Chapter Fifteen: Tame the Bulldog

 "Oh, Bill, there you are. Welcome back to the Doolittle Raid Exhibit." Cosgrove faces me first and then his crew of eight people.

 "Thanks," I say, looking from the B-25 to the Captain's Tour. "I'm sorry I'm late. I just..."

 "I know," Cosgrove finishes. "Temple told me."

 Of course. I had spent the last forty-five minutes near the Corsair and the Carrier Aviation Memorial, even though I told myself I wouldn't return. I assume Temple let it slip that I found Ted—well, what's left of him. Returning to the Doolittle Raid Exhibit still provokes me, but I feel I can contain my emotions better now because I watched Thirty Seconds Over Tokyo and saw Ted's name.

 Cosgrove smiles at his group and gestures at me. "This is William Beckington, y'all."

 "Y'all". That's a Southern term.

 "He's a Korean War veteran who flew Corsairs off the Valley Forge," Cosgrove continues, "and a new Volunteer. Let's make him feel welcome."

 I don't know why I'm so shy all of a sudden. Nevertheless, I join the group and keep myself calm during Cosgrove's lecture by inhaling and exhaling—even though my weak knees shake. At least I don't call out my Ted this time when Cosgrove mentions Ted Lawson.

 Cosgrove appears surprised because he gives me a long stare after he finishes Ted's story.

 I even approach him before we travel below deck and ask, "I have a question, Cosgrove. Hypothetically"—I point at the picture of Ted Lawson's crew on the wall—"If someone's plane went down almost seventy-one years ago in a blizzard, and the pilot was declared Missing in Action, could that pilot still be alive?"

 Cosgrove crosses his arms. "Where'd this come from, Bill? I would say it's rare but possible. He'd be as old as you, though—no offense."

 "None taken," I say. "I know I'm old." Ted's name on the Carrier Aviation Memorial enters my head again. If, by any chance, he did survive, how come he never reached out to me again? Ted constantly communicated with me during our childhood and service. He can't be alive, but like Temple said, it does look like his death was never confirmed.

 "Hmm." I scratch my chin but soon realize I'm falling behind the tour group, so I hustle to join them at the hatch and ladder for Tour 1 beside the snack bar. I let the younger folks go first and then carefully step down the ladder into Yorktown's chapel. Pictures of chaplains and services, including one on the Hangar Bay, decorate the small church's walls.

 I recognize a familiar melody playing at the altar, "Eternal Father", the Navy Hymn, and sit with the tour group on the wooden pews.

 Eternal Father, strong to save, I hum with the melody. Whose arm hath bound the restless wave... Eternal Father, grant, we pray, to all Marines, both night and day... Be with them always in the air, in darkening storms or sunlight fair.

 I'm surprised I still know the lyrics. Then again, Ted and I visited the chapel daily during our service and sang the song together. It was our method of confirming that we would both survive the war. Well, the Navy had other plans.

 Once the tour group leaves, I stay behind for a few minutes and approach the altar, putting my hands together. I listen to the hymn a little longer and clutch one of the vases of plastic flowers. "Ted, di-did you survive?" I whisper. Why am I asking this?

 "Eternal Father, strong to save. Whose arm hath bound the restless wave... Eternal Father, grant, we pray, to all Marines, both night and day... Be with them always in the air, in darkening storms or sunlight fair," I repeat aloud before I leave the chapel and enter Yorktown's library. Cases protect the bookshelves and sitting area and bring back memories of my go-to place on Valley Forge. I was away from everything in the library—the guns, death, etc.—and entered my little world of books and chess, occasionally with Ted when he visited me like the brother he was... and where he first hinted that he was queer. I sometimes still can't believe it's been almost seventy-one years.

 I can't spend too much time in the library because I've fallen behind the tour group again, but I hope to return to it soon.

 The next few stops on the Bulldog Tour include the Torpedo Workshop and the berthing section. I smile a little in the Torpedo Workshop when Cosgrove explains, "We had a Yorktown veteran visit us one day, and he said he worked in this Torpedo Workshop."

 I swear, veterans are courageous when they speak about their war experiences, especially those who were in combat. I've never enjoyed discussing my experience, partly because I can't find comfort without Ted. I could never find closure, but then I saw his name on that memorial.

 While I hate to admit it, I believe volunteering here is helping, and now I regret not volunteering on aircraft carriers sooner. For my next shift, I will bring flowers to place beside Ted's name and a magnet.

 We're now in the berthing area that the Volunteer Lounge is just off of. Like the rest of the ship, I haven't thoroughly studied it until now.

 I cut across the room to the head hidden behind the racks and peek inside. Oh, man, the lack of privacy is nostalgic, too. There wasn't a moment where I didn't feel awkward in a head full of sweaty guys who didn't have a door before their toilets. I sometimes think I was too much of a good boy during my service.

 These lockers behind and before the racks are nostalgic, too. Ted and I made a deal that we would switch off between us for storing Willed at night.

 "As you can see," Cosgrove explains once the tour group is together again, "not much privacy, right?"

