Punk's War

by Ward Carroll

  Punk called after them: “Hey, you’re forgetting something.” He pointed behind the table at Chief Wixler’s writhing form. “Take him with you.”

  The chiefs attended to their fallen comrade and then ignominiously continued out of the pub. Punk watched with regret as the group headed for the exit. “Hold it, guys,” he said across the bar. “You’re a mess. You’ll never get by the shore patrol or the officer of the watch.” Walking over to them, the lieutenant reached into his back pocket, withdrew his wallet and pulled out several bills. “Here. Get yourself a room at the hotel. Let Wix sleep it off for a few hours. Those of you with duty tomorrow can still make it back for muster in the morning, no problem.”

  The nearest man took the bills with contrite thanks as the light of the lieutenant’s altruism shone brightly on them. They gathered their burden again and moved toward the lobby. Halfway out, Chief Wixler lifted his head from between them and slurred back threateningly, “This ain’t over between you and me, lieutenant.”

  Before Punk could think to open his mouth, the quartet of chiefs sang: “Shut up, Wix.”

  Once the rabble cleared the pub, the bartender gave Punk a well done and a slap on the back before returning behind the bar. “We close in a few minutes,” the man said. “Last call’s on me.”

  Punk thanked him as he brushed himself off and retook his place. He hooked his cane on the bar’s edge once again and sat wondering what the hell else the night had in store for him. Another mob passed through the door—this time a friendlier group: the Arrow slingers’ finest with the flight attendants in drunken tow.

  “Where have you been, asshole?” Spud asked, splitting off from the rest of the group headed for the mini dance floor as he approached the table. “We were worried you’d been carted into the desert or something.”

  “Well, first I ran into the skipper in here,” Punk answered as he stood and met Spud halfway.

  “The skipper?”

  “Yeah. We had a little discussion going and then he lost it on me and split with the Pats.”

  Spud narrowed his eyes knowingly. “You tried to fix him, didn’t you?” Punk averted his eyes. “Goddam it, how many times have I told you not to try and fix him?”

  “He gave me an opening . . .”

  “Ah, bullshit. If he wants the truth, he’ll talk to himself.” Spud pulled out a cigar and started prepping it at the bar. “So how long ago did he leave?”

  “I dunno,” Punk said. “It seems like a couple of hours, but it was probably only thirty minutes or so.”

  “All right, everybody,” Spud announced to the group as the music stopped and the lights brightened. “We’re taking this circus upstairs.”

  “Where are you going?” Punk asked.

  “The girls all have suites in this hotel, my friend. Rally, for the night is still young.”

  Punk panicked. He had to make the phone call to Jordan before he went upstairs to any parties. Once sucked into such a vortex, he’d never reach a phone. “What room are you going to be in?”

  “I’m not sure.” Spud called out to one of the girls: “Hey, Maggie. What’s your room number?”

  “Fourteen oh five,” the woman replied. “Are you lads ready to go up?”

  “What else?” Spud said. “This place is done. Let’s go.”

  “Spud, I’ve gotta make a quick phone call,” Punk said. “I’ll catch you guys in the room.”

  “Who are you calling?”

  “Jordan, my girlfriend.”

  “You’ve got all these gorgeous flowers of the Thames blooming right here, and you’re calling back to the States?” Spud stuck his cigar between his teeth and grabbed Punk’s face with both hands like an Italian uncle. “You’re single, my stupid-ass nose gunner. Sing-gull.”

  “Right, right,” Punk returned with a wave of his hand. “I know. It’s still something I have to do.”

  Punk was out-of-phase with the crowd once again as he made his way along the hallway, across the lobby, and on toward the bank of phone booths while the rest of the group headed for the elevator and the fourteenth floor. He climbed into the first empty stall and pulled the door shut. A fluorescent light above him flickered to life as he fell back on the small bench that ran the length of one side of the booth, lifted the receiver, and began to dial the long series of numbers that he hoped would connect him with Jordan.

  He listened to the ring through the earpiece as his eyes darted nervously around the walls. Between the third and fourth buzz, he noticed a line of black marker scrawled in Arabic followed by a six-digit number, and he wondered if it was one of those “for a good time call . . .” messages.

  Five rings. Damn it, still not home. His luck with catching her had not been good lately. He’d tried her from the Boat following the ejection but had missed her both at home and at work. In fact, as he thought about it, his luck with catching her seemed to have gotten progressively worse over the course of this deployment. Her answering machine clicked in, and as he listened to her recorded voice, he was about to hang up when he thought better of it and decided to leave a message.

  “Jordan, it’s me. We’re here in Bahrain for a few days and I wanted to check in and basically just hear your voice.” He paused for a second and gathered his thoughts. Like most of the civilized world, he found talking to a machine awkward. “I assume you received my e-mail about the mishap. I hope it explained everything and reassured you that I’m all right. I tried to call you but didn’t have any luck. I know my voice message was short but you understand how much—”

  Jordan’s voice suddenly materialized on the other end of the line. “Rick, I’m here,” she said breathlessly. “I just got back from my run.”

