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Chapter
Nine
More Revelations
That night, through a drunken fog, I managed to find
our barracks with Bernie in tow, moving like the walking dead. I don’t remember greeting the man on duty or
even climbing into my rack. I should
have made my bed. The sheets,
pillowcases, and blanket lie untouched on both our mattresses. We crashed heavily on our faces onto our
unmade beds, remaining in that position until the morning. With sunlight streaming in from a window, my
memory became solid. I heard the sound of
floor-waxers and men chattering back and forth. Looking up to one of the men, who worked the waxer, I protested
weakly—my tongue rolling thickly in my mouth. I don’t remember what I said, but
the two men laughed at my predicament.
So, I swore at them for disturbing my peace. One of them gave me a kick and told me to get out of the barracks
if I didn’t like it. That really made
me angry, but then, seeing the third class stripe on one of them, I simmered
down quickly, lie back a moment to gain my bearings, and, with great effort,
rose sluggishly from my rack.
“Tied one on did ya’?” the third classman taunted.
“You’re lucky you got through the gate.
The base Captain’s cracking down now.
There’s been too much hell raising in Honolulu. Is that where you boys were? SP’s had a field day last night.”
The third classman was a fount of information. I was hung over, but it wasn’t as bad as the
night before. The purge I had at
Harry’s place appeared to have helped.
Nevertheless, I felt as if I had emerged from a blender. Even in my groggy, queasy state, I listened
intently, realizing how very lucky Bernie and I were. I thanked him for his information and introduced myself. He didn’t reciprocate, but I saw a nametag
on him that read, “Louis Suarez.” In my
delicate state, upon seeing that name, I almost passed out. The coincidences Bernie and I had
experienced continued to mount, this one topping them all.
“I don’t believe it!” I said, slack-jawed, bracing myself against the
bunk bed frame. “… Are you by any chance related to Armand Suarez?”
“Yeah.” His eyebrows plunged downward. “Don’t remind
me.”
Looking over at the unconscious Bernie, I lowered my
voice. “Is he your father?”
“Hell no,” Louis snarled. “My father was killed in
Tarawa. Armand’s my uncle. I haven’t seen that bastard in years.”
“Is he still alive?” I asked hesitantly.
“Why do you ask…. What’s he to you?”
“Please.” I said, looking over
at my sleeping friend. “It’s important to us.”
“Us?” He followed my gaze. “You including him—that
kid?”
His words had literally sobered me up. I nodded faintly, stunned by his
revelation. With an intuitive gaze, he
searched my face, and then, glancing back and forth between Bernie and me,
nodded his head. Slowly, a smile of
comprehension fell over his face, and yet there was no punch line yet. I studied Louis a moment. He looked nothing like Bernie or his
mother.
“Armand Suarez,” he exhaled the words, the great Armand
Suarez. Since I arrived here, I’ve
tried to avoid him, but I don’t have to worry anymore. He’s in the VA Hospital in Honolulu. He was working on a P2V, and he had a heart
attack…. That’s all I know.”
“Why do you hate him?” I asked indelicately.
“You ever meet Armand?” he asked with great
bitterness. “You either love him or hate him; there’s no in between. To most guys, he’s good ol’ Armand, a hard
drinking, back slapping friend—a bull-shitting story-teller about the war. To his family—my mother and my poor Aunt
Celia, he was Armando, a two-timing son-of-a-bitch. When they transferred me from the Enterprise for processing, I
freaked out when I found out he was here.
Luckily, while waiting for my discharge, I was assigned housekeeping to
keep me busy. Since then, like Brer
Rabbit, I laid low.”
“How long you been here?” I inclined my head.
“Not long,” he shrugged. “I’ll be discharged this
month. I don’t have to worry about
running into my uncle anymore. If he
doesn’t croak first, they’ll give him a medical discharge.” “All right,” he said, stepping away from the
waxer. “I told you my story. Now you
give me yours” “…or his.” He pointed to Bernie.
“It’s
complicated…. He’s a complicated person.” I said, watching him stir.
After motioning for me to move to the far side of
the barracks, he listened to my account of our adventure so far, from the
moment Bernie talked me into this madcap caper, through our two hops, trip to
Honolulu and Waikiki, and the party at Harry’s, including the details that have
led me to believe that Bernie is unbalanced and too delicate to serve Uncle
Sam.
