Compartments

Compartments

(C) Mojavejoe420 2020

Ships, particularly warships, have watertight compartments to stop internal flooding from torpedoes, bombs, or other hull damage to the ship. Sailors slam the heavy steel doors (hatches) shut and seal them tight, also known as dogging the hatches. This keeps the ship afloat during times of crisis.

Military people, particularly those who have seen combat, also have compartments. When you’re flying off of your leader’s wing (who is also your best friend) and he gets blown out of the sky and you can’t do a damn thing about it, you have to lock all that in a compartment or you will be dead, too. When it comes time to bring your fighter back on board a carrier, the only thing that is on your mind better be landing the plane. Everything else needs to be locked away in its own compartment. One moment of worrying about something else will land you on the blunt end of the boat instead of the carrier deck.

You can’t let shit leak out of your compartments into the others, or your own personal ship might founder and sink. You learn to say, “Don’t mean nothin’” and you close that hatch and dog it tight.

And I did all that. My compartments are sturdy and strong. I didn’t ever let those compartments open, my traumas stayed where they belonged; locked behind thick steel hatches. Psychologists and PTSD specialists will argue I should let them out, talk about my feelings. Well I don’t like those old feelings, that’s why they are kept locked up where they should be. How could I function if I started reliving old traumatic events?

Sometimes, though, we have compartments for good things. Even amazing things, ‘best thing that ever happened’ to you kind of things. But they have to be locked up, too. Oftentimes those fantastic compartments are usually accompanied by sadness, by deep longings for things that were, and what might have been.

Such is the case for me. Long retired from the Navy, there’s only a couple of my buddies that are even still alive. We typically talk around the first of the year to wish each other well, that sort of thing. So to get a call from Don Jacobson in July was… concerning, even unwelcome. It usually meant someone died.

“Johnny, I’ve got some news. Is this a secure line?”

He meant, is my wife around within earshot.

“Yeah Don, I’m good. Who died? I’m guessing it’s Maxwell because it’s just us three anymore—“

“Johnny. Stop. It isn’t Max.” He sighed heavily, then the silence dragged on.

“Well? Out with it Don! I don’t have much time left on this earth and I don’t want to spend it waiting for you to—“

“Maggie.” he said. Just like that, Maggie. Then he mentioned brain cancer or some shit I don’t even know what.

My internal ship jolted from the shock. The dogs loosened and all of my compartment hatches flung open. The flooding began and I was going to lose my ship, lose my fucking mind.

Fortunately, my wife, Jeanine, had left to go visit our granddaughter for a few hours. I staggered down the stairs to my office and slumped into my chair. I was holding on as best I could, but I couldn’t stop the flood. The memories of Maggie, rogue waves of immense proportion, slammed into me repeatedly.

My eyes flooded and I cried like a baby. Me. Naval Captain, Fighter Pilot, then Captain of Industry. Crying like a little fucking baby.

Brunswick, Georgia. May, 1961. Sunday Morning

“Honey! Where’s my razor?” I was packing my bag, I had to catch a transport that was leaving in thirty minutes.

“Look in the shower, silly.” Jeanine always knew where everything was. I don’t know how she did that.

I checked everything one last time, then went out to the kitchen.

“There’s my little punkins!” My daughter, Caroline, smiled and said “Dada” as she held up her arms in wait for me to scoop her up and swing her around, which I did.

We hurriedly packed the car and drove the two miles to what passed for a passenger terminal there at Naval Air Station Glynco.

NAS Glynco. What a shithole. Short for Glyn County. The only thing worse than this installation was the stupid town of Brunswick. Racist assholes, bugs, heat, humidity, alligators, bugs and heat. And humidity. Yeah I said it twice, it sucked down there. My pregnant wife was due in two months and the hospital didn’t even have air conditioning.

I kissed Jeanine in the sun and the heat. And you know what? That shit fell away when we kissed. I loved her so much I couldn’t stand it. I started getting a hard on there in the parking lot.

“What are you going to do with that, handsome?”

