by Ken Babbs
We stew in the waiting room, awaiting the call to man planes. Our spirits are low, at the level of earthmortals whom pilots look down upon with disgust from their lofty cockpit seats. The senior officers have been called to the flight deck to preflight the birds and start engines.
The squawk box roars: Ready room one, this is flight deck control. Passengers man your aircraft.
We bound from our chairs. Brawl out of the ready room. Metal outcroppings grab at our baggage. Dogs and switches snatch at our clothing. Low hatches swat at our heads. We press on and brawl out onto the hangar deck. Skid to a stop in front of the huge, deck-edge elevator. The railing around the elevator is up, holding us back.
The railing drops. Before we can run onto the elevator the squawk box blurts again: Passengers return to the ready room. Number seven chopper having difficulty starting. The railing goes back up.
“By God,” Cochran shouts. “They called us and now they’re going to get us.”
He jumps over the railing onto the elevator just as a wailing air horn blast its warning: going up!
Not the gentle wheeze of a respected hotel elevator. This heavy-duty airplane lifter launches Cochran and flips him over the railing. He tumbles over our heads in a backward somersault and lands on his feet. “What’re you standing there for?” he asks over his shoulder. “We have to go back to the ready room.”
I catch up with him and clap him on the back.
“What timing,” I exclaim. “To know the exact instant.”
His shoulders droop. He eyes the other pilots and shrugs. “Yeah, I had to plan it perfectly. Come on. Let’s get below so we’re ready when they call us out again.”
“I shoulda guessed. You didn’t look a bit surprised. That was the tip-off.”
He stops and faces me. “I give you credit for more brains than the rest of these sheep, Tomas. Those things happen all the time. You can’t fool around being surprised. You have to jump the surprise and drive it to the top.”
When the call comes, we walk up and board the choppers resignedly, and, later in the day, after we land at the base, the Hammer chews our asses because the choppers were kept standing on the flight deck, engines running and blades turning, while the belly riders dragged ass into their seats. Made the whole squadron look bad.
The next morning, before the skipper arrives for the all-pilots meeting, Cochran stands up to make an announcement. His five o’clock shadowed face is a mask of anticipation.
“Now that we’ve finished our training and we’re the Group Ready Squadron, it’s time to throw a party. Our own private affair. Hammering Eights only.”
“Where?” someone yells.
“The Long Beach Naval Air Station Officers Club. And if you’ve got any objections, forget it. I’ve already reserved the bar. The manager has promised happy hour prices the entire evening.”
3. Reaches of Freedom’s Frontier
I know what they say, Doc … tough it out … stiff upper lip … bite the bullet … chew the leather … steel rod up the spine … they can say it, Doc … and as number four in a line of old military men, I know I’m supposed to believe it, but no matter how hard I pretend … that shit doesn’t work … Great Grandaddy, a private, charged up San Juan Hill with the Rough Riders … Grandaddy, a corporal, drove a truck from Calais to the front in World War One … Daddy, a sergeant, patrolled an oil pipeline in New Guinea in World War Two … and to think, me, an officer, the only one to get all shot up … what do they say to that, Doc?… all’s we have left from their military wisdom is letters writ with thick fingers in an awkward hand … Grandaddy writes he is a boy no more, that he is going on his upward years and done his duty … he says to tell all them cowboys down on the ranch it won’t be long until he’s back and will show them how to do squad right and stand at attention and drill and hand pack inspection and rifle cleaning and police up … and only then can they go to Barney’s Bar and party … only then …
Daddy writes about a beach party … Carlos, the Cuban-born guitar player … native servants in white blousy shirts and colored skirts … fuzzie wuzzies in fuzzy wuzzy garb … goat meat on a stick … moon through the palms … Malays singing Pistol Packing Mama … everyone claps and yells “bagoo” and the party degenerates into dancing and caterwauling around the fire … stagger to the water’s edge, throw up and pass out … the Captain proclaims before he keels over, “You don’t respect me as an officer, do you?” … just goes to show you, Doc, no matter what your rank you can’t buck the party system … whatever party’s in power: dance party, cocktail party, dinner party, tea party … the more the costumes change, the more the parties stay the same … you can take that to the bank, Doc … the fog bank … it’s rolling in … off the ocean and onto shore … lights glow in the mist … the outline of a building …
The Long Beach Officers Club. A green and white striped awning covers the walk to the front door. A doorman in a resplendant uniform beckons us in. A sign on an easel announces LADIES BINGO NIGHT in huge letters. Below it, in tiny script: HMM-188 Squadron Party In The Bar.
