Welcome to the Dance USN

by GEORGE LICATA

  I found a baseball field, it was empty. I sat in the stands; with a cigarette and a joint between my fingers. I smoked both of them at the same time. I was hoping to not look suspicious.

  The entrance to the room that held the captain’s mast had huge double doors with lots of shiny brass. The room looked like a dance hall, decorated with all sorts of military wall hangings. At one end was a large dark red table and facing a podium was a single chair. I was directed to stand at the podium. The chief warren officer closed the door behind him, as he left the room. I was alone in the big room.

  He came in through a door behind the dark red table. I recognized him right away. He couldn’t possibly remember me, I hoped. I was standing at a perfect attention. “At ease mister Licata. I see you learned to shave,” he said as he sat down. “Yes, sir. I’m getting older and wiser I hope.” He was silent; he was looking through the file in front of him. Reading each page metallically. He looked up at me. “Mister Licata the jury is still out on the question if you’re wiser.” He glanced down at the papers, then back at me. “You attacked a superior?” he asked.

  “No, sir, I didn’t see him. It was an accident.” I stated. “So say the wittiness. However you had his neck between your legs. That’s quite an accident.” He looked down at the papers for a moment, then back at me. “Someday Mister Licata you are going to have to tell me the story of how a lad from a landlocked state like Colorado, joins the navy?” He shuffled the papers. He wrote some stuff on the papers. He stacked them all into a neat pile. Placing the pile of papers on the table he said, “You are confined to the base with a 1600 hour curfew. This confinement will begin now. It will end on Monday, March 26, 1973. Check in with Ensign Pedersen out that door. You are dismissed.” I saluted him, he returned the salute. I did a smart about-face. I walked through the double doors to the chief’s desk. He told me to wait in the outer room. I found the room with empty chairs on every wall, I sat down. Two hours later I got my paperwork. Later.

  I checked in to my new home for the next week, then I went to chow. Fucking Brice. It’s lights out in this barracks. Later.

  March 20, 1973, Tuesday

  Once again why did I choose Hull Tech School? I don’t get welding at all. They tell me, look for the bead, find that small puddle of hot molten metal. Manipulate that hot spot forward to melt the metal to the rod. A metal rod, melting between two pieces of steel, with the right amount of flux will weld the whole thing together. The metal rod is melted by heat, created by the right mixture of oxygen and acetylene gas. Melt the rod to make what is supposed to look like rolls of nickels, laid out on top of each other. I’m not seeing it, I’m not getting it.

  I can’t get high at night because I am confined. I go from here to the barracks. It’s all open. I get one hour to go to chow at night. They let us leave the barracks in the morning at 0700 hours. One hour for breakfast if we want. I want because we have to get out of the racks at 0600 anyway.

  I looked for Brice I wanted to ask him where he hangs out at off base, he wasn’t in class. I asked the Instructors about Brice, it seems that he asked and was granted a transfer to the navy school in Chicago. He flew out this morning. Later.

  March 21, 1973, Wednesday

  I am in the booth from 0900 to 1200 chow. I am back at 1300 hours, to 1500 hours, the whole school day. I still cannot get this welding thing. My roll of nickels are sad. Peter had welding in high school so did Okie. I think everybody in the class took welding in high school shop class. My school didn’t have a field; let alone a shop class. Holy Family didn’t have a shop class of any kind. They are tiring to help me. They’re finished with this week’s projects. Okie has his points, Peter has his. Jerry even tried to help. I can’t get it. It’s time for dinner. Later.

  I was walking on the tarmac alone. I was felling pissed off at the navy for inviting me here. I didn’t ask for this dance. I decided that I was not going to salute any officer that came my way. When I saw one walking towards me I headed in another direction, in till they passed.

