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Chapter Six

 

Hitting the Beach

 

 

 

As Bernie slinked off into the sleeping area, I finished shaving, returned to the locker assigned to me, dressed in a pair of jeans and sporty shirt, and stuffing my wallet in my back pocket, grabbed my lightweight jacket, and, to show Bernie I meant business, trotted swiftly out of the barracks toward the main gate.  I was upset and yet excited by what I was doing, but as I approached the guard, I slowed down to almost a crawl.  There was a slight chill in the air, so I slipped on my jacket, dug my fists into my pockets, and, with my collar up, moved cautiously like a felon toward the gate.  I looked around to see if Bernie was following, but he was nowhere in sight.  Fortunately for me, there were several other servicemen in civvies scurrying out of the gate, so I joined them as if I was one of the group.  I didn’t even bother flashing my ID.   Exhilarated by this feat, I pumped the air with my fist and stood with the other men at the bus stop in front of the base.  I immediately introduced myself to the men, who responded indifferently, looking upon me as an outsider.  I judged by their close-cropped haircuts they might be Marines.  That might explain their attitudes.  In general, however, it seemed that Barber’s Point was an unfriendly place.  Looking back, I have concluded that it was the fact that I broadcasted, by my demeanor, that I was greenhorn that rubbed some of the enlisted men wrong.  For Bernie, who was also immature, it was even worse.  I should have been happy to be rid of him as I waited for the bus, but I felt only guilt.  I couldn’t put into clinical terms back then, as to how unbalanced he seemed.  I wasn’t quite sure he was really nuts, but I was certain he shouldn’t be in the navy. 

When the bus to Honolulu arrived, I stood there by the bus stop, as the Marines climbed up the steps, tempted to join them on the bus.  What stopped me cold was not merely the pity I felt for Bernie but the realization that he was my ticket home.  He, not me, knew Uncle Ralph, who appeared to be our only hope.

“Get in mister,” the bus driver snapped.

“I’m waiting for my friend,” I replied morosely. “What time does the next bus arrive?”

“It runs every two hours,” he answered, shutting the door.

Just as the bus took off, I heard Bernie shouting as he ran from the gate.  He ran as fast as he could, but he was much too late.  I was furious at him, and yet I kept my tongue.  I was afraid now for his mental state.  If he couldn’t get a hold of his Uncle Ralph, we would be stranded.  The possibility that he exaggerated the influence of his contact loomed large in my mind.  I had to keep Bernie’s head clear of fear and gloom.  How he could be homesick so soon during our caper and why he kept losing control were a mystery to me.  Things were not that bad yet.  Given the assurance by him that we would have a flight Monday, it was merely a waiting game.  Until we left the base, we were safe and sound at Barber’s Point.  Perhaps, the thought of this exploit was troubling to Bernie.  Neither one of us had ever been away from home on our own, but that was exactly how it would be on active duty.

“We have to wait for the next bus,” I informed him coldly. “That’s at least two hour away.  Have you ever hitched a ride?”

“Good grief no,” he shivered.

“Bernie,” I observed, “you’re wearing your pee coat.”

“I didn’t bring a jacket,” he replied sheepishly.

“Why not?” I placed my hands on my hips. “We’re supposed to look like civilians.  What else did you forget?”

“…Money,” he said in a small voice.

“What?” I yelped. “You didn’t bring money?  You dumb shit!  I only have sixteen dollars.  You said you had money in your wallet.  That was another lie Bernie.  How’re we going to have a good time on just my money?  We still have Sunday and Monday to go.  How many six packs do you think sixteen dollars is going to buy?”

“I don’t drink,” he said petulantly. “Why should I let you use my money?”

“The fact that you don’t drink,” I reasoned with him, “doesn’t mean I can’t drink.  We could’ve pooled it together.  That’s what friends are for.”

“Really?” He gave me a dull look. “Am I your friend?”

I started to answer him but bit my lip.  I wasn’t sure Bernie was my friend.  He certainly was a nuisance.  The sun was just setting in the western sky.  There was just enough daylight before reaching town.  With sudden inspiration, I began walking ahead of him down the boulevard with my thumb outstretched.