My enthusiasm bubbles like ocean froth. “Not what you’d call top billing,” I exult. “But at least we made the marquee.”
I extend my elbow. “Shall we join the soiree, m’dear?”
Rosey fluffs her bright-red hair and takes my arm. “Yes, since I’m escorted by the Marquis de Soiree.” Her freckled skin glistens in the artificial light. Emerald flecks shine in her eyes. An elementary school teacher, tonight she’s far enough removed from the kids and PTA she can cut loose and howl. A combo blasts in the corner of the room. Couples belly up to the polished mahogany bar. Drinks cover the tables. “Let’s shake everything,” Rosey shrieks over the din. The band hits it hard: I stole a kiss, and then another. Rosey bumps and grinds onto the floor. I didn’t mean to take it further. You’d think she was the one who’d been at sea for two weeks. She closes her eyes, and turns it loose. I saw you when you kissed my daughter. Her breasts rise and dip to the lyrics. Wed her right now, or face a slaughter. I head for the bar. One mint julep was the cause of it all.
Cochran stalks in with his date. Her sleek, black dress shows more cleavage than a tunnel blasted into Baldy. A blue and white bouffant perches on her head. Her teeth sparkle like they’ve been polished with an electric buffer. I angle over to meet her.
“Yas,” she gushes, holding my hand with the slightest squeeze of thumb and forefinger, “but it was only a bit part, nothing really.”
“You gotta be kidding. A Hollywood movie?’
“I was also offered a job dancing in Carthage in Flame, but I couldn’t afford the trip to Italy. Half the cast paid their own way, you know.”
Cochran prods her. “Come on, Katrinka, before he finds out you’re hashing at Lou’s Lunch House to pay the rent until the next big part.”
He steers her toward the bar, one hand on her elbow. His other holds a big wooden pole wrapped in brown paper. I wallow in their wake, whiffing odor de flores.
Cochran stops for another introduction. Captain Beamus of all people. The band rips into another song: He’s a mean motah scootah and a bad go-gettah. The Rajah nods politely and extends his hand. He’s the toughest man there is alive. Katrinka is tall enough to eat peanuts off his head. He’s the king of the jungle jive.
“What a divine wig,” Katrinka gushes. “Where did you have it done? Maxine does all my work. Have you tried her?”
Captain Beamus puffs up. He got a big ugly club and a head fulla hair. Buttons strain. His eyes shoot darts. Like great big lions and a grizzly bear. Eyebrows jiggle up and down, beating time to the throbbing vein in his forehead. Look at that cave man go.
“Wig? What wig?”
There he goes. Alley-Oop, oop, oop, oop-oop.
“Why it’s nothing to be ashamed of, darling. You don’t think for a minute this upsweep is all mine, do you?
She trills an obbligato of laughter. Musses Captain Beamus’s hair. The hairpiece slips awry. Her laugh ripples up
and down the octaves.
“Not bad at all …” she trills. Lifts the wig. “Except …” Plops it on his silver-dollar spot. “For that! …” Warbles a soprano shriek. “I love it …” Hugs his head and presses her breasts tightly against his throat. A red flash rockets up his face. Cochran spins Katrinka away. Captain Beamus pats his hair into place. I grab Cochran’s arm.
“Did you put her up to that, or is she for real?”
Cochran winks. He raises the paper-covered pole to keep from bashing a pilot in the head.
“Why, Huck, you have an evil mind. Come along, dear.”
He leads his date through the mob, leaving me to round up Rosey. Displeased wives, knowing what hungover louts they’ll have for husbands tomorrow morning, scowl from corner tables. Rosey rubs her shoulders, elbows and fragile decolletage against my twangy tweed. A glass crashes to the floor and creates an instant pond. Shouts and laughter. Pilots stomp and jump in a happy circle. “Can’t hold ’em, can’t drink ’em!” The Marines have landed and the situation is well in hand. A trumpet blasts a loud fanfare. Everyone turns. Cochran stands on the stage. He waves the paper-covered pole and signals for quiet.
