JOE PALERMO
by Norval P. Caples

The bow of the destroyer plows downward into a massive wave and disappears; the number one gun turret appears to defy gravity and floats on the turbulent sea. With a mighty convulsive tremor that can be felt throughout her length, the ship frees herself from the deep as cascades of salty spray pelt the watchful sailors at war in a powerful enemy's home waters.
                        Joe Palermo was a reserved, private person a few years older than most of us and not given to loud or boisterous behavior. Joe had been in the Navy for some years and had served on other ships, but he had never adopted the "old salt" costume and mannerisms that we'd come to expect from the guys who had "been there" when things were really tough and who were thus "a breed apart."
                        You could usually spot the old timers by their assured stride on the rolling deck, their heavy leather belts with grommeted holes worked into them, faded bell bottomed jeans with shoelaces in the back, and sharpened, polished hunting knives with ornate handles that they had crafted themselves and carried in a leather sheath also of their own design. Wearing shaggy sideburns, they were an aloof group, but you could talk to these guys and hear great sea stories. One of them was a close friend, but none of the old timers except Joe was in our watch group, and he never adopted "old sea dog" dress or mannerisms. Joe was "one of us."
                        By chance, I once happened upon a petty officer berating and cussing out Joe, steadily adding venom and force as onlookers gathered. The overall mood of the assembly seemed to favor the burly coxswain who picked up on the supportive attitude and advanced toward Joe with a belligerent "in your face" expression and fists clenched. Joe, slightly built and peace loving, did not flinch. Instead, quietly and without a hint of fear, spoke in an even, determined voice, "Those things you have said to me well, they just go double back to you."
                        The threatening coxswain stormed and sputtered back at Joe, but the groups' sympathy had switched. We could all feel it and all the fight went out of Joe's tormentor who became neither the first not the last person in the world to come out second best when matched up one-on-one with an opponent who had been underestimated.
                        Every unmarried sailor aboard claimed to have a sweetheart back home, but somehow Joe's girlfriend captured the interest of our group and in a manner of speaking, Joe's romance became our romance as well. I cannot recall ever seeing Charlotte's picture, but we all carried an image of her in our minds, a composite of the girl of all our dreams.
                        We decided to play a trick on Joe. We'd made up a letter from Charlotte. She'd met another and now was emotionally torn between the two and didn't really know her own mind but quite honestly put, she feared that this would be "goodbye, Joe." One of our number could write as neatly as a girl and composed a believable letter filled with references to herself, family, and Kankakee, Illinois, all such stuff as we'd learned from Joe, before getting the punch line. Faking the postmark and cancellation lines over the stamp was more difficult.  The whole job looked suspect and botched up. Nevertheless, we slipped it into the incoming mail and awaited the result. No reaction at all from Joe. Finally I had to ask. Yes, he'd heard from Charlotte, but the content of the letter just didn't sound like her and the envelope appeared to have been tampered with. Too shamed now to admit the hoax, we never again meddled or tried to pry information about Charlotte from Joe.
                        Joe Palermo, strapped into his 20 millimeter anti-aircraft gun had arguably the most hazardous battle location aboard the H.A. Wiley. Our best strategic position relative to enemy attack was to speed away, shooting back over our right shoulder and in this way bring almost all our guns to bear on whatever was after us. If the attack planes stayed up in the sky, all our guns could put up n blistering barrage, but many Japanese attackers came in low over the water aiming at the most prominent target, the bridge, just above Joe's battle station. With the Captain frantically maneuvering the ship to keep us at maximum firepower position, each Jap attacker seemed to be aiming straight for Joe's gun and for him personally. This meant that defensively, the 5-inch guns in the number two turret were firing almost horizontally, with their huge projectiles hurtling outward just a few feet over our heads, leaving whirling rings of gun powder in the air, visible to the naked eye, and madly rotating with a whirrr-whirrr-whirrr series of sounds. With our own 20-millimeter guns all going dada-dadda-dadda-dadda-dndda and the larger 40 millimeter guns going a-Boom a-Boom a-Boom close at hand, and the Japs wreaking what mayhem they could all the while, my own conscious mind could think of but one word to describe it all, prompted by one of Mom's religious books predicting the fiery end of the world-HOLOCAUST.
                        Two other major perils had to be faced at the same time all the noise and action was going on. What has been described here so far has become pretty familiar to all over the years, but I’ve never encountered any mention of two grave concerns shared by the seven guys on guns 21 and 23. First and foremost of all was our need to have enough cotton to stuff in our ears to protect us from the din and uproar as well as from the force of the concussion from our own 5-inch gun muzzles which tore the buttons off our foul weather coats and made our chests ache. The other danger was posed by ali those huge (2 feet long and weighing 15 pounds or more) empty shell casings which had been discarded from the number 2 gun mount to roll willy nilly about the deck and underfoot. a misstep (and who had time to look downward) could not only throw you down heavily but the shell casings could also propel one right over the side as quick as he could say “Jack Robinson”.
                        Joe Palermo still lives, in fine physical condition—“no pills”-and with his whimsical, self deprecating good humor as intact as a half century ago. He's retired now and living comfortably in his own home, gardening, and painting studio-quality pictures.
                        I don't ask, but I wonder if he ever, just for moment, misses our huddling on the cold, slippery and pitching deck in the black darkness, feeling despair but always prepared to leap into action and to make a difference.
N.P.C.'94