“Some.”
“On a scale of one to ten, how would you rate it?”
Cowboy gazed at the ceiling and scratched his chin. Finally, he looked at the skipper. “About a twelve. “Asssss!” someone hissed enthusiastically. “Roll it, Movie Officer,” the Old Man directed as he plopped into his chair.
After the movie, Jake went to the squadron personel office, a ten-by-twelve-foot cubbyhole against the outside skin of the ship.
He signed out the service records of the two enlisted men in his division who needed evaluations done. He set off for the airframe shop located one deck above the hangar deck, on the opposite side of the ship.
Chief Eugene Styert was there, as he was eve waking moment except when he was eating, which he did four times a day. “Evening, Mister Grafton.”
“Hey, Chief.” Jake accepted the indicated chair. Chief Styert had a padded chair with arms, and, except for the desk, there was no other furniture in the compartment. Jake looked the place over. Tools hung everywhere and spare parts jammed a set of shelves opposite the desk. The floor was filthy with grease an hydraulic fluid tracked in from the hangar deck. “How’s everything going?”
Chief Styert placed his hands on his ample belly an leaned back in the chair. He had worked with and taught junior officers most of his twenty-five years in the navy and knew the routine. He supervised a crew responsible for solving fuselage and structural problems on all of the squadron aircraft, ensured all work was accomplished in accordance with technical directives, an kept his little band firmly on the job.
Chief Styert was the navy as far as his men were concerned. He was the man to whom they introduced their parents on those rare occasions back in the States when the folks from home visited the ship.
Like every chief, he reported to a junior officer, a young college grad who might or might not make the navy a career. Chief Styert believed that the young officer was there to learn and not to make his job more difficult. He knew the officer’s visits in the shop were good for the men’s morale, but the less he saw of the young gentleman, the better. Except when he needed an officer to go to bat for the men, of course, and Grafton never hesitated to do that.
“Everything’s fine,” the chief replied. “Going to clean this place up in the morning, before the men put on their whites for that memorial service.”
The chief added quickly, “Real sorry about Mister McPherson. Pretty tough, going like that.”
Jake nodded. He took out his cigarettes, offering one to the chief. After they lit up, Jake gestured to the forms in his lap. “Eval time on the nonrated.
Jones and Hardesty. Have you done a rough of their evals?”
The chief rummaged through a drawer and passed two sheets of notebook paper to Grafton, who scanned them. English composition was not one of the chiefs most shining accomplishments. When Jake had finished reading, they discussed the marks each man should get. Both understood the officer would polish the evaluations and put in the numerical grade for the five specified categories, but the numbers on the paper would reflect the chiefs recommendations. If the men ever thought that Chief Styert did not have a firm grip over their destinies, his ability to rule his little fiefdom would be impaired.
When they had finished with the evals and the officer had tucked the notes into the service records, the chief showed him a request chit. Hardesty wanted four days leave in the Philippines. On the chit was the scrawl: to visit my wife.”
Jake eyed the chief. “I thought he was single?”
Styert shrugged. “Guess he isn’t anymore.”
“When did you learn about this?”
“About thirty minutes ago when Hardesty gave me that thing.”
“Well, do you want me to approve this?”
The chief squirmed. “Shit, if he’s really married we could catch hell if we don’t. Get a letter from his mother or some congressman.” From his tone Jake gathered that the chief thought mothers and congressmen were liabilities for sailors, much like an appendix that might go bad at an inopportune time.
“Do you need him for work this time in port?” Styert shook his head.
“I’ll call the berthing compartment and have him come down here.” He dial the number.
While they waited, Jake asked, “You think that marriage is for real, Chief’? Do you think Hardesty has thought this through?”
“I doubt it. Thinking has always been one of Hardesty’s weak areas. He’s got a picture of her.
She’s a looker. He probably met her in some bar or whore house.
Probably the first piece of ass he’s ever had.” When Hardesty came in he stood in front of the desk but certainly not at attention. Jake fought the temptation to stand. He looked the man over before he spoke. The chit was on the edge of the desk beside him Hardesty was nineteen years old, had been in the navy ten months, had an eleventh-grade education and a bad case of acne, and shaved probably once a week.
“What is this about you being married? I thought you were single.”
“I didn’t tell nobody about it until I put in this chit. See, I want to take her and go see some of her relatives in Manila.”
“When did you get married?”
“Last time in port. About two months ago.”
Hardesty looked at his shoes. Jake was reminded of those times when as a boy he had been called on to explain his conduct to his father.
“Did you know there iSARequirement to get permission from the navy before you marry a foreign national?”
“No sir.” Hardesty didn’t look up.
“How old is your wife?”
“She’s sixteen.” Eyes still on the deck.
Jake sighed. “Did you report this to Personnel?”
“No.”
“Y not?”
“Well, I ain’t got a copy of the marriage license yet. You can’t get anything quick in the Philippines.”
Except the clap, Jake thought. “And I knew that Personnel would make me come back when I got it, so I ain’t bothered to go see them yet.”
“Why didn’t your wife send you a copy?”
“She knew I’d be coming back in a few months, and I could just get it then.”
“What if you had been killed while we were at sea? Your wife wouldn’t have gotten a penny of your GI insurance.
There’s no official document in American hands that proves you’re married to anybody. I assume you also haven’t told Disbursing?”
“No, I haven’t told anyone.”
Chief Styert interrupted. “No, Sir, when you talk to an officer, Hardesty.”
The boy raised his eyes. “Sure, Chief.”
Jake continued. “Federal law requires that personnel E-4 and below send an allotment to any dependents they have. Did you know that?”
“Yessir. I’m going to get all that straightened out as soon as I can.”
“Have you told your folks about your marriage?”
“Yessir.”
“What did they say?”
“Well, Pop has been dead for a while now and Mom ain’t written back yet.”
He regarded his shoelaces again.
“Do you love her?” As soon as the words were out Grafton regretted them.
“Oh yes, sir.” Hardesty’s eyes glowed. “Here’s her picture.” He pulled a wallet-sized photo from his shirt pocket. She had the long black hair typical of Fillipino women, the usual small nose, and the slightly Oriental eyes. She looked regal.
The officer passed the photo back to Hardesty an glanced at the chief, who had his eyes resolutely fixed on
