Chapter 41
July 8, 1962
Dear Mom and Dad,
Sorry I haven’t written more often, but as you know I don’t like writing letters, which I suppose is strange coming from a writer, but it’s true nonetheless, though I’m not sure why. Maybe I’m just lazy, and needless to say there’s no need to agree with that if you don’t want to.
Anyway, thanks for the great birthday gifts. That spy novel by Ian Fleming, Dr. No, got me hooked and I’m now reading the whole Bond series. As for the five jars of gefilte fish, you were right, I needed something besides Navy food for a change. The shi crud they serve around here is tasteless, and that’s the kindest thing I can say about it.
I’m still a Seaman, so that hasn’t changed, but with any luck I’ll make Journalist Third Class this year, which will give me the right to boss other people around even though I’ll still be taking orders from officers. And I better not say anything more about those ass jerks or I’ll use language you don’t approve of.
It’s been so long since I last wrote I can’t remember what I’ve already told you. I know I should write more often, but you don’t need to hear any more about that. I’ll just say if I repeat anything I’ve already said, forgive me.
I think I did tell you, not too long after it happened, that the ship I’m on, the Coral Breeze, ran aground in San Francisco Bay and it took six tugs to get us unstuck. But I may not have followed up and said how it all came out because the hearings the brass held aboard ship went on forever. The thing is, a bunch of farty old admirals convened to investigate what happened, and they concluded that the ship’s conning officer caused the accident through negligence. The captain bears responsibility for it, though, so they gave him a desk job in some remote part of the universe, although exactly where I don’t know. The captain was a fairly decent guy for an officer, so naturally they replaced him with a real pric schmuck, a typical muckety-muck who loves shouting orders and hardly ever smiles. Even Shelly Berman couldn’t get him to laugh, I’ll bet. And that’s all I’ll say about officers. Promise.
Did I mention in one of my letters that the Breeze is an aircraft carrier? It’s called that because it carries aircraft (figures, right?). It takes them out to sea so pilots can practice takeoffs and landings, seeing as the ship has its own runway, believe it or not. In a war the planes would fly off on missions but for now they only practice, and I mean a lot.
We also conduct a lot of drills while at sea, including battle drills, fire drills, lifeboat drills and of course dentist drills. Just kidding, sorry. Between the drills and flight operations we occasionally visit a country in territory covered by the Seventh Fleet, of which the Breeze is a part. We go to places like Japan, Hong Kong and the Philippines, and I kind of appreciate seeing how other people live even though I wouldn’t want to live that way myself. The Japanese, for instance, are forever bowing, which I know they do out of courtesy or as a friendly gesture but it reminds me of subjects bowing to a king, which makes me uncomfortable. Maybe I have an authority problem.
All that said, I’m sure you’d love the Japanese because they’re so squeaky clean. They even remove their shoes before entering a home, whether it’s theirs or someone else’s, and please don’t get any ideas.
On land and at sea, I spend most of the workday cooped up in a small office writing brochures and press releases, plus articles for the ship’s newspaper, which I edit. Yes, I’ve become a macher, which you can brag about to your friends if you’d like.
Well, I guess I’ll close for now. I hope you’re both in good health and getting used to a Catholic president.
Your Swabbie Son,
Nate
#
September 15, 1962
Dear Sheldon,
Sorry it’s taken me so long to answer your letter, but if it’s any consolation I feel bad about it.
Apologies aside, mazel tov on meeting someone you’re serious about. Sally Grayson’s her name, if I remember correctly. An education major? Maybe you can write again before I get out and let me know how things are going between you two, but I won’t hold my breath since I know you like writing letters about as much as I do.
That said, I’ve been on a tear lately, this being the second letter I’ve written in the past three months. The first was to my parents, so you should feel honored you’re second on the list.
Now here’s a present from me to you, something you can gloat over when I get home, assuming I don’t drown myself in the Pacific before that. The truth is, Navy life is the shits. It’s incredibly boring, and everyone gives you orders except the cooks, and you have to eat their food, which you don’t want to do, believe me.
