One Friend, Good and Faithful

As Christians, we were quick to recognize Providence when it hit us over the head.

I had been in the military only a short time, having endured Boot Camp followed by Naval Aviation Technical School outside Memphis, and my graduating class was awaiting orders to find out where each of us was to be stationed. Growing up on the East Coast with my parents, seven siblings, and two sets of loving grandparents, I was feeling the tug of family as the instructors began writing out the units and locations from which we were to choose based on class rank. I had finished well, and knew that my chance of going to Virginia was pretty high. After all, one third of the entire fleet was in the Norfolk-Hampton Roads area, about three hours drive from the people I loved most. Imagine my dismay as the orders were posted – Washington State, Southern California, Japan, Northern California, Japan again. And so it went. With a mixture of anger and anxiety I chose what I felt was the best on the board, Carrier-based Anti-Submarine Warfare (VS) squadron 38 at Naval Air Station North Island outside San Diego. I returned to the barracks in a foul mood, and greeted my fellow East Coast friend Tom in disgust, who it turned out had experienced a near-identical predicament. He was more philosophical and mature about it, admittedly.

“I chose VS-37 at NAS North Island,” he told me.

“Wait,” I replied, “A VS squadron? At North Island?”

As Christians (though Tom was much more mature in his faith walk), we were quick to recognize Providence when it hit us over the head. We spent the following two weeks with our respective families, and when I arrived at Lindbergh Field in San Diego at about 3:30 in the afternoon, there, unexpectedly, was Tom – having taken a red-eye the previous night and by then very familiar with most of the corridors (and secret passages?) of the circa 1928 facility. As we shared a cab to our new duty station, I looked at my friend in gratitude and then, as we crossed the Coronado Bay Bridge, out the window in wonder at the alien environment we would get to know over the next few years.

“First Lieutenant”

Because we arrived together, we were assigned to be roommates – and together we went through the month-long school introducing us to the mechanical and electrical systems of the Lockheed S-3A Viking. We made friends together, explored Coronado Island together, and went to our share of Padres games (sitting in the $3 general admission seats just behind right fielder Tony Gwynn, a Hall-of -Famer both as a player and as a human being). We were assigned the midnight “First Lieutenant” duty taking out trash and buffing floors at our respective squadrons, which coincidentally (or, in our view, providentially) abutted one other at the 5-squadron VS hangar on the north side of the base.  Newbies are expected to pay their dues at various menial tasks including working at the chow hall or doing custodial chores before taking on the job they had been training for. By the time I introduced myself to the experienced technicians in the VS-38 electrical shop a few months later, we felt confident striding separately into our next adventure.

A Case of NSU

To say I was welcomed warmly would be a stretch. My first assignment was to pick up supplies from the airframe shop – a case of NSU. When I got there they said, no, you have to get that at the powerplant shop. NSU?, the engine mechanics asked. No, we don’t have any. Go ask the corrosion control guys. And so it went. I went to 6 or 7 different places before a fellow in the personnel office took pity on me and said, “I think they’re playing a joke on you.” There was a tradition of initiation in the Cold War Navy that included shellback ceremonies and birthday red-bellies – stories will have to wait for another time. When I re-entered the electrical shop, the whole gang was there, including representatives from many of the stops I had made over the preceding 20-30 minutes, every man nearly busting a gut with laughter. NSU, explained the wise guy that sent me on the mission between guffaws, stands for non-specific urethritis. “I sent you for a case of the Clap!” The whole shop rang with their laughter.

One Friend, Good and Faithful

Tom and I didn’t spend as much time together after our tours with First Lieutenant ended. If my ship was in port, his was often at sea, and vice-versa. When we were both ashore, we played a lot of tennis, took some road trips, and encouraged each other to do the right thing, especially in relationships with the opposite sex. His private counsel is remembered with gratitude these many years later. Tom has remained a friend, and I will never forget my joy at first seeing him that afternoon, waiting patiently by the gate at the Lindbergh Field terminal. If we are to live a righteous life, we need to be grateful, remain humble, pray much, and have at least one godly friend, good and faithful, to be there in our need, and to keep us on the narrow path.