Sea Devil: USS LST-666

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

ONE

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IT WAS A BEAUTIFUL BUT HUMID MORNING THAT AUGUST 20, 1950, when trouble rose with the sun.

Mister Abner Luxor looked around the freshly painted showroom with pride, rocking back and forth in his Wellington half-boots, one hand folded behind his back, the other holding his favorite cigar, a West (by god) Virginia Cheroot, and a pleased smile on his smoothly shaved face. A gentleman and businessman, Mister Luxor wore custom 3-piece suits always with snap brim sportster hats, a small feather or leaf in the band; he usually wore a white carnation in his coat button hole. His clothing, of course, came from Royster’s Men’s Emporium in downtown Philadelphia. When his hat sat on a shelf in his office, his trimmed, brown naturally wavy hair improved his looks. Green eyes, at 5 foot 10 inch height, a University of Pennsylvania class ring (‘48) on his right hand, a Wharton pin (’50) centered on his Pennsylvania State University school tie, and a small dab of Old Spice aftershave lotion completed his personal ensemble. When he was thinking deeply, or angered, his left eye closed to a slit as his right eye bulged wide open. Regrettably, when he was excited, his body was inclined to form huge amounts of noxious gas.

His four-room apartment home was in ‘The’ Abington Hall Apartments. It was tastefully decorated for a bachelor of some means. Abner’s living room, bedroom, office, and kitchen-dinette did justice to his tastes. World War Two Navy life gave him an appreciation of showers. The bathtub was only used by some of his lady friends. He entertained a variety of ladies and gentlemen of similar tastes. His liquor and wine cabinets held excellent beverages that accompanied bridge, poker, old maid, and canasta card games, backgammon, and monopoly. Abner had no use for chess, checkers, or chinese checkers—all the rage since the end of World War Two. A great new Philco AM/FM radio with a 78/45/33 RPM phonograph let him enjoy serious music and sports, especially football.

A powerful scientific ten inch slide rule was front and center on his desk, next to the electric Royal typewriter. He had dithered between K&E and Picket slide rules, finally settling on a Picket, an absolutely marvelous tool. He found it precisely the means that statistically pointed the way to his new business venture after careful comparisons of the several automotive opportunities.

The rehabilitated auto showroom presented three glistening 1950 models of Studebakers that just begged for customers to drive them away. Abner Luxor, a World War Two Navy veteran, 28 years old, was a chunky young man who bought the empty, ghostly, dusty, cobweb-laden former Franklin Motors property at 6870 Essington Avenue on Automobile Row, for a song.

Abner Luxor, a Doctoral Candidate in Marketing and Sales, after careful consideration, had selected the Studebaker firm based on their long business operation—more than 100 years old. Many of the covered wagons in late 1840’s and 1850’s, that started West from Independence, Missouri, across the Great Plains to Oregon or California had been manufactured by Studebaker wheelwrights who also designed and manufactured narrow canal boats. He wondered how many people knew that. He had asked the Studebaker people for a pictorial history of the Company. So far, they had not responded to that request.

Abner’s new enterprise consisted of the three-position Showroom. a 20-slot New and Used Car Lot where no used Studebaker would ever be permitted (old Studebakers traded in on a new model were immediately sold to another used car dealer who dealt with all automotive products.) A gleaming five-bay Garage equipped with latest tire alignment, tire balancing, headlight adjustment, and two cable lifts, next to a Studebaker Parts Room rounded out his Plant. Moreover, the entire plant was centrally heated and air-conditioned, completing the picture.

Staffing his department managers had been the critical point on his list of what to do right. He personally wrote the job descriptions, their measures of success, and pay scales: General Manager (Miss Angela ‘Angie’ Holz, a graduate of Philadelphia City College in Business Administration); Sales (Mr. Edwin Winthrop, 15 years auto sales experience); Garage (Mr. Jesus del Corona, ex-Technical Sergeant of Army Motor Pools); and Used Cars (Mr. Alvin Baker, automotive pricing expert) were carefully selected—mostly from other auto dealers and specifically instructed how to conduct business—according to Abner Luxor. This was a key part of his doctoral thesis on his road to a PhD, focusing on Marketing and Sales: selection of the correct management personnel. Of course, there were additional personnel, such as mechanics, secretaries, typing and accounting clerks, and janitors—inside and out.

