Month: June 2017

Rabid Dogs…7

…In August I was headed out west for a fourth time except this time it was by air and my destination was some small town located in the mountains about 70 miles east of that west coast city of rain. Unfortunately, the area in which I was to spend the next three months was caught up into the same rain pattern that had so much turned me off in previously trips. No matter. Free room and board, $415 bucks a month and all the haircuts one would ever want or need.

Basic training? How to describe it? Holed up with 30 of your closest friends, under one roof as part of a 90 man Company. I was in “A” Platoon, housed in a “H” Hut with communal washrooms and showers. The other 2 platoons, “B” and “C” of our Company were housed in a stark, white building called Pachena Barracks. Three platoons and you had a Company as everything here was Army oriented, which kind of sucked and ticked me off to no end being that I had joined the Navy. No matter. They said that Leadership was Leadership no matter the environment and being an Officer Candidate I would be exposed to leadership drills and test scenarios in an Army environment to ascertain whether or not I had the right stuff for this military culture. Individuality was a no no in this environment hence the communal haircuts with the requisite white walls cropped ever so thin on top, and tight at the nape.

We all had fashionable haircuts for the day, long and shoulder length. Our first haircut was a traumatic experience. It was extremely tough to watch as our locks fell like fluff on the barber’s floor, only to be swept away into that dustbin of individuality. All that work in nurturing those locks, for months, years perhaps, all for naught. I’m sure I even saw some of the lads sob with every turn of the razor. I have to admit that with all of this trauma, the Army was super organized. They had a very large “Haircutting Room” capable of handling 10 of us at a time. Ten newbie recruits sitting there in 10 chairs with 10 Army barbers. Army barbers is a term used loosely here. In reality these guys were regular Army types making a few extra bucks on the side. Peace-work they told us and we were their peace-necks.

There were the usual comments such as “Hey, just a little off the top will do” or “Thin the sides” or “Shampoo and a rinse if you don’t mind” or my personal favourite “Take care of those split ends will ya.” They, the Army barbers, had heard it all before many, many times and just smirked as they took their razors, snapped a Number 2 on to the business end and, in what appeared to be one small swoop, the locks were gone. Just like that. Shave the nape of the neck, clean around the ears and it was all done in about 2 minutes. Next! Ten more. Next! Ten more. Next! And before you could say “a little dab will do ya” it was all over. 90 raw recruits in one door with 90 raw recruits out another but in right Army haberdashery fashion! It was somewhat comical watching 90 guys milling about outside afterward streaming their fingers through the hair that wasn’t there. The feeling was somewhat akin to someone sensing a lost foot or a lost arm after surgical amputation, or so I am told. Nevertheless, the transformation was incredible. We all looked the same, particularly after the uniform fitting was complete. From cool fashionable dude to Army, military dork….

Rabid Dogs…6

…I came back for the medical in about a week’s time. This was serious stuff. A full blown medical. Every orifice looked at and probed. This was not the two minute makeover that one sees in the movies.

“Is he breathing? Yes? Approved! Next!

I was a little bit worried about my eye test as I had had a lazy eye when I was a child. It cured itself but left some visual acuity issues in my right eye. I remember my dad telling me how he got through his eye exam in the Army during the war. He held his hand over his bad eye, read the scale then returned his arm to his side. When the doctor asked him to cover his other eye he placed his hand over his bad eye a second time, read the chart and got through the exam with a 20/20 result. I tried the same thing and it worked, primarily because the doctor was focused on the chart and not the patient.

I do remember a story from a naval friend of mine about his experience with his medical on joining. It kind of reflects some of the old military schooled attitudes of the times. My friend had had a severe case of acne when he was young. It left his face hideously pockmarked – had been for all of his life. He did his joining medical only to find out that he failed. He wasn’t told why although he suspected the reason. He left, forgot about the military, and went on his way. About 6 months later he was asked to return to the recruiting centre only to be told that they made a mistake in his medical assessment and would dearly love to have him return. He did. Apparently, the doctor, on examination of my friend, felt that his pockmarked face would not look good on parade and would reflect poorly on the military ethos. He wanted to protect the “Colonel.” So he failed him. Imagine the outcry if that happened today?

Finally finished, then in for another interview. This one was all encompassing but in generalities: the process, basic training expectations, career progression, military life, its rewards and sacrifices, security, threats and on and on he went. This would be the last interview and on receipt of a successful medical examination an offer to join would be given. The candidate, me, would have a few days to think about the decision to join prior to an invite for the swearing in ceremony and “Oath of Allegiance” to Queen and Country. Where was God in all of this? Swear on the bible of course!

In a weeks time I was sworn in. I told my mother, she was thrilled. I told my friends, they thought I was nuts. I also had a few months time before I had to report for Basic Training in August. Not too sure if I liked that break as it provided too much free time to think about my decision. But it also gave me the opportunity to get into physical shape, which I did….

