I was on a roll. “You, sir insult me by falsely stating that my friends betrayed me with lies. Friends don’t do that. You wouldn’t know because a man like you wouldn’t have friends. I have to take crap every day from higher ranking sailors than me, every day. I’ll be damned if I’m going to take it from you. Mr. Fuck head FBI man. How dare you insult me, you piece of shit. Fuck you!”
He leaped out of his chair, it crashed against the wall behind him. He placed his hands on the desk like he was getting ready to leap over it, and jump down my throat. I held my ground, I stared him down daring him to leap. We both stood over the desk staring at each other. He was staring down, I was staring up.
Buford calmly stood up. I turned to him. “If I get beat to a pulp by a FBI agent is that grounds for a discharge.” Buford smiled. I looked back to the agent. “If you don’t have any evidence to charge me with, you had better let me go.” I waited for his reply. He stood their breathing heavily. “That’s what I thought,” I said. I walked to the door I opened it. Before I left the room I turned back to the agent. “If you want to rid the navy of drugs then stop drafting. What you end up with is a bunch of guys that don’t want to be here. We’re going to do whatever we can to make this hell hole tolerable. Stupid fuck.”
I walked back to the barracks. The guys all had the same story. Witnesses saw us and we each turned on each other. That guy watches too much TV. No one bought the story that he had a confession. It was worth a good laugh. We have the afternoon free. The guys are taking me bowling. I missed chow because I was the last one in, I am starved. Later.
July 17, 1973, Tuesday
I get more respect from the black guys than Pickle does. Today at chow he attempted to sit at a table that was full of black sailors. They wouldn’t do the hand jive with him. They said move along white boy. All the raciest white guys call him jungle bunny. When I get called a Whop or a Ginny I have some place to go. Pickle is a rare breed. Neither side wants him. He is the butt of most of the jokes. Pickle doesn’t care. He’s a chick magnet, black or white. He could get the girls with his sense of humor alone. Add to that his tall dark and handsomeness, they flock to him.
The other day we were sitting at a table eating chow. A cute girl walks up to him. “Are you Pickle? My friend Patty knows you. She said to tell you hello. My name is Yolanda.” Patty comes up behind Yolanda. “Hi Pickle is Yolanda bothering you. I can tell her to leave us alone if you want me to. She can be a pain.” Yolanda is not about to let Patty one up her, She tries to sit down in the booth, next to Pickle. Pickle keeps smiling but he doesn’t scoot over. She stands back up. The woman knows she needs to offer more. “Tell me Pickle do you know anything about lamps. I can’t get the lamp in my single person room to turn on. I was wondering, would you mind helping me.” Off went Pickle, we usually don’t see him in tell the next morning.
The day that the padre escorted me back here I made a dark attitude adjustment. I decided that I wasn’t going to make any more friends. When you make friends in the military it happens fast. I miss all those guys that have moved on. These are people that after knowing for one week I would give my life for them. I don’t want to do it anymore. I choose to become a rock. Like the song. I am a rock, I am an island. This is what I was going to be from here on end. No one in, no one. It lasted one day.
I gave Pickle his name the first day I saw him. The first full day here I was walking back from chow. I saw two black guys harassing him. They were calling him mailto boy and other racist names. One of the guys kept telling him he looked like a pickle. It was so absurd it was funny. It was two on one. I walked up and said to Pickle. “Hey old friend do you need some help?” As soon as the two chicken shits saw that they no longer outnumbered Pickle they moved on. After that I started calling him Pickle. He thought it was funny, somehow it stuck. Later.
July 22, 1973, Sunday
My bunk and locker is on the third floor. It is so high we are physically up four stories. The ceiling on the main floor is fourteen feet high. The roof is a few feet drop from the window next to my bunk. If I go out and climb up to the very top of the roof, I am four stories high. We find it too easy to go up there to get high. Nobody can see us unless they shine a light up there. The other way to get high is to go down the stairs and out the front door. In the day or evening we have to pass the master-at-arms. Late at night the doors are locked. We have a fire escape at the end of the floor, but we are strictly forbidden to use it.
Most of the guys passing through the transit barracks choose to stay in the other wings. The four of us occupy this whole wing, mostly. We have guys stay on this wing from time to time each lasting a few days. We decided that we are tired of looking at the straight line of bunk beds. Colin bought a small TV. We set our bunks in a square, using the wall as one side. We have our own entrance to our personal space. Later.
July 23, 1973, Monday
Today while we were at our work detail the master-at-arms put our bunks back the navy way. He confiscated the TV.
We’re now back from work detail. We arranged our area the way we wanted it to be. I waited until later when Wascowski turned the barracks over to the night OD. I politely entered Wascowski’s office and took back the TV. The night OD threatened to write me up. I said please do. Later.
July 24, 1973, Tuesday
The master-at-arms did it again; he moved our stuff back. And so did we. Later.
