Navcad

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Dedicated

In Grateful Appreciation To

Captain John G. Helleis USNR (Ret)

A Fellow V-5 Cadet

Whose Steadfast encouragement and Loyal Support

Saw This Work Through From Start to Finish

Chapter 1

Y ou again! Judge Wade Hampton Bleese bellowed from his seat on the high bench. He propped his beefy hands on the desktop and leaned forward to stare angrily down at the youthful prisoner. Then, without shifting his eyes to Charleston County Policeman Eugene Salmon, standing behind the accused young man, he asked, What is it this time, Officer?

Bruce Weber stood mute. His pale blue eyes returned the magistrate’s bellicose stare without blinking. He’d been there before and all they ever did was warn him that, one of these days, he might get a prison sentence. Might, Bruce thought, that’s the operative word. That’s what the old, addled-brained judge always said. Might! Hah! I’m not old enough to be sent to the state prison up in Columbia yet, so why worry?

Same ol’ thang, Yoah Honah, Salmon drawled, frowning and shaking his head slowly from side to side as he extracted a small notebook from his right shirt pocket. Got behine ’im on Route 52 at Ten Mile Hill. Got his tag numbah but couldn’t no way ketch up with that souped up hotrod of his’n. Salmon glanced down at his notebook, then continued, Speedin’, reckless drivin’, maybe haulin’ bootleg whiskey, Judge. He spoke without raising his face, flipping through the booklet rapidly as if searching for some particular entry.

What do you mean, ‘Maybe hauling whiskey’? Don’t you know if he was or wasn’t? Judge Bleese roared, his voice rising in exasperation.

Ah couldn’t ketch up with ’im, Yoah Honah. Salmon explained weakly. He has that danged Ford so souped up, ain’t nobody kin ketch ’im. Ah was jus’ lucky ta git ’is tag befoah he hit them dirt roads behine da ayah port. Aftah dat, it was Katie bah da doah. He was long gone.

Ummm huh! Wade Bleese mused as he pursed his lips in deep thought. He shifted his gaze back and forth between the policeman and the culprit. Then, he concentrated on Bruce, peering over his wire rimmed glasses for a long, thoughtful moment. Cocking his head to one side, he asked, What do you have to say about those charges, young man? He paused for a second then, in a lighter, softer tone, said, You know, boy, you’re not a bad looking lad. You might have a pretty bright future if you’d just settle down. The way you’re going, though, you’re going to kill yourself or commit mayhem before you’re a grown man. He rested his bulky frame on his elbows, concern evident on his puffy face.

For the very first time, Bruce examined the judge’s features closely. He saw care in the judge’s amber eyes and noted that the old man’s silver-gray hair was combed straight back. Bruce thought the judge looked a lot like the statue of John C. Calhoun atop the tall column on Marion Square.

Well, boy, what do you have to say for yourself this time? Bleese thundered.

Nuthin’, Bruce muttered, lowering his eyes again and letting his shoulders slump.

Speak up, boy! Bleese shouted. What did you say?

Bruce glared at the magistrate for a long, defiant moment then, turning partially toward the door, yelled, Nuthin’!

Officer Salmon grabbed the prisoner’s arm and jerked him around to face the bench. Watch yoah lip, boy! he grated. Sho’ sum ra-spec’ ah yore gonna wish you had.

Sorry, Judge, Bruce said a bit more civilly. I didn’t mean anything. Just seems old Fishface Salmon, here, is always out there just looking for me. All I was doing was hurrying home for a date.

Date, huh? Gene Salmon spat out. More’n likely a date with sum bootleggah, Ah bet.

Now, Officer, Bleese cautioned, you’re just guessing about that. You have no proof your prisoner was actually hauling stumphole. But one thing is certain, this young pup is a danger on our highways. We have to do something about his speeding. How many times have you brought him in now, Gene? Five? Six?

Eight, Yoah Honah, Salmon said. Seems lak Ah have ta eat ’is dus’ jus’ ’bout every month ah so. He glared at the prisoner and scowled.