“So, he thought Armand was his father, eh?” Louis
concluded, when I lapsed into silence.
“You think your story is complicated, wait till you hear mine. My mother told me about him after Aunt Celia
died. Celia got pregnant by that
bastard. He never married her. Aunt Celia had a good heart, but like Mama
she was plain. It almost killed her
when he took up with that whore—”
“What was her name?” My heart leaped in my chest.
“Started with a C,” he began. “She was a looker,
that one.”
“Constance!” I exclaimed.
“Uh huh,” he grinned. “…Oh shit, that must be her
son.” He looked back at Bernie. “No
wonder you want to keep that hush-hush.”
The words flew out of my mouth. “Yes, it’s
true. He thinks he’s Armand’s son, but
Bernie’s father was already married. It
seems Armand married her to keep her good name.”
“Or to get in her pants.” Louis snickered. “She
dumped him, and took her kid to the states.
Crying in his beer, as drunks do, he told this story to my dad’s friends
on the base. When Celia heard it, she
blew her brains out with her father’s revolver…. How’s that for a storybook
romance?”
“Holy shit.” I clasped my forehead. “Bernie must
never hear about this. He’ll lose
it. I swear, he’s not right in the
head. This might push him over the
edge!”
“Mums the word!” Louis reached out to shake my hand.
******
I thanked Louis for telling his
story. While he went back to work, I
shook Bernie awake, coaxed him into the shower to clean himself up, and while
rinsing myself off, tried sorting out everything I knew. It was, in deed, complicated. Though Louis now knew Bernie had been
illegitimate, he didn’t mention Ralph, and yet Ralph was Bernie’s father. It had been a tangled web for Armand and
Constance. Armand dumped his wife for
her and she dumped Armand for Bernie’s stepfather. I wondered then if Ralph, who appeared to resent their
relationship (in spite the fact he was married), knew the dark side of this
man. If so, he hadn’t mentioned it to
me. Of course, I reasoned, Ralph, who
got Constance pregnant, already had a wife, so he was a villain too. Nevertheless, from the vantage point of
Constance, Armand galloped in like a knight in shining armor to save her good
name (or just to get into her pants as Louis claimed). The only innocent party in this whole
tangled web was Bernie…and he was nuts.
I laughed hysterically. What am
I doing here? I asked myself
repeatedly, as I dried myself off, dressed in my blues, and coaxed Bernie to do
the same. The beer and lack of sleep
had taken their toll on us, especially Bernie, who followed me like a sleepwalker
to the mess hall, muttering incoherently on the way.
Fortunately for us, the mess hall
was still open. Sailors in both
informal blues and formal dress blue uniforms as well as work clothes stood in
line with us. Once again, I had a hangover,
which grew worse in the bright morning sun.
It was as if a drum was being beaten inside my skull. I could imagine how Bernie felt. I had to tell the servers what to put on his
tray. To simplify matters, I told them
to give him the same courses they gave me.
More conservatively this time, I left out the pancakes and
sausages. We had scrambled eggs, hash
browns, toast, and oatmeal. I got us
both cups of coffee and made sure Bernie had his ration of milk.
When we found a spot at a table
amidst cheerful and talkative men, Bernie finally spoke.
“I will never forgive you for
getting me into this,” he uttered, chewing lazily on a piece of toast.
I was, as I had been many times
before in his company, speechless.
After talking me into this madcap enterprise and placing us in jeopardy
with his lies, it was my fault for trying to make the best of it. It was my fault that I wanted us to have
some fun. Though I wanted to knock him out and stomp on his face, I considered
the source. This was Bernie; he was,
through his uncle Ralph, my ticket home.
I could at least verbally state what was reeling in my mind, but I was
afraid I might explode. So, like a
volcano, my anger smoldered for a while.
Not wanting to make another scene, especially in the mess hall, I leaned
over and in my most menacing voice and whispered, “Eat shit and die!”
“That was vile,” Bernie jumped to
his feet. “Right when I’m eating, you talk about shit!”