July 25, 1973, Wednesday
The master-at-arms threatened to write us up if we move the bunks back in a square. I told him that he would need to get in line and he has no right to steal private property. Other guys have TV’s he doesn’t bother them. I said I’ll be honest with you. My goal is to make live as miserable as possible for you. I don’t care what you do to me as long as you stay within the authority of the UCMJ. You cut me some slack, I’ll cut you some slack. If not I will fill your life with undue paperwork, I have the time.
We just finished rearranging the furniture. Other sailors are gathering to watch the news with us. Later.
July 26, 1973, Thursday
When we came back from our work detail our bunks were not touched. I don’t see our actions as wrong. If they would let me I would live in an apartment and have more freedoms. I would report to duty daily. I’m finished with the UA thing. What I hope to achieve with our furniture arrangement is a place to relax. This is the place that the guys and I call our own. It’s a small piece of privacy. Later.
July 30, 1973, Monday
Paul and I hung around the whole weekend together at his place. I have my court-martial tomorrow. He finishes his school next week. More than likely I’ll be locked in the brig for thirty days or so. This good bye was the least sad. He’s my cousin I’ll see him at home some time. I’ll still miss him, I’ll just miss him less than the other guys. Later.
July 31, 1973, Tuesday
Today is the day. I could conceivably get five years. As in civilian courts I get to have a lawyer, or one can be appointed. I let them appoint me one. I asked Clay to represent me. He can’t because he works in the Prosecutors Department.
I went to chow. My court marital is on another base. That base is the main San Diego navy port. I told Wascowski about my Court marital, I told him I need transportation. He said to go to my working party, he didn’t have any orders about my trial. I told him that this wasn’t bull, it was for real and they are expecting me. He told me to go to work. Later.
I was out on a work crew with this guy named Gold. He was a First Class Petty officer. He had us cleaning an empty building. It is after lunch. Wascowski sent his master-at-arms to get me. Headquarters is furious. They want to know where I am. I should be at a court martial. Later.
They drove me to the court-martial in a van, it had bars. I’m being driven to the brig on the big navy base. The court-martial consisted of three high ranking officers. They had a take no prisoner’s attitude. They weren’t too happy with me. This trial was schedule for this morning, where was I? I told them
that I wasn’t allowed to leave, they sent me to work. The master-at-arms didn’t believe me. They saw it as my responsibility to get here on time. I didn’t argue with them I saw no point.
After they let me know how put out they are. They had to reschedule their afternoon because of me, we got down to business. I coped guilty pleas to all counts. My lawyer told them it was a temporally lapses of judgment and I had learned a valuable lesson. I received 30 days at hard labor.
The SP’s drove me to the barracks to get some toiletries, and a change of work cloths. We are back inside the main base and headed to the brig.
I can see the brig as the SP’s check in at the guard station. This place is a big square surrounded by a twenty foot high barbed wire fence. There is only one way in, and one way out. It has four guard towers, they aren’t manned. We drove in to a large asphalt court yard, it’s surrounded by three one story buildings in the shape of a horse shoe. Later.
They processed me. Then they assigned me to a one man cell. I think its ten foot by six foot. I have a bunk, a stainless steel toilet and sink. I saw Virgil, Jerry’s friend. They took him to a row of cells behind me. He looked like he had been in a fight. They wouldn’t let us talk to each other. My cell is open only on the door side, it faces an outside wall. I have to call the guards Turnkey. “Turnkey can I shower? Turnkey you can close the cell, I am in.” Everything has to start with Turnkey.
I can hear Virgil making a ruckus in his cell. He is protesting something. I can hear him and the Turnkey arguing about something. I plan on keeping out of trouble while I am here. When I get out I hope that the captain will give me a discharge. I don’t care what kind of discharge at this point. I just want to be free. Later.
August 1, 1973, Wednesday
I was kept awake most of the night by Virgil s yelling. He didn’t have a blanket. He kept asking the Turnkeys to give him one. They said fuck you, you don’t deserve a blanket. It was cold last night, I was glad to have a blanket. They let him yell for a few hours. Then I heard him getting a beating. It didn’t stop him from yelling, he was slightly muted. After a while they beat him once more, they told him to shut the fuck up about a blanket. The only thing he was getting was more beatings. I could hear him whimper in pain all night.
I have to stay in the cell for three days. This is brig orientation. They gave me a file full of laminated papers, these are the rules. Tomorrow I get to test on the rules. Depending how I score is what barracks I get placed in.
I walk the length of the cell to get some exercise. I’m not allowed to use the bed, except at night for sleeping. I do have a chair for sitting and writing.
I get my meal delivered to me. I am not allowed to mingle with the general population.
The Turnkey told me this is a brig for the navy and the marines. The navy guys stay in one of two barracks. The marines stay in a separate smaller barracks. When a Sailor gets sent here he is a prisoner. When a marine gets sent here he becomes a Turnkey. He has to guard us and himself. That’s missed up.
He explains it this way. The marines’ main mission is to guard the navy’s stuff. Yes they fight the ground wars, the navy doesn’t. The marines are part of the navy. That’s the way it’s always been. When they get sent here, like the rest of us they have to work. Hence they do what they do, they guard us. Later.
