Then he got off the bar stool, shrugged his arms into his peacoat, put his hat at a jaunty angle on his head, and walked, somewhat unsteadily, out of the bar of the petty officers’ club.
He didn’t stop to pick up his Liberty Card. He was afraid the master-at-arms would smell the beer on him and not give it to him. He had been given an “any hour in and out” duty card, which would get him past the Marine MP at the gate.
As he went through the gate, a taxicab rolled up and an officer got out. Joe Garvey saluted and got in.
sense to have the best operators in an important commo center, rather than afloat, where they might average maybe fifteen minutes a day on the air.
The first interesting thing that had happened to him since he’d been in the Navy was the Chief coming to him and telling him to pack his gear, that he’d been placed on TDY to Washington, and that they were holding the courier plane for him.
A couple of times at Mare Island, when he couldn’t think of a way to get out of it, he’d sometimes had two beers, or even three, but he was not used to just sitting at a bar and drinking one beer after another.
They had been treating him real well at the Navy Yard. Instead of what he expected–a bunk and a wall locker in one of the big bays reserved for in transit white hats–he had a private room, with a desk and even a telephone.
“These are chief’s quarters,” the master-at-arms had told him.
“If anybody asks what you’re doing in them, you tell them to see me.”
“What am I doing in them?” Garvey had asked.
“Let’s just say that’s where Chief Ellis said to put you,” the master-at-arms said.
“What about formations?”
“You don’t have to stand no formations,” the master-at-arms said.
“All you got to do is be available, in case they need you. You can go anywhere you want to go, so long as there’s a telephone where you’re going and I know where you are and what the number is–and you can get back here in thirty minutes. You want to go get your ashes hauled, Garvey, just make sure she’s got a telephone and that you’ll be able to pull your pants on and get back here in thirty minutes.”
Joe Garvey had not been summoned, and neither had he gotten his ashes hauled. The truth of the matter was that they had shown him a Technicolor movie in boot camp that had scared the hell out of him. Guys with balls as big as basketballs, and guys with their dicks rotting off. And the chief who had given that lecture had said that if you didn’t want to get promoted and wanted to spend the rest of your time in the Navy cleaning grease traps or chipping paint, catching a dose of clap was a good way to do that.
The smart thing to do, the chief had said, was to keep your pecker in your pocket and wait until you got home and could stick it in some nice, clean, respectable girl you knew wasn’t going to give you nothing that would fuck up your life permanently.
There were a couple of nice girls Joe Garvey knew back in Louisville, but none who had given him any hint that they would go to the movies with him, much less let him do that to them, but he had decided to keep his pecker in his pocket anyway. He didn’t want his dick rotting off before he had a chance to use it.
And he wanted to get promoted. He was already a petty officer second, and if you were a skinny little shit who wore glasses, he knew that was a good thing to be. What he had wanted most out of life, at least until they’d put him on a plane at Mare Island and flown him here, was to make chief radioman.
That wasn’t such an impossible dream. Not only was he one hell of a radio operator–he could knock out fifty words a minute and read sixty–but he knew about radios.