by Peter Trivelas
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The pilot was furious.
He was in the ready room on the aircraft carrier accusing the other pilots in his squadron of having taken down his photo from the official display board. Not funny, guys.
The next day he was shot out of the sky during his bombing mission over North Vietnam.
A different mood took over the ready room.
Meanwhile, in another part of the ship, in a small, obscure sleeping space, Lucien stared at the pilot’s photo he’d hung on his locker door the day before. He’d told his buddies that the pilot was his hero because he killed people every day. It was a joke. Wasn’t it? Everyone knew Lucien hated the war. A different mood took over after the plane went down.
***
It was boring to be out to sea for months at a time. Odious. Lucien did anything he could to make life more interesting for his twenty-two-year-old self. Stole cases of food from the galley. Snuck into the officers’ quarters to pilfer snacks. Didn’t shine his shoes, wear socks, iron his uniform or keep his hair military-short. Developed an attitude toward pilots flying off the ship. They flew off to drop bombs every day, then came back and celebrated. This irked him and he wanted to irk everyone else in return.
On the ship were several ready rooms, lounge-like meeting places for pilots assigned to the ship. The pilots and their jets were divided into squadrons. Posted outside each ready room on a bulletin board were photos of everyone in that squadron. Pyramid-fashion, up top was the commanding officer. Below, second in command and the rest of the pilots. All of them officers.
In Lucien’s part of the ship were five sets of bunk beds, racks they were called, stacked three high. Fifteen enlisted sailors crammed into a small space along with their 2-foot by 2-foot by 2-foot lockers which held all their belongings if folded according to regulations. The sleeping space was not originally designed to be lived in. It was a pulley locker, but it’d been reconfigured to meet the demand of the additional thousand men brought aboard for Vietnam deployment.
The room contained a pulley, four feet across, which encased one of the lines that stretched across the rear of the flight deck to capture incoming planes. Arresting gear. Five lines. Aiming for the third line, if the pilot came in short or went long, he had two other chances to connect with his tail hook. When the jet would grab a line at 150 miles an hour, it unspooled quickly with a resistance that stopped the plane in a matter of seconds, thrusting the pilot forward against his seat belt. The violent unspooling of the pulley was deafening if you were close to it.
Unfortunately, Lucien’s bunk was the top one of three. If he reached up from a prone position, he could touch the underside of the flight deck. At his feet was the large pulley covered in plastic because it spurted grease when that line unraveled at speed.
Sleeping during the day for the night shift was almost impossible with planes constantly landing overhead. Ten planes per hour going for that third line wrapped in the pulley which now hung at his feet. The loud thud of the plane hitting the deck, the ensuing screech of the cable thrusting out. If he wasn’t asleep, he’d be anticipating the screech from the moment he heard the distant whine of the approaching jet. If he was asleep, he wouldn’t be for long. These torturous conditions added to Lucien’s hatred anxiety. He needed to sleep for about a year.
Some of Lucien’s mates were horrified because stealing the photo that day was disrespecting the pilots who were, after all, highly trained and assigned to this duty. Others were alarmed that he had the balls to even do such a thing. That’s precisely why he did it. To get a reaction—THAT reaction.
He was good at provocation. His longtime girlfriend would send cheery packages to help him cope with all that time at sea. Sometimes it would be candy, sometimes silly toys, sometimes canned food or magazines or music.
She sent him a teddy bear. Perfect. It provided no sleep comfort, but it did serve a purpose. Macho Navy man in a war zone sleeping with a teddy bear would be sure to cause a stir. His bunkmates didn’t know how to react to his falling asleep hugging it. It got to them. They called him faggot, little baby. But to no avail. The turmoil rose to new heights. After about a week, Lucien returned to his bunk to find the bear hanging in a noose, knife handle sticking out of its heart. Victory! In the midst of this boredom, this war, this depression, he was able to stir up some deep emotions.
Lucien had done three tours of duty in the war zone. During that time, only three other pilots from the ship had been shot down during bombing runs. That’s why this was such a shock to him and his friends that the man was lost the very next day after he stole the picture. As cynical as he’d become, Lucien also reacted with surprise, fear and wonderment. Suddenly he was connected to this person. The pilot was never recovered. He tried to imagine what the reaction in the ready room must’ve been.
This incident didn’t slow him down, however. He was too far gone. He sought more ways to annoy and rile up those around him. He had plenty of opportunities—there were 3000 people on that ship, living and eating and sleeping together for months at a time. Launching planes, dropping bombs, celebrating each thousandth bomb drop.
***
As it happened, Lucien was returning to his work area, this time taking an uncommon route through the ship’s narrow passageways to stave off some boredom. Unplanned, his path took him past the Captain’s cabin—the top officer on the ship. The Marine in his well-pressed uniform and shiny rifle guarding the captain’s door said Lucien couldn’t walk past ’cause the captain’s inside. Take a different route.
A challenge. A break in the tedium.
Lucien: I don’t give a fuck if he’s in there. I’m just walking past.
Marine: You’re not authorized to go past here.
The Marine was merely doing his job, guarding the captain, but Lucien was not in the mood to be told what to do by anyone for such a stupid reason. He was unarmed and harmless, just walking through.
Lucien: My destination is right around the corner. If I don’t go this way, I’ll have to backtrack a long way around to get there.
Marine: Sorry, you can’t walk past here.
Lucien ignored him and kept walking. When he heard the footsteps following behind him, he picked up his pace and quickly entered the top-secret Intelligence Office where he worked, allowing the door to lock closed behind him. Because it was a space that required special clearance to enter, he was giving the guard a taste of his own medicine. Sorry, you can’t come in.
Seconds later the door-buzzer buzzed. The petty officer in charge opened the door to find the agitated marine standing there and the fun began. He wasn’t allowed in and was rendered powerless. The petty officer apologized to him and said appropriate action would be taken. Lucien got a reprimand, but the incident was chalked up to Lucien being Lucien. It would’ve been fruitless to make anything more of it than that.
Besides, Lucien had the photo in his locker. He was a warlock. No telling what he’d do next. Part of him was sure if he returned the photo to its place, the pilot would reappear. He was sure of it.
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