U.S.NAVY

The first time I took the helm, my pulse accelerated like a machine gun, while my fingers trembled in their white-knuckle grip on the big wheel.  I had never even driven a car, so I had no background from which to steer a five-hundred-foot ship with any hope of arriving anywhere close to our intended destination.  The fact that there was nothing for me to bump into helped allay some of my initial panic.  Once I got the hang of it, it was actually kind of fun.  I was proud of the fact that I started my driving career by tooling a 500-footer around the Pacific Ocean!  But after a few days, the novelty wore off and monotony set in.  There were no mountains or buildings; no roads; no hitch-hikers to liven the scenery; just me with my feet planted in the same spot, hour after hour, keeping both compass needs in their appointed positions.

I never needed to look out on the ocean during my watch, just 

focus on the compasses.  Full moon and stars, sunrises and 

sunsets were wonderful beyond description.  A sparkling moonlit

path on the water led all the way from our ship to the horizon. 

...Land-lubber

A grueling cattle car ride on the Great Northern Railroad was the first of many to naval training stations along the route from north Idaho to Astoria, Oregon.  It gave opportunity for young sailors, some of whom had never left home before, to feast their eyes on snow capped Rocky Mountains and peer into the depths of yawning canyons.  Many of us had never seen the Pacific Ocean before.  “Join the Navy and see the world” we were told.  Jim and I were on our way.

“Jim, can you believe how they herded us into these ancient rattletrap trains?  It’s kinda like we’re white-faced Herefords.  I’d heard talk of ‘cattle cars’ before; now I know how they got that name!” 

I was talking to a fellow Seaman Second Class, Jim Sweeney. We’d just completed boot camp at Farragut Naval Training Station in North Idaho, and were lowly apprentice seamen in the United States Navy with nary a glimpse of saltwater to show for our training thus far. Our infinitesimal promotion  permitted us another white stripe on our cuffs and a bigger one around our right shoulders.  It was nowhere near the distinction of gold braid, but it didn’t take much for us “swab jockeys” (the Navy’s own nickname for its sea-based personnel) to feel cocky.

Jim responded to my comment, “Yeah.  The way the chief petty officer yelled at us, I wondered why he didn’t save his breath and just use an electric prod like the cowpokes do at auction sales back in Iowa.”

Jim didn’t have anything to brag about.  Although he didn’t have a mean hair on his blond head, the well-proportioned rugged farm boy was used to foul-mouthed talk and toughened to hard work.  But his walk and speech were equally slow.  Platoon leaders screamed at him to “get the lead out” of his feet.

The storm ...

From its formerly glassy smoothness, the dark blue water turned a dismal gray as swells began to rise.  A gust of wind carried a couple of sailors’ hats into the drink, which elicited colorful oaths from the hat-less men.  Our previous experience with a typhoon taught us sailors respect for the combination of wind and water, which raised an ominous sense of foreboding in those of us standing on the weather deck.

A penetrating chirp from the boatswain’s pipe was immediately followed by the command, “All hands heave around and trice up!  Prepare immediately for severe weather!  Secure all loose gear on weather decks and below decks.  Air crew, double-check all aircraft lashings on hangar deck and flight deck.”

All interest in fantail swordfish immediately vanished.

“Aw, man, I’ve had enough of these blasted blows!” Smitty complained.  “I hope to heck it ain’t a bad one.” 

“The aerographers must’ve stumbled onto some scary news,” VanWoodrow Wiggs offered.

Occasionally, a sailor will admit that he is totally afraid of water, even when the sea is glass smooth.  Usually, they just bluster and blow a lot of hot air about toughing things out.

The commands to secure the ship were repeated as sailors dashed from one area to another in compliance with the commander’s orders.  Each airplane, already secured to steel pads on the flight deck by three half-inch steel cables from each landing gear, were reinforced by manila line at each landing gear. 

.....like sea billows roll...it is well with my soul

<

Chapter 2

Chapter 2

“We have an anchor that keeps the soul

Steadfast and sure while the billows roll,

Fastened to the Rock which cannot move,

Grounded firm and deep in the Savior’s love.”

