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Chapter Two

                                                                                                                                         

The First Hop

 

 

 

When they dropped me off, I was relieved I no longer had to sit in a crossfire of chatter.  Doubts crept back into my mind as I entered my house.  I had no word for it then; but Bernie wasn’t a normal person.  Was I doing something stupid?  Despite my misgivings, I wasted no time in telling my mom one of the excuses Bernie suggested I give.  That I would be on a cruise with my post would be too great a lie, so I told her I would be at the Los Alamitos Naval Air Station Friday through Monday as part of my training, which was a partial truth.  During the period I would be gone, my mom would be occupied with her Girl Scout troop.  My dad would moping most of the time in his study or in the garage.  I was sure he didn’t care.

            During the following week, I continued to have misgivings.  Bernie made it sound too simple.  On the evening of our next meeting, I handed my duffle bag over to his mother when she picked me up.  I didn’t like committing fraud and had almost decided to forgo our adventure.  Yet here I was turning my uniforms over to her for alterations that would have to be restored to their original state when our adventure ended. 

Navy Chief Arnold Crump, our instructor, talked about naval history that night, from John Paul Jones up until modern times.  This is when I learned about the history at Pearl Harbor and Barber’s Point.  He also began covering navy protocol.  The lecture was interesting in parts and even quite funny.  The chief was a typical foul-mouth navy man, who peppered his lecture with profanity and lurid stories about his escapades.  When Bernie’s mom picked us in front of the base, my duffle bag was returned to me.  His mother had changed the patches during our two-hour meeting.  I never asked Bernie how he got his hands on airman apprentice patches.  It would remain one of the mysteries in our caper.  All that concerned me was that she had promised to change them back before our next meeting, which was the following Wednesday after our trip.

Thursday, the following day, was filled with the routine drudgery of school, hanging out with my shiftless friends at lunchtime, and then mulling nervously around in my room.  That night before Lincoln’s birthday on Friday, which was a holiday, I was filled with excitement and doubt.  Given the go ahead by my Mom’s earlier response, I spent a few hours listening to Elvis and reading a book.  Considering what lay ahead of me, the book should have been the Bible.  Instead I was reading Moby Dick, required reading for my English literature class.  After the first lines, after Ishmael introduced himself, I was momentarily captivated with his reason for the adventure that led him to Captain Ahab and the great white whale.

‘…Some years ago,’ he claims, ‘never mind how long precisely, having little or no money in my purse, and nothing particular to interest me on shore, I thought I would sail about a little and see the watery part of the world…’  

How more appropriate could a beginning be than that?  It appeared as if Ishmael had no better reason than myself for crossing the ocean.  I read on for a spell, and seeing what a slacker he was, too, was convinced I had found a kindred spirit.  But then, after wading through the verbiage Herman Melville used to weave a tale, I began to lose interest.  There were too many pages and too many big words.  How would I ever be able to read it?  I asked myself, thumbing through his novel.  There were 1,916 pages and 135 Chapters in Moby Dick.  Though considered a masterpiece by my literature teacher, I would never have picked such a book.  At that point in my life, my collection of reading material included Mad Magazines, pulp mysteries, and westerns.

Faced with two crises in my life—my pending trip and the prospect of flunking my English literature class, I sank momentarily in despair.  I had one grim satisfaction: if our deception was found out, I needn’t worry about my term paper or high school anymore.  I would be in jail.  One particular part of Chief Crump’s lecture on navy protocol that covered aspects of the Uniform Code of Military Justice surfaced in my mind: it was a crime to impersonate an officer.  I believe this included petty officers, but did it include impersonating airman apprentices?… Why did the instructor even mention this obscure fact?  Did he suspect Bernie’s intentions? 

Suddenly, I took stock of myself.  Bernie’s sneaky behavior had made me suspicious.  He had been too secretive about his trip.  Why did he trust only me, a total stranger to travel with him?  There were recruits from his own high school, students he must have known.  The cloudy vision of his plan, in the telling, was also troubling.  He had probably stretched the truth about his father and other facts; was he lying about his plan?   On the other hand, what if it was as simple as he said?  What if he was just peculiar youth—an odd duck, like many people I’ve known?  If so, I was on my way to Hawaii—a tropical paradise filled with beautiful women made for a young man such as myself.

