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NAVY BLUES
The legal drinking age (beer and wine only) in Washington DC was 18. In New York you could get hard liquor at 18 but since I just drank beer, it didn't matter. The main ID for a guy back then was a draft card. You got it, whether you wanted it or not, when you turned 18. It was the law that you resistered with the Selective Service office by your eighteenth birthday. Of course we called it the draft board and as June 26, 1961 approached I began thinking about the military. Uniforms? Guns? Taking orders? Man, I was in for a world of trouble. I remember meeting at the draft board on Washington Street in Alexandria. It was early in the morning. The sun had not fully risen and there was a chill in the air. We boarded buses and were taken someplace where we spent the entire day. It might have been close by at Ft. Meyer or Ft. Belvoir or it might have been a southern Virginia base. I don't remember. I knew a lot of guys on the bus. When we got there, we were lined up alphabetically. A guy named Stuart was in front of me. I remembered him from high school. We never hung out except when they lined us up alphabetically. The first thing he said to me was that his mom worked for Selective Service in the Alexandria office. Now he was my lifelong buddy. As much as I wanted to fail the draft, I had to be 1A to my pals. I feared three things: 1.) failing the physical tests (I was a lazy out of shape teenager - no change); 2.) Embarrassing myself in front of all these guys (pee stain on the skivvies, athlete's foot, etc.); and 3.) the dreaded blood test. I cannot remember ever not being afraid of needles. I used to get out a magnet to look for hidden pins when I would buy a new shirt. This would be the second time I had my blood drawn (that I remember). The first was a few weeks before the physical. I knew that if I had any chance of failing the draft physical, I needed to know how good my health was. I went to a doctor recommended by a friend. If I decided to do a scam on the draft board, I didn't want my family doctor involved. I got to the doctor's office and hid my fear and trepidation by oozing the Tashman charm with the receptionist. It worked, I would not be forgotten in this office. The nurse, an "older woman", called my name and I followed her back to a room filled with doctor stuff. Thinking back she was probably about 25, blond and Scandanavian. Out of my league, but she succumbed too and thought I was the best patient ever. At least until she got out the needle. A cold sweat is the initial feeling. My forehead is moist, yet I feel a chill. My stomach feels like I just drank "refrigerator science project" milk. I am not sure I can take another breath. "Olga" tied the tourniquet to my upper left arm and chatted away, like we had been dating for years. I am sure I managed a crooked smile, trying to keep up appearances. When she penetrated the skin, I could feel myself floating away. First, she expressed how hard it was to find a vein. Her voice began to fade. In the background, I heard my "Florence Nightengale" call my name repeatedly. It all sounded like she was talking theough a megaphone. "Gary!", "Gary!", "Are you OK? What's the matter? Somebody help me. I need help in here." She grabbed me by my shoulders and prevented me from falling foward. Another nurse came in with smelling salts. I remember nothing else. I slinked out of the office when they finished with me. It took a lot of courage, but about a week later I went back to the office. I remember sitting in my car after turning off the ignition. I had some cockamamie story planned which was forgotten as soon as I opened the door. The pretty receptionist, no longer the girl of my dreams, but a chick who knew too much about me, looked up and when she saw me she looked terrified. "Oh Gary, Oh Gary" she said over and over. "What? What? Whats the matter?" I inquired. "I can't tell you" she replied as she called for the nurse. I usually didn't like uniforms, but she looked terrific. She took me by the hand with a sad, sad look on her face. We walked to the back and she kept saying "Gary, I am so sorry, I am so very sorry. I messed up your smear." I had hoped something would be wrong enough with me so I could stay out of the army. I didn't want it to be so serious that my "smear" was messed up. "Is it fatal?" I thought to myself. "What will mother think? Will it be painful? Is it contagious?" After putting her hand on my cheek, she said apologetically, "I messed up your smear and will need to draw more blood." Phew. I figured out that a smear was not a disease. Oh no, not another blood draw. "We only have one more test and I just need a little blood, maybe I could prick your finger. She got a razor, cut my fingertip, smeared some blood on a glass plate and proclaimed a happy day. She went off to test my smear while the doctor gave me the news. I am slightly anemic but everything else is OK. He gave me some powder which I had to mix with milk and drink every day. I never went back to that doctor. I wonder, if I had gone back, if I would have started a relationship with either of the ladies. This was the only time I had shown any vulnerability and as a result I felt an intimacy with each of them which scared me no doubt. No new girlfriend. Too healthy to avoid the army. Things were getting bleak. We spent most of the day of the physical in our underwear. I remember when a new article of clothing was included in the wash, I would end up with pink, or baby blue underwear. I was grateful to mom that this wasn't one of those times. Since I have been wearing tie-dyed skivvies for the past 20 years, spending the day in my underwear is a fashion statement. Everything was done as an assembly line. Whatever we were doing, Stuart went before me and someone named Thomas followed me. "Pull your pants down, turn around, bend over" was heard, followed by a groan and sounds I don't want to talk about anymore. The coughing drill was next. Then they lined us up in this long corridor. As we approached the activity we were queued up for, I realized that this was it. I did not want to faint in front of all these guys. I would never hear the end of it. The long hallway was painted grey. Dull grey walls, shiny grey doors, thick grey windows above the doors, a grey ceiling and a charcoal grey floor. Lined up against one wall in bleached white skivvy shorts and tee shirts were a bunch of pasty white guys (segregation was still the rule in the capitol of the confederacy). In the doorway at the end of the line stood a doctor in a white coat and an aide in a light green coat. The aide would wrap a tourniquet on your arm, step aside and the doctor would use a hypodermic needle to extract the bright red fluid. When a I was about fourth in the queue, I could see inside the room where there was