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Post by blaird on Jul 1, 2016 4:05:43 GMT
"If you aren't married yet Ensign, I suggest you go down to the Palm Frond Club over in Honolulu. My buddy from sub school says that's where a lot of those Navy nurses like to go for their R and R. Usually only a few enlisted, as those tin can and battlewagon boys can't seem to want to go anywhere that's more of a stagger to get home"
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Post by nfiltr8r on Jul 2, 2016 5:20:18 GMT
December 5th, 1941. Palm Frond Club, Adjacent to the Royal Hawaiian hotel, Honolulu.
Approx 10pm.
Four men from the Weatherfish stood at a small wall next to the beach. The men were looking towards the ocean, at least, one of them was. The other three had their eyes on some grass-skirt clad beauties that had just walked into the bar area.
One man, Lt Lindsey was starting off into the distance, lost in thought and memory. "I didn't think it was true. At least, until I read this...", holding up his right hand with a crumpled letter and envelope and waving it in the face of LtJg Joe Bridges. Grasped in Brent Lindsey's hand was a letter from his wife; now ex wife. He had known they were going through a rough patch with his new assignment in Pearl, but he hasn't known it was this bad. First, the move from New London after he finished sub school, then the move to San Diego, and now out to Hawaii. Apparently the strain of the moves, plus getting passed over for a sub command yet again wore on his ex wife, Margaret, just a bit too much. She had wanted him to take a desk job somewhere, anywhere. Just so that he would be home at night and not out on patrol for weeks at a time.
"Two bad things in a week" said Brent Lindsey. "They say bad things come in threes. Between not getting command of the Weatherfish, my wife leaving me and taking the dog AND the car, I don't know what ELSE could happen this week..."
Lt Bridges offers a consoling pat on the back for Lindsey. "It will be alright, Brent. Margaret had to know what she was getting into when she married a Navy man. It's for the best..."
Joe Bridges stayed with his friend and his XO for a bit before saying, "Hey Brent, I'm going to head into the Palm Frond and grab a drink. Whatd'ya say?" ----------------------------- Meanwhile as the two officers were having their conversation, two senior Enlisted from the boat had also joined in on the long walk over from Pearl.
"Damn Doc!" the Chief Engineer Alvin Kelley said with a bit of anger on his tongue, looking to Nelson March, the Pharmicist's Mate for the Weatherfish, and the closest thing the crew would have to a Doctor at sea. "I know you Medical Corps type are about keeping in 'peak physical fitness', but did you really have to make us walk all the way from the Sub Base!? I'm not as young as I used to be," said Alvin Kelley with a bit of a smirk. Alvin lamented he had just had his 40th birthday just over two weeks ago. He was normally back in the motor rooms, checking the diesels and trying to fiddle with them to get the most efficient fuel consumption, not out walking and running to keep fit. Alvin Kelley took off his cap and brushed his salt and pepper hair a bit. "Say there Red, lets get a beer. I need some liquid refreshment after that marathon."
Nelson March, known as Red, Doc, or Sawbones to his shipmates, nodded. His bright flame red hair was especially bright in the streetlights and flaming Tiki torches that were set around the hotel. "Maybe we can find ourselves one of those Hula dancer girls, Al. Friday night, you know what that means.... Tiki dance and Kalua pig night."
The group had started to walk across the street to the Palm Frond. The two officers, turned to their ship mates and wished them happy hunting, and other thoughts of well wishes for the night. The enlisted part of the Palm Frond was around the back of the hotel. The officers, on the other hand had their part of the club right in front, even with some of the beach sand brought in to add to the already very tropical feel of the area.
The sounds of laughter, talking, and that oh so sweet hawaiian music drifted across the air, along with smoke from the tiki torches and the smell of fruity island drinks.
"Aloha!" said a twenty-something Hawaiian girl as both Lt Lindsey and Lt Bridges entered the bar area.
Joe Bridges patted Lindsey on the back again. "Try to relax a bit, Brent. You're in paradise..." and the two men walked up to the bar to order of of those fruity drinks......
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Post by crushedhat on Jul 2, 2016 19:56:13 GMT
A short young man in a navy uniform sporting the gold bar of an ensign on the collar, the submariner’s dolphin over his pocket, and a cigarette hanging out of his mouth enters the Palm Frond Club. He quickly notices Lt Brent Lindsey and Lt(jg) Joe Bridges from Weatherfish. Making his way over to the two officers Ensign Paul Wouke of Bristlemouth says, “I just had a talk with your new skipper. Seems like an OK guy.”
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Post by nfiltr8r on Jul 3, 2016 23:23:33 GMT
"Oh yeah? An okay guy huh? He must be one helluva guy if they promoted some fresh fish, practically straight out of sub school over me...", remarked Lt Lindsey. Pounding his on-the-rocks Rye down, he looks to the man behind the bar "Another, if you please, barkeep." as Lt Lindsey pushes his ice-filled glass toward the back side of the bar. "Do you know him, Joe? You know, personally? Or know anyone who does? This guy must be pretty hot stuff, or just know some people if the Navy seems fit to give him a boat with no experience outside of New London..."
