It began as a fairly innocent adventure, but as sometimes happens things didn’t exactly end as something to write home to mother about. It started when a young Navy aircraft maintenance man bought an older model Chevrolet from a civilian worker on the Naval Air Station at Argentia, Newfoundland. His name was Mitchell, but that doesn’t really matter. The outcome would have been the same had he been named Smith, Jones, or Johnson.
Anyway, one quarter of VP-8, a U S Navy Patrol Squadron, was on deployment at Argentia during the first half of 1958. To put it mildly there was nothing to do on this barren piece of land on a peninsula attached to another peninsula. There were precious few villages anywhere nearby, and no way to get to them had there been anything to do once anyone got there. So when Mitch got the chance to buy the aged Chevy he jumped on it.
He didn’t know how to get there, but he knew that there was a place named St. Johns out there somewhere, and the first Saturday evening he owned the car he, and three buddies, headed out to find it. I only know from hearsay what happened next, and most of it was unprintable.
It seems they ultimately did find their way to St. Johns. Once there they visited some places where they purchased a few small glasses of brew. In one of these establishments they by happenchance met some of the fine local young ladies. Many hours later Mitch headed back to Argentia with his four friends. Yes, the number had increased by one as one of the young ladies had agreed to travel with them in hopes of making some extra cash during a visit to the Base.
They were only a few miles from the Base when the ancient Chevy developed a cough and died beside the road. The five occupants set out to continue the journey on foot. After the lengthy partying the night before this apparently was not an easy task, but they persevered and ultimately arrived back at one of the two barracks during the middle of Sunday afternoon.
The young lady promptly found an unoccupied bottom bunk where she immediately started a business. I believe she was making money as a model as there was a fairly long line waiting to visit her, and many, if not all of them, had cameras. The business was short lived as she was asked to leave the premises by some killjoy officer. I’ve no idea how that was accomplished.
The following day, a Monday, Mitchell got permission to take the day off from his normal duties in order to recover his car. He had a friend with him that it was said could fix any car blindfolded, no matter what was wrong with it. When the two of them arrived at the old Chevy Mitch could hardly believe his eyes. In less than a day it had been stripped of all parts that conceivable could be removed by a professional crew if they had a week to do it in. Nothing was left but the shell, minus wheels, doors, the engine, radiator, and anything else not welded on.
Once more they plodded toward the Base, and ultimately returned to the barracks. That’s about the end of the tale, except for the 15 to 20 sailors that somehow developed an STD.
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