August 13, 1973, Monday
This place is starting to fill up. A fleet came in to port. The captains of the ships are having the base take care of their discipline problems. They say the base Transit barracks is getting filled up.
I met a guy named George. He is off one of those ships. He’s a goofy guy. He is the first guy I have met that is named George. We hit it off great. Later.
August 14, 1973, Tuesday
I got so fucking high today I forgot what it was like. We went on a ship to do some work. We were assigned to a guy that I was certain got high. After half a day he started to warm up to us. We had to go down into the hull to clean up some bilge water. He said this is where most of the guys come to get high.
The structure of the ship is attached to steel beams. These beams make small shelves. It seemed to me that if I was rolling a joint down here I would use this shelf. I started to see rolling papers on the deck. When I looked inside of the shelves I found small amounts a pot mixed with paint chips. We fanned out to search. When it was over we rolled six joints, pot and paint chips. I don’t know which we got high on, I don’t care. Later.
August 15, 1973, Wednesday
I woke up with seventeen warts on my hands this morning. They looked sick and ugly. When I went to sleep last night they were not there. This morning they were. I was marched to the infirmary. They used liquid nitrogen to burn them off. I asked if we can do half now half later, on account that it fucking hurt. They said you’re in the brig you don’t get to make that choice. They treated all of them at once. It still hurts. The fucking SOBs. Later.
August 16, 1973, Thursday
All the bunks are filled and they are bringing in more sailors. This place is getting crowded. I met with my lawyer today. I handed him a written request to hand deliver to the captain. As my lawyer he is obliged to deliver the letter. I have requested a captain’s mast. He told me I had no standing to do such. I had to show him the article in the UCMJ that gives me standing to request the captain’s mast. After he read the article he said it is my right to request a captain’s mast. And because I am incarcerated the captain is duty bound to honor it. Thus, negating the orders that I have waiting for me when I get out of here. Later.
August 19, 1973, Sunday
I didn’t go to church, I didn’t want the padre to try and talk me out of the captain’s mast, if he was there. I have been talking to a lot of the new guys. They are getting placed here right from the ship. Most of them haven’t had a trial. I personally find that very disturbing. They never have a fair trial. They get charged with a violation, they get placed here where they are incarcerated. This is supposed to be where one goes too after a guilty verdict. You know Mr. Journal that silly line in the US Constitution about being presumed innocent in till proven guilty. Leave it to the military to not let the Constitution get in the way when decisions are getting made. Later.
August 20, 1973, Monday
I am so glad they let us exercise. We get to throw the football, but we aren’t allowed to play an actual game. We also get to shoot baskets with the basketball, also no real game. The throwing, the running and the occasional jumping its exercise. Later.
George is driving me crazy. I taught him how to play chess. We have played so many games, I can’t count them. I beat him every time. I told him he needs to play someone else. He refuses to play any one else in till he beats me.
It’s going to be a long two more weeks Mr. Journal. What’s that you say, Mr. Journal? I agree, Mr. Journal. We can do it if we can get to the hull of another ship. That’s another thing I was going to report on Mr. Journal. All the work details have been on the base. I try but nobody wants to get caught giving drugs to inmates. They just want us to do the dirty work.
They moved in more bunk beds today. I think we have doubled in capacity. Out of the two hundred guys in here, I would guess that fifty of us have had actual trials. We have been sentenced to our time here. This compound has two dormitories, the other one is overfilling just as fast.
These inmates have never had a trial. They get placed here, a trial is to be scheduled at a later date. If his court-martial is three months from now, he gets a sentence of three month. If he is lucky and gets a court-martial in one month, that’s his punishment, one month.
The military courts are running slow, and they are back logged. From what I gather the actual time spent here in the brig is three to four months.
The rule in the real world is you are innocent it’s up to the courts to prove you guilty. These men have lost their rights. The master-at-arms called me to his desk with the painted yellow line on the floor (that’s the line we can’t step over, when we have business at the big desk). He asked me to stop telling the inmates about their rights under the constitution. I asked him why they are doing this. He said that the transit barracks are wall to wall bunk beds. They have no choice.
We had a discussion about it. I was for the side that we should never give up our rights, and wasn’t it ironic to him that it was us defending those rights against the commie threat. And now you want to take them away, I said to him. He was for me keeping my mouth shut. He had already heard the grumbling. He was tired of ignoring questions that started with, “Licata said.” He wanted me to shut the fuck up.
I said no, I won’t, because if I did that then he would be taking away two of my rights guaranteed by the constitution. And I won’t give up free speech. I told him to deal with it and is there anything else I can do for him. If not then I have a rousing game of chess waiting for me. He didn’t answer, I walked away. Later.
George and I played four more games of chess. During that time because of the open exchange I had with the master-at-arms, we were joined by a gang of unhappy sailors. They were in ear shot of my conversation with master-at-arms. They wanted to hear more. Later.