Eight? You’re sure about that, Officer? When was the first time? Bleese peered down at the policeman.

Salmon quickly flipped the pages of his notebook then looked up at the judge. Firs’ tahm was las’ yeah on June tweney secun, Judge. Then again in Septembah, in Novembah an’ Decembah. This here yeah it’s bin January, March, April an’ then today, Suh.

Wade Bleese turned a penetrating stare to Bruce’s face, his tiger-yellow eyes seeming to bore into flesh and bone. How old are you, boy? he demanded.

Be twenty-one next March, Bruce answered, his voice sullen and hoarse.

Suh! Say, ‘suh’ when yew speak ta da judge, boy! Gene Salmon ordered, ramming a stiff thumb into the youngster’s ribs.

Sir, Bruce gritted, his teeth tightly clenched.

Twenty-one next spring, eh? Bleese mused as he pondered the situation for a few seconds. Uh, huh. That means you’ll probably be drafted right away then. Well, that might get you off the roads for a while.

Shrugging, Bruce inhaled a deep breath and turned his head so he could look out the open window. Get it over with, you old coot, go ahead. Lay it on me and get it over with.

No, Judge Bleese was saying. No. That won’t do. Even in the Army you’ll still be able to drive. I’ll have to figure out some other way. He twisted his head toward Salmon and scowled. Lock this young perpetrator up, Officer Salmon, and bring him back at 10 o’clock tomorrow. I’ll have made my decision by then.

Yes, Suh, the policeman said, jotting a note on his pocket pad: "Weber in court 10 AM, July 20, 1942." Then, taking Bruce by one arm, he shoved him out through the open door into the hot, humid afternoon air.

-     -     -

County Policeman Salmon ushered his prisoner into the courtroom at precisely 10 AM. The place was quiet except for the chirping of birds in the azalea bushes outside the open windows. Heated by the morning sun beating against its clapboard walls, the courtroom was already sultry.

You look ha’fway decent this mawnin’ Salmon said in a gruff voice. Dat might he’p you sum, butchew bettah watch dat surly lip of yore’n. Dat damn tongue of yore’n’ll git you inta a peck uv trouble fas’ as dat hotrod yew’re so proud uv. An’ it’ll git you inta jus’ ’bout as much trouble too.

Bruce simply glared at the county policeman without speaking. He was well aware that he was presentable. He certainly didn’t need any damned hick cop to tell him. He’d spent long minutes before the jailhouse mirror combing his wavy brown hair, trying to make a stray cowlick stay down. The light khaki shirt set off his suntanned face and eyes that sparkled like aquamarine jewels. Women considered him handsome, but Bruce doubted that would be of any avail when he faced grouchy old Wade Hampton Bleese. Good looks might go over big with the gals, but they wouldn’t keep him out of a juvenile correctional institution.

Gene Salmon shoved Bruce toward the front of the room where the empty high bench waited. Git on up dere, he ordered, don’ wanna keep da judge waitin’, do ya?

In front of the judicial bench, Bruce stood rigidly erect, trying to make his five-feet-eleven-inch frame appear a bit taller. He sniffed the sweet aroma of honeysuckle blooming outside. He listened impatiently to the trilling of a mocking bird somewhere in the moss draped live oaks that shaded the east wall of the building and held back a smidgeon of the oppressive low-country heat of that July morning. Where the hell is he, he groused, his voice heavy with sarcasm as he looked first at Salmon then at the closed door behind the bench and high-backed leatherette chair.

Shut yoah trap, boy! Da judge’ll git heah when he’s good ’n ready. Boredom was evident in Salmon’s voice and the way his body sagged.

Just then the door swung open and Wade Bleese stalked into the room. His long black robe was unbuttoned, flapping about his knees. He swiped a yellowish-white handkerchief across his forehead as he flopped into his chair.

Bruce felt himself stiffen. He was anxious to learn the verdict. He had trouble keeping from asking, as he stood, staring open-mouthed at the man in the black robe.

