Welcome to the Dance USN

by GEORGE LICATA

We went through the usual ritual to find pot after we checked in to the hotel. Three guys on one side of Market Street. The other three on the other side. If pot is readily available the dealer walks up and down the streets speaking under his breath. Pot. Hash. Reds. Acid. Whatever it is that they had to sell. This night had few dealers on the street.

  After about an hour I was ready to give up. A guy that we had bought from before approached us. “I can get it if you give me the money.”

  “No fucking way, man.”

  “Come on, you guys trust me don’t you, man.”

  “Sure, I trust you. I’m still not giving you the money, man.” It went on like this in till one of his friends walked by. “Joe!” Says the dealer. “Stay with these guys in till I get back with the pot ok? Man.” Joe thinks about it for a while. The dealer pleads with him. “Come on, man, help out a friend, man.” Joe finally gives in. The other guys had gathered around. We took it to the alley.

  The dealer ran off into the night with the money. Joe looked worried. We waited for 15 minutes. Joe informed us that he had to go, he had some place to be. We said no. he said he can’t be responsible for Bob. He didn’t really even know Bob, he’s only seen him around. I said he should have thought of that before he offered himself up for a human sacrifice. Joe looked worried.

  Joe tried to bolt, Okie and Saul held him by the arms. I went on a triad. I told Joe that he was the lowest form of human. How could he rip us off and be a follower of the peace love movement. I was on a roll when Peter did a round house kick and planted his foot on Joes jaw. Joe went tumbling away from the grip that Okie and Saul had on him. Joe landed on the ground, on his back, Stunned.

  I jumped on him with my knee to his chest. I pummeled him in the face a few times. He pleaded with me to stop. I hit him a few more times. I said, “You owe the same to Bob.”

  He said, “Stop, I have pot!”

  I stopped. “Give it up.” He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a bag of pot, I snatched it. “Got any more, dirtbag?” He pulled out another bag. I grabbed it too. He turned all his pockets inside out, nothing.

  I told him to take off his pants, he did. We all peed on the pants. I didn’t want him following us. We did a quick walk back to the hotel. Acid and lots of pot we were set for a great last week end. Later.

  Saturday morning after we ate the acid Peter and I decided to go to China Town. We were peaking when the fireworks went off. It was some sort of celebration. Wow!

  Two of the cutest girls drove by, they waved we waved back. They came back again and stopped. They were the girls in every school that all the guys wanted to date. They were the girls that you wanted to take home to mom. “Want to go for a ride?” they asked. Sure we were so fucked up we were ready for anything.

  One of the chicks crawled to the back seat. Peter got in the front, I got in the back. The girl in the back quickly slid herself next to me. The car sped off. I started to laugh, Peter uncontrollably joined in. When we finished laughing the girls asked us. “How is the acid?”

  “It was the laughing kind.” I offered before I bust out laughing again. “Do you guys want to have some fun” The girl cooed to me. “More fun than I’m having now, sure, man,” I answered. Peter started laughing again I followed suit.

  I had tears running out of my eyes when the girl said, “You know what I mean boys.” I don’t know what made Peter and I think that, this was two foxes seeing two guys having fun and they wanted to join in. This wasn’t that. “Two things lady” I said laughing. “One, I have never paid for sex. Two, I never will” The driver hit the brakes and Peter and me found ourselves on the side of a road laughing out of control.

  We eventually made our way back to the hotel. Walking down the hotel hall on our floor, we could hear loud laughter coming from our room. We opened the door and entered the room, the six of us burst out laughing. We couldn’t stop. It was the laughingest acid ever, if there is such a word. We needed it. It’s late Sunday night now, I need some sleep. Later.

  March 12, 1973, Monday

  Barry got me put on his work detail. We are going to be base mailmen. We have some papers to deliver to other military bases. It turned out to be only one base, Alameda Air Base. We are going to watch the pilots practice take off and landings. Barry brought me some pot. He didn’t care if I smoked, his buddy’s in Nam did much worse. Who was he to judge?