"I tell you what, if I meet this guy, and he tries to come in all Emperor Nero like, you know, ruling with an iron fist kinda deal, then we're going to have some problems." As the alcohol starts to set into Lt Lindsey's system, his drawl, being from Savannah starts to come out.
Lt(jg) Bridges looks at Lt. Lindsey and shakes his head. "Brent, you need to take it easy. The Navy has their reasons for things. How do you know they don't already have you lined up to take over a new boat? The shipyards are cranking out some of those new Gato-class boats pretty quick. They are going to need experienced officers to take those out. Just think here.... if you do something rash, or insubordinate even, you're chances of ever getting your own boat are gone... do you want to throw away your career just because you're sore that they didn't give you the nod for the Weatherfish!?"
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Post by crushedhat on Jul 4, 2016 1:36:41 GMT
Ens Paul Wouke is taken aback by the unexpected outburst. He tries to find a way to make himself fade into the background, an effort that is foiled when another voice calls out, “Hey, Paul, any action tonight?” Lt(jg) Tom Bolling quickly scans the room for likely targets. As he does, Tom notices his Annapolis classmate, Lt(jg) Joe Bridges. Hey, Joe…” Tom begins, faltering as he picks up on the tension. He shoots Joe a questioning look.
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Post by nfiltr8r on Jul 4, 2016 2:00:34 GMT
The barkeep brings Lt Lindsey another drink, turning to Ens Wouke, he starts bantering again. Something about how he "won't take no orders from some damned Yankee..." Ensign Paul Wouke knew he picked the wrong guy to chat up.... and unless he could get Lt Lindsey to change the subject, things were going to get rough. --------------
Joe Bridges, turns to look over his left shoulder at the voice. He thought he heard his name over the laughter and giggles at a nearby table. Things were starting to pick up at the old Palm Frond. "Tom...? TOM! HEYYYY!" almost shouting, Joe Bridges, with his thick New Jersey accent, addressed the now somewhat-bewildered looking Tom Bolling, as he realized that as soon as Joe spotted him, he was already closing in on him for a big bear hug faster than a Mark 14 torpedo.
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Post by crushedhat on Jul 4, 2016 18:55:26 GMT
Tom starts to raise his hands in an effort to forestall Bridge’s hug. He is unsuccessful, a muffled, “Ooof” escaping between his lips as the latter throws his arms around Bolling and squeezes. At the nearby table the giggles grow louder at the display of affection. One of the women’s dates comments rather loudly, “Get a room, will ya!” The women and his other male companions laugh as he adds, “Is that what they mean by ‘this man’s Navy?’”
While Bridges and Bolling are drawing the attention of three other offices and their ‘dates,’ Wouke tries to settle down his superior officer. “What makes you think he’s a…” being a New Englander himself, Wouke can’t bring himself to use the appellation, ‘damned’ in conjunction with ‘Yankee.’ “…Yankee, sir?” Despite the situation, the Ensign feels it best to append the honorific. Seeking to remind Lindsey of his professional responsibilities in the hopes it will moderate his behavior Paul adds, “I believe we’ve all sworn to obey our superiors, wherever they may hail from.”
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Post by crushedhat on Jul 7, 2016 1:28:02 GMT
6 December 1941, evening LCdr Kyle Robinson has already struck out several times this evening. Either the women weren’t what he was looking for, or vice versa. On the prowl again, Kyle’s attention is caught by a flash of orange-red. The hair, curly and hanging to the small of her back, belongs to a woman of average height with a classic hour-glass figure, curvy the way Kyle likes ‘em. Freckles adorn her face, giving the woman an aura of innocence that is quickly contradicted as her green eyes meet Kyle’s. She maintains the contact as Kyle makes his way toward her.
“Care to dance?” Kyle asks as the band strikes up its next tune.
“Why not.” Her response is noncommittal. Kyle quickly notes that she isn’t wearing a ring and then they are on the floor. For her part, the woman quickly checks Kyle for the same. The only ring she sees is his Academy class ring, though not all married men are in the habit of wearing rings as she is all too aware.
As they dance, the woman pulls in close. Kyle finds his attraction growing, spurred as much by her playful attitude as her physical charms. “You’re not a Navy nurse,” he tells her.
“What makes you say that?” She smiles impishly at him.
“This.” Moving his hand at the small of her back, Kyle flips the orange-red tresses dangling there. “Not exactly Navy regulation.”
Teasing, she fires back, “And do you do everything by the book?”
Kyle chuckles. “No. But LCdr Storm…Donna Gale,” Kyle corrects himself, having slipped into the nickname given to the head nurse, “does. And there’s no way you’d have this hair and liberty. So, what brings you here?”
Again she flashes Kyle a mischievous smile. “I’d think that’s obvious. But if it’s not, I’ve picked the wrong man.”
Kyle smiles back. “Oh, you’ve picked the right one alright. What say we blow this place?” For a moment she hesitates, Kyle seeing the flash of caution in her jade eyes and thinking that he’s struck out yet again. Perhaps to forestall answering, she pulls in even closer, resting her chin on his shoulder.