  An officer exited a building, it was too late; he was twenty feet in front of me and closing. That’s at the point that I am required to salute. I am to hold that salute in till it is returned or we pass. The officer was on my left. The sun set was on my left. I passed the officer without saluting. “Halt Sailor! Turn around!” I turned around, it was a commander, and he was a priest. I saluted him, he returned the salute. “At ease sailor. Why did you fail to give me the proper salute?” he asked waiting for an answer. “I didn’t see you sir” I answered calmly. “What do you mean you didn’t see me? You walked right pass me. Explain yourself sailor,” he said incredulously. “The sun is going down. I had my left eye closed it was too bright for my right eye. My nose is big, I’m Italian it was shading my right eye. It was the only eye that I was looking out of. My big nose blocked you from the view of my right eye. I didn’t see you, sir.”

  He stared at me for a while he didn’t blink. “I hear confessions for a living. You can go to hell for that whopper.”

  “That’s what the nuns told me, sir,” I said.

  “What nuns?” he asked.

  “The nuns at Holy Family, in Denver, sir.”

  He rubbed his chin. He started to smile. “I’m Father Dean. How come I don’t see you in church on Sundays?” He had a big grin.

  “I just moved in to this neck of the woods. Just haven’t found time, sir,” I answered.

  “You should find time for confession. I think you need it.”

  “Padre, sir, can I call you Padre?” I asked.

  He said, “Yes, you may, son. What is your name?”

  “Licata, sir.”

  “Do you have a first name, Licata?” he asked.

  “Yes, sir, it’s George, and yes, I have been told all my life how much I need confession, sir,” I said.

  He cut me off. “George, I’m late. I’m not going to write you up for failure to salute. Confession is between you and God. What I am going to order you to do is meet me at the church rectory at 1700 tomorrow. Instead of punishment, I have some work for you to do. Where are you bunking?” he asked.

  “I am on a one-week restriction to the transit barracks. You would have to tell the master-at-arms. Do you know where it’s at, sir?” I asked.

  “George, why doesn’t it surprise me that you are serving a punishment as we speak? What did you do?” he asked.

  “If I tell you now, Padre, it would be a lie. If I told you in confession, you would get the truth. But then you couldn’t hold it against me, it’s the law, sir.”

  He laughed, I laughed.

  I told him I would see him at the church tomorrow. He’s like a regular guy, except with gold bars, and a priest. I saluted him; he saluted back. I went to chow. That guys all right. Later.

  March 22, 1973, Thursday

  I woke up, I went to chow, I went to class, I practiced my welding bead. I went to chow, I went to class, I practiced my welding bead. I went to the church. Padre took me to the church garage, it was a small airplane hangar. Inside were four cars. A mustang, a GTO, a Cameo, and a Jaguar. All of them were convertibles. All of them were 1969 models. All four of them were red.

  We got into the Jaguar. Padre was looking for a navigator. He needed one for the road rally’s he ran down in Baja, Mexico. We drove off base. He handed me a stop watch. “Want to give it a try, George?” Nobody called me George any more. “I would. It sounds like fun, sir.” The sound and the feel of the 12 cylinder engine was so cool. “George when we are off base you don’t need to call me sir.” He stated. “Okay, Padre, Padre it is,” I answered.

  We did some road test on the highway and on the city streets. Padre ran me through the paces. I had to watch the speedometer, the mileage gage and the stop watch at the same time, depending on the type of rally he wants to drive in. I tell him what speed to maintain and when to turn.

  I passed, he asked if I wanted to do a rally this Saturday. I told him it might be difficult to pull myself away
from confinement to the barracks. We went to his five room two story apartment to drink some beers and eat food. I had a great time. He’s a funny priest.

  Padre was born with a silver spoon in his mouth here in San Diego. His family is filthy rich, he admits as much. He said he is so rich he doesn’t know how rich. “I grew up spoiled. I didn’t know what the word “want” meant.” He stated proudly. He looked like a surfer man. 30ish, blonde wispy hair, good build, six foot tall. He had it all. Girls, booze, lots of cars, lots of boats, lots of money. Then he found God. He always had a love for the ocean and anything water. His family has close ties to the Catholic Church and the navy.

