by Lars Teeney
Burke found his post within the mark seven, three-gun turret nearest the bow of the ship’s hull. The massive gun turrets required a crew of seventy-nine men to operate, so he was never alone in his job. He was responsible for operating the rammer equipment during combat. The machinery would load high-velocity shells, brought up the projectile hoist from the projectile ring after each shot from the three-gun turret. The job was not very pleasant. Training exercises were already causing a ringing in his ears that would last for weeks, even with ear protection. The gun deck also had a tendency to fill with powder smoke during protracted engagements. The gun deck had adequate ventilation but when the air for miles around the vessel filled with burning fuel smoke and gun-smoke, fresh air was hard to come by.
Burke performed his routine mandatory morning checks. He was relieved that they were not heading for combat for their current mission, and yet he couldn’t help yearn to get stuck into combat, after all, he signed up for a war, and he had not seen any. He grew up watching the newsreels from the Great War documenting the legendary battleship duels between the Royal Navy and the Kaiser’s fleet. He had dreamed of experiencing the full force of letting a ‘broadside’ rip. Of course, during training the reality was not a glamorous as the fantasy or as glorified as newsreels let on.
Private Burke mulled over their current mission. What an honor it was, but it certainly wouldn’t win him any glory or combat credibility. There was a general announcement that sounded out over the crude intercom, “Attention all personnel, the U.S.S. Iowa is preparing to make a port call to the Port of Washington-Dulles. Perform pre-disembarkation checks now. We need the vessel ship-shape for the President of the United States of America.”
Private Burke wondered if he would meet the President in person. He remembered F.D.R.s ‘Fire Side Chats’ during the depression in the thirties. He was a boy back then. Living with his parents and extended family. They had owned a family peach plantation just south of town. It had been the family’s land since at least the early Nineteenth century. For Alexander Burke, a life of peach picking was not going to cut it. He had already spent the majority of his childhood being a glorified field hand. Burke felt a sense of duty to his family and parents, but he had yearned for something more. So in the spring 1942, he took a trip to downtown Fresno and enlisted with the United States Navy.
He received his marching orders and reported to the Treasure Island Naval Facility just off of Yerba Buena Island in the San Francisco Bay. He was assigned a post on the U.S.S. Iowa, which was refueling and preparing for training missions. Burke underwent training and had a knack for being a member of the gunnery crew. When the crew was ready and the ship fully manned, they received the mission briefing. It was a top-secret mission, to transport a high-level government official overseas. The crew was not told the name of the V.I.P. nor the destination of the vessel. The U.S.S. Iowa would be part of a sizable task force. The Iowa in actuality would not be well protected as decoy vessels would be placed in the protective formation to fool enemy submarines that the important cargo must be located on the most heavily protected ship. If the Iowa were attacked there would not be much support, so the Navy was gambling that the subterfuge would hold.
The U.S.S. Iowa slowed its nautical speed as it lumbered toward the anchorage of the port. Burke could feel the rumbling resistance of the engine kicking in to slow the vessel. Sailors rushed on the deck to toss the mooring ropes overboard so they could be secured. With the Iowa moored, a massive gangway was deployed from the deck of the ship to the pier. The crew was given clearance for shore leave because the battleship would be in port overnight. Burke wasted no time disembarking the ship and starting off toward downtown looking for a good time. Burke caught a trolley on the line leading to downtown Washington D.C. The trolley rattled on the tracks and sounded its bell at each intersection; he took a seat near the middle of the trolley, thinking about all the trouble he was planning on getting into. Burke was spacing out staring straight ahead of himself when, in his peripheral vision, he caught a glimpse of exposed, curvaceous leg, enveloped in a casing of nylon with a seam line traveling up the back of the calf.
Burke tried to look straight ahead, but there was something magnetic that drew his eye to the enticing pair of legs. The feet were dressed in standard issue, heeled brogue women’s dress shoes. He felt compelled, by both heads, to gather more information on the body and head that was attached to the inviting legs. Burke, thinking he was being discreet, continued on his reconnaissance mission to survey the landscape. He gathered that a white knee length skirt, part of a front-buttoned nurse’s uniform, concealed the legs. The legs were crossed in a modest fashion as to deny Burke an addition to the showing that he had already been privy to. Burke’s mind couldn’t help but to try to use its telepathic powers to will the legs to open the gate and reveal the treasure contained within, but his mental powers were non-existent, so he needed to change his strategy.
Burke, trying to conceal his intentions, decided to study the rest of his query. He quickly moved his eyes over the torso and bosom, which was generous but not excessive. Burke’s eyes continued their journey northward. He gazed upon the coffee complexion of exposed neck and collarbone. The ruby red lips demanded attention, but when he reached the eyes, he found they stared back with a curious, but annoyed look. The eyes belonged to the face of a nurse whose symmetrical face drew his glance and refused to let go. Burke broke his glance and pretended to be looking out the window, but it did not work. He glanced back in her direction. She was reading a novel, ‘Brave New World’, he could see, but she glanced up to meet his eyes the moment she was in his sights.
He felt his palms sweat and a knot developed in his stomach, and time seemed to stand still in that instant.
