Laughing and Griping, My Life in the Bees

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Names and locations are fictitious any resemblance to

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So there!

ISBN: Pending

The views expressed in this work are solely those

of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher,

and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Before we begin on this journey of hilarity, there are a few legal issues that need discussed.

Firstly, though this is an account of my experiences, and the things in this book as far as the incidences that happened, did happen. HOWEVER, the people that are here after mentioned are fictionally named. The names were changed to protect everyone. Only my name remained intact. Any resemblances to people or names are purely coincidental

Preface

Before I begin this account, I would like to insert this poem, as far as I know the author is unknown, this is NOT my poem. For those who do not know what a Seabee is, this is a small explanation in a humorous way as to the definition of what a Seabee is. Though it is pretty darn accurate. I do not know who wrote it but I give full credit to whom ever wrote it. It is unchanged in its entirety. Ergo:

What Is A Seabee?

“Between a soldier and a marine, there stands an individual called a Seabee.

Seabees come in assorted sized, shapes, and weights, but all have the same code: to enjoy every second of every hour of every day, whether at work or at play and to protest by griping (their most beloved privilege) when issued an order.

Seabees are found everywhere: on top of, inside of, climbing on, swinging from, running around, or more likely than not, turning to.

Mothers and Sweethearts love them, Fathers are proud of them, Brothers look up to them, Sisters admire them. Company Commanders tolerate them, and the Chief Petty Officers drive them.

A Seabee is composite, he has the appetite of a horse, the digestion of a sword swallower, the energy of a pocket-sized atomic bomb, the curiosity of a cat, the lungs of a dictator, the imagination of a Paul Bunyon, the slyness of a violin, the enthusiasm of a firecracker, and the spirit of a fighting cock. He likes: liberty, leave, holidays, weekends, girls, chow, beer, movies, gedonks, swimming, pin-ups, sleep, and comic books.

He isn’t too hot for: duty nights, watches, taps, reveille, routing discipline, officers, drills, or secured heads.

Nobody else is so early to rise without actually wanting to get up. No other person gets so much fun out of liberty or Shore Patrol. No one can have so much fun with so little money.

A Seabee is a magical creature: you can chew him out, but you can’t get the work done without him: he is dirty, unpolished, unkempt, often overbearing and sometimes reluctant.

A Seabee is a man of magical abilities: he can weld, build, drive, repair, and fight; he can wreck or he can beautify, he can make something out of nothing; work never tires him nor does he seem to tire of it!

His Motto is “CAN DO”, to which he has added “HAS DONE” and “DID”; this frequently miraculous occurrence is recognized in the form of a “WELL DONE” by everyone from the Commanding Officer on down.

The average Seabee is a thick-headed individual of variety of nationalities. He won’t admit to anyone or anywhere except in the defense of his corps that his is the Best Job in the NAVY. Without him, the fleet would have nothing to gripe about. Marines would have nothing to talk about and history would have nothing to write about.”

Keep this in the back of your mind as you read this, My account of My experiences in the United States Navy Seabees.

I also hereby dedicate this assemblage of memories and historic events to my brothers and sisters in the Seabees. This missive is my account of my active duty and my reserve experiences and my time during Desert Storm.

Now that I have established what a Seabee is, let’s take a look at what I went through the first couple of months after I had enlisted and had to wait 12 months in the delayed entry program for an opening into this elite group.

Boot-camp

I was an average, but short, 20-year-old with a good upbringing. I was taught to be respectful and what to expect from others. I was also brought up to always be polite but firm, kind, but cautious.

There was a trend that was in full swing when I entered boot-camp in 1983. The government had made and agreement with the Philippine Islands to allow enlistment of Philippine residents into the United States Navy thus giving them American citizenship. My father had informed me of what to expect in boot-camp, but he had no idea as to what I was going to experience. He did not know of this, ergo.

I knew I was screwed as soon as I got off the plane in San Diego, California. Being from the Midwest, I was laid back, and I was also a leaner, I leaned on everything, walls, tables, rails, cars, and if it was firm enough, anything that did not move when I tripped into it, or tested it for leanification. My parents thought I was part Doberman Pinscher because of how much I leaned. I debarked the plane and followed the signs for the Navy Boot-camp ending at a small alcove with a desk on one side and a handrail on the other. I stood next to my small bag and leaned against the rail. I heard somebody jibber-jabber angrily and looking directly at me. I took it that he did not want me to lean on the railing, so, I moved over and leaned against the desk. Reaching over and testing to see if the paint was wet or if the railing was unstable and finding it not only stable, but dry, I shrugged my shoulders and leaned back against the desk. This seemed to incense the little squat man in a khaki uniform with anchors on the collar tips. Okay, this guy is a chief. He was definitely getting an odd shade of red as he scowled at me. I moved back to the handrail. He threw up his hands and got within an inch of my face screaming. I tensed up as the last person who got this close in my personal space got an up close and personal look at the ground between us. But I stood there, oddly enough, eye to eye with this ball of verbal violence that I don’t think even he understood what he was saying, sorry, screaming. Then he finally said something that I could partially understand. “Whaza mata lil boy, you no unnerstan de prain engrish?”

I replied before I could think about what was coming out of my mouth. “Well hell, if you could damn well speak de prain Engrish, I could damn well understand de prain Engrish!” I must have flushed as he turned a dark purple and turned to another just like him and thrummed into a sing-song language that I had no clue as to its origins. It did sound like something that I had heard in some of the war flicks from Vietnam or in that area somewhere. I was now in question if I had not slept too long and wound up overseas. I was no longer in my beloved America. Then the next thought went through my head as these two argued and stared directly at me. My ass was going home. I didn’t even last one hour in the military, and I was going home.

I was finally escorted to a line with other recruits and we got on a bus and stopped at the intake center on base. We were sent to a barracks and there we bedded down and slept for what seemed like three hours and woke up with the normal trash can alarm. I had thought the incident from last night was gone as a bad memory, only to find myself in a very different situation, or just a continuation from last night.

I found that I was standing in front of a female lieutenant of the same nationality as at least a very large majority of the people on base was the same nationality as last night and a large majority of people on base. I was justifiably, thoroughly, and properly buggered.

She looked at me sternly and asked what had happened the night before. I explained what had happened as I recounted the situation down to the exchange between the two chiefs. She stopped me and flushed herself, then sent me to stand outside and wait. I could hear her yelling at the chief about being clear and speaking only English when on duty. I was called back in and told that no one is allowed to speak anything but English when in uniform unless they were acting as a translator.

I was sent to be put into a company.

Now readers, I stand a monstrous and towering five foot four inches tall and companies are set up by height. I would have normally been one of the last two in the company. I was assigned to company 207 where I was not one of the last, I was almost in the middle.

I quickly learned that boot-camp meant running. We ran here, we ran there, we ran to dinner, we ran to class, we ran to the head (bathroom), we ran to dental, and we ran to medical. Your leg broken and hanging out? No problem, just run to medical and they will give you two Motrin and send you running back to the barracks. The only place we did not run at was the marching field, which we ran to it and marched, then marched in double time, marched some more, and then ran back to the barracks.

I also discovered that I was one of two in the company that was not titled as Seaman Recruit. The other recruit and I were Construction Recruits. This caused no little consternation from my superiors as I reminded them every time they called me a Seaman Recruit.

There were two punishments for screwing up in the company from minor infractions to anything just shy of being wrote up. The two punishments were Marching Party and Short Tour. Marching Parties consisted of one hour of rigorous exercise and verbal degradation. If you failed at any given point, they sent you back to the barracks, running of course, and you had to return the next night. Short Tour consisted of two hours of rigorous exercise and verbal degradation and you did not know if you failed or not until it was over. I had to do a couple Short Tours. However, I was one of a few Marching Party kings. The powers that be did not appreciate my correcting them on the whole Seaman/Constructionman recruit thing. Little did I know that I was well on my way in the training of being a Seabee from day one. Another plus was I was learning how to politely be a smart-ass.

Military dentistry, according to those who specialize in the field are the best there is. The first month of boot, I was x-rayed, poked, prodded, massaged, scraped, and told to return when they sent for me. And yes, I ran to and from the dentist also. When I entered boot-camp, I had good teeth, one or two fillings but nothing more. The military changed all that. They told me that I needed a root canal. “Yes, I need a long, deep, and painful root canal. Just jab that needle in the back of my throat and make sure it goes out the back of my neck and back into the back of my head. Then reach in with those rusty pliers you have laying over there, grab hold and pull my head off.” They gave me a dose of Novocain that would not have numbed a gnat. Then they began to drill. Now readers, just a little personal information upon my teenage antics, I got hurt, a lot. I was stitched up, by yours truly because I was afraid of getting into trouble with my father. I was bruised up, folded, spindled and all but mutilated. Pain and I are longtime friends. The smoke wasn’t much of a problem, but the pain was increasing and climaxed when they entered the root canal itself. I ripped the covering of the arm rest on one side and almost had a two-fer on the other side. Another shot was administered into the nerves sending another dose of mind-numbing pain through the old cranium. Who knows how long they pulled things out of my tooth with tweezers then proceeded to pack it with what looked and felt like cotton and then they filled it. I was done, right? HAR! So, you think. I was sent back to my company. It was our turn in the kitchen for KP duty, or more correctly, a better understanding of where the great and observant Dr. Zeuss got the inspiration for green eggs and ham, and the refusal to eat green eggs and ham. Because of my cooking experience, I was sent into the bakery. During that time, I discovered how they mass produced the near olive drab green chicken embryos they called eggs. They took the powdered egg batter and dumped it into a fry vat and mixed the batter with an aluminum dust pan. Some chemical reaction made the eggs turn a dull yellowish green.

I had also gone from eating only one good meal a day with exercise to three speed squares and not as much exercise per day, even though we ran everywhere. I gained almost 35 pounds in the two months of boot.

Boot-camp was two months of classes, practicing boat stuff on the U.S.S. Lollipop. I don’t remember the name of the concrete emplaced training ship, Medical visits, Dental visits, Marching Parties, Short Tours, gas chamber visits, Blanket Parties, and Enemy Aircraft watches. What, I neglected to mention blanket parties and enemy aircraft watches? Well grab onto your twittering thorax and retain the positioning of the edge of your seat. Navy Boot Camp San Diego shared property directly at the end of the runway to San Diego International Airport, or Lindbergh Field. Planes flew over our compound every three minutes. If you upset the Company Commander, say, you corrected him when he called you a Seaman Recruit instead of a Constructionman Recruit, you ended up with Enemy Aircraft watch, you found yourself on the roof of the barracks after dark with a combat helmet identifying every plane that flew overhead whether it was friend or foe. If you correctly identified the plane as enemy, you shot it down with your rapid firing 30-millimeter imaginary machine gun. If you properly identified the plane as friendly, it was allowed to fly over unharmed. However, if you improperly identified any plane, you had to flop onto your back and kick your legs and arms up imitating a dying cockroach. Since I mandated that it was airborne, every aircraft that flew over was the enemy, ergo, I killed many a cockroach. Anyone who has ever been in the military knows what a blanket party is, but for the land lubber, I will elaborate the practice. A Blanket Party is when the Company Commander (from here on will be referred to as the CC), punishes the whole company for an infraction that only one individual that just will not comply, for example say, he won’t bathe, dirty uniform, boon-dockers not spit shined, and so on. Such things would cause the company to lose points. So to get the one individual in line the rest of the company being very tired of being punished by the one individual will pin down said individual in his bunk at night with his blanket while the others take a sock with a full bar of soap in the end of the sock as a weight, and take turns swatting the individual making a statement in hopes that he understands that it will happen again if he doesn’t straighten up. The other thing we had to do was forcibly scrub down the same individual for not bathing. Lie soap and scrub brushes got the job done and he was squeaky clean and beet red from the scrubbing, at least for a day or two, but it beat him not bathing since he got there. This was the same individual that would turn around in his bunk and I would wake up seeing him sit up and his pillow was stuck to his face by a thick green film of mucus. I had to guess that his recruiter was a very desperate man, or woman.

My CC was a sick and twisted individual to say the least. I had to guess that he had no life of his own as he was regularly seen in the barracks late at night with a stack of cards in his hands. If he crept up on you while you were sleeping and you woke up, he went to his next victim. If you did not wake up when he crept up on you, he placed one of those cards on you that had only two words, “YOU’R DEAD!” I used to be able to sleep through a hurricane or bomb or anything that could go off around me. I always was sensitive to waking up when something was not supposed to be there, and this guy tripped my weird- “shit is going down” o-meter. But to be honest, he had done this from day one. We were also his last company before retiring. It was quite the experience and fun.

Bootcamp was coming to its conclusion and I was looking forward to the next leg of my military career. But before that, we had uncontrolled liberty. We were ordered to stay out of Tijuana, so we went drinking in San Diego and at a friend’s house. I had initiated a Taxi with the contents of my stomach from the massive alcohol and food from the last two days. I swore that never would I get drunk enough to lose control ever again, well, maybe one more time in “A” school, but it’s not yet time for that one, yet!

The military was claiming to save money on transportation. I say this because of what happened next. We were about to graduate and we had to talk to a person from billeting on where we were supposed to go for more training. I was told that Port Hueneme, in California, and was just up the coast. The other training center was located in Gulfport Mississippi three quarters of the way across the country. They said “we are trying to save money. You are going to Gulfport for SW “A” school.” They flew me to Gulfport Mississippi and I had three days to kill before I classed up. So, I did what any 21-year-old, red blooded American would do, I raced home and married my sweetie and best friend and raced back with red and blue lights trying to catch me before I hit the state line. I managed to get off the freeway and loose the po-po’s long enough to pick my buddy up and leave. The guy that went up with me was kind of freaked out when I came to a skidding stop and told him that we had to go and no time to waste! I had some explaining to do on the way back. Which I did.

Gulfport

Steelworker “A” School

I signed in and was assigned to a Steelworker class. We were told that in the next two months we would be trained in welding, brazing, soldering, assembling Butler Buildings, runway matting and everything thing else that was in the “Steelworker 3&2” manual. I wasn’t worried about the welding. I had been welding for two years and had schooling behind me going into this. It was the other stuff that I was looking forward to as well as any new welding and welding techniques.

I met my classmates that were a mix of other young men and women. Still, I was the oldest one in my class by two years. One guy looked older, but I would find out later why that was. The class seemed focused to one direction, to graduate and head for a Mobile Construction Battalion. There were also two Amphib Construction Battalions. Soon, we were in class learning to weld and assembling butler buildings and water towers. We discovered another spirited activity that all but one like to partake in. The art of imbibing to the state of wobbliness was practiced nightly. One of our number took it to the limit and beyond. There was a package store just down the road from the main gate. He would drive his truck and wait for the delivery truck to drop off their supply to which they always left outside the door. He would drive up and throw all the Crown Royal but one case in the back of his truck and drive off.

We would wobble in for muster in the morning and try to stand at attention. After a few weeks of our muster wobbles and squint-eyed hangovers. The instructor introduced us to the industries best cure for hangovers, bottled oxygen, that stuff would knock out any trace of a hangover as well as the job of cutting and welding it was designed for. I think the situation would have been much different if every single student save one had not had a B+ average. The one student that had a lower grade was the one that did not drink. That’s what I said, the lowest grade was held by the one that did not drink! Now explain that one to the experts. One morning the instructor looked at us and laughed and said, “You know, ya’ll’s the biggest bunch of drunks I ever had, and still manage to function in the morning.”

The one who looked older was named Farzelli, he was in the military by court order, and his story was that he had run his mother down with his motorcycle. He said he was going to pull his bike in the house so it wouldn’t get wet and she said over her dead body. He said “Okay!” throttled the bike and knocked her out of the way. The judge gave him and ultimatum. Either go into the military, or go to jail. He entered the military and eventually ended up in jail anyway for trying to take weapons out the main gate at his last command in Port Hueneme on, yes, I am serious, a Harley. I am sure that the huge, bulky, lumpy, suspicious looking, and heavy bag strapped to the back of the bike didn’t draw any attention. But that is for another time and not within the scope of my story or experiences.

Most of us got to know each other pretty well, some in a good way and some maybe in not so good of a way. Others were good but they would get under your skin, fester, and irritate you all day. Donaldson was one of those that was pretty cool but came in every night so stonkered that he found both bulkheads in an open bay barracks all the way down to his bunk at the far end of the barracks to his rack. This would wake us all up. It became very annoying.

It was in the middle of the crawdad festival that I was struck with a completely evil idea. A few of us went to celebrate and quickly discovered that we could catch the crawdads behind Blunters apartment and cook them for free. After we had our fill, we still had a large pot full of the critters that were very much alive and very much irritated. We saved 50 of the little guys for a little late-night operation. We kept them in water until that night at 0130. I walked over and placed the critters throughout his rack. True to form, he promptly staggered in at 0200, stripped, and crawled into his rack. He shouted ouch and ooh, as well as several imprecations. But soon he was finally quiet. He continued to toss and turn until he eventually fell quiet and still.

The morning reveille was met by a blood curdling scream and a long string of deadly oaths of revenge. He, his bunk, and the floor were covered in smelly seafood remains. Not having time to shower and clean the shower once again. He wiped down, dressed and ran to muster. Donaldson fell in just as roll call began. The first class stopped and wrenched his nose. “Who brought the beach front hooker?” He said as he walked through stopping in front of Donaldson. “Someone make you sleep with the bait last night Donaldson?” He stood silent and shook his head. “Go inside and try to get some of that stench off, hurry!” The rest of the day was of Donaldson being confused and the rest of us teasing him with comments.

“Next time try the salmon! Dude, close your legs! Not having that fresh feeling down there today?”

The class was advancing. We learned to assemble water towers, Marsden matting, or runway matting. Installation and repair of the old steel waffle pattern matting. Then we worked with the newer aluminum style matting. Half of the day was spent burning rod, while the rest was spent in class and in the field. As with any class, there is always that one who has to stir the pot and make some kind of trouble, and as the case with some of the not so smarter ones, they will get wet as they stir. Smith was one of those who liked to practical joke at others expense. He claimed to be the strongest and the one that no one could mess with. He also claimed that he would wake up if a gnat flew by his face. We decided to test this to see if he was actually as he said he was. We doubted this as he was the loudest snorer in the barracks. So, two of us decided to sneak up on him one night and test this theory. So late Friday night, we walked into his area to see if he would wake up. He didn’t, so we took dental floss and stitched the little princess onto his mattress like a pocket on a shirt. In the morning when he did finally wake up, he discovered that he had been sewn to his sheets and mattress up and around his neck. Obviously, he wasn’t happy.

Gulfport was a scenic picturesque land of beauty and torture. It would be 80 degrees and sunny one moment with a tolerable humidity factor followed by ten minutes of rain then 80 degrees with 600 percent humidity and not swarms, but squadrons of the biggest mosquitoes you had ever seen or heard. We joked that you could hear the mosquitoes carrying away small children at night. They were getting less frequent, the mosquitoes, not the children, and graduation was approaching. Our first-class instructor said that he had a surprise for us when we graduated.

One afternoon, after class, a few of us went past the package store on the way to the beach. We explored the culverts, swam in the surf, or what there was of it, and waded among the levies. That was when I discovered just how sharp barnacles were on the rocks. I slipped and fell, lacerating my left hand pretty badly. It was after eight pm and medical was closed and I had no way to get to Biloxi, so I wrapped up my hand and decided to go to medical in the morning.

In the morning, I got up, dressed only to discover that I was not the only one to fall victim to the barnacles. We went together to the beach. We went together to the doc’s office. They put us in different rooms and asked what happened. I told them what happened to me and they drew blood. The tech just looked at the blood in the vials and asked. “You on duty today?”

“No way, off the weekend. Why?” I asked now looking at the tube of blood that looked a little lighter than it should have been.

“Well, this sample may be flammable. You can scrub your own wound today.” He said. Was that supposed to be punishment? I had been cut, smashed, folded, spindled, and mutilated when I was in my teens. To keep from getting into trouble when I got hurt, I would bandage, splint, and sew myself up. Me and pain had gotten to be good friends and on a first name basis. This would be uncomfortable but not much else.

Graduation came and surprisingly, as the first class observed, found most of us quite sober. I think we ran the gamut of uncontrolled freedom and old enough to drink and that was getting worked out of our systems. For most of us anyway. The first-class petty officer smiled proudly and announced. “Construction men, I can now tell you that we have a trip scheduled tomorrow morning. We will be going on an all-day canoe trip. Half way, we will be having a Bar-b-que. Make sure to bring water, pop, or anything you wish to drink!”

I think by 11am the next morning, Petty Officer David Klutz regretted that last statement.

We all had our small coolers, snacks, oars, and canoes and were heading in the direction of the canoe launch. Gilligan and Donaldson had teamed up and barely made it to the water. They had a cooler that barely fit into the canoe. Already, and I think it was some kind of record, neither one was feeling any pain. They took off in the wrong direction, disappeared, then about five minutes later reappeared and paddled past the rest of us still launching our canoes. Donaldson was paddling like hell while Gilligan was reclining in the back dragging his oar in the water. We didn’t see them again for at least an hour. The scenery was beautiful with few rapids and lots of nature to look at. The water calmed to almost a stand still as we approached a bend. Then we began to see debris float along with two oars and ice. Also, the contents of the cooler and the cooler itself floated free like discarded body parts after a shark attack. The canoe was beached upside down, dragged part way out of the water while two water logged canoers shouted, cussed and took unbalanced swings at each other. Others paddled up and began taking pictures while others tried to calm the two down, which did not work. Apparently, after rowing all that time, Donaldson turn to see Gilligan hanging half out of the canoe, tipping the last drops of a bottle of Crown Royal with the oar leaning behind him. Gilligan was using it as a backrest. Angry, Donaldson stood and turned, this action if on solid ground would have been a challenge to one so inebriated, challenging to a man sober in a canoe, well, a total disaster to these two individuals who were beyond three sheets to the wind. The canoe was already low in the water and barely floating. All this together was a negative for the poor floating canoe that was not designed for their antics. The boat tipped, took on water, and sent everything downstream. The two partially dragged the canoe ashore and commenced to fisty cuffs.

We got them back to sea and to the Bar-B-Que without further incident. I could fill this missive with pages of Gilligan’s exploits, but that is not why I am writing this. Though I am reflecting, smiling, shaking my head, and having to stop typing long enough to stop laughing.

Everything was behind us as far as the basic training and A school. It was now time for our first duty stations. I was a newlywed and was looking for a command that I could be with my bride. It was a hope anyway.

We were handed our orders and upon opening mine I saw PWT ADAK AK, unaccompanied. Well this was disappointing. I heard another disappointing comment as another was being assigned to ACB-1 in Coronado California. We talked and I talked to the first class and he said that a body was a body and if I could get someone to swap orders, it would not be a problem. I went over to Patterson to see why he was disappointed with his orders. He wanted to get away from his wife. He was more than happy to swap orders with me. Now he was happy with his orders as he was now going to ADAK Island AK and I was off to sunny southern California.

I was about to embark on a learning experience of a life time, and more entertainment that I will reflect upon for the rest of my days.

Amphibious Construction Battalion One

Or As Those Who Had Been There Called It “The Bone”

Checking into ACB-1 was an experience in itself. It was nothing like leaving “A” school. I had a list of checked items that took two full days of wandering around seemingly aimlessly to accumulate uniforms, boots, sign for this, check off for that, finally I had my full 782 gear laid in the back of my car.

I received some interesting greetings to the battalion as I went through the process of checking in. Some good and welcoming, some irritated and some strange. I met the safety officer who had a bicycle outside his office with a bizarre setup for a seat. The frame came out of the tube normal enough, but the similarities ended there. Instead of a seat, a frame formed into a “T” that was about 18 inches wide then bent straight up. From each end was attached a length of fire hose that formed a sling in which he sat when he rode the bike.

I knocked and entered to meet a balding man, about 25 pounds overweight and rocking in his seat like an agitated person with downs syndrome. He was Petty Officer First Class Rodney. I asked about him when I got back to the Delta Company office. Petty Officer Hurtz said they all call him Rockin’ Rodney, he always does that. He shook my hand and said, “Heh heh heh, welcome to the Bone boy! Do what you’re told and keep your nose clean. You’ll do just fine. If you have any questions, come to me.” I thanked him and was assigned a locker and fell in for lunch muster.

After muster, I was given a tour of Delta Company’s little world of Can-Do creativity. I was taken out to the “Paint and Sconey,” or “Paint and Sandblast” to those not in the know. “You’ll be here for your first six.” He said, “Then it will be where we will need you.”

I was also initiated by being sent for 100 foot of shoreline. I went to the first stop, then went home and my wife and I went to explore the shoreline as ordered for the rest of the day! The next thing they sent me on was the “Sky Hook.” Expedition. It was all in fun until I showed up with a WEPS dragging its tail with a crane hook in the bed. They thought they were smart, me with a civilian “Sky Hook” 1. The pranksters 0. HA!

Well, there were two from my “A” school class that were assigned here as well. Farzelli and Hunter, Hunter was the only one in class that did not drink. All three of us were assigned to paint and sconey. It was filthy duty that even with a pressurized breathing suit. I went home every day black from head to foot from the copper slag media we used. We sand blasted new causeway sections for paint, and we blasted old causeway sections of their abundance of barnacles and paint. Then we would pull it outside and blow it off, prime it with two-part 150 primer then with haze grey paint. Straight out from the sand blast bay was a two-finger pier that a travel lift would come in and hook up to the section then drive out over the finger pier and drop it into the water.

The finger pier was one of the main sources of newbie initiations. The new Bee would be taken out to the end of the finger pier to be “shown” something then picked up and ceremoniously tossed into the bay. Even though it was sunny Southern California, the water in the ocean and bay rarely achieved a thermal temperature of 68 degrees in the middle of summer, and felt just a tad bit warmer than ice water. Upon further reflection, there were lots of other things in the water like chunks of steel, rebar, tons upon tons of welding rod, rocks, barnacles, and anything else you could dream up. They usually tried to initiate someone during high tide because of this.

While I am reliving this memorial thought of the finger pier, there was a 3^rd class Petty officer named Calletta. He was going to get out of the Navy and follow his father in being a worm farmer. He was harassed relentlessly about the woes of the ever-elusive worm rustlers. One afternoon, after lunch muster, there was four of us at the end of the pier sharing gross and sordid stories when SWCN Williams shared an account about a particular amorous female and a badly located boil that burst at the worst possible moment. Colletta said, “Oh that’s gross,” and proceeded to lose his recently consumed lunch consisting of burgers, fries, pop, chips, or anything else he had devoured during the course of the day. “Hey, it’s illegal to chum the water to attract fish!” one said. Colletta looked down, spun on his heels, bent over and evacuated the entire contents of everything he had consumed for the last 24 hours while we laughed uncontrollably. This was made worse by the fact that the finger pier was only 48 inches wide. So, he could still see what he left on the other side.

During my first couple weeks there I made a horrible discovery about myself. I did not know that I was claustrophobic until one morning when I was locked in a closet that I could not get out of. I guess I panicked. The next thing I knew the door flew outward from the frame and slammed to the floor. Growing up I had been in many caves and places that would make some people edgy. I never had problems with them. But this was different. As my punishment for kicking the door off its hinges, I, since I was the smallest and skinniest, had to crawl into a three-ton sand pot. The opening was oval shaped and they had a lot of trouble cleaning out the bottom where the sand exited the pot. Since they used and reused sand from outside, there were always steel, welding rod and other detritus that would get stuck in the hole. I could stand up and my head would just barely fit through the top opening. Another person was assigned to keep my mind occupied while inside. One afternoon, I was talking away and asked a question. I did not get an answer, I asked again. Nothing, I poked my head out of the top and there was no body there. I began to panic then went back inside and forced myself to calm down. That “Other person” never came back so I was on my own to try to get out without hurting myself. It took me a while to get out, when I did, I found that my “helper” had taken the rest of the day and gone home.

Life at ACB-1 was pretty good. Like everywhere though, it had its ups and downs. I remember one day; I had just shut off the blaster and I heard a ground shaking boom! I ran outside seeing sand and dust settling just behind the shop door. a steel 55-gallon solvent drum that was misshapen and Farzelli sprawled out beside the barrel writhing among the carnage. Apparently, he was told to fill the barrel with water and cut it in half. During the cutting process, and while the water was draining out of the barrel, a fireball floated to the air gap in the top of the barrel where a pocket of M.E.K. gas had gathered. The fire ball ignited and peeled the top of the drum. It blew off like someone pulling a pull tab on a can and flew down Farzelli’s back scraping him badly but the most damage was done to his hearing. He was shaking and screaming for someone to give him a joint. We kept trying to get him to calm down while chiefs and officers began appearing like rats to a grain silo that just sprang a leak. He was okay, just scratched and half deaf from his ordeal. The ringing took a few days to go away.

It was about this time that I was recalled to dental. It would seem that they did not complete the root canal that they had started back in boot camp. So much for a quick finish and being done with the job they started.

I went back and they drilled out the temporary filling and pulled the cotton from my tooth. It was then I realized just how “not done” they really were. They once again injected inside my tooth and proceeded to pull the rest of the nerves out of the tooth. They finished the job and then filled it properly, I guess. From start to finish of this root canal took just over six months. This episode almost cost them another arm rest cover.

I had been hearing a lot of rumors about our skipper. I’d see him every morning with a look that told me he could chew nails and spit bullets. He had a stern look that made you look elsewhere but at his eyes. I heard he was hell during a captain’s mast. I was soon to experience that as a witness. Come to find out Commander Goodwinson entered the Navy as an E-1 was making rank when he entered the Officer Candidate program and graduated as a Mustang Lieutenant and became a pilot. He then was assigned to an air wing during Vietnam. Soon after he was on a sortie when he was shot down over Vietnam and had spent the next five and a half years as a prisoner of war. This man had my greatest respect as he treated his men with respect and understanding. He had been in the shit and came out standing tall. I counted it an honor to have served under him. From that point on, I did not call anyone sir unless they had earned it, this was to last the rest of my military career. During that time there were a total of three officers that earned the right to be called sir.

