Charlie Joins The Navy

Part 1

A Short Story by

Alan E (Al) Strunk

Charlie Hagglund steps off the Greyhound Bus in Santa Barbara for the scheduled rest stop. It is the first pause in his journey that starts before sunrise as Pops drives him to the Santa Maria depot. He can’t see the gleam of pride in Pops’ eyes as the man stands in the darkness waving farewell to his son aboard a diesel-fume spewing bus.

A quick trip to the head for relief and a cup of hot chocolate later and he is back on board and south bound chasing California’s coastline. It is the farthest away from adult supervision he has been in his nearly fifteen years. He is loving every minute of the freedom but carries in the back of his mind the responsibility.

Traveling in his dress blues, his sea bag is resting in the overhead luggage space. He will have to change busses in Los Angeles, so he has set himself up for a quick transfer.

Hustle and bustle surround him in the vast bus terminal. Mumbled shouts from electric speakers spew a confusing litany of the names of towns and cities familiar and foreign to Charlie. San Diego rings out clearly with an attached gate number. He searches for his gate with just a hint of panic but finds it easily. With the calm demeanor of a seasoned sailor in transit he boards his next bus. The only open seat is on the aisle next to a man wearing the proud uniform of a United States Marine.

“Hey,” Charlie says after storing his seabag overhead and taking the seat.

“Hey. Navy taking ‘em ‘kinda young these days, ain’t they?”

“Sea Explorer, sir,” says Charlie who seldom uses the more formal title for Sea Scout. “Going to San Diego for the Jamboree. You?”

“Oceanside. Camp Pendleton. Back to the Corps. Don’t call me sir, kid.”

“Sorry.” Charlie remembers the old saying about working for a living.

“No big deal, sailor. Where’s ‘yer blow out?”

“Aboard USS Bennington She’s an aircraft carrier.”

“Nice. Better than them goddamned amphibs. Went through wet net training off an LSD once. Rolled in the goddamned trough all day and all night. Damn near busted my ass getting over the side and into the goddamned LCVP. Serve up some goddamned good chow though, those navy guys.”

Charlie does a fair job of pretending he understands all that he is hearing. He doesn’t but promises himself he will find out all he can about wet net training, a LSD and a goddamned LCVP.

With Oceanside behind him Charlie has the window seat to himself. He knows the Pacific is big. Anyone who looks at a globe knows that. But he has been on busses for hours now and yet there she still is, right outside his window, bright, blue and beautiful. He tries to figure out how long it would take him to get this far aboard “Bob’s Comet” with its Evinrude outboard motor. It makes his head hurt thinking about it, so he quits.

San Diego’s bus station is easier to navigate than that of Los Angeles. The interior is the same industrial green, the floor just as filled with gum wrappers and cigarette butts. Men in uniform are everywhere. Sailors and Marines fill the space, some walking with purpose, others waiting in nonchalance for their busses to arrive to carry them home on leave or for a navy shuttle bus to deliver them to one of several naval or Marine Corps facilities.

The round information booth lures him alongside. He asks the lady for information on the Jamboree.

“Catch the navy shuttle out that door to the fleet landing at the foot of Broadway. Shore Patrol there will check your orders and get you aboard a liberty launch to get you over to North Island. You eat today, young man? Look kind of hungry.”

“Yes mam. Baloney sandwich on the bus down.”

“Well there’s no big rush. Coffee Shop next door if you want a bite before shoving off. Probably going to miss the evening meal on board. Shuttle will run till midnight.”

Charlie thanks the lady and goes directly to the shuttle bus door. There is no way he is going to delay his arrival to a real navy aircraft carrier for a measly sandwich and a coke.

He rides the length of Broadway with his seabag in his lap. Upon arrival he goes to the first sailor he sees wearing a SP armband. Showing his orders he is directed to wait in a line of milling sailors dockside. Some are smoking cigarettes. Others, like himself, are younger and wear the uniform of the Sea Scout. He stands apart taking in the scene before him. From his station he can see across the bay.

There she is, the USS Bennington, her hull number outlined in lights along her superstructure: “20.”

She lies alongside a pier at the United States Naval Air Station North Island, all eight hundred and twenty feet of her. She is bigger than any building Charlie Hagglund has ever seen. His heart begins to pound. A tear threatens but is stifled.

The ride across the bay is thrilling. The blunt end of the landing craft pushes through the water rather than riding on top. Standing in a moving craft is a new experience. When aboard his fourteen foot boat “Bob’s Comet” he is usually perched butt down on a thwart maintaining a low center of gravity to prevent capsizing. With nothing to hold on to he quickly learns the spread legged stance of the blue water sailor. Salt spray flies overhead anointing Charlie with greetings from the Southern California Pacific.

He waits for most of the sailors to clamber over the gunwale before he risks his climb. Once ashore he is surprised that his feet are still clutching to maintain balance even though he is back on dry land. He notices a new rolling gait to his walk as he follows the crowd toward the towering gangway. He tries but fails to take his eyes off of the ship before him.

