It had been three months since I was assigned to Potshot, a U.S. Navy term for its base on the Exmouth Gulf, 800 miles north of Perth, Australia, in World War II. I was dumped there unceremoniously with numerous other Sailors, and the commanding officer's disquieting words bit at our heels: "Keep your noses clean. Stay out of trouble."
Dismissed, I hurried along, hearing calm licks of gentle waves softly lapping like a thirsty puppy and ignoring, too, the emanating peace and quiet I'd learned to distrust. You see, I was a Navy misfit, a clog in the wheels of man's desperate attempt to annihilate man. There were thousands of us, of course, because we were mass-produced warriors. We were the mistakes, the barbers wearing cooks' clothing and the gardeners in engine rooms, the square pegs, in actuality, jammed into round holes.
Lieutenant Joseph Quesada commanded Potshot. Pointed out to me affectionately as "Uncle Joe," he was a portly gentleman who roamed the camp in khaki shorts. At headquarters the following day I heard an officer ordering a jeep to be sent around. "It's for Uncle Joe. Speed 'er up," he growled.
A door opened and the commanding officer sauntered in. "Where's that jeep, Smith?" he inquired mildly.
"On its way, sir."
"Hah," the lieutenant said, then turned to me. He greeted me, "Hello there, young fellow." I felt a warm glow of friendliness and replied, "Hello, Uncle Joe, sir."
From somewhere behind me came a gasp. Lieutenant Quesada looked stunned, but only momentarily. When he got his wind back, it had built into a cyclone of raucous, harsh descriptive words, wildly agitating arms, and blazing eyes. He screamed at me for a full minute, finally storming out and slamming the door with exquisite crescendo.
Unfortunately, that seemed to predetermine my days at Potshot.
The Calamities
I attempted to fix a kink in the engine. It blew up.
I forgot to anchor a small craft properly. We lost it.
I was to change a flat tire but became so nervous when Uncle Joe passed by that my knee hit the jack, which caught my finger and nearly amputated it before five guys freed me.
Little episodes like this, of course, endeared me even less to the skipper. My buddies slyly insisted I must be his favorite because Uncle Joe called me in so often for "conferences."
Finally, I was assigned to the water detail. My job was to operate a pair of Kleinschmidt distillation units, those used by submarines to convert salt water into fresh water, at about 42 gallons per hour.
It didn't take me very long to decrease this output to approximately nothing one day by simply forgetting to give the machines their proper lubrication. I did not realize anything had happened until a summons arrived from the base office. Gingerly I picked up the receiver. "Yes, sir?"
"Corona?" the skipper gently asked.
"Yes, sir?" I answered tentatively.
"This is Lieutenant Quesada," he continued. "Corona," he growled, "I'm in the bathhouse. Has something happened to your water supply?"
"One moment, sir." I went out for a look and, sure enough, something had happened. Even worse, it would take at least an hour to rebuild.
"Sir," I returned, speaking cheerfully. "Could you possibly hold off on your shower several minutes? I seem to have run into a little difficulty."
At this, the phone practically jumped out of my fist. "You've run into a huge difficulty, Sailor!" the skipper bawled at the top of his lungs. "I'm already in the damned shower and soaped from my head to ball-bearings! Now get that damn water going or it's your hind-end in a sling."
Suffice it to say, Lieutenant Quesada could stand me no longer. A slung hind-end was my fate.
To the Barge
The following morning I was given a new assignment and must have facially expressed my suspicion as the officer went into quite some detail. "Corona, you are going to stand guard on a 200-foot oil barge, anchored a couple of miles out in the bay. It's an emergency fuel station for submarines."
"Yes, sir. What are my duties, sir?"
"Simple. Act as security watch; test the pump each morning; assist with lines if a submarine comes alongside. You'll have food, plenty of reading material, a Springfield rifle, and three flares. Should the barge loosen, use the yellow flare. Green signals it is drifting; red informs us you have sighted the enemy. Any questions?"
"I was just wondering, sir. What's the rifle for?"
"Just in case," was the impatient reply. "Anything else?"
"Nothing, sir." I was too busy picturing myself shooting a Japanese sub dead center with my Springfield.
"Okay. See you in three days, Sailor."
A little boat motored me out to the barge, and two bearded, sunburned seamen pulled me aboard. They helped hustle up the boxes of supplies and explained how to work a small stove inside the cabin.
"Are you here by yourself?" one asked curiously. The other assured me there was nothing much to do anyway.
I shoved them off and waved gaily at the departing boat. This was living, man, really living. I walked up and down the deck, enjoying the hot sun on my back, hearing soft musical booms and swishing water but most of all feeling a sense of freedom of soul I'd forgotten existed.
Fish surfaced nearby, and what looked like the tail end of a shark swam away from the barge. I decided to explore the cabin. In the chow department I eyed cans of ham, vegetables, cereal, coffee, cocoa, and dry milk with the suspicion of one who had never even boiled water. I vowed to learn. It would be a nice challenge.