a second aide, with trays of blood samples. I began feeling chills. I felt persperation on my upper lip and forehead. The next guy in got to the door and handed the him the paperwork (which we were all carrying), the doctor handed the folder back, grabbed the needle and then helped catch the guy as he fainted. This made the contents of my stomach begin to gurgle as they carried him into the room. Stuart sailed thorough, giving me little time to recover. It was my turn now. The tourniquet hurt enough to make me forget about the needle. Or so I thought. The doctor was mad and stuck me a second time. He could see I was about to go and told them to take me back to lie down. I walked in on my own. Both beds were taken by guys in worse shape than me. A cot was occupied by the guy in front of me, puking his guts out. They sat me down next to the table with all the blood samples. They were all red. But no two looked the same. Every hue of red imaginable. The aide in charge of the samples, an African-American kid who I learned was going to med school, looked at me with some concern. We talked while he did his drudgery. He could tell my discomfort by the way I would divert my eyes each time he added a sample to the batch. "Oh hell, he's so bad, maybe I can do it" the guy said as he grabbed a clean needle. Somehow, I wasn't scared. He put the tourniquet on, filed another sample and got my paperwork. He then grabbed my arm, took the blood with no reaction from me at all. We shared a "better than the doctor" grin. I moved on to the next test - psychological evaluation. It was always a part of my thinking of the future. Was I going to get drafted? Should I join up to beet the draft? I got a call from Stuart that we were up for draft notices in August. With four months to go, armed with the knowledge that I was going to get drafted, I began researching alternatives. 1964 was a good year to look. They had a lot of new programs used to induce people into the service with technical skills or at least an aptitude in those disciplines needed for the modernized militay. I took aptitude tests for the Navy, Air Force and Coast Guard Reserves. I was living in Alexandia with my roommate David Council. He had completed his active duty and was going to meetings at the Naval Reserve Center. He arranged for my taking the tests for the Navy Reserve. I got the highest score ever recorded. They wanted me bad. I also nailed the Air Force and Coast Guard tests. They had problems with bringing me onboard because their quotas were already full for the programs I was interested in. I could have joined for a longer period or with fewer perks but declined for the Navy offer. It was like telemarketing. I got calls from ex-classmates who were part of the Reserve unit. I got calls from my Representative (Broyhill was his name, I believe). I got invited to the Commander's house for a barbeque. I was seduced by the Commander's daughter. They beat me down and I said OK. "How about this afternoon?" said the Chief (Petty Officer). I delayed for a week. I had been driving on a revoked license for a while and used that as my excuse as to why I couldn't come down and get sworn in. He offered to come pick me up. Being the weaker of the two, I said OK. It seemed that before I hung up he was at my door. A better friend, I never had. It would be good to have such a good friend once I was in the Reserves. I signed all the papers, talked to a Warrant Officer to make sure I understood the terms, and took my oath. After he shook my hand, the CPO, my new best friend, walked out of the room saying "Adios, maybe I'll see you around." After the door shut behind him, I inquired as to how I was going to get home. "There are bus schedules posted at the main entrance" was the reply. And so begins the weirdest of all the weird trips I have taken. My deal with the Navy was to attend meetings, once a week for four years, with two weeks of active duty each year and then two years of active duty. The first two years of meetings would be like attending school. In year three, when I went on active duty I would be an Electronics Technician. It sounds good even today. Also, in the first year, I would have to attend boot camp for two weeks. That too seemed doable, instead of the 8 to 9 week ordeal of regular service. On the first Wednesday, I showed up at the Reserve Center, on time and ready to learn. Well, it turns out I knew about half the guys from high school. They had completed their two years and returned to the Reserve Center for their last two years as instructors. They all told me not to worry. They offered to cover for me if I had something better to do on Wednesday night. I didn't go back for three months. One of the problems about not attending the meetings is I was not prepared to go to boot camp. I visited the base and picked up my uniforms a week before I left. I was never measured for the uniform - they just guessed. So I was given the uniform and went home to try it on. If I was about a foot taller and weighed another 100 pounds, it might have fit. I knew of a tailor near my house, so I took it to him. He had never done a Seaman's uniform. He did what he could so at least I could wear the uniform. As a Seamen Recruit (my rank), I had a single stripe which went on my sleeve. The stripe comes in the form of a patch which must be sewn on. I left this for the tailor also. I assumed he did it OK. It looked OK to me. Along with my uniform, I got my travel instructions. A roundtrip flight from Washington to Chicago, a bus from O'Hare to the train station, a train to the Great Lakes Naval Training Center where we walked to our barracks. In 1964, Washington National Airport was not big enough to accomodate jets. Dulles had not yet been built, so the closest airport where one could catch a jet plane was Friendship International Airport (now called Baltimore-Washington International Airport - that should say something about what IS wrong with the planet). I decided to take advantage of the situation and booked a jet to Chicago. This meant a shuttle from National to Friendship and a jet to O'Hare. The only problem was that the jet was not synchronized with the bus taking us to the train station. I had to arrive four hours early. I didn't want to wear my uniform (which I was told to do), so I dressed in civvies and intended to change in Chicago. A couple beers at National and a quick 20-minute flight to Friendship. A couple beers at Friendship and the couple-hour flight to O'Hare. A couple beers on that flight and when the plane and other passengers landed, I remained up in the clouds. Now things are a bit hazy from here on. I was able to piece together some of what happened from other guys who arrived early and from airport workers I spoke with on my return. They asked me to leave the airport. I was that drunk. I went to a men's