“Too bad,” Jake said.
“You know anything about that incident unofficially, of course?”
“A little.” The skipper waited. “Well, I sort of helped toss the guy into the pond. We were just trying to dip his hair in the water, but he was a little too heavy for us.” He paused. The skipper remained silent. Jake felt ashamed of himself for minimnizing his part. “Actually the whole thing was my idea. We wanted to give the kid a good scare, but I didn’t intend for him to go swimming. And I took a swing at another fellow after he swung at me. I had a good crack at his mouth and may have knocked out some teeth.”
“Who helped you?”
“I’d rather not say.”
“That’s what the Boxman said, too.”
Camparelli took off his glasses and chewed on one of the plastic earpieces.
“Captain Boma’s a bit peeved about this incident. He mentioned that the shore patrol officer complained. It’s the opinion of Captain Boma and the shore patrol officer that fights off base are liable to be handled with more force than necessary by the local authorities, who, as you know, are now Philippino Army.
Those macho muchachos would like nothi better than an excuse to use their grease guns. Then we’d have a few corpses on our hands and maybe an international incident.”
Camparelli replaced his glasses on the lower part of his nose.
“So Captain Boma asked me to investigate unofficially. I’m glad you decided to come in for a chat.”
“Oh.”
“I think you’d better stay aboard the ship next time in port. That’s unofficial. No messy paperwork. The term is ‘in hack.”‘ He could do it officially, too, Jake knew, with a discipline report that would torpedo any chance the pilot might ever have of being promoted.
“Yessir.”
“Back to the original subject, which is our lovestarved sailor. Your gripe is that he lied to you in order to get leave, rather than that he married in violation of a general reg.” The skipper leaned back in his chair and crossed his bare legs. To Jake he looked much like a chairman of the board solving a million-dollar problem, except that he wore only skivvies. “How many leave chits have you seen with the reason for the request stated?”
Jake thought. There was not even such a section on the form. He pointed out to Camparelli that Hardesty had inked in his reason in the margin.
“Precisely. And if you ask a sailor where he’s going or why, you can bet he probably lies about half the time. A sailor figures that it’s none of the officer’s business. I’m pleased to hear you aren’t too enthused about the violation of this general regulation. The navy’s requirement for permission before you commit holy matrimony with a foreign national is a chicken reg, in my opinion, and probably unconstitutional. God only knows what the Supreme Court would do with that one. In any event, I tolerate a lot of high jinks around here. You’re a case in point. So long as the bombs keep falling on target and the planes keep coming back, I’ll stay off people’s backs.
Hardesty’s bitten off a big chunk and about all we can do is watch. If he fails to support her, or abandons her, or any of that stuff, then we’ll do what we can under the regulations. Nothing else.”
“I want to put in a special evaluation on Hardesty.”
“That’s fair. He doesn’t seem smart enough to become a petty officer anytime soon. And don’t think Hardesty’s off the hook. Chief Styert will make his life miserable for a while. He’ll probably do a better job of it than you or I could.”
Jake felt worn out. “Anything else, Skipper?”
“No.” Frank Camparelli sipped a glass of Coke with ice in it.
Jake stood and reached for the door. “Don’t feel too bad about being restricted to the ship,” the commander said. “Any junior officer who isn’t in hack at least once a cruise is nothing on any water.”
“Yessir.” Jake opened the door.
“Oh, and by the way, tell your roommate that if I hear of him shitting anywhere but in a head, he’ll eat the damn stuff off the deck.”
Jake’s mouth dropped open.
“That’s all, Jake. Good night.” The Old Man chuckled.
Jake started through the door, then paused for another look at the commander, who took a long pull from his drink. “Don’t slam the door on your way out” Camparelli said smugly.
“Sit down, Sam.” They were in their stateroom. “Huh?”
“Sit down. I have something to tell you.” Sam complied, his eyes on Jake’s face.
“The Skipper knows you’re the Phantom.”
“What?” Sammy searched Jake’s face. “Are you sure?”
“For a fact. He knows.”
“Good God!” Sammy jumped up. “Damn. Who told him?”
“I think I did.”
“Gimme a break-come on-“
“I think he took a shot in the dark and hit the bull’s-eye.” Jake repeated the conversation to Sammy.
“Man, I’ve never been so surprised-and it showed. When he saw my face, he knew he’d hit the mark.”
“That old fox. That’s it? Nothing else?”
“No. That was the whole conversation on that topic, He fired that salvo as I was going out the door.”
Sammy threw himself on Jake’s bunk. “I’ll be damned,” he howled. “Who’d have guessed it?”
“Camparelli seems to have done just that. Maybe Cowboy suggested you to him.”
Sammy thought a moment. “No way, man. Not Cowboy. No, I think you’re absolutely right. The Skipper guessed.” He laughed.
“Don’t get too tickled, asshole. I’m in hack.”
“What for?”
“Throwing that guy to the alligators.”
“Tough. But don’t sweat it. Any junior officer-“
“I know, I know.
‘-Drawing any water.” But I’m not taking your turn as duty officer next time in port, so don’t even ask. Jesus, I hope I don’t have to make any more of those little trips down to his room.”
Sammy lay back and mused, “Where can the Phantom strike next?”
Jake strolled over to the door. “If I were you, shipmate, I’d be a little concerned. Already the Phantom has imitators. Now that Camparelli knows, it may get a little warm for the Winged Wraith if his helpers take it upon themselves to add to his fame and legend.”
Jake stepped out, leaving Sammy to his thoughts. He wandered along the passageway, his hands deep in his pockets. Stuck aboard the ship the next time in port! It would be three months before he could see Callie again. Camparelli got a pound of flesh, Jake thought glumly, even though he didn’t know it.
Somewhere a compressor was pounding, and Jake could hear the muffled whine of a power drill, perhaps from the hangar deck above his head. Five thousand men, every one of them leading his own life with his own cares and worries and problems. And every one of them thinking the world revolves around him.
As he walked through the enlisted men’s mess deck he heard music. He followed the sound. The music throbbed, a driving beat that bounced off the steel bulkheads and echoed down the passageways.
He found the musicians on a ladder turnaround, similar to a stairwell landing.
Four black sailors in T-shirts whanged away on electric guitars while one beat a set of drums. The singer, who had a microphone, moved aside without missing a note to let the pilot pass. Jake climbed up to the next deck and went down the passageway a frame or two until the volume did not assault him. He leaned against the bulkhead and closed his eyes.
The music was Motown, the big city sound, the pulsating beat of Detroit.
It was the sound he remembered from the radio of his ‘57 Chevy as he blasted along on summer evenings with the smell of mown hay and plowed earth in the air. The music made him long for home.
On the 0-3 level Jake went outboard until he reached a light-trap, a series of turns in the passageway that prevented light within the ship from escaping.
He felt his way through and found himself on a ladder leading up four steps to the catwalk that lined the flight deck. Because the shape of the hull funneled air upward, a chilly, spray-laden wind rushed up through the catwalk.
