Fools Gold (3)

Like the story of the boat saving the downed crew of the the B-52 in the hurricane, a story that someone later published in Readers Digest, there were other stories. A new person on a submarine gets filled in on the legends of the boat. Some are recent, such as somebody emerging naked from a restroom in a foreign liberty port with toilet paper trailing from their butt only to have a shipmate set fire to it with a zippo lighter. Others went back decades such as the emblem for the train on the boat's WW II battle flag and the story of the Barb sinking the Karafuto Express. There was another more recent story.

One night, the topside watch stood alone on a seemingly endless night. A head popped up through the hatch, and a body of a shipmate followed. The shipmate told the topside watch that he was wanted below, and that he would relieve him. The watchstander handed over the belt with the .45 calibre Colt, and went below to see what the story was. There was no story, below. Puzzled, he returned topside to discover that his "relief" had used the .45 to commit suicide. It was soon learned that he had just received a "Dear John" letter from his wife.

Such events are not pleasant and especially so for a tight-knit crew. Moreover, there is, as you can imagine, an investigation and a lot of paperwork for such a casualty. In the aftermath, everyone was admonished over and over to watch out for their shipmates and to try to notice any changes in disposition that could alert them to such feelings.

Jerry had heard these stories. So had his chief. His chief had been there during the event and the ensuing investigation and was perhaps a bit more impressed with the instructions. So it was that one day in the radio shack when Jerry opened a letter and upon reading it screamed and dropped it that the chief radioman, Chief Bendy, a young black man who had dreamed of being a professional basebal player, was on it in a second, to see just what in this letter had caused that reaction.

His eyes widened at what he saw. An adding machine tape stappled to the Credit Union's statement added up his accounts and printed out the amount: $1,101,415.36.

"Jerry," the chief looked at him and exclaimed, "you're a millionaire!"

Before Jerry could collect his thoughts the chief was out of the radio shack to spread the word.

It was months before the mistake was straightened out.

Meanwhile, there were people who had sought small loan amounts, in recent days, that he had turned down, who quickly put him on their shit-list. There were others from whom he had borrowed ten or twenty dollars while on liberty who were also asking, "What the fuck, Jerry."

Even if he were a millionaire, he realized quickly it was not all a blessing.

While he was sure that it was a mistake, he dragged his feet at confronting the credit union. It was a nice fantasy, after all, a dream from which he did not wish to awaken soon. And so, in the minds of some, it was still presumed, even decades later that he was a millionaire who had decided to go to sea in submarines.