Welcome to the Dance USN

by GEORGE LICATA

  December. 2, 1972, Saturday

  Saturday, Oh boy! I thought, a day to sleep in. I must have been dreaming. The CC woke us up earlier than revelry, the SOB. He smelled of booze. He told us that he can wake us up any time he wants, the SOB. He came alone, it appears that he never slept probably drank all night.

  We have marched around this island so many times we should be able to do it blind folded. Yes, it is an island surrounded by a 12 foot barbed wire fence and a moat. It’s designed to keep us in.

  Tomorrow is church day anyone wanting to attend church. Needs to sign up now after breakfast. Doug is going, he thinks it would be nice to have a lecture of love for a change. I said having attend a catholic school, there isn’t any message of love that’s more important than giving up two extra hours of sleep. Church services require a sailor to get up two hours before revelry. Say a prayer for me Doug.

  We were marching back from morning Mess when we became aware that something was wrong at the barracks. It was the scattered cloths and shoes out the door that clued us in. The CC had us stand at parade rest outside, as he joined in the commotion inside. Five officers were in the process of inspecting the barracks; test number one. By the looks and sounds it would be fair to say we didn’t do so well.

  They found something wrong with everything. The bunks were not spaced right, cloths were folded incorrectly in the lockers that were not spaced correctly. They faulted our floors, our bathrooms our ancestors, and our beds (except Covington’s and mine). I didn’t blame them for flunking the latrine. Eight toilets were not flushed. Eight toilets bowels with fresh turds floating inside.

  The problem was the same problem we have every morning after the CC does his inspection. The company has twelve Filipinos. The US Navy is doing some joint training. The Filipinos are likeable guys, most of them. The toilet thing is a cultural thing. They didn’t grow up with toilets that flushed. Most of them had toilets outside. Some never had running water. It wasn’t completely there fault.

  Filipinos aren’t American citizens. They can join our navy on one traditional condition. It’s a navy tradition dating back to President Roosevelt. The seeds of the tradition started with the Rough Riders storming San Juan Hill in the Philippines. It became a full-fledged tradition during WWII. They can only serve as stewards to the ship’s officers. I’m told it is a dream position for most impoverished Filipinos. The barracks was the first part of the test; we failed badly. I’m writing this as we clean up the mess left behind. Later.

  After the cleanup we marched to lunch. The officers followed us to test our skills. Of course we flunked the marching test. After lunch we flunked the written test. 85% of the company needs to pass the written test. I don’t know the score I only know that we weren’t even close. The good news is we get to retake it next Saturday, after we take next week’s test. I get put up in the front line of the formation. I am on the left outside. I’m glad it was getting old stepping on that guy’s heel every day. He was starting to take it personal.

  He would turn and say, “Can you please stop stepping on me?” To which I would reply every time. “Sure, just move your fucking feet out of the way!” He wasn’t getting it. This was the guy that asked me what ocean we were next to. I told him in the winter months we are next to the Atlantic Ocean, in the summer we are next to the Pacific Ocean. He believed me, Please God don’t put me on a ship with him.

  The CC is letting us smoke a cigarette. The yeoman had them locked in a drawer. Over half of the company stepped out in the crisp night air. Half of these guys didn’t smoke. Word spread that the cigarettes were giving us a buzz, which was reason enough to start smoking. A few of the guys threw up. I smoked two cigarettes.

  Whenever the CC walks through the barracks he leaves a trail of alcohol, it wafers behind him sticking to the humidity in the air. Some of the guys take in deep breaths as he passes. Later.

  December 3, 1972, Sunday

  Darn I missed church. Doug said ten sailors attended. We know that there are some football games on TV. We know that we won’t be watching. We do get to listen to the radio at night when we are cleaning up. The whole barracks knows the words to “Me and Miss Jones.” The first floor competes with the second floor for the loudest singing.

  We heard that Nixon wants to escalate the war even more. I guess that dashes my hopes of this war ending and sending us home, the SOB. This last November I was given the historic right to vote as an eighteen year old, first time in United States history. I voted for George McGovern. He proposed to stop this unnecessary war. We know how that worked out. I think he won one state.