She is like nothing else he has ever seen up close and personal. The pictures of aircraft carriers in  Pops’ set of Encyclopedias doesn’t come close to doing the vessels justice. The wide brimmed curvilinear bow meets the razor edge of the prow in a seamless line of glory. Amidships, the superstructure gleams with rows of windows from the various command bridges. The ship’s funnel provides backdrop to an array of turning radar antenna.

The massive ship pulsates with life. Charlie can feel the vibrations as he mounts the first flight of stairs.

Up he climbs, taking care to steer clear of the other sailors mounting the gray tower. Landing after landing he climbs until the ramp of the gangway leading to the ship itself is reached. There is no time to request permission to board as it is granted in mass. He remembers to salute the ensign aft and the Officer of the Deck who returns the salute with a warm smile. Real sailors show their identification and liberty cards then depart for their berthing space or crew’s lounge. Sea Scouts are herded to a reception area inside the hanger deck.

Orders are checked one more time. A four by four formation consisting of sixteen Sea Scouts and one U.S. Navy Chief Petty Officer is organized. Charlie keeps his gaze straight ahead and stands with military bearing. The early evening marching drills held at his home Sea Scout Ship are about to pay off.

“Follow me, Scouts. Single file and watch ‘yer step.” The formation heads aft on the massive hanger deck. To Charlie’s relief no attempt at keeping in step is made as each boy is wide eyed in wonderment at what they are seeing. A few aircraft are spotted about the deck. Mechanical doors bigger than the Alvin Avenue dairy barn back home are capable of dividing the space into fire protected bays. Wide openings in the ship's bulkheads reveal the skyline of San Diego on one side, the rows of aircraft landing lights of NAS North Island on the other.

Charlie is mesmerized by the smell of lubricants and salt air and the constant sound of electric motors pushing air through blowers. Visions of Morro Bay’s hundred and twenty five foot Coast Guard Cutter “Alert” suddenly flood his mind. He figures she wouldn’t take up much space on the hanger deck. Heck, the darn aircraft are just about as big as she is, though their wings fold up to save space.

The formation is remade on a large square platform hanging over the side of the ship. A horn sounds and the platform begins to rise.

“Holy cow,” Charlie mumbles, spreading his legs just a bit wider to maintain balance. In what seems like an instant the platform is flush with the flight deck. Charlie’s eyes can’t open any wider.

They are brought to the center of the flight deck and then led forward. The entire deck is flooded with light from instruments focused from the superstructure. They pass through groups of Scouts already arrived and set up in four by four squares along the flight deck.

“Gather ‘round, Scouts,” the Chief orders. Ranks are broken and they surround the man in khaki with a brimmed hat.

“Welcome aboard United States Ship Bennington, the Big Benn, as she is known to her ship’s company. You will camp out here on the flight deck. You were instructed to bring a bed roll with you. You have fifteen minutes to get squared away. I want to see four rows of four, lined up evenly across the deck between the yellow safety zone lines. Your head will be aft, your feet forward. Then the Navy has a special treat for you. Mid-rats. Afterward you will make a head call then report back here to turn in. You will maintain quiet throughout the night. Reveille is at 0600. Uniform of the day will be dungarees. Turn two, Scouts.”

“Mid-rats?” “Turn two?” Charlie wonders. “Camped out on the weather deck? What have you gotten yourself into this time,Hagglund? Hope nobody walks in their sleep.”

He makes up his bed from blankets stowed in his seabag. A rolled up pair of jeans will serve as his pillow. Exactly fifteen minutes later the Chief re-appears.

“Grab your shaving kits and follow me Scouts. Watch your step and your heads.”

Charlie doesn’t have a shaving kit. He carries his tooth washing gear, hand soap, deodorant and hair brush rolled up in a towel.

They head towards the center of the towering superstructure that Charlie will learn to call the Island. Going through an open watertight door they descend a steep ladder, holding tightly to the hand rails as they are walking down the steps facing forward. They step off to a landing only to walk back to another ladder. Charlie tries but fails to keep track of the number of decks they descend but he figures they are a couple of decks beneath the massive hanger deck. Finally they follow a corridor aft, stepping over many a raised watertight doorway then make a turn at a thwart-ship passageway.

A large bulkhead mounted cabinet holds stainless steel trays. Above it a painted sign reads “Take All You Want. Eat All You Take.” Each Scout is handed a wide spoon and a sturdy porcelain bowl to balance on their tray. As they pass through the chow line the bowls are filled with hot minestrone soup. A generous hunk of fresh baked and buttered bread is added to the tray by the mess cook behind the steam table. He is standing extra duty, so he isn’t smiling.

“Mid-rats, Scouts,” explains the Chief. “Midnight Rations. Served every night at sea for the oncoming mid-watch and the off coming watch standers. Cookie figures you bunch missed evening chow, so he fixed you up something special. When you’re done take your trays over to the scullery. I’ll lead you to the crew’s head reserved for Scout use.”

The hot soup, deliciously fresh bread and the end of the long day of travel and adventure has worn Charlie out. His last thought before falling asleep beneath a sea of stars is of the Marine he met on the Greyhound Bus. “He’s right about one thing,” Charlie thinks to himself. “Some goddamned good chow, these navy guys.”