The story below is another
chapter in my novel Olongapo, which I hope to soon publish.
The story originally appeared
in American Crime Magazine.
Hit the Head
By Paul Davis
“I gotta hit the head,” is
U.S. Navy speak for a sailor needing to use a urinal or toilet.
Bathrooms on Navy ships and
shore stations are called the "head.” As I heard it, the name derives from the
old sailing ships, where the toilet was located in the bow, or the head of the
ship. The Navy is big on traditions and nicknames.
On the aircraft carrier USS
Kitty Hawk during our 1970-1971 combat cruise, the Communication Radio
Division’s head was equipped with four urinals, a half dozen sinks, a half
dozen toilet stalls and a half dozen shower stalls.
Cleaning the head was the responsibility
of the compartment cleaner, a position I held for a month when I was
first assigned to the division.
I told the other sailors at the time that I was the “head man." That always got a laugh.
While on “Yankee Station” in
the Gulf of Tonkin off North Vietnam, the radio division was on what was called
“port and starboard” watches, with eight hours on watch and eight hours off.
When half of the division was on watch and the other half were in their racks
sleeping, the head was usually empty.
One evening during our
second line period on Yankee Station, I couldn’t sleep, so I was in the head
brushing my teeth. Ronald Redman, a big and heavy sailor, wide
as a refrigerator, waddled into the head.
The Oklahoma sailor was so crude
and ill mannered that another sailor from Oklahoma had to tell everyone that they were not all like Redman back home.
Redman had a mouthful of chewing tobacco in his jaw when he entered the head, and he spit a glob into the sink next to me. He then began to walk away.
“Yo! Clean the sink out, you
fucking slob,” I said to him.
“Fuck you, Davis,” Redman
said.
At that moment James Griffin,
a chubby and congenial 2nd class radioman, walked into the head. He
saw me hit Redman square in the face with a swift short right. The punch caused
Redman to step back, but he just stood there and didn’t say anything.
“That’s enough, Davis,”
Griffen said, stepping in between us.
“I don’t want to fight you,
Davis,” Redman said. “Because you is smaller than me.”
“Oh, yeah,” I replied. I
hit Redman in the face with another good short right.
Redman fell against a sink
and his left eye swelled and closed.
Griffen grabbed my arms and
warned me that he would put me on report if I hit Redman again.
“I ain’t gonna fight you,
Davis, cause I don’t fight guys smaller than me,” Redman said as he held his
left eye and waddled out of the head. I heard him mutter, "I can't fight no smaller man. That would not be right."
To my surprise, it appeared that Redman had
one redeeming quality.
Most of the sailors entered
the head wearing flip flop shower shoes, a white towel with snaps held around
our waists, and another white towel around our necks.
Jason Bullard was different.
The tall and obese 3rd
class radioman came into the head wearing a white terrycloth bathrobe. After showering, he emerged from the shower stall with a towel wrapped around his head
like a girl and the full robe on his body.
Despite Bullard’s effeminate
ways, he was not ridiculed or picked on. He was a popular guy in the division. We presumed he was a homosexual,
but he didn’t proposition anyone as far as we knew. Bullard was intelligent, cheerful
and funny. He often made self-deprecating comments about his swishy ways. We
all laughed when he swayed into the head like a movie queen, and he would
laugh back, usually making some clever quip.
Bullard’s best friend on the
Kitty Hawk was Jeffrey Greenberg, a 3rd class radioman who shared
Bullard’s love of books. I became friendly with Greenberg when he saw me
reading Mark Twain’s short stories. He struck up a conversation with me about Ole
Sam Clemens, a writer we both loved.
I later became friendly with Bullard. We would often sit around and discuss the war, history and literature. “I’m surprised that a high school dropout and street urchin is so well read,” he
said.
I laughed. I told him that I
wanted to be a writer, and he encouraged me to get my GED high school equivalency
via a correspondence course and then take college correspondence courses. I
took his advice.
It was on another line period
off North Vietnam when a serious assault was committed in our head.
I didn’t like Louis Durand.
The tall, lean 27-year-old 3rd class radioman with curly reddish
hair was from New Orleans. He was proud of his college degree from some
university, and he often spoke of it and how he was better educated than our
officers.
He bragged that he had connections in the city, and he was in line to be a big shot when he received his draft notice. Not wanting to die in a Vietnamese rice paddy, he joined the Navy. But he often complained that the Navy was holding him back from his destiny.
Durand was also quite vocal in
his detainment of those with only high school diplomas, and he was even more disdainful
of high school dropouts. And he was especially disdainful of 18-year-old high school
dropouts, like me, who appeared to be somewhat literate and intelligent.
In the middle of a group
discussion on our down time, Durand would quiz me about some fine point of the
subject. I passed his quizzes, which made him scowl and others laugh. But he was positively
gleeful when I happened to mispronounce the word rapprochement.
