Years ago I was superintendent at Stone Harbor.
There, during my first year, a skinny older man with a filter-less Chesterfield cigarette hanging
from his lips introduced himself to me as
Chet, explaining that he was there to help out however he could as he had done
there each of the past few summers. So I gave him the bunker crew to supervise...
And soon one of the guys on the bunker crew came into my
office to complain in a way I still have not forgotten... “My mamma don’t even
treat me like that!” Turns out Chet was a task master. His way or do it again.
And again, and again, until it was right. I realized that I didn’t have to
worry about bunkers getting done when
Chet was around!
As Chet got older – into his 80’s – he lost a little stamina
but still came in every summer day, whether he was scheduled or not. The last
few years I was there, he became my tee divot guy. Although I had to worry
about bunkers again, I now never had to worry about tee divots.
I spent a lot of time with Chet, or maybe it was he who
spent a lot of time with me. At work and not at work. He’d come over to my home
and play with my kids. I’d go over to his trailer and check on him, as he lived
alone. We became friends.
Many times I would just listen to Chet – he grew up in the
depression, his father was an orphan, his mom sold pies to the neighbors, his
son was a NASA engineer, his daughter a teacher, he worked as a printer all his
life, his wife died of cancer, and he served on the airplane carrier the
“Franklin”, or Big Ben, during WW2.
He had enlisted in the Navy and chance put him in the hold
of the fateful ship. When the two Japanese planes came out of the sky dropping
bombs, hitting the ship directly in the elevator shaft, the ship became an
inferno with fuel igniting and bombs exploding. 724 were killed and 265 were
wounded. Chet
survived and helped with the fires and later to get the listing ship back to Pearl Harbor. Not one to stand out in a crowd, but to be
humble, Chet was overlooked when the ribbons were passed out.
I didn’t know anything about the Franklin until I met Chet. Fact is, he didn’t
really bring it up until the last few years that I knew him. He told me the
story, and gave me books that were written about the ship and the people on it. This was a
watermark in his life that he needed to share. I listened. Chet said it became
important to him to talk because he didn't want people to forget. He said he
didn’t have many years left in him, and he feared that when he was gone, no one
would be left to remember...that bothered him.
A year before Chet passed away he was finally recognized
with a medal for his help during the attack and the trip back to Pearl Harbor.
And he died with my promise that I would not forget. I haven't.