“What’re you doing?” he shrieked. “I’m not hitch-hiking.  We’re supposed to wait for the bus!”

“I’m not waiting two hours for that damn bus.  I checked my watch after that bus came.  By the hourly schedule that driver gave me it was a half hour late.  Buses are always late!  I calculate our wait to be more like two and half hours.  Besides, I’m saving my money.  You take the bus if you want, Bernie.  I’m hitch-hiking to Honolulu.” 

Bernie screamed obscenities I had only heard my dad utter.  This was, of course, a test.  If he didn’t follow me and called my bluff, I’d have to stay behind with him.  As it turned out, however, as I stood by the road in the classic hitch-hiker position, a car pulled over ahead of me.  For a moment I panicked.  I looked back, as I trotted to the ramshackle vehicle, and saw Bernie still standing by the bus stop, fuming with rage.

The 1948 Chevrolet station wagon was filled with native Hawaiians, who were in high spirits.  I know now, after reflection, that the natives were understandably annoyed with sailors and Americans in general, for corrupting their culture.  They certainly didn’t appreciate servicemen getting their women pregnant.  At that time in my life, though, I knew nothing of this danger.  I didn’t even know yet that they were drunk.  Placing pressure on me to make a decision (did I go or did I stay?), the driver got out and yelled at me: “Come on sailor boy, we ain’t got all day!”

“Can I bring my friend,” I shouted. “Please wait.  I’ll go get him.”

“You be hurrying boy,” he warned me. “I not be waiting long!”

Running back to the bus stop, I pleaded with Bernie, “Bernie these nice men are going to take us to town.  It’s our chance to see Honolulu.”

“No,” he said, folding his arms, “I’m waiting for a bus.  You can go by yourself, and you can also find your own way home!”

Something momentarily snapped in my head.  Bernie was sabotaging our trip.  I did an about face, retracing my steps back to the station wagon.

“I’ll find my own way home!” I shouted back at him. “If I get caught, I’ll blame it all on you!”

Glancing back as I reached the car, I could see Bernie throwing a tantrum, screaming, “I hate you!  I hate you!” at the top of his lungs.  It seemed as if I would be going it alone, and then, as I squeezed into the middle seat beside a huge Polynesian fellow holding an open bottle of spirits, a voice rang out that sounded possessed.  After a flurry of obscenities I didn’t know Bernie was capable of, he bellowed, “Wait! Wait! Please wait!”  The station wagon had already pulled from the curb but stopped in the road, allowing Bernie to catch up.

 “That haole crazy!” the drive exclaimed.

“Oh, he’s harmless enough,” I said light-headedly. “He’s just weird.”

“Oh thank you!” Bernie muttered deliriously, as he began climbing in.

The driver looked over the seat with a snarl on his chubby face. “You be sitting in back seat!”

Struggling to a place between two hefty Hawaiians, Bernie parked himself in uneasy silence.  I kept my mouth shut, too, as the station wagon sped down the road.  I didn’t know that a rickety old 1950 station wagon could go so fast.  I realized that moment that the five Hawaiians in the vehicle were all very drunk.  I had, in my haste for adventure, placed Bernie and myself in great danger.  All I could think of now was to abort the mission and talk the driver into letting us out of his car. 

The driver looked back with a mischievous grin. “You afraid sailor boy?”

“Yes sir,” I croaked nervously. “Please drop us off by the road.”

“That bad idea boy.” The man next to me slapped my knee. “It dark out there.  We taking you to Ewa Beach.”

“Is that near Honolulu?” I asked, looking back at Bernie.

“Ho-ho-ho!” the driver broke into merriment. “He want to go to Honolulu.  He think that be Hawaii.” “Listen sailor boy, you want to see real Hawaiians, you go to Ewa, not Honolulu.  You want to see American Indians, you don’t go to big city, you go to reservation.  Ewa be like reservation.”

The station wagon had slowed down a little, but not enough to make me feel comfortable.

“We wanted to have fun,” I said glancing again at Bernie, who was too frightened to speak.

“Here, you want fun, you need some of this.” The man next to me waved his bottle in front of my nose.

“No thanks.” I shuddered.

