Welcome to the Dance USN

by GEORGE LICATA

  He is twenty two years old but acts fourteen. He has that east coast Italian fuck it attitude. I can relate. Later.

  September 4, 1973, Tuesday

  I went to my captain’s mast today. I made sure that Wascowski had all the paperwork for it last week. I made sure his entire underlings saw the papers also. I need to control the trouble I get in to, I don’t need unsolicited help.

  The captain’s mast was further proof Mr. Journal that I live in the Twilight Zone.

  I was escorted in to the big room as usual. I took my place at the podium. The padre and his commander friends were in attendance. They were dressed in full uniform, metals and all.

  The captain asked me why I made this request. It was normally for mistreatment. I said that is my point. The structure in this navy is contrary to how I am. In short I am bad for the navy. The navy is bad for me. We both are going to be mistreated, it’s in our nature. It’s better for you and me if I go away, sir. I officially ask for a separation from the navy.

  The captain said, “Mr. Licata, I see you managed to find some trouble between the brig and now. Is this right? You refused to stop playing football in the hall. I’m not going to ask you how to play football in the hall. It is not in our interest. The issue before me is how I respond to your request for separation.” He looked over at the padre and his friends. “Mr. Licata I am going to ask you to take a seat.”

  I sat at a chair next to the podium facing the captain. He asked the padre and his friends one by one to give testimonies. They said they having known me, believe that I will make a good sailor. I am going through a rough time. They have faith that I will get my shit squared away.

  I have no idea why they are saying those things. It was my turn to give my last statement. I said, “The padre and the commander were out of their minds, with all due respect, sir.”

  Padre laughed under his breath, as did the captain and the commander; the stenographer also had a grin. They didn’t expect that kind of a remark. I said, “Sir, are the sounds of the courts laughter to be entered by the stenographer as an official response?”

  The captain said, “If it wasn’t before, it is now thanks to you Mr. Licata.” We laughed under our breath. I was about to point that out also, when the captain put his hand up for me to stop. He said, “That’s not necessary, Mr. Licata, I have made my decision. Your request for separation is denied.

  As much as I enjoy our meetings Mr. Licata I don’t want to see you under these circumstances again. Therefore I am ordering a request for your transfer to be expedited. You are ordered to the transit barracks until such time as the order can be carried out. You are dismissed.” The captain stood up, we all stood at attention, and he left the room. I did my about-face and walked out the door. I waited for the padre.

  Padre and one of his friends and me went for some lunch off base, we got drunk. Padre said that it was the captain who wanted them to testify on my behalf. He did say that he meant every word that he said. I can become a good sailor, he believes it. Once again I reminded him that he was crazy. Padre’s friend, the commander, said he didn’t have anything important happening today so here he was. He knew that Padre would take him out for a liquid lunch when we were finished. He was right about that.

  Padre reminded me the captain was aware of what game I am playing. I said, “Then let the games begin or continue.” I was really drunk. Truth is, he can’t get my orders to me in less than two weeks. It’s the flaw in the system they set up.

  Even if he took the request personally and walked it through and flew to DC, he couldn’t get it done before I could get wrote up. He would have to tell every sailor and marine that has a rank above me to let me do what I want. I don’t see that happening.

  He found out if he locks me up then I am afforded more rights to throw a wrench in the system, with a requested captain’s mast. He doesn’t have the power to personally place me someplace else. For all purposes I am his pain in the ass, he wants to pawn me off, and nobody wants me. Later.

  September 7, 1973, Friday

  I was on the phone with one of my best friends from home. She and her sister were out here bumming around checking out what’s happening here in California. Sharon and Karen, they are model, movie star type beautiful girls, with brains to match. They have the personalities of your female friend next door. I became friends with Sharon as a freshman in high school. They are Italian, I got to know the whole family and eventually they became my home away from home.

  We were desperately trying to meet up. They went to the wrong navy base, not knowing that San Diego is full of navy bases. They were out of time. We never did get together. Fuck a duck I so wanted to see them, damn! Later.

  I made plans to go with Padre this afternoon. He came by to pick me up. He came in to the barracks lobby to wait for me. We were walking out the door when we heard a commotion, it was Pickle and Wascowski. The chief was screaming at Pickle. “Take your black Mailto ass out of my sight, you nigger jungle bunny.” He went on and on, he used every slur word he could think of. He used ethnic slurs that didn’t apply to Pickles race. I guess diversified training doesn’t work on old goats.

  He didn’t seem like he was going to let up, until he saw the padre. He stopped he stood at attention and announced. “Ten hut, Officer on deck!”