Perhaps Ishmael was as foolish as me.  Unless I got my hands on an outline or summary of Moby Dick, I might never know.  Before turning in, I packed my duffle with civilian clothes, toothpaste, shaver, and other odds and ends.  I had decided to concentrate on the adventure rather than the risk.  It didn’t occur to me to borrow my Mom’s camera so I could take snap shots of the picturesque landscape I would visit.  My reasons for going to Hawaii had nothing to do with its cultural, historical, or geographical significance.  I looked upon this caper as my first adventure in the navy and a chance to hunt for girls, which included Bernie’s three cousins.  In fact, I found it difficult to sleep that night.  My head swam with conflicting images: girls in hula skirts and being arrested by MPs.  Bernie and his mother would be picking me up early in the morning.  I needed some shuteye.  Pushups and jumping jacks didn’t make me sleepy.  Counting sheep or numbers didn’t help.  What finally did the trick was a shot of scotch from my dad’s secret stash.  He rarely touched the stuff.  There was even dust on the cap.  Nevertheless, I drank a jigger from his bottle of Canadian Club, placed it back in its hiding place, and walked light-headedly back to my bed.

 

******

When my alarm clock sounded in the morning, I tried hitting the snooze button.  Unfortunately, I hit the off button instead.  It was an instinctive action, which I performed on school days.  Today was a holiday, I recalled groggily.  It was Lincoln’s Birthday, which meant no school.  So why was my alarm clock ringing?  For a half hour or more, as dawn crept into my room, I floated in that twilight world between sleep and wakefulness, floating pleasantly around my room, out my window, and high above my house.  One day, after reading up on this phenomenon, I would learn that it was called a lucid dream.  As I looked down at my yard, I could see my mom and her Girl Scout troop below.  At one point, she looked up and shouted, “Noel, wake up, your ride is here!”

When I opened my eyes finally, she was standing there with a disgusted look on her face.  I could hear the Girl Scouts chattering in the backyard.  My sister Julia stood there behind her in her uniform, also frowning.  My dad looked in that moment but said nothing.

“Shame on you, Noel!” Mom scolded. “Didn’t you set your alarm clock.  Your friend and his mother are in the driveway.  Get up!

“Throw cold water on him.” Julia sneered. “That’ll wake him up!”

“He’s a slacker!” my dad called from the hall.

“I’m getting up!” I muttered dazedly, rising like a zombie to my feet.

“Oh my god, Julia,” Mom cried, “hide your eyes!”

Forgetting I was in my underwear, I grabbed up my clothes, staggered around groggily, struggling into my trousers first, and, after pulling on a tee shirt, slipping into my jersey, and then plopping on my hat.  I scarcely needed to shave yet, so I skipped this part of the routine, even failing to brush my teeth.  Since my duffle bag was already packed, I was ready to go.  Barely five minutes had passed and I was rushing out the door.

“Where the hell’s he going?” cried dad. 

“Navy thing,” Mom muttered, as if that explained everything.

“Bye!” I called back.

“Be careful,” Mom called lightly. “When are you coming home?”

“I have to be back Tuesday morning for school,” I reminded her.

I was notified last week by the principle that I had perfect attendance.  Though I wasn’t a model student, this feat, as accidental as it might have been, stuck out in my mind.  For some reason it was important to me now.  Added to my concern for Bernie’s planning of our trip and my term paper, therefore, was the danger of missing school Tuesday.  Come hell or high water, I told myself, I’d make it back in time.   Scampering to Misses Suarez’ station wagon, I tossed my duffle bag in the back, climbed into the back seat, and sat there a moment as Bernie scolded me for being late.

“Didn’t you set your alarm clock?” he barked testily.

“Yeah,” I replied with a yawn, “I accidentally turned it off.”

“We have to be on the airfield at nine o’clock,” he snapped, “and they’re not going to wait.”

“Sorry.” I shrugged. “We’ll just have to hurry.”

He glared at me in his visor mirror, as his mother backed out of our driveway. “You can’t do that in the navy, Noel,” he persisted. “Sorry won’t cut it.  They’ll throw you in the brig!”

“Now-now, Bernie,” chided his mother, “be polite.  He’s only a little late.  He’s here, isn’t he? That’s what matters.” “Are you all right son?” She looked back with concern.

“Yes ma’am,” I grinned. “I just need a little coffee.”

“Coffee is unhealthy,” Bernie muttered tersely. “It’s corrosive to your colon and bad for your teeth!”

