From the Feb. 23, 1949 issue of The Robesonian, Lumberton, N.C.
Almost everybody knows that the big 60-inch carbon-arc
searchlights aboard ship are used for signaling, for spotting hostile aircraft,
for furnishing light for rescue work, for furnishing the E-Division men
something to keep them busy polishing and for blinding the you-know-what out of
some superior petty officer you don’t like; but few know that they are used
principally as a cupboard (if you have a swebble like Lenihan aboard).
Lenihan always belly-ached about everything he ever had to
do aboard ship except one thing, and that was load supplies. He was the most
enthusiastic loader at bacon, ham, steaks, mayonnaise, corned beef, etc., you
ever saw; but any item not in the food line Lenny always steered as clear of as
it had been leprosy.
He had an unholy fear of starvation and every third armload
went into our private storehouses where Mother Nature, with her North Atlantic
iciness, very kindly kept the food preserved. We ate like kings until it was
gone and then the ingenuous mind of Lenihan resorted to other measures.
I always found an excuse to make myself scarce around the
piles of food supplies as I was always extremely unlucky in such matters and
this always made Lenny swear to eat every morsel alone but he always gave in
after snubbing me for a couple of days. My only price of admission was patience
and tolerance when the inevitable burst of profanity and scorn was heaped up in
good measure upon my head.
And though I always willing and uncomplainingly ate my share
I was no more willing to assume any responsibility the day Warrant officer
Clark found something wrong with searchlight No. 2 than I had been during the
loading.
“Barton, L.R., Electrician’s Mate third class, lay up to
searchlight number two on the double” boomed the P.A. system. With quaking knees
I complied.
“Something wrong here,” said Mr. Clark. “Break out your
tools and take it apart so we’ll find out the trouble.”
I was aghast. I glanced up to see if he intended to watch
while I disclosed the whereabouts of our food cache. He was waiting with
impatience for me to proceed. I saw he had no intention of leaving.
I fumbled at the screws, my hands shook. I told him there
was no use to tire himself out watching; I’d have it fixed in a jiffy. He said
thanks for my concern for him but he’d wait. I told him a fellow had seen a
shark a few minutes ago from the fantail, didn’t he want to go see the monster?
He said no. I was a d---liar, sharks could not live in this cold stretch of
water and what the h--- had my hands shaking so? I said I didn’t know but Lenny
had a screw driver that would just fit these screws, to let me go and call him.
He said the screwdriver I had would work if I would turn it around.
At that moment chow call sounded and I almost fell on my
face in thanksgiving as Mr. Clark left. I fairly tore the back off expecting to
see a strip of bacon tangled in the intricate clocklike mechanism. But to my
surprise it was empty.
And to this day no one knows what happened to the chow;
however Lenny swears that Mr. Clark’s mouth was greasy when he went to his
stateroom the following day even though it was hours from mealtime. Lenny said
if there was ever anything on this earth he hated it was a low-down, shiveling,
sneaking thief, and of course, I had to agree.
No comments:
Post a Comment