The judge planted both elbows on the desk and leaned forward, partially lifting himself out of the chair, looking down at the two men. Switching his eyes to look directly at Bruce, he asked, Where are your parents, young fellow?

You know I’m an orphan, Bruce responded in a surly voice.

Salmon immediately grabbed Bruce’s arm and spun him around. Ah tol’ you ta watch dat lip, didn’t Ah? Can’t you heah? he growled.

I hear you, Bruce retorted with equal hostility.

Den shape up, boy, ah else! The policeman placed his face just inches of Bruce’s as he spoke.

Bleese leaned back in his throne-like chair and looked up at the high fly-specked ceiling. He held his fingers laced across his ample belly, his shoulders lifting and lowering in deep sighs. At length he lowered his eyes and leaned forward again, resting his elbows on the flat desk surface. Raising his hands, he cupped his chin in them and stared again at the prisoner. He said nothing.

Bruce tried to meet the judge’s stare but squirmed uncomfortably under that penetrating gaze. The amber eyes peered at him from under bushy gray brows and seemed to be probing his inner being. Unable to hold eye contact, Bruce lowered his gaze and looked down at the varnished hardwood floor.

Well, then, who is your legal guardian? Bleese pressed.

Without lifting his head, Bruce raised his shoulders in a slight shrug.

Bleese then shot a quick, questioning glance at the policeman, his eyebrows arched and forehead wrinkled.

None listed, Yoah Honah, Salmon responded, both hands waist high, palms up.

Well, well, then, it appears you are a ward of this court, my boy, Bleese said in a paternal tone, a broad, malicious grin on his ruddy face. He hooked the shoulders of his robe with his thumbs and flipped the cloth away from his body. With elbows on the desk again, he leaned forward and looked calmly down into Bruce’s anxious eyes.

If you say so, Bruce slurred and immediately received a jab from the policeman’s thumb. Quickly, he added, Sir.

Young man, Bleese began, I have made a few inquiries and I do believe I have discovered the ideal solution to our predicament.

Bruce stiffened his back, his eyes wide in anticipation of the judge’s decision. Yeah, yeah. What is it? he thought, while staring up into Bleese’s face.

It appears that there is one branch of the military services that prohibits its members from driving automobiles while in training, Bleese said very slowly. With that in mind, I’m going to give you an option, Bruce Weber. Either you voluntarily enlist in the United States Navy’s Aviation Cadet Program or you go to reform school until your twenty-first birthday. The judge’s voice rang with finality.

Me? Fly an airplane? I don’t know nothin’ ’bout flying planes, Bruce protested, looking first at the judge then at the cop. I’m a driver, not a flyer.

Well, boy, Bleese said, the hint of a smile playing around the corners of his mouth, that’s something you will have to face. That’s exactly what the Navy will teach you.

You can’t do that! Bruce yelled. You can’t make me enlist. You can’t sentence me to the Navy.

Calm down, boy. Don’t presume to tell me what I can and cannot do, Wade Bleese thundered. I’m giving you a break. You’re practically of legal age. I can lock you up and throw the key away. I can do that, but our country is at war. So, Bruce Weber, I’m offering you a chance to do your patriotic duty and, at the same time, clear your record.

Bruce’s eyes popped wide open. Clear my record? How can that happen? he asked with anxiety.

I’ll instruct the Clerk of Court to seal your file, my boy. Bleese smirked down at the prisoner. I can do that, you know. Now, you go down to the recruiting office and enlist, keep your nose clean and finish that cadet program, and I’ll see to it that your records are destroyed. It’s as simple as that.

Yeah? But what if I flunk out? What then? Suppose I get in trouble with the brass hats or the navy police, what then? Bruce’s tone switched to one of anxious interest.

That will be your problem, young man. Your problem! I’m offering you a chance, not a promise, Wade Bleese said as he settled back in his chair and waited. He wiped away tiny beads of perspiration from his upper lip and forehead.

All right. What’s to keep me from saying I’ll do it, then taking it on the lam? Bruce asked, grinning weakly.