We were building new and repairing our causeway sections and warping tugs for an Elevated Causeway Operation, or ELCAS for short. There were lots of things to do and little time to do it. I was called in to PO1 Hurtz office then sent out to the beach with a welding truck to estimate the welding of two causeway sections together by a 36 inch tall “I” beam to test a new “Piling” or pipe that was driven into the sand and used to lift the causeways out of the water. I had to weld two causeways together so the company could load test the new piling. The causeways were ten feet apart and I was to properly weld them together so they could be lifted. I had to calculate how much weldment to use in a stitch pattern as the best method of connecting them.

Three days later, I and six others were on the decks of the causeways looking at screens that were hooked to the sensors that I installed in several places below the lifting ram on the side of the pipe. At one point, the causeways shifted. I thought something bent but looking at the other section, it was almost two feet off the ground. We finished the test then I had to cut it apart so it could be used on the operation.

Things started to get strange around the command about that time. A couple of the other SW’s had built a tennis ball cannon and used Oxygen/Acetylene as the propellant. They always aimed at 32^nd street ship yard. I watched but didn’t participate.

One day, I was bored, I had found a tennis ball and stuffed it down the barrel and set the oxy/acet gas, not remembering how long they held it to the fill hole, so I held the tip in the hole for a full minute. I removed the tip and lighted the torch. I then had the flame about three inches from the hole when everything erupted in dust. The ground shook with an ear deafening explosion. When the dust cleared, the small cannon was two inches deeper in the ground. I went back into our tool hut that had a refrigerator in it, sat on a box and extracted a beer from the many cases in the cooler. Not realizing just how loud the boom was until a lieutenant and a couple of chiefs came by trying to calculate what the boom was.

Just a point of interest, in the southeastern most corner of the base was SEAL Team 1. They occupied the same building as the Delta Company Steelworker shop but separated by a wall with no door between them. Continuing west from the SEAL Team/Steelworker building was the sand blast bay, this was followed by the CM shop where the equipment went to heal. This is important for a couple of reasons. Firstly, we could see when a piece of equipment was about to be returned. Usually, our diesel-powered welders. Many times, they would spend more time there than on our site. One would sit there for weeks, and then suddenly it would appear with a new paint job, and then returned to us saying it was repaired. But still had the same problems from when we sent it in for repairs to start with. We had a rolling gag that when it was returned and not fixed that the CM’s did not let it sit long enough after painting that it did not have time to heal properly. The CM’s were a source of entertainment to us as I am sure that we were a source of entertainment for them.

One afternoon, a CM3 was working on a deuce and a half. He would crawl underneath, do some work, then come out and get in and try to start the machine. Another CM came out and asked if he may assist. I must note that a military deuce and a half is a tall vehicle and does not always require being jacked up to afford repairs. The problem with this particular vehicle required more than just healing time and fresh paint. I heard the original mechanic instruct the new comer to crawl in and try to start said rig. He must have only heard part of the instructions as he reached into the cab and turned on the switch continuing the path to start. She lighted to life and instantly began chugging forward. If the helper had been in the cab, he could have done two things before hitting the start switch, like, making sure that it was in neutral, or easily stepped on the clutch and brake stopping the rig from any further movement. But alas, his feet were firmly planted on planet earth, well stumbling along with the vehicle as it forged onward taking with it first the tool box, then pushing the tool box through the wall of the steel building. But this wasn’t the end of the vehicle’s journey for there were two storage tanks just on the opposite side of the wall of the deuce. It pushed those over creating an even bigger mess as both tanks split and then spilled their contents out on the floor. At this point, the original mechanic was left lying on the ground wondering where his truck was going and trying to keep from being run over himself as the truck idled into the building before running out of momentum and dying out against the stopping power of the tool box, wall, and two storage tanks.

We ran over to see if we may be of any assistance or if any assistance was needed. We breached the door at the same time their first class came out to see what happened. I will say that I did manage to expand my vocabulary from the first class. When a lieutenant walked in not two minutes after the vehicle died, the first class threw up his hands, said a few imprecations, and went back into his office.

Now remember readers that this is during peacetime, so there were lots of time to learn, make mistakes, and grow. We also had an ELCAS coming up. We also were studying for our E-4 stripe. The first three were based on merit, time, and evals. But to become a petty officer required taking a test hoping that you scored high enough and also hoped that there were enough slots to fill. But usually there were ever only a few slots to fill. I was one of the few that were lucky enough to make it. A total of three from our shop made it. So, there were many things that could happen and go wrong. During peace time people get bored and distracted, and I was no different.

After pinning, I was pulled into the office and given specific instructions to be tougher in my demeanor. This I did much to my own chagrin. You might say that at times I was not the one to author the tome, “How to Win Friends and Influence Enemies.”

One morning, it had begun to rain, as it rarely did to any measurable amount of rainfall, but this was a pretty heavy rain, steady and cold. We were ordered to go out and weld until someone got shocked. So as tradition reigned supreme, the low man on the totem pole was selected to go out and weld until shocked. The 2^nd class had to make sure that orders were followed after all. As soon as the SWCA started the welder, the 2^nd class announced, “I’m shocked! Shut it down!” We spent the rest of the day depleting the beer supply in the fridge. It rained for almost the full week.

Duty at ACB-1 consisted of being on duty for 24 hours, but you only had an actual four hours where you were physically dressed in inspection greens and walking a roving watch. I had seen many things while on watch. We had to walk a parameter of our command. Walk down the pier to the dry dock, down the road passed the SEAL team area. I say passed because they guarded their own area. Then back up the road and around the field, then returning to the quarterdeck and giving a report of anything that was reportable. But roving wasn’t always boring. During the day while B.U.D.s training was going on you always saw a new class ranging from 80 to 150 sailors, jogging with an air of confidence and strength. By the end of the first week, they were not as strong or confident, covered in sand and soaked from head to foot, and jogging with the F470 CRRC or rubber raft on their heads. I observed them from day one to the end when less than 20 would be graduating. These were some tough bastards. Not normal by any means either. I swear being mental was a prerequisite, but back to my story. Many times, late at night, you could hear the lapping of the waves as one would see the 32^nd street ship yard across the bay. Then you would swear your eyes were playing tricks on you as several green chem-lights would float by you, not making so much as a splash in the water. It was rare to even hear one breathe in the water. And they were just off the edge of the shore. On other occasions you would be walking your roving patrol and then from nowhere, soaked, black clad bodies are all around you. It didn’t matter what time of day or night it was; I swear these guys never slept. The first few times it happened, I thought I was going to have to go back and clean my underwear.

We also had our Klinger’s, like from the show M.A.S.H. One woman was trying to get thrown out. She just didn’t want to be there anymore. She showed up for her watch, PO1 Cotton was the Petty Officer Of the Watch, or POOW. He looked at her and asked, “Are you in uniform?” To which she ripped her uniform shirt open and said, “No!” She was sent back to the female barracks to dress appropriately for duty and return. The look of shock on his face when she opened her shirt with no T-shirt or bra underneath was quite a surprise for him. I couldn’t see my own face, but I was in shock as well!

Later I started doing my watches in the barracks.

There was a first-class Boson’s mate that lived in the barracks. I never saw him, or any Boson’s mate for that matter, without a length of rope with him tying knots. This particular night was no different as he strolled past and was tying knots with his rope. I did notice that it was longer than usual but his demeanor told me nothing was amiss as he continued to his room. The rest of my watch was uneventful as my four-hour shift drew to a close. I had just been relieved when his roommate came screaming down the stairs and hall shouting that his roommate had hung himself in the room, we ran up the stairs and sure enough, his final knots involved one around the door knob of the head, the rope trailing up and over his locker to his last knot that looped the rope around his neck. He was still holding his ankles just off the floor. He was having money troubles. But what enlisted Navy person didn’t? But what exacerbated his situation was when his wife and his girlfriend had found out about each other and both left him. His solution was to commit suicide. As they say, suicide is a permanent solution to a temporary problem.

ELCAS was now a week away. New Bees had come in, and as they tried to do to me and did to me, the usual pranks ensued. They used the same old pranks that they used on me when I first checked in. Of course, there was the usual Sky hook expedition, the sending the New Bee for 100 foot of shore line. Some of them went on a tour of the base that took all day only to be told that the thing they were looking for was a joke. My contribution was a mythical creature that I had actually made. The only problem was that I needed a bigger one. The angle stretcher was one that was so obviously fake that no one in their right mind would fall for, at least until I pulled it out of my tool box and presented it to them. It was simple, it was stupid, and I had one. Most of the people we sent on this excursion would argue to their existence because they had seen one. I took that one to ADAK AK with me. But it went missing shortly after. I am sure that it is still being used for its actual intent of pranking someone somewhere.

A Seabee is a thinker, always seeking for an easier way of doing a job. A Seabee is schemer and negotiator to try to get the right tools to do a job right, but ending up doing the job with much less than needed. A Seabee is an acquiring artist to get what he needs to even start the job. Ergo, one of the many mottos of the Seabees and their unofficial credo “If you need something, buy it. If you can’t buy it, borrow it. If you can’t borrow it, steal it.” And on other occasions, you can comshaw for it. We did many a job for the SEALs next door, we did many jobs that never saw any paperwork. One of my favorite jobs I did for them was a rectangular frame with a two-inch plate that was 24 inches square on top and connected with four pieces of angle six feet long but the challenge was on the other end. I was challenged to put something together that I didn’t think they could destroy. I had no problems acquiring the first five pieces but what to use on the other end had me quite flummoxed. I had to find something that I thought that they could not destroy. I called around to the different yards because I knew that there was nothing in our yard that could qualify. I called the shop at N.A.S. Coronado. They had a chunk of eight-inch plate that they were trying to get rid of. It was just over 24 inches square, perfect. The entire project was to be 24 inches by 24 inches with an interior spread of six feet. The plate proved to be a pain to cut. I finished and called the first class who came by to pick it up. It required a forklift to pick it up and put in the back end of the WEPs. It really tested the suspension. Not knowing how it was going to be used, I was confident that they would not be able to hurt it other than destroying the 2-inch plate and bending the hell out of the angle. They were going to have a heck of a time damaging the eight-inch plate. They brought it back the next morning, the two-inch plate was bent into a neat bowl and there was a perfectly round one-and-a-half-inch hole all the way through the eight-inch plate. They laughed when I saw it. They had mounted a piercing charge on to the two-inch plate and it had no trouble underwater penetrating the eight-inch plate just short of six feet away. While I was still in a state of surprise another first class SEAL walked up to me and gave me a stern look, he reached up and snapped a fingernail into my upper lip. I flinched a little from the discomfort of having someone pop a pimple with their fingernail than the operation itself. My reaction was not as severe as he wanted it to be. Then he said, “I don’t like zits!”

“That’s fine, I don’t like you either!” I said back staring at him in the eyes. He smiled and stuck out his hand.

“You’re alright for a short-assed welder.” He said. I shook his hand, and we became friends.

During all this and my new stripe, I was now eligible to grow a beard. I had always had a mustache, but I wanted to have a beard. I was looking forward to it until the chit was returned to me denied with the new uniform regulation stating that everyone was to be clean shaven but mustaches were still permitted. I was skunked again.

Friday arrived and I had my sea-bag packed and ready to go. We were to report Sunday night. I was there packed and ready and had no clue as to what my job was to be.

Earlier in the week the Equipment Division had to get another D-8 dozer with a spool assembly on the back. They had one backup dozer just in case one went down or something strange happened like one of them throwing a track or blowing a motor, transmission, axle, or anything but what had happened. On Wednesday, the two EO’s walked the dozers to an area of the beach on the bay to practice the maneuvering and towing of the sections without the actual pier sections.

The first D-8 went into the surf and spun in place causing the dozer to sink into the soft sand up to the belly pan. The other D-8 seeing the problem turned around on the beach and backed up to the floor board deep water and released the clutch on the wench assembly, hooked onto the stuck dozer. Now a normal thinking individual would have left the spool free and drove onto the dry sand and anchored the dozer then used the wench and the other dozer to power itself out. Well, that was not the current plan. What did happen was that the operator locked the clutch and proceeded to drive up the beach with the other dozer in tow, at least that was the operators intent, the dozer instantly met resistance from the other dozer spun its tracks and promptly sank into the soft sand leaving not one, but now two D-8 dozers trapped and at the mercy of the tide. The bay, which is accessed and filled from the oceanic tides and charts which when they sank the dozers was at the lowest tide of the month which would prove that nature can be a cruel and heartless wench. Both, not knowing anything about what the tides were other than high tide and low tide had agreed that the dozers were safe until morning and that they could return with a third dozer and extract both from the sand after muster in the morning. Now, when they left the beach, the tide was at the lowest of the month and also of the quarter.

When the two returned after muster the next morning, the two dozers were gone! It was after all, the highest tide of the quarter following the lowest tide. After a couple phone calls and some more calmed down searching, the rearmost dozer was spotted. The exhaust stack was seen as it lapped with the waves washing just barely over the top.

Now, there was a crane that we used on a regular basis that cost the military $150 an hour and was floated in on its own pontoon. It successfully extracted the salty waterlogged D-8s from the tight grip of Davey Jones Locker. Thus, at the awards ceremony for ACB-1, both of these fine Navy Equipment Operators received the “First Submersible Dozer” award. Both Equipment Operators received a beautiful Diorama to forever remind them of their difficult accomplishments.

Upon assignments distribution on the first day of ALCAS, I rapidly discovered that I was not to play an instrumental role other than keeping the porta-pots well-traveled. I was assigned to be a driver of a five ton on what we quickly deemed “Shitter Patrol.” Making the best of any situation, I was just glad that we were not using the old Vietnam era burn-outs. I would follow an R/T forklift and he would load-em up, and I would haul them off to the front of the compound. More than once the EO would hook up and a person would bale out just as he was about to lift the potty. We emptied these things every day, and they were always full. On one occasion in particular, he had the potty about six feet in the air with the door facing the pallet guard. He always had the potty up against the back of the forks so there would be less chance of it tipping or falling off. This would prove to be one of those times that the odds were playing jacks with the devil. The EO had lifted one and had it almost in position to place in the bed of the truck. The door started opening and then being forced open. We were yelling for the person to stop and let us lower the potty. Word had spread that the potties should be abandon at this time through this time to allow us time to do our job. The person pushed harder and the potty began to tip backwards. Balance and the law, that damned law of gravity began to play a cruel joke on the occupant. The potty tipped back and tumbled off the forks. The potty landed five feet below the forks impacting the ground. The porto pot being to the brim of fully digested menus of hours, nay, the full day past of excreted activities. The contents shot from the entry hole taking the path of least resistance on and around the occupant and forced the door open as is it were loaded with dynamite with a geyser of anything from the pretty blue water that they begin with to everyone knows what has been dumped into it. Then slowly, a soaked lump ridden toilet paper covered figure appeared to stand in what used to be a khaki uniform. The young lieutenant looked around as we tried to maintain some sign of sanity and must have looked insane as we desperately tried to keep from totally losing control in a bout of laughing hysteria. We both knew we were screwed, but there were signs on all of the porto pots giving fare warning of when we were picking them up. We were both written up but it didn’t go anywhere as we had posted fare warning and it was the lieutenant’s fault, and we did try to let him down before he splashed down. We thought it was funny then, and by the time the op was over, everyone thought it was gut wrenching hilarious, except the Lieutenant.

Shortly after our operation started, all hell broke loose less than a half mile down the beach. Literally, because Hell week began for the BUDs training class. It was 24/7 of helicopters and weapons fire, screaming and hollering. That added a little bit of reality to the effects of our little op. I felt for these guys as not only had they been wet this whole time, they also had sand in places that you are not supposed to have sand. No sleep for a week straight, crawling around in difficult situations, and eating in the sand!

ELCAS ended and the recovery from the op was in process. A new chief had checked in and he looked like he could chew up Fords and spit out artillery rounds. He was old school and hated paper work. I quickly decided after he took over as chief that I would follow him into hell knowing that he would get us back and fully intact. He was one of the rare chiefs that really cared for his soldiers.

We had been doing some shooting quals, but we began going to Camp Pendleton for maneuvers and quals. We would go up with SEALs and Marines, learning from both. A few times we learned about explosives. I liked learning about the use of Claymore mines, land mines, and other things that go boom.

I had about ten months left before I was due for reassignment. I was put in charge of a crew on the pier and dry-dock, repairing causeway sections and warping tugs. We also had to work on a few LCU’s and LCM’s changing Zinc plates and patching holes. It was hard work at times.

I had a good crew and we got the job done. We worked directly for the SW shop, but we also were at the bidding of the seaside of the command as well. There was one member of my crew SWCN Weeder. We joked all the time with each other. His favorite thing in the world was Coconut ice-cream and helicopters. Everything could be done or satisfied with either. We had to replace the 12 X 12-inch wooden bumpers on the end of the dock sections. Weeder’s idea and solution, of course, was to use helicopters to hold them in place. While I agreed that this was a viable plan, I also noted that it would be impractical in nature and cost. He was always trying to trick me into doing something and vice versa.

As our friendship blossomed, it wasn’t long when I was welding inside of a can performing the last touches before sealing up the can. I had caught a glimpse of something just before there was an ear shattering explosion. Obviously, I stopped welding and waited for the ringing to die down. I popped my head out of the can to see the three members of my crew laughing hysterically and rolling on the deck. I had been pranked by an Oxy/Acetylene balloon. Good one guys, well played. My turn.

We were putting the tools away when Weeder walked up and asked, “Watcha doin’ dude?”

“To which I replied, I am heating up this wrench and I’m going to trick someone into picking it up.” I said laughing.

“Awesome!” He said and grabbed the hand tools and made his first trip to the tool hut. He walked back and the other two were picking up rod and sweeping down the dry-dock.

I had rolled up the torch and the grinder and had them lying next to the stump that I was using to heat the wrench. Weeder picked up the grinder and placed it over one shoulder and the torch over the other shoulder, and began to make his trek back to the hut. I hollered out, “Hey Weeder, you forgot the wrench!”

He stopped and spun, “Oh yeah, I forgot!” The wrench was still extremely warm but the colorizing had long since gone. He walked up and before I knew what he was doing, and also thinking that he remembered that I heated it up and was only going to pretend to reach out and pick it up. He picked up the wrench and walked away. Ten steps later, he stopped and turned around and returned to put the wrench back on the stump. Then he turned around and walked in the direction of the hut. Half way there, he stopped and stood in place not moving. The torch suddenly flew off one side of the pier, and the grinder the other. I ran up still in shock myself and asked if he was okay. He had grabbed his hand and looked at it.

I looked at it and said, “Go to medical, now!” He went and returned a little later with a bandage on his hand. It didn’t look bad when he left. In fact, it was just a little red when I saw it first.

The next morning after muster, we went down to the pier and set up for the day’s operations. I asked how his hand was and he showed me a normal looking hand that was only lightly pink. I still felt bad and told him I had a surprise before lunch. We worked the morning and just before lunch, he came up and said, “let’s go.”

I walked him up to Alpha Company’s office and we went inside and went to the freezer. I pulled out a gallon of Coconut ice cream. It was a strange lunch, and I have to admit, coconut ice cream doesn’t taste as bad as it may sound. We spent the lunch laughing and devouring as much of the frozen delicacy as we could hold.

I had been hearing about the SeaBee ball that was coming up, and as far as celebrations of all the branches, including the Navy ball, and as you might have guessed, it is a little more than just off the hook. At least it was back in my days. Don’t know what it is like now. Lots of dancing, sea stories, and of course, lots and lots of mind-altering alcohol. It was during this night that came a phrase that shall live on in infamy. I cannot use any name nor even the fake names of those in this situation. But a certain PO of rank looked at another PO of rank while staggering on top of a table with a hotdog hanging out of his dress uniform and said “Hey, XXXXX, Want a hot dog? Heh, heh, hehsz!” That phrase bounced around, I am sure, long after I left the command.

ACB-1 did in fact survive one more Seabee ball and the next day was anything but business as usual. The day was full of who did this and who did that. But the phrase that continued to pop up was the hot dog statement. And oddly enough, I was also told that the ball was actually more subdued than usual.

We were told that the new chief had arrived and was now checked in. Not only was he new to the command, he was a newly frocked chief. As any soldier, sailor can tell you, you will either have a new higher up leader that does nothing, or a new superior that does nothing but hound and push people and still nothing gets done, or one who looks out for his/her subordinates, takes care of them by not throwing them to the wolves. Happy for his crew getting the job done making him look good as well and giving them credit for a job well done. Chief Bowman was the latter in spades. You didn’t mess with his personnel, nor him. I rapidly began to like this “old school” Seabee and found that if the job required, as I said earlier, I would follow him to hell and back and probably come back a little leaner and meaner.

I was among the shortest in my company, the first few encounters that I met the chief, he would ask me, “How tall are you O’B?” to which I would answer.

“Five-foot four chief.” And he would frown then retort.

“Wrong! You are an eight-foot-tall lean mean green fighting machine!” I liked it so I adopted it. It was fun and it also made a statement. I had met few people who made an impact on me to the point of forcing me to be a better BEE, and a better person.

Up until this point and time, I had always worked in the field. I liked it there, there were no cruel and excessive paper work. Just give me the paper work of what was needed to be done and send me on my way to get it done. I’ll fill out the DD-1348 or 1250 forms for what I need then sign off the project when I am done and give me a new project. I hated nothing more than sitting behind a desk, tossing paper work, and worse of all, answer telephones. “This is petty officer bad attitude O’B because I have to answer this damn phone that is not secure but people are too stupid to remember that so I have to remind every stinking cake hole that calls and want to talk about Super-Secret Squirrel crap that I am not cleared to hear anyway and could care less what was said on the . . . who, oh hi Skippy Mundain, wait one while I place my neck on the chopping block for your amusement.” Point made clear as a bell, I win, now what’s my next job? First class wants to see me? What did I do this time? I’ll be what for how long? (We’ll see about that!)

My worst nightmare had come to fruition as I sat at a desk that was much too big for me and fidget as an uptight teenybopper at a dance with no date. For a month of pain and misery, might as well sentence me to death by jock-itch poisoning. It’s like forcing a feral cat to live in an apartment on the 63^rd floor of an apartment building with two windows and lots of pidgins for the cat to look at but not be able to touch or chase. I was doomed. Well, maybe not. HAR!

My hell began by typing DD-1250 forms that took all of 10 to 15 minutes to do. The first class announced that he had to go see the chief and he would be right back. He walked out and the phone rang. “Steelworker shop, SW3 O’Brien speaking, this is a non-secure line, how may I help you?” Trying to sound as official as I could under the Hanoi Hilton demands.

“Who is this?” I recognized the voice immediately and replied.

“This is SW3 O’Brien, eight feet tall and 250 pounds of lean mean green fighting machine.” I shot back immediately causing a chuckle from the other end.

“OB, where is that first class of yours.” He asked.

“On his way chief.” I replied, busy with my newly taken on task.

“Very well OB, thanks.” He said ending the conversation.

I finished phase one of my task which was to dismantle that infernal contraption of an IBM “Ball” type typewriter. The first class returned and stopped at my desk. I had the IBM typewriter scattered all over the desk and floor and I had just finished cleaning it. He looked at the victim of a bored individual then back up to me. “You best remember how to put that (Your favorite military expletive here) back together.” He said with an air of a threat. I guess the threat would matter if one gave a shit but my goal was to get back into the field, not jockeying a desk.

I grabbed the roller and held it up commenting, “I think this is supposed to be in a kitchen somewhere rolling out biscuits.”

He cut me off, made a few threats, and then eroded back into his protected hole in the wall that was his office. It took me less than five minutes to reassemble the typewriter.

I discovered quickly that with a little stretch of the imagination, that the space bar sounded like an M-16 and the back space sounded like a .30 millimeter. The tab could be pressed fast enough to sound like that lovely metallic chatter of the .60 cal. I was even able to find one that I could click to make like it was a mortar. Soon, I was shooting everything. Everyone was a potential target that was either shot, mortared, or just blown to kingdom come. I used the paper holder as the barrel as I manipulated the keys making one hell of a racket.

I was at it for 20 minutes when the first class exploded from his office screaming bloody murder and throwing my irritating ass back out into the yard. I tried to look hurt as I walked out but had a smile a mile wide as I left the building. Office puke = 0, me = 1. I was in and out of the month-long office detail in two hours 37 minutes and somewhere in the key of F-14 seconds. Thank you, ladies and germs, I’m back in the field, send in the next victim, this one was too much for them. I had actually never seen the first class turn a deep purplish red to the point of almost becoming purple. I can hear the report now from Balboa Hospital. “No sir, the cause of death wasn’t a heart attack, though it did attack. The cause of death was an explosion of his heart. He launched from his office in a rage to dismember a subordinate for type assaulting anything that moved. When he opened the office door, he saw petty officer O’Brien simulating shooting people with his 60 .cal backspace button saying, “Die Lebanonian space scum DIE!” then from witness reports, the first class popped the clutch causing his heart to burst from his rib cage like the monster from the movie “Alien”, fly across the room landing at the feet of a new Steelworker just checking in who was looking at the two in total terror.”

Oddly, I was immediately sent back out into the yard and was not required to do the mandatory desk duty that was originally mandated that everyone is supposed to do. I had even volunteered afterward when no one else would. That simple gesture caused a noticeable throbbing action from the veins in his temples and his eyes would narrow.

I had wondered for the first two weeks that I was at ACB-1 what the prison was doing on the base with the high brick walls and the concertina (Razor) wire on top of the brick wall. I was informed that the structure was the female barracks.

That made absolutely no logical sense since many of the females were more manly than most of the men on base. But some things just defy any logic or intelligence.

We had two females from our battalion that had decided that their meager military income wasn’t what they thought it should be. So, they began their own business just off base. Soon, I guess the overhead of a hotel room was digging too deep into their income and then tried to sneak two civilian males into their barracks. You remember, the compound with the eight-foot walls and topped with razor wire? I was on rover one night and had just gone on watch when we were informed that medical personnel had been summoned to perform surgery on one male civilian while another needed stitches and was apprehended inside the wall of the female compound. The one that needed surgery, however, needed the surgery to be removed from the razor wire that he had become embedded on. They were arrested on several charges. There seemed to be neither bounds nor depths that could be said to adding insult to injury, other than the jokes of having to possibly put up signs to not disturb or feed the animals.

The “Hut Sluts”, as they became to be called, were charged with trying to sneak men into the women’s barracks as well as other charges. Mind you, the most ironic item of this portion of the story was that neither one of these gals were even in the ballpark of a runway model. Well, maybe a couple of runway zombies from a horror movie.

After a period of nonsensical activity, we had another Steelworker first class that was always quiet, always serious, and always seemed to be on the constant verge of a mental episode. Our soda machine was always a harbinger of doom and lost income ever since and even before I got there. Sometimes, I guess it felt sorry for its sins and would unload a full track of pop. But for the most part, it only took money and was a crap shoot if it gave anything or not, all the while standing bewildered as to why you were still even attempting to use the infernal, money robbing, and metallic piggy bank. The company would come and repair the machine and claim that it was fixed, it would work fine for about two days then it would start pillaging our funds like a pirate on the high seas. Petty Officer First Class Beuller had just lost another .50 cents in the machine. I personally learned my lesson over a year prior and the SEALs had no problems with me giving them my money and using their machines. But this time was different, PO-1 Beuller looked like a an enraged cage fighter as he calmly walked over to the nearest cutting rig, opened the valves to check if the cart had pressure, then proceeded to roll it over to the soda machine, ignite the gasses, make the necessary adjustments, and then proceeded to cut the hinges from the machine allotting him access to the change box inside, he first handed out all the money from the machine then distributed the product until the machine was loosed of both product and booty. The one question that was asked, but no logical answer placed was, “Why didn’t anyone try to stop him?” A very logical question indeed. I think it was the absolute shock of the action and the look on his face as he performed his self-assigned task.

By morning, PO-1 Beuller was on report and a date set for Captain’s Mast. C.I.S. was calling in any and all who were in the shop or witnessed the event down to their office to answer any questions. I had heard many a rumor about this place and was about to find out first hand. The main and most reported rumor was the wooden chair that was securely mounted to the floor. It was stated that the reason that said chair was secured to the floor was due to the wires that came through the floor and ran up into the arm rests. The sensors were supposed to be placed in such a way that a person sitting in the chair normally would place their hands unknowingly on the sensors and thus being submitted to a lie detector test without their knowledge.

I was escorted in and then offered to sit in said chair. I gave the chair a nudge to which it did not budge like any other chair would have. It should have moved three or four inches, but it sat firm. “I’ll stand thanks.” I said.

“This is going to take a while, please sit.” The khaki clad lieutenant said then finished with, “That is not a request.”

“Yes LT.” I replied as I sat in the chair with my arms crossed and focusing on not touching the arm rests. Did it have a sensor to read my breathing? I didn’t know and I didn’t care. I didn’t want to be there. They asked their questions which did take almost a half hour then I was free to go. It took two weeks for them to make ready for the first class’s day in kangaroo court.

Meanwhile, back at the ranch.

I had known these two brothers that did things with automotive engines that I felt shouldn’t have worked. I walked in and the one had taken a torch and removed the bump passages from the exhaust ports of a small block Chevy and was in the process of fitting steel plates to open the passage ways for the exhaust. I grew up around race engines and had never seen anything like this before. When he finished, he took the heads in to be surfaced and leak tested before he installed them. His brother had an old Chevy Vega that he was working on. He had taken a two-inch piece of plate and made an adapter plate to remove the two-barrel carburetor and replace it with a four-barrel carburetor. For a four-cylinder Vega, it was fast. John Winner got his heads back and installed them. That old Chevy Chevelle was scary fast. I did a lot of brain tapping on these two gifted minds.

The day came for PO-1 Beuller’s Captain’s Mast. He walked in and stood before the Skipper. The Skipper was rumored to be one scary son of a gun in mast due to his staring at the person charged. Being a five-and-a-half-year war prisoner, he had a stare that made everyone cringe and uncomfortable. The Skipper stared at Beuller then exploded which caused all of us to jump. “Well, what do you have to say for yourself?” He spat.

Beuller stood calmly and said in a manner like asking if there were any more beer. “How long is this going to take? My van is parked outside the gate and my baby is in the van.”

The Skipper almost lost control, and I do mean almost. It was obvious that it took everything he had to maintain his own order. “Who is the child with in the van?” He trailed the question. I really think he already knew the answer, I don’t think the Skipper wanted to hear his answer though.

