Chapter 1 (continued)

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But our destination on this train ride was additional instruction before being assigned to a Third Fleet ship:  gunnery training and fire fighting.  The naval instructors had no trouble maintaining discipline, for boot camp had built raw recruits up to optimal health, while simultaneously melting us down to opinion-less nubbins of “Yes, sir”, “No, sir” and “Aye, aye, sir”.

The instructor at firearms training announced, “Hey, guys, you’re looking tough after getting ground down on ‘the grinder’.”  His statement elicited a wave of laughter.  Sinewy, suntanned, and sporting a perpetual furrow between his brows, he reminded me of a Montana rancher:  a good shot. 

He told us, “We can have a heck of a good time here with these lethal weapons if you do exactly as I tell you and show you.  If you do not obey instructions, there’s a whale of a chance that you will be sent home to your mom and dad in an oblong box.”

Rifle and pistol practice left all of us recruits with sore hands and shoulders, not to mention ringing ears, but none of us got out of line during gunnery training.  It was a good thing boot camp preceded these particular training classes, because otherwise serious accidents would undoubtedly have occurred, thanks to young know-it-alls.  I am convinced that Navy philosophy in boot camp is:  “You do not know anything.  Therefore, in order to survive your stint in the Navy, you will learn to do everything the Navy way.”

It was actually fun shooting 20mm anti-aircraft guns with tracer bullets at target sleeves made from light cloth and towed by airplanes.  The tow-plane pilots were either very young and fearless, or nervous wrecks, knowing that a trigger-happy recruit might set off his dozen rounds at the plane instead of the sleeve.

My group lucked out with our fire fighting instructor.  His simple sentences carried impetus from the first moment he addressed us.  “Men [none of us had ever been called that before, and our chests puffed out in pride], I’m supposed to teach you how to put out fires like those that ignite after a torpedo or bomb hits your ship.  A fanatic kamikaze pilot is just waiting for the order to plow into your ship a heck of a long way from shore and you guys are the fire extinguishers.

He had our full attention.  Few of us ever imagined having to put out a fire on an all-steel ship, or worried about being bombed.  Our instructor’s stocky face sported scanty eyebrows. 

“Looks like he’s been singed from showing how to do it too often,” I wise-cracked out of the corner of my mouth to the guy standing next to me.

“It isn’t easy to put out a fire when burning petroleum is the culprit,” our instructor continued.  “I won’t threaten you, but I strongly suggest you do exactly as I tell you and show you.  If you do, you have a better chance to avoid becoming broiled sausages, just like I haven’t, so far. . . .”

Each of us sailors had to take turns being first in line to face the roaring inferno of scorching flames, fiercely gripping the heavy brass nozzle of a water hose.  The nozzle man was motivated to do everything right in double-quick time before he lost his eyebrows.  The rest of us cowered behind him, clinging to the thick water hose, trembling with fear at the incredible heat and knowing our turn at the nozzle would come far too soon.  This experience made me wonder about hell.  I had heard it described as a whole lake of fire, but always figured hell was just another swear word from the lengthy lists accumulated by the saltiest sailors.