While Temple is shorter—he's not that short. His glasses resemble mine, and he sports long pants with a Patriots Point Staff shirt. "We're so excited to have you!" he says while we walk past the Cougar to a ladder at the end of the Hangar Bay, propped against the ship's iron plates.
I tuck my cane and water bottle under my arm and grasp the ladder's rails, carefully slipping down it.
Temple waits for me at the bottom beside Tour 4's exit, standing on a picture of a cartoon dog wearing a pilot uniform.
"Who's that?" I ask, pointing at the dog.
"Scrappy," Temple answers. "He's Patriots Point's mascot, named after a dog who stowed away during the war."
A dog stowaway? I never knew animals were eager to serve their country, too.
Temple and I step over a knee knocker, and Yorktown's walls close in on us. Aside from seasickness, I remember claustrophobia was another reason why young sailors visited Sick Bay on my ship. I was okay, but Ted always looked green around the gills—at least for the first week.
I chuckle at the memory, but my smile fades when Temple and I enter Yorktown's Sick Bay, a thirty-two-bed hospital with more comfortable racks than the standard berthing areas.
Temple unhooks a chain and gestures me through to a hatch at the room's other end. He un-dogs it and pushes it open. Directly beside us is another hatch, and Temple opens it. The hatch creaks and reveals an air-conditioned room—thank goodness!—on the other side. It contains a small, circular table, two computer desks, a conference table, and a kitchen.
"This is the Volunteer Lounge," Temple explains, closing the door behind us. "This is where the Volunteers sign in and out for their shift." He gestures at a coffee machine in the kitchen. "There's coffee if you want some."
Oh yes! I hope it tastes better than the coffee during my service. It was not Starbucks Pumpkin Spice coffee; it tasted like water with a hint of diesel, but Ted and I grew addicted. I fix a cup and join Temple at the conference table, sitting before a screen with a slideshow that reads Welcome to Patriots Point.
I reach into my pant pocket and release a brass locket with a black-and-white picture of Ted and me during our service inside. My hair was short and brown, and I always carried a goofy smile. "Cheeky" was another one of my nicknames.
"Who was your friend during the war?" Temple asks me suddenly. He props up his head.
Steam puffs out of my ears, and I shut the locket. "Who told you that?" Probably Natalie.
Temple chuckles and picks up a remote. "Your daughter."
Of course. "I'd rather not say," I admit, lowering my head and slipping the locket back into my pocket. Ted was between Natalie and me.
"Sorry," Temple apologizes, facing the slideshow. "We're just trying to help. Anyway"—he clears his throat—"we're happy to have you. I'm Temple, the Volunteer Coordinator. My job is to look out for all our wonderful Volunteers."
I don't want to be here. Not with a damn Corsair in the Hangar Bay.
"With you in the mix now," Temple elucidates, "we now have 160 Volunteers in total."
160?
"Are all of them veterans?" I find myself asking. Oh, gosh, please don't tell me I'm interested in this torture chamber. Ted wouldn't want me working here.
"Most are veterans, but there are a few non-military peeps," Temple explains. "I'm a no-nonsense fellow if you should know something about me. If you have issues with another Volunteer, come to me first." His eyebrows furrow. "I also don't like secrets and lack of communication. If you won't be here for your shift one day, let me know beforehand."
He's a bit strict, isn't he—like me. I don't enjoy a lack of communication, either, so why did Natalie not tell me there was a Corsair here? I'll discuss it with her when she picks me up.
Temple straightens himself. "Anyway, if I haven't scared you off, let's start orientation." He lifts the remote, but before he flips the slide, he explains, "I was a Supply Officer in the Navy. Down on Tour 3 is the Ship Store. I can spend hours there talking about the replenishment of underwear."
The side of my mouth twitches, and I let out a cheeky giggle. Is this man toying with me?
"Ah," Temple says, turning in his seat, "there's the human behind the grief."
Grief? What grief? Ted died seventy years ago. "Who says I'm grieving?" I ask my new boss.
He cocks a brow and answers, "You still live on that Navy myth? Let's see if we can break you out of it." He flips the slideshow to the next slide here.
I reach for my hearing aid to block out his too-cheerful-for-me tude, but my hand stops.
"Our Volunteers are the heart of Patriots Point," Temple explains, gesturing at the picture on the screen of a group of Volunteers standing on the pier before the Yorktown. "Depending on your interests, we could have you behind the Info Desk, driving the golf cart, sitting on the Laffey, or even pulling out the Education Carts. You may like them since you're a pilot."
"Laffey? What's the Laffey?" I inquire.
"You didn't see her when Sebastian drove you down the pier?" Temple drums his fingers on the table. "She's Yorktown's next-door neighbor—a battleship known as the 'Ship That Would Not Die'. During the Battle of Okinawa in '45, she took six kamikaze hits and four bombs and still floated. We used to have a submarine, too, but she started sinking, so we had to scrap her."
"Isn't that what submarines do?" I find myself questioning while the Ship That Would Not Die buries itself in my brain. "Oh, gosh, I'm sorry! Was that rude?"