“He’s by himself.” Beuller replied as if talking about a magazine that he left on the seat.

Then he said to the secretary next to him. “Take a couple of SP’s and find his van and retrieve the child. I don’t care if the windows are down or up. Break them to get in. Then call me and report what you find.”

“Yes sir.” Then the secretary was gone. It didn’t take long for the secretary to relay the report. I swear the Skipper flushed and all but broke his gavel. “Take him into custody, and he goes straight to the brig as he waits for his Court Marshall. Get him out of my sight!” The Skipper was all but shouting now.

I returned to the shop and was handed a note to call billeting for orders. I had about four months before my two-year tour was up at the BONE, and I wondered what they were going to offer me. I really wanted to go to the fighting 40. NMCB-40 had a bad-ass reputation and that was where I wanted to be. I was told that if I wanted orders somewhere, I had to act like I really didn’t want to go there. It was lame to have to use reverse psychology to get what you wanted. But let’s see how it goes. I could reject orders until either I get what I want, or they force orders on me. We had communicated three times when they offered me NMCB-40. I was ecstatic and a little overly enthusiastic by jumping at the orders. I should have listened.

They told me that I was penciled in. Now, I have to interject just what “penciled in” means. There is a huge difference between being penciled in verses being penned or inked in. Being penned or inked in is a sure bet and that you have those orders. Whereas, being penciled in can be changed on a whim, or lost, or “He really wanted those orders. Let’s give him something else and tell him those orders fell through.” Just keep that in the back of your mind.

We had a second-class petty officer that had transferred from ADAK AK, I discovered immediately that he was an officer and an asshat and tried to give him a wide birth. It became impossible when he singled me out. I had been talking to another person and talking about what we used to do in the days before the Bees. He was within earshot, but said nothing. Next thing I knew, I had to report for a piss test. I had not had anything since I entered the Navy. Then I had to go and perform another one just a few days after I had the first one, then another one after that one. It seemed to become a constant and regular ordeal throughout the next few weeks. I thought this was odd considering I had touched nothing stronger than whiskey since entering the military. I was even afraid to take cold medicine, and when I did, it had to have a sticker from the doctor on the label. After six times in front of the infamous pecker checker, I put two and two together and came up with Rigatoni, more directly, a SW-2 Rigatoni. I also discovered that he got his jollies getting people kicked out of the military. The guy I had switched orders with was one of his many victims.

I was in the process of checking out, and had collected many signatures, including dental, and I had just left medical. Back at the shop, I was perusing my records when I began laughing hysterically. It was a record that was not mine, but there it was. I knew this bit of knowledge because I had never had a pap-smear. There was a female SWCN with a similar last name even though it was spelled differently. I almost laughed myself sick from this. This medical blunder was on the scale of epic proportions when I located her in the office performing her second month of office duty. “Hey Jean, you might want to take this test result back to medical and slap the person in records.”

“What are you talking about?” She asked. She didn’t really like me and that was fine with me, but this was funny for anyone, and I was being kind. Or so I thought anyway.

“I just finished checking out of medical and was going through my records and found this. It’s not mine for two reasons, one, our names are close, but not that close. And two, and this is the biggie. Men cannot have a pap-smear.” At that, the first class and chief drinking coffee sprayed what was in front of them and burst into a bout of uncontrolled mirth. She turned purple and snatched the sheet from my hand as she bolted from the office.

I now had three days left before I was gone. More correctly, I had three days and a wake-up. I had a hat that I could only wear on the base that said. “I survived the B-One, ACB-1” wearing this hat off base would have a whole different meaning and I just did not want to go there. In fact, I think I may still have that hat.

I as well as everyone else was changing in the upstairs locker room when PO-2 Rigatoni took offense to something the three of us were talking about, and it had nothing to do with him. He grabbed me and shoved me the short distance to the wall and tried to pick me up off of the deck and making threats. He was my height and possibly the same weight, but he lacked the strength to lift me from the floor. I looked at him eye to eye, and obviously now enjoying the exchange said as if I was bored, “Are you done yet?” He looked at me and slowly let go of my shirt. He looked confused at my not getting excited and I actually smiled at him. I walked around him and rounded the wall into the first-class office and asked him for a report chit. When the first class asked me why, I simply said, “Training.”

I received the form and walked in and demanded his ID card, the others were becoming scarce as I wrote down names of witnesses that would admit to seeing what had happened. When he said I’d be placed on legal hold, I said, “So, this is worth it!” PO-2 Rigatoni’s attitude suddenly changed then. I walked back into the office and closed the door, poured myself a cup of coffee and began talking to the first class about report writing and what it entailed. He pulled a blank form out and we were going over it. I know Rigatoni looked in and saw us going over the form. I knew I couldn’t write up a senior PO without a sponsoring or a more senior petty officer pushing the chit through. That whole chain of command thing and all, and that was strictly followed. You just did not jump levels of the chain. I also knew that if I did submit the form that, one, I had that support, and two, I would have been placed on legal hold until the process was completed, and three, I would have been labelled for writing up people. That was one stigma that I did not want floating over my head.

He avoided me like the plague. He avoided me to the point that when he saw me coming, he would go a different direction. It was three days of bliss. I was leaving and going to battalion 40, and PO-2 Rigatoni was actually not haranguing me about anything or at every step.

My last muster while we were changing. Well they were changing into their work uniforms while I was changing back into my civvies. The moving van had already picked up the long-term storage and the short-term storage and we had our stuff packed and ready to go. All that was left was some good-byes and walking out of the gate. OH YEAH, and just one last item. “Hey guys. You wanna know how to keep someone in line? Rigatoni.” He turned and looked at me like a man insane. I extracted the report chit from my pocket, opened it making sure he could see it for what it was. Then I tore it up. “Your ass just isn’t worth me being on legal hold.” His face went from white to a dark crimson red. I turned and left the room. Stopped by the office, then left the building, I walked over to the chief’s office and said my farewell. Then I left ACB-1 behind me.

Fun, Fear, And What, No Orders?

We were in the middle of a 30 day leave then the plan was to drive back to California, then up to Port Hueneme for two years in Mobile Construction Battalion 40. My wife and I were visiting her parents and having a good time when their phone rang. My mother in law handed me the phone announcing that it was my mom.

“Hi son, I just received a call from the Navy and you need to call them right back.” Fear went through me as I assumed that Rigatoni had discovered a way and reason to write me up and force me to go back to San Diego. But this was just as bad.

I dialed the number not knowing that it was billeting. They had only penciled me in for 40, not penned me in. I had no orders. I was rudderless in my destination. What were they going to do with me? What hell were they planning since I had nowhere to go now?

They brought up my records and told me what was available. I also asked what happened to NMCB-40. And they said that those orders fell through. Then they proceeded to tell me that there was NMCB-133 out of Gulfport Mississippi, ACB-2 off the east coast, and ADAK, Alaska. NMCB-133 was an instant hell no. Their reputation had floundered and at that time was, well, one to avoid. Navy regulation changes could fix that problem. ACB-2 was another no, not only no but hell no. Going from coast to coast to a quasi-rival Amphib battalion? I think not.

But I passed up ADAK once before because it was an unaccompanied tour. But it was accompanied now as an E-4, or SW-3. I hemmed and hawed saying I really didn’t like any one of the choices. Finally, I took a long deep breath and slowly let it out making it sound like saying ADAK was going to kill me.

“Okay Petty Officer O’Brien, you are penned in for ADAK. Thank you, we are shipping your paperwork, orders, and airline tickets this afternoon. You should have everything in a couple of days.

I thanked them continuing my curse of going to an isolated duty station. As soon as I hung up the phone, I cheered.

I read up on the duty, and what was on the island when I got my package. What I did not see was anything about a sponsor packet telling me what to bring, what not to bring, what uniforms were to be worn when I got there. The lower 48 were in dress whites. I also did not know what to expect when I debarked the aircraft.

Without knowing, I had unintentionally done everything wrong getting on and flying and then landing. I was in summer dress whites and had encountered a small child with a cup of cool-aide or some kind of red liquid. I tried to clean it, but only succeeded in setting the red in the white jumper. I landed not thinking that I was going to be met by anyone. I was wrong there too. There was a second class waiting for me to get off the plane. He gave me a disgusted look, one thing that I did not know was I had a sponsor, but he didn’t lift a finger to do his job.

This had Rigatoni written all over it. Somehow, I was sure of it.

Let’s backtrack just a little then catch up, shall we? I checked on the plane with my seabag, three boxes, and in dress whites, in route to Seattle to make the plane change for Anchorage there was a child sitting next to me eating and drinking. The juice was a dark red and the plane hit turbulence and his juice flew everywhere, I was not the only victim of the juice tsunami. This was also years before the three-ounce law. But a sippy cup would have eliminated all of these problems. I tried to wash it out but being young and not hip on getting out fresh stains before they set in, I used hot water and made the mistake permanent. The connecting flight wasn’t much better. I couldn’t change because my seabag was down in the hold and I had nothing on the carry-on but my Walkman cassette player. The entire final connecting flight from Anchorage to ADAK was me feeling doomed on many levels due to my uniform, no one was going to meet me at the airport, and I had no idea what I was supposed to do once I landed.

Well, I landed and there was a second-class petty officer looking at me like I was running up to him to beg money. I was told that we had to rush over to the first classes office to let him meet me and to let him know I was now here. I asked, I begged, I pleaded to be allowed to go and change. I did not want to meet the first class looking like this. He said no, I begged some more and got another no. Then he chastised me for wearing whites to an arctic duty station. I said I received no information and wore what was uniform of the day down south. Looking back on it now, I am sure that Rigatoni had something to do with this. It seemed that he knew everyone. He even knew the people in billeting by name. Coincidence on my situation, the jury is still out on that one. Not to mention that he still knew people up there. After all, he had just left the place. My mind screamed that the other two stations might have been better options than this.

PWT, ADAK, AK

I met with the first class who looked down on me right away. And justifiably so. I was out of uniform, dirty, and stained in red juice that was now a pinkish blob on the front. I had also been flying for just over ten hours including the connecting flights. I needed a shower, shave, and a strong cup of coffee. The PO-2 seemed to relish his position until the first class started asking questions.

“Why are you in whites?” Was his first question.

“That is the uniform of the day. I was not informed that I was to wear my dress blues, or working blues coming here.”

“What do you mean, not informed, you were assigned a sponsor.”

“Sorry First class, with all due respect, I received nothing from anyone on what I was to bring, how to dress, who my sponsor was, where I was to be berthed, housing, or anything. I received no packets and I heard from no sponsor that was assigned. Quite frankly first class, I am very confused at the moment. I had even begged to change and clean up before coming to meet you and was denied making myself presentable. I had just stepped off of the plane from a ten-hour flight.”

The first class looked at the person that had dragged me to his office directly from the airport.

“I would like it noted, first class, that I did not want to meet you like this, a kid spilled some red juice all over me and others around us. The second class informed me when I got off the plane that I was not supposed to be in whites but was supposed to be in working blues, then refused to allow me the opportunity to clean up and change before coming to meet you. I apologize for my appearance. My evals from San Diego and Gulfport are testament to my normal appearance.” I looked at the second class, who looked away. “Well, we don’t have room for you here. There is a second class shipping out soon at the CM shop and they will need a welder there. You will be taking her place.” He said.

“Is it on a rotation? Will I get to come back here?” I asked seeing a brick wall at the end of the tunnel.

“I don’t know, we’ll have to see.” He stood and we shook hands, but he was not happy. I survived ACB-1, but I didn’t think I was going to survive ADAK.

I was dropped off at the short-term barracks and was told I’d be there for three days until they placed me in a room at the BEQ. I got settled and went to look around. It was cold. I had to dig out my field jacket and button in the liner to even attempt to stay warm. It was late may, and it was barely 40 degrees. This was cold for someone who just left 85-degree weather in the summer and no colder than 45 degrees in the winter.

Anyway, I went to the commissary, which was closed. Then I walked over to the Navy Exchange, which was closed. I walked over to the Enlisted club, you guessed it, which was closed. I walked back to the temporary barracks, entered my cubicle. Still in thought, it looked as though it was only 1600 outside. I got a glimpse of my cube mate’s clock, 0230. Crap, I had to report to the CM shop at 0600 hours.

I was up at 0545, cleaned up and in my inspection greens and on my way to check in. I was not a happy camper. I was imagining the worst-case scenario. For a Steel Worker in a Construction Mechanic’s world, at the very least, it would prove to be a learning experience.

I was told how to get to the CM shop after I received my paperwork. I turned in my dental and medical records first then went to the CM shop. I was also up for second class and wondered how this assignment and the instance at the Steel shop were going to affect that.

I entered the CM shop and was guided to the chief’s office. The chief stood and shook my hand. Then he asked to see my paperwork. As he perused the paper train, I did notice TAD, or Temporary Assigned Duty on the top of all the forms.

He took me into the shop and gave me the complete ten cent tour and introduced me to all the mechanics, military and civilian. Then we walked through a set of doors and was in the Equipment Operator’s side of the house. Most seemed relieved that I was there. I was fairly concerned. I had been asked over and over if I could actually weld then if I had met the Steelworker Second Class that I was replacing. Their chuckles and looks made me even more uneasy to meeting my predecessor.

I spent almost four days checking into PWT ADAK Island Alaska. If you had ever been to Alaska, the beauty of the island and scenery from the surrounding islands left you breathless unless you were a city dweller and only considered the out of doors was something you experienced from your domicile to your vehicle. Or thought roughing it was taking your home on wheels to the campground, attaching all the amenities of home, electricity, water, and sewage, blah, blah, blah. Well, ADAK, from the time I arrived, to the time I left never left me wanting for beauty. The wild life, even the partially active volcano on one of the other near islands would leave a nature lover, well, breathless. So, city folks looked either for away off the island or into the bottom of a bottle.

One stop was security, I got the run down on vehicle registration, hiking plans, even if I just went to the shooting range, or any fishing spot I could drive to, I had to file a hike plan. There were many videos about safety. All the streams were potable save one that still leached phosphorus from buried ordinance from WWII. One had to be careful on two of the beaches due to live ordinance washing up on the beach. Out of curiosity, I asked how that happened. Well, at the end of the war, the soldiers were told that they couldn’t go home until they got rid of the ordinance. It was a mad exodus with boats taking the ordinance out to sea and dumping it into the ocean, but not nearly far enough. And some of the ordinance was taken into one of the large hills and buried deep, but it began to leak and sifted into one of the streams.

There were Quonset huts all over the island and one could be purchased from a leaving owner. Most all the current tracks that were on the island in the tundra were from WWII. The tundra was so slow to grow that the tracks looks fresh, not 40+ years old. I was also introduced to one of the islands oddities. Since there were no natural woodland on the island, Seabees from WWII took a small square parcel and planted trees that were indigenous of the mainland. From 1946 until 1986 when I arrived, the trees had grown only about a foot and a half.

After getting all checked in, I had a bicycle and would peddle my ass everywhere I could get to within reason. I had checked into the main barracks while I awaited housing so my wife could come up. One of my first peddle stops was to the infamous “ADAK National Forest.” It was on less than an eighth of an acre of land and contained 37 tightly packed pine trees that were located next to a pet cemetery. This place even had a driving range, though there was no way to retrieve the balls because you launched them into the ocean.

I had two boxes that I had yet to open and was waiting for three more to arrive, and then my transportation would be complete. They should be in any day in the mail. It had been two weeks and they had still not arrived. That was when I first heard the phrase, “It’s on the barge!”

I had settled into the CM shop and at first there wasn’t much work to do. Sadly, there was even less to do it with. Not to mention that I still had not met my predecessor. I talked at length with the chief about equipment. I had a mechanized hacksaw that had to have been circa 1901, a homemade rod box with a dead bulb for a heater. And my welder friends would have loved this, at first glance I thought it was some twisted idea of an air compressor by the shape, and then I saw the leads and knobs to discover that I had a 1956 turbine welder. I had a great layout table but no hold downs to utilize that function, one small locker that couldn’t be locked, almost no materials, and even less tools. My first priority was to acquire tools. Tool sign out had a few that I could use but not the proper ones to do the job and do the job right. I was approved to order what hand tools I needed from supply. I had to order steel from the steel shop to secure the tools. It came out to be a very nice double door, double sided locking cabinet. I all but scrapped the rusty locker that I found out came from the bailer shed.

My confidence was building and their confidence in me grew mutually and grew rapidly. I had been to the steel shop once since I checked in and I did not have a problem with that. I was becoming busy. I also found watch interesting. Where I was doing my watch duty turned out was a roving watch. With rain, snow, and wind, oh and I did forget to mention earlier that the wind blew constantly. Some days it was a calm ten to 15 miles per hour, while on other days it was a normal 40 miles per hour. During the roving, we covered a lot of ground. I felt I attained a smidgen of what it felt to be on watch during the early days of the base.

I finally met my predecessor one morning. I was gas welding a new security latch that I had to fabricate, onto the door between the CM/EO areas when the welding rod I was using was ripped through my fingers. It wouldn’t have been so bad and not a big deal, but not wearing any gloves at the time and having a white-hot eighth of an inch, steel rod zipped through your fingers changes your attitude faster that a politician with a bad check. I spun and saw a homeless woman with long greasy hair and filthy greens.

She introduced herself as SW-2 Lindson. She had been working at the bailer shed and had been repairing the compactor. She said that I needed to get over there so she could give me the run down on what to do. I looked back down at the three fingers with white and black lines through the finger pads, I bit my lip from some sarcastic comment then said, “I’ll be there.”

I finished what I had to do then next morning, signed out a truck and drove over to the infamous bailer shed. To say I was not impressed was a gross understatement, and don’t forget about the term gross.

I was shown the controls, hydraulics, wear areas and everything about the bailer. It was noisy, nasty, and in serious ill repair. It was scary just watching it run. The packing assembly jumped, screeched, howled, danced, and banged around in its tracks. I waited for it to jump out and kill us all but was mildly disappointed when it didn’t. I did study it carefully, looking to see what I would have to fix, fabricate, or blow up first when I heard the announcement of a truck coming in. I moved out of the way while I saw Lindson and the rest of the crew take places on each side of the conveyor belt. They were like kids in a candy factory. It was announced that the truck coming in had gone to the commissary.

As it dumped, they sifted through the rubbish pulling out loaves of bread, pastries, and other former consumables that had been compacted with everything else under the Botulism, Ebola, Bubonic plague, or just plain bacteria that would give you the creeping crude, diarrhea, fur lip, food poisoning, anal warts, or a deadly toe fungus.

When they were done scavenging, they began to open the packages and feast on them as if they just came off the factory assembly line and not the head floor after the toilets had backed up flooding the place. Bread and unconsumed pastries that were not opened on the spot were carried out to their vehicles. They smiled at their booty, I wanted to vomit, Lindson looked at me, “What’s wrong, their individually wrapped, their safe!”

I nodded but I just could not get myself to smile. It wasn’t wartime, but even then, I would not resort to eating compacted trash. I walked out after excusing myself to get back to the shop and to some semblance of sanity, not to mention that I had a lot of work to do.

I received notice that my boxes finally arrived and rushed over to pick them up. I was in my room tearing into the boxes. One box contained rims and tires, another box contained a 100cc Yamaha engine, another box a frame, another box contained the forks and handlebars, and the last box had all the hardware and fuel tank. Inside of two hours, I had my Yamaha MX100 fully assembled and ready to go. The next day, I put gas in it and rode it to security to register my vehicle.

I entered the building and asked for paperwork to register my vehicle. I finished filling it out and was handing it to the first-class PO when another security officer came in with a look of utter disbelief on his face. “Where did the dirt bike come from?”

“Oh, that’s mine. I’m here to register it.” I was cut off.

“They are banned on the island; how did you get it here?” He sounded more curious than angry. But I don’t think he would have needed a map to get there. I saw this was not the time to be my usual smart-assed self.

“I brought it with me. No one said I couldn’t have one. I had no sponsor and I saw a Goldwing a few days ago.”

“There are two bikes on the island that are grandfathered in under a special permit because they were already here. That Goldwing is one of them. I am going to escort you back to where you’re staying and I don’t want to ever see it on the road or anywhere moving under its own power. Please tell me you understand?”

I nodded and rode back to the barracks and rolled it into my room where it sat for the next four months, being the only item keeping our room from getting perfect marks, my bike was tagged as “Gear-A-Drift.”

Finally, Lindson left the island and oddly, the bailer shed did not require my immediate nor long term presence on an everyday basis. In fact, I didn’t even have to miss muster to be there. I think that she ate too many tainted Ding Dong’s, she was as dingy as a fruit bat.

I quickly fell into a pretty sweet routine after she left, first of all, I felt safe. When she was around, something always happened to me, and it was always bad. The first order of business was still tools, but applicable materials soon took over as the priority. I didn’t press for a new welder as the turbo model still worked just fine and it sounded pretty cool when you fired her up. Down side was you couldn’t strike an arc until it had spun up to full flight deck RPM. This usually took about three minutes. So, I would turn her on and go get a cup of coffee and talk to the office staff and the chief.

The office staff was always entertaining as there was only one civilian working in the office with a room full of military. She was a sizable gal with a glowing personality to match. We all called her itty-bitty, and she giggled when we did. She ruled the roost and no one complained. Many deemed it unsafe to say otherwise.

The body shop was straight across from my shop and a civilian ran it with an EO-3 as his helper, but sometimes the EO created much more work for Jose to do as he would pull into a pole as he was pulling into the paint booth. He offered to apprentice me in my spare time and I took him up on his kind and generous offer. I still had much to do and would finish late in the afternoon. I already had body shop experience from before I entered the Navy. But he had specialized tools that I learned with and I learned how to paint, properly.

People started coming to me instead of going to the steel shop. This confused me as the steel shop was supposed to be the first line to get welding, or a fabricating job done. Even they were sending work over to me. I even had C.I.S pay me a visit one day.

I had finished rebuilding a part for a mechanic and turned around and all but tripped over two SP’s looking all business, one holding a package. “We need you to do something for us. We’re from C.I.S. and need this destroyed.” I opened the package and saw what would be the most beautiful Colt 45 1911 A1 with Cherry grips I had ever seen. I worked the action and it was as smooth as it had just come out of the box. The only thing wrong with it was that some idiot had attempted to grind off the serial number. My heart sank, I quickly devised a plan.

“Not a problem, give me two minutes to melt it down. You guys can get a cup of coffee in the office while you wait.” I said jovially.

“Can’t leave the weapon unattended, and we have to witness you destroying it. If we could have gotten away with it, do you really think it would have made it here?” The one said.

“Hey, it was worth a try, but you know you’re killing me, right? Dang, okay.” I cleared the weapon and laid it on the lay-out table. I lighted the biggest rosebud I had and proceeded to puddle a beautiful Colt, the only crime it had committed was its stupid owner. The serial number, I might add, that you could still read.

After puddleization, they gathered the remnants and left my stall. The burned essence of Cherry wood grips still clung in the air. It was truly a sad day.

I was now fully established and was operating my little work hovel as a business. My biggest, but fastest customer was the tire shop. Lug nuts or studs would seize onto the hub stud and they would come over to have me skin the lug nut or lug cap off of the axle. I could skin the nut or cap off without damaging the threads underneath. Another job that was pushed off on me was the repair of the JP-5 refuelers. The persons driving them liked to take short cuts from the runways onto the road. The only problem with that was there was always a ditch and said ditch was always deeper than the refueler had in ground clearance. They always tore up the rear end of the vehicle. The frame for the hose reels, tearing the assembly from the tanker portion or ripping the tank itself. With this particular job, I had been ordered from the Commanding Officer of the base that I was not allowed to work on them until after hours, and that the shop had to be marked and empty save myself, and an EO that sat in the dispatch office in the EO side of the house.

Now I was busy all the time. We were gearing up for winter by getting out the snow equipment and making sure it was ready for the coming snow. I worked with military and civilian mechanics. I was a prankster (and still am!) and so were they. We began to have a lot of fun in the shop while turning and burning to get the job done. There was one older mechanic that was close to retiring. He was hilarious, he would randomly shout out something strange that either made you laugh or ponder. One day, he popped out from under the hood of a vehicle he was working on and shouted, “Prepare the camel for sex!” Why, who knew, but I all but hurt myself as I was welding up yet another cast iron oil pan under yet another wheel loader. After he said it, he went back to work like nothing had happened or been said. Accept the rest of the shop was in tears. All work but his came to a screaming halt as we laughed or thought, “What the hell did I just hear?”

My first six months was coming to a conclusion, my wife was about to move up to the island, and I was told that I would be rotating to a different duty type soon. But the fun would hit before I went to a 24-hour duty for the steel shop. I wasn’t looking forward to that since I had no idea who any of the steel workers were there. The first class did not introduce me around the shop and I had no scope of what they did. I was completely on my own in the CM shop, and they liked me. And the word of my work spread far and wide, but anyway.

I was on my last roving one night with a new person on the island. We, well, she was attempting to cause my ears to bleed by yammering and clacking her jaws like a duck on amphetamines. She was actually looking for trouble, where I was looking to finish my watch and go back to my room. My roommate and I had a paddle ball competition going on and he was in the lead with 159 to my 145. Plus, I was looking forward to the marathon that I was going to have with the Cheech and Chong movies I rented at the Navy Exchange.

We had egressed the underground tunnel from the barracks and sauntered past the Marine club. The Marines had their own club from the Navy, normally this is a “Why have a separate club” type of question. But it is mandatory in the case with Marines and Seabees. There is no, “Yeah they are okay, or a take’em or leave’em relationship between the two entities. It was a micro thin line of that whole love/hate relationship. Ergo the Marines and the Seabee club would never exist as one club. Bees could sneak into the Marine club and actually have a good time, but not true of the Marines that would sneak into the Seabee club. They always did so with ill intent to stir up trouble. It was usually handled on a bartender level, but they can only save so much before someone loses their ever-loving mind in a fit of alcohol fueled revelry thus pissing off the entire bar. And that, ladies and bugs, took very little as soon as identities were realized.

The two of us walked past the bowling alley and was on final approach of the club. We could actually hear what we thought was the full-fledged alcohol fueled war, was rather a full-on bar room brawl. We opened the outer doors to witness that the inner doors were pulsing with violence as bottles, furniture, and people fought, dropped, and flew about the place. My “Partner” giggled with glee and vaporized through the inner doors before I could stop her. Our instructions were strict in their content and were very clear concerning club violence, radio it in with the location, and DO NOT ENGAGE! Call in and wait was the rule that I fully exercised. There was nothing I could do but watch. I wasn’t Chuck Norris or Steven Segall, nor was I armed with a fully automatic tranquilizer gun. So, I sat tight. Soon enough, I saw my “Partner’s” limp, dumb-ass body floating on top of the crowd. Shore Patrol arrived in van loads and quickly put an end to the meaningless melee.

After a quick investigation, they discovered that ten Marines entered the club to try to pick up women and stir up trouble. Well, they were partially successful on their goals.

I returned to my room after I wrote up my report and being grilled as to why my counterpart willfully engaged. Soon after I was up 192 to 185 while watching “Up In Smoke.”

I had made a few friends. One was a mechanic. We would go into the dump looking for abandon cars that we could get running, repaired, and sell or strip for parts if they were Datsuns. I now had a Datsun Pick-up that had more problems than positives, but it ran.

We owned the Datsun market on the island. If we needed it, we had it. Forster had a little blue run-a-bout. That had a motor that you had the uncontrollable urge to burp it. It was small, he was another of those gifted mechanics that did strange things to motors to make them run. His Datsun was a testament to that. We had a motto, “If the motor spun, it would run.” We made regular runs to the dump for cars and parts.

One of the squadrons on the island was assigned to the carrier where the movie Top Gun was filmed. I asked what it was like working with a big named celebrity. Once the laughing and cursing finally calmed down, they said that after the actor arrived on board, he began throwing his ass around trying to tell the pilots how to fly their planes. Oddly, there was not one single nice thing said about him. Later, in news and other exposes about the actor, no one else had anything nice to say about him either.

My wife made it to the island and was settling in nicely. I was working on my Datsun pickup one night when I heard something start, run for a few seconds then starve out. I walked over and a third class EO was swapping parts from one scout to another, he had removed the drag link from the raggedy Scout and replaced the bent one on the better scout and placed the bent link on the worse one. He looked at me and said he got a sweet deal; the one ran great but the other only ran if you poured gas down the carburetor. Always into a challenge, I asked what he was going to do with the old scout. I almost dropped the key as he tossed it to me. “It’s yours!”

It took me a few minutes to get the ugly beast to my stall. I turned on the key and gave a listen. I heard noise from the front and went to find where it was coming from. I found the fuel pump on top of the fender with a hole in the fuel line coming from the tank and going to the pump. In less than five minutes, I was bombing around the back lot with my new beater toy that I affectionately named Scooby. EO-3 Barley looked out back and his mouth fell agape as I was testing out the four-wheel drive function. I could dump the clutch and the front wheels would torque and try to cross like a nun’s legs in a short habit. I took the drag link and straightened it in the press, reinforced it and put it back on the International Scout. CM-3 Forster had come in and we played a game of pull out, out back. One of us would get stuck pulling the other out of the snow then the other got stuck and then it was the other’s turn to pull. Why? Because it was fun.

We had a healthy layer of snow on the ground and we took out the snowmobiles and ran them through the dump. We made the dump our personal testing ground for just about everything. But we had to be careful. When we ran our thrashers, as we took to calling our cars, through the dump, we always had to get air and fix the flats then back out to the dump. We were introduced to this green sludge that was basically industrial fix-a-flat. You were only supposed to use an ounce per tire, we added ten ounces and renamed it bullet proofing. It proved to be good stuff.