That had been the wrong thing to say
to Bernie. Several diners reacted
angrily to his outburst. I sat there
mortified, as several of them reacted to his outburst. The man across the table, scolded him
severely. I heard another sailor
threaten to punch out his lights. Among
the diners, however, the worst reaction came from a tall, muscular black mess
steward, who came over grabbed the back of Bernie’s collar and shook him
violently, muttering, “I gotta good mind to toss your ass out!”
“Sorry,” he whimpered, “please don’t
do that!”
“Oh dear God!” I covered my face
with my hands.
Bernie sat down and began
sniveling. Tears rolled down his cheeks
as he looked around the room. Dropping
my hands, I glanced light-headedly at his detractors. As if it was guilt by association, many of them were also glaring
at me. A first classman next to me
poked me in the ribs. When I didn’t
react quickly enough, he poked me again.
“Hey, what’s wrong with that kid?” he asked
discreetly. “I saw him carrying on like in front of the visitor’s
barracks. He’s a real crybaby. That ain’t no kind’ve behavior for a man.”
I giggled hysterically. Regaining some of my composure, I briefly summarized Bernie’s
predicament. “He’s not cut out for military life,” I explained audibly. “He’s
too immature. His moods change
constantly. If he stays in the navy, they’ll
eat him alive!”
Though the men within earshot
listened in, Bernie’s sobs prevented him from hearing my words. I was glad he didn’t know my true feelings,
at least until we were out of harm’s way and I could give him a piece of my mind. For now, until Ralph got us a hop back to
Alameda, I couldn’t tongue lash him as I wanted. Judging by the last sailor’s comment in the mess hall, Bernie’s
antics had circulated on the base. I
had eaten only a portion of my breakfast and drank half of my coffee, but I
decided it was time for us to leave.
Hopefully, there would be a different crowd here at lunch. Otherwise, it might be a good idea to forgo
lunch and eat k-rations on the plane.
My mind was in turmoil. I wasn’t
sure what to do with Bernie, as he walked behind me muttering under his
breath. Our adventure had been too much
for him. I could scarcely imagine what
his mental state would be if I told him the truth about his father, which would
incriminate his mother as a liar and onetime woman of ill repute.
The view I had in 1960, I realize
now, was unfair. After all, Constance
had raised Bernie and his sister the best way she could. Compared to current morals, her behavior
might be seen as tame. At least she
didn’t have an abortion or turn him over to social services. Everyone, after all, deserved a second
chance. But Constance should have told
Bernie the truth about his father when he was a child. It was too late now. He would never hear the truth from my
lips. Given his erratic behavior so far,
I was certain it would drive him over the edge.
******
After returning to the barracks to
shed our uncomfortable blue uniforms and use the restroom, we sat at each end
the table provided for letter writing, in verbal silence. The housekeeping team had already
finished. Outside we could hear the
sound of lawn mowers mowing the grass.
In the foreground there were friendly shouts of sailors to each other,
of all things a dog barking, and then the roar of a distant plane taking off
from Barber’s Point. I was lulled by
these sounds. I had big plans to go to
Pearl Harbor and see the ships, but that was out of the question now. After Bernie’s last outburst, we were more
vulnerable than ever. The word was out
on him. If one man remembered Bernie,
others had seen his antics too. I was
afraid he would incriminate us. Sooner
or later, I was certain, it would catch up with us. It was a miracle we hadn’t been caught so far. Much later in my long, checkered life, I
would visit the Pearl Harbor National Monument, Hickham Field, and all the
other memorials and landmarks in Hawaii of the Second World War, but my main
concern that day was getting us to Alameda and, after that, sneaking off that
base, and hitch-hiking home. There
would be no more hops after today, I decided.
It would be foolhardy to try and get flight from Alameda to Los
Alamitos. For that matter, if we got
caught finally at Los Alamitos, our home base, it would go especially hard on
us. That’s where we signed up and
attended our airman recruit classes. We
were lucky that no one, who might recognize us after attending our meetings at
Los Alamitos, was there the day we embarked on this ill-conceived trip.
I liked to think that God had been watching over us,
but I remembered my minister quoting Jesus’ rebuke to Satan, “Thou shalt not
tempt the Lord.” We had, if nothing
else, tempted fate. Sensing that Bernie
was a liar, I had tossed caution to wind.
