Having been in the naval service for about a quarter of a century, I was now to be elevated to the rank of Mule Skinner. My previous experience with jackasses had been limited to a few otherwise congenial shipmates and hawse pipe water-tight stoppers. At long last I was being invited to become the proud possessor of the real thing, in triplicate— three Texas mules. In fact, it was suggested that if I did not take those three mules to my bosom, I would be derelict in my duties as an officer and a gentleman.
In 1940, with the smell of war in the air, the Navy established the office of Supervisor of Shipbuilding in Orange, Texas, and I was the sole personnel. My records and reference library were under my hat, and I clutched a copy of Navy Regulations in my hands. My job was to build a few shipyards and some ships, and to get those ships built as quickly as was possible. The necessary assistance could be recruited provided it could be shaken out of the bushes and there was no running afoul of Civil Service regulations. It was quite a challenge, and I could be damned it I did and surely would be damned if I didn’t.
The operation started from scratch in a swamp alongside a bayou; even the land upon which the shipyard was to be built must be dredged from the stream. Our only assets were some Navy money, closely guarded, and the determination to build some fine ships— and that in a hurry. The shipyard facility and shipbuilding contracts signed, bulldozers, dredges, draglines, piledrivers and all of the miscellaneous heavy equipment necessary to the conversion of a morass into a modern shipyard were hired or leased. Construction was soon on a three-shift basis. Each lease or hiring agreement carried a “capture clause,” whereby the Navy would automatically obtain title to all equipment whose cumulative rental cost, less deductions for maintenance, should equal the agreed-upon value of the gear at the time of signing the agreement, a scandal-proof arrangement.
Despite all of the mechanization, there are some jobs which must be done as our grandfathers did them. To move earth in some of the inaccessible corners, it was found to be expedient and economical to hire a local colored man and his team of three scrawny mules. Sam made his cross on a standard hiring form and went to work. Sam could neither read nor write, but he surely could produce. Unfortunately naval officers are not too familiar with the money value of Texas mules and Sam was a modest fellow; the mules were under-valued in the estimated worth in the hiring agreement. Anyhow, who was Sam to question the good faith of Uncle Sam, the Fair Employment Act, and a little old piece of paper? The Nation needed Sam; Sam needed the job; the mules needed oats and five dollars a day was just peanuts in such a vast program. Sam, with his three mules, contributed to the successful completion of the job ahead of schedule. Both Sam and the Navy were happy with the arrangement and Sam was aiding the Nation which had given him his rights as a free man.
In due time certain of the hired equipment amortized itself and was captured. The Cost Inspector, a penny-pinching Naval Reservist, had been Washington-trained to guard Navy dollars. He always knew just when each capture clause was about to mature. One afternoon he casually mentioned that during the next week we would have to corral the three mules. I had not even considered that Sam’s agreement contained a capture clause for the mules any more that it did for Sam. It now appeared that the Supervisor was expected to become a Mule Skinner, and incidentally, a skinner of Sam. Having a family of my own, I could not afford to dilute my affections. I did not propose to exercise the mule-capturing option; thanked the Cost Inspector for his timely warning and went out into the yard and discharged Sam and his mules from the Naval Service. Refusing to have the non-capture of three $75 mules on his conscience, the Cost Inspector immediately advised me, by formal letter, of the terms of the hiring agreement and indicated that I was derelict in my duty.
A Texas mule is a part of the family. The owner loves it, cusses it, pets or beats it just as he does his faithful Lulu Belle. Well, there is a slight difference; in Texas there was no law against beating your wife provided that, in so doing, you did not disturb your neighbors. Sam and his mules were a true team. They were inseparable. No matter what the book had to say, Sam and his mules were not going to be parted.
The Cost Inspector’s letter, asinine as it was, required an answer for the record. By equally formal reply, the Cost Inspector was advised that Sam’s hiring agreement did not differentiate between Sam and his mules and that we certainly could not capture Sam. The mules bore no identification marks or serial numbers, customarily affixed by the Cost Inspector’s Office, and there was no assurance that the mules which had been given honorable discharge were the same mules originally driven by Sam; we had just hired the services of three mules, names to the hirer unknown. We had no record of what had gone into either Sam or the mules and could not account for possible deductions and it might be questionable as to what equity, if any, the Navy had in either Sam or the mules. The Navy would hardly wish to be accused of breaking up a family or of alienation of affections. Working up a little steam, the Superintendent further advised that the mule was the proud emblem of a great political party and certainly not to be saddled by any Republican Damyankees in the heart of the Southland. It was suggested that a naval education did not include the ability to determine a Jenny from a Jack; we spoke no mule language, had no place to bait or board three mules, and knew nothing of their care, diet, or habits. It well might be that we had enough jackasses around the office without recruiting any more; we might trip ourselves up on some Civil Service restriction. Our true job was to handle properly some few millions of dollars to the betterment of our shipbuilding program and not to worry too much about a couple of hundred jackass dollars. The agreement having been terminated, with neither Sam nor his mules fully amortized, it was suggested that we might well turn our minds to channels more likely to produce ships.