I remember my father’s scotch, which had a distinctive smell and passable flavor.  I also recalled another alcoholic odor, which I smelled that moment: wine.  My Uncle Roy was a wino.  I hated wine.

“You being unfriendly sailor boy.” The driver said glaring into his rearview mirror.

“No, I-I’m not unfriendly,” I sputtered. “Really, I’m not.  I eat pineapples, cocoanuts, and pork.  Some of my best friends are Hawaiians.  I saw From Here to Eternity four times!”

I still can’t believe I said such a thing.  I didn’t know any better, of course, but they didn’t know that.  There was dead silence in the station wagon as the five men thought about what I blurted, and then, to my relief, they all burst into laughter.  By now, Bernie had begun gibbering fearfully to himself, “I want out of this car, I want out of this car!” over and over, until it was almost a mantra.  As I scanned the landscape on each side of us, I knew we weren’t going to Honolulu.  Judging by what one of the men said, we were going to Ewa, if we weren’t already there.  Now that Hawaii was a state I expected to see a few gas stations and restaurants.  There were, however, dimly lit houses and storefronts, that were, as I reflect, typical of late nineteenth and early twentieth century American occupation. 

The driver stopped laughing and in a serious tone said, “So that is what this haole thinks we Hawaiians are: pineapple, coconut, and pork eating natives doing hula and playing ukuleles.”

“Well…no.” I swallowed. “It’s what they show on TV and the big screen.”

“That one in back be crazy,” he growled, “but you haoles all the same.  You come here thinking we all a bunch of coconut chuckers, with no brains in our heads, standing below palm trees with big happy grins.” 

“That’s not true!” I cried. “Where are you taking us?  Let us out.  We’ve never done you harm!”

That moment, as he playfully accelerated, Bernie’s frozen terror thawed enough for him to shriek, “Let me-e-e out!” and then an ear-shattering scream: “AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!”

“Okey-dokey,” the driver piped, “we let you out!”

At that point, he brought the station wagon to a screeching halt.  The doors flew open, and Bernie and I scrambled out of the car. 

“What’re we going to do here?”  I asked looking out into the darkness. 

“I dunno,” he replied in a cavalier voice, “mebbe you go see a movin’ pitcher show or find Hawaiian wahine.  You be in our city now!”

No sooner had we exited the station wagon than it sped away, the driver calling out jubilantly, “we go to Honolulu now, find haole whores.  You can walk back to base!”

“What did we ever do to them?” Bernie wept bitter tears.

“I don’t know,” I said, badly shaken, aware that Bernie was far worse.

They had, in fact, let us off on the beach.  A sign ahead read Ewa Beach.  Only a few dim street lamps highlighted the road ahead.  The clouds covered the moon, its lunar sheen sparkling faintly on the sea.  The silhouettes of trees lining the highway were penetrated by twinkling lights of Hawaiian homes.  Except for the Pacific Ocean in front of us, the landscape was quite unfriendly.  It was no place for a haole.

“Well,” I said, slapping Bernie’s shoulder, “we’re on the beach!

“What?” Bernie cried hoarsely. “You think this is funny.  This is all your fault Noel. We could’ve taken the bus.  So we arrive in Honolulu later; at least we wouldn’t be lost in the middle of nowhere.”

I expected another volley of profanity from Bernie, but he was beyond mere anger.  I looked straight ahead, but I heard him weeping softly to himself.

“We’re stranded.” He simpered. “We’ll never get back to base.”

“Yes we well.  It’s not that far back to the main highway.  If we can’t get a ride, we’ll walk back.”

That remark caused Bernie to weep more loudly.  After a short spell, he stopped blubbering.  We walked on in silence then until reaching the beach.  As I looked at the intersecting road, I saw a wondrous sight: a liquor store.  In fact, it read simply Liquor.  It was probably were the Hawaiians bought their wine.  I decided I was going to get smashed.   

“Come on Bernie,” I beckoned, “the proprietor of that store might help us.”

The help he would give us would be selling us a six-pack of beer, but I didn’t tell Bernie that.  Bernie’s only concern was getting back to the base, but the issue now was getting drunk.  After strolling up to the small liquor store, the best lit building in this dreary town, I walked in and struck up a conversation with the man behind the counter, coming straight to the point.