“All right,” Cochran shouts. “We’ve finished the training phase and have completed carrier qualifications. The squadron is prepared for action. Gentlemen—let them take us when they may.”
A cheer fills the room. Lieutenant Rob Jacobs throws his glass at the fake fireplace fastened to the wall. The brick-painted plastic breaks in two. The glass falls to the floor, intact. Not missing a beat, Cochran continues: “To commemorate this auspicious occasion, I’ve put together something to represent our squadron pride, something that will go forward with us from this day on. Will Lieutenant Colonel Rappler come forward?”
The C.O. is dubious, very dubious. Nevertheless, he walks through the crowd and hops up on the stage. His rear end sags a bit but his stance is upright and steady. He grins thinly. Cochran clutches the Hammer’s shoulder and pulls him close.
“Sir! On behalf of the squadron officers, I would like to present you with this symbol of the devotion, bravery and the highest level of performance you have inspired in us all. A small but meaningful gesture, one that should impress upon you our willingness to follow you to the farthest reaches of freedom’s frontier.”
He turns the Hammer loose and holds out the long wooden pole.
“For you, sir.”
The Hammer rips off the paper and uncovers a polished wooden staff topped by a flag and pennant. He unrolls the flag. A scarlet background with a golden border. In the middle of the red field a winged golden claw hammer, poised in flight, ready to strike. The long fringed pennant is covered with scarlet letters emblazoned on a golden field: THE HAMMERING EIGHTS.
The pilots slap one another’s backs. Climb on chairs and whistle and clap. The Hammer shouts over the bedlam, “Men, you don’t know how much I appreciate …”
The pilots swarm forward, sweep him off his feet and hoist him on their shoulders and parade him around the room. The flag flaps. The pennant trails. The gyrating pole threatens the lights.
“Never been anything like it,” the Hammer shouts. “Best damn squadron ever. Never a finer group of men. Now dammit! Put me down.”
He sticks the pole behind the bar, and drapes the flag and pennant across the mirror. Invites Cochran and me and our dates to join him at his table. Shakes Cochran’s hand, congratulating him.
“It’s nothing, sir. Let me be of greater service. I’ll get a round of drinks.”
Cochran hustles away without taking anybody’s orders. The Hammer snares me with his deep-set eyes.
“Get me two screwdrivers, Huckelbee.”
“Yes sir, two screwdrivers coming up. Back in a mo, pet.” I give Rosey a peck.
“G-Two,” a faintly audible call drifts across the room.
“Two screwdrivers,” I yell. The whippet-like bartender—hair slicked back, pencil-thin mustache on his upper lip—pours a shot, adds mix, throws in ice, swoops down the bar, hands off the drink, scoops up the change, throws it in the bell-ringing cash register and rushes past me.
“Two screwdrivers,” I shout. His dark look twists into an ugly scowl. He doesn’t stop.
“Service with a smile,” Cochran yells. It stops the man short. He juts his chin across the mahogany.
“Can’t you see I’m busy?”
“Why yes, it is rather crowded.”
The bartender slams Cochran’s drinks on the bar. Cochran reaches in his pocket and counts out a handful of change.
“There you go, my man, right on the old kisser.”
“Kisser your ass.” The bartender’s lips suck tightly against his teeth. He hurls the change behind him. The coins splatter against the beer cases.
“Thank you kindly,” Cochran says, picking up his drinks. “Oh, say, how’s about serving my buddy down the bar there? He’s been waiting a long time.”
“Please.” I raise my finger.
A stately woman in a sequin-covered dress elbows in beside me. “Pardon me,” she interrupts. She smiles at the bartender. “It’s getting quite warm in the bingo parlor. Would you mind bringing me a glass of water? And put a little ice in it, please.”
“Water!” The bartender throws his hands in the air. “Now I’ve heard everything. Can’t you see I’m the only one working? That damned cocktail waitress never showed up. You want water, lady? Go right over there.” He points across the room. “All the water you can drink. Fresh out of the fountain.”