Just as important, Abner insisted that Al Baker hire and train superior Wash Boys on the New and Used Car lot. Particularly, the new Studebakers fronting on Essington. Those would be washed or polished as needed, then started and warmed up every morning. It simply wouldn’t do for a prospective customer to walk away because the cold engine failed to start he or she was checking out. The Outside Janitorial crew kept the grounds picked up and swept daily. The dinky lawn in front of the show case windows was groomed weekly. Abner was determined to be the most successful Automobile dealer in Pennsylvania.

Abner had Angela arrange for flowers, shrubbery and potted trees to be scattered around the showroom, as well as in front of the showroom facing Essington, to add warmth to the decor.

He was admiring the total effect n the showroom when the hot August sun rose above the building across the street. An intense white beam struck his plate glass windows facing Essington Avenue, exposing dust and smeared handprints on the glass. Mr. Luxor frowned also noting none of the potted plants showed through those windows.

Angela, he said, looking down above the top of her head, and pointed with his cigar toward the showroom windows. Those windows are disgusting, get those janitors out here to clean and polish them right away. He continued, pointing here and there, and for goodness sakes, move some of those plants in front of them so people outside can see them. Angela sighed, nodded, and walked down the hall to the janitors hole in the wall.

That’s Stella’s job!

Two elderly negros, John and Charlie, were cleaning crockery and ashtrays in the deep sink.

Mr. Luxor is concerned the big windows are dirty and need to be polished. You’d better get right on it. John nodded without a word, grabbed a bucket and began filling it with soap and hot water. Charley pulled fresh rags from a bag.

The biggest single remodeling expense had been the new neon signs in blue and green colors. Similar blue and green paint colors embraced the entire facility. White spotlights on fifteen-foot tall poles focused on and highlighted the front row of eight new Studebakers in the Car Lot at night.

Luxor Studebaker Automobiles, Inc., (he was the only stockholder) had signed a contract with the Philadelphia Inquirer newspaper to run a half-page advertisement right below Prince Valiant in the Puck Comics section every weekend. He believed that most families in his target income bracket read the Sunday funnies before the news.

In formulating his marketing and business plans, Abner decided not to get involved with auto loans and insurance policies. Instead, his Sales staff would assist customers in completing applications and contracts; they went so far as driving them to a bank or loan or auto insurance company of their choice. This reduced administrative expenses considerably.

He continued to rock back and forth as he puffed on another Wheeling Cheroot, the third cigar of the day. He had another thought.

How could I have overlooked this advertising opportunity?

Angie, he said, would you try to locate any of those anti-aircraft searchlights. Depending on costs, two of them would be nice, waving their beams around at night. She smiled, thought it was an interesting idea. Nodding, she left for her office to investigate that possibility.

In six months. If everything went as planned, he would begin negotiations with Nash to become one of their franchised dealers, to join with his Studebaker franchise—perhaps even Willy’s Jeep later on. Not Henry J. Kaiser’s brand new Kaiser Frasier cars, though.

It was a great sunshiny, warm early August morning. The Cheroot was specially tasty today. A slight breeze out of the West forewarned of rain by nightfall.

He watched absentmindedly as a Western Union delivery boy in his brown uniform wheeled his bicycle up to his office side door and got off, carefully lifting the rear tire while dropping its support stand under it before he walked into the office. A moment later, the delivery boy was back out, kicked the stand back up and peddled away down the street.

I wonder what Studebaker has their knickers in an uproar about this time—so important that Corporation had a telegram delivered to his office.

A door slammed open and high-heeled patent leather pumps clicked fast and furious, nylons whisking sweetly. Mr. Luxor, Mr. Luxor! shouted Stella Adams, his private secretary. You better read this telegram right now! as she breathlessly ran up to him. He looked at her, smiling, his teeth showing, with raised eyebrows, and reached for the telegram that she read, as he puffed on his Cheroot.

He read it and exploded, his Cheroot flying away: Jesus Christ Almighty!