I had no one to blame but myself.
So, perhaps, all things considered, religion had no part in this. We had been guided by chance. Our good fortune was being driven by pure,
blind luck.
With these grim thoughts in mind, I stood up,
yawned, stretched in exaggerated motions, and, without a backward glance,
sauntered out of the barracks into the late morning sun. “I’m going to take a stroll,” I called back.
“You can do want you want.”
“Wait!” Bernie shouted frantically.
“Maybe we better hide out until lunch.”
“ Keep a low profile perhaps,” I
shook my head, “not hide. All you have
to do Bernie is control yourself—at least until we’re hitch-hiking home.”
“I’m not hitch-hiking home,” came
his refrain. “It’s dangerous. We’ll get
another hop.”
“No, Bernie,” I said with
resolution, “we’ve been fortunate so far, but that’s pushing our luck. After our last hop, if we can sneak out of
Alameda undetected, and we’re home free.
That’s what we should do. If you
don’t join me and get caught in Alameda or Los Alamitos, you’ll probably rat me
out. We might both wind up in
Leavenworth—all because you’re afraid to hitchhike and take a chance. At least I’m going to try.”
“Hitchhiking’s dangerous!” He
repeated stubbornly
I stopped and looked at him in utter
disbelief. “Bernie—you dumb shit!” I cried, clasping my forehead. “You call
that dangerous. I’ll tell what’s
dangerous. Pretending to be airman
recruits and illegally using military transports is dangerous. Lying to naval officers is dangerous. Don’t tell me about danger
Bernie. Everyone hitchhikes
nowadays. Sailors do it all the
time. What we’ve been doing on naval
bases can get us arrested. We
can go to federal prison!”
“Oh pooh!” Bernie made a face.
“You’re exaggerating. I got us this
far, didn’t I? Alameda was a cinch
before. I’m sure we can do it again.”
I felt light-headed again, as if I
was walking in a dream world. Barber’s
Point wasn’t real. Bernie wasn’t real.
This had to be a nightmare, I told myself giddily. No one human being could be so thick-headed; it defied reason.
“Where you even listening to me?” I
asked him hoarsely. “Did you hear a word I said…. This is the last hop for
me. You can do what you damn well
please!”
Bernie started humming to himself. As we walked aimlessly through Barber’s
Point, I saw one more personality shift for Bernie. He was, I thought with great irritation, in his ‘stupid
mood.’ How else could I define that
type of stubbornness? As he continued
to hum off-key, though, I reeled around and said aloud, “No, that’s not
right. I’ve been right along: you’re
nuts Bernie. I’m dealing with a madman!”
“Oh!” He recoiled. “You scared me!”
Seeing my disdain, he burst into
tears.
“You’re also a crybaby,” I added
maliciously after seeing his response. “Look at you—tearing up, lips quivering,
ready to bawl at the drop of a pin. Take
my word for it, Bernie, you’re not cut out for the navy. You haven’t the spirit or courage for
it. You’ll be keelhauled or tossed
overboard if you assigned to an aircraft carrier! You won’t last a week!”
There I said it. It was for his own good, but that wasn’t why
I said it. I was fed up with this
nincompoop. Bernie was visibly shaken
by what he heard. Instead of breaking
down this time, however, he doubled up his little fists and came after me, his
face dark with rage.
“Whoa,” I laughed in panic, “you
wanna play, eh. Okay, you little
turd. One more swing like that, and
I’ll deck you!”
Through his teeth, bereft of his
senses, he listed my sins. I
interpreted his ramblings as, “You took me to wild parties, made me drunk, and
introduced me to nasty girls.” He went on to blame me for everything that had
gone wrong on our trip. He also cursed
me, using my dad’s favorite swear words, and, at one point, let out an inhuman
shriek: “Eeeeeeeeeowww!” Upon hearing
that unearthly sound, I took to my heels.
In spite of my anger, I didn’t want to hurt Bernie, at least not
physically. He was much smaller than
me, and it would look bad if someone saw me knock him out. Unfortunately, though I could easily outrun
him, Bernie continued to scream at me, calling me a coward now and threatening
to beat me to a pulp. Sailors walking
up and down the main street on the base cast alarmed looks at us. One naval officer shouted, “Stop! Stop! I’m calling the MPs!”