“Hello, my names Noel Bridger.  This man’s Bernie Suarez.  We were unexpectedly abandoned here by five men.  Is there a bus arriving in this town?”

 “You in the wrong place,” the short balding Hawaiian replied grimly. “This ain’t no place for haoles, especially kids.”

“Do you have bus service?” I pressed.

“No busses in Ewa this time of night.” The man frowned.

“Oh no,” Bernie wailed, “we’re screwed!”

As he began sobbing again, the man shook his head with disgust.  Once again, I was embarrassed by his behavior.

“How old he be?” The man snarled. “He wearing a navy pea coat, but act like crybaby!”

“Bernie,” I said through gritting teeth, “stop it!”
            “Maybe you should call Taxi,” the man suggested sarcastically.

“Yes-yes.” Bernie nodded tearfully.

“Do they even run in this neck of the woods?” I looked at him hopefully.

Again, in my ignorance, I made a stereotypical statement. The man made a face, shook his head, and waved at us as if he was swatting at flies.  I was conflicted now.  My intent in entering the liquor store was to buy beer, but I was also concerned about getting back to the base. 

“No taxi, no bus,” he made shooing motions. “You buy something or go way!”

“You heard the man.” I turned to Bernie. “Let’s buy us a six pack and hit the beach.”

Without further adieu, I walked over to the cooler, opened the door, and selected a beer I saw advertised on television.  The price below the six-pack of Schlitz was 4.99, which left me, minus taxes, twelve dollars.  After quickly calculating in my head, I realized that this would only leave three beers for each of us, so I added a quart of cheap beer, which costs 1.50.  With tax added in this would still leave me nine dollars, enough for at least two six packs for tomorrow. When I presented it to the man, he held out his hand.  For a moment, I thought he wanted a driver’s license, which I didn’t have, so I fished into my wallet to retrieve my military ID.  I had no idea what was printed on this document.  I rarely ever looked at it.  Hopefully, it would indicate my birth date, which would show that I was eighteen years old.  It would have been safer to have Bernie buy the beer, since he had a driver’s license.  But Bernie stood back, frowning with disapproval at what I was doing. 

“That will be six dollar and eight-nine cents,” the man snorted.

“Splendid!” I handed over a twenty-dollar bill.

Heaving a pent up sigh, I paid the man, placed the remainder of my money back in my wallet and pocket, and led Bernie hastily out of the store.  Back home, this feat would have been impossible.  I doubt if that man even cared about such details.  Despite the dilemma we were in, I felt delighted about this accomplishment.  To add to my euphoria was a path alongside of the seaside liquor store, leading to the ocean.  Although there were no girls on the beach, we at least had our booze.  The moon had broken through the clouds.  The distant street lamps by the road and lunar radiance provided all the light we needed.  The surf and wet sand glistened, as one gentle wave after another gently broke.  Removing my shoes and socks, tying the laces together after stuffing my socks into my pockets, I hung my shoes around my neck, and walked barefoot in the sand.  Bernie hung back dejectedly, muttering to himself.  Because he was no longer cursing me under my breath, I saw this as a good sign, and yet I pretended to ignore him, as I stopped at a likely spot, plopped down, and began drinking my beer.  As I quickly chugalugged the first beer, I felt a buzz in my head.  A warm tingly feeling in my body followed after I finished it and started on my second can.  I had never been intoxicated before.  It was an exhiliarating experience.  By now Bernie had arrived at my spot, eying me disdainfully.

Because of what he had said to me earlier, I couldn’t justify my drunken feeling to him.  All I could think of saying was, “Yum, this is delicious!”

For a moment, as I worked on my second beer, he studied me closely, knelt down finally in the sand, and reached over to pull a can from the carton.  I could scarcely believe he caved in that easily.  Popping the can open, he sipped it, and then made a face. 

“Ick!” he said, spitting it out, “this tastes like piss!”