“Well!” She steps back, indignant. “I’ve never been talked to like that in my life.”
“Don’t feel bad,” I say. “I’ve been talked to like that plenty of times.”
“You, young man,” she says, giving me the look she’d reserved for the bartender, “are not married to an Admiral.” She flounces back to the bingo game.
What’s the difference, neither one of us got served. I square my shoulders. Pound on the bar.
“You rude son of a bitch,” I holler. “Bring me my drinks.”
The bartender heaves himself up on the bar and hollers in my face: “What did you call me, mister? Say it again.”
“I said, ‘Two screwdrivers, please.”
“Mac, you’ve been giving me a bad time all night and I’m warning you, one more word and you’re cut off.”
I shake my head sadly. “Sorry, but I’m an officer and a respected customer. You can’t cut me off.”
“The hell I can’t—”
“Huckelbee, where are those screwdrivers?” The Hammer’s voice jars me back to my mission.
“All right, cut the crap and bring me two screwdrivers.”
“That does it, wise guy. You’re cut off. No more drinks.”
Cochran takes my arm. “Don’t bug the poor fellow,” he tells me. “You’re going about this all wrong. Be nice to the man.”
He turns to the bartender and gives him a big smile. “Now, how’s about doing the job you’re paid for and bring us two screwdrivers, friend?”
“You too,” the bartender yells, pointing a vindictive finger. “You’re the other one. No more for you either.”
“Oh no you don’t,” Cochran yells back. “You grabbed the wrong cat by the tail this time.”
The band ramps up the volume. We gonna romp and tromp till midnight. Women turn and stare. Men peer over their drinks. The bingo players look in from the other room.
“Wait a minute, just what seems to be the problem here?”
The Hammer has arrived. He will settle this amicably, fairly for both sides. We gonna fuss and fight till daylight.
Cochran and the bartender and I assail him simultaneously: “Won’t serve us drinks … they’ve been obnoxious … swearing … insulted an Admiral’s wife … nasty name calling … gonna cut us off …”
“Wait a minute, wait a minute,” the Hammer says.
Cochran and I clap our mouths shut, leaving the bartender shouting: “… and before you Marines came in here this wa
s a decent, respectable Navy place.” We gonna break out all the windows.
“What’s that you say?” the Hammer shouts back. “Listen, Mister, these are my men. This is my squadron. You have any trouble with them, you tell me. I’ll take care of it. But you leave my men alone, understand?” We gonna kick down all the doors.
The bartender curls his lips, unintimidated. “Who you think you’re talking to, Mac? I ain’t one of your Gyrene toadies. I cut them off, and now I’m cutting you off. Any more static and I cut the whole party off.”
The Hammer leers. We gonna pitch a wang dang doodle all night long.
“You don’t have the balls.”
“Party’s over, boys.” The bartender slaps his hand on the bar, missing the Hammer’s nose by inches.
“You cheap screw,” the Hammer yells. “I’ll come across that bar and chew you into pieces small enough to spit through a brick wall.”
“Try it and I’ll split your head open far enough to drive a Mack truck through.”
The Hammer raises his leg to get a knee up. The bartender picks up a forty-ounce bottle of Seagram’s VO. Cochran gives the Hammer a boost and he flies over the bar. The bartender swings but I intercept his blow with a beer bottle. Whiskey and broken glass shower the bar. The squadron pilots charge with a roar. Rosey clutches my sleeve. Cochran reaches across the bar and grabs the bartender by the front of his white jacket. The Hammer staggers to his feet. He aims the flagpole like a spear at the bartender’s chest. The bartender slips out of his jacket and flees down the bar, skids around the corner and makes for the door, the Hammer hot behind. Cochran and I cut the bartender off. Rosey, hanging onto my sleeve, whips behind me like a Chinese dragon’s tail at a New Year’s parade. The bartender veers out of our trap and dashes into the bingo parlor with the Hammer, Cochran, me, Rosey, Katrinka and the rest of the squadron in hot pursuit.
“O-Five,” the bingo announcer’s voice carries over the noise.
“Mister Bingham,” the bartender yells. “Help. They’re after me, I’m outnumbered.”