Memories of a Drive

As I mentioned, I drove south on I-30 this week to Texarkana AR, past Malvern, Arkadelphia, Gurdon, and Hope, all other cities I have worked for over the years. There were times I made the trip weekly. There’s a spot between Malvern and Arkadelphia where the lanes split and form an interesting view. It always reminds me of the trip I made on my first day of work after my mother died. I recall the feeling I had that day. Why did all this running around trying to be successful seem so important when it really wasn’t? I still don’t have the answer but the question itself brings peace at times.

I also remember some of those with whom I had the pleasure of working with over the years. One of the most memorable was Mike Kelly, who owned a dress shop in Hope and ran the local housing authority. He was a man of short stature offset by a huge heart. He and his wife Marguerite never had children, but sort of adopted the city as their child.

Mike was a devout Catholic and his wife an equally devout Methodist. How did that work out? “On Sunday mornings, we went our separate ways, she hers and me mine. And we never spoke of it.”

Until Marguerite died, and later when Mike took sick, they had not missed a Razorback football game since 1947—anywhere. I picked up her brother in Little Rock and drove him to Hope for her funeral and he disclosed the most amazing thing, Marguerite didn’t like football at all. She followed because she loved Mike.

I pity our country when we stop producing people like that.

Rolling Home

By Jimmie von Tungeln

            This time all three men wondered if she would make it. The old girl rolled over until, holding to the rail, the men stared directly in to the dark green water of the Atlantic Ocean. “This time,” Hinson thought, “she might just keep rolling.”

            Then came the familiar shudder, the roll stopped and for maybe thirty seconds the ship moved ahead with her deck elevated at a sickening angle. Then she began to right herself. When Hinson looked at the other two, he saw faces white with a mixture of fear and relief.

            “I’m going in,” a Mechanics Mate named Rudder said. “I’ve served on everything from cruisers to carriers, and I’ve never seen anything like this old top-heavy bucket. One of these times, she’s going to keep going.”

            “Hell,” said a Gunner’s Mate named Simpson, “I’ve served on an LST and they ain’t nothing but a bouncing cake pan. But this tub scares the hell out of me. Never thought I’d get spooked on a Tender.”

            They were standing on the ship’s starboard side abaft the missile bay. This was a large flat area amidships where the huge cranes lowered the missiles removed from the nuclear submarines that the ship tended. The cranes made the ship top-heavy and would have been removed and stowed on deck if the cruise hand been longer. And too, they hadn’t really expected to run into this storm, but the sea has always been bad about announcing her intentions. The worst of the blow had passed and they were now in an almost oily sea of billowing waves. Inside, every head on the ship had a sailor draped over it. Some were calling for their mothers, Chief Zelmer had joked. The three sailors had come outside for fresh air when the ship began rolling in earnest. Now two of them had experienced all the outdoors they wanted. “Have fun,” Simpson said to Hinson. Then they went inside.

            They left Hinson standing alone as the ship came level and then began her roll to port. He held the rail as the dark sky began to fill his vision. The movement seemed endless before the shudder came and the angle of the deck stabilized.

            “As long as she shudders, she won’t roll over,” a voice from behind Hinson said. “If she don’t shudder before green water touches the main deck, you’d better jump.”

            Hinson turned. The voice belonged to Senior Chief Boatswain’s Mate Lionel Pettigrew. The sailors loved him and called him “Old Lionsides.” No one knew for sure how long he had been in the Navy. There were those that were sure it had been forever. Someone said that he got drunk one night and told a group about riding out the Normandy Invasion on a destroyer as a young seaman. He was a “sailor’s sailor.”

            Hinson nodded. “Chief,” he said.

            Chief Pettigrew patted him on the back with one hand and grabbed the rail with the other. “Boats,” he said, “you trying to get a feel for what the real Navy is like?”

            “Just got tired of smelling vomit,” Hinson said.

            “Would you believe there is even a bit of an odor in the chief’s quarters?” Pettigrew said. “I hate to think what it smells like topside in the officers’ quarters.”

            “Why did we sail right into the middle of this mess, Chief?”

            “Don’t know for sure. It’s the Old Man’s last cruise, you know. He ain’t gonna make admiral and scuttlebutt has it that he wanted to see green water over the foc’sle one last time. He’s an Annapolis Man, you know.”

