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Chapter Four

The Second Hop

Our trip from Oakland to Alameda Naval Air Station was conducted in cold silence. Bernie was angry with me for kissing his cousin. Uncle Dominick was angry with Bernie for barging into his life. Sitting between these two grumpy souls, I was comforted by the thought of Concepcion. And yet the adventure ahead filled with me misgivings when I considered the risks involved. We had been lucky so far, but how long would our luck last? When we arrived at the main gate again, Dominick pulled up to the curb waiting just long enough for us to retrieve our duffle bags before taking off. Once more, as we trudged into the base, I was stricken with fear. Flashing our IDs, we passed the guard on duty as quickly as possible. He was bigger and meaner looking than the night guard. Bernie looked back, worried that I would present a guilty face. I looked straight forward, a grin frozen on my face. He frowned at me and shook his head. When the guard station was safely behind us, however, his grumpiness vanished completely.

Slapping me on the back, he exclaimed, “Well, Noel, we pulled it off again. Now let’s go get some breakfast!”

“Really?” I muttered in disbelief. “This time we have time to eat?”

“Sure.” He nodded calmly. “Our plane doesn’t leave for two hours. The mess hall’s open. That’s why we had to hurry. Wait till you taste navy chow!”

Before having breakfast, it was necessary to store our duffle bags in a safe place. Bernie entered the first row of barracks, found the man on duty, and asked him to watch our gear. Except for my shaving kit and a few articles of civilian dress, there wasn’t much worth stealing in my bag. I hadn’t brought my pee coat along and the only valuable items I had were the sixteen dollars in my wallet, but Bernie didn’t trust the man on duty. Opening up his bag momentarily, he retrieved his electric razor and stuffed it into his pocket.

As we made our way to the mess hall, other sailors were heading that way too, many of them hung over like myself. The line into the hall moved slowly. The smell of bacon, sausage, eggs, and coffee revitalized my spirits. For those moments I didn’t hate Bernie. When it was our turn to grab a tray, I was dazzled by the array of breakfast items. I had never seen so much food. I decided I would stuff myself like a pig. Pancakes, scrambled eggs, bacon, sausage, hash brown potatoes, and toast were heaped on my tray, to be washed down by coffee and orange juice. Fearful he would upchuck again on the plane, Bernie selected a more conservative selection, including oatmeal, fresh cut fruit, and toast. Making up for his lack of food were the glasses of milk he drank with his meal. He guzzled down one glass after another.

I gave him a concerned look that moment. “I wouldn’t drink that much liquid, Bernie. We’ll be airborne soon. It’ll slosh around in you like a blender.”

“You shouldn’t talk,” he said, eying my tray. “At least I’m not flying on a full stomach. Besides, there’s a restroom on C-54s. I can go on the plane.”

“I wasn’t talking about pissing,” I replied through a mouthful of food. “I was talking about puking, and I don’t get airsick like you. I spent enough time on roller coasters to know that.”

“Ick!” He made. “Don’t remind me. You have no manners Noel? Don’t talk with your mouth full!”

After breakfast, we retraced our steps back to the barracks where we left our gear. Right in front of the sailor on duty, Bernie checked his duffle bag, stuffed the electric razor and cord back in, and, mumbling thanks, slung it over his shoulder and headed for the door. I thought his suspicion was ill mannered and thanked the man before exiting the barracks. All seemed to be copacetic for us, as we began searching for the terminal. With a full tummy my spirits had risen considerably in spite of Bernie’s moods. Already, he had lapsed into what I now categorize as his serious mood. I didn’t know that he was bipolar then. In fact, I’m not sure they had a word for it in 1960. But when he wasn’t giddy or grumpy, he was in a no-nonsense frame of mind with little to say. In the words of my dad, “he didn’t suffer fools.”

“Man, this place is huge,” I commented, scanning left and right. “Look at all the planes!” “One, two, three, four, five, six hangars,” I counted, “all filled with planes. Look at the ones lined up on the field!”

“I’m not ‘looking for planes or hangars,” he grumbled. “I’m looking for the terminal.”

“You mean like LAX.” I frowned. “I dunno, Bernie. That complicates things, doesn’t it? You told me it was all arranged.”