August 2, 1973, Thursday
Things got worse for Virgil. He is yelling how they took his bunk. Then they shut his water off. It is three in the morning his water has been off since four this afternoon. They told him to drink out of the toilet, if he hasn’t flushed it because the waters off.
He kept screaming that they are acting like a bunch of Nazi’s. That did it, instead of realizing that they went too far they went further. They striped him naked and doused him with water. They left him wet and cold all night. They told him if he wants food or water then he needs to do what they want him to do. What they want is to torture him without his complaining.
I am so torn, I don’t know what to do. I want to join his protest but I don’t see what good that would do. Then the Turnkeys would have two people to torture freely. They know they have him where they want him, no witness except me and I’m another inmate.
The food here sucks, it’s worse than boot camp. In boot camp they cooked the powered eggs. The meals served here come with a quarter of the scrambled eggs still powder and uncooked. Or maybe it’s sulfur. Lunch and dinner are just as bad. Later.
August 3, 1973, Friday
I didn’t hear Virgil at all last night. I didn’t hear any noise back there last night. It’s as though he is not there anymore. I hope he is alright. I know what they did to him and I know that it was wrong. What I don’t know is, what I can do about it. Later.
August 4, 1973, Saturday
I get placed in a dormitory with the general population to day, sometime after morning chow. I still haven’t heard Virgil. I asked the Turnkey what happened to him. He said I don’t want to know, if I was smart I would drop it. Considering that I am locked up, for now I will drop it. Later.
Things move slower in here more so than the regular navy. I was transferred to a barracks after evening chow. It’s a big dorm it is completely open. The Turnkeys desk is up front by the door. To the side are fifteen picnics tables. Beyond that are a hundred bunk beds, each with a small open locker, boot camp style except smaller. Ten rows of ten bunk beds. Beyond that is the boot camp style bathroom and shower. This is home for the next thirty days. I was assigned a bunk half way down on the far right. I put my toiletries in my small square locker along with my change of clothes. We get our clothes washed once a week. It is not lights out yet so I am not permitted to be at my bunk. I joined the other guys at the tables.
When the smoking lamp is on, we can smoke. The master-at-arms seems to turn it on when he needs a smoke himself. We all watch and wait for him. To pass the time we have cards, checkers and chess boards, also lots of old used books. The barracks is about half full. Later.
August 5, 1973, Sunday
I didn’t know that you can get high by drinking mouthwash. Mouthwash, toothpaste, soap, a comb, these are the things that we are allowed to have. Turns out if you drink a bottle of mouthwash there is enough alcohol in it to get you high. The guys would wait in till night showers. They would get the showers steamy so the Turnkey couldn’t see what was happening. They would go to the far end and drink it down. I was offered a swig. I declined, I’m not that hard up yet.
We go to the building next to us to eat chow. It’s just like boot camp. The hall holds maybe fifty men. Six rows of long tables and benches. We all face the kitchen. The Brig commander sits at a table flanked by his staff they face us. The chow line is behind them. Later.
We can attend church to day if we want to. Going to church is another way to pass some time while I’m here. We were driven to a church on this base. The padre was there, saying the Mass. He had me do the altar boy duties, it was fun.
After Mass, he told me that he came and did this Mass because he knew I would attend. He asked me how I was holding up. I said “Padre when you truly feel that your freedoms have been ripped away from you. And you’re an American. It doesn’t matter what building or ship or parking lot they put you in. The way I look at it, Padre, I’m not free in here or out there as long I’m part of the navy. I’m forced to come to this dance.”
He said he understood where I am coming from but he couldn’t help me. He said, “I thought you might like to know that the captain knows what you’re up to. He knows that you are getting all your orders sent back because you have a disciplinary pending. He knows that you know how the game is played. However he knows that you won’t be able to play that game while you’re locked up. He put in for an immediate transfer” Wow! I said.
I told Padre about Virgil. I don’t think he believed me.
Padre said he was sorry but the game is over. I said it’s always good to see you Padre. I have to retire to my guarded villa now, I will see you around Padre.
I can read so it’s not over, I said to him. He just shook his head puzzled, and I got on the bus that took me back to the brig.
They searched us before we got in the compound yard. I was amazed at the stuff they confiscated. Most of these guys went to church to have their buddies’ give them stuff. Half of them came back high on acid. Later.
August 12, 1973, Sunday
Another Sunday. I went to Mass, it was another chaplain, a Protestant, I think. I tried to get in on the acid, I was too late it was all gone. Later.
This week consisted of getting up, using the latrine, and standing in line waiting to eat. Standing in formation to muster (roll call to make sure we are all here). Going to work details, eating chow on those details, sometimes on ships sometimes back on base. We also spent time coming back to the barracks and standing in line for dinner chow. Hanging around playing chess or cards until we’re allowed to shower. It’s lights out after that. Then we wake up and do it all over again. Except for weekends we stay here. They even let us shoot the basketball and throw the football around. Later.
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