I took the Greyhound from Spencerport to Rochester on
Monday, July 6, to pick up my paperwork at the Navy recruiter’s office. Then bright and early the next morning I boarded
another Greyhound to Buffalo and another recruiter’s office. There, around a dozen young men raised our
right hands and repeated an oath to uphold and defend the Constitution of the
United States of America; to do whatever the Commander and Chief told us to do,
and some other stuff. I don’t remember
if I crossed the fingers of my left hand – just to keep my options open. Then, with an official manila envelope and a
small duffle bag, I climbed aboard a New York Central Pullman car for an
overnight trip to Chicago. It never
occurred to me at the time that I was leaving more than western New York. I was enroute to adulthood.
I shared the Pullman with Dick Bater. Dick was my age and from Churchville. We signed up together, were assigned the same
company at boot camp and leaned on one another throughout the next two months. After that we never saw or heard from one
another. Odd. I remember the train trip clearly. After a light supper we called it a day and
went to sleep. Early the next morning we woke up somewhere in Indiana and got
ready for our arrival in Chicago. I
remember the tiny bathroom in our cabin and trying not to nick myself shaving
as the car rocked along the rails. We
were met at the station by a line of haze gray school buses for our trip from
downtown Chicago to the Great Lakes Naval Training Center. I was to see a lot
of that color (haze gray) and did my part in adding that color to a lot of Navy
property in the ensuing four years. It was so nice of the Navy to send
chauffeurs. But as we got off the bus
inside the gates of the Center it became abundantly clear that we were not
considered honored guests. It was just
like the movies; military movies and prison movies. Before the day was done (7/8/1959), we were
given a complete set of uniforms and a sea bag, a whole series of inoculations,
showers, medical and dental exams, a box to mail home our civilian clothes and
belongings, and a skinhead haircut. [Seems
to me they should have measured us for caps after
the haircuts.] All in all it was a
shocking and exhausting day.
We were eventually assigned our company (#101) and herded
into our barracks by the always-spotless, no nonsense Company Commander, BM1
Edw. D. Richter. What an old rickety
barracks. The Recruit Training facility
was built in 1911. It had already seen
many of my predecessors from WW1, WW2 and Korea. While old and drafty, the shingle covered
wooden barracks was definitely clean -- Spotlessly clean. I quickly learned how
it stayed that way! The good thing was
it wasn’t winter. So instead of enduring
ice, shush, and bitterly cold Chicago winds, we enjoyed balmy summer breezes;
And triple digit afternoons on the tarmac drill fields. After that long first day and the new
experience of showering with 60 other young men, I silently cried myself to
sleep. What did I get myself into
indeed!
Boot camp was many experiences. But mainly we practiced becoming world-class
janitors and housekeepers. I mopped,
polished, buffed, and scrubbed for nine weeks and two days. Along the way, we also learned some
marlinspike seamanship, firefighting, first aid, how to don gas masks and avoid
tear gas, rules and regulations, marksmanship, swimming, and cleanliness. We did laundry seven days a week with a small
scrub brush, a steel bucket, and liquid laundry soap or bar soap. We hung our clothes with military precision
on lines with short pieces of cotton rope instead of clothespins. And we became experts on folding. But most of all, we learned how to turn off
our brains. The haircuts, the identical
uniforms, the service number: there real
purpose was to make us sailors vs. individuals. Without ever actually realizing
it, we spent nine weeks being depersonalized.
Now, all in all, being brainwashed wasn’t a bad thing. For starters, it prepared us to follow orders
without wasting time deciding if we should or should not do as we were
told. It’s completely understandable
that in wartime you do as you’re told … instantly. Or die. Or worse yet, be responsible for the
death of your shipmates. But in
addition, being able to turn your brain off and go on automatic also came in handy in the future, during and after
military service. I stood watches staring at the ocean or at the end of a pier
on a river for hours without falling asleep or passing out. I went
through hazing in my college fraternity without batting an eye. I later endured lectures, bad concerts, and
less-than-memorable marital confrontations or idiotic bosses with little or no
stress. It should be noted that we were
not robots. While we could turn off our brains and go with the flow, it was
always a conscious decision to do so.
And to be able to turn them back on again. While never experiencing real war or a real
test of the process, I am somewhat
skeptical of the tales of later day servicemen who kill innocent civilians or
perform other out-of-body bad deeds
and blame it solely of being brainwashed.
The Leader installs the switch
but the Individual retains the power
to turn in on and off.