“Be quiet Noel,” he snapped, stomping his foot. “I’m trying to concentrate.”

“Well excuse me!” I frowned. “Why’re you so nervous? Are you lost?”

“I’m not lost!” he screamed. “I just can’t find it. Well you please shut up!”

“Damn it Bernie,” I shot back. “You said you had a contact. Find a phone and call him up!”

In retrospect, I would label this as one of Bernie’s grouchy moods. After pausing to pat his back pocket, a look of horror fell over his face and a fourth mood surfaced for him.

“Oh no,” he shrieked, “I lost my wallet!”

“What!” I gasped. “You lost your wallet? Good grief, Bernie. Are you sure?”

“Yes,” he gave a wounded cry. “It must have fallen out in the pickup.”

“But you showed the guard your card?”

“I keep that in my jersey pocket.” He gave me a stricken look. “You know what this means. I have to call that cranky man up again. There might not be enough time. What if it dropped out somewhere in his house? Maybe I dropped it after we entered the base: in the mess hall, in the barracks, near the guard shack, or by the main gate.” “My driver’s license was in there. ” He broke down in tears. “All my important information, including money my mom gave me. I gotta find a phone, Noel. Oh, I don’t want to call that man again. Please don’t make me do that.”

I gave him a look of disgust. “Are you crying, Bernie? I lost my wallet at school. What’s the big deal? All you need is your ID. Stop bawling. It’s not the end of the world!”

“Yes it is,” he wailed, “we have to find it. I’ll find a phone. You can talk to him this time, Noel. He likes you. He really does!”

“No, he doesn’t Bernie.” I shook my head. “He thinks I’m dumb gringo, and he thinks you’re crazy. Besides, it’s too late to call him. He won’t get here in time.” “Come on.” I motioned wearily. “Let’s go back to the last place we were at: the mess hall. Maybe when you sat down, it dropped out.”

“Well, all right.” He sniffled, rubbing his eyes. “I hope we find it.”

After searching the mess hall—a difficult task considering how many diners were still inside, we gave up. If it had fallen out there, I tried reasoning with him, someone might very well have stolen it. Our next best bet was to return the barracks where our duffle bags were left. Trudging back to the barracks, we talked to the sailor on duty. He shook his head and told us to check the lost and found. When Bernie started blubbering again, the man looked at him in amazement.

“What’s wrong with you?” he scolded. “This ain’t the Girl Scouts. Where’s your backbone? You need your Mama’s tit?”

“Bernie,” I said through gritting teeth, as I led him out of the barracks, “get a grip on yourself!”

“Everything’s ruined now,” he lamented. “I need my wallet. Where could it be?”

In utter desperation now, he opened his duffle bag and began rifling through it. I didn’t bother asking him why he was tossing his pants, shirt, and skivvies out onto the pavement. At this point, I no longer cared. I was being led by a fool. He was self-destructing right in front of me. Several enlisted men passed by us on their way to the mess hall or to their duty stations.

One third classman paused to question Bernie’s behavior. “What’s that lad doing?” he asked with a snarl.

“He lost his wallet,” I murmured.

“Hah,” he exclaimed, “looks to me like he lost his mind!”

“Bernie, stop it,” I bent over to whisper, “you’re behaving badly. You’re uncle’s right. You need help. You really do!”

“What’s that at the bottom of the bag?” he mumbled deliriously, crawling inside.

As I watched Bernie’s small body enter the duffle bad, I broke into hysterical laughter. A group of enlisted men and one navy chief had stopped to watch the show. Bernie had almost disappeared into the bag except for his calves and shoes. All eight of the men were laughing loudly now at his antics.

“Ho-ho, is this an act?” the chief asked, doubling over. “Funniest thing I ever saw!”

The other men kicked at him playfully with the toes of their shoes. More seriously, a young airman asked if Bernie was having some kind of fit, and a Marine Corporal on his way to the guard shack stopped to investigate the scene.

“Now you’ve done it!” I groaned, as he inspected the bag.

“What’s he doing in there?” He looked squarely at me. “Is he drunk or on drugs?”

“No,” I explained nervously, “he lost his wallet.”