  It is a little more relaxed day. We spend some of the day hand washing our cloths in the basins outside of the barracks. We don’t use the shower any more to clean the cloths. Scrubbing the barracks is something we do every day. We have more time to chat with each other. I still get asked, where you from, but not as much.

  A nick name like Louisiana doesn’t fit Doug, and his last name is some unpronounceable foreign sounding name, so it’s just Doug, I’m called Licata. Most everybody except Chris likes Doug, he is the company’s funny man.

  We are assigned times in the night when we have to stand watch. The yeoman keeps me off this list, because we have become good friends. The RCO complained to the CC about me not having night watches. The CC didn’t do anything. Funny thing the RCO was assigned an extra night watch after that.

  Rodger said that Doug, Adams and I were the only sane people here. Rodger gave me some more scuttlebutt on the CC. He was already in his retirement for one year. If he came back and did a boot camp instructors stint he would get a Warrens officer retirement pay. They were desperate they had too many recruits and not enough instructors. A result of Nixon’s war build up.

  They went ahead with the draft build up but didn’t realize that they didn’t have enough trained boot camp instructors. They had to do a quick scramble scraping up what they could. Rodger tried to get the smoking lamp turned on, no avail. Later.

  December 4, 1972, Monday

  There is an art to marching. It isn’t rocket science, however one needs to focus. The guy giving the orders needs to be precise when the order is given. Usually an order is given a few seconds before it is executed to turn the troops right. Hence right face, hut. The troops are on a march, left, right, left, right. The command to turn the troops right is right face. Hearing that part the troops know that soon they will turn right. The command, “Hut!” means do it now. It needs to be given exactly when the right foot is coming off the ground. The word hut tells the marcher when the foot hit’s the ground he pivots on the ball of the foot to the right. Making the next step on the left foot forward. Left face is the same only to the left and with the left foot.

  The maneuver can also be a quarter turn, or a half turn. A quarter or half turn needs to be said. For instance: “Left quarter turn. Hut!” I would pivot the ball of my left foot a quarter turn. A full turn is 90 degrees. The troops march with eyes wide open, looking straight ahead, but we must listen to the commands. We react to only the verbal commands. The CC said, “If I march you over a cliff then I march you over a cliff, you may not stop, you are all one as a unit. You stop when I say. Company halt! Never before then, never!” No body speaks to us anymore. There is a lot of yelling around here. Maybe they think we’re all deaf.

  In the middle of the alley between the buildings are large Dumpsters. One Dumpster for every four barracks, they are as big as a dump truck. We always march around them. The whole company goes to one side or another. We watched the Texas Company split the troops. Half go to one side half to the other. They meet back together on the backside of the Dumpster. This takes multiple commands given quickly.

  Today Chris the dumb ass RCO decided to try it. He marched us straight into the metal Dumpsters. “Half company, left face. Half company, right face. Hut! The right orders, too late. I was positioned front row far left. I slammed into the Dumpster; my legs were still marching. The guys to the right of me did th
e same. The eight of us were having fun. Doug was right behind me along with the other seven guys in that row. They crashed up behind us, all our legs were still in marching motion. The whole company behind us did the same.

  For us it was good comic relief. For the RCO and the CC who was racing up to us, it was anything but funny. To the passing troops it was funny. It looked like a silent movie. We kept our legs marching without moving. I was laying on my side. To the passing CCs, it was an opportunity to join our CC in a yelling fest. Every CC in hearing range came running to get in some prime yelling. The CC asked the RCO. “What the fuck are you doing, lad?”

  The RCO was ready to cry; he pointed to me. “Sir, Licata did it, sir. He ran into the Dumpster on purpose, sir.”

  The CC stormed over to me. The company was peeling themselves off one by one. He waited until the last man pushed off my back. Doug whispered, “I think you’re in deep dodo.” He had the biggest shit eaten grin I ever saw. I turned to look at the CC. He yells. “Eyes front, worm!” He turned red from yelling; he looked embarrassed. His fellow CCs were laughing at him not me. He went on and on, I thought he would never stop.