After tons of new experiences and way too much marching and
standing in lines, graduation day finally arrived. We stood on the parade grounds for hours
(i.e. 8am to 2pm). As the sun got higher
and hotter, all around me I could hear
bodies dropping and the clatter of parade rifles bouncing off the tarmac. Eventually we were allowed the pleasure of
marching around the large rectangle and past the reviewing stand. And it was a great pleasure; marching equals
a breeze and it meant this chapter too was coming to an end. I vividly recall the music. There was no digital music or hardware in
’59. On graduation day we had live
music. And damn inspiring it was! But in the 9 weeks preparing for that day,
our music came out of a series of large PA speakers atop telephone poles. The source was old and worn 78rpm
records. I do believe we actually
marched to the baton of Lt. Commander John Phillip Sousa himself. And not too surprising. The March King was on these very same Great
Lakes Parade Grounds 42 years earlier as the leader of the Navy Band during
World War One.
I received my orders that Friday afternoon and set off to
follow them. But in between there was a
long awaited, two week leave back home, with per diem and travel
allowance. Life was good. I was sure to be a big hit in my dress whites
and spit shined shoes. The first evening
home I spruced up, borrowed Dad’s ’58 Ford Skyliner, and drove over to my high
school sweetheart’s house to surprise her. Surprise, she wasn’t there. The story of my life. Her Mom told me she went to a party in
Rochester and gave me the address on Park Avenue. When I arrived she was having a grand old
time. She had on mini-shorts, a new fad
that I was out of the loop on; I thought she was in her underwear! I was mad as a hornet. We drove to the overlook at Durand Eastman
Park. I got out of the car, sat on the
hood, lit a cigarette and stared out at Lake Ontario in the moonlight. What a
drama king. She cried. We wound up
having a really swell night reconciling.
My orders were for some place called Green Cove Springs,
Florida. I had never heard of it but
with winter coming on, it sounded pretty good to me. I got there somehow, and a day early just to
be safe. It turned out to be a tiny
Naval Base on the St. John River, 25 miles south of Jacksonville. Its mission was to house and maintain
(there’s that word again) a mothball fleet of large, decommissioned landing
ships. The location was ideal. During flood tide the river was salt
water. During the ebb it was fresh
water. As a result, no barnacles … no algae.
My assignment was at the bottom rung of the command. I was the spend 8-10 hours a day painting the
outside of these ships with gorp. Gorp is a mixture of 30% haze gray paint and
70% fish oil. Gorp never dries but acts as a
sealant and pre-
servative. We put it on with large paint rollers and none too sparingly. The application was less “put on” and more “slopped on”. There was always a oil slick on the river. In addition to painting, we were assigned a “watch”. About every 3rd day I would stand a watch at the end of one of the piers in a small, phone booth-like structure. I would wear a standard blue uniform with canvas spats, a web belt, and a clipboard with a pencil on a string. I was to guard the pier for 4 hours. Then I would be picked up and be relieved and have 8 hours off (sleep or work). After the 8 hours off watch, I would return to the end of the pier for another four hour shift. For example, noon-4pm on watch; 4pm-midnight supper and sleep. Midnight-4am on watch (boring!), and then 4am to 8am shower and go to work. Three days later, 8am-noon on watch, etc. I am proud to report that during my four months on the docks, not one ship or pier was stolen.
servative. We put it on with large paint rollers and none too sparingly. The application was less “put on” and more “slopped on”. There was always a oil slick on the river. In addition to painting, we were assigned a “watch”. About every 3rd day I would stand a watch at the end of one of the piers in a small, phone booth-like structure. I would wear a standard blue uniform with canvas spats, a web belt, and a clipboard with a pencil on a string. I was to guard the pier for 4 hours. Then I would be picked up and be relieved and have 8 hours off (sleep or work). After the 8 hours off watch, I would return to the end of the pier for another four hour shift. For example, noon-4pm on watch; 4pm-midnight supper and sleep. Midnight-4am on watch (boring!), and then 4am to 8am shower and go to work. Three days later, 8am-noon on watch, etc. I am proud to report that during my four months on the docks, not one ship or pier was stolen.
It was a nice place to work that winter. At 1300 every day it rained. It rained really hard for around 10
minutes. Then the sun came out and the
humidity kicked in. Every day. You got used to it. But the docks and gallons of gorp were not my
idea of a career. In my spare time I had
noticed the medical dispensary was a really nice place. It was clean, serene, and looked like
paradise with its whitewashed sides, built on stilts, with magnolias and
Spanish moss. So by early 1960 I talked
my way into becoming a hospital corpsman “striker”. A striker is someone who is an assistant with
hopes of learning and passing the exams to be rated. In the case of the Hospital Corp, being rated
meant training back in Great Lakes for 14 weeks in the “A” school for Hospital
Corpsman. So that was the plan. I would learn the craft in Green Cove Springs
during the winter and spring, then go to Illinois for the summer, and then be
transferred to a hospital or dispensary. That was the plan. More on the plan to
follow.