“I found it!” came a muffled voice. “It was here all the time!”

Scooting back out, his uniform covered with lint, hair mussed, and face puffy from crying, he looked up at the corporal and grinned.

The corporal wasn’t smiling. “Are you drunk or insane?” He gave Bernie a fierce look.

“He’s upset.” I said, helping Bernie to his feet. “He lost his wallet. We’re late for our plane.”

“What plane?” The corporal searched my face. “You guys here for a hop?”

“Yes sir,” I replied foolishly. “We’re going to Hawaii.”

“I’m not a sir,” he growled. “You see bars on my shoulders?”

“No sir, I mean corporal,” I straightened my shoulders. “You look really official.”

“Official?” He made a face. “What kind of talk’s that?” “Say,” he did a double take. “You guys sound like recruits.”

I thought for sure that the jig was up. After this, I expected him to check our military ID and then compare them with our airman apprentice stripes. I was speechless, and for the first time during our caper Bernie was too. My mind was in turmoil. Silently, I prayed for deliverance. Suddenly, however, the corporal burst out laughing. I have no idea why anyone could find this amusing. In spite of my hysterical laughter, I didn’t find it funny at all. Bernie had looked utterly ridiculous, and yet his antics had provided great entertainment for the enlisted men and chief. To camouflage my terror, I joined their merriment, giggling like a buffoon. Because the corporal didn’t check our IDs proved to me once more there was a God. He swaggered away afterwards without a backward glance, chuckling under his breath. Regaining his composure, Bernie gathered up his clothes and stuffed them back into his duffle bag. Slinging the bag over his shoulder, he muttered, “Let’s go. We’ve got to hurry!”

With the greatest misgivings, I followed Bernie. Here I was hundreds of miles from home, stranded on a military base with a lunatic. I couldn’t trust him, especially now. He behaved horribly this hour and made us look guilty in front of that Marine. I wanted to go home. Despite my predicament, I decided to wait until we reached the terminal and Bernie found his contact. If it looked like he was going to incriminate us, as he almost did before, I would make a beeline for the gate. I didn’t want to wind up being court-martialed and thrown in the brig. As we approached a building close to one of the hangars, I watched his reactions closely. He acted indecisive and disoriented for several moments, as if he wasn’t sure where he was at or what he was doing. A sign over the building read in bold letters “Alameda Naval Air Terminal,” and yet he paused in front, looking this way and that, an anxious look on his face.

When I asked him if he was lost, he snapped, “Lost. Of course, I’m not lost. At Ten-thirty I’m supposed to meet someone, right here in front of this building.”

“Bernie,” I said, as he paced back and forth. “Why are you doing this on the sly? Is this legal? I want to know once and for all: are we breaking the law?”

“No!” He stomped his foot. “Why can’t you trust me? I got us this far, didn’t I? Soon, thanks to me, we’ll be on our way to Hawaii—paradise islands. You’ll be chasing hula girls and lying drunk on the beach. No one’s going to know, so stop worrying. Give me a chance!”

Certain of his duplicity that moment, I backed up a pace, did an about face, and advanced toward the main gate.

“What’re you doing?” he shrieked. “You’re leaving now, after all I’ve done? Come back here, you bastard! How dare you abandon me now! You asshole! You son-of-a-bitch!”

As enlisted men and officers walked in and out of the terminal, they glanced at Bernie. A few of them stopped to gawk, a small crowd gathered, until one a pilot, with lieutenant bars on his collar, walked over and shouted in his face, “What’s wrong with you young man?”

“Huh?” Bernie stood slack-jawed, as if awakening from a dream.

As I explained before, I came to the conclusion many years later that he was bipolar, but it was 1960. Few people were aware of this disorder, and yet an excuse for his behavior popped into my mind. What triggered it was the whine of an ambulance in the distance. Obviously there was a medical emergency somewhere on the base. I remembered a term we learned in our first meeting at Los Alamitos, when the instructor introduced us to navy jargon, tradition, and rules: section eight—a label given to mentally incompetent of disturbed military personnel. Bernie clearly fit this description.

“He’s being transferred, sir.” I explained, pointing to my head. “It’s complicated. He’ll calm down in a while. Please don’t put him on report.”