“I guess I’ll save him up for you when I get home!”

“Awww… even looking like this, you still like me?”

I patted her seven month tummy.

“More than ever, baby! I love you so much sweetheart. See you Saturday.”

I hopped on the C-1 and waved goodbye to my little family.

~~~

In a few hours I landed in St. Louis where the McDonnell aircraft company was located. My fighter pilot career was tracking nicely, but the Navy determined that I needed to be an instructor for a couple years there at Glynco. The Navy’s newest fighter (the F-4 Phantom) was coming online and it was my job to train the backseat guy how to run the new sophisticated radar system. I would rather be learning to fly the plane instead, trust me. But you gotta take some shit in the service so I put my negative feelings in a compartment and strove to become the best instructor anyone had ever seen.

I checked in to my hotel and inquired about any golfing opportunities in the area. Turns out there was a small 9-hole course right here by Lambert field. The hotel clerk got the superintendent to drive me over and said he would be back around sunset to get me.

I went to the pro shop to see about renting some clubs and getting a few holes in. The pro shop was open, but I couldn’t find anyone. Nobody seemed to be playing, either. I walked around back, there’s always an “around back” where they usually have a shed with all the lawn equipment. Sure enough, I saw some movement behind some equipment.

“Hey buddy!” I called out. “Anyone running the pro shop today?”

A loud crashing noise was the only response for a few moments. Then a head popped out, a female head. A very beautiful female head. Followed by a female body encased in dirty coveralls.

“Well, sir. I ain’t your buddy, least not yet. And we’re closed today. Pipes busted and half the course is flooded.”

We stood there looking at each other for a few moments. I understand the social conventions, I knew it was my turn to speak. I also knew how to be witty and charming. But all those powers seemed to have escaped my brain. You see, she just stood there in dirty coveralls, her wild red hair reigned in by a dirty Titleist visor, her piercing green eyes, face streaked with grease and dirt… I wasn’t prepared for how she affected me. I felt an immediate stirring in my loins. I had never met anyone so striking before.

“You gonna say something, flyboy?”

Yes, yes I’m going to say something. I expect my powers of speech to return very shortly. Come on! Say something!

“A flood, huh?” Whoa, look at me go! I’m talking! “Anything I can do to help?”

“Did you drive a backhoe here today?”

“Uh… no…” Jesus Christ. She’s messing with me and I still ain’t got shit going!

“So then you aren’t exactly my knight in shining armor, are you.”

“My armor is a little rusty, I’ll admit.”

“Yeah, I can tell.”

“You’re the only one here? Must be something I can do, the hotel guy isn’t coming back until sunset.” I took off my Ray Ban Aviators so I could get a better look at this woman.

“Yeah it’s just me. Fucking Spackler… “ I raised my eyebrows… “got the Locke stuck in the mud and then broke his ankle. So yeah it’s only me… what? Don’t they swear in the Navy anymore?”

“No ma’am we certainly do not. They busted me down to Private once for saying ‘darn it’.”

“They don’t have Privates in the Navy.”

I looked down at my crotch, looked back at her, then leaned forward, “I beg to differ. We most certainly do have privates.”

She cocked her head a little. “Alright then, Captain, is it?”

“Almost. Lieutenant.”

“Full looey?”

“Well, JG. Junior Grade.”

“So you’re like a trainee, then. A non-swearing, overly salacious Naval trainee. And… oh great, you’re married, too. Just what I needed.”

I felt the weight of my wedding ring pulling on my arm. I had forgotten I was married there for about four minutes. I had better snap out of this.

“So… what’s the plan for getting the Locke?” That’s a big-ass walk-behind power mower, about eight feet of chopping blades. A golf course depends on these.

“I’ve got an old Ford tractor here but it won’t start. It cranks but… well I don’t know what.”

“Is it a 9N? My grandpa had one of those.” She showed me the old dog. They were pretty straightforward and dependable. I checked a few things; starter worked, spark worked, gasoline… didn’t work.

“You got some tape?” She found me some duct tape. I undid the fuel filter, just pulled it out, and taped the fuel line together.