As I recalled, Mom introduced me to her friends around town as her “baby,” far from amusing to a teen-aged boy.  A pang of sorrow hit me as I recalled how disrespectful and disobedient I had been at times.  Despite my misbehavior, Mom kept me covered with clean clothes and full of good food while I attended school and worked as flunky for two grocery stores. I accumulated a shameful list of swear words from both grocery store managers.  During summer vacations, I worked on farms driving teams of horses, pitching hay, mowing lawns, whatever jobs I could find. 

One of the grocery store managers, a bulky six-feet-plus, sounded like a Sunday school teacher as he chatted with customers who asked to leave their purchases in the store after closing so they could finish their shopping in town.

“Why, Mrs. Garterblossom, you certainly may leave them right here.  Take your time!  I will personally unlock the door when you finish.”

But the second he snapped the lock on the front door at closing time, he drew from an endless supply of colorful invective, cursing farmers who were late in picking up their groceries.  I couldn’t blame the Navy for my bad words; I’m sure I contributed as many swear words as all the other sailors.

One memory from my teenage years revolved around summer trade school in Spokane, where I learned to roll my own cigarettes from tobacco purchased in tiny cloth bags.  I felt like a real man with the little tobacco trademark tag hanging out of my shirt pocket.  Cigars and a yellow bowl-filtered pipe qualified me for the upper echelon of smart-aleck teenagers.  I’m so thankful I never even heard of the illegal drugs that are so destructive to today’s youth.

Four of us high school buddies took off in a Model A Ford one summer, hoping to join the Forest Services disease control crew.  Blister rust was one of many diseases that invade the sap wood and inner bark of pine trees, producing external blisters from which the disease gets its name.  The Forest Service hired vacationing high-schoolers and we four intended to be among them.  Our parents didn’t know where we were going, but neither did we!  Before skipping town, I charged a pair of expensive logging boots to my dad’s account at Kreugel’s Mens Store, and purchased a one-pound can of pipe tobacco before skipping town.

My sister, Ruth, 15 years older than I and a school teacher, gave me a silver dollar along with her advice: “Paul, you shouldn’t go away.  You shouldn’t smoke yet.  You’re only 16 and besides, it’s expensive.”  I thanked her for the money without admitting that I knew she was probably right.

My quartet of happy-go-lucky nitwits finally realized the old car consumed gasoline at the rate we inhaled carbohydrates.  What small change we had went—literally—up in smoke.  I’m embarrassed that we had the nerve to raid neighborhood gardens, cutting the garden hoses to siphon gasoline from cars parked along darkened streets.  There were no locks on gas caps in those days, and we boys took advantage of equally unprotected homes to steal canned pears and peaches from unlocked cellars.

With my last 20 cents, I bought bacon grease at the back door of a restaurant in St. Mary’s so we boys could fry fish in an old pan we found half-buried in the sand under a railroad trestle.  I wished I could’ve sold the remaining pipe tobacco in my one-pound can and the .22 rifle we used to plink gophers along Highway 95.  I was tormented by visions of Mom’s Sunday dinners, the leftovers in the icebox (mold and all!).  It never occurred to me to let Mom and Dad know where I was or what I was doing.  None of us cared in the least how our careless behavior might affect our parents.

Two of us managed to land positions with the Blue Mountain Cannery in Dayton, Washington, during pea harvest.  Lawrence went to the field to pitch vines where he had intervals of rest, while I was assigned to a flatbed truck, stacking crushed, soggy pea vines as they tumbled non-stop out of the threshing machine.  Two grown men quit the position the day before I took over.  Although the work was too strenuous for me, I made it to the bitter end of my shift. 

The sweetest silence I had ever experienced in all my sixteen years was when the menacing machine finally stopped and I jumped off the truck.  My trousers hung loose, even with my belt cinched on the last hole.  The spring in my steps had sprung as I dragged my body to the office to pick up my first paycheck with fingers trembling from exhaustion.

“Hang in there, kid,” the boss cajoled, promising, “You’ll have a partner to help you tomorrow.”

Pea harvest didn’t last long, but with a little money burning a hole in my pocket, I was determined to travel to Seattle and investigate the weird religion that snagged both my older brother, John, and his girlfriend, Fran.  I wondered if he wore a broad-brimmed black hat and button-down shoes.  I thought, Maybe he hangs a bag of magazines on his shoulders and distributes them on street corners.  Or maybe he jumps over church benches and rolls on the floor, playing with rattlesnakes while he dances.