room, changed into a Navy uniform and tried to blend in. I drank coffee and hung out outside where the bus would pick us up. Standing on the sidewalk, in a somewhat dazed state, I was surprised when I felt two sets of arms come from behind under my armpit and lift me off my feet. They said "Don't worry. We are trying to help." They took me to a bench in a darkened part of the bus stop area. They were both NCO's (non-commissioned officers) and recognized me as a dumb recruit right away. Usually they laugh at the new kids and take some pleasure in knowing what's in store for them. In my case, it was too much for them to take. First, I was wearing "undress blues". Now in the Navy, there are "dress blues" which is what you see on posters and in movies. So there is also a blue uniform worn on base which is called "undress" (blues or whites, depending upon the weather). The only difference was that the dress uniforms had "piping" on the collar and sleeves. Unless you are with a work detail, undress uniforms are not to be worn in public. That was easy enough to fix. I went into my seabag and pulled out the correct shirt and changed. While pulling off the wrong shirt, they both noticed that my stripe was sewn on wrong. They told me to stay between them when I got on the bus and to move to the back seat and they would take care of it. I need to explain about the patch. It was on wrong two ways. First, it was on "portrait" and needed to be sewn on "landscape". The second problem was that the stripe was going down from Boston to San Diego. It was supposed to go from Seattle to Miami. Seated in the back, they handed me scissors, a needle and some thread. I looked at them like they handed me a violin and a bow. Maybe, if my life depended upon it, I could get noise out of the violin, but I ain't no Itzhak Perleman. And I ain't no Betsy Ross. They sewed my stripes on the blues and told me I would have to take care of my whites on my own. I don't know who these guys were. They are a hazy memory. I don't think they realize how they might have affected my life. When we got off the train it was dark and it was cold. This was October and we were on the shores of Lake Michigan. I would have bagged it there, that night, if I didn't have so much antifreeze in me. Around midnight the abuse began. Our Company Commander showed up. 6' 5", built like a linebacker and with a mean look like a bully. Turns out this was his first company to command. He had spent the last dozen years as an Aviation Boatswain's (Bosun's) Mate, the Chief Petty Officers who run the Aircraft Carriers. He developed a booming voice from working on the deck of the flattops, so when he yelled for us to "halt", the entire base came to a standstill. Anyway he showed us into the barracks. Nice and warm, compared to standing outside. We were assigned bunks and I went right to sleep. I did not wake up fully until a week after I got home. My boot camp was done while sleepwalking. The first morning reminded me of the two weeks I had a paper route. It was dark, cold and I wanted to do nothing but crawl back under the covers. This day I had to toughen up. I didn't have mom covering for me. One of the things they teach you at the Reserve Center meetings is how to make your bed, how to store your belongings and how to fold your clothes. Stuff I missed. The Company Commander (I'll call him "The Chief", referring to him being a Chief Petty Officer) came into the barracks and was always greeted by the instructors, who lived in separate rooms of the barracks. It was their job to make sure we made our beds, showered and dressed, and were on the parade grounds by "Oh seven hundred". This was the longest shower I had in boot camp. Two things, I didn't have to worry about: combing my hair after the first day and I learned that the hot water ran out if you didn't finish fast. So we marched off to breakfast. Then we marched back to the barracks. Then we marched back, past the mess hall to the barbershop. In line waiting for my turn in the chair, I was flanked by a kid from Kentucky in front of me and a young black man who seemed out of place. I spoke with him (against the Chief's command) and learned that he was 23 and from either Indiana or Iowa (or whatever state had a Naval Reserve Center - I forget). He had just completed his active duty term in the Air Force and wanted to serve his remaining time in the Reserves at the Naval Reserve Center in his home town. To switch branches of the military required he undergo boot camp. He became my best friend in camp (I don't remember his name so I will call him Bill for Billy Mitchell, the father of the modern Air Force. He was closer to my age than the rest of the recruits. I was 21, and thought of myself as worldly. Most of the remaining guys were 17 to 19. In line behind me was a brash young guy from Brooklyn (I'll call him Roy for Campanella.) Bill told us to observe the barber (there were four barbers and four lines) when he cut the Kentuckian's hair. He jumped in the chair. His hair was not short, but not long by today's standards. A shaggy, home-grown kind of look. The barber asked how he would like it. Well, did he perk up. "Yes sir" he exclaimed. "If you could leave the sideburns that would be great." The barber, playing the roll of an asshole, proceeded to use the razor to not only shave the boy's head, but managed to cause bleeding in three places. He left the sideburns. When it was Bill's turn and he was asked the question, Bill referred him to his paperwork. His having served already earned him some privileges. They gave him a trim and thanked him. It was my turn. When asked, I told him to do whatever he thought best. Getting out of the chair, I was anointed with my nickname during the remainder of camp ... Elmer Fudd. When we got back from the barber and were settled in our barracks, I found that some problems with my uniform were going to have to be dealt with. The barracks were in a long wooden building with poor (no) insulation. As you entered the building from the side, the bunks were to the left and the private rooms, showers and the head was to the right. Separating the room were four large picnic tables. Our bunks (two high) lined each wall. I approached the picnic table and began talking to the instructor. He looked at me strange but I kept on talking. It turns out I need to ask permission to come up to talk, and if I had asked it would have been denied. Just as I was being reamed by the 1st Class PO, The Chief chimed in. He is talking about his uniform and I agree. First the pants were too long. These are the thirteen-buttom kind that fit low on the waist. I had to wear them "high draped". So they wouldn't fall off, The Chief gave me one of his belts. I put the belt on and folded the top part of the pants over the belt. Now the shirt. The sewing job on my stripe was not permanent. I was