August 22, 1973, Wednesday
With time off for good behavior I get out of this place on the twenty eighth next week. It’s getting tense in here. It is over crowded with very unhappy people. To make it worse we wait over an hour to eat food that is half cooked. The guard towers are empty maybe they can put bunks up there. I’m told that all the locked cells now house two people.
Maybe after muster I will get placed on a work detail that goes to a ship. Later.
August 23, 1973, Thursday
One of the guys that I have made friends with, I call Quasi. He looks like the hunchback from Notre Dame, without the hunchback. He has a slow mind. I like him, he has a big heart. We had just gotten our trays at breakfast chow. The only open seats were two rows in front of the marine Commandant and his staff.
I was eating away. If you didn’t eat fast they yelled at you and take away your food. Quasi was mumbling something I couldn’t understand. We weren’t allowed to talk so other guys around us I looked over. I whispered for Quasi to keep it down. He said “Maggots” I whispered back. “You are so right. They are maggots.” He mumbled back at me. “In my food, maggots are in my food.” I looked over at his tray. The potatoes were moving. Half of the potatoes were live maggots. I dug my fork around in my plate. I had some, but not as much as Quasi had in his plate.
The guys around us were doing the same digging. Keep in mind that we had eaten almost half of our meals. And we always douse our food with ketchup. I said to Quasi. “That’s fucked; I wonder how many you ate. I think the Commandant and his people should eat some maggots themselves.”
Quasi looked at me and said, “You’re right.” Without warning, he grabbed his tray, he stood up, and he threw it at the Commandants’ table. The tray, the fork the spoon, the food, the ketchup, napkin, all hurling at the Commandant. The Commandant put up his arm to deflect the tray. He did get hit with some of the maggot infested food.
It may have well ended there if it were not for the other guys next to us doing the same thing. The trays were in the air. The Commandant and his staff ducked for cover. I don’t know if it was the tensions coming to a boiling point. Or if the rest of t
he inmates in the mess hall thought it was a food fight, but food and trays were flying everywhere. Tables were turned, benches were tossed.
The Turnkeys came in swinging. They ordered us to lie on the floor or be beaten. I lay flat and still. Those that didn’t get beaten up were let up one by one. We were ordered to march to the door and assemble outside. They made us stand at parade rest for three hours. They canceled all work details.
When they did let us stand down we marched straight into the barracks. We would be confined to the barracks for the rest of the day. Until further notice we will march to chow in groups of twenty. No lollygagging out in the compound. We licked our wounds and settled in for a long boring day. Later.
This afternoon I was called into to Commandants office. He was a tall strong, square-jawed marine major, in his thirties. He had me stand at attention while he gave me a lecture. He informed me that I was not a lawyer. It wasn’t my place to tell someone what rights they have or don’t have. He told me to do as I was asked and shut my pie hole. When he was finished he asked me if I had anything to say. I said, “No, sir.” He dismissed me. I was marched back to the barracks and locked in with everybody else.
I of course did not keep my pie hole shut. If anything the discussion spread like wild fire when I told them that they had the right to contact their lawyers. Most of them didn’t think they had a right to have a lawyer. I pushed it further and told them that they are also entitled to hire a civilian lawyer. I handed out the rest of my envelopes and stamps that I don’t need any more, I told them to contact a lawyer. I have five days left here. Later.
August 24, 1973, Friday
We were allowed to start a normal day this morning. We would march to wait in line for chow. We would muster and be assigned work details. We were not permitted to run or play with the balls in the compound. Only walking was permitted. We went out to get ready to march to chow.
They had manned the watch towers. Each tower had two marines with machine guns. None of us knew what to make of it. Nobody was talking about a prison break. They just wanted justice. This is very concerning and crazy.
Breakfast was ok, no maggots. After chow we assembled to wait for our work detail assignments. Always before the work details they announce those that are to be released that day. They step out of line and go back into the master-at-arms to get their paperwork.
I was as shocked as any one when they called my name. I wasn’t expecting it so it didn’t sink in at first. It was the sounds of surprise from my friends that made me believe that it really was my name they called. I didn’t have time to say good bye.
They got me out a lot quicker than they got me in here. I went inside, the master-at-arms handed me my paperwork. He escorted me to the gate; he said good luck as the gate closed behind me. I was on my own. I had papers ordering me back to the transit barracks on the school base. I had to report by 1600 hours. How I got there was my problem.
After asking around, I found out that a military bus runs to that base in an hour.
I had some time. I went to the transit barracks here on this base. I wanted to see what they were talking about. They were right it was horrible. No human being should be allowed to live like this. The bunks were butted up against each other. If you had the misfortune to have a bed in the middle you were fucked if you had to get to the head quickly. The only way for you to get from the door to your bunk was to crawl over a path of beds, top bunks. There was no space on the floor to walk let alone set a foot down. They slept in their cloths with their belongings. Heaven help the guys on the bottom bunks. Later.