The mule incident was not finished, however. Somebody in Washington had spotted a copy of the Cost Inspector’s letter attached to a voucher and became mule-conscious. Soon a hot-shot Washington-employed civilian auditor appeared on the scene. Generally it was a pleasure to welcome a Washington visitor, for we had an operation of which we were proud. Also it was smart to be particularly nice to the traveling civilian emissaries from Washington; the next week you might find yourself saluting them as generals or admirals. But this gentleman was different; he exuded Bureaucracy. It was apparent that he was with us for no good reason. He beat about the bushes for quite a while but, from his lack of interest in the real scope of the operation and his particular concern in capture clauses, we could soon smell a very dead mouse. His particular mission was the trail of three Texas mules. He asked if the Navy had made all of the captures possible under our leasing agreement. He was assured that we had, only one agreement having been voided; we had refused to capture Sam and his mules. Mister Inquisitor’s eyes lighted up and he began to show signs of real interest. We dragged out our listing of captured equipment and then trotted the incident of the three mules right out into the open—and that was a horse of a different color. Those mules were his meat; that is why he had come down to Texas.
I certainly wanted to convince this investigating sleuth of the justice and wisdom of our decision not to capture Sam nor to rob him of his three mules, but that auditor had a mulish mind. The more that I looked at him, the more he reminded me of Sam’s near mule, except that the mule appeared to be a bit more intelligent. The whole case was reviewed, together with the Supervisor’s letter to the Cost Inspector. Thinking that perhaps there might be some matter of morals involved, I told him the story of my friend, Captain L, a Canal Zone pilot. It seems that Mrs. L had gone north on a health cruise, leaving the good Captain in Panama to the tender mercies of the maid, Sally. Having a Sunday off, the Captain relaxed by having his breakfast in bed. While he was eating, the Captain had a bright idea for the saving of a little money. With Mrs. L away, Sally did not have a great deal to do; why not have Sally do his personal laundry and thus show Mrs. L that he was a good manager? When Sally came in to pick up the dishes, Captain L said, “Sally, how would you like to make a little extra money?” Sally rolled her eyes, giggled, and said, “No, Captain, I couldn’t do that; I’s a good girl.” I suggested that maybe I was just trying to be a good boy, unable to take advantage of Sam. The story did not get a flicker of interest from my coldblooded inquisitor; he was not interested in my attentions nor those of the good Captain. He was out for meat—mule meat.
Seeing that we were getting no place fast, I attempted a little father-to-son reasoning. He was advised that it was the custom of the people of the South to take care of their colored folk; that it would not have been considered to be good manners for the Navy to take advantage of the questionable clause in Sam’s agreement. If we had captured the mules and left Sam free, a semi-capture type of action, we undoubtedly would have found it necessary to hire Sam to tend the mules—- at around $1.17 per hour, certainly no saving to the Navy. Still getting no place with the arguments, I assured the gentleman that, as a naval officer, I was interested in getting horsepower into ships rather than mulepower into the Navy. Had the Navy captured those mules, the body of the Supervisor would probably be decorating the top of a tall lamp post and it was suggested that his body might well be hung on an adjacent pole. Finally he was reminded that even a Texas day was only the conventional twenty-four hours in length and that I was afraid that I was wasting his valuable time in further discussing the capture of three Texas mules. This point got across and my Washington friend, like the other jackasses, departed the yard.
Time passed and it appeared that either I had been forgiven or forgotten, or that the stamp of approval had been placed upon my mulish action. Not so, however; the Federal mills grind slowly but exceeding fine. The Inquisitor’s visit bore fruit. By Washington letter I was directed to explain in detail my reasons for my failure to capture Sam’s three mules; nothing was said about capturing Sam. We set up a “Three-Mule File” and it took on size and substance, adding to the preservable archives of the Nation. So long as the correspondence should continue, I knew that my neck and those of the three mules were safe.
Perhaps I owe a debt of gratitude to old Tojo. He, too, had a problem and he attempted to solve it by bombing Pearl Harbor. Then we really did have something worthwhile to worry about—and the Three Mules correspondence came to an abrupt ending. Tojo had taken charge. After a decent interval, the file was closed and the three mules were gone and forgotten.