Then I turned and saw stacks of books and magazines and a deck of cards. I sat in a spot of shade and read for five hours straight. I was certain that I had fallen into the laps of the gods.
As evening drew near I went below and opened cans of ham and corn and heated some cocoa. It was a wonderful feeling, fending for myself. Actually the cocoa reminded me of my younger sister, Ida, whom I often duped into waiting on me as we grew up. I invented self-serving games like "waitress-diner" and "nurse-patient." Feeling a pang of homesickness, I got out the deck of cards and played solitaire.
Next day, after starting up the motor on the pumps, my schedule varied. I started with solitaire, sandwiched in some newsy notes to Mama, and ended with a sexy bestseller about blondes and madames and things.
Day three was spent reviewing the many abject discomforts I was enduring. The sun no longer warmed me. It dried out my hair, burnt my skin, heated up my armpits, and my poor soul was slowly shriveling. I could hardly wait for this, my last day, to end.
No Relief in Sight
I recall staring up at the blinding blue sky and then out at the green ocean as far as I could see. Turning toward the shore, even those two miles of murky water seemed endless. No one showed up for me, although I stayed awake on deck way into the night.
The fourth day came and went with me mostly turned eagerly toward shore. No one picked me up. Many more days went by in much the same manner, and I spoke aloud just to hear a human voice. "Maybe they forgot me."
I was no longer so proud of my culinary accomplishments now, existing almost entirely on ham chunks and cocoa.
A "boom-boom-boom" sound had slowly but surely been growing louder, penetrating my subconscious and gnawing my nerves down to their raw ends. Especially at night the repetitious drumming never let up, an unending source of irritation as I lay awake in the darkness, hating it.
By the following day, I had reached several decisions: 1. I couldn't stomach another printed word; 2. I would never deal anything but poker again; 3. I hated ham and cocoa—passionately; and 4. That constant loud booming must be coming from the buoy hitting the barge.
For hours that afternoon I kept telling myself I'd be leaving any time. Strange things were happening to my sunny disposition, however. I was frustrated and edgy as a razor one minute but listless and dull the next.
Beginning to fool with my rifle, I looked up at the huge buoy. The almost casual "boom-boom" gave me an idea. I couldn't get rid of the sound, but I could get in a little target practice. I took my time and spent an hour improving my marksmanship.
As the sun went down, I looked hopefully for even some small signs of life from shore. Maybe they could hear me shooting. There was nothing. Listlessly I went into the cabin, opened a can of chopped meat, bit off a chunk, ate a couple of soda crackers, and hit the sack. Later, in the darkness of night, there was a slight shift.
Where Did the Buoy Go?
As morning dawned I awakened slowly, becoming used to tired bones and unused muscles. Then abruptly I sat up and nearly fell flat. My bunk was practically vertical. I ran on deck, and my mouth dropped open. The barge was definitely at an angle.
Running to the stern I looked out and discovered the buoy had disappeared and the chains attaching it to the barge were stretched into the ocean as though a giant anchor had been thrown overboard. Unfortunately, the familiar "boom-boom" was still intact! Something else was causing it.
I gulped. Slowly and silently, all night long, water had seeped through the tiny bullet holes into the buoy, gradually sinking it. Well, no one would notice, I consoled myself.
Back on shore, though, a Navy signalman had noticed something. His routine task each morning was to check and take bearings on the barge. That day's report later showed he had looked through his binoculars as usual and nearly turned away. In a fever of haste, he'd turned back, trying to adjust the glasses. Finally reporting the buoy missing, it was the skipper who yelled, "That damn Corona!" then ordered the signalman to radio Perth, 800 miles away, for aid.
Unaware anyone had even remembered there was a Motor Machinist's Mate Second Class Al Corona, I continued my program of the day. I decided to reread a mystery but ended up tossing it overboard. It had been lousy the first time.
I fiddled with the cards but made little houses this time instead of the skyscraper I had tackled the day before.
I didn't eat. It was too hot. For the first time I contemplated a swim in the shark-infested waters. Then, reluctantly, I put that idea aside as too risky.
When evening approached and I noticed puffs of smoke from shore and pictured the cooks getting dinner ready, I thought to heck with it. I stripped, jumped in, and enjoyed the cold water immensely. All I spotted were a few curious fish.
Time stood still for me. I lost track of the hot days and cooling breezes. So many restless nights engulfed my wandering thoughts that often I pretended I was still a kid, sailing off on a raft in San Francisco Bay. It seemed more real than my present status.
Human Contact
One morning I was awakened by the cry of "Aboard there!"
I rushed on deck and saw a huge ship preparing to tie alongside. After securing the lines, I was summoned by the captain and now recognized the ship. She was the submarine rescue ship Chanticleer (ASR-7), commanded by Commander Dick "Spitter" Hawes. A salvage vessel, she had transported me from Freemantle some months back.
Commander Hawes, a Mustang (a regular Navy man who had risen to his present position from the ranks), was on deck looking down at me. "Been sent from Perth to locate your buoy," he said. "What in hell happened to it?"
I feigned innocence. "Don't know, sir."