  “Oh . . . well, hello!”

  “Hello,” she returned with less enthusiasm. “How are you?”

  “I’m fine, I guess.”

  There was a short pause. Depending on how deep they were willing to delve across the thousands of miles that separated them, they either had a lot to talk about or only a few pleasantries to exchange. Jordan broke the silence with, “How’s your ankle?”

  “It still hurts a little bit, but Doc gave me some pills for the pain, so it’s not unbearable. I’m walking with a cane.”

  “A cane?” she said with a laugh. “I just don’t see you with a cane.”

  “Well, I’ve got one.” They both emitted a few chuckles, but as they died away, so did the conversation. Never one with the patience to work to a point, Punk grew frustrated with the stillness between them and cut right to the heart of it. “It feels strange talking to you,” he said.

  She waited for a time and then responded, “It’s been a long cruise.”

  “It’s almost over.”

  “Is it?”

  “Well, yeah,” he said, surprised by her comeback. “We’ll be home in less than a month.”

  “Then what?”

  “What do you mean: ‘Then what?’”

  “I mean, then what will you do after that?”

  “I dunno,” he said. “Enjoy being home for a while.”

  “Until you go out again,” she shot back. “Rick, I don’t think I can do this year after year.”

  “Do what?”

  “Sit here and pine away while you save the world. I’m not sure I can take it.”

  “Who says I’m ever going on cruise again? I’m rolling to shore duty soon, for one thing. I can also drop my letter anytime. I’ve served my required time. I could get out of the Navy nine months from now if I wanted to.”

  “But will you?” she asked. “Will you get out?”

  “Well, the way things are going . . .” He sensed the need for a redirect. “What’s this about? The ejection?”

  He heard her release a long breath. “Not entirely, but it has caused me to think. You know the first word I got after the crash?” she asked, intensity growing through her voice. “It wasn’t your message or your e-mail. The skipper’s wife called me at work and said that they weren’t sure if yo
u were dead or not, but I should brace myself for the worst, just in case.” Jordan began to break down. “I’m too young to be a widow.” Punk wasn’t sure what to say to calm her. He felt as many light years as miles away from her.

  “I tried to reach you at work,” he offered. “I called as soon as the helicopter dropped us back aboard, but you were out.”

  “That’s not the point,” she railed through the tears before stopping short. “Look,” she continued with a more steady voice, “I’ve got to get ready to go out. Allison owes me a dinner so she’s taking me to La Playa. Why don’t you call again later?”

  “There’s an eight-hour difference between here and there, remember?” Punk explained with a measure of irritation in return. “It’s two fifteen in the morning where I am.”

  “Well, then that proves it,” she said with all composure apparently regained. “You really are far away.” Following one more awkward pause she said, “I’ve got to go.”

  Punk attempted to wedge in an “I love you” before she hung up, but the line went dead mid-statement. He was stunned. It had not been the phone call he’d hoped to have, nor the one he’d needed. He sat in the booth for several minutes with the receiver still to his head, listening to the static caused by worlds drifting apart.

  On the elevator ride to the fourteenth floor he thought of Jordan at dinner with Allison—Allison, the gorgeous gold digger, the original material girl, the part-time model who’d been impressed by young fighter pilots up to the point she’d discovered how relatively little money they made in the seven-digit cosmos of the bull market. Punk could hear her counsel to Jordan, replete with references to opportunity lost and the natural order. And at La Playa, no less—the overpriced hangout of the nouveau riche, the perfect venue for Allison’s pitch. He felt the adrenaline coarse through his veins, and held his hands up and watched them shake involuntarily. The phone call had ruined a good drunk. He felt sober, and now he definitely didn’t want to feel sober.

  Fortunately, the inhabitants of his current destination frowned on sobriety. As he entered Room 1405, he was welcomed by two cans of lager and the same number of the largest breasts he’d ever seen unholstered. “Don’t mind her,” another of the British girls advised as Punk tried to avoid staring. “She loves showing off her boobs—loses her top at the drop of a hat.” In a funk because of the phone conversation and not quite ready for the leap to light speed, Punk politely smiled so as not to offend the effort and continued across the room. Another of the girls walked topless out of an adjacent room and then another. Even in his foul mood, he appreciated that this was liberty they’d talk about for years to come. The renaissance was upon them.

  Punk spotted Spud, with jacket removed and tie loosened, seated on a coffee table holding court with two of the girls on a couch in front of him. From another room a female voice squealed loudly with delight.

  “Now ladies,” Spud instructed as Punk took up a position on the coffee table next to him, “this is what I was talking about.” He put his arm around Punk’s neck. “This guy is a rock star, but he’s a reluctant rock star, like those guys in those political bands. He’s not satisfied with a good time; he’s got to find meaning in everything.” The girls looked at Punk with expressions of pity. A bottle shattered in the kitchenette.

  A hard rock song came on and the volume was raised a few notches. Spud studied his pilot and then leaned over and spoke directly into his ear. “Bad phone call, huh?”

  “No . . . well, yeah,” Punk allowed.