But Navy life isn’t all bad. The cities we visit, like Yokosuka in Japan and Olongapo in the Philippines, are kind of interesting, and your money goes a lot further in those places than in the states. For instance, in Japan you can get a steak dinner, a kabuki show and a massage for just a few bucks. A cute gal in shorts, and I mean short shorts, gives you the massage, and in answer to your question, which I know you’re going to ask, no, she doesn’t offer anything on the side. Anyway, that massage is something else. I mean, the way those gals run their hands all over your body is, I don’t even know what to call it. And no, they don’t go there, but they do tromp on your back, which may sound painful but you wouldn’t believe how good it feels.
In answer to your next question, no, I’m not getting any. I almost screwed a whore in Tijuana, but I was too drunk to do anything, and if you give me a hard time about that I’ll put a curse on your pecker. Part of the problem is I haven’t met many women in San Francisco, and when we’re deployed we spend only a few days in port. Okay, I haven’t met any women in San Francisco, and no matter where we are, I’m usually too shitfaced before the night’s over to do anything. Satisfied?
I did come close to scoring on our last cruise to Hong Kong, since I was relatively sober when this good-looking hooker took me home. But neither of us had a rubber, and I was so worried about getting the clap I couldn’t get it up. Hey, stop laughing. I mean it.
And speaking of VD, the officers come down with it just like normal people do, only they don’t want anyone to know so they go for their shots after midnight. Maybe they’re afraid if we grunts found out we’d think they were human, and if that’s the case they’ve got nothing to worry about.
Hey, I’m getting writer’s cramp so I think I’ll sign off for now. Hope everything’s going well at school, and congratulations again on the new girlfriend.
Your Friend on the High Seas,
Nate
P.S. I almost forgot. Sorry for your loss. I know you were as hot for Marilyn as I am for Jane, so I imagine you sat shiva when she checked out last month. I have to say I’m a little confused over how she died. Some reports claim she committed suicide, others that she OD’d, and still others that she was murdered. Can you believe it? Someone may have killed Marilyn Monroe? Anyway, I’ll miss her too.
#
November 22, 1962
Dear Marcus,
Since you’re already pissed at me for not writing more often (just a guess) I thought I’d piss you off even more by using that name, which I know you like about as much as I do Nathan.
Actually, I should have addressed you as Marcus the Fucking Psychic because you were right. I hate the Navy. For one thing, as you said, I have to take a lot of orders, and as you predicted, I don’t enjoy that, not even a little bit. Whether this is because the people issuing the orders are idiots or because I’m overly sensitive I couldn’t say. But if I ever find out, I’ll let you know.
Here’s the other thing, which you didn’t warn me about. The Navy is boring, and I mean boring. Day in and day out, it’s the same routine over and over again. Even weekends are boring, especially at sea, where we have a choice of either staying aboard ship or jumping over the side, which would run contrary to naval regulations and my sense of survival, but don’t think I haven’t thought about it. I guess I don�
�t regret enlisting, because I need to see things for myself before I can believe them, but now I can’t wait for February 2, 1965, to roll around, which unfortunately won’t be for another hundred years.
We did have some excitement last month, but it was the kind I could have done without. As you know, there was that Cuban missile crisis and the big-deal embargo, and when the Russian ship with all those nukes aboard headed for Cuba, the carrier I’m on put out to sea even though we don’t operate anywhere near that country. We’d no sooner raised anchor than they called us to battle stations, only instead of announcing this was a drill, like they usually do, they kept telling us this was not a drill, which scared the crap out of me. We were on alert for a long time, all day it seemed, without being told why. I couldn’t even ask questions because I was part of the communications team, which had to maintain radio silence except to relay messages. I kept thinking we were under attack and any minute we’d be blown to smithereens, and in-between those thoughts I had another one, which you’ll love. I thought, shit, if we are blown up I’ll die a virgin, or at least almost one. I mean, I’ve only screwed one woman in my life and she was a whore. Not that I didn’t appreciate your gift, but I was hoping to do it for free someday, with a woman who wanted me as much as I wanted her. Anyway, you can imagine how relieved I was when the crisis ended, and how angry I was after learning what caused it. A pissing contest between Kennedy and Krushchev, those assholes.