I had heard that line from my Mormon friends.  Added to Bernie’s puritanical outlook on sex, which I detected in spite of his efforts to cover it up, this statement reinforced my earlier impression.  Bernie was what we called in high school a ‘goodie two shoes.’  He said he drank some of his Uncle Raul’s tequila, but that statement seemed lame.  I didn’t mind if Bernie didn’t drink coffee, but what if he didn’t even drink beer?  More importantly, was his earlier slip, “Ick!  I’m a Christian, Noel.  I don’t like loose girls.”  He tried to convince me that he was kidding after this slip, but he seemed insincere.  The way his brown eyes darted this way and that and he couldn’t look me in the eyes had seemed devious.  While his mother drove us to the naval air station, I was conflicted.  I liked his Mom.  She was trying her best to be nice.  Though she had an ulterior motive, herself, I didn’t blame her.  In fact, I admired her for acting on behalf of her son.  She wanted him to have a friend.  And yet, as she chattered away and Bernie sulked, my misgivings about this caper returned.

“Were those Girl Scouts in your back yard?” I heard her ask.

“Yeah.” I stifled another yawn. “My mom has a Girl Scout troop.  They’re camping out in our backyard.”

“Scouting’s a great thing.” She smiled into her rearview mirror. “Bernie was a Cub Scout and then a Boy Scout, but after his stepfather passed away, he dropped out.”

This revelation seemed significant to me.  Not only had Bernie lost his first father after the war, but he lost his stepfather too.  Was that one of the reasons he was so strange? 

 “That’s too bad.” I gave him a sympathetic look. “I went all the way through scouting, too.  When I was fourteen, I got into the Sea Scouts.  I think that’s why I joined the navy.”

“My daughter Anna was in scouting.” She commented thoughtfully. “She’s only sixteen now.  But when she’s old enough, she plans on joining the naval reserves too.” 

 Bernie frowned into his visor mirror again.  On and on, she prattled about her first husband’s service in the navy.  Her account was different than Bernie’s, mainly for what she left out.  I remembered Bernie bragging about Armand Suarez’s heroics.  Bernie’s father had, in fact, served on the USS Hornet (an aircraft carrier I would serve on when I was on active duty).  Bernie had left out this detail and also details of Armand’s job.  At the time his duty station meant nothing to me.  What seemed significant was the job he had on the Hornet.  He was an aviation mechanic, like Uncle Ralph (Bernie’s Barber’s Point contact), who repaired the catapult engines, which launched aircraft from the flight deck of the ship.  This sounded exciting to me.  I had heard about this rating during our recruit indoctrination.  Unfortunately, however, Mrs. Suarez talked fast without pausing.  For much of the time, it became a blur in my head—a phenomenon that occurred often in my classrooms at school.  All I could focus on those moments was her sixteen-year-old daughter.  The thought intrigued me very much.  Hopefully, she didn’t look like Bernie.  His mother was an attractive Mexican woman, who looked nothing like her son.  Sixteen years old would make Anna a sophomore in High School.  Who knows, I reasoned, Bernie’s cousins in Alameda were wild.  Why not her?  If she joined up in two years on her eighteenth birthday, I would probably be on active duty.  I would return to reservist duty for my remaining time, a savvy, seasoned sailor.  Perhaps, I would meet her on the base.  If I visited Bernie’s house, it might even be sooner.  As his mother explained that her husband’s service during World War Two was one of the reasons her son chose the navy—a fact I already suspected, Bernie shook his head and glared once more into his mirror. 

He knew I was thinking about his sister Anna.  Almost as if he could read my mind that moment, I saw his lips move.  Though I wasn’t a lip reader, he conveyed to me that moment, “Don’t even think about it!”

“Hey,” I muttered defensively, “what’s your problem?”

            Misses Suarez stopped in mid-section, murmuring aloud, “What did you say, Bernie?  Why are you frowning like that?  You’re being very rude!”

            “Sorry,” he replied quickly, “it’s this headache I have.  I got up on the wrong side of the bed!”

            I thought that was pretty lame; I think he did too.  Flashing a token grin in his visor mirror, he said nothing.  The word I would have used for his smile, had I known it then, was ‘disingenuous.’  The second thoughts I felt earlier resurfaced, worsened by that expression.  Did I really want to do this?  I asked myself.  Bernie had verbally attacked me as soon as I entered the car.  He assumed I would make a play for his sister.  He obviously didn’t trust me.  Our trip to Hawaii—an island paradise—had been his idea, and yet he recoiled at my suggestions for having fun.  Though he said was kidding, I was afraid he was, like my Mom, a teetotaler and prude.  So why did he pick me as a travel companion?  I asked myself again.  Was it because he couldn’t find anyone else?  Perhaps, he hadn’t asked anyone else.  The recruits in his high school probably didn’t like him.  When I thought about it, the notion of recruits flying on naval air transports had seemed outrageous.  It still seemed outrageous as we traveled to our destination.  As I look back at this episode, I don’t remember anyone even talking to him at our meetings.  I must have come off as an easy mark for him in class.  Bernie told me he would take care of everything.  He said he would do all the talking when we arrived at the hanger deck at the base.  I wanted to give him the benefit of the doubt, but I found this hard to believe.  I was his stooge or second fiddle on this enterprise, nothing more.  The urge to call it off, triggered by Bernie’s surly mood, rose steadily in my mind. 

