Guests at the Wedding

uss forrestal-james-111314

20 DEC, 1989:

There was a great Foc’sle Follies the last night at sea before pulling in to Marseilles on the mighty USS Forrestal, (CV-59). The Follies are the satiric variety review the Air Wing puts on for itself to poke fun at the complexities of life on the Bounding Main with 4,000 of your closest friends, armed to the teeth. There was much merriment at the expense of Oz, the Air Boss, and much mirth at the Vice Admiral who flew aboard to take our operational briefing. Of particular note was the dark edict of three days ago which forbad the mention- or even skeptical look- at the admiral’s at-sea toupee. Ops O meeting this morning at 0900; I awoke with a headache from the post-follies follies.

Staff meeting followed the Ops meeting…mostly about not letting important things fall through the crack during our nearly month-long port visit. After the President visited us to meet with Mr. Gorbachev at Malta, we are supposed to be low-trifle and non-threatening to USSR’s interests in the Mediterranean. Our Ops Officer Scooter and other notables (such as the Monsterchief) are going back to Florida for Christmas. I’m not.

At lunch, the last meal to be served in Wardroom One until we go to sea again I ordered a chili-burger and tried to fend off questions about the why, exactly, the U.S. had declared war on Panama. I had not been consulted on the matter and didn’t understand what it was all about, although I bluffed fairly well until afternoon, up to my elbows in Campaign documents with France calling me from the distance.

I quoted Presidential Spokeman Marlin Fitzwater who said at an emergency press conference at 0140 Washington time:”The President has directed United States Forces to execute pre-planned missions in Panama to protect American lives, restore the democratic process, preserve the integrity of the Panama Canal treaty and apprehend Manuel Noriega.

“Heavy fighting reported in Panama.” Goddammit, I’m in the wrong Theatre again!

Later, we stomp down the Officer’s Brow to go ashore in France. We are waiting in a long line of sailors for a bus to get out of the port area. For security, we are located way out in the sticks. In some ways this is worse than being at anchor. Suddenly our friends from the Flag Staff appeared and our problems were solved. We piled into a tall Mitsubishi van with Spanky M at the wheel and we were free and on our way to actual France!

Spanky has already made a familiarization (“Fam”) hop into Marseilles, so we are not flying blind. We rocket out of the customs/douane area and onto a strange elevated freeway. A cathedral on a hill beckons in the distance and rows of fin de ciecle apartments parallel the expressway.

marseilles-111314

Marseille’s port area sprawls for miles to our right as we roll south into town. We miss a sign or two and motor into the Vieux Port area through the old fortifications. We are immediately into a traffic jam and the urge to park the car is virtually overwhelming. We see an arrow that points to what could very well be a garage and Spanky bolts for it.

It is underground and the ramp is steep. The van is tall. The van does not fit. We are fortunate to escape. We dismount and wander the streets and wind up at an outdoor cafe with our crazy waiter with the Art Garfunkle hair. He likes my French accent. I am nearly totally immersed in the language by the time we finish the first five beers.

We pub crawl through the Gut and enjoy pizzas and artichokes in the Vieux Port. Later, more gratuitous beers at the Bistro New York where CDR Shake holds court with several Bulls of my acquaintance. Shakey graciously “gives me another chance.”

I resist the sudden severe visceral urge to punch him out and walk away in to the night avec my LTJG wingman Josh. Best decision in a long time.

In bed via the last bus by 0330. Liberty- and France- are very good indeed.

21 DEC:

Prepare for the Big Brief. Work aboard ship until 1500. Jog on the pier. Go to France again. What a country! The Christmas shoppers, the beautiful women, the sidewalk cafes. My seeing-eye LTJG Josh and I roam to the outskirts of the city, finding little frommageries and boucheries. We enjoy pressed saucisse sandwiches and have an early night in. Bed by 1100.

As we sleep, a sailor from VS-28 is murdered in town by druggies in the small hours, around 0300. It appears to be a sort of French drive-by killing and not associated with international terrorism.

The Senior Shore Patrol Officer watches him die in the ambulance. Two down on the Cruise so far. Paperwork to follow….

22 Dec:

Big Brief morning. We drink coffee in Mission Planning and make the final tweaks on the brief preparations. I’m in the head reading Navy Times when the summons comes from TFCC. We are on stage at 1050. Admiral Sweetpea, being the Liberty conscious sailor that he is, pronounces his favor and congratulations in a record 42.5 minutes.