One afternoon we found a Datsun in really good condition, it started on the first try and we drove it out of the dump. Forster researched and located its owner. He said it was a parts only car because it was dangerous to drive. I had been thrashing around in it and had no problems and could find nothing wrong with it. Until one morning, I had finished painting it so no one could recognize it. It went from green to flat black with a burnt orange stripe down the middle of the car, turd brown bumpers, and a fluorescent green Starsky and Hutch stripe down the sides and up in the back. We were going out four wheeling on the off-road course that had been made by the island’s 4X4 club. I was drinking coffee as I drove. I hit a bump, launched to the left without turning the steering wheel, hit a berm and became airborne. I crushed the coffee cup and worked to regain control. We went back to the shop to investigate the cars sudden possession to drive a path of its own. We jacked up the car and found that the rubber grommets in the lower control arms were gone on both sides. There was more than two inches of travel in the wheels because of this. Welding in plates and tubing, we aligned the tires with a carpenter’s square, put on dry clothes, and a fresh cup of Joe, we were back on the road to off road. Soon we were out racing through the mud and jumping the small mesas. I hit the edge of one of the mesas ripping the exhaust completely off the car. The guys driving the four-wheel drive trucks thought we were insane. I got stuck and one of the guys pulled me free from the thick muck.

Snow began to fly and it was time to prepare the rest of the snow fleet as there wasn’t enough snow to dig out the snow cats until then, and of course, those had to go out to the test track, aka, the dump.

I volunteered for everything I could, but there was only so much I could do. I had a lot of work from other areas of the base. The Marines were a regular customer of mine. They also initiated their new arrivals by sending them to me. Most were cool, but once in a while I would get sent a hard-ass that thought he could get pushy and try to usurp his nonexistent authority. I always sent them back with their tails between their legs. Their sergeant always thought it was funny.

I was installing a dump-bed assembly on a pickup truck when PFC Pile marched in, dropped a couple of pieces of metal on my table and told me that I had to fix it now. I dropped my tools, walked over to the table, and looked at the metal trying to decide to really screw up his day by smashing it with my favorite tool which was a ten pound sledge hammer that I used every opportunity to bang on the table with it, or send him back. Being an accomplished smart-ass, I chose the latter. “What did you say?”

He stood tall and said, “I said this has to be fixed, now, my sergeant wants it back ASAP.” He said in a commanding voice.

I pulled out my collar and looked at my chevrons denoting that I was a second-class petty officer, an E-5. He was a PFC, denoting that he was an E-2. “Ah, a grunt with a front, okay Gomer, hold out your hands, palms up.” To which he did, and successfully too I might add. “Okay.” I said and turned back around and went back to work.

“Hey, what now?” He asked. Ah youth and a grunt, a clueless grunt at that. No one told him about me? They must really want this guy run through the grinder.

“Oh, sorry, you looked so cute begging like that I got distracted. Now shit in one hand and expect in the other!” To that I turned and went back to work on the truck.

“But this has to be done now!” He said louder. I stopped and spun on him.

“Go back to Sergeant Wilco and tell him that you ordered me to do something while I was in the middle of another job. Then tell him what a dumb-ass you are and how I mentally shoved your tail up your ass and turned you into a new gargoyle for my booth. When he stops laughing at you, he’ll explain to you how things work. I know you’re a big tough Marine. I know they call you jarheads, but that is an oxymoron as you can’t properly screw a round lid on a block of wood. Go on, I have work to do.” Then I went back to work taking a three-pound hand sledge hammer and commenced to randomly beat on the frame until he got the message and left.

The chief walked back and I grabbed my sledgehammer and stood over my table. “I’ll use it, don’t make me use it!” I said with a comical crazed look on my face. I began laughing and he walked into my stall.

“What happened to the private that was just here?”

“He walked in making demands. Imagine an E-2 trying to order around an E-5.” I said smiling.

“He walked in to my office and began to complain. I swear he looked like he was going to cry.”

“Did you give him a tissue? Sergeant Wilco sends them over to have some work done, he also sends in guys that have an attitude or he just wants me to have fun with. He usually calls first to tell me if a job coming over is ASAP or not. He didn’t today. Not knowing what the metal was I let him go with the steel intact. If I had known, he probably would have taken the steel back flat after I used Bessy here. Wilco will call shortly.”

“You know, one day I am going to walk back here after a large grunt leaves and find your head in a mop bucket after he used you to mop the floor.” He said laughing, “And I will be doing just this.” He said still laughing at the imagery.

The pager interrupted our conversation. “Petty Officer O’Brien, you have a phone call on line one.” Bitty said over the PA.

“Bet that’s him now chief. Buy a poor abused soul a cup of coffee?”

“Bullshitter.” He said and laughed.

I answered the phone and as predicted it was Sergeant Wilco. “Afternoon Sarge, what can I do for you today?”

“O’B, how the hell are you. Did you get the metal? I need it fixed as soon as you can get to it. No real hurry, but as soon as you can fit it in. Oh, and I talked to my gopher of the day. You got him pretty upset, did you spank him?”

“Not quite, he came in making demands of a senior Non-com and I was busy. He got pushy and I just rattled his cage a little. Is he crying?” I said laughing.

“Almost, I am sending him back. I talked to him. He actually said that he was a dumb-ass for interrupting you. What the hell, is that new?”

“Oh no, I say that to all the boys. Is he going to be a kinder, gentler shoe chewer?”

“I think so. He is on his way now. He said you are a smart-ass and an asshole. I think you got promoted.”

“I study every night. I will have it done before he leaves. I’ll buy him a cup of coffee. That should cheer him up, or should I offer him some of those little creamer cups. Hey, when are you coming down? I haven’t seen you in ages. I’ll buy you a cup of coffee.”

“I might do that, and I know the coffee is free smart-ass. I’ll be down next week. Are you going to be that mean to me when I get there?”

“You, PFFFF, never! You’re my favorite asshole. See you later Sarge.”

From the back of the office I heard, “You know that sergeant can kick your ass?”

“I know, but then we wouldn’t have such a wonderful friendship, now would we?”

“So, can that PFC.”

“Probably, but he is going to get pretty tired chasing me first.”

Bitty was laughing and I poured a couple of cups of coffee and guided my feet back to my stall. The Marine was there when I walked in, his head hung down like someone had just hung his best puppy.

“Dude, what is wrong with you? Here, have a cup of Joe. Don’t go anywhere, you’ll be taking it back with you. Are you all disheveled because I busted your biscuits?”

“I know that I am just a Marine.” I stopped him.

“Look, you screwed up coming into my stall and making demands of a senior non-com. That you need to learn to respect. Secondly, you ask anyone around here. I make fun of everything and everyone. You just gave me fresh meat to work with. I know you’re only a Marine. Some of my best friends are Marines. And remember who you are dealing with, I am not an E-1, and don’t come in here to scuff up my boots. Let’s get this done and you can go home and cuddle up to Sarge.” I almost laughed at the expression I got from that last comment. I fixed the parts I had and he went on his way. I had a sense from talking to the sergeant that they sent all the lower scoring Marines to ADAK for guard duty. I met a lot of awesome Marines, and I have met some, well, that were not quite so awesome. I will leave it at that.

Much of my wife and my off time was spent working with ceramics on the other side of the base by the dinosaur cage. Hiking, shooting, fishing, and hunting. There was so much to do on the island.

The CM shop even started having a dart competition. I was pretty good, but not nearly as good as some of those guys. Some of those guys were dangerously accurate.

Winter was really setting in. During check-in, they said that if there is a condition Alpha, visibility is down to nothing and no one is allowed to go out. This was the rule. This was an absolute, dammit!

We were in a bad white out. Everyone except essential personnel were to remain where they were. I was relishing in the glow that I was not essential personnel, and that I was going to be able to stay home all day. There was already two to three feet of snow outside and there were no signs of it letting up anytime soon.

I was watching the snow when the phone rang. You still couldn’t see your black mittened hands in front of your face, not because it was dark, it was 0930, it was just snowing that hard. Even the neon playground equipment in the little park just 50 yards away was gone. I was sitting in the solarium watching the snow as it rapidly accumulated on the now non-existent communal playground. I love nature and ADAK had the best entertainment for someone like me. Even the ravens and eagles had opted for more of a protected environment. It was fun to watch the ravens play on the playground equipment. On a clear day, as far as you could see, there was a great and majestic eagle or a raven on just about every telephone pole in sight. To watch an eagle fly was beautiful and poetry in motion. Some people would come up and become disappointed by seeing an eagle feasting in the landfill. Yes, eagles are predator birds, but they are also scavengers. They, like any animal or human, will take an easy meal verses hunting for it. The other equally sizable bird was the Raven. These playful feathered children would entertain you for hours. I watched as one raven would hop, walk up a pile of snow outside my shop, look around then flop over on its back and slide down the hill, get up and start all over again. Quite often, another raven would join the first and they would engage in a raucous game of “King of the Hill.” But I digress.

Our phone rang as I was sitting in the cold solarium. “Yello!” Was my usual salutation. I was pretty cheerful that morning. The key phrase being was.

“Hey O’B, its Mark. We’re coming to pick you up.” He said.

“I don’t think so, it’s a white-out no one goes anywhere!”

“Accept us O’B, we have to keep the runway as clear as possible then the roads. Blakely hit a manhole cover and tore up the “V” plow. We’re coming to get you.” He said obviously enjoying this.

“No, no, no, you need to call the steel shop. They have a welder on duty!” I said almost begging. I had been at the shop until almost 2200 hours the night before. This wasn’t funny, but it was about to be.

“No can do my friend, they don’t know the equipment. You do, now, do you want them monkey humping your equipment only to have a waiting list of red tagged equipment on top of your normal workload?”

“But I’m not essential personnel. I’m not allowed to go anywhere!” I said.

“Yes, you are essential personnel. You work for us.” He said chuckling.

“Who is this, I do not know you!” I raised my voice. I knew nothing was going to work.

“They are almost there, be ready to go.” He said laughing.

“They can’t be on their way here, you don’t know where here is, I have a house off base!” Now he was really laughing it up. “You owe me dinner!”

He was now in full hysterics. “They said that they are pulling up now.”

I looked out the front door and could hear the clanking of the treads of the Sno-cat. “My grass, look what they are doing to my yard! I hate you!” I tried to hiss. But I was laughing too hard and it sounded more like a snake with the hiccups.

I donned my heavy jeans, Carhart bibbed overalls, a hoody, and my field jacket and high stepped through the three-foot drifts. The flat area was two feet deep and growing. I entered the Sno-cat and Benny Hill saluted EOCN Smith and EO-3 Mitchels. I closed the door and we rumbled away. “To the Rite please, and don’t spare the go juice!” They looked at me funny and kept going. We pulled into the Equipment Operator’s side of the building and I got out and walked into the CM side. That was when I saw the “V” plow with a blade that seen a sudden stop with a follow through that bent the moldboard, the bottom of the plow blade that the scraper blade bolts to, backwards. “Where’s Blakely, she can help pull the blades off.”

“She is on the snow blower. She can’t hurt anything there.”

I laughed knowing “Crash” and her reputation. I had just put the blades back on after pulling, straightening, and welding everything to where it was supposed to go with EOCN Smith’s help. They were rolling it out and I was going back home, or so I thought.

EO-1 Marks met me in the EO office as I was asking for a ride home.

“Hey O’B.” He looked awfully sheepish.

“Awe crap, another plow already?” I said.

“Blakely sucked up an aircraft’s magnesium chock blocks. She said that two exhaust paddles are broken out.”

“How bad is the auger?” I asked, already knowing that there was some heavy damage.

“She didn’t say. But she said that she’s limping it in.” He said.

“Oh Gwad!” Was all I could muster? It had taken six hours to repair the “V” plow. Trying to look at the bright side, I said, “How bad could it be, right?” We both shrugged.

It took almost 20 minutes to traverse a normal five-minute trip. My rollup door opened and my heart fell into my boots. What rolled in wasn’t broken, it was destroyed. It looked as if she ran over a tank mine at full throttle. Out of the 12 mounting arms for the auger blades only six were still attached, and a couple of those were cracked and bent, and there wasn’t a properly shaped auger blade on the damn thing. It looked like a wad of spaghetti wrapped around a mixer attachment. They bounced around like long springs. And the last thing I saw was that she also managed to bend the moldboard completely backwards. She pulled it in and jumped out like she was dropping off a rental car to test drive another. She began to walk away.

“Blakely,” I shouted, “Just where do you think you’re going?”

She stopped and turned. “My plows fixed; I’m going back out.”

“I don’t think so, you’re helping with this one.” I looked to Marks for support, and he nodded. “If’n you be destroy’en em, you can lend a hand a fixin’ em.” Marks hadn’t seen the moldboard yet. So, I pointed it out. It was bent so badly that it didn’t even look like it had one. “Blakely, what else did you hit, crash? Mag wheel chocks can’t do this, where’s the bus full of injured kids you ran down?” She looked shocked. “We have to straighten the moldboard first.” I turned to Marks. “We need every cutting rig we have with rose buds. We may need to hit up the steel shop for more gasses. Let’s see what we have.”

We managed to scrape five cutting rigs together with full tanks. It wouldn’t be enough but it was a start. We took off the blades and marked where the mounting arms went. It looked like a pile of steel pasta on the deck. And I had to make it functional again. Blakely cussed and I cussed her cussing. I stopped and bitched about breaking a nail, making fun of her. Marks laughed and left, Blakely got the message and shut up. Ten hours later, we had the moldboard straightened and two of the mountings arms for the auger reattached. That done I had straightened and re-welded the ejector paddles that had been broken off. We gave it a full speed test to check alignment and clearance. The easy part was now done. Marks came in and put Blakely in a dump truck with a blade and put her on the roads. I actually felt bad for the dump truck. Two weeks before the snow fell, I had to install an exhaust bed heating system in the trucks so the snow wouldn’t stick as much. It worked, well, sort of, still the best method of easy snow dumping was spraying the bed with diesel fuel.

It became a game of guess the proper curve, then mount the blade and adjust. This job took over 30 hours to fix. It was bad, and I was in bad shape lacking sleep, hungry and becoming irritable. The blower was now fixed and I had to admit, with how it came in, it looked pretty damn good when it spun and rolled out. I was now asleep and looking for a place to drop.

The only nourishment came from what I had eaten from the coffee pot and what I could afford from the gedonk machine.

Marks walked in as I sat nodding, there was another plow coming in. He placed a plate under my nose. It smelled like. . . I was awake now. His wife made killer dumplings and she made a big batch; I ate my fill. “Thanks for dinner sweetie.” I said laughing. “Tell Amanda she’s one hell of a cook. Mom, can I go home now?”

He shook his head and walked off. He looked just as bad as I felt. The plow came in with a broken frame to the truck, it didn’t take long to fix, but the assembly line never stopped. I lost track of time and I think Marks did too. We both looked like hell. I was getting cat naps between broken rigs. Blakely, true to her form, broke her way through three more vehicles. She now had the base record and her nickname was now officially crash. I walked out of the head and into a crowd of CM’s and EO’s heading for headquarters.

“What’s going on?” I asked.

The first-class CM looked at me and asked his own question. “Why aren’t you in uniform?”

“Ask the EO’s and CM’s, what day is it? It can’t be Monday.” I said.

“It is 0600 Monday morning. How long have you been here?” The first class asked.

“They picked me up around 0830 or 0930 Friday morning.” I replied.

“Holy shit. Go home and get some sleep.”

“I need a ride.”

I was home for two days recuperating. I liked challenges and that one was a doozey. It also took everything I had to give. I slept almost the whole time I was off.

ADAK Island was a constant reminder of the refusal to be a tamed land by man. She could be a cruel and heartless wench and on rare occasions a soft and benevolent lover. I say rare for the weather changed constantly. The island is located in a strong weather belt of the Aleutian chain and the weather literally seemed to change every 10 to 15 minutes. One rule of ADAK Island was if we were blessed with three hours of straight actual sunshine, the islanders were granted Sunshine liberty. Which of the 27 months I spent on the island, totaled two. That averaged less than one day a year.

When there was little for me to do in the shop, I had to go out and repair different pieces of property or equipment. I welded up many a dumpster. The smaller ones were always secured whereas the larger roll off models was fairly secure by their own weight. Except one afternoon when I was out welding some smaller dumpsters. I was having trouble keeping an arc due to the high winds. I would be welding and the arc would bend and either go back or go out. I was having a heck of a time trying to keep the wind from slowing my work. I was half way through one repair close by the barracks when I heard something that sounded like someone hitting a dumpster with their car. Looking around I didn’t see anything. I went back to my work and heard the noise again. I looked once more and saw nothing. I was trying to use the truck as a wind shield and my attempt was only partially successful. The truck was dancing on its springs as the wind tried to push it sideways. I heard the noise again as it seemed to be a little closer. I looked up in time to see a 40-yard empty dumpster roll onto its side, pause and then roll again when another gust hit it. Then it would slide, catch and roll again. That was it, I was done. I rolled up and went back into the shop for the day.

On one of those days that I was on duty and the snow was flying furiously, I was sitting in the 24 hour, sit and wait duty. My job on duty was now to fix roll up doors that were stuck, ran into, or just not working. I was blessed with being taken off of roving and placed in a cool little room with other CB rates to wait for the phone to ring. It did, but not for a repair. It was an assistance call for the SAR team. SAR stands for Search And Rescue. A woman was frantic because her husband had not returned from the shooting range. They had just transferred to the island and had just completed checking in. earlier in the day we had been in a nasty white out condition, (or condition Alpha) for about four hours. Her husband left the house just before the snow flew. Now being darker, he was still missing. A few questions launched her way to gather information and usually would calm a person down, but she just became more upset. “He had left about noon, yes ma’am, he went to the shooting range. Yes ma’am. Okay, which range did he go to? There are two ma’am, no they’re not close together. We’ll have to send out two teams ma’am. That is why I am asking questions so we can narrow the search. Yes ma’am, no ma’am, he cannot drive off the island to go anywhere else.”

With some direction to start with, two teams split up an each went to their assigned shooting range. Ours turned up dry and we had the Sno-Cat and a “V” plow while the other team had a Sno-Cat and a road grader. The grader slid off the road and became hopelessly stuck in the snow. The other team said that they almost drove over the top of the truck. The only thing that gave away the location of the truck was that the window was partially down and they could see some of the light from the dome light of the cab. When they got him into the Sno-Cat he asked about getting his truck back to the house. He was informed that he had not filed a hike plan and he would be lucky if he didn’t get written up. His truck was the least of his worries. His argument about not filing a hike plan was because he drove to the location. No matter, he still needed to file a hike plan!

The snow now being under control, for now anyway, returned to business as usual. I continued my training in the body shop and doing my job, and my jokes. I always had a thing for people who were perfect and spent every available opportunity to remind them just how perfect they were. We had one of those in the shop. He had “Never made a mistake” at his job. At least until I came along. He was working on a van and I could tell he was struggling with keeping it running. Each time he started it; it would make a slightly different sound. I ran to the parts room and grabbed a pocket full of nuts and bolts and ran back to my stall. I took two hubcaps, applied the hardware in one and taped the other on top making a huge aluminum maraca. He was cussing a blue streak when I sneaked behind the van. He tinkered under the front end, then on top, and then he crawled in the cab and turned the key. The van started and I shook the noise maker. He shut off the engine. George said his eyes were wide and he looked pale. He started it again and again I shook my rattler. He gently gave the van a little gas and I sped up the shaking then let it go back to idle. He turned it off and looked around, got out and tinkered, looking around for something he missed. Checked some things only to start the van and have the noise again. This went on for a full half hour and by this time the whole shop knew about it and had taken to watching him. He was beyond angry because he couldn’t find the noise. Finally, he started the engine and revved the hell out of it and I shook it violently and tossed it into the cab scaring him half to death. I walked up to the door and asked if everything was okay. He picked up the man-made maraca and looked at it then me. I ran off as he got out and threw it at me as I bolted to my stall. Later, I bought him a cup of coffee and took it to him. he took it and looked at me like he was going to dump it on me, said a few choice words and took a drink, he liked to prank other people, but he had a lot of trouble taking a joke.

There was a new first-class steel worker in the steel shop and I had been offered a rotation back, well, into the steel shop. I graciously refused and continued my work at the CM shop. I liked it there and they liked me there as well. Not to mention that I was threatened with bodily injury if I did leave.

I received a call from the bailer shed. I hated going there. Something had broken and had jammed the packing shoe and thus they could not bail any trash for the landfill. Little did I know that working on this piece of equipment would prepare me for a job years later as a civilian. I checked out the welding truck loaded my gear and drove over. They had cleaned where I needed to work.

I arrived to find a piece of metal had become wedged, broke off and bent a strip of the guide, binding up the shoe. I had the job almost done when I saw a head walk by the top of the equipment. The hair was slicked back like an Italian mobster. Then I remembered that the head had to be ten feet tall to be up here. A small head appeared, lost his grip and proceeded to slide into my lap. Now, where I was in the bailer was a small box, trash fell down a square funnel shaped area then into this box where the trash was compacted then bailed up like hay. I had just chucked up another welding rod and sparks were flying as we were trying to get away from each other, or more correctly, get him off my lap. That done I proceeded to chase him around with the welding rod until I made sure that he wasn’t going anywhere ever again, he was a huge rat. The EO’s that operated the bailer shed had to modify traps by adding spikes to the wire trap so they couldn’t escape, and they had to secure the trap with wire or string to keep the rats from dragging the trap off. I was called many things after that, and word spread like a cold, everyone knew about it.

As always, there were other things going on about the command. Two BU Bee’s were tasked with painting the office of the new lieutenant for their company. He requested for his office to be painted red, so they were painting his office red. The two had completed three walls when they discovered that they were going to run out of paint before they finished. They were in a rush to complete the job due to the lieutenant’s arrival that was scheduled for the next morning. They didn’t have access to any more red pait, so in the spirit of the “CAN DO” attitude, they mixed the paint to make it last for the remaining wall. The color they mixed the red with was white paint. They rushed to finish realizing at the end that the paint was a little lighter than what was on the other walls. Well, a lot lighter was a gross understatement. The wall was a pastel pink. Too late to do anything about the mess up, the lieutenant was taken to his new office by the chief. I don’t know which was the bigger shock, the sudden appearance of a bright pink wall, or the shock on the chief’s face when he first saw it. The lieutenant, non-plussed, had two dog house looking awards made with the remaining portion of the pink paint that was presented to the two artists. The awards were called the “Pink Doghouse Awards.”

In one of the hangers, the water heater had given up the ghost. A work order was issued to remove and replace one 220-volt industrial sized water heater. It was a sizable unit and it took two to place the unit where it was supposed to sit. Then it only required one to plumb the unit and one to hook up the electrical. As the electrician was performing the wiring, he was analyzing how he could make the unit more energy efficient. This could be a daunting task for some but CE-3 Megawatts had a plan. The plan was simple really, make the water heater work half the time saving electricity and wear and tear on the unit itself.

After a UT completed the plumbing, the CE rewired the unit utilizing a 440-volt circuit instead of the designed 220-volt unit that the instructions of the unit called for.

All was going well until he flipped the breaker sending 440 volts through a 220-volt unit. The plus side, if you could have one at this point, was that the unit’s steel that was wrapped around the outside of said unit had actually saved the man’s life by blowing out at the seam and enveloping him before launching him through the wall and well into the next room.

At the award’s ceremony, CE-3 Megawatts received the coveted broken hammer award.

I was getting very comfortable in the body shop with painting. I was restoring a truck that I had purchased when a call came in to the office. I was summoned and told that I had a phone call. I walked into the office and picked up the handset. “Petty Officer O’Brien.” I said hesitantly.

“Is that how you answer a military phone?” That voice sounded awfully familiar, and it also did not have that off island three second hesitation.

“I beg your pardon?” Being careful of what I said not really sure who was on the other end.

“How tall are you Seabee?” He demanded.

“I’m eight feet, six inches, 250 pounds of lean, mean, obnoxious, green fighting machine. Senior chief, how the hell are you?”

“Senior Chief, kiss my ass you little shit, I’m a master chief now, and I am the Master Chief of the Command up here boy. You are one hard son of a bitch to find.” He said obviously smiling.

“They dug it steep and buried me deep Master Chief, and congrats on the promotion.”

“Thanks, you have quite the reputation up here. How have you been?”

“I am doing well. But I am still an unknown Master Chief.”

“That is the tallest order of bullshit if I ever heard it. We’ll have to get together and discuss.”

“Anytime Master Chief. Whatever you need, just call.”

“Will do O’B.” The Master Chief cut the connection.

Of all that there was to do on the island, I enjoyed doing ceramics, hunting, and hiking the best. I and my wife made several friends while stationed there.

We had made friends with one couple that were a constant source of endless mirth. We all loved the out of doors and were out all the time. We hiked up the mountain, around to the original listening post, down to several beaches and alcoves, found the so-called hot spring (it was more like a warm puddle), and we covered the bay and the common points of interest on the island. We had gone on one hiking excursion and had been gone much of the day. We had looped around and come to a small stream. We looked for a narrow place to step across when Jed decided to jump across. He didn’t make it. He jumped, realized he was going to land short, floundered in midair, and fell in the stream up past his waist.

It was early spring and the water running down from the mountain had just turned liquid just before Jed fell in. He bounced up out of the stream and said, “We gotta go, we gotta go now!” He made for the direction of our vehicles. We got back and poor Jed was all but frozen. We spent a lot of time with them at the ceramics shop also. We had a lot of good adventures with them.

I was working in my shop when I heard Bitty page my name for a phone call. She didn’t sound right. I walked in and everyone was in the office, Bitty was holding the phone, the Chief, my first class, and a bunch of my coworkers were standing around and looking at me smiling. Bitty handed me the phone. I answered and it was my wife. She had called to tell me that I was going to be a daddy. I asked if she had told Bitty and she said that she had. I hanged up the phone and they all cheered. I was having a hard time not tearing up, and then I remembered that I was a smart-ass. “What, no champagne?” They all laughed. I said, “Thanks guys and gals.” I walked back to my stall and went back to work a lot lighter in my boots. I was going to be a dad.

Meanwhile, back at the ranch, err, shop, we had some new Bees come in. some took to the island and some took to the bottle. We had one EO that made up for those sworn to sobriety. There really wasn’t any organized program like AA for people that were this bad. They usually just sent them off the island. He had been on station about three months and they had begun to pass him around. Our shop was working mandatory overtime. I had seen him come in so the EO side didn’t have to deal with him. It was Saturday morning and I had to install a small cab on a baby dozer. The cab had just arrived and was mounted onto a palette and sat in the middle of the floor of my stall with the dozer sitting right behind it. All I had to do was unbolt the four bolts and pull the cab from the pallet, set the saddles and weld them in place, and bolt the cab down. I went to see what else they had for me to do and that was when they sent me EOCN Drunkula. He had gotten so drunk the night before that he had the Queen Mary of hangovers. He moved so slow that it looked like colors hurt him. The glacier fields moved faster than this guy did. They gave him to me for an assistant. I told him to go inside the cab and unbolt the cab from the pallet. Remember, there were only four bolts to take out. I heard nothing from him for 30 minutes. I walked over and he was still on the first of the four bolts. I went to the office and asked to have him moved. I was told that he was with me today. “Dammit!” I said. I went into the break room and got a cup of coffee, threw a few games of darts and headed back to my stall. It had been well over an hour and he was still on the first bolt. I looked around and picked up Molly. Molly was my 10-pound sledge hammer. I looked around the shop and then walked by the cab and gave a quarter swing to Molly and drilled the corner of the cab with the hammer. Two things happened immediately. But before I get into that, let me tell you up front that I have no problems with drinking, I still do drink. What I don’t have any tolerance for is getting trashed to the point of being nonfunctional the next day. That is something that I hate and still have no tolerance for. If you have to drink to cope, get help! I also have no patience and above all no sympathy for people who drink themselves into oblivion. So, back to my drunk in the box, like I said, he did two things. First, he painfully projectiled in the cab and all over the floor and pallet and anywhere it flew, ricocheted onto him, and eventually puddled. Secondly, his body literally tried to filter through the pallet and onto the cold concrete below. I went to the office and told the chief what happened while I got a cup of coffee, they called medical and sent an ambulance to come and get him. He needed help. He was off the island before the end of the month. Hopefully he got his help from them, he got none from me. Or maybe he did, I don’t know, maybe I caused him to get help that is one of my many conundrums, I guess.

One of the benefits to living on an island, is that everyone, or most everyone, knows everyone else. Such was the situation with myself and my wife. A majority of the island went to the only commercial business on the island, McDonald’s, and she worked there making more per pay period than I did. How is that for irony? Even the new Masterchief of the Command went there for his coffee and or breakfast. People up there were very friendly to me and my family. This was highly appreciated and memorable that we have and will continue to cherish throughout our lives.

Anyway, moving on.

It was that time again when they had to shut down the shop at night so I could repair the JP-5 refuelers. With the shop secure, I matched the certifications of the tank cleaning paperwork to the perspective tankers. Granted JP-5 is junk diesel, but there could still be a hellish fire with a possibility of a building levelling explosion. Thus, the safety lock down. I also had a system that when three trucks went down, that was when it was scheduled to work on them. At first, they wanted me to work on them when they only had one left running. Then they wanted me to work on them when each one went down. Then it was agreed that when three went down was when I worked on them unless there was an operation coming up. There were even signs on the doors as well as chains on a couple of the doors. The only unsecured door was in the EO side of the house, and they had a duty PO to make sure no one breached the door between the CM shop and the EO area. I thought it ironic that he was there to answer phones for dispatch, but I laughed hysterically when I was told that he was there to mop up if one of those trucks did in fact explode. Those trucks held at least 5,000 gallons of fuel. With only vapors, I seriously doubt that the duty PO would be the one mopping the floor. If one of those trucks were to ignite, I even doubted that there would be much of either side of the building left to locate a mop. My stall was beside the was that separated the EO side of the shop from the CM side.

The building, now secure, I informed EO-2 Smith that I was starting truck number one. He was leaving the island and the military soon and had been hired by a company on the outside as a tower crane operator. I was going to miss him.

I had to cut the damaged frame from the tank and replace all of the outer angle iron and weld and patch the damage on the tanks then I could weld it all back together. I was welding the patch when I heard someone shuffle up behind me. I stopped expecting to see EO-2 Smith tell me that another EO would be taking over. But that was not to be the simple solution. I was face to chest with a tall male individual. My first thought was “Really, you can’t read the signs on every door that says restricted?”

He spoke as he glanced around, “I’m looking for CM-2 Tossers. Where is he?” He said as more of a command than an inquisitive question. This turned my respectful stranger attitude switch over to the smart-ass setting. He was in civvies after all.

