Cleaning is finished and the smoking lamp is on we can light up for thirty minutes. Over half of the company has taken up smoking. It turns into a bitch session because we are buzzed. We are on extra duty. They think we have more time to do extra stuff. This extra stuff is because we are flunking all our tests. Even our personal uniform test. If a certain number of recruits fail to wear their uniforms properly, we all fail. I can understand why, we are a unit. I can understand us failing to march properly. If you don’t know which ocean you are next to, while serving in the navy of all places. Right foot, left foot can be confusing if you’re stupid.
I can understand us as a whole failing the written test. Let’s face it we aren’t the brightest bulbs in the pack. But the most frustrating thing is we flunk the cleaning test. Fifty percent of our awake time is devoted to cleaning. This old barracks is spotless. We clean in the morning. We clean in the afternoon. We clean in the evening and way into the night hours. We clean corners, we clean edges, and we clean under edges. We clean crevices, cracks, floors, walls and knobs. We clean screws, nuts bolts and wires. We clean toilets and toilet bowls. We clean showers and sinks. We clean the pipes connected to the sinks.
It doesn’t matter even though four of us are ordered to give the head a last look and flush. Some of the Philippians sneak back and take a dump then forget to flush. Turds in one toilet is a reason to fail, four turds and it’s over. We failed so the officers trashed the barracks again. Later.
The barracks is cleaned up now. We are getting good at working as a team to get things back in order quickly. We get a lot of practice. We are trying to be patient with the Fhilippians. We think they get it this time. It’s okay if at the last minute you realize you need to shit. It happens. You run back inside before the formation is fully formed up. You take a quick dump. It’s happened to all of us once or twice, we flush the toilets. They forget.
We jumped on them hard this time it almost came to fighting. They backed down and told us we are right, they need to remember to flush. We all seem to get along for the most part. We share the bond of being the worst Company, it is a bond. Except for Chris, not many guys like him. Company 448 our sister company next door is the second worst out of fifty two Company’s. I shouldn’t include the Texas Company. The whole brigade hates them. After weekly testing the company with the highest grade gets an extra flag. They have them all, the SOB’s. I got a buzz off two cigarettes, it’s time to study. Later.
December 10, 1972, Sunday
The church march is getting larger. I can understand why. If there ever was a place to get the hell scared out of you, this is it right here.
We spend more time cleaning on Sundays than the other days. Except for us boot campers and the mess hall, the base is shut down. The only classes we attend are the ones the CC screams at us. Rodger changes the work detail frequently. From day to day I never know what detail I’m on. It’s never a bad one but always different. This way everybody has to do almost everything. It also gives us a chance to get to size each other up. To get to know each other. Time to pick friends. Time to decide who you can count on. Time to see who shares your interests.
We all look alike, dressed alike, we wear the same colors every day. We do everything the same, eat, shit, shave, shower, the same type towels and soap, the same haircut. We eat the same food at the same place, we study the same lesson at the same time. The only difference in us is our past. The only way to know that difference is with conversation.
Most of the company is trying to figure out who is queer. They have it narrowed down three guys. I happen to like two of them, the flag barrier Frenchy and guy called Ike. So I don’t give a damn. I don’t know the other guy. Frenchy is a squirrelly guy that tries to over please everybody. He finds a way to get along with everyone. I think that’s a good way to be, under these circumstances.
Ike is a guy that seems feminine, not so much girly feminine. He is in touch with his feminine side. He is one of those guys that would rather read books than watch football. Neither of them have a confrontational attitude. They are the types that run from aggression. Ike was a student in the seminary. He was six months from becoming a priest. He dropped it all and enlisted. He said he was missing something. My catholic school back ground leads Ike and me to some great bible conversations, it takes my mind off of the navy crap, if momentarily.