Its late afternoon. I’m back at my barracks. Wascowski didn’t seem too happy to see me. I had a packet waiting for me. I asked the chief if Shaffer, Pickle and Colin were still here. He said he didn’t know. What an ass he is Mr. Journal, it means they are here. If they were gone he would be more than happy to give me bad news. He’s not about to tell me something I want to hear. I got some sheets, a pillow and blanket from him. I went up to the old wing.
The bunks were in a straight row. I didn’t see the TV. I saw some other sailors down at the other end. They told me that the guys from those bunks went bowling. If they went bowling then they had pot. We only went bowling when we got high enough to go bowling. I rearranged the furniture to be an enclosure. I headed to the bowling alley. Later.
If you had saw us when I met up with the guys you would have thought that we knew each other for our whole lives, instead of less than two months. The quickness that relationships cut through the bull crap, to reach a bond is astonishing. I missed these guys and I would have been bummed out if any of them weren’t still here. We blew off bowling, we went to get high. They found a spot behind some Dumpsters. Later.
I opened my package. It had two things I wanted to get and it didn’t have the thing I didn’t want to get. I got a pay check it’s a lot of back pay, Wow! And Whoopee! The other thing I got was a piece of paper ordering me to a captain’s mast, it is on September fourth, a Tuesday. The thing that I didn’t get was orders transferring me to a ship, Whew.
Time for the next phase in our plan Mr. Journal. It’s a matter of luck and timing. At what point does the navy say to me, we should have never asked you to join. Now go away. My peacoat was ripped off, I think we’re even.
The TV is back. We have the top of the roof to go to at night when it’s dark, if we cup the joint it can’t be seen. We checked it out from down below. The problem is lighting it up; it’s windy up here. Later.
August 26, 1973, Sunday
I just got back from Mission beach. I spent last night with the owners of the apartments. I helped them get some of the rooms ready for rental. They are at the end of the busy season. Yesterday I hitched hiked to see if Paul was around. He had moved out of his apartment. I guess he was transferred. I decided to go further and see if Sherry was still around, she also had moved on. I stopped in to say hi to the owners, they were swamped. The only way to have a conversation with them was to work alongside of them I did. After we were finished we had dinner and I stayed. I helped them again for most of today. They drove me back to the base, and here I am. I feel like I lost something. Later.
Shaffer has a hearing on Tuesday. Pickle has one on Thursday. I wish them luck, somebody needs to get free from here. Later.
August 27, 1973, Monday
I started calling muster time, ketchup. I’ll yell. “Fall in for ketchup.” Some of the younger transit guys think it’s funny, they started repeating it. The older guys scowl at me. Later.
Shaffer hearing didn’t go to well. They can’t find the papers that his parents sent. In till they do his case is postponed, he will stay in transient. He is stinking mad. I said I need something to go along with my requested captain’s mast, let’s play football in the hall.
I love these big oversized World War II buildings. The hallways are huge. They stretch 200 feet between doors, they are 15 feet wide (When the troops need to move they need room). I found this a perfect place for a football game, it didn’t have an out of bounds. I used to play this sort of game in high school. We called it “Kill’em.” It was fun until the nuns shut it down. That’s another story.
We went to all of the wings to get players. We didn’t care that it was 2100 hours, we were pissed off and restless. I told them they may as well play, we are. And nobody gets to sleep.
The guys in the other wings couldn’t wrap their heads around a football game in the hall. We changed it to soccer. The first time I tackled Pickle the soccer game quickly turned in to football,
He was kicking the ball. I tackled him in the mid-section, we slid onto the polished floor. We laughed our heads off. The game was on. It was a killer game. We didn’t pass the ball, it was all runs, head on.
The night OD came up to stop the noise. I told him we decide not to stop. I knew this guy, he knew me. We had talked before. He said that the only reason he joined the navy was because he was lazy and wanted a good pension after twenty years. He was in his earl
y thirty’s. He said, “Please, Licata. I am glad to see you back. So do me a favor and stop the game.” I figured that it was half time. I said sure. We picked up the game ten minutes after he went down stairs.
The OD came back. He asked me what happened. I said I lied. He said, “What will it take to get you to stop?”
I said, “Two things. Write me up and give us time to play the last half.”
He said, “Licata, they should send you home.”
“Okay, ten minutes,” I said. “We will play until you bring me the chit to sign. I don’t trust you.” He and I had this discussion before. I don’t hide my plan, I talk about it openly. I defy the navy to change their transfer procedure just to thwart me.
The night OD already told me before that he would never help me out with the scheme, like Wascowski. Once I sign the write up chit it becomes official. They are numbered and counted for. They can’t be thrown away. He knows it and he knows that I know it. He came back, I signed for refusing a direct order, since it was not a matter of life and death it was a thorn. After he went down stairs we went to the roof. A new guy along tagged along, Ricky. I don’t know enough about him, I like him he fits in. Later.
August 30, 1973, Thursday
Pickles trial is a continuing trial. Every other day he gives them evidence of blatant discrimination, from both sides. They tell him they would like to ponder the evidence.
Ricky was in the hospital when his ship left port. He is an electronics specialist. He will stay here in till his ship comes back to port.
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