Officer Salmon will take you down to the recruiting office this afternoon. He’ll stay with you until you are sworn in. After that, by God, it’s twix you and the Navy, my boy. You duck out on your enlistment oath to Uncle Sam and you’ll wind up before a firing squad. It’s wartime, remember? Wade Bleese pursed his lips and nodded solemnly. Okay. Now what’ll it be?

Bruce looked at Salmon as if asking if what the judge said was true. The cop stuck out his lower lip and diverted his eyes.

What do you say, Bruce Weber? Bleese persisted.

I, I, I reckon I’ll try that Navy stuff, Judge, Bruce said in a low, trembling voice. What do I have to do now?

Wade Bleese handed Gene Salmon a legal size envelope. Give this to Chief O’Neil down at the recruiting office in the Old Citadel Building, Officer Salmon, he instructed. It’s the court’s permission for an underage enlistment.

But what do I have to do, Judge? Bruce insisted.

You, lad, will be required to make written reports to me each month. If you are late by more than one week, I’ll alert the Navy people. If you get into any kind of trouble and they kick you out, I’ll see to it that you rot in jail. If you flunk out of the cadet program, Chief O’Neil tells me, you will be required to remain in the Navy as a regular sailor until the war is over. You’d better make the best of this opportunity, Bruce Weber, it’s the only one you’re going to get, Bleese said, slamming his fist down on the desk and wincing at the stab of pain. Understand?

Deal! Bruce exclaimed.

Come along, boy, Salmon ordered, tugging at Bruce’s arm.

Jerking free of the policeman’s grasp, Bruce glared maliciously at the cop then stalked toward the door.

Gene Salmon looked up at the man on the bench and shrugged. Ah don’ know, Judge, he said. Ah’m not at all shoah this is gonna work. Then he turned quickly and hurried after his prisoner.

-     -     -

Officer Gene Salmon opened the curb side door of his official black, four-door Dodge sedan and roughly pushed Bruce onto the front passenger seat. Saying nothing, he then stalked around the car and slid in under the steering wheel. With one quick, clouded glance at his prisoner, he twisted the ignition switch key and stepped on the floor-mounted starter button. The engine roared to life and Salmon pulled away from the curb without bothering to look back and clear traffic. He drove down King Street to the old, yellow-brown, turreted building facing Marion Square and Calhoun’s statue. He then turned into the brand new parking lot at the front of the building which housed the US Navy recruiting office. You wait right chuh, boy! he ordered. Ah’m gonna go in an’ see dat recruitah. Be back in a few minutes.

Bruce scrunched down on the cushion and nervously tapped his foot on the floor board as he waited impatiently for what seemed like hours until the policeman returned.

Salmon jerked open the passenger door and pointed toward the building. Aw, right, Webah, he growled, dey’re waitin’ faw you in dere. Git out an’ git yoah butt in dere! He glowered menacingly at Bruce. Don’ fergit what da judge tol’ ya.

Slowly, but resolutely, Bruce made his way into the inner quad of the fortress-like building, head down, studying the pavement. He paused at the screen door of the recruiting office and looked around the enclosed patio. There was no one else in sight. Uncertain of his next step, but keenly aware of Wade Bleese’s warning, he sucked in a deep breath, bit his lower lip, and stepped up onto the single concrete step. With his hand on the door handle, he glanced around the courtyard again as he tried to buck up his courage. Then, bracing his shoulders, he thrust out his chest and yanked the door open.

Inside, he had to blink his eyes several times to adjust them to the relative darkness of the room. After a few seconds he was able to discern the bulky shape of a figure seated behind a large wooden desk near the center of the space. There was no one else in the room.

The man behind the desk stirred and Bruce was able to make out the khaki uniform of a US Navy Chief Petty Officer. Beyond the desk, a dress khaki blouse hung on a wire coat hanger suspended from an old fashioned wall rack. Above the jacket there was a military combination cap. On one sleeve of that tunic, inside the ellipse of the rating badge, were two crossed anchors.

