Baa Baa Black Sheep Read Free Page A

highest rank previously.
    Smith had plotted the entire trip in minute military fashion, although we were no longer military men. He had planned duties, watches, and even disciplinary measures. When Smith insisted on numerous occasions in gathering us together in platoon front and calling roll, he would address us in the most formal military manner. His bluest of blue eyes reflected like sapphires in the sunlight as he would go into his “Halls of Montezuma to the Shores of Tripoli” act. The act was delivered in a strong, clear voice from Georgia. I thought at the time, and still do, “What a ham—what a ham.”
    Jesus, how I dreaded Smith’s formations. I had counted on getting away from it all when I resigned, and hoped for something better instead of something worse. How happy I’d be when the trip was over, and I no longer had to listen to him.
    Smith had been at Pensacola, where I instructed. Afteryears in the business world he had just completed a refresher course, and he took the AVG job more seriously than any new Annapolis graduate would have. Standing there, trying to fit Smith somewhere into the future picture, I found myself worrying for the first time.
    Smith undoubtedly made me a little envious, too. He gave the impression of refinement, a department in which I was lacking, but I gave Smith credit for opening my eyes to the fact that a few, himself included, were not going for the remuneration alone. They were going to free the world for democracy, and were willing to give their lives if necessary. And, funny as it may seem, after a lengthy session in his cabin, one lonely blacked-out night at sea, he damn near had me convinced. Looking back, I think that he might have convinced me at that—if he hadn’t run out of whisky.
    When we left San Francisco, I knew that I was trying to escape my own common-sense reasoning. If this was strictly a service deal, our mission to further democracy didn’t quite gel. And I knew it. Hell’s bells, I was twenty-eight years old. I knew that the people I was traveling with couldn’t possibly be as different as night and day from those waiting for us to join them. Everything should have been clear to me then, but it wasn’t. American citizens were getting so much a head on us. Just the same as cattle. The two ingredients necessary to accomplish this human sale were greedy pilots and a few idealists.
    The taxicab stopped at Pier 40. When I arrived, some of my mates were carrying their belongings aboard ship. While Smith was paying the cabdriver, I took an inquisitive glance at the stern of this lady who would lug us halfway around the world. “
Bosch Fontein
, Batavia,” was in large letters on the stern. The name meant nothing to me, other than that it was Dutch. I don’t recall ever asking what it stood for.
    My concern for Smith’s formations left me as I walked slowly along the pier from the stern to the bow. Perhaps this came from a habit I had acquired in aviation of always walking completely around an airplane before climbing aboard.
    It was midmorning when I boarded the
Bosch Fontein
, home port Batavia, Java, wherever that was. Carl, a three-hundred-pound mess steward, explained to me later that the home port used to read “Amsterdam.” They had to changethe home port because the Germans had occupied their fatherland. The entire ship’s crew had families in occupied territory.
    On many an evening I was with these Dutch crewmen sipping Bols Gin, which was their drink, listening to their tales of home and the rest of the world I hadn’t yet seen. They were gentle, friendly people. There wasn’t enough they could do for us. It was amazing, hearing these Dutch damn England with a far greater hatred than they had for the Germans who occupied their homeland, their loved ones practically in slavery. England was considered the basic cause for all this trouble.
    The lunch, with a choice of numerous entrees, was enjoyed by all. We were informed that this Dutch