  I asked him if he is doing the priest thing out of guilt. “George, everything we Catholic’s do is out of guilt.” He answered. He took me back to the base, it was dark and late. The barracks are locked down. The watch lets me in. The night watch was tiring to figure out how I get to come in late, and drunk. I said you have to talk to the right officer, some of them are human. Later.

  March 23, 1973, Friday

  I woke up with this sinking feeling in my stomach. I don’t know how to weld. I never did and I don’t now. The test is today. Oh well, they can’t transfer me in till Monday when I finish my confinement. At least I can go to Mexico with the padre this weekend, before they ship me somewhere else. I might get lucky and not get transferred until next week. I might get to enjoy the beach house for a short time, I did pay rent for this month. Later.

  Holy crap! I passed. I not only passed I had one flaw. My nickels were laid down perfect. The bond was near perfect. It held 160PSIs beyond the passing pressure needed. Wow!

  The instructors let us bring our completed project to them at any time in the day. Those that finish and pass are dismissed for the rest of the day. Ninety percent of the class lined up to be tested right away. The rest of us dummies went to our booths to practice. We have to the end of the day to bring it to them finished or not.

  I got in to my booth as usual. I put on my thick leather apron. I closed the curtain. I put on my goggles and fired up the torch. I regulated the right amount of acetylene to oxygen. I got a white hot flame at the tip. The metal was securely in the vice and prepared. I dipped the rod in the flux. I melted the three things together.

  A light went off in my head when I saw it. It was so tiny, about the size of two pin heads. It was the molten center. I worked it, I made it double in size. The area behind it was cooler than the area in front, it made a horse shoe shape. I slowly moved it forward, I am laying down nickels. At the same time it is fusing the two metals sides together, forming a welded bond.

  I was sweating like a pig dog, but I took my time. I was afraid that I might not see the molten center again. It took what seemed like forever but I finished before lunch.

  The testing process took a long time. Some of the first guys were finally getting tested, they saw I was in line. I didn’t get tested until after lunch. The guys hung around to see what I was going to do on the base this weekend. They were half concerned half wanting to raze me.

  Jerry wished my sentence was longer, he liked having the room to himself. Okie is learning how to surf. Peter said I haven’t missed much. Beautiful sunsets, smoking pot any time in your own living room. Watching those beautiful sunsets, beers, good civilian company. Foxy women in bikinis walking up and down the boardwalk, day and night. Don’t forget freedom. Other than those things I’m not missing much. I think it was worth it, I got rid of Brice.

  If it wasn’t for the padre I would be going nuts this weekend. He said he would be here to get me early at 0400 hours. We have to drive down to the Baja’s and get everything squared away. The barracks chief is not too happy. He has to be here to check me out. Padre said that this chief is what gives the navy a bad name. Chief Wascowski. It’s a mindset. Puts in 30 years, be lazy, don’t make waves, don’t contribute, retire with the highest rank available. Live high off the hog in tell death comes knocking. Most importantly bitch and moan whenever you’re asked to do something extra. And hate everybody that’s not your friend. His words not mine.

  I just finished chow. Wascowski wants the night master-at-arms to watch me closely. He wants me to do something wrong so he can extend my stay. He wants to punish me for what the padre is making him do. What an ass, I won’t give him a reason, the dick head.

  I made it through the day without an incident. They moved my stuff and my bunk two times trying to get me pissed off, I laughed. I told them they were armatures at getting someone’s goad. It’s lights out. Later.

  March 24, 1973, Saturday

  I got back to the barracks in the AM. The watch refused to open the barracks. He told me that any one reporting back to the barracks after curfew were to check in with the SPs because it was a violation. The watch saw me at the door and another guy in a jaguar, two strange men in civilian clothes. The padre called out through the car window. “What’s the problem?”

  I said I’m not allowed in, I’m supposed to turn myself in to the SPs. Then I saw firsthand what it means to be an officer, even one that is not in uniform and wearing gold on their shoulders.