Turning around that moment, I tried
doing the least damage I could to him.
I slapped him silly. My fist
might have broken his jaw or nose. As
it was, I left a handprint on his baby face.
Staggering around in a daze, he gave me a surprised look and then broke
into sobs. Meanwhile, as I stood there
stunned by what happened, the officer began running toward us.
“Listen to me, you stupid
son-of-a-bitch,” I shouted, “we can’t let that man catch up with us. Follow me!”
All I could think of doing was
circle around somehow and head back to the barracks. I was thankful that Bernie had the presence of mind to take to
his heels too. I don’t believe I ever
ran that fast. I was impressed that
Bernie could keep up with me. In the
receding distance, the officer yelled, “You men stop skylarking on base. So help me I’ll call the MPs.” His original threat had been watered down
considerably. We weren’t felons; we
were skylarkers—a term I heard Chief Crump use. A great weight lifted from my mind that moment. I doubted that the man would pursue us
further. Despite this impression, we
continued our circuitous route around the row of enlisted and non-com barracks
onto the nearby field and then back to the visitors barracks close to the gate.
“We’ll wait here awhile,” I informed
Bernie, plopping on a chair to gain my breath. “At noon we’ll eat chow, and
then meet Ralph in front of the terminal at one. Hopefully, we won’t run into that officer again. If we do, we’ll just admit we were
skylarking. I think I heard the chief
call it grab-assin’ too.” “The thing is
Bernie,” I paused to scold him, “you caused that. You’re not right in the head.
When we get back home, you’d better think about a section 8. Our instructor told us about this.”
For a few seconds, Bernie’s cheeks
puffed up in anger again. I gave him a
warning stare, doubling up my fist. “So
help me, Bernie,” I wrung my fist. “This time no one’s around. I’ll knock you out!”
“Oh why do you make me lose my
temper?” He shook his finger. “You make me so-o-o mad!”
“You’re too little to have a
temper.” I frowned. “You better not act like this around a regular sailor. He’ll put you in the hospital!”
“Oh yeah. ” He gave me a fierce
look. “I have a gun. No one’s going to
beat me up!”
“Is that another threat, Bernie?” My
eyes narrowed to slits. “Do you really have a gun?”
“Well, I think my mom has a gun,” he
equivocated. “She said she did. It
belonged to my stepfather.”
I watched him squirm under my
scrutiny. “Why would your mom need a gun?
Have you seen it?”
“No, but my stepfather bought one….
I think…. He wasn’t a very nice man.” He looked up with dry, unblinking eyes.”
“Why do you say that?” I asked, as
he sank into himself. “Did he hurt you?”
“Yes.” Bernie nodded. “He didn’t
like me. My sister didn’t like me
either…. Only my Mom.” “I don’t want to
talk about this!” He blinked and looked self-consciously around the room. “My
stepfather’s dead…. My father’ dead….”
“Let sleeping dogs lie,” I finished
his train of thought.
I wanted to tell him the truth about
his parents—his mother, Armand, and his real father, but it would have been too
cruel. I was still convinced it would
be the last straw, and yet he had a right to know. Perhaps, I thought, watching him rise up slowly, and begin pacing
around the room, his mother might tell him someday…. I wasn’t going to be the
straw. Bernie was already exhibiting
what I didn’t understand back then: a bipolar disorder. During that hour, however, all the fancy
words I use to recount this episode in my life are written in retrospect. All I knew then was that Bernie wasn’t
normal: he wasn’t right in the head and I had placed my fate in the hands of
crazy person. What I didn’t need to do
that moment was to make him any crazier, so I let the subject drop. After laying low in the barracks for the
next two hours, I nearly went nuts myself.
When the dials on my watch stood straight up, I jumped up and announced
cheerily, “It’s noon—the lunch hour.
Let’s go the mess hall, Bernie.
Afterwards, we’ll come back, grab our gear, and meet Ralph in front of
terminal at 1 o’clock.
For a few moment, as we proceeded to
the mess hall, Bernie followed me, wrapped in this thoughts.
“Ralph won’t like me either,” he
suddenly announced. “No one likes me…except my Mom.”