ordered to sew it on by this evening. Then I was told the worst part about my uniform. We were issued two pair of shoes. A dress pair was just a plain pair of black shoes. The other pair were these low-cut boots they called boondockers. They were part of the uniform of the day during boot camp since marching was a favorite pastime here at the lake. Had I gotten my uniform when I was supposed to, the boondockers would have been broken in. As it was, they were stiff as metal and since they were a couple sizes too big, I got a few good blisters. When I took off my sock to show my foot, it was almost all red. They sent me to sick bay. My first visit to what would become my sanctuary. The medic patched me up and ordered that I not wear the boondockers any more. So while the rest of my company wore one uniform (standard issue), I was allowed to dress different. Different shoes, different jacket. This and a limited activity schedule made me stand out with my mates. That was good and bad. Most of the men there were "lost" anyway. It is as unnatural an environment as could be devised, short of the moon. I did manage to make some friends ... and some enemies. I think the idea is to get everyone in the company to think as one. I felt like a blemish - or a beauty mark - depending upon how one looks at these things. Since I was in the Reserves and still had to learn all the Navy "stuff" to get out of boot camp, they crammed the two-month regular Navy boot camp into two weeks. That left no time to sleep, to socialize or to do nothing (my favorite activity). It also made it important to pay close attention during class so when we went to the field we would understand what we had learned. I had to miss class because I needed to get my bandages changed twice a day. I also got a pilonidal cyst which was lanced and needed care (and resulted in a reduced workload for me). I also got a lot of "emergency" calls. My roomates would call as if I were vacationing at the shore. Or a cocktail waitress I met a week before leaving would call and talk dirty to me. When I got home she wanted nothing to do with me. I was just a toy for a couple weeks. Most classes were easy and I managed to get by. Firefighting, guns and tear gas were subjects which I failed, but they passed me anyway - I guess they assumed I would never get far enough in this man's Navy to cause them any problems. Fire is a serious issue on a ship. So fighting fires is real important. There are three types of fires we learned to fight: wood, oil and electric. Wood fires are fought just like we see them on TV and the movies when they fight house fires. For some reason, I was the guy who got to hold the nozzle. There were about six of us needed to handle the pressure coming through the hose. I was doing something wrong and was yelled at by one of the instructors. While holding the hose, I turned to face the Chief Petty Officer, who was going bonkers. I didn't realize it, because of his antics, but they turned on the water. He only got his shoulder and arm wet. Heh heh! The oil fire was fun. They had a huge tank - like a 20' diameter circular pool. The tank was filled with water and, for the test, gallons of motor oil were floated on the surface and set ablaze. The idea is to create a fog of water and smother the fire. This is done by aiming the hose skyward and then bringing it down to create a fog. The undulating manuever is repeated until the fire is out. I got in no trouble this time. What was funny to watch was the short guys who were lifted off the ground when the hose was raised above the heads of the tall guys. I got in serious trouble with the electrical fire. I think this was the dealbreaker which made the instructors realize I was a hopeless case. I suppose if they had knocked the pomposity out of me then, you wouldn't have the loving misfit writing this tome today. Anyway, the deal was to not fight the electrical fire but to experience it. There are no flames. Little or no smoke. The air is heated and ionized so you suffocate because the fire is eating all the oxygen. They rigged this house with the capability to have an electrical fire under the floor. We were to walk into one end of the building and exit the other end. We were given special water gear, for reasons different than they stated, I believe. As each person entered the building, they would take two paces and stop. They would signal the next person who entered and grabbed the bottom of the rain-slicker of the person in front of them. Eventually we would all be connected, walking through the building. We were told to use one hand to grasp the sailor in front and keep the other at our side. We could not cover our mouth or nose. They wanted us to experience it as a one-handed guy holding onto his buddy. I would have none of that. When we got to the exit, they held up the line until I removed my hand from my face. No way. What were they going to do? Torture me if I didn't volunteer to be tortured. Ha! All the guys behind me puked and rioted to get out of the building. When a couple of guys puked on the instructors, they let us out. The guys weren't mad at me. They couldn't understand why they got punished for me doing what they wanted to do. I suppose my first experience with tear gas prepared me for future encounters. We were given gas masks and told that when we went to the building next door we would put them to use. I missed the early part of one of the classes about the gas mask. We were supposed to experience tear gas and, responding to its presence, put on a gas mask. The one caveat which didn't register was that only after everyone experienced the tear gas could we don our masks. More illogical ideas, but I guess I could go along with it. We were shown how to put on a gas mask and how to activate it. Seemed simple enough. We were marched outside the classroom and given gas masks which we strapped around our necks. We were to enter a huge wooden building which reminded me of a dance hall. We were paired off and told to walk around the perimeter of the building. There were about forty of us, so it was a good-sized building. Through a loudspeaker, the instructor informed us that they were about to start the gas. We were told to continue marching in a circle (that was preparation for civilian life, too). We would feel discomfort but were not to put on the mask. When we made one trip around the building with no one donning his mask, we could put the masks on and, eventually, be let out of the building. A couple guys smelled the gas and, feeling sick, put on their masks. The disembodied voice came therough the loudspeakers. No one leaves until you all walk around once. Now, I could hold my breath and it didn't bother me much, except in the eyes. But I was becoming impatient. On our fifth or sixth trip around the room, I was fed up with the stench and the burning in