When not painting, guarding piers, mopping and sterilizing
surgical packs or learning how to give injections, I loved to travel on liberty. The first destination was Jacksonville. I discovered a radio station in the basement
of a hotel called WAPE. They played top
40 and were the big deal in town … the Home
of the Ape. I smooth talked my way
into sort of interning there a couple evenings a week. I tore news copy, did more mopping, and filed
records for the DJ. Their format called
for them to play the top 5 songs at least once an hour. To this day I can’t listen to “El Paso” or “Itsy Bitsy Teeny Weeny Yellow Polka Dot
Bikini” without thinking of The Home of
the Ape.
My other destination out of Green Cove Springs was St.
Augustine. Going to Jax was a bus
ride. Going to St. Augustine meant
hitchhiking 24 miles across no man’s land (Fla-16) to St. Augustine and then
another 5 miles across Anastasia Island to St. Augustine Beach. They had a wild and crazy dance hall and bar
out there at The Beach. Getting there
was easy. Coming back at 2 to 4am was
another thing. Back then there was
nothing between the Beach and town but a lonely road with no traffic and lots
of large reptiles trying to stay warm on the pavement. It got really iffy if the moon wasn’t
out! I remember one l-o-n-g night in
particular. I was too tired (drunk) to
make the 5 mile walk back to town so I decided to sleep on the beach till
sunrise. All was fine for around 30
minutes. Then I woke up soaking wet and
freezing. It seems the sea water under
the sand likes to creep up and be absorbed by woolen dress blues; something
called capillary action. It was a long walk
back to St. Augustine that night.
But it wasn’t all that bad.
I found a nice old 3-room hotel in St. Augusting. It was on a side
street near the fort, Castillo de San Marcos (built in 1672). I had a 2nd story large room with
a fan, bathroom, balcony with table and chairs, for $12 a night. Today it’s wall-to-wall Super 8s and a Best
Western called Spanish Quarters Inn (40 rooms, no balcony, $90 per night). The Castillo is still there, behind a
Ripley’s Believe It or Not … an IHOP and the Fountain of Youth.
I got to enjoy my stay in the Green Cove Springs Naval Base
dispensary for around a month. Then came
orders to transfer. I got a glowing
recommendation from my superiors for Corps School. But the orders said I was going to Norfolk,
Virginia. There was no Hospital Corpsman
school in Norfolk. My orders said to
report aboard the USS Soley DD707, in 14 days.
At the time I didn’t know what DD meant but the “USS” I knew. I was going to sea!
After another trip to Spencerport I reported aboard the
Soley on April 15, 1960. Everybody else
was sick about filing with the IRS that Tuesday. I got seasick! When I walk down the pier at the
Destroyer-Submarine base, the destroyers were tied up three-abreast on either
side. I quickly located “707” on the bow
of my new home, located between two other tin
cans. I crossed the gangplank of the
first ship, passed through the quarterdeck and onto the gangplank of the
Soley. I remembered to salute and ensign
(flag) of each ship and the officer of the deck (also an ensign). I presented my paperwork, a manila envelope
containing my personnel records, and stowed my sea bag near the quarterdeck to
await orders. I was told to wait up on
the bow and sat down with a group of real sailors and chatted. I soon noticed all three ships were bobbing
up and down and not in unison. Up and
down, up and down, like slow moving horses on a maritime merry-go-round. I was getting nauseous! I skipped supper that night.
The next morning we set out to sea and anti-submarine
warfare exercises around Cape Hatteras.
It’s always rough at Cape Hatteras! After I lost all the contents of my stomach
and then some, I fought my way below deck to my rack.
The rack or berth on those old destroyers was pretty basic. The frame was a tubular aluminum rectangle hanging on chains ... 3 deep.
Inside was a rectangle of canvas with grommets. A cotton robe was woven through
the grommets and around the frame. No
mattress. We were issued a well-worn
pillow and pillowcase, a cotton bag called a fart sack that served as a top and
bottom sheet, and a wool blanket.
Ironically the blanket was an Army olive drab with a black stenciled anchor
and USN. Come morning the fart sack was
folded and inserted inside the pillow.