TWO

===

RED, THEN WHITE, TREMBLING WITH RAGE; HIS NECK STRETCHED and corded veins stood out; his heart began racing; he crumpled the telegram in his hand, picked up and jabbed his Cheroot into the floor stand ashtray. Abner’s stomach began churning! He smoothed and looked at the telegram again, his eyes jerking back and forth looking for an out; there was none he could see, just the shocking statement to report for active duty in the U.S. Navy in three days.

The Korean Conflict (not officially labelled a war by the U.S. Congress until many years later) started about a month ago on June 25, 1950. President Harry S. Truman called up the Reserves, mostly Inactive Reservists, and at the same time agreed with the press that this was just a little Police Action!

Abner was sucked into the Inactive Navy Reserve by a Yeoman while he was being processed for honorable discharge at Naval Station Treasure Island at the end of World War Two. The Inactive Reserve element did not care a twit about pay, meetings, or uniforms—they were USNR-R, not USNR. USNR-R personnel were not to be called up until all the USNR personnel were called up.

However, President Harry S. Truman, the Commander-in-Chief of the Armed Forces, a combat veteran himself, Captain of Artillery, of The-War-To-End-All-Wars, didn’t see it that way. He decided he wanted combat veterans who had participated in World War Two and had heard the roar of cannons, the rat-a-tat-tat of machine guns, banging of rifles, popping of pistols, and bombs bursting, who had known the brassy taste of fear, smelled cordite, and felt the heat and smelled the smoke of burning fires, the stinking dead, and screams of agonized pain instead of sending in wet-behind-the-ears eager young kids.

Therefore, former United States Navy sailor Luxor, Abner BM3 403-62-55 USNR-R (Boatswain’s Mate, Third Class Petty Officers were addressed as Coxswain; Second Class and above were addressed as Boatswain’s Mates, or simply Boats) was ordered to report to the U.S. Naval Receiving Station in the Philadelphia U.S. Naval Shipyard for active duty no later than 3 days hence, in his Dress Blue Baker uniform with earned ribbons, seabag, and one extra small bag, total baggage not to exceed 100 pounds.

Sheee-yit he snapped, furiously.

I’ll never fit into my blues again. I’m not even sure where my old seabag is.

Goddammit all to hell, he screamed looking at the showroom ceiling, fists clenched, arms raised and shaking to the ceiling. Startled by his outburst, the office sales staff scrambled to their feet, staring at Mister Luxor, not aware of the reason for his anger. He felt like crying—all this effort and he was going far away!

Stella! he bawled to his secretary. Get our attorney, Edward T. Edwards, he rasped harshly, his cigar breath offending Stella, on the telephone, and tell him it is very important. Read him this damn Navy telegram. Hopefully, he will know what to do.

Stella leaned away from his cigar breath. Yes sir, Mister Luxor. Right away. Stella marched back to her desk and the Burroughs Accounting machine, marked her place on the Incoming Sales Orders from the South Bend, Indiana Studebaker Corporation and manufacturing plant. A large shipment of new cars rolled in on two truck car carriers from Studebaker this week. Not only that, Mr. Luxor just bought one of those new 1950 Studebaker President models as a gift to himself. It was still being detailed in the Garage before he drove it off the lot.

She flipped through her Roll-a-dex business card file and found Edwards’ card. Dialing his number, she waited for his receptionist to pick up the telephone. She thought things were going to be a bit exciting over the next three or four days.

Edward T. Edwards, Attorney at Law offices. May I help you? a female voice asked, crisply.

This is Stella Adams, Abner Luxor’s private secretary. I need to talk to Mr. Edwards right away. It’s very important, she said. Her voice carried the sound of urgency.

Let me see if he is free, Miss Adams, and put her on Hold. Stella tapped her finger nails on the desk as she waited impatiently. A man’s voice filled with concern spoke on the telephone. Miss Adams, is Abner okay? What can the matter be?

Mr. Edwards, Luxie—I mean Mr. Luxor—just got a telegram from the Navy. He has to report for active duty in three days. She read the telegram to him. Can you do anything about that? she asked, her voice edged with fear.

He laughed harshly. So did I, but I am much better off than he will be. I will be attached to the Army Judge Advocate General’s office right here in Philly. Mr. Edwards paused a second, then gently, Luxie? he asked thoughtfully. You two have something going on, Stella? She gasped, blushing with embarrassment. Oh no, Mr. Edwards, that’s just our pet name—nickname for him, Stella tittered.

