lucky. Every day hasn’t been a day at the beach, but what in life is?” Spud made a slow pirouette with both arms extended, faced the water, and said, “Look. Today is a day at the beach. Tomorrow can be a day at the beach, and the day after that, too. So what are you complaining about?”

  “I don’t remember us complaining, really,” Punk said defensively. “We just asked a question.”

  Spud continued his stroll behind the group. “I’ve come to understand that the Navy is like a cloud across the sky. At a glance, it looks like it’s a certain shape, but glance again and it’s something different.” He worked the air above his head into invisible billows with both hands, cigar in one and plastic cup of scotch in the other. “Now at some point you may look up and say, That’s an ugly cloud,’ but if you give it a few minutes, its shape changes to something that appeals to you. People join the Navy; people leave the Navy. Maybe, as you look at the Navy right now, you see an ugly cloud. That’s fine. As long as you realize the Navy is the lofty ideals and mottoes it claims to be. But, the Navy is also people—everyday human beings with all the faults and foibles that man has possessed since the dawn of time.” Spud stopped pacing and faced the fire. “However, the faults of people do not bring down the nobility and accomplishments of the institution. It’s like Biff always says: ‘the bar lives here.”’ Spud pantomimed the existence of a bar over his head the same way Biff did every time he used that expression. “And that bar was placed by the achievements and sacrifices of great men. I was apathetic once, but I grew up. You can judge a cloud, but don’t hate the sky.”

  Spud plucked the scotch bottle out of the sand at his feet, and seeing it empty, said, “Enough bullshit. Let’s go relieve the chiefs of those flight attendants.”

  The lobby of the Empire Hotel was deserted as the aviators pushed their way though the massive glass revolving door at the hotel’s main entrance. The lack of activity caused the group to pause in the middle of the immense space and collectively wonder if they’d come to the right place. While Trash and Biff wandered off to the front desk to inquire about the location of the discotheque the chiefs had claimed to be headed for, the others plopped into the leather couches strategically placed about. Einstein sat at an adjacent grand piano and began to play. A beautifully haunting progression of notes filled the cavernous room and caused all conversations to come to a halt. He continued with growing intensity but then stopped suddenly, a bit embarrassed by the attention. His squadron mates were so stunned by the spontaneous demonstration of talent that they didn’t respond at all until Spud said, “All right, Ein-steinway.” With that cue, the gathering, including two elderly Arabic men who’d wandered in, gave the performance a healthy round of applause.

  “The club’s around back,” Trash said as he and Biff returned from the front desk. “The guy said we could get there quickest by going down that hallway over there.”

  “We’d better hurry though,” Biff added as he looked at his watch. “The place is only open for another hour.” With a new sense of earnestness, the group moved toward the disco.

  Punk told the others to go ahead, and with the aid of a cane, hobbled in the opposite direction to empty his bladder. On his way back to join them, he passed an Irish pub among the line of shops just down the corridor from the lobby. He stopped to read the menu posted next to the entrance, and as he turned to continue toward the club, three figures at the bar inside the pub caught his eye, as he had obviously caught theirs: the skipper and the Pats sat rigidly in their stools, stares fixed on him. There was no way to gracefully move along now, so Punk breezed into the pub and prepared to greet the ugly clouds with the hope that they’d somehow change into something more appealing.

  “We saw your buddies blow by out front a few minutes ago,” Commander Campbell said with a wave of his hand as Punk approached. “They went down that way.”

  “Yeah, thanks, skipper,” Punk returned. “I’ll catch them in a minute. Can I get anybody a beer?”

  “We don’t drink,” the Pats cried out in simultaneous sanctimony, both seemingly irritated by the intrusion on their quality time with the boss.

  “I’ll take one,” the skipper replied before shifting his attention to the bartender. “Another of those dark ones on tap, please.” He looked back to Punk. “Try one; they’re really tasty.”

  “Make it two,” Punk called out as he hung his cane on the edge of the bar and slid onto a stool next to the skipper. “You guys been here all night?”

  “No,” the skipper said. “I had to go to one of those CO dinners with the admiral and the local muckety-mucks, and on my way back to the ship, I decided to stop for a night cap.” The skipper didn’t provide any information on how he hooked up with the intelligence team, and Punk thought it better not to ask. Without passing judgment on the Pats, it struck Punk as somewhat pathetic that the commanding officer of a fighter squadron could only find two of his most junior charges, and non-aviators at that, to accompany him on liberty.

  The two pints of dark beer were placed before them, and the four sat in awkward silence as Punk and the skipper took alternating sips from their respective glasses. Finally, the skipper asked, “So where have you guys been?”

  “We had a little party on the beach next to the causeway leading into town,” Punk said. “There was a big crowd at one point and a bonfire, too. You should’ve come out.” Punk’s inner voice flagged the last sentence’s disingenuous air even before he was finished delivering it.

  “I didn’t get an invitation,” the skipper replied.

  “I don’t believe any were handed out, skipper,” Punk said. “It was kind of a spontaneous happening, although the XO must’ve received the word ’cause he was there for a little while.”