  It was a sight. We watched F-16s descend from the sky at high speeds. As soon as the wheels touch the asphalt, the pilot kicks in the jets and, Vroom! Straight back up to the sky it flies. They do it over and over. We watched in admiration.

  Barry told me his story in between landings.

  Barry grew up in rural Nebraska farmland. He grew up in a city that had a population of a little over a thousand. Barry’s life was very predictable. Work hard on the farm. Go to school play sports. Sunday was reserved for church and family. Above all: love God love Country.

  When country comes calling a young red blooded American like Barry doesn’t need to be asked twice. Barry didn’t wait for a draft notice. Barry enlisted before he graduated from high school. He left the day after graduation. Barry had a sense of duty. During Barry’s interview with the navy recruiter he wanted to know how he could serve his country and do the most to wipe out the communist threat. The recruiter directed him to the Special Forces. Barry elected to become a Navy SEAL. The Navy SEALs and Barry were a perfect fit.

  A young strapping man six foot two and not a pound of fat on him. Most importantly he had a mind that was open to brain washing. Let’s be perfectly honest here, the military can only function if all personnel is on the same page. That page: follow orders or die. The military doctrine at boot camp states; that it’s propose is to change your mind from a civilian way of thinking to a military way of thinking. The SEAL program took that doctrine to a whole other level. In the Special Forces a sailor needs to do things that a normal human beings morally would not do.

  Barry excelled as a Navy SEAL his kill goal was far above any in his company. He received accommodations and medals until they didn’t mean anything.

  The mission of the Navy SEALs was to create havoc behind enemy lines. The preferred way was to kill people and blow things up. Factory’s or villages, anything or anybody that was cooperating with the enemy, or not. Chaos was just as effective. Set bobby traps, engage in gun battles, things like that. The E in SEALs stands for explosive expert. Each team member had a kill number that they had to reach each month. If a SEAL member was not reaching their goal they didn’t get R and R leave.

  One particular month Barry was sick. This caused him to slack on his kill goal. When he recovered he devised a plan to get his kills quickly. Sadly but true, is this fact; if you put a young man in this situation they can’t be accountable to make a good moral judgment. Most if not all SEALs that worked behind enemy lines blurred the vision between right and wrong. The felling in the Special Forces was, if you lived in northern Vietnam then you supported the enemy and you became the enemy. Most of the occupying forces felt the same way. The South were friends the North were foes. Truth was, foes were in the north and the south, and they all mostly hate us. War is that way.

  Barry found a poor old farmer that he bribed. The farmer was to hide him in his ox driven cart and take him to an enemy camp under the guise of delivering produce. Barry hid under the produce in the cart he had two M-16s locked and loaded and 15 hand grenades. The farmer stopped, Barry heard voices, and he came out firing. Barry used all the bullets and grenades he had. He killed everything in sight including the ox and its owner. Barry sliced off an ear of each of the dead and stuffed them into his leather pouch, by the weight he knew that he made a big score. Bear disappeared into the jungle and made his way back to the front lines and SEAL headquarters. Barry thought it was only a few days that he was out behind enemy lines. The navy knew it was two weeks.

  When a SEAL Team member came from the jungle back to camp he was required to turn his ear bag over to the CO
at headquarters, first thing. The brass didn’t want the public to have knowledge about the kill goal. Each ear was counted, the SEAL was given credit and the ears were destroyed.

  Naked Barry emptied out his bag as usual, what was not usual was the size of most of the ears. Small ears not adult ears, one ox ear. You did good lad casualties of war. Suck it up Sailor.” He commanded.

  Barry did suck it up. He sucked it up all the way to R and R, and at his hotel he found a bible. Barry could no longer suck it up. His memory came back to him in a flash. When the farmer and his cart stopped he was at a market. Not the camp of the enemy as he expected. A market filled with women, old men and children. None of the victims knew what hit them all of them were massacred none survived. Barry needed the good book now more than any time in his life. Barry needed forgiveness. He doesn’t remember the rest. What happened between the market and him turning over the ears was a blank. That was the last mission that Barry went out on.

  The navy wants to send Barry home. They want to give him another skill. Not too much demand for trained killers in the civilian world. He chose hull technician. We spent the day on the air base. He didn’t smoke but I swear he got a contact high. He was learning how to laugh again.