“Sorry, you’re in a restricted area. There are signs everywhere and, on every door, saying so. CM-2 Tossers is probably at home drinking a cold one by now.” I said informatively and keeping my rudeness in check, at least for now.

“He said to meet him here, where is he?” He said as one with authority ignoring my statement.

“Number one, this building is restricted tonight for safety reasons as they have ordered everyone home except for me to work on these refuelers after hours. This is down from the skipper of the base. So, the only person allowed in here is me. And I am the only one here. I have a person at the EO desk that is there so if one of these tanks frags, he can come in with a wet vac to clean the mess for the next victim to come in and take over. The CO of the base orders state, again, that no one can come in here while I am working on these. I have to ask you to leave, please.” I only said please out of pure sarcasm. He looked at the tanker then back at me. I was hoping he got the message.

“I’m not leaving until CM-2 Tossers arrives.” He insisted.

“That will be at 0600 tomorrow morning. Leave now please, so I can get this done so I can go home before midnight.”

“Do you know who I am?” He said indignantly.

“You are not the skipper, so my orders say that I really don’t have to give a shit.” I said with a smile.

“I am Lieutenant Junior Grade Tinkers.”

“Pleasure to meet you LT, now I really have to ask you to leave.” I said sticking my filthy gloved hand out for a hand shake.

He looked at my hand in disgust. “That’s sir to you.”

“Right lieutenant, I must insist. I need you to leave so I can complete my orders.”

“Call me sir, you have to call me sir!” I could hear in his voice that he was about to snap. I started walking for the door. “You will call me sir that’s an order!”

I spun and snapped the firmest Benny Hill salute I could muster “Aye, Mr. Tinker, and no Mr. Tinker I cannot call you that. By your leave Mr. Tinker.” I was now smiling. “I have to speak to the Petty Officer of the Deck about an intruder.” I heel toed an about face and tipped through the door and into the dispatch office with a seething lieutenant JG hot on my heels. “EO-2 Smith, what is the command’s standing orders when I am repairing the JP-5 refuelers? Please.”

EO-2 Smith looked at the purple, vibrating person, who looked like he was working on trying to jet pack his heart out of his chest. “The building becomes a restricted area with no admittance by any one until cleared by the person working on the refuelers. How did he get in?”

“Oh, this is Lieutenant JG Tinker, and I haven’t the foggiest idea how he got in my shop. Can you deal with this? I would love to get home before midnight for a change.”

“Sure O’B, no problem.” How can I help you lieutenant?”

“That’s sir,” He hissed.

“Uh okay, sir, how can I help you and how did you get into a restricted area?”

The next morning, I was ordered to see the command master chief. Apparently, Tinker had written me up for being disrespectful. I arrived and saw the smug asshole sitting in the corner. “Steelworker Second Class O’Brien reporting as ordered, Master Chief.”

“At ease. Petty Officer O’Brien, I have in front of me a report chit that states that you were disrespectful, argumentative, and refused to call an officer of his position sir. Is this true? What do you have to say about these charges?” The Master Chief asked.

“May I speak freely Master Chief?” He nodded, “Lieutenant Tinker walked into my work area, which was restricted and locked down, and demanded to know where one of the CM’s was. I informed him that he was most likely at home drinking a beer as this was a restricted area. He became belligerent but did not introduce himself. Several times I ordered him to leave as pursuant of the orders from the Commander of the base. He finally introduced himself as Lieutenant Junior Grade Tinker. I called him lieutenant, Lieutenant JG, Mr. Tinker and all of the terms of respect. He became verbally violent when he demanded that I call him sir.” The Master Chief held up his mitt of a hand.

“I don’t understand, why wouldn’t you call him sir?” He said leaning back in his chair.

“He hasn’t earned the title, to date, there is only one officer that I felt deserves the title of sir. I know there are many, many more, I just have not met them yet. The officer I mentioned started out as an E-1 and worked his way . . .” I recounted the commander’s career in detail and peripherally observed the JG shrinking in his seat as I continued. When I finished, I ended with, “Not to mention, I have more time in the head than he has in the military. With all due respect Master Chief, LT.”

“Is this true Lieutenant that he used the other terms of respect to rank?”

“Uh, yes, he did.” The master chief was already tearing up the report chit.

“Now if I address anything else on the report chit, I’ll have to write you up for entering a restricted area without permission, do you wish to pursue this matter further?”

The reality set in and his eyes grew wide as he paled slightly. “No Master Chief, I think I’ll drop the matter, thank you.”

“Petty Officer O’Brien, I believe you have work to do, get out of here and do it.”

“Yes, Master Chief.’ I spun and was on the run. As I live and breathe, my military career, such that it was, I only recall addressing three officers as sir.

During my tour of ADAK AK, I had seen things that made me laugh, tried to piss me off, and really made me scratch my head.

New housing was a project that was an ongoing debacle. They didn’t build them on the island, oh no, it was much simpler to build a complete two-story house section 1,200 miles away and pull them out three to a barge and float them part way around the globe. The units were two, three, and four plex’s by arraignment. These houses were built to withstand our constantly shaking terrain by being built on a roller system. But they forgot one important item, we were in the arctic belt and the houses were very poorly insulated. The families in the middle units remained warm and toasty while the outer units had to use a lot of heat and keep things away from the outer walls. Another drawback was being able to hear everything that went on in the next unit. Arguments, conversations, amorous adventures, crying infants, crying parents and then there were times when you wanted to not hear the headboard slamming against the wall over and over. But I jokingly digress, or did I. But when a family moved into housing there was an inspection of the home. When the family leaves, there was supposed to be another inspection and the house was supposed to be cleaner than when that family moved in, explain that one Hercules Poirot. We moved into our new house section in the middle of a four-unit complex. My neighbor on the other inner unit was our CE-2 friends. My wife became irritated at me one night when I heard my neighbor talking and I began knocking on the wall. It turned into a scene from Gremlins. We were all laughing by the end.

Everyone tries to make their house their home. Most people hang pictures, and arrange the furniture, place throw rugs, cut archways into the walls, organize the garage. What, yes, I did say cut archways into the walls. I am sorry, I must elaborate. I was on duty one night and security was called to one of the new homes. The complaint was loud music, shouting, and, this was the kicker for security, what sounded like a chainsaw inside the home. Security called the duty builders who arrived to stare in disbelief at the archway that the individuals cut into the wall with the chainsaws. The man and his friends had cut, framed, filled, and was putting the drywall mud on the finished production when security arrived. The project looked great, and it must be noted that both men were well beyond that three sheets to the wind limit. I do know that housing was not impressed, but I don’t know what happened to them either.

I was beginning to wind down my tour in ADAK. I had less than eight months left. I was looking at a couple of options, re-enlist or depart the military, sit out my last year of my obligation time and re-enlist into the reserves. I had a plan. But it would determine what the military would let me do. I had a few months to work on my plans.

One of my plans entailed a crane welding certification school on the mainland. I had not received the request back yet, and we were looking at an island defense exercise that involved the marines and a SEAL team from San Diego.

The morning of the operation we received a call from a panicked new Bee that a bunch of guys in camo got on his bus, pointed weapons at him, and told him to get off the bus. I guess, I hoped that someone decided to start the fun early. If not, we were in trouble with a shit load of blanks. We went out and was on our way to the destination when we ran across the bus. Another group came up behind us and we all stopped to investigate. Following the foot prints in the sandy beach, they then went up hill. We followed until we heard voices. We smelled smoke and popped up on a group of aggressors. I knew one of them. He was pissed. We went back down to our vehicles and continued to our assigned stations. We dug ourselves in, I had six in my fire team. Two dug in on an edge of a rise that looked like an ocean wave. On the other side, two had dug in and was busy down below at different levels.

Then there was EO-3 Lipkin and me. My recollection was it was in the upper 30’s and one of those rare days of a clear sky in the morning. We saw three dark figures round the side of a hill and come up under the wave portion of the hill that my right flank could not see, nor could we get a clear shot at them. MILES gear was trick gear for low tech operations like this, well, MILES gear would have been nice if we had it, but it was the grown-up version of “PEW, pew, pew, pew, I shot you!” “No, you did not!” “Yes, I did!” And so on the argument goes especially with these “Bulletproof Marines.” They lobbed a simulator grenade into their hole. I told them that spot was a bad idea. They kept insisting that it was prime real estate.

That foxhole taken out; they assaulted the fox hole on my left flank. The three Marines war cried as they charged the hill. I saw marker flags pop up about every 20 feet. The two in the foxhole laughed as the Marines ran at them. One ran up and shot them both. “You’re dead.” The one said. The two shook their heads as they laughed.

“No, you three are dead. Look behind you. Each red flag is a claymore trip mine.” The three turned around and saw eight red flags. They went back down and began to assault our position. I sighted in and I heard a click from Lipkin’s rifle. I had yet to pull the trigger on my weapon as I squeezed harder waiting for the weapon to discharge as I confirmed my target. I heard Lipkin wrestle with his weapon then stand up and put his hands into a “T” formation and call out. “Time out, time out! I’m not locked and loaded.” At this, the Marines began laughing and tripping over themselves and I was laughing so hard my helmet fell over my eyes and I rolled and fell down into the foxhole. I got up quickly and noted that our aggressors were still stumbling about in their own uncontrolled mirth. Lipkin stood looking hurt. He was completely serious.

I looked at him. “Seriously, you can’t yell time out when the enemy is attacking you and trying to kill you. This isn’t football!” I said trying to keep from falling apart and failing horribly. The operation continued and we began to enjoy the rushing of the wind over our position. The dark earth absorbed the sun’s rays and the temperature got comfortably warm inside the foxhole.

After operation, protect the island, or rather, operation S.N.A.F.U. ended it was back to business as usual. Some things happen and you get to experience wonderful things, inventions, and people. While otter watching one morning, a strange looking, low slung, long white yacht came into port. What was bizarre about the craft was the two tall tubes on the craft. The craft was owned by Jaquez Cousteau himself. The “Turbosail” was docked to take on fuel for the backup engine and other fuel powered functions. I took several pictures and was amazed at the ingenuity of Cousteau and his team of scientists.

The USS McKee was another visitor while I was on the island. The McKee was a sub tender (AS-41). We were able to tour this ship. Our tour guide was a petite female who talked about her husband and kids off and on throughout the tour. I thought it would be fun and my wife and I enjoyed the tour as well. A friend of ours husband was stationed on board this ship and we kept an eye out for him as we went from one area to another. Berthing, dining, supply, machine shop, and everything that makes the ship go. We got to see all of it. She missed her kids and husband horribly and couldn’t wait to get back to them. It was the bulk of her conversation when she wasn’t describing the area that we were walking through.

The tour was almost over an hour long as we got to see the inner workings of a sub tender. I was fascinated and relieved all at once. I was still somewhat claustrophobic. My recruiter kept trying to get me to sign up as a hull tech, which was a ship board welder. Well, ship board if you understand that they put the Hull Techs in the very bottom of the ship. We returned topside with an appreciation of the ship, crew, and her undying love for her husband and two kids. We exited the ship with her bringing up the rear. The sun was out and beautifully displaying the light cloud layer and the snowcapped mount Sitka. Now it was her turn to be amazed, and with one sentence, she discredited everything she said below about her family. “This is gorgeous. I have to bring my boyfriend up to show him this!” My wife and I looked at each other and exited the ship that I renamed the “Love Boat.” Repairing and replenishing while watching submarine races at night!”

One of the many things to do and it came with its own rewards was AFRTS TV and Radio. AFRTs stands for Armed Forces Radio and Television. Everyone pronounced it AFARTS. This was our main network to what was going on in the world beyond our little island. “Today’s weather will be consisting of rain, snow, more rain, some sun, a few blue clouds, and the one constant will be the ever-present mild hurricane force winds, so lather, rinse and repeat every 10 to 15 minutes.” The local news was always repetitive announcements. “Lost, binky disappeared last evening. She is a three-pound Pomeranian.” Or “Lost cat, Mittens went outside and never returned.” ADAK was not a place for small pets outside unattended. I quit counting how many times I saw an eagle with small dogs or kittens hanging helplessly from their talons. I had even seen eagles fly off with a full stringer of salmon, and yes, I did say a full stringer of salmon. Eagles are beautiful, majestic, large, and very, very strong. Ravens equal in size and intelligence didn’t fly off with the family pet per se, but they did tag team and steal the pet’s food. I witnessed my neighbor’s chows lose weight and not know why until I was working on my truck one day. I heard that all too familiar caw of the raven. I turned and saw that one raven was standing in front of the dog house with its wings spread blocking the dogs inside the house while the other raven was eating their dog food. Then they would trade places while the other one ate. They did this until the food was gone. So, the island rag and the local section of the TV were always looking for their dainty little pets. Why did I bring this up? When something out of the norm happened, it was big news, like this. Well one day as I was waiting on the daily chuckle. The two on TV sat silent briefly then the woman began. “We are saddened to report a missing person today. Lieutenant Dangler has been missing for two days now. The female pilot was last seen two days ago after evening muster and hasn’t been seen since. The last comment was followed with a picture of the lieutenant and to keep an eye out for her. SAR (Search And Rescue) had covered much of the occupied island and part of the game preserve area with no trace of her leaving the area. Heck, there just wasn’t any trace of her anywhere, period.

Until.

Eight days or so later, they announced that her body was discovered hanging from the upper trusses of the aircraft hangar in which she was assigned. It was reported later, however it was not put on AFRTs that she was despondent over the Navy extending the unaccompanied tours three months to a total of 18 months instead of the regular 15 months that it had been before and when she first was assigned to the island. Unfortunately for her, she went from a 90-day extension to eternity. It was never really cleared up just how she got up and all the way out to the center of the hanger. But once again another person utilizing a permanent solution to a three-month problem.

I now had my short timer’s calendar. It was a wolf with an evil sneer flipping the bird counting down from 180 days. My crane certification school was denied. I requested Operation Deep Freeze and was waiting on that chit to come back denied. I was working with the Masterchief of the command on that one. I wrote a note that was sent along with the chit that I would reenlist for the rest of my career, 15 years, if they would approve Deep Freeze. There was no re-enlistment bonus then for the Bees like there is now. Then it was a hand shake from the skipper, a goofy looking picture of you and the skipper in mid hand shake, and a “Get your ass back to work!” No thousands of dollars or celebrations, that was for the khaki community.

I also had a child on the way and really wanted to stay in but no one was getting out and making rank was pretty much a joke at that time. I had done my research on the Antarctic detail and there were two assignments. There was Operation Deep Freeze which was 12 months in the Antarctic and the other was called Winter Over. The bennies were my next duty station of my choice anywhere in the world of my choosing and my first-class stripe was a gimme. Winter over was six months and the same BS of dealing with the detailers, and no extra stripe.

While I waited and continued to work my tail feathers off, I tried to do everything on the island again to always keep my memories alive of my time on the island. I went hunting, ptarmigan mainly, they were a beautiful colorful bird of the grouse family that stuck out like a sore thumb in the summer but changed colors and became all but invisible until you were right on top of them and then they would fly off inside of ten feet of you scaring the crap out of you, then quick aiming and pulling the shot. Got many of those birds up there. I only regret not going caribou hunting while I was there. But the only way to access the best area was by boat and pending on the weather, you may or may not be able to return on time. The trip entailed, of course a hike plan, where, when, what time there, what time back, you know, that old chestnut, and hiring a boat to drop you off on the other side of the island. Then if you were successful, dragging the carcass back to the pickup point was very daunting to me. I hiked all over and pulling something with antlers getting caught in the tundra was just a nightmare thinking about it. Went fishing, went hiking with some friends and we had gone to an area that I had never been to and this trail paralleled a stream that was teaming with humpies, (Hump back salmon). I walked up on a small pool that a couple of salmon were resting in. I was joking as I reached in and pulled one of them out. We all laughed and joked knowing the odds of that happening again. Well, inside of a few minutes, I had my limit lying on the side of the stream at my feet. Thompson laughed and said, “Ain’t nobody is going to believe this, I saw it and I still don’t believe it!” I nudged them back into the water with my foot.

“Yeah, right?” The salmon runs on ADAK Island was something that a person really had to see, the main stream “Finger Bay” many times would be so thick with salmon that you swore you could have walked across the stream on them and not get wet. In reality, you could not see the bottom of the stream from the salmon. It was nature at her best!

I was planning on the worst-case scenario. I needed to acquire as much money as possible if I had to go back to being a civilian again. The body man had been called back to California to take care of his family and since he was old enough to retire, that was what he did. I was assigned to take over as island estimator and repair until someone could replace him. At night I had taken to repairing gas tanks, body work, and paint, I was busy six nights a week.

My daughter was born on June 13^th, 1988. My little girl was with several other little babies that were born there. I was now a proud papa and looked forward to raising a child. Children were born big on the island, many blamed the water. But the average child was bigger.

I now had six months left in the active duty portion of the military and was now ticking off boxes on my short timer’s calendar. As I had calculated, even with the help of the Master Chief of the Command, they denied Deep Freeze. They did offer a 90 day early out. I still have the chit that the Master Chief sent to billeting that they returned saying no. It said, “Isn’t there anything we can offer to keep SW-2 O’Brien on active duty?” Their one-word answer said it all. No. I felt that I had done something wrong my entire enlistment at that point. I had a near 4.0 eval, no disciplinary strikes on my record. Oh well, I decided that it would be their loss, not so much mine.

So, I was getting a 90 day early out with good behavior. Well, more correctly, not getting caught.

My work did not slack during my last 90 days on the island. In fact, it picked up while I was busy making money hand over fist doing work that no one else would do. Repairing gas tanks. Yep, same night service, drain, flush, remove, repair, reinstall, and refill. $200 a pop. A deal considering a tank was 200 plus shipping and the three to six months to wait for the tank. I did body work, frame repair, and anything that had to do with steel. I sold my beater Datsun, and Scooby, the International Scout, went for a decent price. My truck that I bought for change went for good money after I restored and painted it. I had even put bullet proof bumpers, well, dump truck proof bumpers on it. I was comfortable that we would be able to handle just about anything after I got out.

I had arrived on ADAK Island while two men were leaving the island. They were on a self-paid trip to Anchorage, the judge was on an all-expense paid trip, via the two men. Their crime, simply shooting salmon in the spawning pool. Now, I and my family were leaving the island, a few people got off the “Reeves Aleutian Airways” jet and we got on. I took one last look at my beloved island and watched her race by as we took to the air, we waved as the island shrank in the distance. My daughter’s first flight, my wife’s first flight in almost 20 months and my first time since the Blue Nose Expedition. I leaned back in my seat and went back to when Jeb and I were invited by members of the P-3 squadron, Jim came up and invited us actually. We were looking forward to it. We had no idea what we were in for. I had taken several rolls of film and a decent 35 mm camera. We took off and headed north. The original plan was to fly north over Barrow Alaska and then down to Fairbanks to land, take off and return home. Well, that was the plan.

We flew over ice caps that went from white to a light blue and the deeper in the water the ice went, the water and ice turned a darker blue. We saw polar bears and flew around them. A few got excited and tried to run away from the plane. We levelled off and suddenly an ice chest appeared. The pilot came back and announced, “Anyone who has never been over the Arctic Circle needs to come here!” there was a total of five of us. Jeb and I were the first victims to become members of the “Realm of the Arctic Circle.” We had to sit, bare assed in the ice chest full of ice and repeat the charter of the Realm of the Arctic Circle. I didn’t think that the ice was that bad, well they noticed that Jeb and I sat there comfortably. They waited until I was shivering. We had to repeat the order until they were satisfied. When they were satisfied that my ass and the ice were the same temperature, Jim pulled out a huge blue magic marker and painted our noses blue. My ass did not warm up for the rest of the flight.

Afterward, I was checking out the different things on the plane and looked out the window. “Hey Jim,” I called. He came back and I pointed out the window. “Is that normal?” I said pointing out to engine number four and the foot-wide black stripe of thick fluid pouring down the wing and dripping off. Jim said nothing but raced forward. I looked at Jeb and said, “I guess not.” Jeb came over and looked. “It’s not a big deal unless two more start doing this.” I said smiling.

Jim returned and said that there was a change of plans and that they weren’t going to stop in Fairbanks, but head back to the island.

“Thanks, my ass is still frozen.” I said as he laughed, and then went back to work.

Thinking back on the experience, I was still glad I went. Of course, that story and a couple others concerning prop planes freaked a woman out when I flew back from Columbus Ohio to San Diego, but I digress and that is another story.

We touched down in Attu with a flat tire. We sat what seemed forever in the plane. Then after several complaints and cold crying kids, we were escorted into the terminal where we sat longer with no food or anything fresh or hot to eat or drink.

The spare had corrosion on it and we had to wait for a spare to be flown in from another airfield on another island. So, we sat, and sat, and sat some more until they finally changed the tire.

We were off once again, finally, and headed east to the mainland. We had the cats in the hold and so far, other than the delay, all was going well.

We landed in Anchorage and had to find a veterinarian to sign off on the animal’s health so we could continue to the lower 48. The cab driver was awesome as he got us to the vet, cats checked, and got us back to the airport in time for our connecting flight. Next stop, Seattle/Tacoma Washington. I got a rental car that just didn’t have enough poop to get out of its own way. That became immediately evident upon attempting to merge on the highway. Going from 5,500 people and a maximum speed of 35 mph to suddenly millions of people and a minimum speed of Mach six can make a person a little edgy.

Thinking back over my five years of active duty, the things I had learned, the friends we made along the way, and all the experiences we gained. I wondered what the reserves would have in store for me.

Final comments on ADAK Island AK.

While writing this section of my history in the Seabees, I went back and researched many things only to find out that the base is now closed and no longer a military installation. The base has fallen into the hands of a few that use the island as a hunting resort. All the military portions of the island have been torn down, stripped, or just gone to dilapidation. Seeing the current images brought sorrow to my heart. You often hear and see of sailors lamenting over the ship that they spent many years on and the sadness they displayed and the tears they shed for that duty station that had been turned into a floating scrap heap, or part of a surf break. I thought it silly until I saw the images of the island in its former greatness and what it had turned into today. Now I am lamenting on my old duty station, sadness in my heart and now shedding a tear for what happened to the base and what it has now become. I could fly back to check it out now that it is no longer a military base, but why bother. Even the housing has fallen to time and disrepair. I still have my memories and old photos; I will hold dear to those and remember it as it once was.

The Military’s Version of an Honorable Discharge?

The experiences I would encounter over the next week would change my outlook of the military over-all. The past four years and nine months were a roller coaster ride to incredible. I had absolutely no regrets. By reading my missive, you may ponder some of the experiences in the negative category, which every career has that column. But over all that would be the furthest from the truth. I learned from each and every experience and every person I encountered. For limited space and my attention span, and I am sure the attention span of you, my readers, I am highlighting my tour of the United States Navy Seabees, there were also quite a few things that I could not put in here for obvious reasons. If I thought one would be interested in everything I did, I could write volumes of all my exploits and experiences, or better yet, I could sit down with you over a few cold ones. But no, and I am once again digressing. I guess it is because my experience departing the active duty portion of my military life was nothing less than being incarcerated for nothing more than going home.

But alas, no more delaying and pondering the best way to describe the nightmare.

I checked in with the P.O.O.D. (Petty Officer Of the Deck) and received my instructions. Thankfully there was a hotel just off base and I was able to secure a room for myself and my family during our stay there.

I was ordered to muster at 0600 to a Boson’s mate first class Dinkum. I reported and was instructed to grab a rake and follow the other sailors to the yard. Then I was questioned as to why I was out of uniform and wearing greens instead. “I’m a Seabee, our UOD (Uniform Of the Day) was pickle green and on the scene.” He asked me if I had dungarees. My reply, “I have a pair of 501’s back in the hotel.” He became perturbed and walked away mumbling something to the effect of, “We’ll see about that!”

By noon, I had communicated with several others that I was assigned to work with. Every single one of them were being Dishonorably Discharged and had been stripped of everything but the clothes on their backs.

At noon, I went to see the people that put me there. They apologized and sent me to another first class and another crew of near-do-wells. This first class wasn’t the hard-ass the first one was. Here I was sweeping and mopping. At least I wasn’t raking leaves in the rain! But the party wasn’t over yet kids, I was still being stalked by the other first class about my uniform and my insistence of wearing my second-class chevrons. I became a repeat visitor to the offices and his chief. There was no excuse for a 3.8 to 4.0 eval second-class petty officer to be dogged and treated this way. My tongue was bloody from biting it and not being the top-notch smart-ass I had honed my skills to being, and everyone knew me to be and got along with.

I asked his chief how I’m supposed to handle the situation, he asked me how I handled it in battalion. I said, “I am a person who treats people exactly how they treat me. I have a reputation of being a smart-ass, within reason. The more obnoxious a person is, the more of a smart-ass I become. I just don’t yell. In this situation, I can’t just walk away, even when I was reassigned, he hunted me down instead of coming in here and asking if I had been reassigned.”

“Well, then we have a problem, I don’t want a problem and he has a short fuse. Let’s try this, muster in the morning, hang here until lunch, muster in and then take off for the day.”

“What about 1600 muster, won’t that put me AWOL?” I asked, testing if he was baiting me or not.

“I will let them know.”

“With all due respect, could you also put that in writing, please, I don’t trust them and they have given me every reason to distrust them.”

“I can do that, but there really isn’t any need.” He said.

“I agree and respect that, but the way he has been hounding, hassling, and looking for any excuse to write me up, this would cover my butt if he were to decide that he “Never got the memo” if you will.” I made the finger quotation marks when I said never got the memo.

I folded and placed the note from the chief in my pocket and left the building, I informed the first class that I was reassigned and worked for the office, and then walked to the rolling nightmare and went back to the hotel.

I was waiting on my DD-214 (Discharge orders for Navy), then they would hand me three airline tickets and I would be out of their hair. Someone had to have made an error and put me in the bad boy brigade. I just could not leave here fast enough.

I was supposed to be there until Monday morning. I went in Friday morning and then again at noon and asked if they had all my discharge papers completed and the third class behind the desk sifted through a large stack of folders and extracted mine, checked its contents, and handed it to me. I smiled and asked, “When can I leave?”

“As soon as you can get a flight Petty Officer O’Brien.” She said. I thanked her and all but ran from the building. We left on the first plane we could board in the morning.

Active Reserves With RNMCB-16

Let’s jump ahead a year and three months because that timeline had nothing to do with my military career, shall we? After all, what happened during that time is quite another tail entirely.

3 December, 1989 found my attendance on the very last day of my six-year obligated contract with the Navy in the recruiter’s office. I was officially discharged from the Navy active status in Kokomo Indiana, and had moved to San Diego, California where the money was not too bad at the time. I was in the recruiter’s office signing papers for a six-year hitch in the reserves. Since my six years was up, I was now considered a “non-obligor.” This was official Navy speak for “If I did not like the reserves, I could write a letter of resignation and walk away. That wasn’t my plan, I wanted to retire from the Bees. Of best laid plans. But I jump way ahead of myself.

I was assigned to RNMCB-16, RNMCB stands for Reserve Naval Mobile Construction Battalion. The reserve center was in Kearney Mesa, the battalion was based out of Los Angeles and I was sublet, err, detached to a DET, aka, detachment to a group of 12 Bees of various rates and ranks that met in a three room building in Fallbrook, on the backside or the extreme east side of Camp Pendleton Marine Base. I could make a joke about the dirty dozen, but I will wait.

I guess they had been working on the building since walls were invented. I was detached to a builder crew. Ah well, once a month, I could persevere. Most were there for the GI bill. They went to school during the week and once a month they came here and wandered about aimlessly. Two weeks a year we spent training, qualifying, and if qualified, attempted to make rank, I thought active duty was locked up. The reserves were much worse.

Anyway, our training became more intense with the upcoming scare of Desert Storm, the war in the gulf. We trained with Marines from Camp Pendleton on weapons, gas masks, and performing patrols.

We had our ACDUTRA (ACtive DUty TRAining) in the summer and it was two weeks of low-key ops, sitting quals, more sitting, and any other odd jobs they could dream up for us to kill time by wasting time.

One afternoon, I was given four Builders. We entered a bone yard that had old broken-down equipment from weapons carriers to deuce and a half’s up to five-ton trucks along with tracked equipment. The first class checked his sheet and found two five-ton trucks and verified the trucks by VIN numbers and told us to dismantle them. Now telling a Seabee to dismantle, destroy, discombobulate, fold, spindle, or mutilate anything just makes a Seabee’s day, night, week, and yes, the whole year. A Seabee loves to tear things up. “If you absolutely, positively need something destroyed overnight, call in the Bees!” Or in this case, three hours. We acquired a torch and some wrenches and pry bars. At 1300, the first class ran back to the yard and saw the chassis of what was once upon a time two five-ton trucks. He went ballistic, swearing and shaking the sheet he now had wadded up in one balled up fist. “The trucks are stripped as ordered first class.” I stated with positive vibes and authority.

He turned purple, I thought he was going to achieve plaid for a moment. “You dismantled the wrong vehicles! These weren’t the one’s I told you to strip!”

“Oh, I do beg to differ first class, these are the ones that you verified the VINs and ordered us to dismantle. We marked them as you verified them, remember?” I asked still sending positive vibes.

“You have to put them back together; these are the wrong ones!” He said spitting.

“That’s not my fault, I followed your orders to the T.” I said.

“What am I supposed to do with this mess now?”

“Call the CM shop and tell them you need a hook and work order that they won’t start and maybe give them a fresh coat of paint and hope they will heal.” I said really trying my hardest not to laugh.

“I’ll call your superior officer! Who is it?” He yelled.

“To be honest, I couldn’t tell you today, we’ve had someone different every day. I thought it was you today. You did grab us and pull us over here out of morning muster. You mean it’s not you?” I was really beginning to ham it up. We had completed the task that he assigned us and dismantled the two vehicles that he told us to dismantle. I marked them as he read them off, while he was standing on the truck reading the VIN. This was his mess, not ours. We followed his orders. It was immediately evident that he didn’t think that we would even start the project and just sit around like stereo typical weekend warriors. Too bad there was one gung-ho former active duty CAN-DO Bee.

“No, it’s not me, I, you.” He stopped, stammered some more, then threw up his hands tossing the sheets in the air and stared at the piles.

“Let’s jet guys, its lunch time!” I stated and walked to the gate.