Rabid Dogs…5

…It was almost lunch time. I had been there almost 3 hours now.

Not long now they assured me. Just a final interview and then I could leave.

“Just go into that “Interview Room,” the secretary said ” and the interviewer will be in there in a second.”

I went into the “Interview Room,” sat down and waited looking at the various pictures on the wall: tanks, airplanes, soldiers, ships, a whole arsenal of military scenes, wow, impressive.

Another man in another style of uniform suddenly came in and sat down at the desk in front of me.  He put down a stack of papers on the desk’s surface.

“So young man” he began “what do you want to do?

“I wanna join the Navy.” I offered

“Okay, and what do you want to do in the Navy?” he asked

“I wanna be a Boatswain’s Mate.” I replied for I had seen the Bogart movie “Action in the North Atlantic” and I remembered him, Bogart, talking to a Boatswain’s Mate.

“Well now, that’s great, but I have your test results here and they are telling us that you have the intelligence and aptitude for the Officer’s Corp.”

Officer Corp I thought, surprised. “Yeah, but I wanna be a Boatswain’s mate cause I have seen them in the movies.” What the hell did I know about the Navy anyway. Nothing!

He laughed and said ” there’s nothing wrong with being an Officer you know. I am one myself. A Major!” And I immediately thought of the Basilian Brothers and the major pain at THAT private high school for boys.

“Okay, so what’s the difference between being an officer or a Boatswain’s mate?” I asked.

He looked at me for a bit before he answered. Then: “Well John, in the Navy, a Boatswain’s mate earns about $275 a month while an Officer makes about $415 per month.

Without blinking an eye I replied in what seemed to be a nano second “I’ll be an Officer”

We both laughed. He told me that I had passed the first phase of recruitment. My test scores were well above average, the interview process looked favourable and that I would have to come back in a few days for the medical and final interview.

Okay great, I thought and thanked him for his time and was on my way. But then I stopped and asked him, somewhat peevishly

“What about the criminal thingy?”

“Don’t worry about that” he said. “Many of us in here have done a lot worse only we never got caught. And there are probably a great many of us, generally speaking of course, that were given the proverbial options by a Judge of either going to prison or joining the Army” You know, there are a lot of military men and women who have less than grade 8 education, for whatever reason.”

“Army….Army? Prison? Judges? Grade 8 education? Whew, only the Army” I was relieved. I was joining the Navy, whoopdi doo. Safe and sound!

“Or the Navy” he added. He was telepathic this Major.

Rabid Dogs…4

…I thought of my options. Why not join the Navy?  Why not indeed. But the military life seemed to be an anathema to my easy going ways. Yes, I was intrigued by the stories my father told me of his military life. The fun he had although he never ever parlayed his combat experiences to me or anyone else in the family. His friends, the sports, the overt camaraderie he seemed to enjoy were interesting but I always sensed that he despised the discipline, arrogance and bullshit of the Army. It was no wonder, or joke, that we never ever went camping as a family. Holed up in a tent for weeks at a time: cold, dirty miserable English weather or the heat and humidity of a European summer all the while scared out of your ever loving mind.  No, I think for me I was scared of the discipline and uncertainty of the military life. Especially the Army. All that salutin; yes sir, no sir, your shit lockers full sir etc. On top of that, the only insight I had of the Navy arose from the serious and dark images of Jack Hawkins in “The Cruel Sea;” or the fanaticism, madness of Burt Lancaster and Clark Gable in “Run Silent Run Deep;” or conversely “McHale’s Navy.” What should I do? Yes or no?

I decided to check it out as I didn’t have to commit right away. I didn’t tell a soul what I was doing.  Down I went to the recruiting centre, taking the metro then bus to an imposing but stark and sombre looking building downtown. I hesitated. Should I or shouldn’t I? Yet the unknown always appears worse than it really is. Just go for it and see what happens. It may turn out that they “DON’T WANT YOU.”

In I went, to reception. Everyone here, except us snot nosed delinquents, was in uniform of some sorts. But I didn’t really know one from the other.

“Can I help you” a uniformed man asked.

“Um ah, yes Sir. I think I, well what I mean is, I would like to or perhaps – do you have any openings for a Boatswain’s Mate?” Not cool!

The guy looked at me like the dork that I was. He chuckled somewhat, gave me a book of forms and asked me, politely but assertively, to fill them out in the “fill out the book of forms” room.