His hands steepled, fingers spread, the recruiter quietly observed the newcomer with a practiced eye. He rocked his considerable bulk forward in his armed chair, causing the springs to squeak. Can I help you, young fellow? he asked in a voice that rumbled like distant thunder. His ham-like hands were now placed, palms down, on the desk top.

That deep voice startled Bruce, but he managed to stammer, Yes, Sir. I want to find out about the Aviation Cadet Program in the Navy.

Well you’ve come to the right place, all right. I’m Chief O’Neil, Navy recruiter for this here area, the chief said in a deep throaty roar. Why’re you interested in flyin’? Don’t like servin’ aboard a ship? There was a hint of sarcasm in that question coming from a Chief Boatswain’s Mate.

Bruce stared at the Navy man for a long moment then lifted his shoulders in a shrug. ’Cause I like race cars and working on car engines, I reckon.

O’Neil then asked in a more friendly tone, Are you a high school graduate, young man?

Yes, Sir.

Don’t call me sir, damn it! the CPO ordered in a stern voice. In the Navy we ‘sir’ commissioned officers, not petty officers. You just say ‘yes’ or ‘yes, Chief’. Okay? Now, O’Neil’s tone lightened considerably, just why do you want to fly in the Navy? Why not the Army Air Corps?

Well, Sir, uh, uh, Chief, I really like car engines and racing and stuff like that. So, long as I’m gonna have to sign up anyway, I thought it’d be great to fly airplanes. Besides, Bruce said, looking the recruiter squarely in the eyes, you know the Navy is the best. It has the best planes and the best training program. He noted the change in O’Neil’s facial expression and knew he had hit the target squarely.

The CPO’s eyes twinkled and the corners of his mouth twitched. All right then, young man, I guess you know what you want. Let’s get busy filling out some forms. First, what’s your name? He turned to a pigeon-hole cabinet stuffed with printed papers of various sizes and colors.

Weber, Chief. Bruce Weber.

Over his shoulder, O’Neil asked, Think you can get released from your job for a few days, Weber?

Oh sure. Sure I can, Bruce answered, grinning at the thought of Judge Bleese being his boss.

Well then, can you go to Atlanta tomorrow?

Atlanta? Why do I have to go to Atlanta. Can’t you sign me up right here?

I can only swear you in as a seaman recruit, O’Neil explained. You have to go to Atlanta and take some tests to prove you can be a pilot. You take that battery of tests and pass them, then they’ll send you back home for a little while ’til they’re ready for you. That’s when you’ll get your orders to Pre-flight School. In the meantime, you just keep right on working at your civilian job, raking in all that big money.

Sure, Bruce thought, keep on with my job. Fat chance of that! Ol’ Fishface Salmon would be delighted to see me go on with my job, I’ll bet. Aloud, he said, How long’ll that take? I mean the orders and all that stuff. I thought I’d be going off to some training base right from here.

Oh, you’ll be getting those orders before you know it, the recruiter said casually. Right now I’m gonna make out a T-R for you so you can catch the train to Atlanta tomorrow first thing in the morning. He busied himself at a Remington typewriter, laboriously punching the keys with a single stiff finger on each hand. You’ll probably be back home by Friday night. That okay?

Yeah. Sure. What the hell’s a tee-are?

A T-R is a transportation request. The chief said a bit impatiently. It’s a government form. You give it to the ticket agent at the depot and he gives you a ticket just like you’d paid him with real money. It’s all at government expense. You get meals, Pullman berth, and everything. He returned his attention to his hunt-and-peck typing.

Okay, then, Bruce said, give me the forms and I’ll get to work on ’em.

It took 45 minutes for Bruce to complete all the paperwork then O’Neil took another 15 checking them over and pointing out minor errors. Finally the recruiter shoved the entire bundle of papers into a large manila envelope and, using a wet sponge from a small glass bowl on the desk, dampened the glue strip and sealed the packet.