  I blurted loudly, “Sir, I crashed into the Dumpster, sir.”

  He was stunned enough to stop screaming.

  The RCO was getting the rest of the company in formation. “I see that you ran into the Dumpster, lad. Why?”

  “Sir, it didn’t move, sir,” I answered.

  He was silent again, and then he said, “I know it didn’t move lad. But why did you run into it?”

  I said, “Sir, because I was told to, sir.”

  He was getting hotter. “Of course it didn’t move, you moron. It takes a truck to move the Dumpster. Do you see a truck, you lowlife worm?” He yelled.

  I replied, “Sir, no, sir. I do not see a truck, sir.” I added. “Sir, should I look for a truck so we can be on our way, sir?”

  He turns even redder. “You fucking worm! You don’t tell me when to go! You don’t tell me anything!” He put his face three inches in front of my nose. I could smell the booze. “Do you understand me, you asshole?”

  I stood silent.

  “Answer me, you fucking worm!” He screams.

  I shout, “Sir, I am confused, sir!”

  “What are you confused about, lad?” he asked me.

  “Sir, you told me not to tell you anything, sir.” He backs away; he is clenching his fist. I think he is going to hit me.

  The other CCs converge on him, they pull him off to the side and huddle in conference. When they finish the discussion the other CCs get their company’s and march away. Our CC commands the RCO to march us to Mess. I can hear Doug behind me whisper. “See big Dodo. That was funny.

  Back in the barracks the CC informs me my punishment is a late night working party. Rumor has it that a working party is just a cleaning party or a night watch at the Division Headquarters. It’s time to clean the barracks. Later.

  December 5, 1972, Tuesday

  I am on my way to serving my work party. I am marching with other boot camp fuckups, from other companies. We were a group of fifteen. I and five other guys were marched to Division headquarters. It’s a barracks like ours without the bunks. It has a bunch of offices. Upstairs and down stairs (upper deck and lower deck). The lobby where I was to guard was filled with all things navy brass. Brass chains that chain off brass statues, brass bomb casings, brass knobs, Brass awards on the wall. Spelled out in large brass letters on one wall is an inscription. It reads: The purpose of boot camp is to erase the recruits mind from a civilian way of thinking to a military way of thinking. I am paraphrasing but its brain washing in any language.

  I was so bored that I read the Uniform Code of Military Justice. The UCMJ is a posting of all the laws governing the military. It lists all the codes, the dos and the don’ts. The chain of command. Who to salute, when or where. What officers are allowed to do and what they are not allowed to do. What noncommissioned officers can and cannot do. The definition of a work party (using a work party as a punishment was forbidden. Work parties were used for extra training in one’s field. It instructed when a superior ranking officer must write a report detailing wrong doing. It has instructions for emergencies. It has codes to cover incidents that it doesn’t cover.

  The very first code reads, that these article must be posted on the main floor of every military building. Here in the States or in Europe or Vietnam. If it’s a military building it must have a Uniform Code of Military Justice posted in plain sight. Navy, army, air force, marines, and the coast guard. They have the same rules, in addition to the rules in the constitution, I hope.

  I read it four times before the Strip came to march us back to Worm Island. Later.

  December 6, 1972, Wednesday

  We marched to the Armory to pick up our rifles. We call them pieces. They don’t shoot, thank God. Apparently we are going to learn to march with our pieces. We can’t march now. It gets better. To the tune of “Anchors Away” we are going to learn how to perform with the rifles. We cleaned them, which was the easy part.

  We were taught how to hold them. Like everything else around here we had to all hold them the exact same way. We need to learn a 15 or 20 points of reference routine. The finger placement, the spot of the barrel on a shoulder was the same with 84 sailors. When we touched it with our left hand it was at the same time on the same spot 84 times by 84 men. It goes on and on.

  We have only practiced for 3 hours straight and I am wishing that these rifles could shoot bullets. It’s time to shoot any recruit that needs constant reminding that it’s their other left foot.

