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.