Anyway, to answer his question, tell him to swallow it and go forth to fight the dragons! He was laughing loudly as he hung up.

Now Abner was a proud American, proud to have served in the Navy as an Assault Boat Coxswain—a terrifying, very frightening job—in World War Two on the USS LST-587. He drove a Landing Craft, Vehicle, Personnel (LCVP) filled with Marines at Tinian in the Marianas (1st Wave—Green Beach 1), Iwo Jima (3rd Wave—Blue Beach 3) and Soldiers at Okinawa (1st Wave—Red Beach 1). He had done his duty and received nasty flesh wounds in his chest and upper left arm from a Jap Zeke fighter during the Okinawa campaign. He shouldn’t have to go back out there. Since he was called up, of course he would appear. Abner had recently stopped having nightmares about those island amphibious landings, especially Okinawa.

But dammit, yes, I will try to get out of going back on active duty, and, of course I will appear dressed as a businessman. After all, I am President of Luxor Studebaker Automobiles, Inc., right here in downtown Philadelphia and should be eligible for a deferment.

While he savagely mumbled curses about his rotten luck, he rummaged around his comfortable apartment and the downstairs storeroom until he found his mildewed seabag that smelled ugly.

Abner brought the seabag up from the storeroom and shook the wrinkled contents on the floor. He stood looking at the mess—a tall glass of Wild Turkey 101 in his fist (no water, one ice cube)—shrugged, and began sorting out what was still useful. He tried on pants, shirts, and jumpers. They didn’t fit anymore. The clothes that he kept (and the seabag itself) had to be washed, dried, and rolled up to be repacked into the seabag, also washed and dried. Naturally his Blues, Whites, and dungaree uniforms no longer fit because he had aged and put on weight since the end of World War Two. With another healthy jolt of Wild Turkey, he put those uniforms outside his door for the building janitor to take away. When he tried on his peacoat and raincoat, Abner was pleased to find out they were still usable. His shoes—black low top, high top and tennies—were a little stiff—sort of dried out—he shrugged: with polishing and wear, they will become softer and more limber.

I wonder if my Bluejackets Manual is still good?

Mr. Edwards had been no help at all. He jokingly mentioned he was alerted for call-up as a Major in the Army’s Judge Advocate General’s department right here in Philadelphia. He smirked as he told Abner he wouldn’t even have to wear uniforms. Mr. Luxor felt like belting him.

Asshole!

The following two days were filled with two visits to Ed Edwards, once with Angie, as he made business arrangements for her to act in his place, in all business matters. He made Ed his Executor to handle his estate and watch over Angie.

THREE

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THREE DAYS LATER AT 9:00 AM (0900), LUXOR, ABNER BM3, IN HIS best civilian attire pulled up to the Marine sentry at the Philadelphia Naval Shipyard Main Gate in his new Studebaker President, rolled down his window, and held out the telegram to the Corporal of the Guard: Where is the Receiving Station, Mac? I have to check in for duty today.

The Marine sentry, a Corporal, studied the telegram and looked down at Abner Luxor in his new car. You’re out of uniform, Coxswain, grinning gleefully at Luxor.

What the hell do you mean I am out of uniform? Mr. Luxor demanded.

It says here you’re supposed to be in Dress Blue Baker, Coxswain. I’m not sure I can allow you to enter. he smirked, teasing him.

Exasperated, Abner looked up at him. For Chrissake, Corporal. None of my uniforms fit anymore—I’ve put on more than 20 pounds since ’45.

The Marine rubbed his chin as he reread the telegram in his hand. Well, you got any ID on you, Luxor?

Yeah, he said, seething; jerked his coat left lapel back and reached into the breast pocket of his brown suit coat for his large billfold. He pulled out his Pennsylvania driver’s permit, company business card, Elks membership card, Junior Chamber of Commerce membership card, and fanned them. Will any of these do … Corporal? he asked belligerently.

The corporal grinned and handed the telegram and cards back to him.

Park your car over there where the sign says ‘Visitors,’ he pointed, because your fancy new car doesn’t have a base tag. Then walk down the block to the Blue and Gold sign that says Receiving Station. Let them figger it out. He laughed loudly. Your boat is loaded Coxswain, shove off! waving him on.