 "None," a woman states.

 Cosgrove briefly overviews the berthing section for the next few minutes. He points at a secondary steering station and says, "This is a secondary steering station in case the power goes out in the ship." He sets his hand on top of a box containing a sound-powered phone. "The phone here works like two cups and a string."

 A few people chuckle, but I'm too shy to join them.

 Cosgrove lifts his hand. "We're next going to climb this ladder and check out the galley." He brings back his hand but accidentally hits Temple, who appears out of nowhere behind him.

 "Ow!" he yelps, reaching for his nose.

 At once, Cosgrove breaks character and reaches for him. "Oh, my gosh! I'm so sorry!"

 I know I shouldn't laugh at seeing my boss get hit, but I can't help myself. Luckily, I hide my giggles behind my palms.

 "No, no." Temple grips Cosgrove's shoulder. "It's okay, Cosgrove. I should've said something."

 Cosgrove reddens from his heels up and moves aside to let Temple through.

 "Bill." Temple waves. "Hey. I hate to be the party pooper, but may I speak with you in the lounge?"

 Shit. He's going to fire me. I gulp and push through the tour group, joining Temple.

 "Thanks, Cosgrove," Temple says. "I'm sorry, but I must steal him for a few minutes."

 Shit.

 "No problem, Temple," Cosgrove states, still slightly embarrassed. "We'll get him that full tour one day."

 I hope so, but Temple will likely fire me once we enter that lounge. Before I know it, he shuts the hatch behind me and pats the round table. "Sit here, Bill."

 I-I don't like that tone, but I obey and sit.

 Temple rummages around his desk for a bit before grabbing a pen and the notebook I gave him earlier. It isn't long before he sits across from me and flips through my notes. There's an awkward silence between us, and then Temple inhales. He shuts the notebook and places his arms on top of it. When he eventually speaks, his voice is hollow. "My daughter died on this ship, Bill."

 Wait, what? Did I hear him right? My heart snaps again.

 "It was winter," Temple adds, "and she tripped on the stern, hitting her head. She was dazed and thought the ship's edge was the way back inside. Fell into the Cooper River and died instantly with the cold."

 "Oh, my God," I say aloud.

 "I swore to myself that I would never return here after that happened," Temple continues. "But... I wrote down what I felt for several weeks. And well, here I am." He clears his throat. "I'm telling you this story because what you wrote in this notebook has helped you tremendously today. You would have never given Tallulah that picture or found Ted's name if you didn't. Therefore, I believe you should make writing your Coping Method while you volunteer here. Writing is how you'll tame the bulldog."

 "Temple, I-I'm so sorry," I say.

 "Don't be," he returns. "I don't need pity; I just want you to be happy. My Volunteers are my top priority. You need to let go of that Navy myth to remain emotionless. It's affecting your performance."

 "Are-Are you firing me?" I nervously question.

 "Fire? Oh, hell no!" A small smile overtakes Temple's solemn face. "I would never fire a Volunteer who proves that with a little work, we can help him look past a traumatizing memory and PTSD. I did it with my daughter, so I know it's possible. Here." Temple pushes my notebook to me. "The tour group shouldn't be too far ahead if you want to keep tagging along, but something tells me you'd rather visit that Carrier Aviation Memorial again."

 I swear this man was a therapist at one point. I still can't believe he shared that story about his daughter. That answers the question of why Officer Nero patrols the stern.

 Temple stands and approaches his desk, dragging a box from under it. He opens the flaps and pulls out a dollar-store bouquet. The one he holds has a mix of pink, purple, and yellow flowers.

 Temple returns to me and says, "Take these, Bill, and this magnet." He hands me a magnet next. "I keep my daughter's picture on my desk and spread a different bouquet weekly. It's also helped me bounce back."

 I rise from my chair and shake Temple's hand. "Thank you, Temple. You're a good man. I'm sorry again." From here, I leave the lounge and head back to the Hangar Bay. I hug the bouquet and stumble to the Carrier Aviation Memorial, approaching the Valley Forge one. I study it and find Ted's name, which sends a shiver down my spine, but I calm myself.

 A few tears form in my eyes while I take the magnet and pin the flowers beside my Roosevelt. I adjust them to ensure I can still see his name. Afterward, I back up and put my hands together in prayer.

 "Eternal Father, strong to save," I sing. "Whose arm hath bound the restless wave. Who bidd'st the mighty ocean deep. Its own appointed limits keep. O hear us when we cry to thee. For those in peril on the sea." My tears well up, but I don't hold back this time and let them fall. I need to let go of that Navy myth, like Temple said. I can't fear my grief; I need to embrace it, and I do.

 I place my palms on the memorial and rest my cheek on Ted's name. "I miss you every day, Roosevelt," I whisper. I likely look strange to the guests, but I have to give my friend one last hug. I may try what Temple told me downstairs about switching out flowers once a week on the loved one's memorial. Hearing that he stayed after his daughter's death tells me how much work I have before me and the naked truth.

 Temple is the bravest one on this ship, not me.