can get to their new assignment on the tank landing ship
Westchester County.
Bruise and Rascal have their bags over their shoulders, itching to report to their new life aboard the destroyer
Sacramento.
Vera’s belongings have been packed up by somebody and are waiting to be collected. Even his dog tags,which he opted not to take with him to the bottom of the sea, sit on top of it all, waiting.
“Where the action is, pal,” Moses says, grabbing me in a half-headlock. I’m reading the postings list, trying to make sense of it.
“What is this, ‘RAF’?” I ask. Really, I should know. Really, I don’t. “Does it mean we’ve been transferred all the way to the British Royal Air Force?”
“Riverine Assault Force vessel, Mo. It’s a floating tank they’re putting us on, guns everywhere. We are now part of the Mobile Riverine Force, working together with the sad fools of the Army. We go right upriver, into the very heart of this whole crazed show. We deliver Army jokers way up-country, we go back and forth and supply Army jokers, and when the time comes, we go back up and collect whatever’s left of them Army jokers. All the while we blast away at everything that moves.”
I just keep staring at the list. “Oh,” I say.
Moses points at my designation letters. “At least you finally got your wish, Mr. Communications. You’re a radioman.”
I brighten up right away. All I ever really wanted was to be in communications, whatever craft they put me on. So not only could I watch over my pals, I might be able to contact them as well. Just to hear them …
Another happy thought occurs to me. “So I won’t have to do any shooting?”
“Oh, no,” Moses says, laughing. “Everybody on that ship is shooting, pal. Even the cook has to be shooting, if you want to get up- and downriver in one piece.”
“Oh,” I say again. “Oh.”
With very little fanfare, I go to my rack and pack up the remains of my life aboard USS
Boston.
It all peters out to the end.
“See ya” and “Good luck” and “Maybe we’ll catch up again” are about all we give to each other, all we get from each other. Just like that, The House empties for the last time.
“Come on,” Moses says, “let’s go. I don’t want to spend one more minute than necessary on the USS
Crackerbox.”
I would have thought Moses had been the happiest guy on the whole ship.
But maybe I don’t know anything.
We’re headed out the door when we bump right into the big Marine officer coming in. Moses and I snap right to attention, salute, and stand aside as the officer walks past.
Col. Rivera
it says on his name tag.
We stand frozen in place as he walks silently to Vera’s rack.
He stands over the rack, over the really puny little hump of belongings that are what is left of his son. He stands, hunched over it, exactly the way a person pauses on his way past a coffin at a funeral.
He does not move for the longest time. It is so tense, so sad, so gut-wrenching, I would throw my own self into the ocean right now if I had half a chance.
Colonel Rivera breaks the stillness by saluting his son.
I am certain it is the first and only time he has done so. I am wondering how things might have been different if he had done it, just once, while Vera was alive.
“You men can go,” the colonel says, his voice cracking but still clearly the authority in the room. “Move on, gentlemen. Please, move on.”
We don’t need to be told again. We scramble as Colonel Rivera sits on the rack, his back still to us, gathering up the dog tags, picking up — and smelling close and deep — his boy’s shirt.
He is definitely humming softly as Moses and I depart.
Anchors Aweigh.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Blue Water No More
A fter reporting, with our lives stuffed into these long canvas duffel bags, we are once more transported across the ocean, on a converted World War II troop ship, back to the action. Only this time, we’re taken much deeper into the action.
For
Westchester County.
Bruise and Rascal have their bags over their shoulders, itching to report to their new life aboard the destroyer
Sacramento.
Vera’s belongings have been packed up by somebody and are waiting to be collected. Even his dog tags,which he opted not to take with him to the bottom of the sea, sit on top of it all, waiting.
“Where the action is, pal,” Moses says, grabbing me in a half-headlock. I’m reading the postings list, trying to make sense of it.
“What is this, ‘RAF’?” I ask. Really, I should know. Really, I don’t. “Does it mean we’ve been transferred all the way to the British Royal Air Force?”
“Riverine Assault Force vessel, Mo. It’s a floating tank they’re putting us on, guns everywhere. We are now part of the Mobile Riverine Force, working together with the sad fools of the Army. We go right upriver, into the very heart of this whole crazed show. We deliver Army jokers way up-country, we go back and forth and supply Army jokers, and when the time comes, we go back up and collect whatever’s left of them Army jokers. All the while we blast away at everything that moves.”
I just keep staring at the list. “Oh,” I say.
Moses points at my designation letters. “At least you finally got your wish, Mr. Communications. You’re a radioman.”
I brighten up right away. All I ever really wanted was to be in communications, whatever craft they put me on. So not only could I watch over my pals, I might be able to contact them as well. Just to hear them …
Another happy thought occurs to me. “So I won’t have to do any shooting?”
“Oh, no,” Moses says, laughing. “Everybody on that ship is shooting, pal. Even the cook has to be shooting, if you want to get up- and downriver in one piece.”
“Oh,” I say again. “Oh.”
With very little fanfare, I go to my rack and pack up the remains of my life aboard USS
Boston.
It all peters out to the end.
“See ya” and “Good luck” and “Maybe we’ll catch up again” are about all we give to each other, all we get from each other. Just like that, The House empties for the last time.
“Come on,” Moses says, “let’s go. I don’t want to spend one more minute than necessary on the USS
Crackerbox.”
I would have thought Moses had been the happiest guy on the whole ship.
But maybe I don’t know anything.
We’re headed out the door when we bump right into the big Marine officer coming in. Moses and I snap right to attention, salute, and stand aside as the officer walks past.
Col. Rivera
it says on his name tag.
We stand frozen in place as he walks silently to Vera’s rack.
He stands over the rack, over the really puny little hump of belongings that are what is left of his son. He stands, hunched over it, exactly the way a person pauses on his way past a coffin at a funeral.
He does not move for the longest time. It is so tense, so sad, so gut-wrenching, I would throw my own self into the ocean right now if I had half a chance.
Colonel Rivera breaks the stillness by saluting his son.
I am certain it is the first and only time he has done so. I am wondering how things might have been different if he had done it, just once, while Vera was alive.
“You men can go,” the colonel says, his voice cracking but still clearly the authority in the room. “Move on, gentlemen. Please, move on.”
We don’t need to be told again. We scramble as Colonel Rivera sits on the rack, his back still to us, gathering up the dog tags, picking up — and smelling close and deep — his boy’s shirt.
He is definitely humming softly as Moses and I depart.
Anchors Aweigh.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Blue Water No More
A fter reporting, with our lives stuffed into these long canvas duffel bags, we are once more transported across the ocean, on a converted World War II troop ship, back to the action. Only this time, we’re taken much deeper into the action.
For
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