The crew gathered around as we walked out the fenced in area. Thomas said, “He’s staring at us O’B.”

“Don’t look at him, that would only encourage him, it’s like feeding a cat, it will only follow you around and I’m hungry.” I said smiling.

1500 came around and I was ordered in the Lieutenant’s office.

“You want to tell me what happened in the bone yard this morning?” The Lt. asked.

“Absolutely,” I recounted the events beginning by his searching and verifying the vehicles by their VIN numbers and my marking them and asking him if these were the right ones and him verifying again. “Don’t tell a Seabee to dismantle something unless you really mean it, Lt.”

He smiled and said, “Okay, he obviously had a wrong sheet or something. Dismissed.”

“I really think Lt that he didn’t expect us to do anything other than sit in the seats and go thbthbthbthbthb and turn the steering wheel. But he assigned the destruction then came running back three hours later and told us we made a mistake. But he didn’t even look at the vehicles when he came back, all he saw were two piles of parts.”

“I think your correct O’B. Don’t worry about it.”

“Worry about what, Lt?” I asked smiling. He just shook his head and went back to his paperwork.

The next weekend duty, I discovered what lactose intolerant really meant.

BUCN Smeltzer had the mind of an engineer, the common sense of a toad, and the digestive tract of a biological warfare research facility. I was told on my first weekend there to watch him during lunch. After many months, I put him on the back burner thinking that someone was just pulling my leg. He was strange, but most engineer types are.

Thinking about that drill weekend in September of 1990 was worse than any chemical warfare training that I ever donned a gas mask for. It was a day that will forever live in my memories as a day that will live in infamy.

BUCN Smeltzer had gotten into an argument with BUCA Wiley. I didn’t think much of it since it didn’t seem to be that bad of an argument. Five minutes into the argument, Smeltzer gave in way to easy. I should have seen the flags popping up like a brown mushroom cloud over Hiroshima. But alas my inexperience with this young person went by unheeded. That was until one hour and 15 minutes after lunch. The three-room building had one entrance in front and then possessed two open entry ways into the two rooms that were parallel to each other. The only entrance and exit were through the front entrance. This would prove to be the demise of his intended victim and four innocents. Myself being among them.

There was no warning save Smeltzer quietly, but very quickly leaving the building. We came and left the building throughout the day, but this departure was with more urgency than normal. Actually, urgency was a much too light of a term for how we dove off of the sinking ship. In actuality, we all but killed each other bum rushing the door. Smeltzer was already gone to find a head.

It was colorless, but it might as well been a large thick brown cloud as it over took the building like the blob did in the movie of the same name. It had overtaken us like a toxic brown cloud of death. The screams, by all that was holy, I will remember the screams and language as we all clawed our way to the exit. Eyes seared with the toxicity of the event left me sightless and in pain as if I had diced a particularly viral onion.

Once outside and regaining my eyesight, I checked to see if my hair and eyebrows were still intact and not flame or chemical curled and ready to abandon me as I grasped to explain how this happened to my family.

I went looking for the perpetrator, but found the first class instead. “We may as well open all the windows and leave or stay outside until about 1700. It will take that long to clear out the gas from the building.” He said.

“How much dairy does he have to drink to create that kind of assault on the senses?” I asked.

“Just about a half ounce of milk or some kind of dairy. It doesn’t matter what it is as long as it’s dairy. You weren’t watching him, were you?” He said.

“After months of inactivity and he does this now, I don’t get it.” I said.

“Was he pissed, what happened this morning?”

He got into a verbal confrontation with another builder, after a few minutes, he said, “Whatever, you win.” Or something like that and walked away. I thought it was over. I didn’t think anything like this could happen. Who in the world would use lactose intolerance as a biological weapon?” I asked still trying to expel the smell from my olfactory senses. I swore that from then on, I would keep an eye on him!

October drill came and we received a visit from our lieutenant, which was rare. He called us in and gave us a heads up about the possibility of being activated and deployed as soon as December 27^th. I wondered how this was going to work with employment, insurance and so forth. He explained about job security and such. I had a better understanding when we left and I talked to my employer and informed them about the possibility of being called up. I told them I would keep them unformed of what was going on.

I had set in my mind that we were going. Always expect the worst, and hope for the best, and you’re rarely disappointed. If the worst does happen, you’re not surprised. If something good happens, then you have something to celebrate.

This was something that I had some seriously mixed emotions about. I had some pretty heavy questions too. Such as how many really had some serious and actual training. I had former training with the Marines and weapons training with some SEALs. SEALs were three levels of nuts. But I would stand and fight with any one of them at any time. The Marines were on a close level in my book. Both groups were the best of the best. But what I feared was that these college kids knew little of the term “WE BUILD, WE FIGHT!” Most, if not all of them were only there to get the GI bill. This made me very nervous.

November drill came and the Lt arrived with a stack of interoffice envelopes. One for each one of us. I had known Lieutenant Strent for quite some time. He knew me better than anyone else in the command. He knew me well enough that if something was stupid, I would say so, and I stood up for my men. I usually stated the obvious at the worst possible time. My wife always says that I have the tact of a raging bull in a china shop. She also says that I’m evil and must be destroyed, but I have yet to understand the latter.

Well, I had found that there were two other prior active duty members here in Fallbrook as we had gotten to know each other as we met on these weekends.

After distributing the envelopes, it was apparent that Lieutenant Strent was not alone, he had in attendance a young lieutenant junior grade. Oh lord, not another one! But alas, this one was just as arrogant? Ignorant? Lopsided? Dimwitted? Something like that, as the last one I had encountered on ADAK. Do they train them to be this stupid or are they all this naïve? Well the LTJG gathered all of us in a cozy little circle. The only thing missing was a cozy little fire and a cozy little camper with a cozy little guitar singing Kumbaya. I couldn’t understand why we were here instead of working, such that it was, or more productively, working out the pre-deployment wills, talking about how to make out a will. This was a necessary evil in case one is taken out by an errant IED, bullet, stupid driver, or a friendly stupid accident. Instead we had Lieutenant JG Binky standing in the center trying to look important or impotent, I couldn’t figure which. But he only succeeded in looking poignant. “Gentlemen.” It seems when someone is about to come off as all-knowing and self-leading, or self-important, they always start with the condescending sounding “Gentlemen.” And this was no exception. So, he began.

“Gentlemen, I called you around to get your feelings on the possibility of being activated.” This was met by more than a few eye rolls and staring at the interoffice mail envelopes that we all had in our hot little hands. But respect the position, for now, I kept my mouth shut, which would not last long. My turn was coming. Another former active duty Bee spoke first.

“With respect to your position, what the hell are these, invites to next year’s Seabee ball? Mine says to report for duty on 28 December.” His non emotional reply to Benson’s sarcasm turned on my smart-ass switch. I could hear a couple of people chuckling around the corner of the building.

This idiot actually started going around the friendly little circle getting some scared comments and some pretty sarcastic questions. He was asking what they were going to do if we got activated. I looked in Strent’s direction as he was throwing up his hands and walking away. They came around to Benson, bidding on the group to speak freely. Another mistake. “You have got to be kidding me. We have activation orders in our hot little hands. We ARE GOING. Not if, not when, we have a date, and we have a time. This doesn’t give me a fuzzy feeling about our command if we are still wondering if we are going to go or not. This took him off guard. This was good. I had to calm myself. I knew I was going to get into trouble. Screw it. He worked around to the college students. He still didn’t learn. Most said the same thing about missing their classes during the upcoming semester. He then got to veteran numero two.

“Oh, I don’t know, run to Mexico, kiss the cook, bitch slap silly officers? I don’t know what I’ll do! Are you going? Are you going to be able to keep your business, sleep with your family, what do you think? I have a lot to lose by going.” He said with an evil sneer on his face. The JG was now getting nervous.

More young people were questioned, asking about college. What is going to happen if they can’t make their classes? Blah, blah, blah. Then he gets to me.

The only thing I could think of was if he was going to laugh or shit his pants. I opted for the latter. “You’ll be going I presume?” He nodded. “I guess I will write my will as ordered in the packet. Then I don’t know, are we going into a hot LZ?” he nodded and said something to the effect of yes. I heard motion around the corner of the building where Lt. Strent had disappeared. “So, we will be possibly going in weapons hot?” He said possibly. “I might trip on the way out of the plane causing a weapon’s malfunction taking out an officer that would most likely and most assuredly get us killed trying to protect a phone booth.” He turned white. I heard a gag and hissing like a tire losing air from around the corner as the unknown person was trying to keep from bursting out laughing. I smiled and began chuckling. “Ah, I don’t know really what I’d do. Probably trip and fall down like I always do.” And I started laughing.

He hesitantly asked one more what he would do. As the 19-year-old was answering, his gaze continued to shift between the three of us. Then he dismissed the group. Inside of five minutes after he walked away, I was called into the building facing the lieutenant. “Please tell me you didn’t just threaten an officer?”

“Lt. I am shocked! Would I really be that stupid as to threaten a glorified coffee runner? He jokingly pulled a circled wagon train around him as he is being the pivot man then basically degraded us in a condescending manner. That couldn’t be serious. Then on top of that he said to speak freely. What was I supposed to do? I told a joke. That was all I did.”

“Not scare the hell out of him for one and try to get a psych eval or written up!”

“For what, I didn’t say anything. I wouldn’t do such a thing. I have an impeccable service record.” I put on my best innocent puppy face.

“Get out of here!” He said rolling his eyes and trying not to laugh.

We were scheduled for training exercises throughout the next month. There was chemical warfare training, then there were maneuvers. Maneuvers would have me in front of the first-class petty officer and at least two officers. Let me explain. We had been divided up into squads, since I was a second-class petty officer. I was given a squad.

We were taught maneuvers throughout the day and put what we learned to actual practice.

We were to guard a dry creek bed from perpetrators from wherever they might be from. It was deep into the evening and it was getting difficult to see, but not dark enough to miss or easily identify the aggressor crawling along the ground. One of my guys said to stop to a man crawling along the creek bed. No reply, so he tried another language, again no reply. I shouted, Détente! Suelta tu arma y acuestate boca abajo!” or “Stop, drop your weapon and lay face down.” In Spanish. He stopped and looked in my direction, but he really couldn’t draw my outline. I was not only in the brush. I used the brush to camouflage myself to blend in with the brush. He placed his weapon aside and continued to lie face down, hands forward. The first of my team ran up and pulled the perp’s arms behind him. The perp pulled one arm lose and managed to roll onto his back. Before reinforcements got there and step in to help, PO-2 Aviles reached out and violently kicked the man in the face. An action that was not okay in an actual situation, and a huge error in training. It was now questioned as to who this person really was. Was he actually an illegal, or was the person really that ignorant? This resulted in return gestures of a fist to the face. The reinforcements arrived and joined the melee. Fists and feet were flying until I yelled, “Cease all aggressions now!” My squad, to their credit, stopped immediately. Aviles stood and picked up his rifle. As he did, he began to look as if he was going to assault the member once again. “I really would advise against that if I were you. They may not listen the next time you assault him. Men escort him to the medical tent. Don’t take any shit. Aviles, I’ll relieve you of that weapon, thank you. Now I must pay a visit to the Lt. and file a report of this incident. Now go!” I walked over to HQ and told lieutenant Strent what had just occurred. His words were priceless and predicted.

“Oh shit!” He paused. “Did he really do that? Get him in here when medical is done with him. He insisted on being an aggressor. I should have figured he would be overzealous. How is the man he assaulted?”

“He is being treated also, busted lip and a bloody nose, it could be broken. I don’t know for sure right now. Aviles is a mess. He is going to be sore for days. He tripped and fell several times on the rocks as he attempted to leave the side of the creek and into the tree line.” I said.

“Put a sock in it O’B. He got his ass kicked for being an asshole. How long did it go on before you stopped it?” Strent asked he was obviously irritated, and I did not blame him.

“Not long, it ended as quickly as it began. I ordered them to stop and they obeyed instantly.” I said. “When he attacked, at first we weren’t sure if it was one of the aggressors or an errant illegal that stepped into the wrong area. I had to order him in Spanish to drop the weapon and lie down. That was when he listened and put the weapon aside. Only to blindside one of my men and way lay him. No bullshit Lt. that was how it went down.”

Shortly, Aviles came in and sat down. “I want six report chits. I want to write these assholes up.” He said with a stitched upper lip that was quite swollen.

“Why don’t you tell me what happened. I am very curious to hear your side of the story.” The Lt asked him.

Aviles recounted his version which was almost verbatim of what we told the Lt. Except for the justification to add a reality to the experience.

“Well, was it real enough for you?” Strent asked him.

Aviles looked at me and I told him, “He’s asking you, not me!”

He looked at the lieutenant, “Oh yeah, I mean, yes sir.”

“This was supposed to be an exercise, the only contact was supposed to be with hand cuffs and the removal of the same. Courtesy and common sense, if we wanted this real, we would be using live ammo.” Lt said sarcastically.

Not letting the opportunity go, I asked way too excitedly. “OOOH, can we?”

“NO!” Lt said looking at me like a man insane.

“Dang it, I don’t get to have any fun!” I said hanging my head in mock disappointment.

The exercise ended with no more incidents and much less learned on this trip.

We went home with a due date to return by the end of the month at the reserve center in Kearny Mesa.

Christmas in California really felt like a traditional Christmas, I guess. The warm California weather did that to me. But this year had a large wrench looming in the background. The wrench was going to fall and take me away from my family, my wife, and my little girl of three years old.

I couldn’t get what I wanted, so I opted to get out of active duty to be with my family and go into the active reserves. No one really expects to be activated. But you know that it could always happen. I know that some of you are going “Boo Hoo, suck it up little boy!” Well, I have never backed down from a fight, nor have I ever run from trouble. This was no different. I signed my name on the endorsement line of that check for up to and possibly including my life. Though I did have a couple of dingbats that tried to talk me into going “conscientious-objector” or some kind of BS like that. I signed on, not to cower, but to defend if need be. I’m no hero, but I know who those brave men and women are.

Anywho, Christmas came and went with my Seabag standing by the door. Three days later, we were at the reserve center waiting to get on the bus to take us to John Wayne airport. I was holding my daughter and wife. I didn’t want to be bothered by the mass media that was all over the place that I knew would not be there when we returned. At this time, all we knew was that we were stopping in Gulfport for an activation ceremony. What the destination was after that, we had no idea.

So, some of the media’s questions were redundant, and quite stupid really. A few cameras came by and tried to get something of a somber and crying nature. I had my daughter wave at the camera. They left when they realized that they were not going to get what they wanted from me. I was told that they did get a good shot just before we mustered up to leave. That was the hard part. Waiting to go while still in sight of your loved ones is one thing, having to walk away knowing you’ll be gone from three to six months and not knowing where you will be, or if you will ever come back is quite another.

We formed up and got on the bus. I waved goodbye to my family and boarded the bus.

At the reserve center in Los Angeles, we got off the bus and bunked for the night. We had more training and had to make ready to deploy to Gulfport Mississippi. I had not been there since 1984. I was sure a lot had changed.

The next day was a hot one for December. We were donning and exercising in airtight biohazard suits or MOPP gear. It was an interesting experience, and not one I had hoped to have to exercise in real life.

We finally boarded a chartered aircraft from a company that I had never heard of. Some hours later, we landed in Biloxi and bussed to Gulfport.

It was three days before the activation ceremony, and I had lost two titles simultaneously that I held dear. The first was being the shortest person in the battalion, and the second was for being the loudest person in the battalion. I heard before I saw my immediate nemesis. I was floored when I saw both titles laugh as they flew away from me and hovered around him like flies around a bright light bulb. It was a builder third class petty officer and he was almost a full two inches shorter than I was and made my loudest shout sound almost like a conversational volume. I was jealous and instantly hated him, at first. And almost as fast, he became my best friend and brother. We were to be the sworn terrors of the so-called sane members of the battalion. There will be more to follow, oh yes there will be.

Two days to activation and a BU-1 gets not only in my way, but in my face. “Petty Officer O’Brien, you need to go to the barbershop.” He said smiling with a jovial tone in his voice. He had a Marine “High and Tight” haircut.

Good lord, is he serious? I just had my hair cut into a regulation Military haircut two days before and had no intentions on getting another one for at least a week. “I just got a regulation cut two days ago first class; I don’t think it grows that fast.” I politely said, already seeing where this was going. A couple of his brown nosing, yes cronies gathered around him. They too had the cut of a Marine.

“Nah, you need to visit the barber.” He said while rubbing his bowl cut, I mean, high and tight.

“With all due respect, I think I’ll decline.” I said cautiously.

“Not an option, I’m ordering you to get a haircut to match us.” He said smugly.

“Is that a lawful written order?” I asked seeing the lieutenant just outside the door.

“You bet it is!” He said smiling, knowing he had won.

I slapped the heels of my boots together getting that satisfying “whack,” popped a Benny Hill salute and said loudly, “Yes mon cappy-tone!” Performed a textbook about face and rapidly marched out of the barracks.

I could hear lieutenant Strent asking him, “Do you have any idea what the hell you just did?”

I didn’t hang around to hear any more. I was now on a mission. I found myself waiting once again at the base barbershop to get a new style of haircut.

There was a sweet little ole lady that called me up that looked old enough to have played with the rocks while they were still cooling. I sat in her chair, most barbers had to raise the chair to cut my hair, some looked at me like they wanted to know if I were willing to sit in a booster seat, and she actually made me feel tall. “How do you want it today, honey?”

“You are going to cut my hair like you never have cut hair before.” I said smiling.

“Oh, I doubt that. I’ve cut hair every way possible.” She smiled. Her smile was warm and kind. I liked her right away.

“Okay, I want you to leave a round three inch patch of hair in the front and shave the rest.” I was still smiling. She suddenly stopped. “It is my responsibility and mine alone. If I don’t like it, we’ll take it all off.” I said almost laughing.

“Okay, we’ll see how it goes.” And she started. She cut it into a high and tight and showed me in the mirror.

“No ma’am, leave three inches at length in the front and shave the rest.” Now she was getting a little apprehensive. She cut more and it looked like a big roach style cut. “We are getting closer, keep going hun.” Now she was into what I wanted. People were staying after their cut just to see what I was really going to end up with.

She finally handed me the mirror, I was bald except for a three-inch round patch of hair above my forehead, four inches long. I paid the bill and tipped her extremely well for a job well done. “I created a new hair style today. You have the high and tight. Mine’s on a diet. I call it the “High and Light!” She laughed as well as many others in the room with a sense of humor and I walked out. Donned my cover with the remains of my locks hanging down and padded my way back to the barracks.

Lieutenant Strent was the first to stop me. He saw the hair under the bill but nothing else. “Oh gwad, let’s see it!”

I removed my cover and his mouth fell open. A few others were standing around, saw and lost control in a loud bout of mirth.

“I told Pitney you would do something strange. I had no idea what. I never expected this!” He said still in shock.

I saw Pitney and clacked my heels together, saluted, and removed my cover.

He paled noticeably, turned and walked away speechless. Others were laughing hysterically. A couple of them came over and rubbed the remaining hair. “Watch how you sleep; your hair might get you head raped!” One said. I still have the picture of “The Doo” at home.

BU-1 Pitney gave me a wide birth after that and spoke carefully when he asked me to do anything for him. I think he was afraid of something.

Activation day, inspection greens, spit shined boots, and a properly blocked cover. We were a battalion of well-coiffed Bees. We were honored to have a hand full of the original Bees from when NMCB-16 was first commissioned in WWII. Now they had some stories. I was talking with one and I had just regaled him about the story of my current hairstyle when I was grabbed by my shoulder and spun around. It was Lieutenant Commander Gungho. The former Marine and our Executive Officer. And he was not happy about my latest new style of haircut. After several berating comments and choice words, he finally said. “You will get that shit fixed!” He then continued with his verbal tirade.

I tried to get a word in edgewise, but he kept going on about uniformity, appearances, and the like. He finally took a breath. “Consider it done XO. I’ll go take care of it right now.” Then he started in again. I stood still letting him prattle on until he stopped again to breathe. “Excuse me XO, I need to fix my hair. I apologize it upsets you, if I may, and by your leave, I’ll go fix this now. I mentioned a minute ago, consider it done.” I hesitated, he looked perplexed. I turned and walked away. I found Strent and told him what had just transpired in front of others and the distinguished guests and said I had to go take care of it and come back. I took my leave and went back to the barracks.

My hippy doo turned into a three inch round flat top. I returned to the reception and was approached by the XO who apologized by the shock of seeing my doo. I apologized for not having it in order. He looked at the now “Mini” flat top and laughed. He found out in the first two weeks that if he needed something done quickly, he could always call me, and he did.

After the reception, it was back to business as usual with pre-deployment necessities. More maneuvers and weapons qualifications, then hours and hours of cleaning said weapons. I swear you could have your weapon stripped, boiled, sterilized, and not have as much as a dust speck on it and the gunny would still send you back to re-clean it saying it was not clean. He always sent it back at least four times, unless it was actually dirty, then it was a lot more. Common range procedure, 30 minutes cleaning for each round fired. Shoot 100 rounds, be prepared for at least six hours of cleaning, or at the worst, spending the night.

Cleaning finally completed, we loaded up the trucks and headed back to the barracks. We were to be on the tarmac at 0600 to relieve a battalion currently in Roosevelt Roads, Puerto Rico. From there, we were to replace NMCB-7 in the sand. I wouldn’t be sore if they were in Kuwait, Kabul, or where ever they were. But our deployment was about to get interesting. Oh, how I longed to be in the sand.

We sat watching TV when the news flashed on the screen an interrupted our “Regularly Scheduled Programming.” The video was dark save the green essence of the infrared camera. There were green city lights in the background then all hell broke loose with the sky erupting with skyward weapons firing tracers trying to find targets. Nothing from the ground had found any targets, or so it seemed to us. “US forces strike first in Bagdad. Republican guard fires in hope of bringing down one of the bombers. The room, for the first time in days, fell silent.

“It’s go time!” I heard one say. We were to go to Puerto Rico and wait our time to go to the sand. Looking at our chain of command, save two, I wanted to go with a complete, fully active duty battalion. No offense to our battalion, but they weren’t ready for this. I had active duty brothers that were on the sand at that moment. At that point of the deployment, I felt about as useful as a G string on a rhino’s ass. I slowly went back to my room and said my prayers for my brothers.

The next morning, we were on the tarmac to board the chartered plane to Puerto Rico. The flight, thankfully. Was uneventful. We debarked the plane and I fell into a state of melancholy. My new brother was right there to pick me up and kick me into a rolling motion again. I began to busy myself as squad leader. I updated my book with all the information on my squad.

For those who have never been assigned this position, and I have stated this before, let me give you a little run down on what you need to know. Some will strongly disagree with me, and that is fine, but you are the first link between the men and the next point in the chain. You talked to them, watched out for them, you made sure that they knew they could talk to you if something happened at home or if they were just having trouble emotionally. If you saw something out of the ordinary, you addressed it, and if you couldn’t help, you aided the person in the right direction of someone who could. In that little book, you kept as little information as possible, but you kept enough in it that you worked to know the person under you. Name, rank, SS number, blood type, wife’s name, children’s names and ages. You would be surprised to know just how important the last three are when asking how the soldier is doing and then ask how the wife and kids are. One, this is mostly appreciated, and two, to do this right, it not only shows you care, but you really do care about that soldier. I got really close to my squad, I also found out that two were just as smart-assed as myself. That was both good and bad. One thing I did forget to mention was that book carried a lot of weight. Some of that information differed from what was on actual record, and in a few cases, it was for a very good reason.

We formed up, took roll, and waited for the Skipper to do his thing. Halfway through his first day speech, he said a phrase that would haunt us the entire deployment. “When we see a battalion come down, we’ll show them what a real battalion can do!”

Suddenly, I felt like I had been bitten by a large insect or something. I looked down and saw nothing but a speck of dirt on my arm. I ignored it. There it was again. Dang that was irritating. I looked down again and only saw that irritating speck of dirt in a different place on my arm. I did not see my invisible adversary. It turned out that the tiny speck of dirt was the infamous flying set of teeth with wings they called a “Mimi.” Or a more accurate description, “Wings with teeth!” It was also rumored that slathering an Avon product “Skin so soft” repelled the little bastards. I found that the product only made their wings silky smooth and supple to the smashing. I did find a much better and cheaper product, and it was much easier to apply, it was called time. After a few days, I either learned to ignore them or they got old with the taste of my blood and went on to the next victim. Either way those fanged, winged nightmares didn’t bother me anymore. But the lack of little red bumps led me to believe that they did in fact decided to leave me alone.

The CO, who I affectionately nicknamed Sport Goofy, because he looked like Goofy from Disney cartoons, was still giving his receptive speech on what a great battalion we were. Our metal was yet to be tested. Then he made a comment that after being said, I was told to put my hand down by my Lieutenant. The comment you ask? “If you would rather be in the sand than here, raise your hand.” Hm, maybe that wasn’t the best of ideas, but the skipper didn’t see it, so my Lt was safe and happy.

It took a week to get us up and rolling. Projects were assigned and we began our assigned tasks. I was assigned the rebuilding of the steel and concrete stairway to the second floor of the BOQ, an acronym for officers’ quarters. I planned and estimated the job, ordered the materials, the primer, and the paint. Then I had to have the builders come in and shore up the concrete steps so all I had to do was remove the steel framework, fabricate new framework and install the framework after it was primed and painted. After the BU’s finished with the shoring, I made short work of demolition to the framework by the next afternoon. It took a day and a half to clean it up and then three days for fabrication. I called Delta Company office, then supply about where my two-part primer was. I had the paint, but not the primer. In a salty air environment, you had to prime everything, and this primer was perfect for that environment.

During the time I waited for materials, and it became habit to frequent the mango and coconut trees. We made special tools for harvesting said products. We also had a hatchet in just about every room of the barracks where we sat and ate them every night. It was one of the perks of being there and driving a truck tall enough to reach them with a little help.

In the interim, I found out that there was a program that if you told your recruiter that you had experience in a rate, you bypassed boot camp and “A” school and given the rank of third class petty officer without showing any practical knowledge of said rate. There was a Steelworker third class assigned to finish the fence at the armory. He was tasked to weld caps on top of the fence posts, paint, and then install the chain link fence. One of the easiest jobs we had really. You had to be an idiot to screw this job up. Dang, I spoke too soon!

I received a call from the second-class builder that he was working under, complaining about SW-3 Wimp burning up a brand-new torch and having trouble welding the caps on the poles. I informed him that I had a spare rebuild kit and I would be down shortly. As I was driving up, I saw a person in green pants, white T-shirt, bandana, sunglasses, and cotton gloves standing on top of a ladder gas welding the caps on top of the poles, in his own personal bright blue fog bank of burning Zinc. He heard the truck and saw me coming and jumped down. He almost shut off the torch and ran around the armory. I parked the truck close to the last point of visual contact and walked around the armory hoping to find him on the other side. Having traversed the armory one full circuit and not catching up with him, I backtracked the other way with the same result. Thinking he went to the head; I walked the short distance to Delta Company office to leave the kit for him. What I heard still floors me to this day. I opened the door and heard him in the chief’s office. A quick note is important here as to the layout of this particular small rectangular building. You entered the main door into a reception area with two desks facing the main door with just enough room to walk through, there was a wall in the back and two doors on either side and they opened up into offices that were parallel to each other. The chief’s office was on the right side and Lieutenant Strent’s office was obviously on the left. So, I saw his back in the chief’s office. Lt. Strent was standing in the door way of his office listening in. He was smiling and put his finger up to his lips in a “SHH, don’t say anything!” motion. So, I leaned against the desk on the left and began to enjoy the show. Oh, did I mention that this particular SW-3 was part of that program that I mentioned a little earlier?

“Chief, I wanna work at night.” Wimp whined.

“Why do you want to work at night?” The Chief asked.

“I just wanna work at night.” Wimp whined again.

“Well, I would have to have someone in here, another person out there with you, and by the time all is said and done, there would be about four to six people that would have to be working at night to cover you. Now, justify to me why you want to work at night?”

PO-3 Wimp was working at welding the caps at the armory that not only faced the beach, it was less than 200 yards from the beach. It was also beach weather. It also overflowed the edge of the rain forest. So, it would rain for about an hour or so then get really humid, then it was gorgeous for the rest of the day. My jobsite, on the other hand, was in the canopy in the higher elevation with little to no breeze, high humidity to go with the high temperatures. So, it would rain, then just stay muggy.

“I just wanna work at night.” Damn, he was really beginning to sound annoying as his voice started to take on a really irritating whiney tone.

“Not good enough Wimp, I have to have a reason why.” Chief Spawl was getting annoyed.

“Because,” there was about a three second pause, “It’s too hot!” He whined like a two-year-old as he dragged out the last word hot for almost a full three count.

I was off the desk and in the office so fast it caused the Lieutenant to jump. “Give this whiney little bastard to me chief, I’ll show him hot, he isn’t even in proper uniform nor was he in proper PPE’s when I drove down here and saw him gas welding on the poles. Not to mention that he is in here and out of uniform! Since when did we start wearing white T-shirts as part of the standard uniform? And where is your cover, you were wearing a bandana out there!” To PO-3 Wimps credit, he almost loaded his utility greens, it was so close that you could smell the aroma.

The chief was still in shock from his statement and from my teleporting in from nowhere. The chief was about to speak when the Lt. leaned in and beat him to it.

“You’d kill him O’B. He wouldn’t survive. If he can’t handle it down here on the beach, you’d work him to death up there.” He said.

“It would be a good exercise for him for when we hit the sand where there is no beach, just all sand.” I said. “Seriously, I’ll take him up there and work his whiney ass off then show him how to arc weld those caps on in a fraction of the time he is wasting time and resources by gas welding them and exposing himself to zinc oxide fumes. What’s the matter sparky, can’t arc weld?” I snapped sarcastically.

“O’B, he said there were no available welders.” The chief said baiting the situation. I looked out the window and looked at the chief. “Then I guess that’s an empty box on the trailer with welding leads hanging from the hooks that the welding rig is strapped to. I don’t think he can arc weld, chief! I want him, I could use a lackey.” I said.

“Wimp, get your ass back out there and get back to work or I’ll take O’Brien up on his offer.” Chief Spawl said. Wimp all but dove out of the office and slammed into a desk on his way out.

