____________________________________________________________________

Remembering Ewing’s order for him to be back in five minutes, dropping his sea bag, opening it, he rummaged till he found a pair of rolled jeans and a chambray shirt, then, digging deeper, felt for his work shoes. Kicking his dress shoes off, hanging his pea coat and uniform on wire hangers that had been left in the closet, he hurriedly dressed.

Glancing at his watch as he ran downstairs: 4:10.

________________________________________________________

February 8. 1953

USCG Rockaway Life Boat Station

Rockaway, NewYork

Looking at the chronometer, “1610! That’s eight minutes! I told you to be back in five!”

“Sorry, Sir.”

“Yeah,” Ewing’s mouth twitching, “I’ll bet you are, sailor… Down the hall,” motioning with his thumb, “is a head. If you look in the paint locker there, you’ll find everything you need to clean it. I want the deck swabbed, the urinals and commodes clean enough to eat off, and the sinks and faucets shining so’s I can see my face in ’em. Got it?”

Swallowing, “Yes, Sir.”

“And I want it done by seventeen-hundred.”

“Uh, seventeen-hundred, Sir? That’s only…”

“Yeah, Lipensky, I know how to tell time. And I’ll be by at seventeen-hundred to check, so you’d better move your ass!”

He hadn’t eaten since breakfast at Cape May, and as the odor of food wafted from the galley down the hall, his stomach churned. “Yes, Sir.”

The head had a swinging door with brass kick-plates on the outside and inside. The deck was made of four-inch square gray ceramic tile. There were three sinks with mirrors and liquid soap dispensers, two urinals and one toilet stall with a door.

Opening the paint locker—broom closet—he found a string mop, a wringer bucket, cans of scouring powder and glass cleaner, a toilet brush, a large sponge and a pile of blue waste rags.

Scoured at 0800, it was now 1623 hours—4:23 p.m.—and the deck and sinks were muddy and dirt stained.

Wondering why he was being made to do this job at this time of day, Well, he thought, if I want chow, I’d better get going. And besides, I’d like to get off on the right foot with… not remembering Ewing’s name… that asshole.

                                                                           ****

Working as fast and as effectively as possible, not caring how much water slopped on the deck because it was going to get swabbed anyway, he scoured the toilet and urinals, then buffed the white ceramic bowls with dry rags until they shined. He did the mirrors, but rather than using the waste rags that would leave a film of lint, he used sheets of that morning’s newspaper that he’d found in the garbage can.

After scouring the sinks and shining the chrome handles, with six minutes left, he swabbed the deck using the water that had slopped onto it earlier, then, working on his hands and knees, backing himself through the door, he rubbed the deck to a shine with the waste rags, and had just enough time to put the cleaning materials away before…

The shrill, three-whistle, two-note piping sound of a boatswain’s whistle came over the loudspeaker then, “Now hear this! Chow time!” The boatswain’s whistle piped again.

Where the hell is he? he thought, as, “Shit!” He quickly moved aside as three men rushed into the head.

Soap, water and dirt splashed onto the recently cleaned, recently clean mirrors, sink and deck.

Wet shoes left muddy imprints on the recently cleaned, recently clean deck as they tracked from the sink to the continuous towel dispenser on the opposite wall.

“Why the fuck’d you clean the head now?”

“Damned if I know.”

“New man, huh?”

“Yeah. Got here less’n an hour ago.”

“An’ the ol’ man tol’j’ya to clean this fuckin’ head now?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh, well,” the man said matter of factly, “he’s…” calling Warrant Officer Floyd Richard Ewing what he was lovingly referred to by his adoring men as, “a motherfuckin’ cocksuckin’ son-of-a-bitch… Well,” motioning to the sinks, “sorry for the mess.”

The three men were gone, leaving the head dirtier than it had been forty minutes ago…

And now the door swung open.

“Thought I told you to clean this fuckin’ head!”

“Captain, I…” Mitchell realized that Ewing knew that he would never be able to do it at this time, and rather than using the excuse he was sure Ewing expected… “Sorry, Sir. If you want, I’ll do it again.”

“Bet your ass, sailor!” Turning heading out the door, “Do it again!”

Sighing, Mitchell opened the paint locker…

The door opening again, “When you’re through, secure and chow down.”

“Aye, Sir.”

The door swung shut behind Ewing, but, immediately opening again, “Oh, and Lipensky…”

Taking a deep breath, “Yes, Sir?”

“Welcome aboard.”

                                                                          ****

Floyd Richard Ewing: Born in Toledo, Ohio, in 1918, Ewing had joined the Navy in 1936.

In 1941, at the start of World War Two, he had held the rank of Boatswains Mate Third Class.

Ewing worked his way through the ranks receiving two battlefield upgrades during the war years.

In 1948, at the time of his third “re-up,” he’d transferred from the Navy—with the rank of Boatswains Mate First Class—to the Coast Guard, where he was immediately upgraded to Chief Petty Officer. Ewing had received his final promotion to Warrant Officer in 1951, during the Korean conflict.