           

******

Soon Los Alamitos Naval Air Station loomed into view.  I decided that moment that I wouldn’t continue with this caper until I got more details.  Were we breaking the law?  Just how could we proceed with nothing but our dog tags and our recruit IDs?  Was he serious about having a good time?  One moment he was normal, and the next moment he was acting strangely.  All along, I had begun wondering if Bernie was right in the head.  In naval terminology, what took the wind out of my sails was his sudden repentance, after his mom dropped us off at the gate.  For a moment, I stood there deep in thought… Should I go or should I stay!  I asked myself, as I sat motionless on my seat.

Seeing my hesitation, Bernie said contritely, “Please, forgive me for being rude!”  

“… I dunno, Bernie.” I shrugged my shoulders. “… Are you really sorry?  You frowned when you said that.  Why’re you grinding your teeth?”

“All right” He forced a grin. “I’m sorry, I truly am.  It’s going to be fun, Noel.  You have my promise!”  

His mother looked worried when he gave him a hug, peck on the check, and he jumped out of the car.  Grabbing my duffle bag, I slid out of the back seat, and bid his mother goodbye.  She peered anxiously at me, as if to say ‘take care of my boy,’ and broke into a sweet smile, but  Bernie didn’t give her a second glance as he charged toward the gate.  No sooner had we presented our IDs to the Marine guard, than he was racing down the road toward the airfield with his duffle bag, huffing, puffing, and muttering incoherently under his breath. 

“Bernie, are you certain you want to do this?” her voice faded into the distance. “Be careful boys.  Wear your parachutes on the plane!” 

“I’ll call you when we arrive,” he shouted.  “Hurry, Noel,” he called back breathlessly. “There’s no time to waste.”

“Why are we running?” I screamed at him. “Are we late?  What’s the rush?”

“Don’t worry.  We should make it.  It’s hangar four.”  He pointed, almost tripping on his gear.

“Are we really going to be wearing parachutes?” I yelled. “I want more information Bernie.  You’ve been acting weird!”

Bernie managed a laugh. “My mom has us mixed up with the Army Airborne.  We’re not paratroopers.  We’re going on a personnel transport, Noel.  It leaves at nine o’clock.” 

“Jeez Bernie,” I cried, glancing at my watch. “We got ten minutes.  We won’t have time for breakfast. You’re really cutting it close!”

Bernie admitted that he already had breakfast.  I would be flying with an empty stomach.  As we approached our destination with our duffle bags slung over our shoulders, we could see a plane that looked like a DC-4.  I would learn later that it was called a C-54 in the navy.  It sat in front of the hangar deck; it’s silver plates flashing with sunlight, as if ready to take off any moment.  I was both frightened and excited at the same time.  Before I could bawl him out for his erratic behavior and not getting breakfast, however, he once more tried defusing my anger.

“I know you’re upset.” He waved his hands. “I’m sorry for the way I’m acting.   It has nothing to do with you, Noel.  I’m just nervous about being on time.  I have everything planned out.  I just need to find my Uncle’s friend.” “Let’s see where is that fellow?” He muttered, shielding his eyes from the sun.

He scanned the hangar deck in back of the plane.  There were several different kind of aircraft parked inside, including a second C-54.  A handful of men in naval dungarees and shirts mulled around a wing engine, eying us with curiosity.  One third-class sailor was inspecting the tail section of the C-54 and an airman appeared to be checking the wheel well of the plane.  From an office in the rear of the hangar, I could see a third group—naval personnel in uniforms, their duffle bags on their shoulders, a few holding suitcases and other gear.  Running toward the office, as I stood there contemplating our folly, Bernie called out to someone in this group, “Lou, it’s me, Ralph’s nephew—Bernie.  We’re here for the hop to Alameda.”

The middle-aged man, who wore the stripes of a navy chief studied Bernie a moment, then jerked his thumb toward the office.  “I remember.  Go tell the flight officer you’re here Suarez.” “Not you.” He pointed to me, as Bernie charged ahead. “You look like a deer in headlights.  His uncle told me about this kid, but he said nothing about you.”

