I arrived at Naval Officer Candidate School shortly after graduation from Yale. My right leg was still in a cast, the result of falling from a parapet during a party celebrating the end of final exams. While at OCS, I celebrated my twenty-first birthday, and was then assigned to a tiny coastal minesweeper based in Charleston, South Carolina. Thus far, I had paid little attention to managing my own life; certainly I had no experience that could prepare me to manage an Engineering Department of 12 men, mostly from Appalachia and the Ozarks. Several of them were older than I, but all depended on me to make their lives productive, or at least bearable.

One day, as I was going over some engineering reports at my desk, I looked up to find Othel Gilmore standing in the doorway, hat in hand. Gilmore was an engineman striker, a seaman who hoped to make Engineman Third Class. This required passing an examination after an apprenticeship that normally lasted three to nine months, but Gilmore had been an engineman striker for four years. He was a good man, about 25 years old, and very reliable, if rather stolid. It didn’t seem right that he should have the same status as the newest striker, so we designated him a Senior Striker, thus creating a new rank in the US Navy.

Ordinarily, Gilmore had a totally blank face, surmounted by close-cropped dusty hair. When he understood a joke, he grinned broadly, revealing three missing teeth and a gold cap. Today, however, he wore a deep frown.

"Can I talk to you, Mr. Berman? I got a problem you might help me with." 

"Sure," I replied, frankly rather uncomfortable. I indicated that he should sit on my bunk, as my stateroom had only one chair. Enlisted men’s problems tended to come in surprise packages, and the surprise was seldom a welcome one. . Besides, I was four years younger than Gilbert, and felt awkward about giving him advice on anything. They had told us in Officer Candidate School that we would be like father figures to our men, figures of authority and wisdom, but one quickly forgot such an odd notion.

It soon became apparent that this was a family problem. I knew that Gilmore had a wife and two children, and that his wife lived at home with her mother. I had never questioned that, though I should have; These kinds of things can seriously affect a man’s performance. He drew a letter from his hat, wiped his hands on his greasy dungarees, and handed me a photo. A strikingly beautiful young woman looked out at me, with jet black hair and a trim figure. On each knee she held a child, a boy and a girl, both equally charming and nicely dressed. "That’s my wife, Zahndra," Gilmore explained, "and my daughter, Chrysella, and my son, Othel, Jr." Where, I wondered, did these mountain boys come up with such names? I would never dare to name a child Zahndra or Chrysella, much less Othel. While I was staring at this model family, Gilmore went on with his tale.

"My wife’s mother never approved of her marrying me," he related. "She gave Zahndra the idea of continuing to live at home," in Ozark, Arkansas. He showed me the letter, which was from his sister, also a resident of Ozark. The letter was written in a bold, round hand by the town amanuensis – apparently Gilmore’s sister was illiterate, along with many other townsfolk. It related that another sailor, one his mother-in-law did approve of, had been staying over at her house, nesting with Zahndra. His sister thought it was a crime, them being seen all around town together, with the kids in tow.

Matters grew worse. "I just got a phone call from my sister," Gilmore said. "Him and my wife are moving to Norfolk, where he’s based, and they’ve rented Navy housing using my housing allowance." I swallowed hard and continued to stare at the photo, mostly because I didn’t want to see the question in Gilmore’s eyes. "What would you do, Mr. Berman?"

I reflected that I didn’t have the slightest idea what I would do, but it would surely be no prescription for this sailor from an alien culture, with a problem that had simply never occurred to me, or anyone I knew. Gilmore misunderstood my silence to indicate a need for fuller explanation. "It ain’t like I don’t have patience, Mr. Berman," he informed me, "But the last time she done this I told her if she did it again I was going to get mad!"

That settled the matter for me. I suddenly knew the answer to Othel Gilmore’s question, just as clearly as if I had read it in Navy Regulations. "Gilmore," I said, "What I would do is, next time I had the quarterdeck watch, and I strapped on that .45 Colt pistol, I would leave this ship and head for Norfolk. On arrival, I would shoot that son of a bitch right where his brains are, and then I would put a round in his head. But we’re sailing for Guantanamo next week, and I need you on board. So that’s not what you’re going to do. You are relieved of all quarterdeck watches, you are restricted to the ship until we leave port, and I will help you prepare the necessary papers to get your friend arrested for falsely obtaining your housing allowance. When we return from Gitmo, I will give you a week’s leave to go home, pack your wife and kids, and move them into enlisted housing here in Charleston. That is a direct order, and if you fail in it I’ll have you thrown in the brig. Is all that clear?"

It occurred to me briefly that I had no right to issue such an order.

Gilmore took a deep breath, as he contemplated what I had said. Reaching forward, he took back the letter and stared at the photo. Slowly, his missing front teeth emerged; He stood up, snapped out "Yes, sir," and strode out of the stateroom. And one Sunday afternoon shortly after we returned from Cuba, Gilmore brought his family on board to introduce them.