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The Water Pitcher
We were stationed in
St. Georges harbor. The ship was literally anchored in the harbor. The place was Bermuda. Some people called St. George “The other side of Bermuda”.
The town of Hamilton was on the far side of the island. In between was the Air Force base with it SAC aircraft and personnel. In the days of the “Cold
War” everyone knew that SAC stood for Strategic Air Command, the division of the Air Force that carried our nuclear bombs.
The first night in
Bermuda I had duty as Shore patrol. My partner and myself had visited the local police station and were given a tour of the St George area before liberty was
announced. Our tour included some of the hot spots. Some of these hot spots were placed “off limits” by the Coast Guard. The local “Bobbi’s” who
accompanied us on the first night, introduced us to many of the proprietors of the hot spot and “off limits” drinking establishments. Most offered us a
free drinks if we when returned on liberty.
The next night I had
liberty. True to their word I received a free drink or two. Those with me did also. To conserve on funds I moved to a new place frequently. A cook, and (I
believe) a gunner’s mate, rode the free drink wave with me. We soon had only “off limits” establishments remaining. At the first “off limits” pub,
we had a couple drinks. We did not wish to push our luck and soon left.
As we were walking
away, we were quickly overtaken. Two locals from the place we had just vacated rushed out and stopped us. They asked us to produce the water glass we
had removed from the bar. I had not removed any water glass and my comrades confirmed that they had not either. Our inquisitors informed us that we were at
the bar with a scotch water pitcher in the shape of a dog, and when we departed, so did the pitcher. They wanted no trouble, just the pitcher back. We
repeated we had no pitcher and started to leave.
Before we had taken
a second step we were confronted again. Just as quickly one produce a large knife, the other, something closer to a cutlass. It was big enough that my first
thoughts were, “where in hell did he hide that?” We were in trouble. They again demanded the pitcher we didn’t have or they would cut us. They then
looked at the cook and said, “ We know it couldn’t be you brother. You had better go now.” The cook took off without the slightest hesitation. We were
in a real pickle.
Our confrontation
was still going on ten minutes later. No one else had departed or entered the pub. So far it was a standoff and I was hoping it would stay that way. Our
knife-wielding friends were starting to use cutting gestures that were getting closer. I was now waiting for an opportunity to lash out with the slim hopes
of getting away.
The Bobbies arrived.
The cook had gone to a nearby house made a call to the police and was right behind their little lorry. The knives had disappeared with the typical sound of
the police lorry. The Bobbies sent our accusers into the pub. We were happy to get out of this mess with all of our fingers. The cook was my hero.
On the way back down the hill, the pitcher fell to the ground and broke. I
don’t know where it was or why we didn’t see it behind the gunners mate’s back. All I knew was that he had risked our lives by not handing it over. I
was pissed. My rage was focused now on my drinking partner. The cook quietly said to the gunners mate. “I am telling the brothers that it was you
that stole their pitcher. The gunners-mate disappeared.
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