“What does any of that have to do with cars, Dad?”

Sitting in his wheel chair, thoughtfully resting his head on his hand, Earl tried to answer his son.

There were little red zeros on the ship’s upper deck that Earl remembered, a tally of Japanese targets that were successful hits.  Big Bill Stafford stood in front of the red zeros and had his picture taken there, sleeves rolled up, chest out, shirt open: the very image of buff manhood. Earl remembered the moment the photo was snapped, the ensign who took the photo, the thumbs up, and broad smile. He also remembered four days later, when the magazine hold exploded and a piece of metal from the ship’s hull took off Big Bill Stafford’s head.

Earl was on top deck when the bomb hit, a dull jar and shake, that, in theory, could have been a heavy wave, like the kind they had suffered when the typhoon struck the ship tossing it like a toy. Earl remembered the court martial in the middle of the typhoon where the presiding commanding officer kept sliding out of the proceedings and then back in again. And how the metal meal trays kept sliding back in forth in the mess hall as the ocean churned green outside, belting them with the waves. Big Bill Stafford had turned green himself, matching the color of the sea.

When he died everyone was sad. Even the octopus was sad. Earl had a memory of Big Bill on Eniwetok Isle playing with a twenty inch octopus in the lagoon. It was the funniest damned thing, really. Big Bill could take on anybody on the ship, had in fact duked down a fellow named Monster Mick because of his size, but Bill showed him how size alone didn’t make a fighter. You needed tactical skills too, knowing when and where to punch. Monster didn’t stand a chance. Big Bill broke his nose for starters and once that happened Monster was swinging blindly and raging with pain. Quartermaster finally stopped the fight because of the spewing blood, declaring Big Bill the winner and hustled Monster Mick to the infirmary to patch up his face.

But with the octopus, Big Bill finally met his match. The sky was crazy blue that day. Everyone knew the color of the sky because they were always looking for the Japs, but Eniwetok was declared safe so Big Bill and the others got some beers and ice and loaded up an old metal wash tub. It was his idea to unload the wash tub and try to scoop up an octopus in the knee deep water, which was so clear you could see down for fifty feet. So they got the octopus in there and Big Bill said it wasn’t fair that we were drinking all the beer and not letting the octopus have any.

Truth is, it wasn’t very good beer anyhow, so someone poured the bottom of their beer into the washtub with the octopus. Soon enough they were all toasting the octopus and giving it drinks.

Big Bill was laying there by the wash tub drunk as a skunk when the octopus just decided to latch onto him, dropping his tentacled arm onto his forehead and worked its way along his beet red nose, until Big Bill woke up and tried to pull the arm off. Guess the octopus was drunk, too, and kind of took a liking to Big Bill. He just clung onto his nose and forehead and pulled himself out of the washtub onto Big Bill’s face. You have never heard such a howl. Big Bill had a knife on his belt but he knew he couldn’t use it without stabbing his own face, so he pulled on the octopus arm. But the harder he pulled the more persistent the octopus stuck getting more comfortable on his cheeks and mouth.

Then, no one knows why, least of all Big Bill, the octopus wasn’t interested any longer. Decided to head back to the beer rich wash tub. Maybe wanted another drink.

Big Bill always said there was a lesson to glean from his suffering that day, never give an octopus cheap beer. That was the lesson, he said. That’s why Earl loved Big Bill.

And has always tried to live by those words.

**

Yes, Earl knew the color of the sky on the day Big Bill was bombed.   Yes, they all knew the color of the sky as the torpedo heavy Bettys came crawling out of the clouds.  Big Bill lit them up with anti-aircraft fire, but they were kamikaze crazy so it wasn’t enough to just kill them, you had to blow them out of the sky, see?

Yes, Earl took it personally. Getting shot at is a deeply personal experience. That’s why he still won’t buy a Japanese car. He knows you think they are a good deal and will last forever, but he can’t see it. When they sank his ship, he spent five hours in the drink and he should now buy one of their automobiles? Some things matter more than money, son. Understand?

Earl thought all of this, but he actually did not say a word.

In the middle of the Marianas, 5 clicks outside of Leyte Gulf, Big Bill Stafford lost the top of his head. Isn‘t that a good enough reason? Isn’t it?

He didn’t say any of this, either.

Only shook his head. Leaning forward to answer, he mumbled softly that he still preferred Fords.

Jack R. Johnson is a monthly columnist for North of the James Magazine in Richmond, Virginia; an editor of The Alliance for Progressive Virginia blog and a contributor to Style Magazine. His published works include short stories, articles and the novel, An Animal's Guide to Earthly Salvation. His latest novel, In Black and White, is scheduled to be published by Propertius Press in 2022.