“Ralph doesn’t even know you.” I
sighed. “Why would you say such a thing?” “...Bernie,” I looked back with
concern, “do you have any friends?”
“No, not anymore,” he replied
faintly. “Not since that time,” he said, biting his lip. “It all changed then.”
“What?” I reeled around to face him.
“What happened? Out with it
Bernie? What made you such a dork?”
I immediately regretted saying such
a thing, and yet it had no effect on him.
He continued murmuring to himself inaudibly. I snapped my fingers in front of his face, as if to wake him up,
fearful that he had slipped over the edge.
I remembered seeing a movie about a man who disappeared into
himself. Today, I know the word as
catatonic, but that moment it was like watching someone go to sleep with their
eyes open.
Clapping vigorously, I shouted, “Wake up,
Bernie! Tell me what’s wrong!”
“Leave me alone!” He placed his hands on his ears.
“I don’t want to talk about it!”
What I saw then was an improvement; he hadn’t
slipped over the edge. Heaving a sigh
of relief, I patted his shoulder. “Okay, Bernie, keep your dark secrets to
yourself. It’s none of my business, but
you need help. You really do!”
“You think so?” he asked in a small voice, “You
think I’m nuts, and I should really take a section 8?”
“Yes, I do,” I replied emphatically. “The military
is no place for you!”
I thought he might start weeping once more, but he
exhaled deeply this time, shrugged in resignation, and once more began humming
an off-key tune. In navy parlance
again, ‘the wind had gone out of his sails.’
As we stood in the noon chow line, the humming began to get on my
nerves. I was worried that there might
be another episode like the one this morning.
When portions of baked beans and coleslaw were slopped onto my tray, I
opted for a hamburger as before, as did Bernie, with the exception that, like
Bernie, I dispensed with the coffee (I was already jittery enough) and drank
punch. I wasn’t very hungry this time;
neither was Bernie, but it might be a long time before we ate again, so I
shoveled it in and tried getting Bernie to eat. For a few moments, he pecked at his food, still humming and
looking vacantly around the room.
“Damn it, Bernie,” I whispered, “people are
watching. Why are you making that
noise?”
“… It’s Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony,” he informed me
finally. “It sort’ve stuck in my head.”
“Yeah,” I nodded, “I heard it. My dad plays that stuff, but we’re in the
mess hall, Bernie. It sounds
weird. Stow it until we get outside.”
“‘Stow it’ is another navy word,” he observed dully,
“I heard the instructor use it…. You know a lot of navy words, Noel. I barely know any.”
“Because you daydream in class,” I censured him. “If
you paid more attention, you’d understand a lot more about how sailors
act.” “You’ve got to talk the talk and
walk the walk,” I reminded him. “I’m sorry, but you’re just not cut out for
this kind of life!”
“You’re very
cruel!” A shadow came over his face. “My mom used to say, ‘the truth shall set
you free.”
“Bernie,” I said wryly, “I go to church and attend
Sunday school. I remember that
saying. You’re mom was quoting
Jesus. Jesus said that to Pilate. It’s from the New Testament. After that Jesus was nailed on the cross.”
Bernie looked over at me with a deadpan expression.
“Whose Pilate?… Did he fly planes?”
Giggling at his play on words, Bernie grinned
foolishly. I was certain he knew who
Pilate was. He had lapsed into a silly
mood. I stood up that moment and
motioned for him to do the same. After
dumping our trays in the receptacle, we quickly exited the mess hall. We had, I explained to Bernie, a half-hour
to fetch our duffle bags from our lockers, do our business, and arrive at the
terminal before 1 o’clock. We talked
very little during this time. What more
I could say to this troubled youth? I
wasn’t a psychiatrist. I scarcely
understood what was wrong. I really
felt sorry for him. I had the nagging
feeling that his mother was much to blame.
I had thought that she was nice person.
She certainly was a looker!... But that had been the problem, I
realized, as we strolled to the terminal to meet Ralph. Louis Suarez had implied that Constance was
just another Hawaiian whore. I wondered
if Ralph had picked her up in a Honolulu bar, like Harry and his friends had done. Would he still give way and acknowledge his
long lost son. Upon reflection, to use a term from Greek mythology, that would
be like opening Pandora’s Box.