A second officer appeared that moment, probably also a pilot, trotting hastily toward the terminal. “Jim,” he called, “a technician checked it out. We got abroken hydraulic line. There’s going to be a delay.”

“Really?” Jim looked away from Bernie. “We’ve got sixteen passengers. I just checked the manifest.”

“I should report him,” he muttered to me. “That was outrageous. That guy needs help. Is he on drugs? What’s wrong with him?”

“It’s a mental thing.” I answered quickly. “He won’t do it again.”

“You’re lucky I’m in a hurry.” He turned back to Bernie. “This is the navy man, not a mental ward. Stop that sniveling. Control your filthy mouth!”

When Jim followed his friend across the tarmac toward a row of parked C-54s the thought occurred to me that they were talking about our plane. I didn’t mention this to Bernie. He was already in a bad state. I was afraid that my departure might throw him into a psychotic rage, so I just stood there in a quandary.

“You’re crazy.” I murmured.

I wasn’t sure if he even heard me. As I studied him that moment, he withdrew from me, leaving his duffle bag on the sidewalk, plopping down dejectedly on one of the benches in front of the building.

“What time is it?” he asked, staring dully into space.

“Ten-forty-five.” I answered, after checking my watch. “He’s late, isn’t he? You said, ‘No one’s going to know.’ That answered my question. What we’re doing is illegal. You’re dragging me into your plot, Bernie. I don’t want to go to prison, and neither do you. Let’s go home, okay?”

“You’re such a coward!” he groaned. “You have no guts!”

I stared at him in disbelief. “You think I’m a coward?” I spat angrily. “You whining, little crybaby! Your performance back there almost got us into a heap of trouble. You have no self-control, Bernie. You’re the one who’s a coward. My little sister’s more grownup than you!”

Once more his personality changed. I thought of Doctor Jekyll and Mister Hyde then. With his fists clinched he charged toward me. “This is all your fault!” he screamed. This time, to avoid trouble, I grabbed him by he collar and drug him away from the entrance.

“Shut up! Shut up!” I growled through gritting teeth. After shaking him soundly, I slammed him against a wall, and tried reasoning with him. “You moron; you heard that pilot. Next time, they’ll haul you away!”

“I’m sorry,” his mood shifted, “please don’t leave. I can’t go by myself. I won’t do it again. Please give me another chance!”

“Bernie,” I tried to explain, “I don’t think you can help it… I think you’re nuts!”

He shook his head vehemently. “No, no I’m not crazy. Really, Noel; I’m not. You think I’d be in the navy if I was nuts?”

“Yeah,” I replied, searching for words, “…You have many moods, Bernie. I’m sure you fooled them. Right now you’re in your ‘sorry’ mood. If I piss you off again, you’ll go bananas just like before!”

That instance, before he could respond, I heard a voice, “Bernie Suarez? Which one of you is Bernie Suarez?” Startled half of my wits, expecting an officer or the military police to challenge our presence on the base, I noted recognition in Bernie’s eyes. A smile broke his tear-stained face. When I reeled around, a swarthy, dark, squat little man in a flight suit and baseball, cap, chewing on an unlit cigar, approached us. I couldn’t tell what his rank was. Except for his attire, which indicated that he was a member of a flight crew, he barely looked navy at all.

“I’m him,” Bernie hopped forward.

He bowed, shook the man’s grimy hand, and related our mission here at Alameda Naval Air Station. The man said very little, as he lit his cigar. I knew Bernie was a liar, but I was stunned by his claim. Though he appeared jittery this time, the man nodded and there wasn’t a flicker of suspicion in his dark eyes. What came out of Bernie’s jabbering mouth was the biggest whopper of them all.

“…So you see sir,” he summed up his dilemma, “we have to reach our squadron on Barber’s point before they join the carrier group off Midway Island. It was a last minute thing. I heard you were my father’s friend in the navy. You were the only one I could turn to.”

“That’s enough!” he held up a hand. “You’re dad helped me out of a jam once. I’ll add you to the flight manifest. Go inside the terminal, and find C-54 525, fill in your name and serial numbers, and report to hangar three. We leave in fifteen minutes.”