U.S.C.G. Rockaway Lifeboat Station was Ewing’s first singular command and he ran it as though it were a ship, using sea-going terms for his land base: the office was “the bridge”; his quarters, “the Captain’s state room”; the lookout tower, “the crow’s nest.” And Warrant Officer Floyd Richard Ewing was always referred to as “Sir” or “Captain.”

In 1953 Ewing was thirty-six years old with slightly more than two years of active duty remaining before retirement with full military benefits.

Standing 5'6", Ewing had a noticeable paunch that overhung his well-pressed slacks. His dark-brown hair rapidly thinning, he attempted to hide the fact by brushing the longer strands from left to right across his balding dome. He had an oblong face with close-set, dark-brown eyes and thick brows that met across the bridge of his nose. He had thin, pinched lips and, when angry—which was often—or prior to smiling—which was rare—the corners of his mouth would involuntarily twitch, confusing anybody about to receive—usually—a chewing out or—rarely—a smile.

A bachelor, no one on base had ever seen Floyd Richard Ewing with a woman, which had caused—if he was not around—not too quiet speculation as to his sexual preference.

Ewing was not bigoted; he just hated Niggers, Gooks, Kikes, Wops, Spicks, Pretty Boys, Civilians, Politicians and Philadelphia Lawyers—not necessarily in that order.

And lucky him! Mitchell Lipensky fell into two of those categories.

At U.S.C.G. Rockaway Lifeboat Station, Warrant Officer Floyd Richard Ewing was as God.

                                                                     ****

…Finished, again, Mitchell headed to the mess hall.

Walking the long hallway, adjacent to the head he’d just cleaned for the second time, was an outside doorway; directly across the hall was the recreation room with a television, pool and ping-pong tables, two sofas, scattered easy chairs and a writing desk. Further down the hall, to the left, was the “Captain’s State Room,” then the alcove containing the stairway, street door and “Bridge.” To his right was the alcove with the work area and bay-side door, to the left of the door was the Communication Room—the Con—containing a short-wave radio and a commercial, plug-in type telephone switchboard. At the far end of the hallway, on the right, was the kitchen, and directly across, the mess hall.

Liberty at Rockaway Lifeboat Station was “port and starboard”: one night off, one night on; one weekend off, one weekend on.

Most of the men in the starboard section, who were planning on going “ashore,” had either left the base without eating, or had eaten and were now in their rooms preparing to leave. Well past 1730 when he got to the mess hall, there were two men left sitting at one end of the long, dark oak table drinking coffee. One of the men was Yeoman Second Class Richard McDonald, who nodded at Mitchell, and the other…

“Hey, you must be the new guy!”

Rising from the table, an older, dark-complected man wearing a kitchen-stained apron, white slacks and a T-shirt, holding his hand out, “I’m Joe Mendez,” he said, speaking with a slight Mexican accent, “the cook for this motley crew.”

“Mitch Lipensky,” shaking his hand, “and if you’re the cook, then I’m real glad to know you… I’m not too late for chow, am I?”

“Fuck, no! I been waiting for you. How you like your T-bone?”

“Excuse me, did you say T-bone, like in steak?”

“Yeah, just like. Come on!” Motioning for Mitchell to follow, Mendez went into the kitchen, opened one of the doors to a huge, commercial refrigerator, lifted out a heavy package wrapped in white butcher’s paper, kicked the door shut, dropped the package onto a wooden cutting block and opened it. Inside the package was mound of beautifully marbled T-bone steaks, each at least one-inch thick. Lifting a steak with his fingers, tossing it, sizzling, onto a hot stove griddle, “How do you like it?”

“Medium rare. Where the hell do you get meat like this?”

“Medium rare. Good thing. Only three ways I make meat around here: Rare, medium and raw.”

Taking a package of Camels from his rolled T-shirt shirtsleeve, turning a burner on, bending over the stove, Joe lit the cigarette. “We get all our goods from civilian stores. Matter’a fact, all the chow in this here kitchen came from the A&P over on Flatbush. And we’re such’a good customer, that to keep our business there they give us little bonuses like premo T-bones for the price of not-so-premo T-bones.”

Lifting the lid of one of two pots that were still on the stove, he pointed to a cabinet. “Grab a dish and take some’a these here peas and…” lifting the lid off the second pot, “potatoes, so’s I can get these pots scrubbed.” Dropping the lid, picking up a long-handled fork, Joe speared the steak, turned it and slapped it back onto the hot griddle.

“Don’t you have help here?” Mitchell asked rather stupidly. “Ain’t no KP here?” he asked—very hopefully.

“KP? Bet your ass there’s KP, and from what I hear, and from the way he started with you today, you’n’me is going to get to know each other real good.”

Opening the refrigerator, taking a gallon bottle of milk, Joe poured a dollop into his coffee mug. “You want milk with chow?”

Having nothing to do with kosher dietary laws, the thought of drinking milk with meat truly repugnant, “No. No, thanks.”

“You ain’t kosher, are you?”

How’s he know I’m a Jew?