VOLPE
by Norval P. Caples  

There were about 50 of us transferred from the U.S.S. Henry A. Wiley one November day, 1945, and put aboard the victory ship, U.S.S. New Hanover in Sasebo, Japan, bound for Norfolk, Virginia, with brief stops in Pearl Harbor and the Panama Canal. From Norfolk, we'd go to the Navy separation center nearest our home address for processing and discharge.  
                         The large cargo ship was almost new, clean, and well built. There was plenty of space; everything seemed so roomy. The Wiley crewmen had bunks in one of the living compartments aboard but still didn't fill it to capacity. Most remarkable of all, this huge cargo ship did not pitch or roll, steaming the many thousands of miles while remaining as level as a massive pool table. We were told that the ship was carrying surrendered Japanese military equipment back to Army proving grounds in the U.S. for testing and evaluation. It seemed so out of place to be methodically preparing for the next war already in such a traditional manner, as if the atomic bomb did not exist.  
                        However, the cargo was stored below and excited little attention from crew members or sailors returning home to be discharged. The long idyllic trip would be hard to beat even today. Ordinary sailors benefited from this luxury cruise which was pure indulgence and leisure with free movies every night, ice cream sundaes available daily, excellent meals, and all the while favored by calm seas, balmy skies, and gentle breezes.  
                        We were given work assignments, and I was paired with a hash marked gunners mate who had transferred to the H.A. Wiley only a few weeks before his number came up for going home to be discharged. Our duties were to maintain some 20 and 40 millimeter guns that were mounted on this large cargo ship. It was a cinch. With the war ended, only routine servicing was required and not much of that. The guns, protected by their sturdy canvas covers, were far above the waterline and little affected by salt water. The still youthful, long timer knew the ropes and quickly established an effective routine that was as easy as pie, permitting many hours for just lying around in the sun. Soon, a small group of H.A. Wiley folk began congregating nearby and we'd fall into conversation, idling the hours away on this huge cargo ship that barely heaved or rolled at all.  
                        More and more I'd find myself talking with a big hulking shipmate named F.J. Volpe. This tough guy would seek me out and begin to ask questions about my uneventful life on a small Maryland farm. Once I became convinced that he wasn't asking merely to scoff, I gave him the whole 9 yards, artlessly relating my entire life history in the process of responding to his questions, happy that he showed interest and listened carefully.
                        Even juicing it up and lying as much as I dared, my story was still pretty dull. Why anyone would want to listen, I didn't know, but I'd struck a chord somewhere in this balding, lumbering giant of a man from the big city, who'd rubbed elbows with worldly, tough types all his life, and we began to bond.
                        Volpe never seemed to tire of hearing about life on our hardscrabble farm, and I realized that I'd been pouring things on a bit thick, glamorizing an uneventful, even dull, lifestyle. I then began describing a less fanciful side of rural life. No matter, Volpe ate it all up and would ask questions as I'd describe what I'd actually done and most likely would go back to doing on the farm. He'd turn away slightly and his eyes would appear to be focused on something, but surprisingly he'd still be listening. 
                        This guy with the gruff voice was especially interested in baby chicks; did we have them on our farm and how were they cared for? Puffed up more than a little by being asked, my vanity was unbounded. First of all, I told Volpe that only college people and city folk used the term "chicks"; real farmers and poultry men called them "peepies." A rooster for every 40 to 50 hens must be allowed to intermingle with the laying hens or the eggs would be infertile and not hatch. Talk about someone's eyes widening. There was more. Each spring the hens would begin to show motherly instincts (any real farmer or poultry man could recognize what was up), and 15 eggs identified by pencil tracings on the shell would then be placed under the hen as she sat on the nest contentedly clucking for 3 weeks, only getting up to eat and drink water and to stretch while giving her feathers a vigorous shake before resuming her place on the nest of eggs. In exactly 3 weeks to the day the baby chicks would all break out of their shells and begin to go "peep, peep, peep."  
                        What can I say? I now have a wife, middle aged kids, and grandkids, but I've never been listened to more intently that Volpe did that sunny day aboard the U.S.S. New Hanover nearly 50 years ago.
                        One more question from Volpe--why did we make pencil markings on the 15 eggs? Answer: because other hens would frequently jump into the nest when the mother hen was out for lunch, a drink of water, and a stretch. That was okay; the mother hen would just stand by impatiently tapping her foot and darting dirty looks in the trespasser's direction until she had !aid her egg and left, allowing the nest to be reclaimed. The egg gatherer would check daily and take up all unmarked eggs, leaving the 15 that the mama hen had started with. 
                        The memorable, once in a lifetime pleasure cruise ended in Norfolk, Virginia, some 40 odd days after its beginning. It was almost Christmas, 1945, and we all got messages off to our homes that we'd soon be there. (New Years' Day, 1946, for me.) The Norfolk, Virginia, operating base was a crowded, teeming mass of military folk awaiting transfer to the Navy processing center nearest their homes for discharge. Volpe and I were split up; he was put into a group of sailors going to a Brooklyn, New York, discharge point while I would go to Bainbridge, Maryland, where I'd started more than 2 !/1 years earlier.
                        I saw Volpe once more before we left for our respective destinations. We were some distance apart, but he yelled, "Hey, Caples, maybe we'll meet again sometime and you can tell me about the peeples.
N.P.C.'95