Final Flight

“More than you gotta, sailor boy. Only da real men get da kisses.”

A loafer on the grass whistled at her and she dropped the charade, grasping Jake’s arm tightly and laughing.

“Amy Carol’s gonna have a real fireball for a mom,” Jake said, and led her toward the promenade around the Castel Nuovo.

They stood against the rail of the moat and watched the vendors roasting food in makeshift barbecues on the sidewalk. Working-class families out for the evening sat on the grass and ate roasted ears of corn and pieces of chicken. Dogs with noses to the ground charged through the crowd searching for abandoned delicacies. Jake counted five young couples, three on the promenade and two on the grass, locked in passionate embraces. In front of Jake and Callie three small boys were kicking a ball. With every other boot, the ball bounced off lovers and picnickers, startled the dogs, or caromed ominously toward the busy avenue. Someone always rescued it and kicked it back to the boys. The tinny beeping cacophony of motor scooter and car horns was the perfect accompaniment. Napkins and food wrappers were swept away by the rising wind.

“Saturday night in Naples.”

“You enjoy Naples, don’t you?” Callie asked, and brushed back the blowing hair from her face.

Jake grinned broadly and led her on. They crossed the boulevard that led down to fleet landing and strolled down the Via Depretis, which paralleled the Via Medina, a block to the west. Sailor bars and pizza shops lined the east side of the street. Jake and Callie dropped into an empty table at a sidewalk bar and sipped wine as pairs, threesomes, and foursomes of American sailors in civilian clothes wandered by, noisy tourists in search of “action.”

The Graftons were walking hand in hand when a young man shot out of an alley, collided with Jake, and went sprawling. Jake almost fell, but Callie steadied him.

“Sorry.” The man scrambled to his feet.

“What’s the rush?” Jake demanded.

The man was four steps down the street when he pulled up and turned to stare at Jake. “CAG? Captain Grafton?”

“That’s me.”

“Jesus, sir.” He came rushing back. “Sorry I about flattened ya. But our cat captain is in there,” he gestured up the alley, “and he’s loaded and there’s gonna be a fight.”

“Who are you?”

“Airman Gardner, sir. Cat Four.”

“Kowalski your cat captain?”

“Yessir, and he’s one drunk motherfucker…. Excuse me, ma’am.” The sailor nodded at Callie and flushed. “He’s pretty drunk, sir, and I can’t get him outta there and the barkeep is callin’ the shore patrol and I was goin’ for help.” Gardner didn’t look a day over eighteen.

“Callie, you go back to the hotel. I’ll see you there after a while.”

She pecked him on the cheek. “Okay.” She winked and began walking back toward the piazza. Jake watched her go, her skirt swirling.

“Com’on, sir,” Gardner urged. “Them shore patrollers will be along any minute.” He tugged at Jake’s sleeve.

The bar was a red-light dive that catered to sailors. Several dozen were there when Jake walked through the door. Kowalski was in one corner with his legs splayed out and his shirt ripped, a bar stool in his hands. If he were left alone, gravity would soon conquer his fireplug body. “Alright, you cocksuckers, who’s gonna be first?”

Another man wearing a red-and-yellow shirt stood facing Ski and wagging his finger at the cat captain’s face. He looked almost as drunk as Kowalski. Behind the bar an Italian in a white shirt with his sleeves rolled up was screaming, “Out out out. They are coming. No fighting, no fighting. Out out out!”

“Excuse me,” Jake said to the drunk facing Kowalski, and stepped by him. Jake stood up straight. “Ski, do you recognize me?”

Kowalski stared. The bartender was roaring, “Out out out out …”

Ski shook his head.

“I’m Captain Grafton.” Jake grasped the stool and pried it gently from Kowalski’s grasp. He set it on the floor, then shook Ski’s right hand and held it while he grasped his elbow and began to move him toward the door. “I want you to come with me.”

“Yessir,” the petty officer mumbled, and shuffled in the direction he was pointed.

“So long, you windbag motherfucker,” the man with the red-and-yellow shirt jeered.

Kowalski roared and tried to turn. Gardner punched him squarely in the jaw and his knees buckled.

“Ooowww,” Gardner moaned, and shook his hand.

“I like your style, son,” Grafton said, “but that’s a good way to break your hand. Now help me get this tub of lard outta here.” Gardner grabbed Ski’s other arm and they dragged him out the door.

In the alley Gardner said, “I think I busted it.”

“They never do in the movies, do they? Come on, Ski, start walking, goddammit, or we’ll leave you for the shore patrol.”

The petty officer’s feet began to move. Jake steadied him on one side while Gardner held him up on the other, his forearm jammed under Ski’s armpit with his injured hand sticking out.

“He’s a great cat captain, sir. You won’t regret this.”

“He’s a fuckin’ drunk. If we get him back to the ship without someone writing him up, he’s going straight to rehab.”

“Yessir. Come on, Ski, walk.”

The cat captain was trying. They came out of the alley and turned for fleet landing just as the Shore Patrol van pulled up. A lieutenant in whites with a Shore Patrol brassard on his left sleeve stepped out and saluted. Jake recognized him. He was a Hornet pilot on the United States.

“Want me to take him down to fleet landing, sir?”

“That means you have to write him up, right?”

“I’m supposed to, CAG.”

“I’ll get him down there, and this sailor here can get him back to the ship. I’ll talk to the XO about him tomorrow.”

“Yessir.”

“Thanks anyway.”

The lieutenant nodded.

“But while you’re here, there’s a bar up the alley you’d better visit. The bozo in the red-and-yellow shirt should go back to the ship in the van.”

“Yes, sir.” The officer turned and motioned to his men, who got out of the van and followed him up the alley.

Gardner and Jake managed to get Ski back to his feet. After much prodding, he staggered along with one of them on each side.

“Thanks, sir. He’s really a fine petty officer and a helluva guy.”

“Yeah.”

They had to pause several times for Ski to be sick. Some of it splashed on Jake’s shoes and trousers. A few drops of rain began to splatter on the pavement.

Just before they reached the boulevard by the Castel Nuovo, another Shore Patrol van pulled up. A chief in whites was driving. He leaned across the petty officer in the passenger seat. “Want us to take him on down to the landing?”

“That’s okay, Chief. We’ll manage.” The van’s wipers were smearing the water and dirt on the windshield.

“Bad night for booze, sir. Already got a half dozen drunks in here.” The chief jerked his thumb over his shoulder.

“Naw,” Jake said. “I appreciate it. But we’ll get him there.”

“Aye aye, sir.” The chief let out the clutch and the van accelerated away.

“Com’on Ski. Walk! I hope to hell you’re worth our trouble.”