  “Okay, then I didn’t receive the word.” Commander Campbell turned to the Pats and asked curtly, “Could you two excuse us for a few minutes?” The ensigns contorted their faces in confusion but compliantly gathered their Cokes and small bowls of peanuts and moved from the bar to one of the round tables a few feet away. Both shot Punk angry glances during the short trip.

  The skipper slowly rubbed both hands again
st his face and let his arms fall to the bar. He didn’t look at Punk, but straight ahead at the line of bottles that decorated the shelf behind the bartender. “Do you think I took this job to be an asshole?”

  “Excuse me, sir?”

  Commander Campbell shifted on his stool to face Punk. “Do you think my main goal once I assumed command was to be an asshole, you know, a flaming jerk despised by all under me?”

  Punk felt his face blanch as the skipper locked it with his gray eyes. Senses dulled from smoke and drink, the lieutenant could only stammer a weak “no, sir” in response.

  The skipper took a healthy slug from his glass before returning his attention to Punk. “I am loved, goddam it. You walk into any O-Club in the country—or the world, for that matter—and say the name ‘Soup Campbell’ and people will be buying you beers for the rest of the night. I don’t even bring my wallet when I take a jet on the road.” He finished his drink and signaled the bartender for a refill with one hand while pointing at Punk’s glass with the other. “You ready for another?”

  “No, sir. I’m fine right now, thanks.”

  “You know, I was just like you when I was a lieutenant: opinionated, a good stick, popular with the other guys. But now I’m in a position of responsibility and leadership; last time I checked, leadership wasn’t a popularity contest.”

  “Is it the opposite of a popularity contest?” Punk’s normal threshold of decorum, however porous, had completely eroded by this point in the evening. “I mean, not that I’m directing this at you personally, skipper, but isn’t there something good about being likable as a leader?”

  “I’m not sure you guys understand the pressures on a CO. I’m responsible for every little issue even remotely associated with VF-104. The admiral and CAG are on my ass all the time. Nope, it is certainly no popularity contest.”

  The skipper took a big gulp of his newly delivered beer and wiped the foam from his lips with the sleeve of his pinpoint oxford shirt. He let out a muffled burp and continued, “Not that I want to be hated, either . . .” The commander paused as something caught his eye toward the floor. He reached into the back pocket of his pleated silk trousers, removed a cotton handkerchief, and began gently wiping the toes of his Italian loafers. Punk noted that, unlike some of the career officers in ill-fitting and dated mufti he’d come across on liberty over the few years he’d been at sea, Commander Campbell cut a fashionable figure in civilian attire. “In fact, since it’s just you and me talking here, why don’t you tell me what I should do.”

  “What you should do?”

  “Yeah. You’re the Speaker of the Cheesequarters House. Wrecked jet notwithstanding, you’ve got the world by the balls. What should I do? How can I fix my program?”

  “You’re serious.”

  “Yeah, I’m serious. You’re half shit-faced; I’m half shit-faced. That makes us even. Tell me the truth. Trust me, I can take it, lieutenant.”

  Punk paused and searched deeply into the skipper’s expression for a valid read on whether the Old Man really wanted to hear his opinion. His mind went to Spud’s telling him one boring night in the airplane a few weeks ago about how idealistic it was to think that the skipper—or any leader cut from the same cloth, for that matter—would change his style based on feedback from his subordinates. But Spud wasn’t here now, and he couldn’t see the receptive look on the CO’s face. And as the freshly validated Speaker of the Cheesequarters House, Punk would be negligent in his responsibilities to the squadron’s junior officer corps if he completely shied away from this opportunity.

  “All right,” Punk started. “But, in spite of the fact, as you’ve said, we’re both half shit-faced and that should be a license to steal because anything I say can’t be taken seriously, I still have to work for you for a while.” He raised a finger pedagogically. “I won’t get into details. Instead, I’ll give you the benefit of my Naval Academy education.”

  Commander Campbell rolled his eyes. “You know I don’t put too much stock in you Boat Schoolers and your education.”

  “Stick with me, skipper.” Punk finished his beer with a dramatic toss of his head and then wiped his mouth in the same manner as the CO had moments before. “One: loyalty is a two-way street.”

  “What are these . . . Kung Fu riddles?” the skipper asked. “Okay, loyalty is a two-way street. I agree. When was I ever disloyal?”

  “Why would you automatically assume I was referring to you?” Punk returned serenely. He was starting to enjoy this. “Plus, I said I wasn’t getting into details.” He raised a second finger. “Two: a man is never so right as when he admits he’s wrong.”

  “I agree with that too, Confucius. So what do those sayings have to do with me?”

  “Nothing, I guess.”

  “Because if you’re talking about my little incident a few days ago, there’s a big difference between being wrong and having bad luck.”

  “Okay.”

  “A shitty controller in an E-2 and a stick with an electrical short are bad luck.”

  “Fine.”