  Spud gave the lieutenant a couple of fatherly taps on the back. “I see you’re holding two beers.”

  “Uh huh.”

  “Drink them . . . quickly,” Spud advised.

  Trash entered the room completely nude. He walked over to Punk, Spud, and the two now-tittering British flight attendants, and portraying disgust, asked, “What’s with all the clothes? I thought you guys were cruise party veterans.”

  Smoke, with dress code relaxed to the same degree as Spud, poked his head out of the bedroom and called over to them: “Could you guys give us a hand in here for a sec?” With Trash in trail, Spud and Punk excused themselves from the two girls. They entered the bedroom and saw Einstein face down on the bed with Monk attending to him. “Help me turn him over,” Monk pleaded as he tried to corral one of the young backseater’s uncooperative arms. “Somebody get me a couple of cold washcloths, stat.”

  “What does ‘stat’ mean?” Trash asked.

  “It means . . .” Monk torqued around to face Trash, and seeing his roommate nude, contorted his face in pure disgust. “For crying out loud, Trash. Why are you naked?”

  Trash threw his hands up and appealed to the military mind. “What does it say about our war fighting capability when a guy can’t nude-up at a squadron function?”

  “Whatever,” Monk returned while looking the other way with his hands fashioned as blinders around either side of his face. “‘Stat’ means hurry. Don’t you watch those medical shows?”

  “Sure,” Trash replied as he walked toward the bathroom. “Human anatomy, mostly . . .”

  Once a few of them managed to roll Einstein over onto his back, they could see that his face below his nose and most of his chest were covered with vomit.

  “Oh, very nice,” Smoke said with a grimace.

  “He’s not dead is he?” Fuzzy asked as he entered the bedroom and closed the door behind him. “Is he breathing?”

  Monk held his breath and leaned in close. After a few seconds he moved away and, with a whoosh of an exhale, rendered his diagnosis: “Yeah, he’s breathing.”

  “I knew he shouldn’t have done those gin shooters at the disco,” Fuzzy said. “I warned him, but you know how there’s no telling a new guy anything.”

  “How many did he have?” Spud asked.

  “Well, I stopped at four . . .” Fuzzy replied.

  Trash hurled the wet washcloths from across the room and they hit the back of Monk’s balding head with a comic splat. Unmoved, Monk removed them from his head and shoulders and began to gently swipe Einstein’s face. With the first cold touch, Einstein’s eyes shot open, and, startled by the group around him, especially Trash, he wrestled with Monk in an attempt to sit up.

  “Ahhh!” Einstein screamed through the jetsam in and around his mouth. “Why is he naked?”

  “If I knew the answer to that,” Monk replied through clenched teeth as he tried to hold the young officer down, “I’d be a psychiatrist instead of a fighter pilot.”

  Einstein continued to flail for a bit until he was overcome by another wave of nausea. The gathered all saw the surge coming, and the new RIO was quickly roused off the bed and guided into the bathroom. All the aviators left him to his business except for the attending physician, “Florence Nighten-Monk,” as Spud referred to him, who stayed in the bathroom to ensure Einstein didn’t drown in the toilet.

  “Look at that,” Spud said, pointing toward the soiled bedspread. “Somebody had better clean this place up. If those British chicks see this mess, they’re liable to put their clothes back on.”

  That thought scared Trash more than anything else, and he quickly gathered up the bedspread and threw it out the nearest window. A handful of them stuck their heads through the opening and watched the king-sized cover hurtle earthward and drape itself over one of the trees near the pool. Trash pulled his head back inside, looked at Spud and reported, “Sir, mess cleaned, sir!”

  Punk heard the shower come on followed by a scream as he left the bedroom and hobbled back through the main room toward the kitchenette to get another beer. Along the way, he passed Biff sprawled over a chair, flaked out and snoring, and Scooter in deep embrace with one of the girls Spud had been talking to minutes earlier.

  As Punk took a bottle out of the refrigerator and fished the counter for an opener, he felt his ankle begin to hurt again. He pulled out his pill bottle and poured eight hundred milligrams worth of transitory peace into his palm. He stuck the pill under his tongue and
continued to hunt for the opener, eventually finding it and using it to pry open the bottle. With a healthy swig, he washed down the painkiller. Punk leaned against the sink, surveyed the unfolding insanity before him, and waited for numbness to come.

  Jordan doesn’t want to pine away . . . His thoughts were interrupted by a loud knock on the front door. He was tempted to ignore it, but based on the lack of a reaction by anyone else in the room and the persistence of the banging, he elected to look through the peephole to find out who was behind the noise. Punk peered through the small, fish-eye glass and saw a bearded, dark-skinned man in a suit holding a walkie-talkie. The lieutenant put on his most compliant face and cracked the door just wide enough to be diplomatic.

  “What can I do for you this evening, sir?”

  “I am Kamil, the assistant hotel manager,” the short Arab said in a high-pitched staccato. “We have had many complaints of the noise and carryings-on in this room.” The man worked to see beyond Punk, but the pilot blocked his view. “I must ask you to keep quiet or all guests will have to leave.”