Doing as the Corporal ordered, he parked, locked his car, and still smoldering, stalked down the street into the Navy Receiving Station. The seabag remained in his car.

Abner pushed open the door and looked around at some very familiar World War Two Navy posters, the door swinging shut behind him with a thunk. A sailor, swinging a buffer back and forth over the floor to make the floor wax shine, looked up and smiled at the civilian. When Abner’s eyes were accustomed to the darker scene, he saw a sign with an arrow pointing down at a window, directing incoming sailors to report there.

Holy moley, nothing ever changes, does it?

A Chief Torpedoman, (TMC) sitting at his desk and seaman behind the counter, looked up at him when Abner opened the door. The chief looked Abner up and down. Frowning and staring at this civilian, he got up from his swivel rocker and came to the counter, not saying a word.

Oh Christ, another recalled sailor without uniforms, thought the chief.

Abner handed the Chief Torpedoman his telegram without a word who glanced at it and looked him up and down in his neat 3-piece brown business suit. He reread the telegram and handed it to the seaman who began processing Luxor, Abner BM3, checking Luxor’s name from a long list of reservists living in the Philly area reporting for duty. The chief leaned over the window counter frowning, you know you are out of uniform, Luxor. The telegram specifically ordered you to report in Dress Blue Baker. Go home, take off that 3-piece monkey suit and come back in your Dress Blues.

No can do, Chief, Abner said, resentfully, glaring at the chief. Can’t get into my old uniforms. I’ve put on too much weight. However, my hats, shoes, socks, peacoat, raincoat, and scivvy shorts are still usable. Besides, I am here to see about a deferment because of my business, handing him his business card.

The Chief Torpedoman glanced at the card. Stupidbakers, huh? He tossed back the card, indifferent to Luxor’s shocked, bulging eyes.

Stupidbakers?

No deferments granted. We—that is, the Army, Navy, and Marines—are really up shit creek, Coxswain, looking for paddles. He studied Luxor for a moment and grinned. Filling your new seabag is going to cost you up to $329, plus tailoring to get your BM3 rating badges and one hash mark sewn on, plus your ribbons, plus steam pressing one set of dress and undress blues—depending on what’s needed—to complete your bag. I think you can afford it, though. While you are checking … ummm, hey Coxswain, how’d you get here? he asked, gently, peering through the window frame. Abner looked miserable and was building up steam. The chief wanted to cool him down.

I walked. That Corporal of the Guard wouldn’t let me use my car, he pouted. It’s parked in a visitors parking place down by the Main Gate. I had to walk here, Abner said with gritted teeth.

Okay, here’s what you’re gonna do. Go home, take care of your business dealings, and change into something simple—like polo shirt, slacks, and loafers—Luxor. Get someone else to drive you to the Main Gate. Send your girlfriend home and you come back here, or take the trolley to the Main Gate. He glanced up at the 24-hour clock. It is now 0915. You have until 1200 to check back in and start the induction process. Got it, Luxor?

Meanwhile, the seaman had finished typing a temporary paper ID card for Luxor. He signed it, reached across the counter, handed the ID card and a fountain pen to Luxor. Sign it, please. Luxor shrugged and did so.

His shoulders visibly sagged, then straightened aggressively. What if I don’t show up? he snarled, looking at his new ID card. The chief shrugged. Luxor, you’re already logged in. You came back on active duty when you signed that ID card. If you do not return, you will be reported as AWOL under the Uniform Code of Military Justice …

… What the fuck is the uniform code of whatever you said?

the Uniform Code of Military Justice replaced the old Rocks and Shoals of yesteryear, Coxswain. Anyway, the Shore Patrol and City Police will bring you back in handcuffs to place you in the Brig, waiting Captain’s Mast. Do you really want that? Luxor shrugged and shook his head, Hell no, Chief. No trouble. Was just wondering, looking for an out. Okay?

The Chief reached over and shook his hand. Welcome back to the Navy, Coxswain. However, be here by 1400. By 1600, your Recall physical and shot record will be up to date for the continental US. Your seabag will be filled with the missing uniforms and stenciled with your name; your pay record and personnel jacket will be reconstituted. By tomorrow afternoon, you will have your orders, travel and meal vouchers and train tickets, and be on your way to where ever the Navy wants you.