  “Don’t ‘fine’ me, you smug little bastard.” The skipper suddenly got up and threw some local paper currency on the bar in a huff. “Oh, you guys have got it all figured out don’t you, so damned smart about everything. I know what you talk about in your staterooms and at your beach parties.” He leaned over his stool toward Punk and extended both hands emphatically. “You’re married to truth? I’ll give you Truth. I make one mistake, there are eight other squadron commanding officers waiting to take my place at the top of the food chain. That’s all it takes, one mistake. One mistake and I’m done. One mistake and I don’t have a prayer of making captain.”

  Commander Campbell took a few steps toward the door before he turned back and said, “We’ll see how willing you are to admit you’re wrong at your board in a few days.” And then he walked out. The Pats missed his exit until he was clear of the darkish pub and into the well-lit hallway; but once they noticed, they scurried after him.

  Punk sat with a fresh draft, stunned by the pace at which the skipper’s congeniality had disappeared, but also feeling a bit guilty for flushing him out of the pub. In spite of the still-growing laundry list of misuses of power during his time in command, Soup probably deserved a few hours away from his professional persona just like the rest of the fleet. Although the lieutenant was deftly sucked into the discussion by the skipper, he cursed himself for attempting to dance around a topic he should’ve avoided altogether. Spud was right again. Think what you will about the man, but respect his office.

  Even as he felt the peace of that guidance, he fought his acceptance of it. Blind allegiance to a billet seemed like such a company-man cop-out. What about truth? Did Punk invent this concept? He could’ve sworn there was some promise of it in the Navy’s catalogs, billboards, and commercials. Where did truth fit into the balance of idealism and human frailty? Was it professionally immature to think truth mattered? And to what truth did the skipper subscribe with his thinly veiled comment about the upcoming board?

  Punk listened to the titters of a group of Japanese women down the bar from him and continued to nurse his beer until a rush of people through the entrance to the pub broke his solitude. A handful of the squadron’s senior enlisted guys stumbled toward him with Chief Wixler in the lead.

  The chief fell against the bar, and his recoil off of it caused a chain reaction collision with the four drunks behind him. He steadied himself and slapped his palms loudly on the bar while screaming for service like a Wild West outlaw in a saloon. Punk kept his back to the group, hoping they’d be accommodated and move along without taking notice of him. His plan worked: they didn’t notice him. Unfortunately, they did notice the group of Orientals.

  “Well, well,” Chief Wixler said with a drunken, greasy leer, “konnichiwa, ladies.” The chief pushed his way past Punk unawares and nestled up to the nearest girl, throwing his arm around her and putting his face uncomfortably close to hers. “Do you speak any En
glish? How you say, ‘sit on my face’?” Punk could see from her expression that, although the woman forced a smile, she was not enjoying the company.

  “Hey, chief,” Punk interrupted, hoping that his mere presence might police the situation, “how’s it going?”

  “Oh, look, fellahs,” Chief Wixler mocked. “It’s my buddy, Big Watch Boy.” He let the girl go and moved to Punk, looking back toward the women as he patronizingly massaged the lieutenant’s shoulders. “You know what they say about these pilots, ladies: ‘Big watches, little dicks.’” The maintainers broke into raucous laughter.

  Punk feared the worst. The chiefs’ company was already embarrassing; he wanted to keep it from becoming criminal. As Chief Wixler continued with his campy massage, Punk checked the bartender’s expression. The bartender, a dark, burly guy who looked like he could more than hold his own in a scuffle, nodded slightly as he ran a towel around the bottom of a beer mug.

  Punk took firm hold of the chief’s hands and stood and faced him, crossing the chief’s arms in the process. Punk had no desire to fight the enlisted man, but he was fairly sure he could take him if it came to that. The chief had a few inches and a dozen pounds on Punk, but Punk was in much better shape and less inebriated. He took a deep breath, calmed himself and said, “Wix, I think you guys should head on back to the ship.”

  Chief Wixler ripped his hands out of Punk’s grip and responded, “The hell you say, lieutenant. I’ve been in this business a lot longer than your young ass. While you were crapping your diaper, I was in the P.I. banging three chicks at once.” He pushed past Punk once again, and this time grabbed the girl more forcibly. “And tonight I’m interested in feasting on some sushi.”

  Punk pulled the chief away from her, looked him squarely in the face and said, “This is bullshit, chief. You’re smarter than this. I’m going to ask you one more time: Please leave and go back to the Boat.” The chief relaxed as if he’d been beaten, took one step away, and then attempted a roundhouse to Punk’s jaw. Punk saw it coming and used the chief’s own momentum to push him across a nearby table—the same table the Pats had occupied twenty minutes earlier. The chief flipped over the table, clearing it of half-full Coke bottles in the process, and landed on the floor with an ugly thud. Punk’s attention was diverted by the screams of the women as they ran out of the pub, but, as he turned, he sensed the other four enlisted men were moving on him. He grabbed his cane and, pointing it at them, shouted, “No chance, men. No fucking chance! Unless every last one of you wants to spend the night in the brig and stand tall before the skipper first thing in the morning, you’d goddam better get out of here.” The group of four assessed Punk’s rage (and the fact that the bartender had vaulted from behind the bar at the first sign of a fight and now stood behind the lieutenant with a cricket bat in his hands), polled each other’s body language, and then reluctantly shuffled toward the door.