The company is trying to decide who the toughest guy is. My vote goes to the RMAA, the Recruit master-at-arms, Armando. He’s quiet, unless he needs to get somebody to understand his order. Otherwise he is laid back and easily amused. He’s as big as a door, his arms are three of mine. His chest is a barrel. I don’t want to be the guy that’s finds out how bad he is. Other possible bads include Sam, a rock chiseled black guy. Sam is older maybe 27, over six feet tall. Rumor has it he was a pro boxer before enlisting. Again nobody wants to find out. Sam is quiet he keeps to himself. He doesn’t engage in conversations even with the other black guys. Another is one of the Fhilippians’. Ki, word is he is a black belt in something. And he is the karate instructor for the rest of the Fhilippians, when they were at home. The other recruits at the top of the list is that crazy Italian from Denver. The guy that would love to take your head off and spit in it, just for the practice.
The funniest guy hands down is Doug, he was the only one mentioned. The most likeable was Adams, Adams was the big brother that if you didn’t have, he would be the one you would want. Tall stocky, always complementary and ready to help.
We almost to the man agreed that the most hated was Chris, the RCO. Later.
December 12, 1972, Tuesday
New rumor, this one is from the CC. If we pass our weekly test, our retest and our re retest we may get to go home for Christmas. If we fail we get sent back an extra week on worm island.
This puts a lot of pressure on the CC. I’m sure he doesn’t want to spend Christmas with us no more that we want to spend Christmas with him, here. Either way if this is true it is historical.
Our new form of punishment is jumping jacks using our rifles. Fuck up and its 100 jumping jacks. If he is extra pissed he throws in 50 push-ups. Fuck ups are becoming more not less. We are never seeing Christmas. Later.
Just broke up another fight. Tempers are short. The lack of nicotine and the pressures are building up. Lines are being drawn between the guys that get it, and the guys that hold us back. I’m in the middle with my friends. We realize that it’s up to us to help these slow guys. If they don’t pass we don’t pass. Getting into fights with them makes it worse. Get caught fighting and the wrath comes down on us all. I jump in before it comes to fists. I just want to get out of here. Besides, if I can’t kick somebody’s ass, then no one gets too. Later.
December 14, 1972, Thursday
Bad news, we are unable to wake up Adams this morning. His bunk is down at the end, next to the wall. We have been good at getting out of bed at the crack of first light. A weeks’ worth of flying beds with sleeping recruits in them and we get the point. The CC has let up on the overturning of the bunks.
A bunch of us gather around Adams. Small trickles of blood are coming from his ears and nose. He is breathing normal. We can’t wake him up. I want to wait before we tell the CC. The CC gave us the usual 30 minutes to fall into formation. Then he went off to have a quick drink. The RCO wants to call an ambulance. I told him I would break his leg if he touched the door to the office. Most of the company felt the same. We wiped his face. We got ready hoping that he would wake up before it was time to fall in. The CC came back early and made the decision for us.
As the ambulance drove away with Adams we are all thinking the same thing. He’ll go to the hospital, when he gets out they will put him in a different company. A company that is a week or two behind us. We all feel sad about this event. Except Chris he seems indifferent.
Marching back from breakfast we were somber. The RCO said we needed to pick up the pace. We needed to kick it in. I said I needed to kick his ass in. The CC heard it and I g
ot another working party. Starting at midnight.
I was assigned to guard battalion headquarters again. I must have done a good job last time. Another recruit from my company was going to the party with me. Barlo was a tall black guy. He is pissed off most of the time. Always finding something to bitch about. Most of the time I agreed with him. I liked him we had some good conversations. We marched through the gates and over the bridge, away from Worm Island. The crowd of malcontents was larger tonight. I was left at the Headquarters. I think the rest of them including Barlo, are headed to the Mess hall to do some early morning food prep.
