"THE ADVENTURES OF VIC SOCOTRA, PRIVATE DICK"
TODAY'S EPISODE: "ESCAPE AT GQ"
THEY WERE MARCHING US THROUGH THE BIG STEEL ROOM WITH AIRPLANES. The guy at the front of the line kept yelling, "Gangway! Gangwayl" at the top of his lungs. He said it with a rising inflection that made it a chant.
The only thing I knew was that I didn't like it.
I was wearing some baggy shorts, a white T-shirt, and a vacant look. I heard through the prison grapevine that they were going to P.T. the dog-squeeze out of us.
Whatever THAT meant. We were marching past a low-slung jet airplane - one of those modem supersonic jobs. Suddenly the loudspeakers overhead started to blare: "General Quarters! General Quarters!"
The line started to move faster. I wasn't a contender in the light-middleweight L.A, Golden Gloves of 1944 for nothing. I stepped quickly out of line and hid behind the landing gear of the jet. The line marched away without me, still chanting.
I was free! Now all I had to do was get uptown and find the Fat Man. I stepped out and tried to flag down one of the funny little square yellow taxis that were driving around. No one stopped for me. It looked like I was going to have to walk. I needed some new clothes, too.
I saw a guy in khaki pants and shirt strolling by. I walked up to him. "Say, Bub, you got a light?"
The guy looked at me blankly. "On the hangar deck?" he asked.
I clipped him on the jaw and he went down like a felled ox.
I stripped him of his khakis and put them on. I put him in my prison shorts. As I walked away, I looked down at my name tag. I was now "ENS Frank Dracman, VF-161."
Whovere that was.
I walked casually away. I passed a guy in denims and a badge.
"You might want to check out that guy in the shorts over there," I mentioned calmly.
"Thanks, Mr. Dracman."
I liked the sound of it. Things were starting to look up.
TOMORROW: "TERROR IN THE OFFICER CORPS".
DON'T MISS IT!