  The CC has taken to marching us as far away from the other Company’s that he can. I think he is embarrassed. This navy boot camp borders the marine boot camp. We are separated by a fence. We often march over here to practice. On the other side the marines don’t pay attention to us. We have one CC per company. It looks like they have four stripes per company. I think their stripes scream louder than ours. We practice drills, they dig holes. When they have a deep hole they are told they dug it in the wrong spot, and it needs to be moved. I wonder if the CC marches over here to show us things could be worse.

  I am still having trouble memorizing the General Orders. Luckily for me I have only been spot asked twice and they asked me to repeat order 5 both times. At any time we can be asked by any stripe. It’s like Catholic school and learning the Ten Commandments. Except the punishment then was writing them fifty times. Now it’s push-ups forever. I would rather do the push-up. Later.

  December 7, 1972, Thursday

  The RCO is a nut minus a bolt. Rodger said Chris is twenty-nine years old, married with five kids. He’s from a small town in Wyoming. They don’t have a federal building so he came to Denver to be processed. He’s a tall guy with red hair and red freckled complexion. His freckles grow when he gets frustrated. When I met him in Denver he had wild crazy hair. He looked like a mad scientist. With his hair cut short he looks like a mental escapee.

  The cleaning was just winding down and we had sung our rendition of “Me and Miss Jones” The two floors get into this great harmony when the song comes on. AM radio plays it twice an hour. When the singer sings the refrain, the upstairs guys sing in harmony down the stairwell and we sing up the stairwell. Not the whole floor, mostly anybody that is close to the stairs at that given time.

  We finished the cleaning party. I’m the one of the last guys putting the mops away. I hear this commotion in the bathroom. It sounds like the RCO is giving some recruit the business. He sounds more pissed than normal. The others on the cleaning crew want no part of it so they run away. I’m curious as to who is getting chewed out and why. If I can somehow undermine the asshole Chris I’ll try. I decide to nonchalantly use the toilet. The RCO was the only guy in the head. No one else was around. He was screaming at himself in the mirror. He even answered himself in a submissive manner. He was startled when he saw me.

  “Why are you sneaking up on me, Licata?”
he barked.

  “Why are you talking to yourself, Wyoming?” I barked back.

  His eyes nearly fell out of their sockets. Nobody called him that name before. I said, “Fuck with me and I will drop you, you motherfucker. I have wanted to kick your ass. Let’s do this thing now. You and me. We’re alone!”

  He turned and walked off quickly. He never said a word about it.

  I told Doug and Rodger what happened. Doug asked if he was giving more orders or getting more orders from the man in the mirror. I recalled one of the conversations I had with Chris back in Denver. He said he never smoked pot or did any drugs in his life. Maybe he should have. On the other hand maybe we should be glad he didn’t do drugs, it could be worse. I wish we could have a cigarette tonight. Later.

  December 8, 1972, Friday

  The CC is in a rage. No rest, no talking, keep moving. He was barking orders ninety miles an hour all day. We didn’t know what order to carry out. They changed at the speed of light. Tomorrow is our test and retest. He is worried that we will fuck it up. So am I. So are we. Later.

  December 9, 1972 Saturday.

  We did it. We flunked our weekly test, plus we flunked our retest. Next Saturday we will take a weekly test and a retest and a re-retest. I can’t wait in tell this life is over. Or at least this week. After we cleaned the mess left for us by the testing officers, and we flush the turds down the toilets again. We had some rare free time.

  Our first mail call. I got a letter. My parents used the return address on my package of cloths I sent home, I haven’t written them. It wrote the usual stuff. Mostly they were wondering if I was coming home for Christmas. They already knew the answer. In the history of the navy, no boot camp recruits went home for the holidays. It would undo what boot camp was trying to do. Get us to think like the military. My folks were fishing for possible surprises. They wanted to fly to Arizona to spend Christmas with my mom’s family. They wanted to be assured that I wasn’t coming home. If I had not been in the navy, they would never leave for two weeks. If they did I would be partying for two weeks. They were taking my younger brother Rock and his friend Tony. Too bad because I know Rock would also party hearty if he stayed home. My brothers Joe, Gary and Kenny were more responsible. Bless their souls. Guess I’ll send the letter so they can be assured that I won’t be home for Christmas.