All right, Weber, the chief instructed, hold up your right hand and repeat after me. After administering the oath of enlistment, he handed Bruce the light blue T-R form on which was typed in all capital letters, CHARLESTON, SC. TO ATLANTA, GA. AND RETURN. Now, Seaman Recruit Weber, your ass belongs to Uncle Sam. Go get your ticket and go to Atlanta.

Bruce stared at the navy man for a long moment then asked, That’s it?

That’s it, O’Neil said with a slight nod. He handed over the envelope containing the batch of paperwork. These are your official orders. Don’t lose ’em, he warned. You have to turn ’em in at the selection board when you get to Atlanta. Chief Boatswain’s Mate Patrick J. O’Neil, USN, took Bruce’s hand in a vise-like grip as he said, You’re in the Navy now, Weber. Good luck and smooth sailing. Let me know how you make out on those tests in Atlanta.

Thanks, Chief, Bruce responded with a wide grin. I’ll do that. He felt his shoulders brace and his chest swell with unexpected pride. He fairly strutted across the quad into the bright sunlight beaming down on the parked black sedan. He’d done it! He’d taken the big step. He was in the Navy now, even though he’d been forced to enlist by Wade Hampton Bleese. Now all he had to do was go to Atlanta and pass those stupid tests then get through that dumb-ass Pre-flight School, whatever that was, and, next thing you know, he’d be flying airplanes. He’d be rid of that old buzzard Bleese and the criminal file in the metal cabinet at the courthouse. He opened the door and slid onto the front passenger seat beside Gene Salmon.

Well? the policeman demanded, eyebrows raised and head canted.

Gotta go by my place and pack some clothes. Then I gotta go to Atlanta. That Navy guy said I’m a seaman recruit in the Naval Reserve, but I’ve gotta go find out if I can be a pilot.

I don’ give a damn what dat fellah said, Salmon grated angrily. We’re gonna go raht back to see da judge befoah we go anywheah else. Don’ know if’n he’ll want me to lock you up again ah what.

Well damn it! Bruce swore, I have to get some clothes packed then go to the Union Depot and pick up a train ticket. Sure would be nice for me to let my girl know what the hell is going on, too.

When we see da judge, maybe he’ll let you do all them things. Maybe. I don’ know. Salmon started the car’s engine and headed toward the parking lot entrance.

-     -     -

Wade Bleese looked at the riant Bruce Weber standing before the desk in his chambers. He said nothing, just waited for the young man to speak.

Bruce stood straight and tall. His walnut colored hair glistened with perspiration. His pale blue eyes sparkled. A wisp of a smile curled the corners of his mouth. He licked his dry lips.

Well? the judge demanded at length.

I did it, Judge. I’m in the Navy. Gotta go to Atlanta and take some tests, but I’m in the Navy. Can I go home and pack my clothes? Bruce bubbled.

The older man shot an enquiring glance at the county policeman slouched against the door frame and received a solemn nod. You’re the Navy’s responsibility now, young man, Bleese stated flatly. You can go home and do whatever you want as long as you stay out of trouble. When do you have to be in Atlanta? His tone was friendly, almost fatherly.

Tomorrow, Judge. I’ve gotta go to the train station and pick up my ticket this afternoon then catch the train tomorrow morning. I’d like to go by and tell my girl goodbye this evening. Have to tell her where I’m going and why. All right if I tell her about our deal?

Certainly you may, boy. But don’t let her try to talk you into getting married before you go. Naval Aviation cadets can’t be married, have tattoos or drive cars, you know, Bleese warned. You do whatever you want with that little gal, but don’t let her get her hooks into you. Understand?

Yes, Sir. I understand, Bruce responded in a voice completely void of rancor. I’ll explain everything to her just like you say. Can I go now?

Very well, but I want to hear about those tests. You keep me informed on everything. And I want to know your whereabouts at all times.

The Navy guy said I should be back here by Friday night, Judge, Bruce said. He said I’ll have to wait around for a while, maybe a couple of weeks or so, before I get orders to some kinda pre-flight school. I’ll call you first thing Saturday morning, Judge.