About an hour into the watch I could hear what sounded like a chase. I heard someone run by the building. I heard a crowd giving chase. I went out the door to see. I saw Barlo climbing the fence to freedom he squeezed through the top barbed wire with ease. The stripes chasing him stopped at the fence. They cussed and waved spoons at Barlo. The stripes wore aprons. The way they were carrying on I thought they had lost tomorrow’s dinner. They turned back and headed the way they came. When they passed me they threw out some choice cuss words, and told me to mind my own business. I said, “Sir, I am on watch. I’m watching, it’s my job, sir” They shook their heads and muttered “Asshole.” Or words to that effect. I went back to reading the UCMJ. I was reading the part that gives all service personnel a five-minute pee break per hour, I find this very interesting. Later.
I finally get back to the barracks minus Barlo. I might get one or two hours sleep. If I can get warm. Later.
December 16, 1972, Saturday
The drinking water in San Diego tastes like a glass of Alka-Seltzer left out for two days. It taste more like chemicals than water. I am having a hard time drinking it.
Surprise, we failed our weekly test. We failed our retest and our re retest. As it stands, next week is a weekly test, a retest, a re-retest and a re–re-retest. We flunked the marching I can see that. Our appearances are still on the sloppy side I understand that failed test. I thought that we could squeak by the written tests. We have taken up quizzing each other during cleaning periods. We should have passed. Cleaning time has increased a lot, mostly due to our extra, extra duty. It comes down to turds in the toilet, no toilet paper only turds. Crap and go, wham bam.
Earlier before this inspection we were falling into formation, and Doug pushed me from behind. When I turned around to see what he wanted, he pointed with his thumb, indicating for me to look that way. I did, and I saw three guys making that last-minute mad dash to piss or shit; it was three Filipinos. Without saying a word we both broke ranks and followed them. We waited in tell they all ran back to the formation. Doug ran down one side of the commodes. I ran down the other side. Sure enough, three unflushed toilets. We flushed and ran back to formation, catching the wrath of the CC for lollygagging.
Two unflushed toilets, containing human waste. That is what the report said. In spite of Doug’s and my efforts they found crap. It’s the dump kings of no wipe, no flush land. We failed. Later.
It’s Saturday evening now, we start our extra, extra duty on Sunday. On Monday we cross the moat to exit Worm Island. They expect that we can pass all the tests that we failed on some later date. We also are going home for Christmas. Yes you heard it correctly. Under normal circumstances this wouldn’t happen. Because we are the largest number of boot campers ever. We need the largest number of military and civilian personnel to take care of us. This is the lesson they learned from Thanksgiving. It affected the higher Brass. They decided that we are not going to ruin their Christmas plans. Send everybody home for Christmas, problem solved. Make it our two weeks leave. The leave we would get after boot camp. The recruits behind us on Worm Island they stay, this would include Adams, that’s fucked up.
The RCO tries to have some influence over the cleaning details. The Yeomen could give a crap. He only listens to the RCO because the rules say he must. The assignments were posted, the RCO took it down and went in the CC office. This is where Rodger also had his desk. “I told you I want Licata assigned to commode duty!” yelled Chris. “Don’t you yell at me, fuck you!” replied Rodger. Some of the guys and me watched in the hall. “I’m the RCO you just got yourself a write up.” declared the RCO. Rodger pulled the form pad from the desk and tossed it to Chris. “Go ahead, you can fill these out blindfolded. Add this too. You’re a poor ignorant excuse for a human. Do you know how to spell mother fucker, because that is what you are?” Rodger said as he settled back in his chair.
We were cracking up. The RCO turned to us and said, “You men need to get back to work.”
I said, “Sir, I’m mopping the hall, sir.” Then I flipped him the bird. He tore another paper from the pad. The other guys laughed louder. He turned back and glared at us. They flipped him the bird. He ripped another page from the pad.
Let me stop here. What I know by now. What these other guys know by now. What Chris refused to acknowledge by now is; the military runs on paper. The RCO’s ego wouldn’t allow him to see the truth. The RCO out ranked the Yeomen. Chris kept reminding Rodger of that fact. However it’s about the paperwork.