The blanket was neatly folded (a primary pastime in the Navy) with the
stencil front and center, and the frame chained up out of the way. In Navy Talk:
Triced up.
I slid into my berth, wrapped my arms and legs around the
frame, and held on for dear life for two days and three nights. There were no other options in my mind. It
was way worse than death. I wanted to die! I had never experienced such low down
depression in my life. My shipmates
tried to get me up. My boss, the
boatswains mate and security chief tried to roust me. Finally they called Chief Snyder, the ship’s hospital
corpsman. He examined me and declared it
was useless. He said I had overdosed on drugs
and they would just have to wear off!
About three days later I was able to
move. I ate a few Saltines and sipped some
water. Easy does it. The Soley was still violently bouncing around
Cape Hatteras but for some reason I was no longer sick! It was OVER!
I kept my sea legs or sea stomach for the next two and a half
years of sea duty.
My first duty assignment on the Soley was once again on the
bottom rung. I was a deck hand, a
professional, sea-going janitor. I
mopped, hosed and polished. When we came
back in port I chipped and painted. Now that was a trip. When in port, we were issued a chipping
hammer, a scraper iron, and a wire brush.
On Day One we chipped and scrapped to remove the paint from the
hull. We had to be careful with the hammer
because the Soley was commissioned in 1944 and was, by 1960, worn a bit thin in
places! On a hot summer day over the
side, we often accidently fell off
our boatswain’s chair and into the drink – filthy as it was. After she was
scrapped properly, Day Two found us painting her with primer – Red Lead. Then, on Day Two and Three we painted her
with a fresh coat of haze gray and refreshed the “707” on the bow and “USS Soley” on the fantail. I remember
one time we went to sea in the afternoon with the usual coat of fresh paint. That evening we had some sort of mechanical/boiler
problem and had to return to port. The
next morning we were issued the chipping hammer, scraper and wire brush and
told to go over the side. “But Boats
(short for boatswains mate)! The paint is still wet from yesterday!” But The
Book said paint. He took back our
tools and issued rags and buckets of paint thinner. Over the side we went and wiped off
yesterday’s paint! The next day … more red
lead and haze gray.
I didn’t like being a deck hand on the Soley any more than
in Florida. And I had my recommendation. So I approached Chief Snyder and requested I
be allowed to assist (strike) in his Sick Bay.
No longer a whitewashed beach house among the magnolias and Spanish
Moss. Sick Bay on the Soley was about
three times the size of an airline lavatory, maybe 7’ x 10’. Within this polished aluminum and chrome palace
were a small table, two chairs, counters, drawers, book shelves, an autoclave,
and a small surgical light. We had
dressings, surgical kits, some common medicines (lots of APCs). In the
bookcase. a corpsman’s handbook, a PDR, and
a Merck Manual. Above and below the
counters were the usual; tongue depressors, thermometers, blood pressure cuff,
stethoscopes, gauze, alcohols (grain and denatured), glassware, lab supplies, an
ancient microscope. All this and much, much more in 70 sq
feet. And all secured for heavy seas. A haze gray and underway saltwater sailor quickly learned how to batten down!
The Chief was more than happy to take me on as his
assistant. After some initial tests to
see what I had learned at the Green Cove Springs and some superficial training, the
Chief was free to skip sick call and simply be “on call” in the Chiefs’
Quarters or Mess Deck. What a deal. In return, he promised me that if I studied
the handbook and the study guide to prepare for the fleet-wide exam for
Hospital Corpsman 3rd Class, he would let me take the exam. If I passed, he would recommend me for Corps
School. On Land!
Well, I studied my ass off. I damn near memorized the handbook. A few months later I took the exam. I aced it! Then … disaster. A few weeks after the exam I was told I had
scored high enough to beat the cut off for advancement and was awarded my HM3 rating!
“But Chief”, I pleaded, “you said I could go to Corps School! I can’t be rated without first going through
Corps School! It’s the rules!” Screwed again. Somehow I went under BuPers radar screen and
was now a full-fledged Hospital Corpsman, Petty Officer Third Class! At
sea!
- - - - -
Why had I gone to sea instead of Great Lakes, Illinois? Why had I been promoted to HM3 without attending school? Some time later I l learned my Personal Record jacket had a big red stamp on the cover that translated to Political Influence. It seems my dear father was concerned that his son was in the US Navy but didn't know what a ship or the ocean looked like. He contacted his congressman, Representative Horton, and complained that he thought a sailor should be at sea. Rep. Horton made a phone call and I went to sea --- permanently. Thanks Dad!
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