“Oh, thank you sir,” Bernie bowed again. “You saved our lives!”

For a moment I thought he was going to kiss the man’s hand. Looking passed Bernie, he gave me a sympathetic look. “Bernie didn’t introduce me.” He smiled faintly. “My name’s Al Papas.”

“Noel, Bridger, sir” I chirped, shaking his hand.

“Just Al.” He frowned. “Take my advice.” He looked back at Bernie. “Don’t bow and click your heels. You’re an airmen apprentice, not a SS officer. And don’t grovel when you talk to someone. Give them a firm handshake and look them squarely in the eyes.”

“Yes sir—I mean Al.” He nodded vigorously.

This time Bernie reminded me of one of those bobbing head dolls on the dashboard of cars. Al Papas shook his head, laughed dryly, and trotted back to his plane. Before I could question Bernie’s latest antic, I found myself following him into the terminal to sign in. I couldn’t believe how lax the navy was. At the word of a crewman, and after simply entering our names and serial numbers on the flight manifest, we were flying to Hawaii. I should have been excited, but all I could think as I took I took my turn, was that I was committing fraud. Charging excitedly out the door, Bernie ignored my whispers, “What if they check us out? Meeting our squadron at Barber’s point? Why did you have to add that stuff about the aircraft carrier and Midway Island? What if they ask us what aircraft we’re as signed to? What if the pilot demands to see our IDs?”

These questions remained unanswered as he ran frantically to the hangar, so I repeated them, adding, as I grabbed his duffle bad strap, “Stop running Bernie. He said the plane’s leaving in fifteen minutes. That gives us plenty of time. Were you listening to me? Why would you say such a stupid thing?”

“It’s all I could think of.” He shrugged.

“Really?” I searched his face. “You could’ve left it at ‘We have to meet our squadron.’ Why’d you add that other shit?”

“I dunno,” he muttered sheepishly. “It sounded good. My dad was on a carrier. So were my uncles.”

“I don’t care, Bernie. You’re using your father’s name to break the law. What if they decide to check our orders?” “Hello!” I held my thumb and small finger up to my ear. “We don’t have any orders. When you’re sent to a new duty station, you’re supposed to have orders. If someone says they’re on an aircraft carrier, they might just check out the ship’s manifest. Our instructor covered all this in class. It’s covered the Uniform Code of Military Justice, too. Just because Los Alamitos and Alameda are careless doesn’t mean our next pilot or the duty officer at Barber’s Point are lax”

Bernie nodded curtly, but then broke away, and continued running toward the hangar. “Where’s 525?” he cried frantically. “Oh my gawd.” He slipped further into his terror

mood. “What if it’s Jim’s plane?”

“Wait a minute.” I grabbed his arm. “You mean that pilot who bawled you out?”

“Yes!” he slapped his forehead.

I had thought the same thing. Alarm returned to his eyes. Earlier in our caper he had scolded me for worrying too much. Now, with eyes wide and trembling lips, he looked as if he might start bawling again. Looking across the tarmac, I spotted C-54 525 and a trio of crewman looking on. I couldn’t see the pilot Jim in their midst but in the middle stood Al Papas.

Heaving a sigh of relief, I shook him gently. “Bernie, don’t you remember what Jim’s friend told him? That plane is grounded for repair.” “Look over there.” I pointed to 525. “That’s our crew. They’re waiting for the passengers. That includes us.”

A courier rode up on a bicycle that very moment and handed the pilot a clipboard, which I assumed was the flight manifest. A group of enlisted men and a few officers trotted out of the hangar with their duffle bags, and lined up in front of the passenger-boarding stairs. Unlike the last time at Los Alamitos when everyone entered the plane pell-mell, this would be an orderly affair. Bernie’s expression changed from abject fear to a milder form of alarm.

“Why’re those crewman standing there?” he mumbled to himself. “Why aren’t they in the plane?”

“They’re checking off names,” I explained thoughtfully. “You know, like school when the teacher calls role.”

