March 25, 1973, Sunday

I like the padre, but he gives a boring sermon. Luckily for priests like him, most of the Mass is spelled out for him. He only has to improvise once. The padre asked me what I thought of his sermon. I spelled it out for him, in detail “That’s why I like you George your bluntly honest, however a simple, I liked it or I didn’t like it is what I was looking for. Not that I didn’t appreciate your summary as overwinded as it was,” he said. I told him he will go to hell for lying. I asked him if he had a bible group. He said no. I told him he didn’t need one because I was picking up the slack. I explained to the padre that everywhere I go in this man’s navy, I run into guys that are in desperate need of someone to explain the bible to them. The padre said if their turning to me than they are desperate. I agreed. “So pick up the slack, for god’s sake, pardon the pun, but I do mean for God’s sake. The padre isn’t the kind of priest that looked for lost souls. He was more of the Priest that was there if you came looking, if not he was on his way out the door to enjoy life.

After Mass, the padre and I walked over to the transit barracks, he ordered the officer of the day (OD) to find the head chief. Padre didn’t care if he was off base, get him in one hour, he ordered. We hung out in the barracks waiting for Chief Wascowski to be found. It didn’t take long. If an officer is looking for you, the last thing you want to do is piss the officer off by making him wait.

Chief Wascowski was walking fast with purpose when he came into the building. He saluted the padre. “Chief Wascowski, reporting as ordered, sir.” Padre returned the salute, he didn’t order the chief to stand at ease. The chief stood at attention eyes forward. “Yesterday I checked out Mr. Licata for the day. Somehow you didn’t see fit to write it down in the daily log. You went as far as to order the night watch to direct Mr. Licata to report to the SPs. You either made a mistake or you’re trying to fuck with me Mister!” Beads of sweat were running down the chief’s forehead. The entire barracks had gathered around us. “I think it was an honest mistake in protocol. Here is what we are going to do. I’m checking out Mr. Licata for the day. I will be returning Mr. Licata between the hours of 2200 tonight and 0200 tomorrow morning. You will be here to check him in personally. I don’t want a communication foul up again, that’s why you will handle it yourself. Do I make myself clear, Mr. Wascowski?” barked the padre. “Aye, aye, sir!” responded the Chief still standing at attention. Padre looked at me. “Good lets go.” I got up off the chair and we left. We drove out of the base and to his spacious apartment.

The party was surreal. I was the only guest that wasn’t a young officer or married too, or dating an officer. Three of the guests were women officers. We were all in civilian clothes, dressed like California’s. Without conversation no one could tell who was what. I was weary at first, so were some of the guest. They were debating how close they want to get to a flunky. After we drank copious amounts of liquor we all loosened up. It turned out to be a fun party.

Some if not all of the officers here are fairly fresh out of the Academy. They have friends and family that are hippies, most of them are forward thinkers. They see a new navy. A friendlier navy, a more open navy.

By nine bells most of the party had gone home. Two of the padre’s close friends and me were sitting in front of a fireplace. They were also commanders. We spent the rest of the evening talking politics. Nixon, the Vietnam war, Nixon. The gas and food rationing, communism. Four drunk guys, three commanders and me, are hashing out the problems with this world.

I was pretty drunk those officers can put it away. I don’t remember the drive back to the base. I do remember the look on Wascowski’s face, priceless. I do remember looking for the newest place they put my bunk. Later.