Literally floating on air, we drift across the passageway to Admin, where CAG announces the big procession to the Wedding in Cannes. The response among the Junior Officers to the invitation is lukewarm at best.

I am appalled. I shout for support, rallying my staffmates like John Belushi in the rousing conclusion to Animal House. This is an issue of free travel, free food, and the opportunity for total immersion! I convince Toad and Lutt-man that this could be our chance to act as Ambassadors of Good Will to an entire city of helpless French.

New Chop and Thorn T are also bludgeoned into the trip. We pack on the fly, clothes hurtling everywhere through the compartment. Later, in the rental cars, Toad conducts a driving clinic.

Staying on the bumper of the CAG- acknowledged as the world’s greatest attack pilot- who is also lost in France is not the easiest thing to do. Thankfully, we are riding with the Greatest Fighter Pilot of his time, the famous Mr. Toad.

CAG pulls one six G maneuver to get to another lane that is truly a thing of wonder. We wind up on the Superhighway to the Cote d’Azure, after many travails, and roll across the lovely hills of the South of France.

cannes-111314

After about three hours we pull off on the Cannes exit and plunge down a long straight road and into the lovely village. We enjoyed the view from the elevated highway which crosses the train station and parallels the commercial district. Later, after a Riviera version of gridlock, we found ourselves ramming the cars into the curb before a quaint walled villa. CAG gets us buzzed through the gate and we walk across a crushed rock driveway and up to the cool dark central staircase that lead up four floors. The place is wonderfully French; obviously vastly expensive but slightly down at the heels.

On the third floor landing we meet the vivacious Avery, the belle Maitre dan les Ville Cannes. She is an erstwhile Baltimorian, practitioner at the French Bar and President and Founder of the Cannes Navy League. Dark haired, Avery is a gamin of indeterminate age; when she laughs, which is often, the wrinkles around her eyes are pronounced.

The laughter begins almost immediately. When you join one of Avery’s parties there is no question that she is in complete command. Within minutes of our arrival we found ourselves shown through the garret apartment that would be our home off and on throughout our month in
France.

We reach the top floor via a narrow staircase; the garret is everything one could possibly ask for. It is a complete apartment with a large central room where you could stand upright under the peak of the roof and a variety of smaller rooms near the eaves where you could not. In the small toilette there is a skylight through which my head potruded while urinating. There was a kitchenette and a magnificent view of the town from a window with working shutters. There is beer in the refrigerator and it is a good thing.

We had pressing social obligations; within the hour we were attired in Service Dress Blues and proceeding in a line like Avery’s ducklings down the narrow streets through the town to the Church. We are among the first of the guests to arrive at the old grey Protestant church and we are seated on the Groom’s side, fashionably down front.

Our role is to provide moral support for him, as he will tie the knot in his LCDR uniform. Avery thinks it will be nice or the Fleet to make a show and thus we are de facto members of the groom’s party, a ship-driver (Blackshoe) we have not previously met. We are the ersatz Groomsmen, guests at the wedding. In French, no less. It is a thing of wonder.

After the service, of which I understand perhaps 30%, we retired to Avery’s to prepare for the Reception, which is to be held in Grasse, France’s largest City. It must be. When we were lost we must have passed about twenty exit signs for the place. Grasse is famous largely for its parfumeries and number of highway exits.

We wind up the long hills and pull into the parking lot of a pleasantly modern hotel where the festivities will commence. We are seated at random throughout the real wedding guests. There is bottomless wine and delicious food. Soon we are dancing and the singing went on until dawn.

I propose a toast and sing my version of the Wedding Song from the Three Penny Opera. The groom seems dazed by the whole thing but we are truly Ambassador’s of Good Will and I am elevated to hero status.

The French are loving our act. Avery makes us promise to come back, and we volunteer to act as her culinary staff for the Christmas Festivities. Later, in the darkness of the garret, we find a recumbent ENS in my designated bed. “Are there any Ensigns in the LCDR’s room?” shouted Lutt-man. Our new Porkchop feigned unconsciousness and I racked in the double bed by the window with Lutt-man.

It is crisp with the window open and the stars are hard, clear lights in the French velvet sky.

Nothing untoward occurred. Not that there is anything wrong with it, of course.

Copyright 2014 Vic Socotra
www.vicsocotra.com
Twitter: @jayare303

Leave a Reply