My dad was in the Navy in World War II, serving on a tanker ship, carrying fuel. I can’t remember if he said that they were carrying oil or gasoline; perhaps it was loaded differently at different times.

I do remember him saying that if  a gas tanker went down, fires from the fuel on the surface from the pooled gas would burn extremely hot.

“That would not be good,” he said. “The heat could cook you. Oil, on the other hand, wouldn’t burn nearly as hot. But the problem with oil was that it wouldn’t pool up, like gas.  It would spread across the surface, with no open spaces. One couldn’t swim between the pools of burning oil.”

I guess that wouldn’t be good either.

He manned a deck gun during battle stations. On one occasion he shot down a single kamikaze coming directly at the ship. He was the man of the hour. His shipmates were very happy with him. I don’t know what he got beyond smiles and backslaps for that. It’s not like they could buy him a beer for it. Maybe next time they hit a port.

Dad described some rather nasty business when the ship crossed the equator. Those who had done this before — the shellbacks — performed a rite of initiation on those who had never done so before — the pollywogs. There was the usual sort of corporal physical abuse and some ritualized humiliation, like kissing the feet and belly (naval navel?) of a guy who was dressed up as Neptune. Silly stuff. And my dad was not a silly man.

He was always rather fastidious, which could have been another reason for Navy service. As opposed to hiking around in the mud, he liked the idea of good chow and a bed. He liked to be clean. I think that was one thing he liked about office work. He started out at Ford Motor Company as a tool and die maker, but moved to the office where he worked for years as a Vehicle Specification Coordinator. He wore a suit and tie to work every day, once he became an office guy.

His fastidiousness caused him to not like the ship’s mascot. The captain had a pet monkey, I’m guessing a little spider monkey. The monkey was free to roam about the ship wherever he wanted to go. Of course, this monkey was not trained to use a litter box as a cat might be. Worse than that, the monkey would sometimes defecate into his hand and fling it at the sailors.

The sailors complained. The captain ignored the complaints. The captain of a Navy ship has unquestioned power. Maybe he thought it was funny, as long as someone else was on the receiving end. This was not the sort of thing that would have been amusing to my father, no matter who was the shit recipient.

One day it was Dad. They were on deck, in sort of a narrow passageway. No, I don’t think it was the poopdeck. They — my dad and the monkey — were alongside the bridge of the ship, somewhere in the South Pacific. There was no one else around.

Dad wiped off the offending substance. Then he reacted with great calmness, and talked soothingly to the monkey. He called it by name, using a soft voice, and encouraged the monkey to come to him. The monkey may have thought it was going to be petted.

The monkey, like the shit, was flung. Suddenly there was a monkey swimming. They were in the area of the Philippines. Shore was not in sight. It is noted that monkeys can swim, but not well. And not very far.

No doubt the captain missed his monkey after a while, and inquired about it at something like morning formation. My dad was not a stupid man. He said nothing.