“Bernie,” I chided him, “you haven’t even tried.  You never tasted piss.  That would make you a pervert!” “Here, give me that,” I said, pulling it out of his hands and then handing him the quart. “This bottle is high quality booze, Bernie.  I’ll drink the Schlitz.  You can have the good stuff—native brew.”

“Really?” He wrinkled his nose. “Hawaiian Lightning?  I never heard of it, Noel.  What kind of name is that?  You sure it’s beer?”

“No,” I answered truthfully, “maybe it’s something better.  Why don’t you try it?”

Carefully unscrewing the lid, Bernie delicately raised the bottle to his lips in an experimental manner, took a sip, and nodded.  More quickly this time, he raised the bottle up again. “This one’s sweet,” he exclaimed, after a longer swig. “It’s much better!”

I was pleased that Bernie had given in.  Though curious to try the cheap beer, I decided to make it Bernie’s share.  Snickering with mirth, I watched Bernie take big gulps from the bottle.  Meanwhile, I finished up my second can, and popped open a third.

“You know something Bernie,” I exclaimed, after a long swig, “we’re gonna have fun.  I promish you.  What do you think of Hawaii now?”

“I shink ish wunnerful!” he replied, wiping his mouth.

I couldn’t believe it.  He was already drunk.  He had drained over half of the bottle.  Reaching out, I snapped my fingers. “Hey, lemme see that!” I said, grabbing the container.

In the moonlight, I read the label, but I couldn’t read the fine print, so I tried it myself.  Immediately, I realized my mistake.  It must have been in the wrong place in the cooler; it certainly wasn’t beer.  I should have paid closer attention to the label.  It had a sweet taste, but it wasn’t wine—the only other liquor I was familiar with.  When I was a child we lived next door to an Italian family, who left out a bottle of table wine on the kitchen table.  I also tried it once at my Uncle Roy’s house, where I had once again been introduced to its the nasty taste.  This wasn’t it.  In fact, it wasn’t half bad.  Not wanting to upset Bernie, I returned the bottle to him and continued drinking my beer.  We chatted, as drunken men do, about silly things that hour.  At one point in a whiny voice (the proverbial drunk crying into his glass), Bernie lamented that we would probably be stranded, but then characteristic of my associate, his mood changed, and he exclaimed, “Shay thish is grade shtuff.  Led’s go ged some more!”

 I was, including the can of beer Bernie had snubbed, on my fifth can, giggling at the absurdity of it all.  Here was Bernie, normally prudish and uptight, asking for more booze. Undoubtedly, after finishing the stronger container of spirits, he was more drunk than I.  He was saying all sorts of things, and, at one point, did a little jig in the sand.  Giggling at the absurdity of it all, I handed him the last beer.  Before he had a chance to try it again, however, he became sick.  I was certain this might leave him in a miserable state and change his mood, but this time he wiped his mouth off, grinned, and reached for the unopened can.

“Gimme, gimme.” He flexed his little fingers.

“You sure you wanna do this?” I watched him pop it open and guzzle it down.

“Thishnodsobad!” he said between gulps.

It took him about three minutes to empty the can.  I could barely understand him now after he drained the can.  “Yeowww!” he let out a war hoop. “Yrnodsobadnoel…IthingIligeu… Thangsfrthebooze! 

I was a little concerned now.  After he collapsed on the sand, as I expected he would after drinking so much, I had the presence of mind to stagger across the beach close enough to the lamplight to scan the label.  Even in my current state, I was stunned by what I read: Okolehao Liqueur…80 proof  “Ohmagawd!” I groaned.  It was a wonder he was even still alive.  It was most fortunate that he had purged himself of this evil drink, but I was still fearful that he might never wake up.  Running back to where Bernie lie unconscious, I fell on all fours, and shook him violently.  To my great relief, he stirred, and his tongue rolled thickly in his mouth.

            “Wayuwagmeup!” he muttered.

“Shorry,” I said, patting his head. 

