by CDR Jack D. Woodul, USNR(Ret), artwork by Carl Snow
In a shower of plaster and sheet rock fragments, the Naval Aviator’s mighty foot, followed by a leg, once again penetrated the ceiling. “Goddam defective overhead” came the muffled roar from the attic.
“Oh, honey! Three more and you’re an ace,” was the sweet wife’s comment. Mighty Crubfoot had struck again.
In the merciless manner of fleet squadrons, Crubfoot had earned his nickname the easy way. A highly intelligent boat-schooler, he was a relentless pursuer of justice as the squadron’s Perry Mason legal officer. A competent aviator, he was still suspect to the Reserve Junior Officer’s Association because of his general sobriety and because he wore his pisscutter with the back turned down, somewhat resembling a cow’s posterior parts.
While the ceiling attacks story had surfaced somehow at a squadron party, his eventual squadron nickname was truly earned while on a USS Boat deployment. It seems that, after parking his aircraft port-side forward, he reckoned it would be too far a journey to the nearest ladder to get off the flight deck. Deciding on a shorter route, he lightly leapt into the catwalk and promptly broke his ankle.
The results of his non-acrobatics were fourfold: He was off the flight schedule; a large, conspicuous cast appeared on his right foot that resulted in even further loss of grace; he was assigned SDO duty for the foreseeable future, thereby becoming highly visible and available for needling; and, lastly, his condition was the genesis of the enduring, literal nickname of “Clubfoot,” which underwent the inevitable WestPac Japanese transmutation to “Crubfoot.”
Puresome figgered it was better than some of the Crusader pilot’s nicknames, like “The Bald-Headed Chicken Molester” or “Limpy.”
Whenever the unfortunate lad showed up in the ready room, it became fashionable to make simulated warning radio calls like Red Crown or Big Look used for MiGs or SAMs: “Warning! Warning! Crubfoot active, Delta Sierra all quads!”
All this he bore with the weary resignation of the frabbee who has righteously been caught and joyously not been allowed to forget about it. Naturally, it was Puresome who pushed the fun too far.
For some unexplained reason, Puresome had abandoned the dirty-shirt wardroom and decided on doing supper at the prestigious Wardroom One among the blackshoes, senior citizens and simple refugees from the unwashed splendor of Gator Chow. He chose a wild-card napkin that was intricately stuffed in its silver ring and wandered over to join some of his squadronmates, one of whom happened to be Crubfoot.
“Hey, Crubfoot,” said Puresome as he shook out his napkin, “I bet they teach you at boat school how to put these things back in right.”
“Yes, actually, they do, and if you had gone anywhere tonier than Sorghum State Agricultural and Mechanics College, you would realize that linen napkins, properly folded and tucked into silver rings, separate man from Marines and other beasts,” rejoined Crubfoot.
The Sorghum State part and the beast part weren’t as telling as the jibe at Puresome’s napkin folding technique, the results of which always looked like busted-out bales of cotton. Fortunately, Puresome was as sensitive as a pair of train wrecks. “Your prattle is as the buzzing of dung flies in my ears,” said Puresome as soup was served by Filipino waiters in white jackets.
Impeccably dressed officers ate from fine china with gleaming silver cutlery atop starched white table linen. Clever wardroom chitchat avoided politics, women and shop. All was otherwise going reasonably well when, from lip level, Crubfoot dropped his spoon, kerplash! into his soup.
A shocked silence overcame the table. As the eaters assessed damage to their uniforms, Puresome was the first to recover.
“Well, Crubfoot, if you can’t be good, be colorful.”
That was too much. In front of God, CAG and an assortment of commanders and slightly lesser sorts, Crubfoot rose himself up, black eyes flashing and soup-stained breast heaving.
“Puresome, I’ve had enough of your crap. Let’s go settle this on the flight deck right now!”
Puresome was on his way to his feet when forceful intervention by LCDR Spider’s large hands sat both he and Crubfoot back down. Speaking through his teeth, Spider invited them to cool it and join him in his palatial stateroom later for a mini-AOM. Puresome felt it prudent to chill out and accept the offer.
Later in Spider’s stateroom, junior officer counseling was in full flower. Crubfoot was persuaded to de-miff and un-huff, and Puresome was yet again advised, somewhat sternly, to be nice. Finally, the two shook hands and were dismissed.
But as they negotiated the knee-knockers down the passageway, Puresome couldn’t resist.
“Say, Crubfoot, now that we’re buddies, when you trip and bust your butt, can I have your Akai tape recorder?”
It was a good thing Puresome was a nimble wise-ass.