Work Week

Work Week

During our fifth week of boot camp we had work week.  Work week was when you were assigned a job, the supposition being that it would help prepare you for the different jobs in the fleet.  I was assigned to work in the brig.  This had nothing to do with what my future job would be, but I thought it could be interesting.

My fellow work week recruits, assigned to the brig, and I were but in a large barracks.  A section in the back of the barracks was walled off with a single door.  In this area, several prisoners were placed to be under our supervision.  We had to escort the prisoners to appointments, keep them under observation, and generally act as baby sitters.  If we believed anything untoward was developing we were to get help from the police immediately. 

On my second night of guard duty I was awakened by a crash, a curse, and a man’s yell for help.  In my younger days when I heard a scream or something of the sort, I would rush headlong for the sound, to try and help.  Over the years, I have learned to proceed with a little more caution.

When I heard the commotion, I jumped out of my bunk and ran to the confinement room.  I opened the door and started to enter.  I don’t know if I sensed movement, or unconsciously saw something from the corner of my eye.  At any rate, I quickly ducked. 

A chair crashed against the door frame, near where my head had been a moment before.  The prisoner area was an open bunk room, which had exploded into a full blown brawl.  The recruit guard took one look at the open door and jumped through it.  I quickly followed.

I slammed the door behind me.  It could only be opened from the outside.  Someone had called for the police.  We waited and let them beat on each other, until the police arrived.

One of our duties was to take the prisoners to assigned punishment.  The Navy’s punishment included what was referred to mini and full motores.  These were sessions where the prisoners worked out with prop rifles.  These rifles probably only weighed about 15 lbs., but imagine holding it over your head or in front of your body, while running in place, for anywhere from fifteen minutes to an hour.  I have seen men drop over in sheer exhaustion during or after one of these episodes.  One thing was clear to me, I never wanted to be on the receiving end of one of these sessions.

It didn’t take long to discover that the female prisoner’s brig was on the other side of our barracks wall.  There was a way for the guards to get to one side from the other.  It was a ill kept secret and some of the guards used it to make hook-ups. 

Boot camp was a very lonely time for the recruits, and the temptation to take advantage of some freely offered companionship was great.  The downside was, if you got caught taking advantage of said opportunity, you would go from guard to prisoner.  I did not think the reward was worth the risk, but four of my fellow recruit guards did.  They quickly went from guard to prisoner.

The week ended and my time as a brig guard ended, but the memories of the week is indelibly etched in my mind.

Wipe Out

Wipe Out

Shortly before I arrived for duty in Washington, DC, My friend Jack and a couple of others had an interesting experience, in the Maintenance Building.

Jack rode his Harley to work every day.  Another electronics technician, Eric, wanted to learn to ride a motorcycle.  He asked Jack to give him lessons for riding a bike.  Jack agreed to help, which led to as Paul Harvey used to say, “the rest of the story.”

A light rain had blown up, and Jack had moved his Harley into the maintenance shop.  Eric and Joe walked over to admire the bike.  Eric looked the motorcycle over, “Man, I would love to have one of these!”

Jack looked at him and shrugged, “So, buy one.  I know a guy who can get you a deal.”

Eric grinned wryly, “I don’t know how to ride.  Could you teach me?”

“Why not?  It’s a slow night.”

Since it was raining, they pushed the bike through the shop and into the breezeway that connected the Maintenance Shop building to the Operation Spaces in the main complex.  Jack directed Eric to straddle the motorcycle.

Jack directed him to start the bike.  Erick sat on the bike grinning as Jack let him rev the engine.  Then Jack explained how to shift gears.

Eric was having a blast, revving the engine and shifting gears.  Suddenly, Eric’s hand slipped off the clutch.  The bike lunged forward, Erik’s hands frozen on the handles, hanging on for dear life, and screaming at the top of his lungs.

The bike roared, and streaked straight through the breezeway and crashed through the Operation’s Center’s door.  He smashed through the door and into the bays of equipment on the other side.  As Jack and Joe rushed to the bike and Eric, the Officer of the day rounded the bank of bays “WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON!”