As we got in line behind the other passengers, Bernie grew hysterical. His eyes widened again with terror and he muttered, “Oh no, Oh no,” over and over again. I could understand his fear, but I tried maintaining my cool. The first enlisted man to approach one of the men, I assumed was the pilot, raised up his ID card. The pilot checked his name off and he clonked up the stairs. This continued for three more passengers, until a first classman pulled out his dog tags and let the pilot read them.

“Did you see that Bernie?” I gave him my elbowed. “Answer me, you dumb shit. Stop talking to yourself.”

“Uh huh.” He jerked his head up and down.

“Get your dog tags ready.” I directed. “Like you told me, look straight ahead. Come on Bernie, I thought you had ice water in your veins.”

Almost instinctively, I began praying. This time it was more like a chant. I don’t remember what I said, but once more it seemed to work. I moved ahead of Bernie to set an example. When I approached the pilot, I raised my dog tags up, gave Al a petrified look, as if to say, “Save me!” and waited for the pilot to check off my name.

“These are the two lads I told you about.” Al informed him. “They’re catching a squadron at Barber’s Point.”

“Is that right young man?” the pilot raised an eyebrow.

“Yes sir,” my voice creaked.

Seeing his nod, I saluted him belatedly, held tightly onto my duffle bag strap, and began trudging light-headedly up the stairs.

“You must be Bernie Suarez.” I heard the pilot say.

Bernie mumbled, “Uh huh” again.

“I heard about your dad, Armand Suarez. He was stationed on the Hornet. That’s quite an aircraft carrier. Is that the name of your ship?”

“I’m not sure,” Bernie blurted, “our squadron’s stationed at Barber’s point. We’re going on maneuvers with a task force. It might just be the Hornet. Wouldn’t that be great?”

As I entered the plane, I was directed by a sailor to stow my duffle bag aft. He looked at me with suspicion that instant. Numb with fear, I followed his instructions, wondering if this was our moment of truth. When I heard footsteps clonking up the stairs, I looked back to see Bernie’s grinning face. Only moments ago he had been stricken with terror. Now the old Bernie was back. I could scarcely believe he pulled it off. After stowing his duffle bag, he slid in ahead me in order to grab the window seat. Our seats were midway in the passenger compartment as they had been before. Deju vu filled me as we sat there waiting for the engines to rep up.

Bending to the side he whispered to me, “If you’re going to tell a lie, lie big. I wasn’t worried anyhow with Al standing there. I think he’s the co-pilot or navigator. When we get to Barber’s Point and it’s time to go home, it’ll be much easier. We’ll just be going home for leave. Those kind’ve hops are a breeze.”

“All right, Bernie,” I exhaled. “We’ll cross that bridge when it comes. But what about your airsickness. What’re you going to do about that?”

“Maybe I won’t get it airsick this time,” he said, looking out the window. “It’s like when I’m in a car. If I can look out and see the road ahead, I’m all right.”

“That ain’t no road out there,” the man behind us informed him. “That’s sky. You see any blacktop or road signs?” “Here,” he snorted, his hand poking between our seats, “take this pill. It’ll stop the nausea. I take them all the time.”

“Is that drugs?” Bernie curled his lip.

“No,” he snapped, “its called Dramamine. It’s for motion sickness: air, car, ship, roller coaster—you name it.”

“Not drugs, eh,” he said studying the pill. “Where do you get these?”

“Any pharmacy,” he explained, shaking out a few more from this bottle. “Here take these, I have plenty.”

“You’re a very nice man.” Bernie grinned with appreciation.

Names were exchanged that moment and we shook his hand. It just so happened that First Class Mechanic Bud Workman was returning to Barber’s Point. I was certain, by the crafty look on Bernie’s face, this was good news. He had found one more contact to meet his ends. After taking one of the Dramamines and slipping the others into his jersey pocket, he sat back and waited for the pill to take effect. I would learn later that Bernie took two more just to be sure. As I listened to the engines rep up and felt the fuselage tremble, I saw him tense up and roll his eyes, and slowly, after a half hour of flight, relax, and fall finally sleep. A snore rattled out of his infantile face. I settled back myself, and, trying to keep my conversation to the level of small talk, chatted with Bud and the other passengers nearby. This time I managed to steer the subject to Bud’s long career in the navy. Bud, like Bernie’s father, was stationed on the USS Hornet CVS-12. He joined in 1951 during the Korean War and his carrier task force provided bombing runs against the Communists in North Korea. When I asked him if he knew Armand Suarez, who was also stationed on the Hornet, he scratched his chin, thought a moment, and then raising forward in his seat, studied Bernie a moment.