  A great thing about military bases, I can drop by any one for chow. All I need is my military ID. This one is serving steak. Later.

  March 14, 1973 Wednesday

  The mess hall has banned seconds, they blame a direct order from Nixon. My name must have gotten lost in the watch list shuffle. I have drawn my first watch ever since leaving boot camp. It is from 0200 to 0600 tomorrow morning. I will be guarding a piece of the base outside.

  Yesterday and today I was on the housing detail. Cleaning the lobby, the master-at-arms’ office, and anything that needed over cleaning. During a conversation with the chief’s I called the bulkhead the wall. The chief pointed out to me that it was a bulkhead. I said it was a wall before it was a bulkhead. The other chief said it has always been a bulkhead. I asked him when he was a little boy at school did he have walls or bulkheads. They said it is a bulkhead. I said what happens if I call it a wall, I never read anything in the UCMJ about a punishment if I call it a wall. “What the hell Licata!” said the master-at-arms. “Do you carry a copy of the UCMJ with you?”

  “No, I don’t need to, what the hell do you think that is, Chief!” I pointed to the lawfully posted copy of the UCMJ. The two of them turned their heads to look at the laminated posting. “That’s all you need to know” I said as I walked off to empty my mop bucket. Later.

  March 15, 1973, Thursday

  Last night before my watch Garza talked me into going to the club. We figured because it was a week night it may not be as packed. We were wrong. It took over an hour to get a drink. We ordered three at a time. After the third round I was really soused. Before I knew it I was staggering to my watch detail.

  I strengthened up as I relived the watch. He knew I was drunk, but he wasn’t about to make waves. If he did he would end up pulling my watch. “The SPs drive by every two hours. If they see you wave at them they drive on“. He informed me. He gave me his sash and whistle. He walked away and disappeared in the dark.

  I saw the head lights of the jeep down the road. They blinked their head lights on and off at me. I waved, they drove off. I had my alarm clock. I set it for 0400 hours. I saw a large tree, the grass under the tree was dark, and it was shading the night lights. I laid down and fell asleep. The alarm rang just as I saw the head lights. I crawled away from the tree. I stood up, I started walking. The lights finally hit on me, I waved. They drove to me. “Everything okay, lad?” he asked.

  “All is quiet out here,” I replied.

  “Stay alert, lad.” They drove off. I walked back to the tree and fell asleep.

  When I woke up I saw the red tail lights of the jeep driving away in the dark. I yelled to get their attention. They kept driving. I was approached by a sailor. “Are you the watch?” he asked.

  “I am,” I replied. “Are you my replacement?”

  He was; they had been looking for me. They couldn’t find me. The SPs were headed back to headquarters to write me up for desertion. “Where the hell is Shore Patrol Headquarters?” I asked. He pointed in the opposite direction that the jeep was headed. “They need to make one more stop. If you hurry straight to the Headquarters you can beat them there. It’s by the theater.” He informed me. I knew right where it was. I gave him the whistle and sash. I ran fast enough that I think I blew the stench of liquor from my person.

  I found the watch commander in the building. I told him I was on watch. I was patrolling a dark area, they couldn’t see me. The SPs in the jeep didn’t hear me either. I found my replacement, gave him my stuff. Now here I am reporting in. I just finished my story when the first-class petty officer walked through the door. “Is this the watch you reported missing over the radio?” The commander asked. “Are you Licata?” the petty officer asked me.

  “I am,” I answered. He looked around, all eyes were on him. “I am arresting you for desertion.” He calmly said, “Isn’t it kind of hard for me to desert when I’m here?” I calmly stated. The commander looked at him he looked at me. “Can you prove it, Charlie?” he asked. “He did pass the guard to the next watch and he is here.” Charlie was silent. “You’re dismissed, lad,” said the commander.

  I got back here and wrote it down. I think I can get in some more sleep I still feel drunk. I don’t need to report to the master-at-arms in till 0800. Later.