Jack rushed to explain and apologize profusely.  The lieutenant luckily had a sense of humor.  He looked at the wrecked Harley and Eric, trying to look stern, while not laughing out loud.

If you can fix the door and equipment before the change in shift, I won’t report it.”

They worked their butts off and managed to fix everything and cover up the signs of the wreck.  Though the damage was repaired, the story was too good to die!

Weathering Life's Blows

I went to Navy Boot Camp in 1981.  I recall many funny, scary, and even sad episodes, during those eight weeks.  This story is one of the latter.

Boot Camp served several purposes, but with the Navy the major one was to find out if the recruit would break under pressure.  The physical fitness part wasn’t bad, if you were in decent shape, but the head games were a pain in the butt.  The only razor you were allowed to use was the small Bic style, and even then some recruits tried to slit their wrists with the small blades.  If you were reasonably well adjusted, the life was bearable, but for some it wasn’t.

One Friday evening, we were relaxing in the barracks.  We had just finished a grueling week of preparing for marching, personal, and barracks inspections.  That Friday we had been through them all, and even though as a group we had passed them all, we were drained physically, mentally, and emotionally.

Several friends and I sat together, reminiscing of home, and wishing for the end of boot camp.  Suddenly a loud THUMP, THUMP, THUMP was heard.  We looked at each other in confusion.  Then I heard this low moaning, that grew louder and louder.  If all the pain and misery of the world could be given sound it would have been that steadily growing wail.  Shivers went up my back, and what little hair I had stood up on my neck and arms.

The sound apparently was coming from the bathroom area.  I stood up and ran to the doors, several other recruits on my heels.  As I neared the restroom doors the moaning stopped and the banging returned. 

I ran through one of the doors, and on the other side one of my fellow recruits stood where he had been beating his head against another steel door.  He looked toward me, eyes glazed, and vacant.  Then he started that God awful moaning again.  I stood for a moment in shock, watching the blood run down his face, from his lacerated forehead.   After a moment he stopped moaning and turned to begin beating his head against the door once more.

I snapped out of my trance, and ran forward to grab him, yelling for help as I did.  He fought us wildly for a while, then dropped to the floor sobbing uncontrollably.  While I tried to stop the bleeding one of the others ran to call for help.

An eternity later (about ten minutes), an ambulance and two corpsmen arrived to take him to the hospital.  We all breathed a sigh of relief when they took him away.  No one knew why he had broken down, but we were glad professionals would take care of him.

The next morning he walked into the barracks, and went to his rack.  His head was bandaged, and he looked horrible, but would not speak to anyone, other than to say the hospital had released him.

That evening the events of the night before were repeated.  He went to the bathroom to try to bash his head in, and the wails resumed.  Once again my fellow recruits and I rushed in to try to calm him, and save him from permanent harm.

The ambulance arrived and they took put him in a straight jacket and led him to the ambulance.  A few moments later, one corpsman returned and asked for me.  Apparently the anguished recruit had asked for me to go with him to the hospital.  I did not know the young man, and to my shame I can’t recall his name, so I was confused as to why he asked for me.  It seemed he had formed some kind of bond with me, while I was trying to sooth him.  As we rode to the hospital, and later as we waited for the doctor, he told me his story.

It began two years prior when both of his parents had died in a fire.  He grieved for them, but got better and moved on with his life.  A year earlier he met a girl and fell in love.  They made plans to marry, after boot camp; tragically she died in a car wreck, two months prior to his arrival.  The stress of basic training had reopened old wounds and life was more than he could bear. 

The doctor arrived soon after our talk and told me to go back to the barracks.  I never expected to see the poor man again.

During our final week of basic, we were allowed to go alone to pick up our records and begin the checkout procedure.  I was walking to an appointment when I saw a lieutenant screaming at a recruit for walking uncovered (hatless).  As I neared I saw it was the tragic recruit, formerly of my company.