“Those bottles are mounted on a diesel driven arc welder and generator. I’m telling you he can’t weld. He is out there gas welding in sunglasses, cotton gloves, and a big whitish blue cloud of zinc encircling his head. Are you sure I can’t have him; he would be fun to play with?” I said with an evil smile.

“No, you’d break him like a cheap toy. What did you need?” The chief asked.

“I got a call from BU-2 Spaz about him, and the brand-new torch he burned up. I came down to bring him a repair kit. Apparently, I don’t think he would be smart enough to use it.” I said picking up the kit. “Are you sure I . . .” I was cut off by a quick “NO” from the Lt.

I asked about the primer I was waiting on and then went back to my jobsite. I laughed as I walked past Wimp as he stood on the ladder in his zinc cloud, gas welding the caps. He wasn’t even smart enough to grind the zinc from the pipe first. on my way back to my worksite, I found a lawn chair and was using my project that was sitting on three horses as a cup holder.

Three days had passed, and I still had no primer. I would call every morning and every evening to see if there was an update on the primer status.

The CO decided to make the rounds again to the jobsites. I swear his driver got lost and wound up at my site accidently. But whatever. I had not seen him since I was cutting out the rotted remains of the stair frame. I literally had an awe-shit moment as I stood and saluted. “Afternoon Skipper.” I said.

I still had my overalls on and my utility greens. But I had not pulled any tools from my gang box. So, I was just sitting among the construction detritus with my thumb planted deeply in my rearward orifice.

“Nice job on the steps so far, how is it going?” He asked looking around for any leads, tools, or anything that would indicate that I had done anything but hold down my newly found reclining beach chair.

“Welding and all fabrication are already done; I can’t paint and install until I receive the primer Skipper.” I replied.

“How long have you been waiting?” He asked curiously.

“I ordered the primer when I planned and estimated the job Skipper, I received everything but the primer. And now that is all I am waiting on.” I replied as innocently as I could.

He turned to the Master Chief who made a couple of notes in a notebook about checking on the status of the primer. “Have you notified your chain of command?”

“Yes Skipper, every morning and every evening when I call about the status. All the way up to Lieutenant Strent. It’s just a waiting game now.” I replied I wanted this project finished so I could move on to the next project on the list. Hopefully somewhere close to PO-3 Wimp.

The Skipper wasn’t happy when he left. He said he would be back later to check on the progress.

We had some real winners for the recruiter’s desperate attempts for warm bodies so they could meet their quotas. We had an E-5 that I’m not sure what his rate was, but I think he belonged to Alpha Company. He was book smart with a high IQ, but that is where the intelligence parted ways with cognitive thought. He was assigned as Petty Officer Of the Watch for the duty cycle and was on duty when three Bees walked in to sign out to go into town. For some reason there was a bowl of condoms on the counter. This particular bowl turned into a point of harassment and targeted jab at PO-2 Skittles.

The three were teasing him about not being big enough to use the condoms in the bowl because he needed the finger sized ones. After a few minutes of teasing, this data began to seep slowly into the thick protective layer and into his complicated thought processes. He yelled, “I’ll kill you!” and pulled the empty duty .45 leveling the weapon at them. They scattered not knowing if the weapon was loaded or not.

For some reason, the three were chastised and PO-2 Skittles did not do any more POOW duties after that incident.

After calling on the status of the primer, I was sitting in my “Duty chair,” my coveralls down to my waist. Shirt and T-shirt laying on the now full-time beer and margarita holder, sunglasses, and a cold one sat under my T-shirt to keep the sun off of it. It was also noon, and I had long ago discovered that not only did the BOQ possess a fine restaurant, they also had a decent bar. I heard someone clear their throat.

“Ehem!” I opened my eyes and saw the CO and his posse, he wasn’t smiling, “What the hell? Are you telling me that you still don’t have any primer?” He said obviously irritated.

“Yes Commander, that sums it up. I’ve done all I can do, even the others working on other areas of the barracks are done. If I just paint the steel without priming it, it will rust as bad as it was before I started in a short amount of time.

“Damn it!” He shot. He made the rest of his rounds and left. I went to the office phone and called Chief Spawl to tell him what had just happened.

The next two days had no primer. Supply was getting upset, I was also on a first name basis with them, I called him John and he called me, “That persistent asshole!” Or just asshole for short, followed by a chuckle. The bar made a top-notch margarita. It had been four days since Sport Goofy’s last visit and I was due for another stellar visit from him and his illustrious posse. I was well into my third margarita when he marched in with his entourage. “You have got to be shitting me! Damn it, this is ridiculous! Get me the supply chief on the phone. How long will it take to put this back together after you have the paint?” Damn, this was one pissed off Commander.

“Less time than it will take for the paint to dry Skipper!” I reported. He stormed off and didn’t even bother to look at the rest of the barracks. It was lunch time and thankfully he had not noticed my “Happy” condition. I finished my lunch, err, drink and was waiting on another as I called Chief Spawl.

The next morning as I was setting up my duty chair, a green blazer rolled up and a supply PO got out and gave me four cans of 150 two-part primer. I thanked him and began mixing.

The Skipper arrived at 1300 hours and I had everything loaded in the deuce and a half and was preparing to leave. He did not look happy. He walked around to the stairway that was now primed, painted, reassembled, and all the wood shoring already removed and stacked for pickup.

“That didn’t take long.”

“No Commander, as I mentioned, it would take longer for it to dry than to put it back together.” I said smiling.

He smiled, “That looks great, do you know where you’re going next?”

“I have to report to BU-1 Bunter down at the BEQ. I’m on my way there now, Skipper.” He was still looking it over when I left.

PO-3 Wimp had now become the talk of the battalion. Everyone knew what he did. I had only told my brother, and some others. From there, I knew everyone was going to know in a very short time. I also know that everyone that was in the office told everyone as well. Now when someone saw Wimp, or if someone did not want to do a task, it was, “I wanna work at night! It’s too hot!” Then one additional phrase was added to the mix. “My pussy hurts!” Needless to say, PO-3 Wimp made himself very scarce.

While our counter parts in parts west were being issued Oakley sunglasses and being allowed to wear them in uniform, our Skipper was mission bound to confiscate every pair he saw. We found it odd that as far as we know, we were the only battalion from the Pacific theater that was banning the shades while others were issuing them. A couple of guys were working with some dark tinted Plexiglas and had a large stock of the stuff. They were making Military acronyms like FUBAR, BOHICA, DILLIGAF, and my favorite, WETSU, but I digress once again. They had a great idea to adorn our beloved Bee at the gate with his own set of Oakleys. It was a sight of pure art and beauty.

Delta Company had run across a taxidermized chicken and was passing it around. It wound up with a white pile under its backside and it had been renamed the CS Chicken. “Chicken Shit Chicken” quickly became our official, unofficial mascot.

We were also still inundated at morning muster with the phrase, “When a battalion arrives, we’ll show them what a real battalion can do!”

By now, all the necessary tools and materials were staged and ready to go for the BEQ. I met with “Memoman” BU-1 Bunter to see what he was going to have a steelworker do inside a barracks. I was to operate where needed and to focus on safety. I also took on the task of cleaning and maintaining some of the equipment like the powder charged nail guns, and anything else I could get my hands on. The project was to demo three floors of 22 room dividers for a total of 66 partial rooms. Frame, install electrical, install doors, drywall, tape, and mud the joints, paint it all and call it a day. It took a few days to demo and haul all the crap out. We were scheduled to leave for the sand box, so we wouldn’t be finishing the job. I was looking forward to getting overseas and someplace that was going to really keep us busy and challenge our skills instead of trying to find things to keep us busy. I had also come to a startling discovery. I began to think that I was the only real Steelworker in the battalion. I did not credit SW-3 Wimp as a welder at all. I saw no other Steelworkers, and no other welding projects. Scary thought. Think about my position if we hit the sand? I did find out that there were two other Steelworkers.

We were packed up and ready to go. I could feel the excitement, then word came down that there was a cease fire. Our orders were changed to sitting tight and remain on our current projects. Damn, that was disappointing. But that also meant we would be going home soon, right? Wrong again, sunshine. Our CO deemed it important that we do six whole months (180 days) so everyone was eligible for the benefits of being activated, “Well shit!”

Back to the barracks.

I started helping with the steel studs. Work was moving right along. Three floors, 66 rooms framed in what seemed like the blink of an eye. The Seabee CAN DO spirit came to life when the Skipper announced that we had plenty of time to start the project, but not enough time to finish. We are Seabees, we have different goals. We had been on station about two months. Some strange things had happened during that time.

We had a Bee that was informed that he had to get home because his father was dying. The Skipper hardened his heart and said nope, you’re not going. They received a letter from the congressman for him to go. The Skipper’s heart was hardened once again and the answer did not waver. Then there was a letter from the Red Cross for him to go. The Skipper’s heart was hardened once again until the XO told him that you cannot say no to the Congress people and definitely not to the Red Cross. The Skipper’s heart was softened and grew only a half size that day and gave the CN three days. He took three months weather leave and then came back.

Three months and the entertainment kept coming. It was the best two and a half ring circus in town. We had a second-class petty officer that would go into the galley, fill his shirt with fruit and leave. He was quiet. Someone said he was in the Army during Vietnam. I met up with him in line a few times. We got to talking and got along. Strent pulled me aside, “You really need to know something about him.” He said.

“No, I don’t, if he wants to tell me something. That’s up to him, I’m not going to pry.”

“No, you don’t understand. He worked point during Nam, the VC, twisted as they are, let him walk through and wiped out his entire patrol. He didn’t see anything until it was too late. I thought you should know.” Lt said.

“It still doesn’t change anything, Lt. we get along because I don’t pry. His past is his past and is none of my business unless he tells me. But it’s good to know if he suddenly goes postal and takes out half of us with a rabid weasel.” I said smiling.

“Ass, but I thought you needed to know.”

“Thanks Lt, I really do appreciate it.”

My brother and I were walking back to our transporter mobile when we saw the XO walking our way. Somehow, we mind linked and increased the volume of our conversation until we were screaming when we walked by him saluting and shouting a greeting. He had his fingers in his ears until we were past him then we decreased the volume the same way as we got farther from him.

We turned around to see him staring at us and shaking his head. We laughed and kept going. We had become inseparable in the short time we knew each other. We had many similarities.

There was a reserve detachment that came down and three were assigned to us. They bragged about ignoring the call up and laughed at us for going. I kindly reminded them to shut up about that as many had lost businesses, jobs, homes, and had been subjected to other hardships. But they kept up their rhetoric. I wasn’t happy with the fact that they, not only ignored the call up, they didn’t get punished for it. All three were CN’s (E-3s), and they were just too cocky for their own good.

As I mentioned earlier, I was assigned as onsite safety PO if you will and had to keep reminding CN Spammer to put his hard had on, I was hoarse from constantly telling him. Then one day I told him if I found it anywhere but on his head, I was going to screw it into a door jamb that he would have to look to find it. I was giving him every chance to get his shit together. But it just wasn’t sinking in. I walked by a cell that they were carrying in drywall for and woe and behold, there sat his hard hat. I got my cordless and went up to floor three and went all the way to the end of the hall and completed my promise.

At lunch, we were preparing to leave when CN Spammer came running out to the deuce. “Spammer, where’s your cover?” I demanded.

“I don’t know, it’s missing!” he said.

“We leave in four minutes, if you don’t have your cover by then, two things happen, one, you don’t go with us and two, I write your ass up. Do you understand?” I raised my voice. He dove from the truck and ran inside; it took three minutes for him to return laughing.

“You got me good screwing it into the door frame!” That Jack-ass thought it was a joke.

“Spammer, you have protective gear issued to you for a reason. If something falls on that gourd that you possess as a head. You’ll get hurt, and I’ll get yelled at, probably because I allowed you to continue breathing. If you get hurt, and I get yelled at, shit rolls downhill, I will yell at you five times more than they’ll yell at me. Then I write your dumb ass up. DO YOU UNDERSTAND?” I said in a tone that could be taken as nothing less than a viable threat.

“Yeah, yeah, I got ya. But just remember, before you get me again, I will have gotten you three times.” He said smiling.

“Won’t happen sparky, I wear my gear, unlike you, for a reason. For you to get me once means that I’ll have to take off my cover and leave it, making me no smarter than you.” I quipped.

He actually wore his hard hat the rest of the day. But lazy is as lazy does.

The next day I saw him take it off and begin to put it down. “If I see that cover anyplace but on your head. You won’t like what I’ll do with it!” This caused him to reseal it to the vacuum pump between his ears. But it didn’t last long. I was on two, mudding joints, he came by asking if anyone had seen his cover. He laughed and asked where I put it. I said I hadn’t seen it. He looked around me then left when he didn’t see it. Meanwhile, I scooped another blade of mud out of his hard hat that I found up on three.

I told Bunter the problems I was having with Spammer and he backed my play. He was receiving complaints from just about everybody on the crew. I had no idea that he was going to make it way too easy for me.

It was closing in on lunch and I decided to stay and work through lunch with Bunter’s blessing. I was still using the hard hat as a mud pan. Once again, he came dashing through the building looking for his cover. He looked in twice before he realized that the formerly shiny green turtle shell mud pan I was using was his hard hat. He came in and began to reach out and snatch it from my hands.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.” I said threateningly.

“But I have to have it to go to lunch!” He said and began reaching for it again.

“You take it from my hands without asking and you’ll trip and fall.” I said in mock concern.

“Holy shit, you didn’t even take the liner out!” He cried.

“I told you to wear your protective gear on this jobsite. I don’t tolerate people violating regulations. You will, I infer, WILL wear your cover. And that is a freaking order, do you understand me? Do you hear me? You really won’t like what happens the next time I find it. Do we see eye to eye on this?”

He stooped down to my eye level, “Yes sir! May I have my hat please?”

I gave it to him and he ran down the stairs and onto the truck. I could hear one of the other PO’s chewing him out. I grabbed an actual mud pan and continued my assault of taping and mudding. After relinquishing the modified mud cover. I felt that I got better results using the cover as a mud pan.

After lunch, I really would like to say that he learned his lesson, but I would be remiss and lying. Well, let’s get it over with already.

I was outside on a couple of broken slabs of piled concrete cleaning and repairing two Hilti powder charged nail guns. It was about 1400 hours, I had just test fired them and was getting ready to put them away when I heard an exceptionally loud “Hey O’B!”

I looked up and saw a turtle floating gracefully down close to my location. I walked over and retrieved the cover and looked at the front. I walked to the patio and tapped on the window showing Bunter the cover. He shrugged his shoulders and opened a drawer. I turned and picked up one of the Hilti’s, loaded and charged it and placed a large spacer on it, “Hey Spammer, check this out!” He looked out of the window, obviously without his hard hat. I pulled the trigger nailing the bill of his cover to the four-foot-tall, eight-inch-thick wall dividing the patio from the grassy courtyard.

“Hey, that’s funny. Whose hat is that?” He called down.

I had reloaded the Hilti, yeah, I was going to have to clean it again, but it was worth it. “It’s yours!” I called up pulling the trigger nailing the back lip to the wall as well. “Now come and get it!”

He came down and tried to pull on it to pull it out like a rusty nail in a severely rotted piece of wood. “That is not going to get it Skippy, you’re going to have to use your head and a couple of tools.”

I finished cleaning the nail gun and he was still trying to get his cover lose. I walked into Bunter’s office. We discussed options, but the forefront issue was what to charge him with. Laziness only covered disobeying a lawful written order. “I have a few ideas.” He said. I said cool. We talked for a few minutes when Captain Whizbang finally put two and two together and got five. He got a hammer and chisel and was working on cutting the nail heads off. He should have grabbed a grinder that sat next to the hammers in the gang box. This caused BU-1 Bunter to give himself a face palm, turn up his radio, and then put in a set of ear plugs. Bunter looked at me, said a few expletives and shook his head again saying, “If I get a headache from this, I’m going to nail your ass to that wall next!” I nodded my approval and walked out and back to work.

It was approaching 1700 hours when he finally managed to maul the heads off of the nails in turn mauling the front and back of his protective green turtle. As soon as Bunter heard the silence, he called him into the office. He had already written up the report chit, he was just waiting on him to finish mauling his cover.

He also did not come back the next day. Bunter also wrote him up on several other charges. A couple were disobeying lawful written orders, five counts, and destruction of government property. Had he used the grinder, there would have been only two little holes and he could have hung his earplugs from the rear hole. But no, he used the mauler and chisel. The front and back looked like an alligator used it as a chew toy. Bunter said there were a total of nine charges. The ones I was involved in were minor to the other charges.

With Spammer and his accomplice gone, and I don’t know what happened or what the other guy did, the pace picked back up considerably and ironically, so did the moral.

We had gotten back and I hurried to cleanup, change and headed to the car rental place on the base. I had a date with a black 5.0 Mustang and a night of driving off base. I noticed that there were several signals and stop lights, but some people ignored them as the darker it got until it was completely dark and no one paid any attention to them at all. They only paid attention to what or who was in the intersection. I was headed for San Juan and saw several police and Emergency medical vehicles, fire trucks, and another vehicle with flashing lights that I didn’t recognize. I saw a couple of severely damaged vehicles and a what? Stop the presses, there was a horse, four legs straight up, and a man with a chainsaw. It was a remake of animal house as the guy in a rain suit and a clear face shield mask was about to cut up the horse on the side of the road. I shit you not! I had to pull over, I was laughing so hard that control of the car was difficult in heavy traffic. Then I sat and laughed myself sick.

Back on the road, I rapidly found out that Puerto Rico was not big on marking curves, obstacles, or any point of interest for that matter. The most popular signs I saw were the maximum velocity signs. It was quite the change from America. I had to really pay attention to what was coming up or, I had to slam on the brakes as I approached a hair pin, 90 degree turn at 65 miles an hour. Continuing that former thought, you had to really pay attention to your road and surroundings or you could wind up in trouble. Thankfully the maneuverability of the small performance car was very tight or I might not have made that dang curve. But the smell immediately afterward was nothing from the drawers, but from the Life Savers plant that was just around the bend of that curve. It was harsh, it was overpowering, oh heck, and it was just pungent, and smelled awesome.

Another thing that I enjoyed just outside the gate of the base was the Pincho stands. There were several where-ever you went, but this one had a different texture to the meat. I couldn’t place the texture as it did not resemble beef, pork, and definitely not chicken. These stands were famous for meat on a stick, grilled over an open fire pit, and coco frio. That was an open-ended coconut with the coconut milk and rum inside. Both were delicious. I soon discovered that the stand next to the base was serving a pet variety of meat. I will leave that up to your imagination, though I knew what it was. But I still continued to go back to that stand. It was delish after all!

My off time was either spent in the water swimming, snorkeling, or I was sightseeing with a couple of friends, or working. Somehow, I had managed to dodge the duty roster. I never did figure out who I owed the case of beer to for that one, but I was not about to complain. (Refer to paragraph five of “What Is A Seabee?” at the start of this missive.)

One night, four of us decided that a nice thick juicy steak was in order and a proper change from months of eating the (Cough, Cough) delicious (Cough, Cough) galley food. In San Diego, there is a restaurant called the Black Angus. Excellent service, excellent food, and excellent drinks. We had heard that there was a Black Angus in San Juan. We began our pilgrimage for steak. We didn’t have an address and had stopped many times, and upon asking the locals, we would get some nasty looks, comments, all mean and negative. Smith said what we all were thinking. “What the hell, are people vegetarians or is something very wrong here?” We figured out that the vegan part was out of the question.

I stopped for gas and after filling up, I asked a couple with an infant if they knew where the Black Angus was. They snubbed and mumbled something I didn’t recognize.

Now, just for a point of geography, people from Mexico speak Spanish, or Mexican depending on the region you are from. People in Puerto Rico do not, and I will repeat this, do not speak Spanish. This was heavily debated by two politicians running for an office. The one argued that the other did not speak like a proper Spaniard of Puerto Rico. The opposing politician retorted and corrected him with, “We are a people of Puerto Rico. We speak Puerto Rican, We do not speak Spanish like a Spaniard.” And he was correct, they spoke Puerto Rican, there are many similarities, but there are just as many differences as well. Not to mention that there are some huge differences in some of the words. But I digress once again, get used to it. It is how I tell a story. Anyway, an old homeless woman with scabs that she kept fresh by picking at them constantly said that for ten dollars she would tell us where this place was. This was good, my salivary glands went into overdrive once I got out of her view. We left the gas station following the directions of madam junky.

We pulled in and extricated our hungry bodies from the car. We walked inside and stopped cold. Our hunger was not to be sated at the likes of this particular Black Angus. It was at that very moment that all of the nasty comments, looks, and running away became all too justified.

Black Angus of San Juan was in fact a business of selling meat, but not in beef or pork, but in the two-legged Bambi variety. Black Angus was a house of ill repute, spelling it out, a whorehouse. “Let’s go.” I said.

“Come back for me?” Peters softly asked.

“Leave now or you walk or call your own cab back to base.” I said. He looked around and reluctantly fell in behind us.

Back at the ranch, the cattle were in overdrive.

The construction was proceeding faster than anyone had anticipated. We had everything we needed to do the job and the manpower to make it happen. The term “Turn and Burn” was not lost on our crew. There were some trying different things to make the job go that much faster. Some worked and obviously some did not. In short order, we were looking to be wrapping up the job a full month before we had expected. The CO looked like he was going to cream his khakis and Green Lantern Underoos.

I was spending so much time in the water that I was almost as dark as some of the natives. I saw many of nature’s wonders as I paddled around under the surface.

I had been called to do a job for the wing nut division and myself and another Steelworker performed the task they needed. They showed their gratitude by offering to take us to San Croix for a weekend. To say it was a good break from the normal routine would have been a gross understatement of the facts, the diving was phenomenal, and the music scene was beyond description.

We had first landed and had a cab driver begin to take us to get a rental car. That plan changed when the driver entered the roadway and proceeded to drive on the wrong side of the road. Traffic was coming straight at us then flew by on our right side. The driver quit laughing finally and we had him drive us straight to the hotel. The cab driver had given us a history lesson of the island and the current hurricane that blew through and “Destroyed all, all, all. Everything gone, nothing left. All, all, all gone.” You could still hear the passion in his voice as he described the destruction. The next morning found both of us preparing for a day of sightseeing and diving. We walked the beaches, took in the food and ambience of the island and what it had to offer. We took a tour boat to Buck Island. We were told that all the plant life was very acidic and if it began to rain to run for the boat or beach and do not go under any plant life to avoid the rain. Don’t even touch them if they are wet, they are acidic. So, I wandered around and avoided touching anything

The water was clear as glass and the tour guide said that the dive tour was one of the best. Take lots of pictures underwater and to be careful due to the depth was deceiving. The deepest part of the tour was 32 feet down. The warning stuck with me as I didn’t feel the pressure like I did back at the base. We suited up and hit the water. I was diving and staying down as long as I could before I was forced to surface for air. I saw some parrot fish and wanted to see how close they would let me get and get a few pictures. I dived down and got within a few feet of them. I took some great shots and felt the familiar warning to surface for a recharge. I kicked and looked up. “Oh shit, was I deep!” I kicked harder feeling my lungs burn demanding air. I was getting closer and my lungs were demanding that fresh intake of life-giving oxygen. I broke the surface and spit out my mouthpiece. No time to clear the snorkel. The rush of fresh air felt awesome!

That night we enjoyed the nightlife and the pulse of the island. Every club or bar had reggae playing, either by live band or by a DJ. The places were packed and everyone was having a great time and was bumping to the music. We spent some time at a couple of places and enjoyed the ambience of the things the island had to offer. The next day, we had to head back to the reality, such that it was.

It was a wonderful experience. One that has lasted all these years and will continue to do so. Thank you, Saint Croix, for a wonderful time.

The scene was the galley back at the ranch. The time was noon meal. The galley was full and I was sitting with a few and having lunch. We were talking about anything and everything when the doors burst open and a skinny kid wearing his hardhat ran in to get some food. I recognized PO-3 Wimp right away. “Wimp, remove your cover inside the building!” He ignored me. “Wimp, I gave you an order to remove your cover now.” I shouted and he still ignored me.

From a back corner of the room a voice boomed with an air of authority and not to be ignored. It was the XO. He stood up and shouted, “Wimp, you were given a direct order to remove your damn cover! Remove it NOW!” He said with several instances of sailor speak and other imprecations.

PO-3 Wimp stopped and slowly removed his hardhat. The room erupted in the bright glory of a botched die job as the room glowed from his blazing orange hair. It was definitely the reason that he tried to ignore everyone to get in and out without being noticed. But I had my “Wimp” radar at full sensitivity. Plus, it is disrespectful to wear a cover under cover and he stood out like a, a, large orange neon billboard. The next thing that happened was the entire galley erupted in a loud raucous bout of laughter that would incense anyone to severe embarrassment. I couldn’t tell if the XO was really pissed or trying to keep his composure and not laugh along with the rest of us. It was definitely a day that I will always remember with a wide grin on my face.

Back at the ranch, err, barracks, the “Bingo Babes” were stirring up trouble. There was a club behind the barracks that was supposed to be the Seabee Club. That lasted until the last battalion left and the Bingo brigade had no place to go, so, the base people let them use the Seabee club until the next battalion came in, meaning us.

We tried to reclaim the place but they refused to leave and made a fuss, almost to the point of violence when we tried to use our club. It had gotten so bad that the only place we could drink was at the bar unless we wanted to play bingo.

I had never had the pleasure/displeasure of being in the same room with a bunch of old obnoxious biddies while they try to listen to the caller while the bar is trying to do business. I am serious about this! So, it began to be a battle of the minds. I learned very quickly how to make a room full of old women cuss like sailors.

I would let them get about 10 to 15 calls in and from my perch I would call out “BINGO!” The language would fly until they realized that it wasn’t one of them that called it then the language and threats would really get graphic. No matter what happened, they had to play their bingo. Nothing would stop them. I mean nothing!

One afternoon, we had gone to the club only to see a brown, black, and grey flood flowing out the door. There was a sign on the door saying, “CLOSED UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE DUE TO SEWAGE BACK UP!” I kid you not, there were women bitching outside to try to get in to play. They didn’t care that the place was flooded with raw sewage. But there was more, I looked in and there were almost a dozen women sitting in two inches of raw sewer water almost up to some of their kankles as they had their little good luck figurines, crosses, charms, and all their markers spread and ready to go. They had to call in security to get them hauled out! You just did not get in the way of those hardcore women bingo players.

Speaking of oddities.

There was one guy, well, let me build the scenario. Some men are predisposed to stay faithful while others like to look, and a select few try to cast their bait and have a fish in each port, or in sailor speak, a woman in every port. But they always try for the runway models first, then work down the beauty path to the working class and ending in the drunken, “Chew your arm off rather than wake them up in the morning,” reality of sobriety.

PO-3 Humpy had no concept of how the system was supposed to work. He went missing one night, then back to muster the next morning. He had taken to staying off base. Normally this isn’t so bad a concept. But Humpy had met a little honey that everyone affectionately nicknamed Predator. Mainly because she was short, stocky, and most importantly, her teeth resembled the teeth from the predator from the movie of the same name. What made this so memorable wasn’t the fact that his wife was back in the states, but predator’s husband was right there in the same apartment, and had no issues with another man coming in and pleasuring her while in the same house!

We were all getting into the spirit of finding ways to unwind and blow off steam. Voltas had a guitar sent down and he played when we weren’t out causing some kind of mischief. Water balloon fights became an evening norm. I was walking back to the barracks when a water balloon burst beside me. I looked around and saw no one close enough to have thrown the wet projectile. I stood in one place too long, another water mortar landed at my feet soaking me from the knees down. I heard distant laughing. Three guys from medical had fabricated a water balloon sling shot from surgical tubing that they had access too. They had worked it down to a fine science of not only on accuracy, but to weighing the balloons, sizing them, and making sure that each one was exactly the same for the best accuracy and flight. It was a three-man firing team, using the rubber tubed sling to its maximum efficiency. They were better than 75 yards away. The third scored a direct hit soaking my entire exposed body in their direction.

Super soakers turned into the weapon of wet destruction of the day as the heat began to make itself well known along with the humidity. I had never been anywhere where I took a shower and dried off after the shower, then dried off again to wipe the sweat off me only to repeat the process all over again. The water fights were a cool welcome in the heat of the evening. Anyway, once again, back to the current story. There were two barracks close together, less than 20 feet apart. We were engaged into an all-out war. Nothing was dry and no one was safe. Mortars were set for between the barracks assaults as well as fire coverage from the flanks. The enemy, which turned into anyone moving into the line of fire, had no chance of staying dry. This became prevalent when one man was going around sniping everyone. We laid an ambush for him when he appeared in between the buildings.

The XO never knew what hit him, and he never had a chance. One second, he was dry, save the always obvious pit sweat, to the next being dowsed with 70,000 gallons of cool refreshing water from every possible direction. He stood, those of us that could vaporize into the stucco did so. The rest of us stood thinking, “OOH SHIT!” He paled, then turned a crimson red, said a few things about our mothers and how our parents were never married and some other things that I was too shocked to remember. It would seem that the war between the US and Canada ended abruptly by a nuke from Mexico. The XO was not a happy Bee and proved it by banning water fights. AWE CRAP!

Some things had turned into a soap opera, other things just started getting silly. I don’t know what started it, but a few guys were upset with the way the Skipper and his little third-class driver Paddleass were doing things. I know the perpetrators were from Delta Co. because of the manner of the statement that was made. They deemed something that had happened a load of chickenshit. Sometime during the night, three insurgents got together and placed a stack of porn magazines on the front passenger seat of the CO’s Jeep. The CO’s Jeep was an old standard military Jeep with a canvas canopy. So, it was open to the weather but shaded from the sun and covered from the rain. The sides were open and no doors, a typical Jeep. So, there was the CO’s Jeep with a stack of porn on the passenger seat as a distraction for what was hidden in the back of the Jeep. Over five feather stuffed pillows lost their lives in the ultimate sacrifice of the fatal assault. The pillows were cut open and dumped behind the back seat, only obvious to one that would have looked back there. That morning, Petty Officer Paddleass ran out and started the Jeep, saw the porn, tossed it on the floor in the back seat, then placed the CS Mobile into gear and tore down the road.