I guess I’m getting all riled up, so I better stop writing before I get out of control. I miss you, my friend, and I’m looking forward to tipping a few like we used to do. And speaking of drinking, I’m officially twenty-one now, so Roy can’t give me a ration of shit anymore.
Do I hear an amen?
The Moron Who Joined the Navy,
Nate
Chapter 42
1963
I stood on the fantail shaking and shivering, which wasn’t surprising since only a pea coat shielded me from the biting winds buffeting the ship. As in days of old, I tried distracting myself by concentrating on something else, in this case on two Filipino cooks emptying garbage into the slate-gray sea. But like most of my distractions this one didn’t work either. While watching the rubbish float out to sea, I continued freezing my ass off.
Now you may wonder, knowing my pet aversions, why I was punishing myself like this. Well, I wasn’t so much penalizing myself as testing the waters, seeing if I could survive the frozen tundra of Alaska, where I’d soon be headed. Right after Christmas, to be exact.
The two cooks seemed comfortable enough with only their food-stained aprons protecting them from the elements, so they might endure the forty-ninth state. But after five minutes on the ship’s stern I doubted I could.
Too bad, since normally my long-delayed departure from the Breeze would be cause for celebration. After two and a half years I’d grown weary, not only of Navy life but of the ship on which I was stationed, with its cramped quarters, narrow passageways and leaden atmosphere. My longing to escape only grew as I watched those around me receive new orders.
As you may have gathered, I didn’t much care for Ensign William N. Cutter, so I didn’t exactly grieve when, shortly after the New Year began, he departed the ship for the Naval Station at Pearl Harbor, Hawaii. But I did feel envious, and not a little upset that a shitheel like him was on his way to paradise.
Sad to say, Ralph Satterly also left the ship, relocating to the Treasure Island Naval Air Station in San Francisco this past summer. But at least he remained nearby, allowing us to meet occasionally for drinks.
Also on the positive side, the new PIO officer, Ensign Peter Denby, was an improvement over Cutter, which isn’t meant as faint praise. He was sharp, funny and down-to-earth, and he’d have been a welcome arrival even if Cutter weren’t such a prick.
On the other hand, “prick” was too mild a term for Satterly’s replacement. Norman Grumler was a holier-than-thou piss-ant whose showy display of piety I found almost intolerable. Not only did he throw a tantrum when one of us cursed (his word, not mine), but after President Kennedy’s assassination last month instead of grieving quietly like most people, he muttered Hail Marys all day, every day, for an entire week.
Anyway, with a little over a year to go until my discharge, I’d resigned myself to spending my entire enlistment aboard ship. But then a miracle occurred and my orders arrived, only it wasn’t so much a miracle as a calamity, since I’d been banished to the frozen north. This turn of events only proved my theory about the Navy’s upper echelon: they were bat-shit crazy and cruel to boot. How else to explain their sending me to the U.S. Naval Air Station in Kodiak, Alaska? Me, who’d fled the Midwest to escape the cold and snow, me they were dispatching to the coldest, snowiest state in the union.
After flunking the fantail test I slunk back to the barracks, sprawled on my bunk and tried forgetting my next destination. At least for the time being, I succeeded.
Maybe my brain was frozen too.
Chapter 43
March 27, 1964
It was Good Friday and I planned to make it an even better day by getting sedately drunk in honor of He whose death people were celebrating (is that the right word?). I finished putting together the April issue of Kodiak Ahoy, then placed scissors, ruler, pencils and glue in the bottom desk drawer. I got up, took a step and felt the floor slide under me. I found this troubling, because floors were supposed to be stationary. At a loss what to do next, I sat back down, only to hear the walls creak. Which also bothered me because walls were supposed to be silent.
Judging by the chatter in the passageway, the building’s other occupants were equally upset.
“What the fuck?”
“My question exactly.”
“I mean, what the fuck?”