He stood slump shouldered and glassy eyed, staring straight through the lieutenant.  I stepped up to her and said “Excuse me, ma-am.” 

She glared at me and said, “One moment, recruit!” She turned back to the young man.

“Ma-am?”

“I said, in a minute!”

“Please, ma-am.  It is very important!”

She stormed over to me, and demanded to know what couldn’t wait.  I looked at the my fellow recruit and said “Ma-am, that recruit was in my company.  He had a nervous breakdown, and is in the process of getting a mental, medical discharge.”

She stared at him and turned back to me, a frightened look on her face.  “Is he dangerous?”

“I don’t know for sure, ma-am, but he very well might be.”

In a small voice, she said “Thank, you!”  She turned to the recruit and said “Carry on.”  As he walked away, she hurried in the opposite direction.

That was the last time I saw my fellow recruit.  It has been thirty-four years, but I can still remember his face and those screams.  I often wonder what happened to him, and pray he found peace.

Dumb Choices

I had a couple of friends back in '79 or '80, who where very intelligent boys, but made a very dumb decision.  This took place in Greenwood, Indiana.  Greenwood at this time was a quiet little community in the suburbs of Indianapolis.  A wild time for the police was a fight between two drunks at Bob's Tavern.

The young men were 17 at the time, and to protect the guilty, we will call them Tom and Dick.  Harry is not involved in this story.  They had been to a party in downtown Greenwood, about two blocks from the police station.  They had crashed for a few hours and left the party at about 9:30.

As they walked along the sidewalk, still feeling the effects of the night before, they saw a police car in front of the local shoe repair shop.  As they walked up to the police car, Tom noticed the door was ajar and the engine was running.  With a grin, he turned to Dick and said, "We ought to just take the SOB." 

Dick's response was "OK!" and he opened the door and jumped into the driver's seat.  Dick later told me he planned to take it around the corner and leave it in the alley for the officer to find.

Tom in horror yelled, "I was just kidding!"

At this time the police officer ran out of the shoe store, gun in hand, yelling at the top of his lungs.  Tom in a panic jumped into the passenger seat as Dick took off.

Since the officer had seen the boys, there was no time to drop it in the alley.  He left town as fast as the car would go.  Unfortunately, for him, the rest of the Greenwood force was in hot pursuit.

They went down Greenwood Road with the pedal to the floor, heading for the country roads, in the hopes of losing the local police.  As the chase continued, it was joined by the Whiteland, Franklin, and Johnson County forces as well. 

Dick drove in a panic, still hung over from the night before, and came upon a sharp bend in the road.  He did not make the turn and the car went into a corn field, rolling three times.

As the boy's crawled out of the windows of the upside down police car, every on-duty officer in Johnson County had their guns drawn, ready to fire.  The boys began shouting, "Don't shoot, we're just kids!  Don't shoot, we're just kids"  The officers held their fire and the young men were cuffed and taken in.

Luckily for them, the boy's fathers were well off, and well connected in the county.  After paying a hefty fine, and damages, they received probation and were freed.  The fathers had pulled strings and spent a lot of money for the boys, and they meant to teach them a lesson.  Part of the condition of their release was that they were to repay their father's for the costs incurred.

They worked for minimum wage, with all proceeds going back to the father's accounts for more than two years.  One day they were riding a motorcycle together, when a gentleman in a Cadillac, ran a stop sign and hit them.  Both received multiple breaks in their legs as well as other injuries.

The driver of the Cadillac was held responsible, and his insurance settled.  Tom and Dick received just barely enough to finish paying off their fathers.  Tom told me that the day they were hit, was the luckiest day of his life.

Lending a Helping Hand

One summer’s day, in the mid 1960s, we drove to Kentucky to visit relatives.  As we passed through Lebanon, on the way to Liberty, my father decided to stop at a bar/liquor store to pick up a case of beer.  Liberty was is a dry county and you cannot buy alcohol there.  He went inside, and my mother and I waited in the car, at the curb.