“Fuck it,” he thought to himself. He might be dead in a month’s time, resting in a watery grave for eternity, so what did he have to lose? He took a deep breath, picked himself up out of his seat and took the few paces across the trolley to her position. He moved slowly and methodically. He sensed that she was well aware of his movements and intentions, but she continued to keep her eyes glued to her book. Burke felt a sense of dread and elation overtake him in equal parts. There was an empty seat available next to the nurse, so he claimed it. The nurse pretended to read. He glanced at the chapter title at the top of the page it displayed “Bernard Marx”. Burke wondered who that was; he hadn’t read the book.
“Looks like an interesting book you have there, miss,” he flung the line out clumsily, hoping for a bite.
Yes, very interesting, Do you know the author?” she inquired with a raised eyebrow.
He glanced at the cover, “By Aldous Huxley”. He wondered who that was. The last novel he had read was “Tom Sawyer” in high school. Books that really interested him were ‘historical reference’. What should he do? Private Burke had a few options in front of him. Firstly, he could lie outright and attempt to fabricate his knowledge of the book or other books by the author. Secondly, he could lie and use overly vague language to feign knowledge, hope she did not quiz him, and then change the subject at the first opportunity. Lastly, he could be truthful, which would not be very exciting but may give an opportunity for conversation. The dilemma weighed heavily on him. Burke decided he would opt for being truthful, and so he spoke, “Can’t say I do know the author, miss. What is the book about?” he asked, hoping she wouldn’t blow him off completely.
She continued to play the game. Glancing at him square in the eyes, she responded, “Well, there’s no simple way to answer that question. It’s an interesting book to say the least. Not exactly an enjoyable book to read. But essentially, well, you know Hitler over in Germany and his government, right?” she asked.
“Well, yeah sure, who doesn’t?” he asked back, rhetorically.
“Yes, well, it’s like that, but what if fascism was taking place in England, but with a Capitalistic twist? That’s sorta what the book has to do with.” She tried to simplify the answer as best she
could, and watched him mull over her answer.
“That’s crazy, though. Something like that could never happen in England or here. I mean that’s reason why we’re going to kick Adolf’s ass back into Berlin. That’s the reason for all of this. You and me,” he responded slightly annoyed. He had noticed previously that she was wearing a military nurse’s uniform.
“Yes, well, it is a work of fiction. Of curse it wouldn’t happen here,” she agreed, mainly in an attempt to avert a debate.
“So, sailor, where are you from?” She changed the subject.
“Well, I’m from out west, California actually,” Burke announced proudly.
“You’re a long way from home, sailor. Where are you being shipped off to?” she inquired with genuine interest.
“It’s interesting you ask. You aren’t a Hun spy are ya?” he jested.
“You must know an all-American girl when you see one, don’t ya?” she returned the joke.
“Well, I could tell you, but then well...” Burke used the tired, old line, expecting her to finish it.
“Don’t tell me. You’d have to kill me?” she delivered as expected.
“No, Actually I’d have to take you out for a drink, then we’d have to get married before I shipped out, so that when I told you about my mission you wouldn’t talk or risk putting your husband in danger!” Burke smiled at her and made eye contact when he delivered that line. She smiled back and blushed slightly.
“Well, sailor this is my stop,” she announced as the conductor called out ‘F’ street.
“That means we have to get that drink, now!” he rapidly fired off, softly grabbing her arm.
She looked at him momentarily, sizing him up, wrestling with an internal monolog, which consisted of an angel and a demon vying for supremacy. The demon prevailed.
“Old Ebbit Grill. That’s my neighborhood haunt. Better get a move on, stranger!” she smiled and walked to the exit, then hopped off the trolley. Finding himself still sitting down, he jumped off the seat and ran toward the exit, the folding door was closing. Private Burke thrust his shoulder through the doorway to force the door from closing, then pulled his body through and jumped to the pavement.
“I didn’t think you were going to make it, sailor,” she jostled his arm and started walking.
“Ya have to give a fellow a cue sometimes!” he said and walked fast to match her stride.
“So, miss, where are you from?” Burke asked.
“I don’t know. What do you mean? You mean my ethnicity or where I’m from geographically?” she specified.
“Gee, I guess, I mean–Yeah, all of it. I want to know!” he exclaimed.
“Well...If you want to start from the beginning, different sides of my family are from Puerto Rico and Mexico, but myself, I was born and raised here in D.C. American to the core,” she announced gleefully while pulling a cigarette from her purse. Burke took the cue and pulled a matchbook from his white trousers. He snapped a match from the book and struck it against the sandpaper to ignite the head. He presented the flame offering to the tip of her cigarette, which she accepted, that birthed a glowing cherry.
“Hey, that’s swell. You’re like a fusion of various backgrounds, pretty neat. And you live in the nation’s capital. Definitely, a little more exciting than me just being a European mutt,” he conceded.
“I don’t know about that. If you live it every day it’s routine, nothing exotic about it. Not sayin’ I’m not proud of my background, mind you,” the nurse added a disclaimer to her statement.