He stared at me a moment. "Didn't you notice the buoy was gone?"
"Only after the barge tilted, sir," I answered truthfully.
"Yeah. Well, we'll send down some divers. You come on aboard."
I was so glad to talk to someone again and hear normal notes of men calling back and forth to each other, my spirits rose. Commander Hawes kept looking at me strangely, and by the time the divers had located the buoy and secured lines to it, quite an audience had gathered. I became so engrossed in the procedure, it didn't immediately occur to me what the outcome necessarily had to be.
Standing next to Commander Hawes, I felt my jaw drop and the commander stiffen up. A mighty crane was lifting a leaking buoy up from the ocean and holding it far above our heads. Water gushed noisily out of the bullet holes I had made, sounding like a series of Yosemite water falls. Not one person spoke.
Finally the commander exploded, "What in hell caused that?!"
I swallowed, barely rolling my eyes in his direction. "Swordfish, sir?"
"Swordfish, my Aunt Fanny! That thing's been riddled with a machine gun!" He turned to me suddenly. "You got a machine gun down there, Sailor?"
"Heck no," I replied with the force of a sincere truth. "What would I need a machine gun for, sir?"
He looked thoughtful. "That's true."
"Might need a rifle, but never a machine gun," I added daringly. His laugh was hearty. "Well, it was worth coming 800 miles to see!"
I still love that man. Not only did he allow me to eat in the ship's mess while welders plugged up the buoy's air spaces, but Commander Hawes personally checked into my depleted larder. After frowning he ordered the baker and cook to replenish supplies, and his parting words were: "Eat, Sailor. You look more dead than alive."
Flares Light up the Night
Again came the long unbroken days.
Finally, after I had spent one morning staring listlessly out to sea, it came to me. I would shoot the little yellow flare. It would signal that my barge had become loosened from its moorings.
I thought it over. This could mean the brig. Suddenly the brig seemed a mighty choice spot to be. I tired easily now, and since a decision had been made, I fell on my bunk to sleep until dark. Night had fallen when I made my way up on deck. The stars glittered faintly overhead, and Potshot looked warm and inviting when I dug out the flares.
I sat down and, putting the yellow one in my gun, aimed it overhead and let fly. Well, it lit up like Manhattan before the war and was a gorgeous sight to see. However, as I shaded my eyes from the blinding glare and looked toward shore, it occurred to me that no one would see it. Heck, they were having dinner, listening to the radio, or watching a movie.
So I fit in the green flare (barge is drifting) and let go. Now that was something to behold! The green appeared like hundreds of thousands of shining emeralds, tossed sparkling into the sky, slowly falling and gradually merging with the yellow.
I sighed. It was delightful. Mama would have loved making a party dress for one of my sisters from such shimmering materials. However, it hadn't been successful for my purposes. Looking toward shore, I saw no activity at all.
After a while and with another sigh, but small hope, I fitted the red flare into my gun (the enemy has been sighted). With stomach-aching trepidation, hands shaking, teeth chattering, body sweating, I aimed high and pulled the trigger.
Well, was I pleasantly surprised! I doubted anyone at Potshot could miss the red flare!
Wild, fiery arms of hell opened as far as the eye could see, and simultaneously, a near-earthquake of thunder rose from every direction. Everything that floated was heading straight for me at full throttle.
I can still see two U.S. destroyers racing back and forth, looking for the enemy. And for the first time I saw Potshot's powerful searchlights, sweeping the sky like a flock of drunken fireflies.
I became so fascinated, so intoxicated with sight and sound, that I didn't hear my name being hollered at first. Then I turned and looked down at an officer, who appeared to be nearly wild. "Where are they?! Answer me, you panic-stricken fool!"
I continued to stare back, uncomprehending, "Who, sir?"
"The enemy!" he screamed.
"Oh, there's no enemy, sir. Heck, I'm just tired of this darn barge."
Under Observation
I lay in a hospital bed for several days, being built up both physically and mentally. Picking up bits of Navy gossip when nurses thought I was drugged and asleep, I learned I wouldn't be court-martialed, put in the brig, discharged, or shot.
Lieutenant Quesada had gone to bat for me, after all, convincing the top brass that I had been temporarily out of my head. Also a report from Commander Hawes included a memo questioning the practice of leaving personnel isolated on the barge. Future manning was corrected.
Lieutenant Quesada was standing in the doorway one morning. "Corona! The nurses say you've been screaming two nights in a row about a booming sound on the barge."
"Sorry, sir."
"We had it checked out."
"You did, sir?"
His voice was gruff. "Yes. And a report came in that it was the barge anchor. Bolts fastening it to the side had become loose. Only took a couple of turns of the wrench to solve the problem, Corona. Why couldn't you figure that out?" His voice was gently inquisitive.
I sighed and shrugged.
Later I heard him in the corridor, discussing me with an interested medic. "I didn't question Corona about anything. But I'll tell you something that sure does have me puzzled." After a long pause, his voice rose again, slow and thoughtful. "How in hell did he manage to work those damned flares?"