  The padre said, “As you were.” We all relaxed. The Padre never took his eyes off of the chief. He walked over to him. “You are relieved of duty, Master Chief Wascowski. You are to detain yourself to your home. You will await further orders. You are dismissed.” He turned to the master-at-arms. “You will resume the chief duties until further notice.” He said to me, “Some other time. I’ve have some business to take care of.”

  I said, “Right on, man, sir.”

  He told Pickle to gather his things and come with him. Pickle was hoping this was it, he was out. We all said our goodbyes and hoped he was right. Later.

  September 10, 1973, Monday

  Padre dropped by, Pickle is on his way home. Wascowski is facing forced retirement. Forty years is long enough, it‘s why he is so crotchety. The Civil Rights Act just passed a few years past. Pickles could sue the navy if he wanted to. Later.

  September 11, 1973, Tuesday

  We get lazy sometimes; we light up a joint in our private area, and blow the smoke out the widows. Tonight was one of those nights. The night watch came running over to us. “The SP’s are down stairs!” He frantically was telling us. “They have dogs! They are on their way up here now!” We didn’t need to hear any more. Our pot stash was in another part of the barracks. They were coming up the stairs, which left us with the forbidden fire escape as our only exit.

  Forbidden my ass, we busted through the doors. We flew down the straight flight of stairs. The steel stair fire escape went up three stories trip and it will hurt. We flew down the stairs. We ran out in to the night. The theater was playing Jeremiah Johnson, we hid in the dark theater.

  When the movie ended we came back to the barracks one by one. The master-at-arms questioned each of us. We pleaded ignorance, I was out all evening. And nope I don’t know where those other guys are. I do not know what you’re referring to. Did someone go out the fire escape? Oh.

  We all said the same thing. They had nothing on us. The other guys in here are moving on. Nobody wants to get involved as a witness.

  The truth is freighting, this building would go up in flames quickly; it is that old. But we are not to use the fire escape under no circumstances. The master-at-arms and the fire marshal vow to find the culprits. Later.

  September 12, 1973, Wednesday

  Its morning as we are mingling around, we wait for the master-at-arms to call us to muster. It’s an order that we all have to repeat and yell. “Fall in for muster!” We all repeat it so every sailor in the barracks can hear it. Lately more than half of the guys here are saying. “Fall in for ketchup!” the master-at-arms asked me why I do that. I said because I can.

  I was assigned to a new guy. He w
as a first class petty officer. He was sent over from supply. He needed muscle. I needed one of two write ups. I told him that I was not going to the work detail with him, he was enraged. How dare I defy his on duty order? He damn well as hell is going to write me up. Even if I pleaded with him not too, I went too far by telling him no. Before the master-at-arms could get to him, I had signed the chit and was changing into my civvies. Later.

  I came back to the barracks after the work day was finished, the guys are standing around the fire doors. The idiots chained the closed doors together. It’s more important for them to catch us than for us to save ourselves in a fire. We’re going to chow. Later.

  We stewed about how they were treating us. Sure we were breaking the law. But what if there was a fire. This place would light up in seconds, we should have a way to escape. Because we’re smoking pot is no reason for us to die needlessly. What about the sailors that aren’t smoking pot. I said Fuck them I’m worth more than they think I am. I walked over to the chained doors. I gave it as strong as front kick as I could.

  We were all stunned. The building was so old it didn’t take but one kick, the whole door frame fell out doors and all, one piece. It started to slide down the long flight of stairs. The metal door handle sliding past the steel stairs caused sparks in the night, it stopped, it got hung up.

  I was watching this when Shaffer came up behind me. He and Colin were dragging a mattress. Ricky was lighting it on fire. I ran down and freed the doors, I held them.

  When they had the mattress raging, they let it fall on the doors. I let it loose. It is a sight. The blazing mattress is sliding down the stairs. The top was on fire. The doors are sending sparks everywhere bellow it. It slid another fifty feet after it hit the asphalt. We headed to the roof to watch the show.

  What a show it is. The fire department, the SP’s, guys in uniforms I never saw before, and dogs everywhere. They were more concerned in finding who did this than the fire. They let the fire burn itself out.

  They ran in the barracks and out the barracks. They ran up and down the stairs. They ran past each other. We laughed so hard, we had to hold it in. I can’t believe we don’t get busted or roll off the roof. They pursued us for hours, and then they all gave up at once and left. We waited until lights out, we snuck back in and quietly got into our bunks. Later.