            “I didn’t. Aren’t they supposed to make admiral?”

            “Not the way West Point men make general,” Pettigrew said. “The Navy sets a higher standard. They really don’t have a slot that corresponds to a Brigadier General any more. You have to go straight to two-star. Want to know the sad part?”

            “I’m all ears.”

            “When he and the missus get to the retired officers’ home, he’ll put ‘Lieutenant Commander’ on his calling card.”

            Hinson looked doubtful. “Why is that? He’s a Captain.”

            “So folks won’t get him confused with a captain in the army,” Pettigrew said with that grin sailors have when they don’t want someone to know if they are yarning or not.

            The rail began its downward trajectory and Hinson eyed the Chief with a frown. “But,” he said, “you didn’t come out here to teach me Naval lore.”

            “Nope. Came to see if you had changed your mind.” They began staring into the dark green water.

            “I’m afraid not,” Hinson said. The angled deck rose behind them. “Are you sure about this ‘shudder’ thing?”

            The Chief ignored him. “Did I ever tell you why I stayed in the Navy?”

            Hinson didn’t answer, just used his arms to push away from the rail. At what seemed like the last possible moment, the shudder came and the roll stopped. He turned to the Chief. “What did you say?”

            “I chose to stay in the Navy when I was just past 21. Did I ever tell you why?”

            “I’m sure you did, but I’ve forgotten it,” Hinson said, staring at the water.

            “Because I love this country.”

            “Don’t we all?”

            “Some more than others.”
            “I don’t understand,” Hinson said.
            “We’re going through this … this… thing right now,” the Chief said, “where she doesn’t seem to love us in return.”

            Hinson nodded. The Chief continued. “But that ain’t no reason to quit on her. Things change. You should have heard the old timers talk about how bad things were in the service before World War Two.”

            “That’s not the reason I won’t ship over,” Hinson said.

            “Then what is it?”

            “I want to try something different.”

            “Is there any use in me talkin’ anymore?”

            “Chief, I’ve got to go see for myself what might be out there.”

            “There’s more assholes per square inch out there than in the Navy. Trust me on that one. Less fun. Less stability. Did I ever tell you that I got out for a while?”

            Hinson turned sharply. “No.”

            “Yep. I thought I might try something new. My heart ached every day for a month and I came back.”

            “You must really love the sea.”

            “I do. I’ve done things that normal people would call crazy. I’ve climbed up masts in worse storms than this to tighten rigging. I’ve stood watch in nothing but a stocking cap and pea coat when snow was so thick you couldn’t see the railing. I’ve stood in the rain, the blistering sun, and the howling wind, and all the time I never complained because I was a proud damned Bosun’s Mate doing my job and serving my country. How many bank presidents can say that?”

            “Probably not many,” Hinson said. He changed course. “Is the Old Man on the bridge?”

            “He was,” Pettigrew said, “the last time I saw him. I’d say he was having the time of his life yelling at the helmsman.”

            “I’ll bet it’ hard to steer her in seas like this,” Hinson said.

            “There are sure times that the old girl appreciates a steady hand. The trick is,” the Chief said, “to not over-steer. You can’t go too far one way or the other. Hit her over too hard to port , or too hard to starboard and you’ll have a nautical nightmare on your hands. This old girl will last a long time if her helm is in good hands, hands that want the best for her, hands that don’t overreact, panic, or think they know better than everybody else.”

            Hinson nodded. The ship came level and began to plow directly into the waves. Spray flew along the deck as her bow dove into a mountain of water. The two watched in awe for several minutes. Then Chief Pettigrew turned to leave. “Damned shame,” he said. “You’re a fine sailor and that’s a compliment I’ve never given many people. It would be a better Navy with more men like you in it. Men like you could keep this old ship trimmed and upright.”

            “Thanks Chief,” Hinson said. “Can I tell you something?”

            “Sure.” The Chief waited.

            “If anybody could have made me ship over, it would have been you.”

            Pettigrew smiled. “Can I tell you something?”

            Hinson laughed. “Go ahead.”

            “It’s better to have been a proud damned Bosun’s Mate for a short time than to never have been one at all.” He saluted Hinson, walked to the fantail, turned, and disappeared.

            Hinson went back to watching the sea as the proud old ship plowed into another wave.