Not this Saturday, my boy, Wade Bleese said, grinning up at the excited youngster. I’m going fishing up on the Edisto. You can call me on Monday, early Monday.

Yes, Sir, Judge, Bruce started to turn away, then faced the magistrate again. Thank you, Judge Bleese. Thank you, he murmured.

Bleese waved a hand in dismissal then twisted around to face the policeman. Come over here a minute, Gene, he said quietly.

Bruce heaved a huge sigh of relief and started toward the door.

Ah’m still not shoah ’bout this whole deal, Judge, Salmon said. You’re lettin’ that young punk leave town an’ even leave the state. Hell, he mought not never come back!

Chapter 2

Bruce retrieved his Kelly green Ford coupe from the fenced-in compound yard behind the courthouse then sped across town to the Union Railroad Depot. He traded the Navy T-R for a ticket on the 8 AM Southern Railway flyer to Atlanta. That taken care of, he hurried home to his one bedroom bachelor apartment on Spring Street to pack a few pieces of clothing.

He went immediately to the bathroom, tossed his sweat-stained shirt and trousers into the wicker basket he used as a clothes hamper, then twisted the wash basin hot water tap handle to let the water run and warm up. He shaved off the two-day growth of stubble and stepped into the stand-up shower stall. He allowed the warm water to run for more than the usual length of time while he mulled over what he would say to his lady friend later. At last he stepped out of the stall and grabbed the towel from its rack. After toweling off, he tossed a few articles of clothing into a battered old leather suitcase. Then he donned his best sports shirt and slipped into a pair of grey gabardine slacks.

Still running over his explanatory speech in his mind, he went down the stairs and out into the street where he had left the green Ford parked at the curb. He drove west at a slow pace and turned south on Ashley Avenue. As he brought the coupe to a stop in front of a two story, white, wood-frame house he had rehearsed his speech until he felt he knew exactly how to tell his girl friend that he had enlisted, but that there were some restrictions and they could not get married at least for a while. He realized he’d probably have to confess to the type of work he was involved with in order to explain Judge Bleese’s ultimatum.

He got out of the car and carefully made his way along the narrow concrete walkway to the steps leading up to the broad veranda. As he reached the platform, he heard a squeak to his right and quickly turned his head to look in that direction. There, seated in a swing glider, was slender, auburn-haired Linda Weathers. He stared at his love, inhaled a deep breath and made his gaze sweep from the burnished bronze hair to the tiny feet shod in white leather pumps. God she’s lovely, he thought. He felt his heart pound and his pulse race. Hello, Beautiful, he breathed. You ready to go?

Linda slid out of the swing and came toward him, seeming to float across the porch. Her lilting voice thrilled him as she said, Yes, Honey. Where have you been? I’ve been waiting all afternoon for you, she pouted. As she drew near, she lowered her eyes, deep, green pools that seemed almost too large for her delicate featured face.

Linda’s friends called her Stormy, but the name didn’t stem from her natural disposition. It was just because Stormy seemed to go naturally with Weathers. And then, there was that popular blues song one heard almost every day on the radio, Stormy Weather.

Looking at her, Bruce recalled the first time he had ever seen the beautiful redhead. It was while he was shopping, really just wasting time, roaming around the big Kress’s Five and Ten Cent Store near the corner of King and Wentworth Streets. He had picked up a little ceramic dog statue and was pretending to examine it. He had noted the red Made in Japan notation stamped on the bottom and was about to return it to the open counter when a soft female voice asked, Would you like to buy that pretty little puppy?

To Bruce, that voice had the gentle, musical tones one would expect to hear coming from a choir of angels. He raised his eyes and his lower jaw dropped. There before him, behind the waist high counter, was a vision in a canary yellow sheath dress, shoulder length auburn tresses framing a flawless, delicate face, green eyes dancing, crimson lips smiling. Never in his entire life had he ever seen anything so lovely, so beautiful. Bruce Weber was instantly in love. He knew at once that this was the girl fate had created for him and the one he would love forever and ever, no matter what.

Now, standing there