The True Adventures
Of
Youthly Puresome
DEAD SOJERS
by
Jack Woodul
Naval Aviator's Dictionary:
Dead Soldiers--the mangled aluminum, tin, and glass corpse containers of at-sea liquid joy, smashed flat and hidden away until suitable conditions for consignment to the deep, usually late at night. . . . .
"When Puresome comes marching home again, hooraw! hooraw!" was playing with drums and fifes in Puresome's head as he and Weed heroically marched down the midnight passageway toward the fantail, magically invisible and oblivious to the tinkling contents of two parachute bags as they whanged against knee-knockers and pipes as the carrier thrummed through the night.
The silly grins that were frozen on the faces belied their grim mission. Earlier perusal of their magnificent stateroom had shown no more places to stow remains, and old, displaced skivvies piled in corners were causing scowls from the Brotherhood of Stewards. So, well fortified with rum and Hawaiian Punch, a decent burial off the fantail was decided on.
Puresome and Weed had come by such a backlog as a result of planning. In preparation for the cruise, they had spent $25 on a second-hand refrigerator, had it craned up to the number two elevator, and with the help of some of Weed's ordnance persons, stuffed it down two ladders and a passageway and into their stateroom. With the addition of a hasp and a lock, it was ready to produce ice to chill the vegetable and fruit juices so necessary to hydrate naval aviators.
The further discovery that two cases of refreshment in a parachute bag was the approximate size of an Akai tape recorder led to many conversations on the quarterdeck on returning to the ship:
“LTJG Puresome reports his return aboard, sir!"
"Very well! What'd you buy?"
"Akai tape recorder, sir!"
"You aviators sure do like your music. . ."
"Yes, sir!" With a stomp and salute. Once, Puresome actually did bring on an Akai tape recorder.
The ice and stockpiled refreshment made their stateroom a popular place. The dentist next door would come over, and he and Puresome would sing selected parts from "The Messiah" at the top of their alcoholic lungs. Many meetings of the Reserve Junior Officers Association were convened. Often, Puresome would lapse into sleep with someone like Ray Roge droning on about the physics of the interaction of ice cubes with the scorch in his mug, and awake hours later not to have missed any of the monologue. All in all, it helped everyone deal with the troublesome fact that, just because they were dropping bombs on North Vietnamese bridge approaches, the Gomers were trying to shoot them. Puresome thought this unreasonable and advocated bombing the dikes so they couldn't "have a rice day," but Weed felt sorry for the poor girls.
But, for all the social good, possession of Sojers alive or dead, was officially verboten. The word from the ship's XO was breaking of swords, ripping off of buttons and body parts if discovered. This naturally added piquancy to life aboard ship. Puresome’s Skipper and XO gained huge status when they locked everyone in the ready room at the end of line periods for naughty movies and doses of Old Overhold obtained from Quack Dock, the flight surgeon.
If swilling was semi-dangerous, disposing of the remains was doubly so. There were numerous stories of burial details come to grief. One such party had crept onto the flight deck and flung a paper sack full of casualties directly into an upright whip antennae, which had bent over and volleyed the sack back onto the flight deck, and the unfortunates had to chase the tinkling cans down the flight deck.
Thus, finally backed into a corner by earthly remains, Puresome and Weed had fortified themselves, gathered up the evidence into two parachute bags, and set off for the fantail. The few persons encountered in the deserted passageways had evidently not seen anything amiss in two glazed-eyed characters in flight suits and orange ball caps hauling tinkling parachute bags that smelled strangely like stale beer.
With their pupils the size of pencil leads from the bright lights of the passageways, Puresome and Weed finally arrived at the fantail, which was dark as only night at sea can be. The two stood at the railing, momentarily mesmerized by the roiling phosphorescence of the wake. Then, unzipping the parachute bags, they started sailing the flattened cans into the night.
"Day..is..done!" sang Puresome as he sailed a can and Weed did a kazoo imitation of "Taps." "Gone the...sun!" As another can arched into the dark. "From the...hill! And the dale! And like that there!"
Puresome and Weed had happily conducted about a third of the required ceremony when their eyeballs started adjusting to the dark. At about the same time, they both became aware of....several cigarette ends glowing in the dark. They..Were..Not….Alone!
Yaaaaaa! Two parachute bags were flung over the railing and the two bugged out in panic like the nuggets they were, careening down passageways and ladders to huddle in their stateroom, waiting for the "man overboard" alarm to sound. As their breathing slowly returned to normal, they realized that Grong, the God of happy hours, Olongopo, and Junior Officers, had smiled on them once again, and they had truly been invisible. Stupid, but invisible.
So, survival broughteth wisdom. In the after days and on other cruises, Puresome and Weed passed on the knowledge of the ages, and more and more junior aviators survived the ritual.
When their reefer finally died of old age and interior fungus, a large group of young, manly men gathered on the number four sponson as it was chunked into the deep. It was if they were witness to the passing of an old and honorable friend.
DEAD SOJERS is copyright 1998 by Jack Woodul
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