A few days later, I reported to the office of the CID. I was told that I was going to be discharged from the Navy under “honorable conditions,” but that I would be ineligible for reenlistment in the future. I was thrilled that it would just be a couple more weeks until I was a civilian again. I couldn’t imagine any reason why I would want to reenlist!
I was transferred out of training command to the regular side of the base. I moved into a barracks for those who were being discharged. Until the details were finalized, I spent the days swabbing and waxing the decks there or at the Brig. I enjoyed working at the Brig, as opposed to being in it! I got to know the NCOs working there. Most of their activity revolved around tracking recruits who were “away without leave” (AWOL).
There was a large map of the US on the wall with stick pins representing various AWOL recruits. They knew where they all were! On a couple occasions the NCOs told me: We will let him stay there with his girlfriend for a few more days before we go down and arrest him. Since he has already ruined his naval career, we might as well let him enjoy himselft for a while! I was enchanted by the notion that they seemed to have so much compassion for those who were about to be arrested. I guess part of being able to find them was getting inside their heads and learning to feel what they were feeling.
For the first time, I was no longer treated as a recruit. I was free to go to the mess hall with friends, shop at the base PX, and hand my clothes off to be washed by someone else. Since I no longer had to hang up my wet clothes on an outdoor hanging line, I expected my cold to finally clear up. To help me along with this, the corpsman gave me three days of bed rest. Except for going to the mess hall, I was under orders to stay in bed for 72 hours. That was an order I had no problem obeying!
I lounged in bed dutifully, listening to a transistor radio that I had bought at the PX. It was a holiday without the beach!
Once I was off bed rest and back to work, the Petty Officer 3rd Class (PO3) who was my supervisor, told me to join him for a trip to the beach! Now, this guy was not the very bright. We nicknamed him “Dumbo” for his intellect and large ears that protruded just under his cover (the white hat that is worn in the Navy). And, he didn’t seem to like any of us. Maybe it was because we were being discharged and he was in his fourth 4-year enlistment and only just the first rank above a lowly “Seaman.” He was the equivalent of an army corporal after almost 15 years in the Navy!
I would sing as I worked, whether it was swabbing the decks or my favorite job, running the electric buffer. I loved running that buffer. There was an art to guiding it back and forth in arcs by lifting up or down on the handle. And aside from the satisfaction of being able to control a heavy piece of machinery, I was rewarded by symmetrical arcs of shining wax beaming back at me from the linoleum decks. I was “doing my job as unto the Lord” as the best buffer operator in my unit.
However, my singing got me in trouble. You can ask my wife or daughter, I never pay attention to the lyrics. Songs capture me with their melodies or arrangements. As I swabbed and buffed, I would sing all of my favorite popular rock tunes, but had to abort many of them when I realized I was making up words for the actual lyrics.
One song that I had a lock on the lyrics was Freedom by Richie Havens. Mostly, the only lyric was “freedom . . . freedom” and I would sing that over and over. As I sang it, certainly I was thinking of my own freedom from the Navy that was just a few days away. PO3 Dumbo thought I was engaging in a political protest.
As a reward for winning this smaller version of “American Navy Idol-1970” (Simon would have blasted me forgetting the words!) , PO3 Dumbo told me to grab my coat. We were going to go to the beach!
It was mid-December and Lake Michigan was frozen solid. As our truck pulled down onto the snow-covered sandy beach, I learned that our mission was to transport 50 gallon drums of sand back to our building to provide traction on the icy sidewalks and parking lot.
We backed up to two drums that had already been filled with sand. He opened the back flap of the truck and explained that we needed to hoist the barrels into the back. Have you ever tried to pick up a 50 gallon barrel packed with sand? The two of us couldn’t even tip it on the sandy beach.
PO3 Dumbo had brought the wrong kind of truck. There was no hydraulic lift gate. And there was absolutely no way to lift the barrel up the five feet to reach the floor of the truck bed. I suggested that we would have to empty the barrels of sand and refill them once they were on the truck bed. Then we could use a forklift to remove them. PO3 Dumbo had forgotten to bring shovels. As we returned to our building with an empty truck, somehow this was “all my fault”!
The very next morning, Dumbo called me to his little janitorial office which housed two folding metal chairs and a small desk with a large aluminum coffee maker. The one thing that Dumbo did better than anyone else, was to make the best coffee I have ever had. Starbucks had nothing on this guy. Somehow, he was able to brew the best tasting coffee from 30 gallon plastic bags of government surplus coffee. I have spent my life unsuccessfully chasing coffee that tasted that good. It actually tasted like coffee smells!
I thought I was about to be punished for the frozen beach escapade, but instead he handed me my new orders: Report to the cleaners to claim my dress uniform and be mustered out immediately.
Seven hours later, wearing my navy blue wool uniform, I was ringing the bell at my front door in Louisville. My military career of two months was over forever, or so I thought.
Next: ♪♪ On Wisconsin, on Wisconsin ♪♪
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