A few minutes later, a gentleman came stumbling out of the bar.  He started walking toward the road and walked right into a parking meter.  He bounced off the meter and hit the ground.  The man then picked himself up, shook his head, and walked into the meter again.

As he picked himself up the second time, an old blind man left the bar and headed for the street corner, tapping his cane.  The drunk saw the blind man at the corner, ran over, got the older man by the sleeve and led him across the road.

At this point my father left the bar, laughing.  As he opened the car door, he said to my mother, “If that isn’t the blind leading the blind, I don’t know what is!”

The Streak

This story goes back several years to when Herb Coffman was Sheriff of Casey County, Kentucky.  As the story was relayed to me, Sheriff Coffman had received several complaints of streakers running the roads around Liberty.

As he drove along the road one day, a report of one such incident, very close by, came across the radio.  He answered, saying he was on the way, and “He had better hope I don’t catch him.”  At that moment he topped a hill and there was the young man, naked as jaybird, running toward him.

He hit the lights and siren and the man took off running across an open field, heading toward the woods.  Wearing nothing but his tennis shoes and a smile the guy ran as fast as he could go.  The Sheriff stopped the car, jumped out and took off after the young man. 

It was an uneven race as the young man increased his lead and the Sheriff, with his gun jumping against his leg, tried to keep up in his uniform and street shoes.  It looked as though the young man would get away, then Mother Nature took a hand.

The young man was in better shape, had less baggage, and was wearing tennis shoes, but there was one thing he hadn’t anticipated.  No matter the shoes and conditioning, the human body is not designed to run bare assed through a briar patch.

As the man screamed and struggled, Sheriff Coffman calmly walked up and made his way through the briars to the miscreant.  He got the other free of the briers, and walk him back toward the field.  He led him to an old stump at the edge of the road, sat down, pulled the guy across his lap and proceeded to give him an old fashioned spanking.

He then took the individual to the police car, and drove him to the jail.  He walked him in naked and threw him something to cover up with, once he was locked away.  From what I am told the young man did not streak again.

An Eerie Wind

An Eerie Wind

This story goes back to around 1976.  My family and I went down to Liberty, Kentucky, to visit my grandparents.  While we were talking with my Grandma Miller we could see she was nervous.  Mom asked if everything was o.k., and Grandma shrugged and said "Yeah, but the strangest thing happened last week."  Then she told us the weird tale.

Grandma's house had been built years before by a cousin of my grandfather.  He originally built it for his wife as their first home together.  After a few years they sold the house and went on to other properties.  It went through several hands, and from what I was told as a child a few people had died in it, before my grandparents bought it.

There were often strange occurrences.  Often, If someone was sleeping on the couch, they would see car lights sweep through the window, lighting the opposite wall, then go out.  This was often followed by the sound of a car door slamming, in the front yard.  When you looked out of the window, no one was there.  Sometimes, from my grandparents room, you could hear the front door or upstairs door open, then steps go up the stairs; but no one had opened the door, or gone upstairs.  These and other bizarre occurrences happened frequently and would not alarm my grandmother.  But this time she told a different tale, altogether. 

The original home owners wife had been hospitalized and the family had been waiting for her to die, as the hospital could not help her.  My aunt Betty's husband, Delmer, was representing the church and had been visiting her one evening.

That night while my Grandmother, Betty, and three other aunts and uncles were watching TV, the screen door slammed against the outside of the house.  The heavy wooden front door slammed open against the wall, inside the house.  The upstairs door, across from the front door burst open into the front room.  Keep in mind all of these doors had opened with tremendous force, from different directions.

As the doors burst open, a cold wind rushed into the house and up the stairs.  As the wind passed, all the doors slammed shut, bang, bang, bang.  After the doors slammed everyone sat in stunned silence, then ran through the kitchen, and out the back door.

They stood at the side of the house, not wanting to go back in.  Then the phone began to ring.  When my grandmother went in and answered it, it was my uncle Delmer.  He told her the old lady, who first moved in on her honeymoon, had died about a half hour earlier.  At the same time, that the wind had torn through the house.