The Padre ... Craig Ruhl

It was 1969, and I was a newly minted Disbursing Clerk 2nd Class. On an early fall Sunday in Charleston, South Carolina, my shipmate, Petty Officer 2nd Class Dietz, and I were headed off the USS Everglades (AD24) for some quality time in town. There isn’t anything much more satisfying to a young sailor than a 12-hour shore liberty and the freedom to escape the daily routine of sea duty, even if for just a few hours. Your imagination would be correct if you suspect we envisioned a period of eating and drinking, as such was the life of most single enlisted men loose on the town. We thought we might include a movie or an hour or two at the underground casino playing stud poker and blackjack. Excitement was high as my buddy and I cleared the quarterdeck gangway and started making our way up the long dock to catch the shuttle into town.

As we reached the canopied pickup/drop off area for the shuttle, we noticed another shipmate waving for us to join him. It was Petty Officer 1st Class Winston, who we all called The Padre. The Padre was a career sailor, a Personnelman, who also performed the duties of Career Counselor for the ship. As his nickname might imply, he had been a non-ordained pastor of a small church in his hometown in the backwoods of Georgia before joining the Navy. He helped the ship’s Chaplain with Sunday shipside services and pastoral duties, such as grief and marriage counseling. Jovial and well-liked by the crew, The Padre was also a no-nonsense Christian, and he liked to share his faith with all he met. After we all shook hands, the three of us sat down to wait for transportation to downtown Charleston.

The Padre quickly asked us what our plans for the day were. Dietz and I looked at each other and stuttered in unison, “We’ll probably just grab lunch and walk around town for a while.” I added, “Maybe we can see what is playing at the movie theater and check if there is a double feature.” Neither of us wanted to mention drinking, gambling, or carousing to The Padre. He usually had a quick comment or opinion to offer on those subjects.

Dietz turned the tables by asking The Padre where he was headed, hoping he wouldn’t ask to tag along with us.

“I have an invitation to a fall festival being held at the First Methodist Church in downtown. When I can, I help there as an assistant pastor. A family in their congregation owns some farm property not far away, and they offered to host the shindig.” He smiled at us and winked. “Hey, y’all should come along with me. I know that the church buses have plenty of room, and they told me to invite other sailors to come. They will have lots of good food, country music, and games. There is even going to be a hayride and a bonfire.”

I stared at the ground, not wanting to make eye contact, trying to let Dietz open the response. I didn’t know how we were going to get out of this gracefully. A day with church people didn’t sound like what I was up for. The shock surely registered on my face when Dietz answered, “Will there be any single ladies there?” Wow! I wasn’t expecting that, but it didn’t faze The Padre, not one bit.

“Well, yes, there happen to be quite a few pretty young ladies who attend the church, and I am sure many if not most will be at the festival,” The Padre answered without blinking an eye. “But I am going to warn you two—best behavior or I will have your hides and I mean it!”

Dietz and I exchanged serious looks and kind of came to the same conclusion at the same time. Free food, ladies, music, ladies, games, fun, and of course, there would be ladies. We nodded agreement in perfect unison. I ventured, “Okay, Padre, we’re in and we’ll behave—we promise.

Dietz asked, “Do we have to go to a church service first? I’m not much of a church person except at Christmas, Easter, and maybe a wedding or funeral.”

“Glad you brought that up,” The Padre answered. “There will be an informal service at the farm to kick the day off, with a brief sermon, followed by some sharing of prayer requests and praise reports by the congregation. Right afterward, they’ll start the festival.”

I offered, “Well, my family belongs to the Methodist church back home, and I was active in the youth group there growing up.”

The Padre assured us, “Y’all will fit in nicely and I think y’all will enjoy the day. We’ll be back aboard the ship well before our liberty ends.”

Being fall, the three of us were dressed in the prescribed dress blue wool uniforms with white hats jauntily tilted, much like the character who is pictured on a Cracker Jack box. They did not permit us to keep civilian clothes on board the ship and we didn’t keep a locker for that purpose in town, as some sailors did. We felt would stick out like sore thumbs, but silently hoped the females would take a liking to men in uniform.

The shuttle to the church in town took about 30 minutes. Once there, The Pastor introduced us to the festival committee, and they welcomed us with handshakes and hugs. The sizeable crowd boarded several church buses and numerous station wagons for the next 30-minute drive to the farm.

We had a grand time, ate way too much food, drank gallons of sweet tea and apple cider. There were two great bluegrass bands that took turns playing on the farm loading dock. The church even had a square dance caller, and many couples took to the dancing platform for a song or two. Games included horseshoes, bean bag toss (now called corn hole), bobbing for apples in a water tank, and the obligatory foot races. By the time we loaded back onto the buses to return to town, we were exhausted, stuffed, and very glad we had followed The Padre to church.

Oh, you probably wonder how we did with the ladies. I’ll just say that my liberty plans from then on included going to church in town whenever I had a Sunday liberty and a certain young lady and I saw many movies at the local theater during the remaining 12 months I was on active duty.