Kelly Murray finds herself enjoying the company of the naval officer she is dancing with. She is attracted to his sense of confidence and command as much as to him physically. “Definitely different than Bob,” she tells herself. “I sure hope he’s not married.” Then he suggests they leave and Kelly suddenly wonders if she’s being too rash. She moves in closer, resting her chin on his shoulder and looking past him in an effort to buy time to sort out her feelings. Buy time, and be closer, Kelly admits to herself.
Almost as though timed to help her decide, Kelly sees her boss, Robert Harrington, enter the Palm Frond. Their eyes meet and he begins making his way toward her. Stepping back from Kyle she takes his hand an emphatically says, “Sure! Let’s go!” She begins pulling Kyle in the opposite direction from Bob, the latter having a hard time making his way through the other dancers. More accustomed to taking the lead, Kyle nonetheless goes along, anticipating an enjoyable evening.
(continued under Royal Hawaiian)
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Post by crushedhat on Jul 8, 2016 16:07:42 GMT
19 December 1941, evening “Thought I might find you here.”
The voice has a familiar playful ring. Looking up, LCdr Kyle Robinson sees the freckled face of Kelly Murray, ringed by orange-red curls. “Why’s that?” Kyle asks as he rises to pull out a chair for the new arrival.
Taking the seat, Kelly tells him, “I saw your picture in the paper. Something about rescuing a bunch of Chinese laborers.”
“I killed a lot more’n I rescued.” Kyle’s voice carries the ring of self-accusation. He signals the waitress for another round. “What’ll you have?”
“You choose,” she tells Kyle. After the waitress takes the order and leaves she leans forward. Resting a hand on Kyle’s forearm she looks him in the eye and says, “That explains it then.”
“Explains what?” Kyle leaves his arm under Kelly’s hand.
“The expression you were wearing. You looked like a man who’d sold his soul.”
Kyle tries to keep from blushing, only partially succeeding. “Actually, I was looking for you,” he admits.
It’s Kelly’s turn to blush. “I’m here now,” she whispers. The drinks arrive and Kyle reaches for his glass, the fourth, Kelly determines from the three empty ones already on the table. Taking the glass from Kyle’s hand before he can drink she tells him, “I know just what you need, and it’s not more of this.” Kelly takes Kyle’s hand and pulls him to his feet. “Dance with me.” Leading Kyle onto the dance floor, Kelly spins to face him, wrapping his arm around her waist and resting her head on his chest. For the moment, thoughts of the war, the relentless Japanese onslaught, and the cries of men too numerous to take onboard Bristlemouth fade from consciousness.
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Post by crushedhat on Jul 31, 2016 4:04:41 GMT
18 April 1942, evening
Kelly Murray rests her cheek on LCdr Kyle Robinson’s chest, enjoying the feel of his hand around her waist as they dance to the latest Glenn Miller tune. As the pair move about the crowded dance floor the music comes to an abrupt end.
The ambient noise level increases as other couples join in the chorus complaining about the halt to their brief respite from war. The complaining stops as suddenly as the music had when a man in an admiral’s uniform steps up to the microphone. Kelly shudders, imagining it will be an announcement once more tearing Kyle away from her and sending him in harm’s way.
Instead, the fear and resentment in the room gives way to raucous cheering as the admiral, reading from what looks to be a wire service teletype printout says, “Today, Japan learned that there is no place safe from America’s retribution. A group of B-25 medium bombers conducted an air raid on Tokyo.”
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Post by crushedhat on Aug 23, 2016 21:36:26 GMT
5 June 1942, evening
Kelly Murray watches the man across the table from her as he downs yet another drink. When LCdr Kyle Robinson asked her out, she didn’t think it was to be his designated driver. “This is what I spent a month fending off Bob Harrington’s advances for?” she asks herself. “Even his whining about how his wife doesn’t understand him would be more fun than this.” Kelly looks over the other couples dancing and wonders what she is doing here.
When Kyle orders still another drink Kelly intervenes. “I think you’ve had enough.”
“No I haven’t.” Kyle’s tone is neither challenging nor defensive. “I can still see their faces.”
“Whose?” Kelly asks, concern over Kyle’s mood growing.
Kyle’s voice is flat as he answers, “The men I killed.”
Exasperated, Kelly blurts out, “Do you think the Japs’d be crying in their sake over your death?”
Kyle looks into Kelly’s eyes. She can see the pain. “I don’t mean them. It’s my men. The ones who trusted me to bring them back alive. And now they’re dead…dead because of orders I gave.”
Part of Kelly wants to get up and leave. But another part of her wants to reach out and comfort the man before her, to cradle him in her arms and rest his head on her breast as she whispers reassurances. “I guess that’s what happens when you fall in love,” she tells herself.
“Did I just use the word, ‘love?’” Shaking her head, Kelly gets to her feet and reaches for Kyle’s hand. To his uncomprehending look she says, “Come on. We’re going.”
“Where?”
“Home.”
Obediently Kyle rises and follows Kelly out.
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