We weren’t going to make it back to the base tonight.  I was just glad he was all right.  Despite my drunken state of mind, I felt protective of Bernie.  There was no telling what would happen to him if I abandoned him here.  Considering his fragile nature and the way he behaved at Alameda and Barber’s Point, he was like a child who needed constant watching.  It was, of course, just as well we stayed put.  This would be a dangerous place to travel in at night.  I looked at my watch, but once again, the moon had disappeared behind the clouds.  Bernie was right about one thing, I thought lying down beside him.  Until tomorrow when we had slept it off and had daylight to navigate our way back, we would be stranded in Ewa.  In a short while, as I watched the moon part between the clouds, I was fast asleep myself.  Two drunken sailors now lie on the beach in one of the darkest pockets of the island.

 

******

We awakened the next morning with several native Hawaiians glaring down at us.

“What you haoles doing on dis beach?” A tall, wiry youth challenged, giving Bernie a kick.

“Wa-was wrong?” I stammered, my head ringing like a gong.

“What’s wrong sailor boy?” a second, corpulent fellow with tattoos all over his body sneered. “What’s wrong is you stinkin’ haoles!”

Jumping up upon shaky legs, I made an attempt at being friendly.  I introduced myself and my sleeping friend and received blank stares that turned into frowns when I tried explaining why we were on their beach.

“We’re new in Hawaii.  It was dark last night. We didn’t know it was a private beach.” 

“You had you selves a party, eh haole?” A third youth, with a beard and shell necklace, stepped forward.

The remainder of the eight Hawaiians joined in the taunting.  Encircled by them, I watched them playfully jostle Bernie with their bare feet.  Awakening finally, Bernie reacted sluggishly, looking around as if he didn’t know where he was.

“Wha-a they want?” he asked me fearfully.

“We want you haoles off our beach!” the first native cried.

“Okay, okay, we’re leaving,” I held out my hands. “Come on Bernie,” I beckoned, “let’s hit the road!”

It was an unreasonable attempt, considering the condition we were in.  Nevertheless, under the circumstance, we had to try.  Helping the trembling Bernie to his feet, I grabbed his soiled pea coat, which he had used as a pillow, and escorted him slowly from the scene.  I was thankful the gang hadn’t beaten us up, but we were not out of the woods yet.  Behind us we left six beer cans and an empty liquor bottle.  I might have been embarrassed about this if the area wasn’t already strewn with cans and trash.

“Go haole pigs,” the ringleader shouted, “or maybe we cut off your balls!”

Bernie was whimpering.  I pleaded with him not to start bawling.  That’s all we needed to have them see that.  The morning sun was blinding.  By the time we reached the road, after pulling Bernie along, I felt as if I was going to drop.  I could imagine how poor Bernie felt.  My stomach ached, I thought my head might explode, and my legs felt like dead weights.  As we staggered back down the side road toward the main boulevard leading through this town, I prayed again—this time for deliverance.  I didn’t care about anything except getting back to the safety of the base.

Suddenly, a car passed by us, and, slowing down directly ahead, pulled off to the side of the road.  A man of medium height and build wearing a Marine uniform stepped out and began walking toward us.  I thought surely this time that we were finished.  Here was the symbol of authority in my mind—a tough no nonsense Marine guard.  When he stood in front of us, I realized that he was a native Hawaiian.  I wasn’t sure if this was a good thing or a bad thing, but at least it was different.  Then, when I focused upon the advancing Marine, I realized he wasn’t another gate guard at all.  I could see two bars on each shoulder, indicating that he was a full lieutenant.  This discovery was so alarming, I could scarcely talk.

“You boys lost?” he asked, shielding his eyes from the sun.

            “Bernie,” I whispered shrilly, “let me do the talking!”

The only vestige of our military status had been Bernie’s pea coat, which he carried under his arm.  My first instinct was to pretend that we were simply haole youths, in the wrong place at the wrong time.  We must have looked really young.  He had called us boys, not sailors or, in navy parlance, lads.  Unfortunately, Bernie failed to comply and immediately blurted out our dilemma.

“We need to get back to the base,” he said hoarsely. “Can you give us a ride?”

I expected him to challenge us with something like, “Name, rank, serial number!” but a smile broke his stony face.

“You boys tied one on, eh?” He laughed softly. “Where you stationed?”