Bullard, also a college
graduate, came to my defense, stating, “Davis is an autodidact. That’s why he
sometimes mispronounces words. But I suspect that he is better read than you,
dear Louis.”
That pissed off Durand. And
he had no snappy comeback.
I didn’t know what an
autodidact was. I had to look it up. Bullard was right. I was never a good student,
having cut most classes in high school, but I was an avid reader. So I may have
known what a word meant, but in some cases. I did not know how to properly
pronounce the word due to my not ever having heard the word spoken in a classroom.
After Durand mocked me for mispronouncing
the word, I made a joke about it. But in my head, I made a note to punch out Durand
if I ever encountered him in Olongapo. Luckily for Durand, he frequented a different
bar in Olongapo than I did, so I never saw him ashore.
I later learned that Durand
also displayed his haughtily ways in Olongapo. He mocked an airman from
one of the airwings attached to the Kitty Hawk. The airman, John Makris, the son
of a Greek restaurant owner in New York City, was offended but said nothing to
Durand.
“The Greeks have gone from
being great philosophers to being short order cooks,” Durant said disdainfully.
The bar girls laughed at Durand’s put down of Makris, even though they didn’t
know what he was talking about. But hey, they thought, he’s buying the drinks.
Makris held his tongue and
temper and allowed Durand to make disparaging remarks, but he drew the line
when Durant coveted Lolita, Makris’ pretty bargirl.
After pulling into Subic Bay
after a long line period, Markis went before a captain’s mass and was restricted
to the ship as punishment for shoving another airman during an argument at sea.
Not being allowed to visit Olongapo during our week-long port of call was a very
cruel punishment for a young man.
To make matters even worse,
Makris was told by another airman that Durand had paid the bar’s Mama-San, so
he was able to take Lolita to a hotel for what was called “Short-time” sex. Durand
later that evening left with Lolita when the bar closed.
Makris was furious. He had
fallen for Lolita, and he thought she was in love with him. He took a
combination lock and stuffed it into a white sock. The “lock in a sock” was a
common weapon aboard ship and Makris planned to get revenge on Durand.
Makris lay in the passageway outside
of the Message Processing Cener. He waited more than an hour and then saw
Durand step out into the passageway and enter the radiomen’s compartment. Makris followed
Durand into the head. Durand stood before a urinal when Makris came up behind
him and hit Durand in the back of his head with the lock in a sock.
Durand screamed in pain and
fell to the deck. Makris stood over Durand and struck him twice more. Three radiomen,
alerted by Durant’s screams, entered the head and grabbed Makris.
Durand was taken to the ship’s
sick bay and then flown off the carrier and admitted into the Subic Bay hospital.
Makris was also flown off the carrier and landed in Subic Bay. He was met on
the airfield by NIS special agents who arrested Makris for attempted
murder.
I felt bad for both Durand
and Makris, although I didn’t like Durand and I didn’t know Makris.
Bullard told us that he read
a message that stated that Durand had been operated on and was in stable condition.
The message also said that Durand was scheduled to be medically discharged from
the Navy.
“Durand said he couldn’t wait
to get out of the Navy,” Bullard said. “He said that with his fine education, he
had a bright future in New Orleans. It is a shame that he had to be beaned on
the head, in the head, to get a jump on his brilliant career.”
“Well,” I said. “That’s one
way to get ahead in life.”
© 2024 Paul Davis
Note: You can read other chapters from my crime novel Olongapo via the links below:
Paul Davis On Crime: My Crime Fiction: 'Salvatore Lorino'
Paul Davis On Crime: My Crime Fiction: The Old Huk
Paul Davis On Crime: My Crime Fiction: Join The Navy And See Olongapo
Paul Davis On Crime: My Crime Fiction: 'Boots On The Ground'
Paul Davis On Crime: My Crime Fiction: 'The 30-Day Detail'
Paul Davis On Crime: My Crime Fiction: 'Cat Street'
Paul Davis On Crime: Chapter 12: On Yankee Station
Paul Davis On Crime: My Crime Fiction: 'The Cherry Boy'
Paul Davis On Crime: My Crime Fiction: 'The Hit'
Paul Davis On Crime: My Crime Fiction: Welcome To Japan, Davis-San
Paul Davis On Crime: My Crime Fiction: 'Murder By Fire'
Paul Davis On Crime: My Crime Fiction: 'Admiral McCain'
Paul Davis On Crime: My Crime Fiction: 'A Night At The Americano'
Paul Davis On Crime: My Crime Fiction: 'Missing Muster'
Paul Davis On Crime: My Crime Fiction: 'The Barracks Thief'
Paul Davis On Crime: My Crime Fiction: 'The City of Bizarre Happenings'
Paul Davis On Crime: My Crime Fiction: 'The Refrigerator Thieves'
Paul Davis On Crime: My Crime Fiction: 'Go Forth, Goforth'