Aw crap. Can I have a little more time, Chief. I really have to make legal arrangements for my business? Abner pleaded.

I just made it 1400 instead of 1200. But be here, Coxswain! he snapped. Luxor BM3, nodded unhappily and hurried down the street to his car.

Lessee, as General Manager, Angie will have a full power of attorney to conduct my business. I’ll arrange for her to keep me apprised of what is going on, on a monthly basis.

Sheila, my ex-, will continue to receive her alimony but doesn’t even need to know I am gone.

Edward will take care of all the documentation for me, and keep in touch. Wonder if I will be able to call him or Angela? I wish Angie were not my employee. She really is nice.

Maybe when I get back….

Major business out of the way and back in his office, unhappy Abner leaned back and looked across the room at Angela. Mr. Luxor, pleaded Angie, I want to get two good photographs to blow up, frame, and hang in the Show Room to let everybody know you are serving in the Navy.

Abner looked at her strangely. but my 3-piece suit doesn’t fit that bill, Angie. He thought about it. Okay Angie, before and after photos—suit and uniform. I suppose you know best.

That’s why you made me General Manager, Abner! she said shyly as she turned back to her desk.

First time she ever called me by my first name. Must go with the territory.

Meanwhile, Stella, listening to that discussion, opened her deep desk drawer and pulled out her Brownie 120. Getting up, she hurried over to Mr. Luxor. Let me take your picture, Mr. Luxor she asked with a honey-filled voice. Angie straightened up from her desk, holding a Kodak folding camera. She glared at Stella. I will take care of this, Stella. You have those shipments to complete. Abner looked back and forth at Angie and Stella.

Uh oh.

The day before he got on the train for U.S. Naval Station Treasure Island in San Francisco Bay, Abner, in his Dress Blues with his World War Two battle ribbons, gathered everyone in the Showroom for a combined reception and good-bye. He had brought the contents of his own bar—otherwise, it would probably evaporate before he got back. Stella arranged for snacks. The managers suddenly realized this would be a whole new ballgame, and Miss Angela Holz was going to lead the charge.

Edwin Winthrop, the Sales Manager, took in a deep breath. Say, Abner, have the girls take a lot of photos of us all. We can mail ‘em to you to remember what we look like. He took charge of the photo session. Ed looked around and lowered his voice. Lux, why didn’t you make me the General Manager in your absence? I mean, Angela is a woman and it just isn’t fitting. Abner looked at him for a minute.

It’s this way, Ed. You are an intelligent, super salesman, But you ain’t squat when it comes to managing any business. Angela, on the other hand, took her degree in Business Administation, minoring in Accounting. The only thing she has to sell is her ability to pat you on your pointy head and push you to do fine things. Looking Ed square in the eye, is that all understood now, or did I make a horrible mistake with you?

Okay, okay. I understand. Jusst thought I had to try. Abner nodded and moved on.

Ed shrugged, outgunned. "Angie and Stella, stand close to the boss so I can take a good photograph. Angie stood on his left side, her arm around his waist with her breast pushing against his side. Stella, marching up from her desk saw that. She snuggled up on his right side, making sure that her breast not only touched his other side but she managed to make it move a little bit against the side of his belly.

Hoo boy! This is great—until I come back home again.

Angie tapped her wine glass to get everybody’s attention. Luxie, she said, we all chipped in and got a present for you. It’s a new invention, the Polaroid Land Camera and we got eight boxes of film to go with it. That’s adds up to sixty-four photos of you and your ship in action. Mail them home with a story for each one, Luxie. She handed him the present wrapped-with-ribbons box. Abner was stunned and stuttered his thanks.

Now where the hell am I going to put all this?

After everyone headed home and before he left for home to close his apartment, he and Angie stood by the door and took a few minutes to bravely console each other. He looked at Angie for a long minute; he pulled her very close and kissed her a long goodbye, letting his left hand slide up to cup her breast as his right hand slid down her back and rested on her very nice ass. Angie surprised him with a little bit of tongue—a lot of tongue! She had tears in her eyes as she joined in the hug and kiss, her arms around his neck while he squeezed.