I drew a complete blank.  Bernie, however, promptly replied, “We’re supposed to meet our squadron on the USS Hornet.”  I wanted to strangle Bernie.  I thought I might pass out.  Surely, he would challenge that claim.  Instead, he raised an eyebrow, scratched his jaw, and then led us to his car.  I remembered Bernie telling me that if you’re going to lie, lie big.  That never worked for me, though.  I left all the lying to him.  After all that crybaby stuff, there were still times when he had ice water in the veins.  As the Marine lieutenant drove us to Barber’s Point, he gently scolded us. 

“What’re you boys doing in Ewa?” he asked, as we climbed into the car.

“We were exploring the island,” Bernie explained. “I guess we drank too much.”

“You picked a bad time to visit this town,” he replied, frowning into his rearview mirror.

“After the incident last month, haoles are persona non gratis here.”

            “What’s persona non gratis?” Bernie wrinkled his nose.

            “It’s means you’re not welcome here,” he clarified. “It’s a wonder those boys didn’t beat you up!”

            “Sir,” I found my voice, “why do they hate us here?”

            “It’s just Ewa,” he said thoughtfully, “not the rest of Hawaii.  Last month, a native Hawaiian girl in Ewa claimed that sailors had raped her.  It wasn’t the first incident.  We’ve had trouble in the past.  The men were never caught, which made the people of Ewa even angrier.  You two were lucky you didn’t get roughed up.”

            “Well that explains it,” I looked over at Bernie. “Do you live here sir?”

            “No.” He shook his head. “I was visiting my parents.  My Father’s ill.  Your fortunate I was driving by.”

            “I’m sorry your dad’s sick.” I chimed. “Are you stationed at Barber’s Point?”

            “No,” he replied genially. “I command the Marine detachment on the Enterprise berthed at Pearl.”

            “What?” Bernie tensed up. “You’re not going to Barber’s Point?”

            “It’s on the way,” he reassured us. “I’ll drop you off at the gate.”

            I was so delighted I could scarcely speak.  Bernie was so relieved he sat there gibbering to himself.  To prevent him from saying anything more foolish, I elbowed him in the ribs and whispered from the corner of my mouth, “Shut up!”

Because we would be dropped off by a Marine officer, I was certain we wouldn’t be challenged.  Though we both had a hangover and wanted to crawl away somewhere and take a nap, we exited the officer’s car in relatively high spirits.  I thanked our savior profusely as he pulled up to the passenger’s zone.  Seeing that the guard had spotted our driver, Bernie charged ahead, without a backward glance.

“Bernie, slow down,” I called, trotting after him. “Let’s stop by the barracks and shower first.” 

“Not me,” he called over his shoulder, as we approached the guard. “I’m famished.  Let’s go eat.”

“You dumb shit!” I shouted. “We gotta be in uniform for that.  Show the man your ID.”

Raising his card just in time, as he slowed down, Bernie flashed a mischievous grin at the guard.  I greeted the stone-faced Marine with a cheery hello.  When we were a safe distance from the guard shack, I scolded Bernie for his foolishness, but he seemed delirious.  I decided that moment to let him run ahead.  They would stop him cold when he tried to enter the mess hall in civvies.  I stopped in at the barracks to shower, shave, and put on my uniform.  Bernie, who had second thoughts when he regained his wits, entered the barracks as I was exiting the shower.  Slowing down a pace, I let him catch up with me.  While I dressed, he took a quick shower, threw on his civvies, and followed me to the mess hall.  Though he complained of a headache and queasy stomach, he was calm and in an upbeat mood when we stood in the breakfast line waiting our turn.   For breakfast I chose bacon, eggs, hash browns, toast, and stack of pancakes, and, from the decanter, poured myself a steaming cup of navy coffee.  Bernie, despite his hunger, thought I was behaving like a pig, and decided upon oatmeal with raisins, cut fruit, toast, and his old standby milk.

As we ate breakfast, Bernie remained in a tranquil mood.  His darting brown eyes, which always seemed sneaky, rolled this way and that as he munched.  Much like children do at the table, he hummed faintly as he chewed, ignoring me completely at if I wasn’t there.  I thought he might bring up our fiasco after leaving the base, but he said nothing, which was fine with me.  I had my own thoughts to ponder.  Overriding even my goal to visit Honolulu, was my concern that we might be stranded at Barber’s Point.  As if he read my mind, Bernie’s first words at the table were, “I’ve got to call my uncle.”