my lungs. I put on my mask and left line. They wouldn't let me out of building. I opened up a window on the side opposite where the instructors were watching. I was followed by half the company. That's leadership. We were told that we would have to do it again the next day - in lieu of the 45 minites of personal time we had in the afternoon. They sent me to sick bay to have my wounds dressed. I don't like guns. I have never liked guns. Maybe toy guns when I was a little - my favorite cowboy was Lash Larue because he used a whip instead of a gun. (I don't have whips in my life either.) We were each issued a rifle early in camp. We used it sometimes when we marched. We learned a 9-step salute (or 8-step or 11-step; I don't know). It's where you move the rifle from your shoulder and hold it in front of you (step 1); then lower it to the ground (step 2); until you went through enough steps to end up the same place each time. We were supposed to do this together. Synchronicity. Something I have no complaint about. It was fun - like macho cheerleading. So, in class the most emphasized action is "never point the gun at another person". This was repeated over and over and was all I remembered. I missed the part of class where we disassembled the rifle, cleaned it and put it back together. I don't remember what they said about the condition of my gun. They intentionally give you a rifle used by Regular Navy recruits on the other side of the camp. They get issued new rifles and pass on their gunky seconds. I thought that gave mine character. Anyway, not being able to sleep caught up to me on the range. We were told to lie down on our bellies and aim at the targets. We were told not to do anything until instructed to do so. Don't cock the rifle until the instructor says "ready". Don't fire until he says to. We laid down and the instructor went on and babbled. I went to sleep. He kicked me to wake me up and I woke up, turning around with my rifle pointing at my attacker. That's a no-no. We were all lying in a prone position and I was trying real hard to stay awake. The instructor said "OK, now we begin." "GET SET." About a half dozen rifles got cocked. Not mine. I forgot what to do. The intructors were ruthless towards the guys that messed up, made 'em do pushups and all. I did my fair share of pushups, or what I called pushups anyway. He prepared us to start again, reminding us not to cock the rifle until he said "Ready". "GET SET" This time just one idiot cocked his rifle. When he walked over to me and asked if I understood, I turned and replied in the affirmative. Except I was holding the rifle and it was pointed at him again. This time it was cocked. I was asked for my ammo and sent back to barracks. As I mentioned earier, I hung out with two guys at boot camp, Bill and Roy. When no one else was around, my Company Commander was friendly. He couldn't show favoritism, but he knew the clubs I hung out at in DC, so he didn't try to destroy me. Most of the guys liked him. The other Company Commanders tried to get him to be more of a hard ass, but it wasn't in his nature. He had spent the previous six years on an aircraft carrier. It was important to get along with everyone in that environment. A couple times when we messed up, he told us to try and right ourselves so he wouldn't get in trouble with the other Chiefs. At graduation, they took up a collection and got him an inscribed cigar lighter. In hindsight, that might have cost him his job. The rule was that if there were four or more we were supposed to march wherever we went. If you were alone or with just one or two other seamen, you were supposed to doubletime (That's Navy for "jog"). Me and Bill and Roy took our time eating and tried to convince someone to join us so we wouldn't have to run back. One day we couldn't convince anyone. We would be strolling along and if we saw an officer we would pretend to be running or we would stop and "get a stone out of my boot." An Ensign came up on us from behind. The weasel told us to "drop and give him twenty." Twenty pushups for some punk kid - ha. I had a bad back. Roy had a bad leg and Bill just smiled and ignored him. He took our names. In the evening, we were given 30 to 60 minutes of free time. That was followed by time to polish our shoes and stuff and get ready to turn in. It was usually casual and lasted about 45 minutes. During that time, "The smoking lamp was lit," meaning we could indulge in our tobacco habit. Unless we messed up, we would have an hour without the repressive Navy hanging over every move we made. I came to camp with a box of cigars and two cartons of Lucky's. I used them to pay for people to shine my stuff, make my bed, etc. Once, when I was caught sleeping on guard duty, I had to give up a whole pack of cigs and two cigars. So, we were sitting around pitching pennies when a booming "TEN-HUT" came thundering through the barracks. It was the Chief. And he was fuming. He told us about what scum was in the minutest detail. He told us how low a human being could be. Throughout his tirade, he described our little episode with the Ensign. The Navy had no room for the kind of sleaze he heard about this afternoon. He called us to come to the front of the barracks and stand next to him. I thought I was going to get a dishonorable or something like it. Then he said sometimes a serious indescretion should affect everyone so we could all learn the lesson. But this was so egregious, maybe just the particpants should feel the effect. "No," he bellowed. "You will all be taught a lesson from what happened this afternoon." The entire company sagged. "The Smoking Lamp will be lit until 9:30 tonight" (a good 40 minutes later that what we expected). We were stunned. He was rewarding us? Was this some form of torture? A big grin came on the Chief's face. He went on the explain that the lowest form of life in the Navy is an Ensign. Anytime you can get an Ensign upset, it's OKk in his book. He then had to correct himself and said to be careful. He might not be able to intercede the next time. I managed to survive boot camp. How? I don't know. What I wanted was a drink. Or two. And my own bed. I had been two weeks without a woman. But not two weeks without a drink. (Drink will get you through times without a woman more than a woman will get you through times without a drink! - My how times have changed!) Just like my arrival, I deviated from the planned return. Bill, Roy and I and two other guys who wanted a drink decided to take a cab from the train station to the airport. That way, we could stop and get a bottle. The area around the train station was not red-carpet. Sometimes when I drive down Sixth Street, it reminds me of the street where we stopped for a pint. The cab driver was scared but we convinced him. I went into this esablishment. Not an image I will ever forget. The