Behave yourself out there, be safe, and come home to take back your business, Luxie. She choked a little bit and turned away, teary-eyed. She heard the door shut and spun around. Abner Luxor, BM3 USNR-R was gone. He was humming Les Brown’s version of I’ve Got my Love to Keep my Warm.

FOUR

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LUXOR BM3 USNR-R CHECKED IN AT THE PHILADELPHIA Naval Shipyard Receiving Station to pick up his orders and train tickets. The same Chief Torpedoman was at his desk. He got up with a big smile on his face. Luxor, glad I caught you. There will be a slight delay before you leave.

Oh yeah?

Now what?

Yes, apparently you were promoted to Second Class the same day you were transferred to the Inactive Reserves on Treasure Island. Let’s get your Dress and one Undress jumper changed to BM2 right now. Might save some pain in the ass on the way out to your next duty, the USS LST-666, Boats".

Oh fuck, another LST.

The Tailor Shop took back all the extra BM3 badges, gave him a handful of BM2 badges for blues and whites, and sewed the new badges on one Dress and Undress blue jumper and on one Undress White jumper. Luxor looked down at his sleeve and for the first time enjoyed what he saw. (Years later, iron-on badges were added to dungaree shirts, never before identifying the wearer by rate.)

What happened to my Gator Navy shoulder patches?

Hey Chief, I had Amphibious patches on my shoulder before. What happened? Am I disqualified now? Abner asked.

Navy did away with them after the war was over. Marines lost theirs, too, he said.

Ah!

Abner shrugged and picked up his gear. A Navy Carryall drove him to the train station. He had barely time to have a couple of double shots of Wild Turkey 101 at the bar in the waiting room before his train was called; he carried two more in a paper cup to his Pullman seat.

Luxor rode the New York Central Broadway Express from Philadelphia to the Chicago Central Station. He had to grab a taxi for a trip across town to the Dearborn Avenue train station for the AT&SF City of San Francisco, and finally to Treasure Island on San Francisco Bay on a streetcar. At T.I., Luxor received two days of reindoctrination, more shots for the Far East, another sea bag inspection, and a very boring reading of the articles of the new Uniform Code of Military Justice. Luxor was surprised that he was required to sign a statement that he had heard all the UCMJ articles read to him.

At least my uniforms are new and fit properly.

Next, he was bused to Travis Air Force Base for air transportation to Hickam AFB, Honolulu, Territory of Hawaii, in an Air Force MATS (Military Air Transportation Service) Douglas C-54 (DC-4) Skymaster. Another bus ride across Pearl Harbor to Naval Air Station Barbers Point, not too far from Ewa, for another overnight bunk and breakfast, listening to a news broadcast from KHON about this Korean action while he ate.

They’re getting the shit kicked out of them. Might be another Dunkirk.

This time, off to Johnston Island on a NATS (Naval Air Transportation Service) R4D (DC3/C-47) to the worst prepared military meal he had ever eaten—an awful lunch of tough, hard to chew, dried, fried chicken, plaster-of-paris mashed potatoes, sticky glue brown gravy, shriveled buckshot green peas, and something ugly they called coffee made with water heavy with chlorine.

After standing around the tarmac in grueling hot sun while the Air Force refueled the Navy plane, the passengers boarded the broiling hot plane and flew on to Naval Air Station Kwajalein for a great Navy dinner (Oh, thank God) as the sun set, while the R4D was being serviced again. Once again, airborne to Guam, Marianas Islands, to stay overnight at Anderson AFB—in reactivated quonset huts for all the transient troops heading toward Korea. Four sailors were dropped off the bus at an ugly quonset hut. Nasty bugs and mosquitos ate Abner alive, even his rain coat couldn’t keep torrential rain from soaking him to the skin.

The quonset huts were not only humid, the lights didn’t work but the four sailors all had lighters to see by. The mattresses were mildewed and damp. Abner dug out his mattress cover to lay on top of the mattress. He hoped no bugs would get to him. He laid in his bunk listening to true jungle sounds emitting eerily from the dark night.

This is not some movie. These are real jungle sounds.

The next day was a long run to Haneda Air Base in Tokyo, in a MATS C54/DC4/R5D. Upon arrival and before they were allowed to leave the airport waiting room, an Air Force Lieutenant and two AP’s required the passengers to turn