  September 13, 1973, Thursday

  I need one more write up. I feel sorry for the OD tonight. He is the same one that wrote me up for the football game. He saw me coming he said there is nothing I can do to get him to write me up. If he sees me get out of control he will call the SP’s and have them arrest me.

  The Barracks are lit up with these huge light bulbs. They are the size of a cantaloupe. I always wondered what they would sound like if they exploded. I figure they would be louder than a regular bulb they are five times the size. I unscrewed three of them. I tossed them down the stairs. Boom! Boom! Boom! It was loud.

  I ran to my bunk. The OD ran up the stairs to us. I said what’s up. He said can I talk to you Licata. I said sure. We walked to an empty part of the barracks. He asked me if I did that. I said what is that? He said do you intend to continue to do that? I said I don’t know what he is talking about. He said I’ll get the chit. I said I’ll follow you to the office. Later.

  September 17, 1973, Monday

  My orders for transfer were sent back. My new captain’s mast is this Thursday. Later.

  September 20, 1973, Thursday

  I just finished my captain’s mast. The captain said he agrees with me. The Padre is out of his mind. The captain declared I am not a good fit for the navy. Therefore, he is giving me a discharge, on the grounds that I am not up to navy standards. I am bucked down to an E-1. I lose half of my pay. I am to report to a different barracks that will process me out. Later.

  September 21, 1973, Friday

  The guys and I went to a double showing at the theater. American Graffiti and Papillion are showing.

  Shaffer had his parents send the papers he needed special delivery. He had them mailed to him personally. Padre is going to help him through the system. Padre is also helping Colin. He took one look at Colin’s skin, he saw the pain he was in, and he teared up. Ricky didn’t need any help, he was passing time. He liked the navy.

  Padre had a wake up with this process. He see’s things differently now. He said he will check Virgil’s where about. He not only believes that some people should not be in the military. He believes now that the military shouldn’t be so dismissive and lump every case into one answer. If the military is willing to draft its forces, it needs to know some of us are not going to come to the dance willingly. Some that do come willingly are subject to changing circumstances. Dealing with it shouldn’t begin as a punishment.

  I know it’s tough to deal with so many people and machines. Because we are a War Machine where discipline is a must. What are you going to do? I only know that I am sure that I do not belong here. Let’s face it, I was eighteen years old when I got here. What makes the military think that fighting a war is how I want to spend the best years of my teens? That’s something that I should get to decide. Later.

  September 23, 1973, Sunday

  I went to Mass this morning. I may not see Padre again. We went to lunch. As usual we drank our lunch. It’s late at night. I think I am finally starting to sober up. Tomorrow I start processing out. I won’t believe it until I am on the airplane, and we are air born. Later.

  September 24, 1973, Monday

  I spent the day going through a medical exam. They want to make sure that I didn’t do any damage to myself while I was here. I was going to tell them my damage is mental. I of course would never say that to a navy doctor right now, Mr. Journal.

  It’s ironic, Mr. Journal, if I told a doctor that I had mental issues one month ago, they would have blown me off. If I say something now, I would be put through a battery of test, which would delay my release.

  I passed my test. I was 5'9" and weighed 135 lbs when I got here. I am 5'10" and weigh 165 lbs now. I feel healthy. I said my goodbyes to the guys. I don’t need to take any chances; they understand. Later.

  September 25, 1973, Tuesday

  I got my discharge papers this morning. I went to the travel agent. They said I could get my airplane ticket to Denver or I can have the cash. For a brief minute, I was tempted to stay and experience the California happening as a civilian.

  I still don’t believe that they are letting me go after fighting so hard to keep me here. My instincts are telling me to get on a plane and get as far away from here as I can.

  California isn’t going anywhere. I can come back on some other date. I gave them my military ID; they gave me my airplane ticket. Later.

  I am on the airplane, I still don’t feel free. I guess it will take some time. As I look back, what did we get, Mr. Journal? One thing we didn’t get was a peacoat. We do have a medal with ribbon. We did have an adventure, although not one of our choosing. Mostly we got memories of some great men and women and some not so great. I wish most all of them the best. I do have phone numbers and addresses of parents’ homes. For now I just want to get away.

  I didn’t give my family any notice that I was discharged and coming home. I haven’t told anybody at all. My plan is to just show up. It should be interesting. Later, Mr. Journal. Thank you very much. You served me well and helped me stay sane.

  The End

  About the Author

  George Licata is an ordinary man living an ordinary life. Having grown up in a middle-class diversified neighborhood, the author worked hard at parity and equality. His weapon is humor, satirical and straight-faced confrontation. The author, from an early age, knew he was destined to write stories.

 

 

 
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