            “I agree,” I nodded vigorously. “First thing!  We should have that settled before we hit the beach.”

            “Hit the beach?” He wrinkled his nose. “You’ve said that before, Noel.  What if you’re not going to the beach?  I would say, ‘going into town.’  That makes more sense.”

            “Bernie,” I chided him good-naturedly, “weren’t you paying attention in class.  I heard our instructor say that.  It’s what all sailors say, no matter where they go on liberty.  Liberty—there’s another navy word.  It’s when sailors are in town having fun, like we’re gonna do. You gotta talk the talk and walk the walk, Bernie.  I’m going to learn all of the nautical words!”  

           

 

******

Nodding faintly, Bernie chewed lazily on a piece of toast.  I hoped I had given him food for thought that moment, but I could never be certain he was listening.  He continued humming absentmindedly to himself, gazing dully into space, as if he was in another world.   Bernie was in for a rude awakening, I thought, shoveling in a mouthful of eggs.  I was convinced more than ever of this.  If he wasn’t mentally ill, as I had suspected, he was a delicate and fragile soul who needed protection against the world.  At first, he appeared to have ice water in his veins, his ability to fool naval personnel convincing even me, but now, after observing him awhile, I was filled with doubts.  Bernie’s true character was surfacing.  When angry, he lost control.  When stressed, he broke down into tears.  After his meltdown at Alameda, he no longer inspired my confidence.  My confidence had gone down hill ever since.  Nevertheless, despite how much he irritated me, I felt sorry for him.  Somehow, though I couldn’t find the proper words back then, I sensed that Bernie was broken.  Of course, he wasn’t born broken.  If he was fortunate, his emotional cracks might even heal, but not here.  The navy was no place for him.  His behavior at Los Alamitos, Alameda, and Barber’s Point had proven that.  Because of the lies fed to him as a child, he lived in a make-believe bubble that might burst at anytime.  Knowing what I do, I could burst his bubble.  There were a few times, when I was irritated, I was tempted to tell him the truth.  I was sick of hearing about his dad.  But I didn’t have the heart to tell him that he was still alive.  Mentally, Bernie had painted a rosy picture of his father.  Until I talked to Bud Workman and some of the other passengers, I could envision Armand firing an anti-aircraft gun and saving his shipmates, as Bernie claimed, similar to those characters in World War Two movies who performed super-human feats.  Even though it was hard to believe Armand performed all those acts, I wanted to give him the benefit of the doubt.  Yet the picture Bud and the others left in my mind was of a loud-mouthed braggart who loved telling tall tales.  My uncles, cousins, and grandfather had never talked about the war.  My Uncle Roy, who was haunted by his experiences, had become a wino, and yet, even when he was drunk, never talked about the war.  After the feedback I got from men who knew Armand Suarez and considering the tight-lipped responses I got from my uncles, cousin, and grandfather, I doubted his stories.  I just hoped Bernie didn’t meet him on the base and, if he did bump into him, recognize who he was.  He said he had a picture of his father in his wallet, but he could have made this up too.  He might not even be able to recognize him on sight.  I wished Bud had never told me about that man.  After the doubt I heard in his voice and the vague recollections the other men had of him, I knew that he was right.  I was left with the impression that Armand Suarez wouldn’t live up to his son’s expectations, which was a good reason to follow Bud’s advice and let sleeping dogs lie. 

I’m not sure I ever really liked Bernie, but I felt responsible for him now.  That day when his mother dropped us off at Los Alamitos Naval Air Station, I could read her expression.  I knew she wanted me to take care of him.  Though I had been impressed with her friendliness and warmth—not to mention her good looks, I had mixed feelings about her now.  She had been so pleased that he had found a friend and someone to accompany him to Hawaii.  That’s why she gave me that look.  It made me feel protective of Bernie.  Of course, it wasn’t merely for his interests that I looked out for him; it was for my interests too.  As a guardian of this unruly child, I had to watch him constantly now…. Though he was moody and unpredictable, I needed him to get home.

 

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