“Hey, what just happened?”
“Is this an earthquake?”
“I don’t know, man. I think so.”
“Nah, that’s just me and my girl doing it. Earth moves every time, you fuckheads.”
“Suck my cock, asshole.”
Finally the voice of authority rose above the chatter. “Yes, it’s a fucking earthquake. Everybody out of the building, now!”
What the fuck indeed. In addition to its other liabilities, Alaska was earthquake-prone? More and more I hated this state. My first three months here had only confirmed my worst fears. Snowstorms, heavy winds and subzero temperatures were the order of the day. So I didn’t need another reason to despise the forty-ninth admission to the union. And yet now I had one.
I grabbed my pea coat and along with the others rushed outside. The temperature had soared into the mid-thirties, which reminded me of something an old salt, who’d been stationed in Alaska a few years back, had told me before I departed the ship. “Spring ain’t so awful there.” And so far, meaning six days into the vernal equinox, it hadn’t been, if you considered temperatures in the twenties and thirties not so awful.
Anyway, the scene that greeted us outside bore little resemblance to Hollywood earthquakes. No toppled trees, no collapsed buildings, no caved-in sidewalks. Everything seemed intact and unharmed. In fact, people were milling about as they might at a fire drill. This relaxed atmosphere changed abruptly, however, when we looked out to sea and saw a massive wave—a gigantic wall, actually—headed our way.
“Tsunami!” yelled Lieutenant Ansel Jones, adding, “Get to higher ground. Now!”
Jones, head of internal communications and my immediate supervisor, pointed to a nearby hill, at the top of which the base radio and television station, serving all of Kodiak Island, resided. Requiring no further encouragement, we ran to the hill and began climbing it.
Now and then the wave, like a traffic accident, begged for our attention. I was giving it mine when it seized several wooden structures near the shoreline, tore them to pieces and flung them out to sea. As the wall continued its rush toward base our climb took a turn that hid it from view, though I suspected we’d see the results of its visit soon enough.
>
The incline steepened and I began sweating, a pleasant change, believe it or not, from the quivering and shivering I’d done since my arrival in Alaska. Upon reaching the hilltop we found eight members of the station’s staff sprawled on the lawn of a large wooden structure that resembled the Bates Motel. Jones cautioned us against wandering off, then left us alone.
Alone. I liked the word, probably because I liked being alone, which is why I enjoyed being the lone Ahoy staff member. Even now, in the midst of a disaster, I was off by myself. Such isolationism may explain why I remained friendless in the Navy. Satterly was a good drinking buddy, but I wouldn’t classify him as a friend since we seldom confided in each other, and revealing one’s thoughts and feelings was an important part of friendship, or so I’d been told. In my previous life, Sheldon and Wonderman were friends, seeing as we told each other things we wouldn’t tell just anyone, but that was the extent of my friendships. Was having so few friends a bad thing? If not, why did I sometimes feel guilty about the shortage? Maybe because I was Jewish, and guilt coursed through my veins.
Having thought myself into a corner, I was almost grateful when Jones yelled out, “Okay, enough loafing. Let’s get back and see what we got.”
Something told me that what we got we wouldn’t want.
#
The Gulf had indeed come calling. A lake, up to a foot deep in some spots, ran through the base, carrying with it all manner of objects. Wading inside the waterlogged communications building we found chairs, tables and cabinets plus assorted debris swimming about aimlessly. In addition we discovered we had no heat, light, hot water or means of communicating with the outside world.
Amid murmurs of dismay mixed with amazement, Jones formed the group into work crews charged with, among other things, suctioning up the tributary inside the building. Strangely, he failed to call my name for any of these chores and I wondered if I’d been overlooked, or was about to be given a one-man job. I trusted Jones would let me know, one way or the other, soon enough. I use the word “trusted” advisedly, because the lieutenant had further proved that some officers weren’t all that bad. Far more reasonable than Cutter and almost as pleasant as Denby, he never kept secrets from us or left us in the lurch about something that mattered.
Nathan in Spite of Himself Page 21