  The padre was at the barracks door. “I am Commander Dean Tabor. Open this door, lad!” The door opened in a flash. Officers don’t need to be in uniform to be obeyed. Chiefs and ranks below do. The watch said he had strict orders from the barracks chief to not let anybody enter after 2200 hours, curfew. He told the watch to stand down. “He’s fucking with you,” said Padre to me. “He’ll get his people to fuck with you tomorrow. Come to Mass later this morning. Come to the last service. It’s at 1200 hours. They have to let you attend. I’ll call and leave orders. After Mass, I’ll check you out for the day. We’ll go to my apartment and have a barbeque. I have some friends coming over, Ok?” He said to me. “You were determined to get me to church, uh? I’ll see you at Mass,” I answered.

  I went in the barracks he went home. They moved my bunk and personal stuff again. I told the watch I don’t blame him, he was doing what he was told. If they make a big deal out of it, then he should go to church and talk to God’s officer. He let me use the office so I can make this entry.

  The rally was a blast. We picked up a case of beer and loaded up an ice chest before we crossed the border into Mexico. I can’t figure for the life of me why these California’s like Coors beer. It’s free I’ll drink it.

  We were late when it was our turn at the starters’ gate. His standing as an American priest got him a lot of leeway. They let us start any way. We went from speeds of 10 mph to 110 mph it was a rush. We finished second, I don’t know how because we finished the beer also. The prize was $500. Padre says he donates any money he wins to the church. What a waste, I said. I won half of the money. He said thanks for the donation. He knew he would make a good Catholic out of me. After the rally we went to his place to drink some more. Later.

  March 25, 1973, Sunday

  I like the padre, but he gives a boring sermon. Luckily for priests like him, most of the Mass is spelled out for him. He only has to improvise once. The padre asked me what I thought of his sermon. I spelled it out for him, in detail “That’s why I like you George your bluntly honest, however a simple, I liked it or I didn’t like it is what I was looking for. Not that I didn’t appreciate your summary as overwinded as it was,” he said. I told him he will go to hell for lying. I asked him if he had a bible group. He said no. I told him he didn’t need one because I was picking up the slack. I explained to the padre that everywhere I go in this man’s navy, I run into guys that are in desperate need of someone to explain the bible to them. The padre said if their turning to me than they are desperate. I agreed. “So pick up the slack, for god’s sake, pardon the pun, but I do mean for God’s sake. The padre isn’t the kind of priest that looked for lost souls. He was more of the Priest that was there if you came looking, if not he was on his way out the door to enjoy life.

  After Mass, the padre and I walked over to the transit barracks, he ordered the officer of the day (O
D) to find the head chief. Padre didn’t care if he was off base, get him in one hour, he ordered. We hung out in the barracks waiting for Chief Wascowski to be found. It didn’t take long. If an officer is looking for you, the last thing you want to do is piss the officer off by making him wait.

  Chief Wascowski was walking fast with purpose when he came into the building. He saluted the padre. “Chief Wascowski, reporting as ordered, sir.” Padre returned the salute, he didn’t order the chief to stand at ease. The chief stood at attention eyes forward. “Yesterday I checked out Mr. Licata for the day. Somehow you didn’t see fit to write it down in the daily log. You went as far as to order the night watch to direct Mr. Licata to report to the SPs. You either made a mistake or you’re trying to fuck with me Mister!” Beads of sweat were running down the chief’s forehead. The entire barracks had gathered around us. “I think it was an honest mistake in protocol. Here is what we are going to do. I’m checking out Mr. Licata for the day. I will be returning Mr. Licata between the hours of 2200 tonight and 0200 tomorrow morning. You will be here to check him in personally. I don’t want a communication foul up again, that’s why you will handle it yourself. Do I make myself clear, Mr. Wascowski?” barked the padre. “Aye, aye, sir!” responded the Chief still standing at attention. Padre looked at me. “Good lets go.” I got up off the chair and we left. We drove out of the base and to his spacious apartment.