place sold half-pints only and you had to be 23 to buy anything. Luckily, Bill was 23, so we got two half-pints. I had a nice buzz when I got back to the airport. I guess that's why I was despondent over my clothes having gone missing from the locker. I didn't know that the locker I had chosen was 50 cents for one day, not two weeks. Brent picked me up at the airport. My car smelled like a brewery. Reminded me of what mother would say when I would pick her up from work in her car. Anyway, I told him that I just wanted to go home and sleep. I got home and put on Nancy Wilson albums on the stereo. I put a pillow between the speakers, laid down on the floor and slept for the first time in two weeks. My commitment to the Navy was to attend class each Wednesday night at the Reserve Center. While getting into my uniform to go to my first meeting, I heard a knock at the door. It was Jim from downstairs. He brought up a couple young ladies he had met at the tavern. When I came out of my room in uniform, David (my roomate) and Jim started teasing me. I became a sympathetic patriot and was defended by the cuties. No way I could go to the meeting now. Here we go again. I am sure I tried again the following week, and again the one following that. Eventually I just forgot about my uniform and assumed they wouldn't miss me. I got a job in Maryland and moved there. I went to concerts in Annapolis and was able to recognize the rate and rank of every sailor I saw. I could also recognize some ships in the Bay. Other than that I was a civilian. Everything was OK until February, when I began the dance with the military which lasted the next 5 months ... In February of 1965 ... A second draft notice for April 1965 was delivered ... The Company Commander of the Alexandria Reserve Center retired ... It's always tough with two suitors as to which one to pick. In this case, I was waiting for the Navy or the Army to get me ... Monday, May 17th was the original date. Thursday, June 17th was the new one ... All my intentions were good ... I knew something was wrong ... My new identity was complete ... The Navy Brig was located in the part of town we would go to when we had "bad" phony ID's. They worked in that neighborhood ... I was delivered in chains to the the brig at Anacostia Naval Air Station. Anacotia was closed down, it was now called the Washington Naval Base ... After buying shaving and teeth stuff at the ship's store, I had about $47.00 ... When they changed shifts and the new brig chaser and I were alone ... I had an advantage over my cellmate when playing Tonk ... Six guys arrived to see the Provost ... I got to plead my case ... I was sitting in the brig chaser's chair with my feet on the desk when the officers showed up ... On Monday morning I was taken to the main building on the base. This was the barracks for all sailors on the base. I had visited the ?Ships Store? in this building to buy toothpaste on my first day. The mess hall was in this building but of course all my meals were delivered to my cell in the brig. I was accompanied by two brig chasers who had come on duty that morning. They teased me and tried to make my walk over as miserable as they could. I humored them but vowed to get my revenge before I left the base. It turns out that Discipline Barracks were part of a grand scheme the Navy had to observe all malcontents and misfits. Guys like me, waiting for a Captain's Mast, and guys who had their Captain's Mast and were sentenced here were mixed with ?good? soldiers who were being ?observed? for odd behavior. After turning me and my official papers over to someone in Ship's Company, I was shown the barracks and assigned a bed. After the paperwork was completed, I was assigned to a 3rd class Petty Officer, designated as my Team Leader. The single most unique characteristic of Discipline Barracks was the Muster. Seven times a day, all residents of discipline barracks had to report for Muster, or roll call to you civilians. If you were late or worse yet, missing, all hell broke loose (which I will explain later.) So after my shower, after breakfast, before lunch, after lunch, 3pm, before dinner and after dinner, I got in an argument with whoever was calling roll. It seems that when the paperwork was filled out, in addition to some convenient lies on the report, they misspelled my name. Well, a copy of the paperwork accompanied me to discipline barracks. The clerk punched holes in it and put it in the official Disciple Barracks Roster loose-leaf binder. Then, a half hour before muster, a clerk would go through the loose-leaf binder and, after erasing the last roster, would write everyone's name on the blackboard. Gary Trashman would get copied from the binder to the blackboard. The clerk was not authorized to correct the spelling. Ten minutes before muster, another clerk would copy a segment of the names on the board to a clean Muster Form. Not everyone had the same times; it depended on who your team leader was. So, now Gary Trashman would get copied from the blackboard to the Muster Form. That clerk also was without authority to correct the misspelled name. As the names were being read, everyone on my team waited in anticipation to get to my name: ?Mingus, Charles?
Well, that?s a sample of what happened 7 times a day. Oh yeah, if someone was late, everyone who answered to muster was excused. Anyone whose name followed the late person had to wait for that person to show up. I once waited, with two other guys until the next muster. We were lucky it wasn?t one before a meal or else we would have missed it. One guy split and never came back. He was the first guy on the list. While we waited, they removed the missing sailor?s paper from the loose-leaf binder. It, along with a report, was sent to points unknown. Then, the blackboard was erased completely. The updated content of the binder was then copied to the blackboard. The names were then transferred to the muster sheet and we got back to our business. In addition to the ?prisoners?, there was a working group of seamen, known as ?Ships Company?. They were organized similar to how it would be onboard an actual ship. Sometimes they would forget and instruct us as if we were hundreds of miles at sea. I learned later on that in addition to serving as the backbone of the operations on the base, a select number were also under observation. This included the Company Commander, who just wanted me to go home, and the ?Liaison Officer?, who gave me difficulties with my turning myself in, although the paperwork said ?apprehended?. I don?t remember the names of anyone I met while at the Naval Station. Three people stand out, whom I shall refer to as ?The Entrepreneur?, ?The Brains? and ?The Shark?. I was assigned to a unit that was led by an ambitious young sailor I dubbed ?The Brains?. He showed me the shed where all the cleaning tools