Part Four
Shmuel, 1917
Chapter 8

Shmuel stood stripped, wet and shivering with hundreds of other men on the deck of the Calvin Austin, a floating boot camp for those with no sailing experience. Everything around him was gray: the sky, the deck, the faces of the men who didn’t have their sea legs yet. When the recruits, now called boots, were ordered to box up their clothes and ship them home, he’d made up an address in Brooklyn, figuring the East Boston post office wouldn’t bother to track the returned package. His hair had been cut short but not shaved, leaving the strawberry mark still partly hidden. Aboard ship, there wouldn’t be time for haircuts. He’d grow his hair long, like the sailors in the posters.

The supply clerk tossed him a uniform. Shmuel, eager to cover his body, was dismayed to find that the pants sagged and the shirt hung on him half empty.

“I need a smaller size, please.”

“If you’re man enough to be in the Navy, you’re man enough to fill out whatever damned size I give you.” The clerk chose a uniform, seemingly at random, for the boot behind him.

“Please, sir, I need a size wee wee.” The dark-headed man ahead of Shmuel batted his eyes and drew wolf whistles, mincing down the line.

“A blue skirt, sir,” said a burly Irishman, “short enough to show off my dainty ankles.”

Shmuel’s strawberry mark throbbed. He’d have to hold up his pants with an extra notch in his belt or tie a piece of rope around his waist, assuming one of those fixes passed inspection. At the next station, the supply officer issued him a hammock, pillow, blanket, and thin mattress. Handing him a mattress cover, the sailor grinned, “This, kid, is your fart sack.”

“Fair ladies don’t fart.” A wiry Italian grabbed Shmuel’s mattress cover and tossed it in a game of Monkey in the Middle. Shmuel spun around and chased after it, dizzy with shame.

“Drop it!” barked Lieutenant Junior Grade Mikovski. The fart sack, mid-flight, fell to the floor. “In the next eight weeks, you’ll learn self-discipline. Horsing around is for Army jokers, not Navy men.” The boots lowered their heads like chastened schoolboys. Mikovski turned to Shmuel. “As for you, girlie, your job is to protect and defend, beginning with your gear. If you can’t guard a goddam fart sack, how the hell do you expect to safeguard a fucking ocean?”

Shmuel picked up the mattress cover. Shaming was part of training, but he’d hoped that in the Navy he wouldn’t get picked on more than anyone else. Now he stood out as a target.

The supply clerk called out the names stenciled on a teetering pile of drawstring canvas bags. “Nick Ryan.” “Joey Tomasio.” “Sam Lord.” Feeling like a fraud, Shmuel claimed his bag. The dark blue ink of the “S” in Sam ran at the head and tail, like the pink edges of his strawberry mark. Mikovski said that they’d spend the afternoon learning how to sling a hammock and stow it with their uniforms, oilskins, weapons, and other gear in these sea bags. It seemed impossible that the sacks, a skimpy two feet by three feet, could contain everything the Navy gave them.

“Who are you, miss?” Mikovski, blonde and blue-eyed, yet solid as a stevedore, peered at the block letters on Shmuel’s bag. “Lord? Hah! Titles don’t count for shit here. Bluebloods need extra toughening. I’ll see to your training. Personally.” Now Shmuel knew for sure the lieutenant had singled him out for abuse. The pitying looks of the others confirmed his conclusion.

***

On day two, unsteady as babies learning to walk, the boots began negotiating decks, ladders, and passageways. When Mikovski wasn’t prodding Shmuel, Nick Ryan and Joey Tomasio took over the hazing. They pressed their bodies into Shmuel in the narrow openings, reminding him of the passage in Genesis when the men of Sodom push up against Lot in a sexual frenzy. His instinct was to shrink away until he recalled a saying from the Mishnah that “to destroy a single human soul is to destroy an entire world.” He’d enlisted in the Navy to save the world, and refused to let his soul be destroyed before he’d even set sail.

Shmuel shoved himself hard back against the two men. “Something I can do for you fellas?” He leered the way he imagined the men of Sodom had. Ryan, his pale skin reddening, backed off immediately. Tomasio just grinned and ground his hips, but when Shmuel held his ground, he too retreated. Then both men clapped Shmuel on the shoulder to let him know he was one of the gang now. Shmuel scaled the next ladder with a confidence he’d never felt in school, until he caught Mikovski’s curt nod and sinister smile. He wouldn’t let Shmuel off so easily.

The rest of that week, spent memorizing the Navy’s arcane language, restored some of Shmuel’s fleeting confidence. Studying was second nature to him. He mastered Navy jargon by imagining he was teaching new words to Dev, and soon referred to the kitchen as the galley and the eating area as the mess. Harder to get his tongue around was the ship’s food, much of it made with pork. Shmuel tried to abstain from meat, but after long drills in the salty air, his hunger exacted a compromise. He passed on sliced bacon and ham, but asked forgiveness to remove pieces of pork and just eat the baked beans. Afraid of being branded a picky eater, he avoided attention by sitting with different men at each meal, but Tomasio and Ryan began to join him.

“What’s the matter, Lord? Not as tasty as mom’s home cooking?” Tomasio stabbed a piece of ham off Shmuel’s plate and shoved it in his mouth.

“Nah. Eyes bigger than my stomach. I already had three slices. I shouldn’t have taken seconds.” Shmuel patted his gut and puffed out his cheeks.

“Growing boy needs as much food as he can stuff in,” said Ryan, sitting on the other side. He transferred two slices from his plate onto Shmuel’s.

Shmuel laughed and tossed them back to Ryan, but he felt compelled to finish his beans. Under his friend’s watchful eyes, he couldn’t pick out the pieces of pork. Anxious he’d gag when the trayf hit his throat, he wolfed them down. Then he realized that made him look hungry after all, so he ate more slowly. He chewed each mouthful. Smothered in tangy sauce, the pork tasted fine. The next morning, he tried a slice of bacon. That was good too. A slab of ham at lunch was even more satisfying. A couple of days later, it no longer mattered what or with whom Shmuel ate.