  March 16, 1973, Friday

  We got our airplane tickets to San Diego. We fly out on Saturday. We check in on our new base Sunday. Peter’s brother found us an apartment to rent. It’s in Mission Beach. It is a beach front apartment. The rent is six hundred a month. We decided to let Jerry rent it with us. He offered to pay half the rent. The rest will be split by Okie, Peter and myself. Garza, Moe and Saul decided to live on base. It is a thirty minute drive by car. And an hour by bus to the base.

  The master-at-arms informed me that the charges brought against me by Brice will happen. But not on this base. The military court proceedings will take place on Monday in San Diego. Fucking Brice.

  We are going to a last concert, it is in Berkeley on the college campus. Paul Butterfield and the Blues Band. We aren’t spending the night we will take a bus back to night. Later.

  March 18, 1973, Sunday

  Peter and I checked in to the master-at-arms on base in San Diego. We looked at the beach apartment yesterday. We met the owners, and signed the lease. An older hip couple own and live here. You would have to be hip to live on the boardwalk.

  The apartment is on the boardwalk, it is off season. We got a bargain, two bed rooms, fully furnished and kitchen utensils. Each bedroom room has two beds and a bathroom. The kitchen and the living room have two large storm windows. The view of the ocean is unobstructed. The sound of the pounding surf is crystal clear and unending. We are on the second floor. This complex has six units up, six down. It is on Lido Street, Mission Beach, California.

  We spent the night at the apartment last night. We flipped a coin to see who sleeps where. Jerry and I share the bedroom to the left. Okie and Peter have the bedroom to the right. They have a back entrance and a small porch 10' × 10'. The porch is the back door; it has its own stairs. The main floor level has a big patio between the building and the stone wall that separates us from the boardwalk. Beyond that is the beach and the ocean. Wow! It is so boss.

  The bad news is I have a captain’s mast. I know what that is from reading the UCMJ. Those late night one man study halls are paying off. The Constitution of the United States guarantees all citizens the right to have capable representation, any time we are brought before a court of law. This extends to the military. After all we are assigned the task of defending that Constitution, it’s in our oath, it should cover us too.

  A captain’s mast is in between that court of law and a legal inquiry of facts. I get no representation; me and the captain
. He asks the questions I answer them. However this is the military, and the captain can hand out a punishment. Fuck it, that pussy Brice is not going to ruin this night at the beach house. The captain’s mast is tomorrow at 1600 hours after the first day of class. Tonight I will fall asleep to the sound of waves. Later.

  March 19, 1973, Monday

  The classes here in San Diego are on the maintenance side of the hull technician rate. The classes in San Francisco were about saving the ship. We didn’t do that so well, we died much too often. I’m on the same base that boot camp was on, a different side of a very large base. I hope we don’t die here also. Some of our classmates are not with us; they scored too low to continue.

  We begin the welding process tomorrow. Today we will do orientations in the morning and lectures in the afternoon. Later.

  For the life of me I don’t know what the hell I was thinking when I selected hull technician for my Rate. I have never welded in my life. I haven’t even hardly seen anybody do any welding. I think the firefighting distracted me. Add to that we are the ships plumbers. What do I know about plumbing? What the hell was I thinking of?

  Each week is dedicated to a specific project. Like welding steel to steel. It sounds simple, unless you have no clue how. Brass to steel, tin to brass, brazing. All of them require a different welding technique. We are assigned our own booths. The booths are five feet by five feet, each have a bench with a vice. Tanks of oxygen and acetylene, on one wall. The other wall has the wires to an arc welder. A single shelf holds the nozzles, flux, rods, brushes, helmet, shields, goggles and all the attachments I need. The entrance has a black metal curtain.

  Each project is welded to the next project. We are making a vessel of different metals welded to each other. The open end we will thread, so we can screw it to a water pressure pump. The vessel needs to hold 180 PSIs (pounds per square inch) before it leaks. Each week was a pass and move on week. If we don’t believe they are serious then look around at the empty seats. Pass and move on. Fail and scrap barnacles. The two sailors that have the best score can go on to underwater welding school in Hawaii. I have some time before my captain’s mast. Just enough time to go smoke a doobie. I just don’t know where. Later.