The tractor started right up, with a few drops of gas dripping from the line.

“That will be okay for today. You need to get a new filter, though.”

She stuck out her hand. “I hereby promote you from trainee to Captain!”

I shook her hand firmly and was rewarded with an even firmer grip in return. We both held on a little too long.

“Well thanks, Admiral. My name is John, by the way.”

“Maggie. Malucci.”

“Ah yes, your flaming red hair gave away your Italian heritage. It’s nice to meet you.” We let go of our handshake.

She picked up a shovel and tossed it to me. “Let’s go over to Six. We gotta dig.”

She grabbed another shovel and some rope and we headed to the sixth hole, her on the single-seat tractor and me walking.

The drive wheels on the Locke were mired in the muck, as were the roller wheels which supported the rest of the mower.

“Pretty muddy, shit.” Again, I was being real smooth with the lines. Maggie punched me in the arm.

“I thought you didn’t swear.”

“Shit isn’t swearing. Shit is just shit. I’m not exactly dressed for this.” I had two pairs of shoes and two pairs of pants, and I was already wearing half of this right now. I took off my shoes and socks, then rolled up my pants to about my knees.

“Don’t you look handsome! Start digging.”

After about a half hour we had quite a bit cleared, then I slipped in some sick clay-mud and landed in a push-up-like position, somehow saving my pants. I gingerly stood up.

“That’s like regular Georgia clay right there. I hate that shit.”

“Language,” was all she said.

I really didn’t want to mess up my clothes. I wasn’t staying at the Hilton where they had on site laundry. Shit.

I walked over to the creek and rinsed off my hands and feet, then skirted the mud as I walked back to Maggie.

“You got another set of coveralls back there?”

“This is the other set. And you can’t have them. Even though it is fucking hot.”

Yeah I forgot to mention that St Louis was at least two degrees cooler than Georgia. It was only 99 here. Maggie unzipped her coveralls halfway down so she could free her arms. Obviously bra-less, her nipples poked through her sweat stained T-shirt.

“Well I guess there’s nothin’ for it.” And I carefully slipped my pants off and folded them. I set them on the tractor seat, followed by my casual shirt and white T-shirt. “Let’s dig.”

We sweated in the lowering sun, the temp barely dropping. Maggie barely got dirty, but I was glad I took off my good clothes as they would’ve been ruined. Finally, we got to where we thought we were good and tied the rope from the tractor back to the mower.

“I’ll start the mower, and give you a head nod when I’m ready. Go slow and steady. Something goes wrong. Just stop and we will dig more.”

I got behind the Locke and fired it up, letting it run for about a minute to make sure it was good to go. Finally, I looked up and gave Maggie the nod. I let out the clutch the same time as she did in her tractor, but I had a little too much gas on.

The drive wheels on the Locke spun, covering me head to toe in black and red mud. The tractor pulled the Locke forward and it was now out of the deep mud and running by itself. I scrambled to catch it and managed to get it in neutral when I slipped again, and again. Maggie pulled the mower a good hundred yards onto firm ground before shutting the tractor and the mower down.

I lounged there in some mud, resting comfortably under a shady oak. Maggie trotted back to me, laughing and cackling and evening guffawing a few times. I have never seen anyone have such a laughing fit as that one.

“You got sprayed… then you fell backwards… then you fell forwards hahaha!”

“Yeah, it’s funny to you. You didn’t sprain your ankle!”

“Oh no! Really?” She burst out laughing again. “I’m sorry. You’re like all three stooges at once!” She chuckled more and began to bend over me to check my ankle.

“Do you think you can stand Whoa!”

I pulled her hand just a little and she slipped and fell completely in the mud right next to me. She burst out laughing again until I scooped some mud and painted her cheeks with it.

“Oh no you don’t, Lieutenant! You’re not going to get away with that!”

I was already covered, caked in mud. I laughed, “What are you gonna do? Throw mud at me?”

She scooped up mud in each hand and came at me, a wild and crazy look in her eye.