Temple waves his hand. "You're fine. We have a memorial for her on your way into Patriots Point. You may want to consider stopping by it one day. Anyway, where were we? Oh, yes."
For the next twenty minutes, I sip my Starbucks Pumpkin Spice coffee and listen to Temple, who reviews the rules and regulations for Volunteers. It feels like my first day in a paying job.
"The Volunteer Dinner Cruise is in November," Temple explains. "We rent out Spiritline Cruises, hold a dinner for the Volunteers, and announce the Volunteer of the Year."
Volunteer of the Year? That sounds like an interesting goal to achieve. Wait—no, William. You're here one day and one day only. The only way to keep you longer is to eliminate the Corsair.
"For today," Temple says at the end of his lecture, "let's have you behind the Information Booth so you can meet a few more Volunteers and start learning Yorktown's history. I also recommend that you check out Laffey."
The Ship That Would Not Die. That does scream adventure. Navy guys, young and old, enjoy a good adventure. My adventure includes flipping through Ted and I's photo album, which we began as children and added to as we grew older. I call it Willed because Ted's will, his memory, is in it.
A flashback crosses my mind, thinking about Willed. Ted and I were thrown into Valley Forge's brig for a day because we fought over which pictures we wanted and didn't want in the album during midrats. We were just kids and a little high on diesel coffee.
Temple smiles gently. "I think you're going to like it here, Bill. We merely need you to overcome the Navy myth to remain emotionless. You lost someone you loved; it's okay to express that."
Not when you're ninety-two years old.
"Thanks," I mumble, using my cane to help me stand. I stroll to the desk behind one of the computer desks and flip open the Volunteer Sign In and Out binder, just like Temple told me during his twenty-minute lecture. I search for my name, but my eyes are going, so I squint.
Temple's large hand appears beside mine, and while I'm slightly surprised, I don't jump.
"Here you go," Temple says, turning to the Bs in the binder. He points at my name and moves his finger to the box under it. "You just sign here. I've also got a gift for you."
Gift? Isn't it a little early for gifts? This man is so toying with me, and I don't know how I feel about it.
I sign in and turn. Temple stands before me, holding a gold nametag that reads Bill Beckington. Volunteers is under my name.
"Welcome to the crew." Temple sets the nametag in my outstretched palm. "You're one of us now."
"One of them". For some reason, this brings another cheeky smile to my face. I unhook the magnet from the nametag's back end and clip it to my shirt.
Don't show emotion, Bill.
"Let's get you back up to the Hangar Bay." Temple leads me out of the Volunteer Lounge, back the way we came, and up to the Hangar Bay.
I pause momentarily on the ladder to catch my breath before climbing the rest of the way up. Climbing stairs is more challenging than descending them for me—hence, my cane. It's mainly here to help me climb stairs.
"Hey, guys!" Temple cheerily announces when we reach the Information Booth. He gestures at me. "We've got our new Volunteer, William Beckington, who served on the Valley Forge. Make him feel welcome."
Something tells me he enjoys working here a little too much.
One of the Volunteers is the Navy guy who grabbed the water bottle for me when I first saw the Corsair. The other one's missing, and a new guy's here: a chubby fella named Cosgrove. Looking at his hat, I see he served in the Marine Corps. I keep my eyes on him so I don't accidentally glance at the Corsair again. I'm staying away from that thing, no matter how much it takes.
Just get through these next three hours, Bill, and then you're free. However, I'd be lying if I said I didn't feel a connection here because I do: a hint of nostalgia. Ted and I were like little kids playing hide-and-seek when we rushed around Valley Forge's Hangar Bay and pointed out every one of the Corsair's distinguishing features. "Whistling Death" was our favorite one. The Corsair whistled whenever she flew because wind passed through her double wasp engine.
Oh, Ted, I wish you were here to help me through today.
I chug the rest of my coffee and inhale to stop the building emotions.
Before Temple leaves, he asks the Volunteers behind the desk, "Take care of him, all right? I'm going to check on the cart drivers."
Driving a golf cart sounds fun.
Temple exits Yorktown from the main entrance before the Information Booth. I'm alone once again, contemplating my decision here like a child who doesn't want to tell their parent they failed their Math test.
My hand slips into my pocket, and I wrap my aged fingers around the locket. I don't want to make friends. No one will replace him.
With this in mind, I stay away from the Volunteers, who wave.
"Would you like to learn about Yorktown?" Cosgrove asks. "We're usually not too busy during our first hour. I can take you up to the Flight Deck."
"Um... sure," I answer without thinking. Wait! Snap!
I hit my cane against my forehead, releasing the locket to hide my embarrassment behind my free hand. It's safe to say that my coffee has changed back to diesel because I can't think straight anymore.
Drinking diesel coffee in the Navy was like alcohol for Ted and me. After a few cups, we would say something like, "Um... sure," without a second thought.
"Let's go, then!" Cosgrove clenches his fists and slips out from behind the Information Booth. He heads toward the elevator and faces me, friendliness and a hint of overprotection plastered on his face.
What have I gotten myself into?