“That must be his son.” He laughed wryly. “I remember that man’s name. How many Armand Suarez’s do you meet in one lifetime? He was once on my ship, the Hornet. It’s a small world we live in, isn’t it?”

“Yes, it surely is.” I rolled my eyes in wonder. “A chief knew him at Los Alamitos. One of the crewmen at Alameda also knows him. I can’t believe that you know him too!”

“Did that fellow at Los Alamitos or the crewman tell you anything about Armand?”

“No,” I shook my head. “Bernie told me a few things, though. The story’s always the same: he was a World War Two hero on the Hornet, and he was killed after the war.”

“Ho-ho,” Bud laughed softly, “told you that, did he? Maybe that’s what his mother told him. I don’t know about him being a hero; that was before I enlisted. When the Japanese started their Kamikaze raids there were a lot of heroes; that’s what I heard. Not all of them got medals. I was only an airman apprentice when I met Armand, but you couldn’t forget a guy like that. He was a real loud mouth. I remember catching sight of him in Honolulu. I was with my buddies in this bar listening to him telling about his exploits and narrow escapes—Japanese planes attacking, shooting down Kamikazes, and the fire brigades. Everyone on ship knew and liked Armand, even green horns like us. He got shore duty before we set sail, but I saw him again at Barber’s Point. He was a chief mechanic then, still friendly, still loud, always ready to tell a tale…. I don’t know what he’s doing now.… So why would your friend say he was killed?”

“What are you saying?” I gasped. “He’s not dead? Armand Suarez’s alive?”

“Oh yes.” He chortled. “He’s alive all right—at least the last time I saw him.”

“That’s incredible.” I exclaimed. “Do you work with him at Barber’s Point?”

“No,” he sighed, “I live in Oakland. I’m returning from leave. The Enterprise, my new ship, is in Pearl. We’re going into dry dock up in Washington.” “Say,” he commented, peeking over the seat, “it’s a good thing he’s a sound sleeper. That Dramamine did the trick!”

“Yeah.” I studied Bernie. “How long does it last?”

“Depends.” He shrugged his shoulders. “If you’re already tired, maybe a few hours. It’s better than being sick all the way.” “Hey,” his voice lowered, “why would he believe his father’s dead? Sounds like he’s really proud of his dad. There’s something strange about that!”

“I agree.” I raised an eyebrow. “The question is ‘Do I tell him?’… All this time he thought his father was dead, he was alive, still in the navy, and stationed at the very place we’re going to now. How coincidental is that?

“I wouldn’t tell him,” Bud gave me conspiratorially look. What’s that old saying? Ah yes: ‘Let sleeping dogs lie.’”

For the remainder of the flight, I listened to the chatter of the passengers and Bernie’s snoring, wondering if I should take Bud’s advice. Remembering a name Bernie mentioned, I asked him if he had ever heard of a Ralph at Barber’s Point. Bud told me he knew several Ralphs but none in Hawaii. A notion grew in my mind as we approached our destination: In addition to his stepfather and his father, whom he never knew, Bernie had a lot of uncles. There were Uncle Dominick, Uncle Ralph, and Uncle Raul, who introduced Bernie to tequila. Where there other uncles too? At that point in my life, I didn’t understand what that might imply. It confused and troubled me, and yet like a dim bulb rising in intensity, I sensed the meaning. Had his mother been a woman of ill repute? I thought about this attractive woman and her pleasant disposition and found this difficult to believe. The implications, though they might be circumstantial, seemed branded in my skull. My most troubling thought, however, was that Armand Suarez was alive. Considering Bernie’s claim that his father was dead, this revelation was shocking. Had his mother, as Bud suggested, told him this? Why would she do such a wicked thing? If she hadn’t told Bernie his father was dead, where did he get such an idea?… Poor Bernie… Bud was right: let sleeping dogs lie.”

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