Burke nodded in agreement as they walked two abreast down the cobblestone-lined street. The air was chilled. It was early November and the season had turned. The trees were shedding their multiple-hued leaves and piles began to accumulate in the street and yards. The monumental civic center architecture dominated the street as they moved closer to the White House compound, which could be seen at the end of the street. Military men, sailors, and suits were crisscrossing the street. Delegates and political aides rushed about, conducting important business for the war effort. It was around rush hour and the sun was setting. Reddish streaks spread out across the sky from the sun and collided with cumulus clouds, dyeing them with light.
They finished their stroll from the trolley to the terminus of F Street, where it slammed into 15th street. A monolithic building blazoned with an etching that read “Old Ebbit Grill” stood before them.
“This is the place,” the nurse remarked.
“Looks like that'll do the trick,” he proclaimed as he grabbed the handle of the wooden door and opened it for her. She nodded with appreciation and proceeded inside. Burke couldn’t help but to appreciate the two opposing, mounds composing her rear end, obscured by white fabric that undulated as she took each step. Burke let the door free and followed her in. The establishment exuded an air of regalia with its Victorian decor. Carved and molded woodwork encased the bar and spanned the walls. Ornately framed mirrors lined the back of the bar, reflecting the other side of the room, making it look larger. Black wrought-iron chandeliers were suspended from the ceiling, which let off diffused light to set the mood. The one oddity of the space was the taxidermied heads of exotic beasts that lined the walls. The rumor around town is that Theodore Roosevelt, the Warrior-President himself, had bagged the beasts; from a safe distance and with a big gun. Walrus, bear, and buck were among the cast of victims.
Burke and the Nurse perched on stools at the far end of the bar. Burke grabbed the drink menus and handed her one. The establishment was half full; all the patrons were military personnel of the various branches. Burke could tell the place was more upscale than he was used to, and probably above his pay scale too. He was willing to play along, even though he would have been more at home in a blue-collar bar or a dive.
“So, what are you drinking? It’s on me,” he offered, holding a wad of cash in hand.
“I’ll take a whiskey and ginger,” she said.
Burke ordered her drink and got himself a dry martini; he took a sip and could tell it was made strong. He balanced the drinks and set the Nurse’s whiskey-ginger in front of her with a napkin. She took a sip and made a facial expression of approval. They sat silent for a moment, absorbing ambient sound and snippets of random chatter.
“So...Sailor, why did you join up? And, why did you choose the Navy?” she asked, making conversation.
“Hm, good question. Well, the specific reason ain’t so exciting. I needed to get away from the family orchard. We got a peach orchard business back west. I didn’t want to pick peaches for the rest of my life. The war gave me an out,” he recounted. He took a sip of the martini and swished it in his mouth.
“As for why the Navy...that one was a bit more deliberate. Ya know, since I was a kid I sorta had an egghead fascination with naval vessels, and battles...cannons and duels, that sort of thing.” Burke couldn’t help but feel a little embarrassed. He was slightly self-conscious about that fact.
“Well, that’s quite the reason if I’ve ever heard one, sailor,” the nurse said approvingly.
“Yeah, so...that’s the reason I went with the navy. I wanted to live on the high seas,” he added.
“I like that you knew what you wanted to do. Many of these fellows just jump right in and join the infantry. I guess they kinda consider the Navy for pansies,” she unintentionally insulted him.
At first the comment stung, but he shrugged it off. He was aware of the perception with those grunts that joined up to be some anonymous G.I.; the nameless soldier who is prodded like cattle to rush the enemy under withering fire only to become cannon fodder. At least on a ship you were part of a team, a hive, and a mechanized, human powered machine. You were also much less likely to die. Some people viewed that as cowardice, Burke viewed it this as a survival strategy.
“Yeah, that’s a common attitude they take, until those grunts are stuck on some beach and have to be bailed out by one of our heavy bombardments,” he retorted.
“Touché, sailor,” s
he said.
The nurse raised her glass toward Burke; a signal to meet her half way with this glass.
“Well, cheers!” she exclaimed bubbly.
“Cheers to what, miss?” he asked.
“Cheers, to your successful secret mission and to your safe return,” she exuded, as his martini glass collided with her squat glass. The trademark clink sounded, and they both took a swig of their drinks respectively.
“What about you? You’re a nurse. Where are they sending you?” he asked curiously.
“Oh, I think they’re keeping me here. I’m going to look after the wounded soldiers from Europe. It suits me, I don’t think I’m material for the front line. Besides, I have an ill mother to help out with, and with my brother already overseas; I’m all she’s got right now,” she explained. The Nurse expressed a serious tone, but still kept a smile on her face as if to mask some pain just under the surface.
“That’s noble of you, miss. I see that you have a sense of duty toward your family. I like that,” he admired her for the strength to nurse soldiers for a job, and her mother by night. Her story made him feel guilty for enlisting and leaving his aging parents to tend the family business on their own. And yet his drive to break away overruled his sense of duty to family. Truth be told, he wasn’t even serving for country or ideology. Private Burke didn’t give a shit about these things. He had never felt complete in a small town setting. It couldn’t contain his ambition.