and supplies were kept. I was sworn to secrecy with some of the things I saw. If I told, they would report that I had been uncooperative and it would have meant jail instead of the posh Discipline Barracks. Candy, gum, combs and after-shave lotion were some of the items that were barely hidden in the tool shed. Apparently, when supplies were ordered, they arranged to trade for some vending machine items. I swore I would never tell and grabbed a Bit-O-Honey. When he demanded a nickel, I responded by asking him to turn me in if I had done something wrong. My assignment was to sweep an outdoor courtyard. Attached to the barracks was a three-and-a-half-sided, two-story building with offices on the second floor and parking spots below. The half-side missing was where the cars entered, along with trucks bringing supplies to the mess hall. A swirling wind, even in July, was always present due to the size of the building. Sweeping moving targets was what kept the Ship's Company guys laughing while we ?prisoners? undertook an impossible task. It may not seem impossible, except they threw in an extra requirement. We had to sweep the entire courtyard, moving all paper, leaves, etc., into a pile near the dumpster. We would move a broomfull to the spot and, by the time we went back to sweep some more, the pile at the dumpster would blow back onto the courtyard. We were not allowed to complain. The reason I called this seaman ?The Brains? was because he was able to recognize a lost cause right away. After pushing the broom to the pile a couple of times, I said that either I would put the sweepings in the dumpster or I wasn?t going to move away and let my pailfull go back to the wind. ?The Brains? realized that he wasn?t dealing with an 18-year-old farm boy, but someone whose laziness prevented him from doing any work that didn?t need to be done. He let me stand on my sweepings and, after a while, brought me a folding chair. On Day 2, there was an extra folding chair next to ?The Brains? chair. He had an offer I couldn?t refuse. For ten dollars, I could buy into the syndicate. There were 5 members, 4 "Ship's Company and one Discipline Barracks sailor. I explained that I did not intend to be there long. I was assured that I would have a ?Captain?s Mast? soon and my fate would be decided there. A "Captain?s Mast" is a trial by judge, where the ?Captain? was the sole judge and jury. I was to expect a fine, and based upon my record, either immediate shipping out to Vietnam or I would be sent to school in California. If they would send me to the Coast, I would salute all day long. A salute would also be in order if Vietnam were in my future. A single finger as I walked away. I was told to volunteer for Laundry Duty that evening at the post-dinner muster. This was where I met "The Entrepreneur" (E) and "The Shark". E was out on the courtyard. He was the one ordering us to sweep. He acted like someone who had power for the first time. He was the treasurer and the person that handled all the trades. The first thing he asked me was whether I wanted someone to do my laundry. In addition to my uniform, I was responsible for keeping me sheets and towels clean. Five cents a wash load and five cents to dry it. I had no money (It was locked up with my personal items.) I signed an IOU. I was given another IOU for 5 bucks. This was a stake at a poker game here in the laundry room. The folding table was filled every night with sailors trying to get some leave money. I felt lucky and after signing, I was assigned a chair in the center of the table. Others strolled in, NCO?s as well as seamen. The dealer was a Philippine, and, at 23, a year older than me. It was clear that this wasn?t his first time at a card game. "The Shark" - I watched him real close. And caught him As we walked back to take muster, I questioned him about his dealing. He explained: He was treated as a foreigner ... and as a ?Colored Person?. No way he would cheat white guys. He wasn?t that bright anyway. I told him what I observed. He knew because he showed me, as a test as to whether I would tell or not. He told me what my hand was and what my three exchanged cards were. I was impressed. He told me to sit at his left when we got back. I didn?t make much money, but got my laundry done and had candy bars whenever I wanted one. My IOU was returned. I volunteered for Laundry Duty every night. I didn?t play most nights, since they were fleecing the NCO?s from Ship's Company. On about the fifth day, I was told to skip dinner and report directly to the Laundry Room. I was handed civilian clothes and told to change quickly. "The Shark" and I were hidden in a laundry cart and we were wheeled into a panel truck. E was the driver and gave us the ?all clear? when we left the base. I was confused and worried. I was assured that we were covered. We were on our way to the Philippine Embassy. "The Shark" was scheduled for a three-hour shift as a dealer at the ?Monte Carlo Night? festivities. I was his gopher. Unbeknownst to all, I had recently broken up with my Philippine girlfriend, Dianne Jubane. We were no longer talking, but her brother Bill was still a close friend. He was the drummer in the quartet playing as background music and for the dancers. I had a fresh cocktail in my coffee cup all evening. I didn?t get away with doing no work. My assignment was to sweep and swab a passageway which led from the courtyard to the barber shop and the mess hall. I did it at 11am and at 3pm. It was a long dark corridor with a double screen door at one end. The barber shop was at the other end and if you turned left in front of the barber shop, it would lead you down a small corridor to the mess hall. Sometimes, I was asked to come into the barber shop and clean up a big batch of hair or to soak up a spilled bottle. The barber was a wise-ass Italian, older than us all. He was the king and this 2-seater was his kingdom. I kept his corridor spotless and took care of business in the shop. He let me hang out most of the day. I played canasta with the shoeshine man. Sometimes I would sweep after an officer's haircut. One day, the barber announced that he was going on vacation for two weeks. He was going to Italy to see his father for the first time in over 40 years. I was instructed to "go by the book" with the substitute barber. Most of the things I was doing I should stop. The sub could clean his own combs and brushes. And refill his sprays and soaps. It was to remain a secret how easy the old guy had it. He told me his cousin, a D.C. barber, was sending over a nephew of another cousin. The new barber was newly arrived from Italy. He spoke very little English. From 1955 to 1959, I lived in an apartment complex called Belle View. This was where I learned to hang out in front of the drugstore. This was the same drugstore where my mom shopped. Among the items