In the military there are forms for everything, even a form for no form. Forms change daily and are replaced or supplemented by other forms. Forms for maneuvers, forms for materials, forms for men, for women, for waste; in triplicate. Then there is the storing of the forms, the fillings. This needs to be done efficiently, quickly and completely, daily. It is complicated, put a crack in it or break it down and you destroy a military. No commander wants to be the one holding up headquarters over the lack of paperwork. A good yeoman is king. Rodger graduated collage at the age of nineteen.
The argument escalated. “Do your job, Yeoman!” the RCO demanded.
“Fuck off! I am doing my job,” Rodger replied.
“I say you’re not!” the RCO said.
The yeoman got out of the chair He walked to the CC’s desk and picked up a stack of papers three feet high. He placed them on his desk. He went to another desk and pointed at two more stacks of forms, two feet high each. He stood toe to toe, eye to eye with Chris. “I resign. You do it. Those papers need to be placed into the right file. Those files need to be put in the filling cabinet. When you finished with that expect to start over again, because the daily packet from Division is due any time now.” He didn’t blink an eye.
Chris’s eyeballs were ready to burst. “I’ll inform the CC,” squeaked Chris.
“No, you won’t, I’ll tell him,” Rodger answers.
“I am the commander. You will do as I say,” the RCO commands.
“Really?” answers the yeoman. “He’s off base. Here’s the phone. Call him.” He takes the bulky black phone off the desk; it had a short cord. Rodger offers it up to the RCO. The RCO swats the phone away. It crashes on the desk. Rodger sits, picks up the phone, and clicks it to get a dial tone. Rodger puts the receiver to his ear, looks up at the RCO, and says, “That’s right, you don’t know his number. He didn’t give it to you.” Rodger dials the rooter on the phone. If the CC wasn’t here, he was at the base bar. Rodger had the number, Chris didn’t. He dialed the second number—click, click, click—the rooter reset to 1. He dialed the third number, click, click.
“Hang up the phone. I order you, Yeoman, hang up the phone! I will write you up!” Chris ordered. He rips off another page. Rodger paid Chris no attention. He connected with the bar, and they were getting the CC. “Sir, yes, it’s me, sir. Sorry to bother you, sir. Sir, can you come to the barracks, sir? I need you to take care of a problem that the RCO has brought up, sir.” He pauses, listening on the phone. “Sir, no, sir, neither one. Sir, no, sir, Licata or Doug are not involved, sir.” He pauses. “Sir, yes, I am also shocked, sir.” He grins at me. The RCO is turning twelve shades of red. “Sir, thank you, sir. I will see you then, sir.”
Rodger gets up from his chair. “I need to go pee.” He walks out into the hall where we are. He whispers to us. “He’s at the base bar. He’ll be here in ten.” He smiled and went to pee.
It didn’t take the CC long to arrive; he was smoking hot. He didn’t pay any attention to us in the hall. He stormed past us like we didn’t exist. He was zeroed in on the office. Rodger was back by now.
“What the fuck is going on here!” he bellowed. The RCO started to say something. He was cut off. “Shut your pie hole, worm. I wasn’t talking to you. I was asking my yeoman.” He turned to Rodger standing at attention next to his desk. The CC softens his tone. “What is going on here, Rodger, relax, sit.”
Rodger sat in his desk chair. “Sir, the RCO informed me that I was not doing my job properly. Therefore, I handed him my resignation, sir.”
The CC turned back to the RCO. “What do you have to say for yourself, lad?”
“Sir, I gave the yeoman a direct order. He refused to follow it, sir,” the RCO answered.
The CC stood staring at the RCO for a few seconds. His tongue was swirling in his mouth; he was swallowing a lot. He exploded. “You gave my yeoman an order? Who told you to give my yeoman an order? Let’s get one thing straight. You are the thing that lives on worm shit. The yeoman is the worm. I don’t need you. Do you see the picture here, lad?” he asked, still staring at the RCO. There’s only one reason you are involved with the work that my yeoman does. It’s because of regulations. Are you understanding me, son?”
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