I complied. It took me about an hour to complete the application, as best I could. Of some concern was the part about a criminal record, trouble with the law etc and my mind came back to that time with Timmy and the Great Record Robbery. I felt I had better be honest here and not lie for I had seen the movie and knew what happens to guys who lie in the military – Firing Squad – just like that anti-war movie “Paths of Glory” with Kirk Douglas. “Nothing glorious in being dead” I shivered to think of it myself. Then again this was the Navy. What then? Oh damn, the gangplank, as in walk it, as in how long can you tread water? As in how far can you swim? As in keel hauling, just like Jack London’s “Sea Wolf” with Edward G Robinson and John Garfield! Cookie and the shark! Good gawd man I thought to myself, stop with the movie fantasy, this is real life.

I handed the application back to the nice man in the uniform. He shuffled them into a file folder. Oh yeah, the infamous file folder. If you want to look good in the military and not be a target for some stupid duty, like KP, you walk around looking important, and busy, with a file folder in you hands – just like Phil Silvers as the Master Sergeant con man in “Sgt Bilko.” But I digress.

“Thanks John” the recruiter said, then adding “Now I have here a battery of aptitude tests for you to take: basic math, algebra, general knowledge, things of that nature. If you would be so kind as to go over to the “take the battery of aptitude tests” room and I’ll be right with you.”

In I went into the “take the battery of aptitude tests” room and sat down. I was the only dork there. The recruiter came in and told me that these tests were time sensitive in that I had a certain amount of time to complete them. Fine I thought but somewhat nervous.

“Try not to be nervous,” he reassured me. He was a nice guy actually. But then again they are all nice guys and gals until they have you dead to right or lost to your rights, right? No left!

First math – 20 minutes, done. Then some geometry, algebra – 30 minutes, done. Then general knowledge – 30 minutes – done admiralty, er admirably. Finally history – 20 minutes, done. Whew, finished, tough go for sure.

“Okay John, thanks. You can go back to reception, or go out for a smoke, or whatever. We should have the results in about 30 minutes.”

Whew, that was tough I thought. Almost two hours of this. I was a tad drained of energy.

Rabid Dogs…3

….It wasn’t long before I was out of that place. Appendicitis will do that to someone. Yet I almost died from that infection.  I was laid up in the hospital for over a week.  Lots of time to think about my future under the cloudy haziness of morphine. Weird but oh so wonderful dreams. Suddenly I could relate to my hippy brethren and their Last Chance Saloon.

Then out of the blue my sister from the wet coast called me. Seems that her husband had bought a 35 foot sailboat with the intent or dream of sailing it to Japan, his homeland. Indeed he had already made plans and departed with a Brit companion, who was a professional sailor. Together with George, his girlfriend, frigate birds and flying fish Sid made it to Hawaii in 19 days. Unfortunately this trip was a wake-up call to reality for Sid in that his dreams of maritime lore, Pacific blue and Japanese pride came crashing down on him drowning him like an emotional tsunami on his psyche, his self confidence and his personal well being.

Sid realized that he did not like open ocean sailing. He was seasick most of the time during the crossing from the west coast to Hawaii. He missed his wife as well as their first newborn child. Consequently he decided to pack it all in in Hawaii but still wanted George, the Brit, to sail the boat to Nagoya Japan, a Pacific port town that was close to Sid’s birthplace. George needed some help to achieve this as his girlfriend had split. Thus the phone call to me.

Sail to Japan? You bet. I quit my job, said goodbye to family and friends off I went to Honolulu. The Ala Wei Harbour and Ala Moana Yacht club near Waikiki would be my home for the next 6 months, then off into the wide Pacific expanse to Japan via Micronesia: the Marshall, Caroline, Gilbert and Marianas island archipelago was beckoning.

That excellent adventure is the subject of another story. Suffice to say we only made it as far as Saipan in the Marianas as the boat was taking on water as its seams were opening up under the strain of pounding seas and surf. There was no way on earth that we could sail her from Saipan to Japan as it was a “beat” all of the way up to Nagoya. Sadly I said goodbye to George, who would end up sailing the boat south from Saipan to Guam to sell her to some American sailor.  I flew to Tokyo where I proceeded to my sister’s place in a section of Yokohama called Totsuka. That was the end of this journey. Ever try speaking or learning Japanese? No wonder “hara-kiri or seppuku” was so popular. I returned home to my shit city of a city by plane about a month later.

I really enjoyed that experience and found that I was drawn to the maritime life.  By hook or by Captain Crook I had to find a way to continue on this path. Without a hesitant breath I began surveying the quays, the berths, and the jetties of the waterfront area of my home town within a nano second of arriving home. I read the local maritime shipping newspapers to see if I could some how worm my way into this profession. No luck. A longshoreman perhaps, or a deckhand, a boatswain, maybe a third mate, whatever, anything at all to belong to the maritime brotherhood. No luck. The maritime employment doors in this city at least were slammed shut on me like some battened down hatch on a ship in a storm. The union was as tight as a dolphin’s ass and was, in the vernacular, a closed shop. Unless someone died of nepotism, not likely, my chances for employment in this profession were about as slim and as ornery as a sailor’s fart upwind…