she bought was Cosynol (not sure of the spelling.) This was the cough syrup favored by my dad. He was a heavy smoker and had a cough to prove it. He drank the syrup out of the bottle. He made us eat spoonfuls when we got a chest cold. It tasted horrible (but it worked.) I only realized later that my dad liked it (and it worked) because it had both codeine and alcohol. Well, it became a favored intoxicant among some of the guys I knew. Mostly older guys, since it cost more than a teenager could afford. There was this guy who popped up every now and then and he always had a bottle in his pocket. When he didn't have one, he would try to convince one of us to go in and buy it for him. Because of its popularity as a recreational drug, they started requiring purchasers to ID themselves. They had a clipboard with the list of purchasers which was checked for each order. Since I picked some up for my dad, I was able to help him. His name was Marty Valetti, but we knew him as "Spider". The last time I saw him he informed us that he was being deported back to Italy. I remember that day because he was far gone on Cosynol. He traded a brand new pair of Italian loafers for a half-pint bottle of the elixer. We were hanging out in front of the drugstore and he kept proclaiming how great he felt. "Man, I'm flyin' high" he whispered as he leaned against the drugstore wall. What made it so memorable was that, although he was leaning, he wasn't touching the wall. He was standing at about 1:30 and not tipping over - worthy of the acrobats of Shanghai. I was alone the first day the new barber was to show up. I was at the end of the corridor I had just completed buffing. The door opened and I could tell the silhouette was dressed in civvies and was carrying a case which I presumed were his razors and stuff. As the figure moved towards me, a memory was triggered by the way he walked. Only when he came out of the corridor to the front of the shop did I remember the walk. Our new barber, with a new name - "Marty Peroni, but you can call me Spider." As soon as he got the words out, he recognized me. Here's what I remember of his two-week stay. The moment when we recognized each other I remember vividly. The day he snuck me off the base to go to a bar and a party is a total blank. When I reported for active duty, a medic checked me out before administering the shots. I complained about serious heartburn and the constant pain in my abdomen. This came up in my records and then they scheduled x-rays at Bethesda Naval Hospital. It was July and the proscribed uniform was short-sleeved denim shirts and denim pants (bells of course.) Did I mention why bell-bottoms are standard in the navy? Much of the time is spent swabbing the decks. Bells are easier to roll up one's pantlegs before the swab jockeying commences. Anyway, I got dressed in clean clothes and prepared to leave. Before loading me into the van, I was handcuffed. The handcuffs were chained to a belt around my waist and my feet were shackled. When I arrived, I was handed over to the JOOD (Junior Officer Of the Day.) I was unhinged from all my jewelry and the brig chaser who brought me went back to the base ... After a few days in Discipline Barracks, I was reassigned to Restricted Barracks. No physical move, just a different set of rules and regulations. I had muster four times a day and twice on Sunday. The second day I was in restricted barracks, I got invited to play softball. They hid me and two other guys in the back of the truck and we went to some ballfield where we played some Army guys for beer. After the game we went to the NCO club. How they got me in I never knew ... and never asked. I shot pool until about 9pm. I wanted to go back to the barracks, so I decided to walk back. When I walked passed the office, with torn pants, soiled shirt and reeking of beer, I was stopped by one of the officers who appeared infrequently in the barracks. He asked if I minded if we had a short talk in private. I thought I was in trouble and was shocked when he offered me a drink of Scotch. I don't drink Scotch, so when I refused he asked if I wanted a beer. When I said yes, he left for a couple minutes and came back with a couple of Buds. Apparently, this officer was assigned undercover to find out if the Ship's Company was breaking any rules. I assured him that there was no gambling, no drinking, no fraternizing with the "inmates" and that the discipline was deep but fair. It was obvious that this guy was clueless. Except for one thing. He asked the right person to help him with his report. On my first Sunday in Restricted Barracks, Tony came over and we snuck off base. Not really snuck. Washington Naval Station used to be Anacostia Naval Air Station. It was right next to Bolling Air Force Base. In fact, some runways were shared. When they closed the bases down, only the Navy remained. However, it was easy to drive to what was Bolling and drive out the old AF gate. We went to the China Inn, where everyone was worried about me and doted over me like I was never coming back. When we got back, the base was closed to visitors. When I told them I was a resident in Restricted Barracks, they told me it was impossible because I wouldn't be allowed off the base if were. I told them to call up to the barracks and check. And if it were true, I was going tell the brig chasers that this group of guards let me off base. They let me go. I made the 5pm muster by a few seconds. I was given two choices. The first was to go through with the Captain's Mast, go on active duty for two years, probably in Guam. The alternative was to give up all my Naval benifits and I could go home that afternoon. A no-brainer. I was released from active duty at 4pm on July 23rd, 1965. At 3:30pm, after I was all packed and all papers were signed, the brig chasers came and got me. They chained me up like I was going to escape at any moment. They then walked me to the front of the building (one flight of stairs and about 20 yards.) They took me to the front and we waited. At 4pm, they unlocked the leggings and the handcuffs. I signed one more paper and walked down the steps - never to look back again. For the short time I was in the Navy, I have a lot of stories to tell. Now that I have had forty years to reflect, it was obvious to even the unimaginative brass that I was not fit for active duty. I could not take an order without questioning it. I find every subtle way possible to conform without looking like I am. Or to look like I am conforming, but not. I have a real respect for those men and women who do have that ability to conform. They are wired different than me, but are not different from me. I see how much good an organized disciplined team of people can do. I regret that the airheads who proclaim the leadership role are not worthy of the men and women they command ... |
gat 9/15/06 |