“Really?” my voice creaked up a notch. “…I don’t understand.  He said it’s all arranged.”

“Listen,” he spoke discreetly, “the navy’s pretty lax about these hops.  I served with his uncle on the Hornet.  I’m doing him a favor.   All his nephew has to do is add your names to the flight manifest; it’s as simple as that.   I want nothing more to do with this!”

I closed my eyes in disbelief.  By the time Bernie returned, the chief had disappeared.  Bernie was jumping up and down excitedly, muttering, “I thought I might get challenged and we’d have to show our ID’s, but I was wrong.  The log was on the counter, unattended, so I added both our names.  Those people really are stupid, Noel.  This is going to be a cinch!”

“It’s too simple,” I mumbled, “much too simple.  You forged my name on that log, Bernie.  What if they find out?”

“You worry too much.” He giggled madly. “We’re home free!”

As the other passengers boarded the plane, we held back politely to let the officers and legitimate enlisted men enter.  Until I entered the plane, my misgivings were at their highest level.  Bernie had a mischievous expression on his face when he called them stupid.  He rubbed his hands as if he just pulled one off, and even did a little jig.  I was certain that Bernie had done something wholly fraudulent, and I was now incriminated in the deed.  If the fake airman apprentice patches on the shoulders of our dress blues are matched with our airman recruit IDs, we would be in big trouble.  I said a prayer (something I rarely do), took a deep breath, and, as the last passenger to enter, followed Bernie into the plane.  All eyes seemed to turn our way.  I had expected to be challenged at any moment, but then, as we sat down (Bernie by a window and me next to the aisle) I heard the roar of the engines, felt the rumble of the fuselage, and looked out to see the land slip away, and our plane rise quickly off the ground. 

“Wow,” I cried, “this is awesome!”

“Your first hop?” An airman looked back and grinned.

“No,” I exclaimed, “my first flight period!”

He laughed.  We exchanged names with a handshake.  The third class sailor next to him appeared to be listening as we chatted a spell.  In fact, several heads turned our way.  To avoid controversy, I tried talking small talk with him.  When he asked me where I was stationed, however, I was caught immediately off guard.  I answered that we were heading to Barber’s Point.  It was the simple truth, and yet I heard Bernie gasp.  He had warned me about keeping my mouth shut.  If the sailor asked me for details, I would have to lie like he did.  I didn’t want to do that.  I wasn’t good at lying.  My parents realized that often enough.  So quickly, I tried changing the subject.

“That was some take off,” I commented, gazing down at earth. “How high does this thing fly?”

“The word’s elevation,” the third classman snorted. “This thing is a C-54 passenger transport.  Because this is not a pressurized compartment, we fly relatively low—not much more than ten thousand feet.”

As if to underline our discussion, a sudden up thrust of turbulence caused the compartment to rock sharply.  According to the third classman, this was the problem of prop jobs like the C-54 that fly at low elevations.  It tended to cause more airsickness than pressurized, high elevation craft.  During our chat, Bernie was deathly silent.  Though I had sounded like a greenhorn among these salts, I was thankful I had changed the subject.  Belatedly, though, a gravelly voice now erupted a few rows back: “Barber’s Point?  Did he say Barber’s Point? That’s in Hawaii. What the hell’s he doin’ at Los Alamitos?”

“Oh no,” Bernie groaned.

I expected an elbow in the ribs that moment.  I didn’t realize what our discussion and the motion of the plane was doing to him, and when he uttered “Oh no” he was going to be sick.

“In the bag, you dumb shit!” the airman cried.

“Awe Christ almighty.” The third classman slapped his forehead. “We gotta barfer.  Someone clean that up!”

Fortunately, Bernie had managed to vomit into the deck below and not on his lap.  After missing breakfast, I felt nauseated, myself, until someone arrived, mop in hand, to clean the deck below.  Raising my shoes up, I watched him slop the mop back and forth and, after dunking it a pale of water, repeat the process several times.  With my eyes closed, pinching my nostrils, I cursed the day I ever met Bernie Suarez.  For the remainder of the flight, with drooping eyes, slack jaws, and deathly pallor, he sat there moaning to himself.  When the mess was cleaned up, there was still that telltale odor in the air.  The only good thing to come out of his bout with airsickness was that it had diverted attention from our destination.  All the way to Alameda, the smell pervaded the air.  For the remainder of our journey, no one talked to us and hostile looks were cast in our direction, which was all right with me now that the subject had changed.

 

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