26 November 1945
San Pedro, California
The Plymouth wouldn’t start. The carburetor was flooded, and it was Ingram’s turn to drive. He propped up the hood and puttered with the engine. He was sharing a ride today with Cdr. Walt Hodges, the supply officer on the USS Piedmont (AD 17), a destroyer tender moored at the Long Beach Naval Station. Ingram’s ship, the USS Wallace (DD 549), was tied up in a nest beside her going through a long-awaited tender availability. Today and tomorrow were big days: they were re-gunning the ship with five new 5-inch gun barrels, the old ones having been worn out in heavy fighting over the past eight months. Thus, Hodges was not only a good friend, he also held all the cards as far as parts and services from the Piedmont.
Sally Hodges drove up in the Hodges’ Mercury and let Walt out. With a grin and a wave, she drove away. Shaking his head at Ingram, Hodges said, “So you’ve been buying that cheap gas on Ninth Street again?”
Ingram muttered, “I wish it were that simple. This damned carburetor needs an overhaul, and the last time I checked there’s no good mechanic within miles.”
“Hi, Walt,” said Helen, walking out with a thermos of coffee.
“Hi ya, sweetheart.” Hodges stepped around the car, pecked her on the cheek, and accepted the thermos. “Thanks.”
“My pleasure.” The Eleventh Naval District had ordered a change from summer khakis to standard blue uniforms last week, and Helen enjoyed the sight of her “two boys” together; they looked so good in blues. “How’s Sally doing?”
Hodges rocked a hand from side to side. “Mmm, what can I say? Nine months and no action. The doc may induce labor. She’s got an appointment today.”
“Gee, and I have all that to look forward to again.” Helen patted her belly.
Ingram barked to Hodges, “You ready?”
“Fire away.” Hodges got in behind the wheel. “Say when.”
“Wait one,” muttered Ingram.
Helen poked her head through the passenger window. “Whew! It’s hot in here already.”
“Blues make me sweat.”
“You and Sally should come for dinner Friday night,” said Helen, “if you’re not occupied with a new baby, of course.”
Ingram snapped, “I heard that. You can come only if you get the car started, Walt.”
“Oh, yeah?” Hodges jammed down the starter pedal. The engine rolled and rolled before finally sputtering into life. It backfired twice and settled into a smooth idle. “Sounds like Hirohito’s revenge.”
“Looks like we’re having guests for dinner.” Ingram plopped down the hood and walked around to Helen. Kissing her on the cheek he said, “Don’t work too hard.”
“I won’t, but guess what?”
“What?”
“Apple pie in the commissary today.”
“Oh, man. Bring home a slice?”
“I’ll think about it.”
Ingram jumped in the passenger seat. “You drive, Walt.”
Hodges leaned over. “A slice for me too, Helen?” He jammed the car in gear.
“Sorry, Walt. You’re too fat. Maybe one for Sally, though.”
“Arrrgh!” Hodges eased the clutch and drove away.
With no wind the air was stale, and it grew hotter inside the Plymouth as they drove onto the Islander, the auto ferry connecting San Pedro to Terminal Island. With a blast of its whistle, the ferry got under way for the five-minute trip. Ingram opened the door. “Think I’m going to wash up.”
“Mind if I sell it while you’re gone?”
“Either that or push it over the side and charge admission.” Ingram slammed the door and walked off.
Hodges poured coffee and rested his elbow on the window opening. Outside of the wind made by their trip across the channel there was no hint of cooling. He sipped, sat back, and took a deep breath, cocking his hat over his nose. With a twinge of envy he thought about Todd Ingram and the other “tin can sailors” on the front line with the real Navy, the destroyer Navy. He knew what they called supply officers like him: pork chops. On the other hand, the tin can sailors romped with the— “Ouch, damn it,” he yelled as a passenger walking between the rows of cars jostled his arm.
“Sorry.” The man didn’t turn but kept on walking.
Hodges rubbed his arm for a minute, then sipped more coffee.
“Slide over. I’ll take it from here.” Ingram, smelling of Life Buoy soap, got behind the wheel.
“That stuff will take your skin off.”
“Better that than piss off the admiral. I can’t shake his hand with grease all over mine.”
The Islander ducked behind a passing C-1 cargo ship and then made a textbook approach to the Terminal Island landing.
Ingram said a quick prayer and kicked the starter. The engine roared into life and settled down to a smooth idle.
“How’s Commodore Landa doing? He still married?” The wedding had taken place three days ago.
“Last time I checked,” Ingram said. “But with Boom Boom, you never know.”