Several witnesses, Voltas and I were two that saw the scene, accounted seeing the dark green CS Mobile with a white comet trail of feathers coming from the rear as he drove. The pillow’s sacrifice was not in vain.

We had finished for the day and was packing up. I had to stop by Delta Company office on the way back to the barracks. A mistake I was soon to regret. I was dropped off at the entrance, my plan was to make my report, go to chow, and back to the barracks, watch my little TV, and play Final Fantasy on my Game Boy as I drank and waited for something to go down. I made my report to the chief and turned to leave.

“O’B!” I heard from the Lieutenant’s office.

“Yes Lt.” I answered tipping into his radar zone like a bug to a bug zapper.

“I need you tonight.” He said.

“But I have a date Lieutenant. Food, booze and Final Fantasy. Not necessarily in that order. And what would your wife say.” I said jokingly.

“Not tonight, I need you to watch over the restriction and extra duty guys tonight.” He said smiling.

“What did I do?” I asked in mock hurt almost laughing as I said it. “What will I have them do?”

“There’s a new con on the road. Have them clean up around the building and inside.” He said. “They will be dropped off. Take the deuce there.”

“Sure Lt. No problem.” I said. I was starting to warm up to the idea. “What time do I need to be there?” I had no idea how many, or even who was on Restriction and Extra duty.

“1800 hours, that gives you plenty of time to do whatever you need to do before you go. Like grow four more inches!” He laughed.

“Hey now, I’m nine foot seven and 300 pounds of lean, mean, green fighting machine!” I retorted, which we both laughed.

I left, ate, cleaned up, grabbed the deuce and headed for the new block building that had just been built. The slab, walls, and roof were on. It just needed to be finished. I had no idea what I was going to have them do. Obviously, the outside needed some serious policing. That all changed when I saw who was stepping off the bus.

There were four on the bus. The guy that went to take care of his father’s dying affairs, and the three that were running their mouths when they came in about intentionally missing the call up. My lack of a plan formed quickly, diabolically, and just plain mean.

Spammer saw me and lit up. “O’B, it’s party time now!” These would be the last civil words he would ever speak to me.

“Party’s over Sparkles. Boys, grab a rake and bags, go outside and rake and pick up trash. I want them to think the gardeners were here prepping to plant grass.

They made short work of that project while Spammer just couldn’t comprehend the necessity of how or when to shut his mouth. It wasn’t that he couldn’t voluntarily shut up, he just lacked the ability. That done, I pulled Ng to the side, gave him a 20-dollar bill and told him to take the deuce, go to the pizza place and get three large pizzas then come back with them, sodas too. And I told him to be back in an hour.

I pulled the three lay-a-bouts in and began. “Boys, it was pointed out to me that the lieutenant wants these cement bags moved over to that far corner, the pallet cleaned off, put down in that corner. And the cement bags stacked neatly on top of the pallet. Don’t bust any of these bags now. They only weigh 80 pounds each.” And it was a full pallet of 42 bags. They performed pretty well, but I wasn’t done, not by a long shot. I was outside for a while during part of their restacking the pallet. They celebrated the completion of their task.

“Nice job boys, but the chief said he wanted the bags in the northwest corner over there.” Which was the opposite corner of the building. There were six such corners, and they were going to find every danged one of them. I waited for the predictable reply.

“Are you nuts?” Spammer said. “We just put them over there!”

“And now the chief wants them over there.” I said calmly, but hoping with an air of enough authority for them to shut up and get started.

“That’s not fair,” Spammer cried, “We just moved this shit!”

“Well you really don’t have a choice now do you. I do, I have three hours to keep you busy. I chose this. You don’t want to be here, and I definitely don’t want to be here. You ruined my evening. I could easily have you outside digging a well with a trenching tool.” I started to raise my voice, “Now get your E-1 ass over there and learn to follow orders!” I had gone full “Cool Hand Luke” on him. I don’t think he had ever seen the movie, but I didn’t care. “I told you that you shouldn’t dick with people who followed the rules by showing up as ordered. I advised you not to dick with former active duty personnel. All you had to do was to keep quiet then go home. But no, you had to rub everyone’s collective noses in it, then cause problems. And now we’re here. I don’t know why your buddies are here, and I really don’t give a shit. What we had was a failure of communication. Maybe this will fix that failure.” It was rolling up on 1930 hours and I could hear the deuce rolling up in the distance.

They had moved the pallet three times and were beginning to show signs of fatigue. Sure, they moved the pallet three times, but they had handled the bags six times. Lifting and moving the bags, moving the pallet, then restacking the bags on the pallets. Spammer was pissed with a capital D by 2030. The other two asked him what the hell he did to piss me off.

We stopped at 2045 hours and ate the pizzas. The pallet had successfully been in four corners of the building. I got tired of watching them, even got to use my favorite phrase. “I like work, I can watch it all day!”

I returned them to their barracks, then I returned to my humble hovel, cleaned up and went to bed. Boy was I exhausted!

The next morning after muster, we were gathering up to go to the jobsite. Lieutenant Strent called me inside. “O’B, what the hell did you do to those guys last night? They can barely walk and claimed you abused them?”

“I never laid a finger on them cap’n, I merely made them police the grounds then move the pallet of concrete a, ehem, few times.”

“A few?” He said baiting for more.

“Okay, Spammer started talking smack and I went Cool Hand Luke on them. But it was Spammer’s fault. He simply refused to keep his mouth shut and follow orders. It was Whine, Whine, Whine, Moan, Moan, Moan, Bitch, Bitch, Bitch and I got the feeling he was having fun, so they unloaded the pallet, moved said pallet across the floor to the opposite corner and then reloaded the pallet. They had the pallet in four of the corners of the building. Let’s see, that was four times, 42, 80-pound bags on the pallet. They handled the bags 168 times divided by four, that’s 42 bags per person. (I intentionally left out Ng’s pizza run, I figured, if they didn’t bring it up, I wouldn’t either!) Thanks for asking me to do it. I actually had fun!” I said with a maniacal grin on my mug.

“Were you trying to torture them?” This brought a look of exaggerated shock on my face.

“Lt, I am shocked, I never! You sent me to exact extra duty and that was my goal and sole intent. If they complained, then I guess I succeeded. They, well, Spammer complained, being a Seabee, I thought he was a happy camper.” One of the guys came in telling me that they were ready to go. I went into a poorly executed English accent, “In this episode of Life Styles of the Bitching Seabees. We hope to be wrapping up our latest project. Will it be enough to keep us bitching? Find out on the next installment of . . .”

I was cut off with, “Get out of here!” I laughed and made for the door. For some reason unbeknownst to me, and I really mean it, I never got to oversee Restriction and Extra duty again.

Things were also getting even stranger too. We did wrap up the BEQ over a month before the projected date. We were assigned menial tasks to try to keep us busy. We had training ops. We used M.I.L.E.S. gear which was fun playing laser tag. MILES stands for Multiple Integrated Laser Engagement System. I learned that with a simple paper clip, I could frag everyone within 50 or 60 yards. It is supposed to be a narrow beam of irradiated light that emits from the laser box on the end of your barrel when you fire your weapon. Fun with radiation, and the exercise went all day and late into the evening, just before dark. We were gathered up and basically slept where we were at. They set up a parameter watch. PO-2 Skittles was one of the two, and the other poor sap, just being friendly, made an innocuous statement, though fatal in its innocence. “Aren’t the stars beautiful tonight?” to which Skittles joyously replied.

“Let me tell you about the constellations!” And then he proceeded to talk like an inebriated squirrel on amphetamines. Two hours later, Skittles was still clacking his jaws like an angry duck. His partner in watch was sorry he ever said anything. He also looked like he was looking for a tall cliff to jump from.

We were wrapping up when I was called into dental for a final checkup. They ordered me to have my wisdom teeth pulled. I respectfully declined on the facts that since my wisdom teeth had developed, every dentist told me that I would not have problems with them because they were growing in nice and straight. Two were already in. This was followed by a threat that I would be held on a category three medical hold until they pulled my wisdom teeth. I relented and he already had a date set for the extraction.

They put me out and pulled all four of the teeth. I was starting to come to, sort of, and realized that I was being literally dragged back to my room. My mouth was stuffed with cotton as they opened my room door and unceremoniously dumped me on my bunk. I then proceeded to bleed out on my pillow, sheets, mattress, and my uniform. My boots were no longer inspection quality and quite trashed, and I had apparently spit out the offending blood-soaked cotton balls.

I was apparently just one more notch in the captain’s cane as two captain dentists had a bet on who could pull the most wisdom teeth in one day. I was a walking gold mine.

When I first got to the island, I was told to report for a dental screening. They said I needed another root canal. I said I didn’t need another root canal. They showed me the offending, to them, tooth that was just discolored. I tried to tell them that the tooth came in that color. As usual, they refused to listen and began prospecting the tooth with a drill. For 30 minutes the process went exactly like this.

Drill, drill, drill, “Hmm,” drill, drill, drill, “Hmm!” This he did for a full 30 minutes until he looked at me and said, “There isn’t anything wrong with this tooth, fill it.”

By the time I got out of my military experience, over half of my teeth had been drilled and filled for no apparent reason other than for practice. It took eight years for me to get the nerve to even go in for a checkup to a civilian dentist. After eight years, that dentist told me that for such a span of time, I had no cavities and my teeth looked really good. I explained my fear and loathing of dentists because of the military and he smiled and said he understood. It has been another 17 years and I am still nervous about even going in for a checkup. I am having no trouble with my teeth, but I really should go in for my “annual” cleaning. Now, I have to have three caps to repair what the military dentists screwed up, and I still have to be heavily sedated. One cap down and (ugh!) two more to go!

Thus, as it was with dental. I was also on the hearing conservation program. But that is another sordid story. Anywho.

Another issue I had was with my medical records. After I got out of Desert Storm, I took my medical records to a doctor who had previously been on active duty in the Army. I had questions about ten shots that I could not identify by book or find anything about online. He identified five of the shots that were needed for travel overseas, the other five he sat scratching his head, promised to call me back after he wrote down what they were. Almost a month later, he called and said that he was still stumped.

There were a few classes offered and I jumped on two classes that I was really looking forward to. There was a large number of us flying back. We got on the plane and we took to the air. Ever since the Challenger incident, I always count mentally to 52 after the plane leaves the tarmac. We were at 50 when the plane lost lift. For ten seconds you could hear the pilot adjusting and playing with the throttles trying to regain lift of the plane. Finally, you could hear the engines growl and the plane lift to the air once again. We survived the ordeal of being deployed and thought that we would be taken out by an air pocket. Lovely.

We returned and signed in for the classes. One was how to build a Baily Bridge. This particular bridge was assembled in cells and rolled across and another cell added to that one and on and on. There is one in San Diego that is about 200 feet long. The other class was for Planning and Estimating. This was a refresher, but I learned a lot in that one also. Both classes were fun and very educational and took place in Gulfport, so I got to go back a couple of weeks early.

The rest of the battalion followed and was in the middle of our debriefing before being sent back to our perspective states. This was when I discovered just how far PO-2 Skittles was out there. I was walking one way on the street and Skittles was on the opposite side of the street with his head down walking the opposite direction. He was so far out on the dementia train that they had to refuel the train twice. He was walking with his head down looking at the sidewalk and was in a heated argument with it. “Awe, c’mon, I know you can hear me, ANSWER ME! Don’t just lie there. Speak to me!”

Well, the sidewalk remained speechless, much to Skittles chagrin.

With the classes concluded, and the rest of the battalion back in Gulfport, we finished the debrief portion of the aftermath of Desert Storm.

I said my farewells and stepped on the plane for the last leg of the journey home. Family would be waiting. I had no idea what I was going to feel when I see my family before they cut us loose. I had seen several videos of soldiers returning home. But I had never experienced it personally. I had never been away from my daughter and here I had missed six months of her life. I felt as though I might see my wife and not a little girl but a teenager.

The flight back was wrestles and nerve wracking. Trials that had arisen while I was gone played through my head. This had gone down during the last six months of my wife’s two-year nursing degree. Promises that were made were broken. We always had to fend for ourselves, and save for the blessings of my mother’s assistance, nothing really changed. All this, as well as other trivial and major thoughts crashed violently through my cranium like waves washing up on the beach. The announcement was made for the final approach to John Wayne Airport. Other thoughts came back. Some actually tried to tell me to go “Conscientious Objector” before we left. I went into active duty knowing I might see action, I resigned for the reserves knowing the same thing. A coward will not sign up for the military voluntarily then try to get out because of combat. No real soldier wants a war, but knows that war, at times, is a necessary evil.

The wheels touched down; the plane shook violently, then rumbled down the runway decelerating as the reverse panels performed their job as they had thousands of times before. Did my family make it up to get me? What a stupid question. How much have I really missed? The anticipation was palpable as we approached the gate and slowly rolled to a stop in front of the gate.

We had debarked the plane with no band, no fanfare, and no news cameras as I had predicted like when we left, and no large crowd. We stepped into an auditorium as we waited for our bags and our families and friends were there waiting. It took me three seconds to spot my family. We formed up and the Skipper said something, but I did not hear anything he said, all I heard was “Daddy!” and in the distance was the “BLAH BLAH BLAH from the skipper. I was focused on one thing. To hold my family again. The suspense was horrendous as we waited for that one word. I heard some whisper, “Just shut up already and turn us loose!”

After an eternity, I heard him give that final command.

“Dismissed!” And that was exactly what I did as I charged for my family.

Back To Weekend Warrior Status

Weekend duty had returned back to a status quo of baby sitting and occasionally doing something menial. There was that one particular weekend duty in May when the many of the succulents were blooming. Now, some species of cactus can be consumed for survival and just enjoyed in general. But these were not any of those. To survive on these, you would have to cut and wring the juices out. Not do what a few of these guys did.

There was a large Prickly Pear Cactus growing behind the building by the railroad tracks. Good for moisture, but not for consuming. Well, three guys decided that they were good for eating and had peeled and began eating them, seconds after chewing the meat, they were all trying to get the cactus spines out of their mouths, tongues, and the roof of their mouths. They wound up going to medical.

The first ACDUTRA after we all returned was at 29 Palms, or more affectionately called. “29 Stumps.” It is a Marine base in the middle of nowhere, literally. I and 15 others were assigned with about 15 Marines from the Bridge Brigade Corp. I was extremely impressed and loved working with these guys. They had some really neat and interesting toys in their construction armada.

I was paired with a PFC, our assignment was to demo a wall and clean the area. I had stacked a few pallets to make a shade and made a spot on the outer corners to hang out evaporative canvas water bags. He liked the idea of having the shade. It was well over 100 degrees and I had some degree of desert training and much self-training on the subject, my PFC counterpart, I was soon to discover, had none. We agreed to work in 15-minute shifts taking turns since we were not close to anyone else. The shade was a token gesture unless you really knew how to use it in the desert. He occupied the shade first and just sat there, when it was his turn to work, I got in the shade and dug down about eight inches in the sand then lay in the narrow trench I had just completed. When we rotated again, he asked why I dug in the sand. That was when the lack of desert survival training became apparent.

I dug down about six inches into the sand and told him to put his hand into the hole then compare that to the surface temperature. I went to work and noticed that he was digging like a Chihuahua after a gopher. Between the hole, water that stayed cool, and working in shifts, we remained functional and hydrated rather than drained and severely dehydrated. We completed the task and moved to the next assignment.

We had set up our tents with a plywood flooring. This kept out the sand and gave the “Special critters,” oh I don’t know, like mice, bugs, scorpions, and possibly snakes someplace else to hide rather than in our boots.

We did have port-o-potties at the parameter markers about 40 meters from the tents. This became a source of entertainment with one of our Bees who had never been in the desert, but heard lots of old wives’ tales.

He was afraid to go out because it was dark and he was refusing to go because he was afraid of being eaten by coyotes. We laughed and told him not to worry and go. After much coaxing and teasing, he finally went out. We could hear him running out and slam the plastic door behind him. We had also been hearing coyote yips and howls all evening around us and around the parameter of the camp. But none close by the camp, until now. One coyote yipped and howled a long distance away and was answered by a coyote that must have been not 20 meters form the port-o-pot.

The closest coyote howled and PO-3 Flash all but took the door off the port-o-pot then ran with the speed of an Olympic sprinter back to the tent. We could hear the footfalls toward the tent followed by both tent flaps flying open. Flash stopped inside the flap opening and said, “Safe!” We teased him from then on about leaving a brown and yellow trail from the toilet to the tent.

The last day was ordinance training. I got to play with Bangalore mines, piercing charges, and shape charges. We had to be careful with how many we set off at once due to the recent large earth quake that was centered in Yucca Valley not ten miles away. There was lots of damage to many buildings and structures in town. It turned into “Fun with Explosives.” We had shape charges, TNT, we had plastic (C-4), claymore mines, timed det. cord, blasting caps, dynamite (And yes there is a difference between TNT and dynamite), hand grenades, Bangalore’s, it was a pyromaniac’s wet dream. We trained setting charges but began to run out of daylight. So as a last hoorah, we wired the remaining explosives in a large pile. One big boom to control them all and hopefully no forced human caused shifting of the tectonic plates creating another shaker in our area.

The triggers were pulled, 15 seconds later, a huge and epic boom that rattled every permanent molar in your head. It was indescribably beautiful. As usual, we donned our trash badges and bags, policing the area of any remnants that might be left. There were lots of det. cord but little more than a deeper hole than when we started.

We also had taken a day for weapons familiarization training. We had several different types of weapons at our disposal to “Play” with. We also had the opportunity to shoot all the weapons that they had out for us. We also had been set in two-man teams so we could get the experience of shooting with effect, or firing for effect and corrective fire with a spotter. I had shot many of the weapons that were laid out before us on the table, but my weapon of choice this day was the SAW, the M249 light machine gun, or its original designation “Squad Automatic Weapon.” This little gem fires a cyclic rate of 600 rounds a minute. My spotter was really getting into his task of corrective fire, telling me, “Three degrees right, five degrees up and two degrees left,” until there was an explosion of red mist and grey fur. There was an immediate, “Cease fire dammit! Cease fire!” followed by the sergeant running downrange. The SAW has a muzzle velocity of 900 meters per second and the 600 rpm I mentioned just a second ago, you can seriously screw up someone’s or something’s day in less than a heartbeat. That poor jack rabbit’s day ended in a flash of grey. Oh, did I forget to mention that 29 Stumps is a hard-core wildlife preserve? You aren’t even allowed to kill a snake in self-defense there. This place is an animal rights activists wet dream. Snakes and fleas rain supreme. You are quite simply not allowed to kill anything.

The sergeant came back after kicking dirt and trying to bury the evidence holding what was left of the unfortunate Peter Cottontail. He was cussing an impressive blue streak as he held the ears, head, and a strand of fur. There wasn’t anything else left.

No one would admit to shooting it, and I was definitely keeping my smart-assed mouth shut. So, we gave it a burial and tried to hide any other evidence that said this Desert Bugs Bunny ever existed.

When we finished, we broke camp, pulled down the tents then the last thing we did was to pull up sheets of plywood. We found a small pocket of white scorpions under one of the boards. The guys that were surprised jumped and screamed like little girls at a popular teen heart throb concert as they danced around or running from the critters. A couple just proceeded to perform acts of self-defense by stomping the ever-loving crap out of them. I laughed until my sides hurt, after all, I wasn’t one of the ones that was surprised by them. It could have easily been me dancing the scorpions away! I was really surprised that we didn’t find any rattlers under the boards.

In the end, I had contacted a group of Marines that had more on the ball than the common Marine, this by far is not an insult. I learned a lot from them as well as a deeper respect on how they treat their troops. It was the opposite of the Navy’s way in their hierarchal system of officers before the troops who make it happen. The group I was with focused on the PFC’s on up before the NPO’s and officers. And that is how it should be.

I wanted to stay and play more with my new friends, but as all good things must come to an end. I had to get back home to my real world. So, I said my goodbye’s and rode for the gate.

Back at the grind of droll and unamusing drills until the following year. That was the year that we pulled out all the stops. There were only 10 or 11 of us, we were a mishmash of rates and ranks. Our leading PO was a senior chief, followed by a second class, me, and a hand full of PO-3’s and constructionmen, and we did have one engineering aide.

Our assignment was to install 100 feet of one-inch stainless steel cable through five-inch steel pipe. It was a simple job, if you had the tools to do the job. We had the cement, the pipe, and the cable, but we had no hose, wheel barrels, shovels, post hole diggers, but we did have two cutting torches. The more we asked, the less help we received.

By normal standards and rules, we were done before we started. Wondering what to do next, Senior Chief Kramer, EOCN Busch, and I were talking on the way back from breakfast when we saw a couple of Marines pulling shovels, wheel barrels, hose, and all the tools we needed to do our job. I was struck with an idea. “Senior, I’ll have some of what we will need tonight. I just need to get to my car.”

“Go ahead, I have to try to get the equipment we need.” He said, “This is my last ACDUTRA. I’m retiring, I’ve had enough of the canoe club.”

“I don’t blame you, someday, I’ll be able to say the same thing.” I turned and walked toward the parking lot. Once there, I discreetly looked around and pulled a small trifold leather carry case from the trunk of my car. It was my American Express pick kit, I never left home without it.

I returned and smiled at the Senior Chief. “Tonight, we shall have tools. Tomorrow, we will begin with the posts.” I said.

“Will it be a problem?” He asked. “I mean, will it take long to open the lock?”

“We’ll find out. I hope not.” I said smiling. The rest of the day was tense as if waiting to start a race. The club scene was winding down and the drunks were staggering back to their barracks. Tank school students were on the second floor and every night it sounded like the World Wrestling Federation. You could hear bunks, dressers, lockers all sliding and slamming across the floor. No one slept when they did this. Not even the old Senior Chief.

0200 hours, it was finally quiet and security had just made their rounds. You could set your watch by them. They passed every half hour. I mean every half hour down to the minute. I dressed and took four others with me. We had a tarp in the back of the truck. We had a deuce and a half with a canvas canopy and an open bed. I walked around the building and noted the lack of a rover patrol inside that building. None of them had patrols. I walked up to the door and turned the knob, locked, I retrieved my lock pick set and set to work. In less than five minutes, we were moving the entire room to the back of the truck. Reclosed the door and made sure that it was locked, wiped down, and back in the rack in less than 15 minutes.

0500 found us on the road to the site to drop off our ill-gotten booty then return for morning meal. Then we returned to the barracks while the Senior Chief griped to the supply officer about the lack of tools to do the job. CN Smith had caught my attention; it was 0700 and two grunts and two MP’s were staring into an empty room where the tools had been. They were making a report and scratching their heads while looking at the lock. I could hear bits and pieces of the conversation. The MP’s main suspects were the ones who had the keys because there were no signs of a forced entry.

1700 and we had returned to the barracks. I looked and noticed that the grunts were finishing for the day and placing all new equipment into the room. I informed the Senior Chief who all but became animated. He was pissed that we couldn’t get tools, but maintenance could get resupplied that same day.

I watched security and noticed that nothing had changed. They still observed the strict on time 30-minute driving rounds. We walked around noting that there were still no extra watches keeping an eye on the place.

0200 came and the security cruised past and never even looked in the direction of the door. By 0215, the room was re-secured and empty. I had also discovered that I didn’t need the pick set as I could slip the door latch with my plastic ID card.

We unloaded the gear on the jobsite and by 0500 and was back to a repeat of yesterday morning. We were in full Seabee mode and fully exercising one of the Seabee’s most important mottos or an informal mission statement. “If you need it, buy it. If you can’t buy it, borrow it. If you can’t borrow it, steal it!” We had enough to begin the job but just enough to have half of the crew working. Senior Chief was still hounding supply to procure our tools that we needed to do the job. It was a vain effort, but we had to keep up the appearance that we did not have any tools. But I digress.

The MP’s were back and scratching their heads once again, looking at the lock for damage. I knew that now they were going to step up the rovers or quite possibly have someone watching the building now. Or so you would think, right?

Well, 1700 rolled in and so did we. The first thing I noticed was that once again they were putting new equipment away. The one grunt closed and checked the door to make sure that the door was not only shut, but also locked. I wondered if they had changed the lock.

I had a couple of my guys walking around as if jogging and wandering around keeping an eye out while I watched for extra patrols, security presence, or anything that would look out of the ordinary. By 2330, we had come to conclude that nothing had changed. I wondered if the night watch even communicated with the day watch or if anyone even perused the log books. It was obvious that there was no pass down between the watches.

I walked up to the door and did note a new tumbler assembly in the old door knob. In ten minutes, the room was once again void of its booty and placed in the back of the deuce. This wasn’t even a challenge anymore. I did want to stay back from breakfast and see the circus. This came to be one of the pinnacles of entertainment that week.

The grunts opened the door and one of them sat down laughing, while another one leaned against the door jamb staring with his mouth open. One got up and went inside, a few minutes later he returned and they waited. It took almost 20 minutes for the MP’s to show. Now they seemed bored with the whole thing and was looking at the two suspiciously. I was having a hard time containing my own mirth as I sat by the open window watching the show.

The Senior Chief and crew walked in about then. “How’s the entertainment O’B?” He said looking out at the scene.

“The MP’s are non-plussed and are looking at the grunts suspiciously, and the grunts are one fuse short of a blowout.”

“That will keep them on their toes for a while.” He said.

“I have an idea that will really mess with their heads.” I said.

“The Senior Chief and I discussed as we drove out to the job site. By the time we arrived, we were laughing. We had the cables laid out and about half of the poles in place. I was beginning to cut the holes to accommodate the one-inch cable. Each pole would have three holes to accommodate three strands of cable. This was supposedly to keep the coyotes, Illegal alien runners, from just driving onto that portion of the base and dumping off the illegal aliens. In concept, it was a great idea. But cutting the poles was proving to be a slow task. I had cut almost 20 poles by the time it was time to leave. We drove back to the barracks.

The grunts were loading more new gear into the room. Senior Chief started laughing and we left for supper. Being Friday, most of us went to the club with just about every Marine on the base. This must have been part of their training as well for each one had the same pose with a glass of beer in one hand and the full pitcher of beer in the other. The oddity was that they had poured a glass of beer and was drinking from the pitcher until it was empty, then drinking from the glass while the pitcher was refilled. I arrived at 1900 and became bored and deaf by 2100. I walked back and sat on my rack watching the club. A couple of our guys came out and was soon encompassed by about ten Marines.

CN Puberty was surrounded and they were getting louder. Ten vs. two were not good odds for two untrained for combat. CN Smith put on his shoes and ran out the door. He walked up the group closing in on Puberty. “What’s going on here?”

“Who the hell are you?” One said.

“I’m Lieutenant Thompson, does your instructors know you’re out here like this. Do I need to make a phone call?” At the mere mention of Lieutenant, half of the group dispersed, quickly losing interest in the two Seabees. The rest that stayed quickly left when “Lieutenant Thompson” started asking for names. Then it was back to the WWF upstairs. The Senior Chief came in asking what the ruckus outside was all about and we introduced him to the new Lieutenant the peace keeper to him.

The more he heard, the more pissed he became. He looked at me and said, “You’re in charge until I get back. That might be about four hours or so. There’s something I have to do.”

“Sure, Senior Chief,” I said and he dressed and left. The guys came up to me, it was about 2300.

“All we have to do is finish cutting the holes and string the cable, right?” said one.

“Yeah, that’s all.” I said.

“Let’s go and finish it now!” EACN Sparks said, “I can operate a torch and we can finish cutting the holes while the others fish and secure the cables.”

“This decision has to be 100 percent by you all. And no drunks. I don’t want to take a wobbly Bee to medical in the middle of the night because he got hurt on the jobsite that, I might add, we really aren’t supposed to be at in the middle of the night.” I said, I wanted to finish the job as badly as they did, and I was willing to break the rules to get it done.

“I am a little wobbly, but I can hold a light and stay out of trouble.” One said.

“Okay, let’s go. If anyone comes up on us, you send them to me. The story is we are on a construction night op. You,” I pointed at the slightly wobbly one. “Will keep a look out for any one coming up on us and a fire watch, got it?” He nodded. We made for the doors.

The job site was dark and we used the lights of the truck and what flashlights we had.

The cutting and threading were flying along when I noticed sparks lagging on one post for a long time when suddenly a flame and fireball almost 30 feet high with a lot of debris flying out of the post and floating back to earth. I ran over thinking he was a goner. He lay on his back not moving until I was on him checking for physical damage. His eyes opened and were big and his mouth was open. Debris was still falling and lighting small fires around us which four of the guys were cognitive enough to be chasing them down and stomping them out as soon as the fire was spotted as I tended to the EACN to see if he had any injuries. Finding nothing other than shock, a little hearing loss, and the last of the fires quenched, we set back to work. A quick assessment showed that Sparks had contacted out the tip of the torch and had held it against the pipe in mid cut filling the pipe with gas. Instead of pulling back the tip and re-lighting the torch, he held it in place trying to reheat the spot where it quit cutting. He had not noticed that the flame had gone out. His holding the torch in place did nothing more than fill the pipe with extremely volatile Oxygen and Acetylene gas mix. The instant the gas contacted the glowing embers in the bottom of the pipe, it turned into a four foot by five inch diameter Roman candle.

The others ran and secured the cable as soon as we cut the holes. Soon the project was done except for the cleanup. We kept the “Borrowed equipment clean in case we were caught with it. That was what I told them anyway.

We returned and hit the racks. It was about 0600 when the Senior Chief returned. I explained that we had a loud and restless night, but we had a surprise for him when we went to the job site at 1000 hours. He looked confused, anxious, and angry all at once.

He said he had a surprise as well. He patted his pocket, changed and sat down for a nap.

We arose at 0900 and made for the job site. He saw the completed project and everything cleaned and ready to pack up. All we had left was to clean the site itself which only took a few hours.

Now all we had was all the wheelbarrows, shovels, picks, hoses, hammers, and everything that we “Borrowed” from the maintenance room. I had been watching security and nothing really changed. I knew it was going to be a puzzle. But the end result was going to be worth it. We were loading all the gear in the truck when I broke the plans I had for the tools.

“Guys, I had you keep the tools clean because we are returning them.” They started laughing.

“No shit! That will screw them up!” More than one of them said.

“Well, it’s going to take all of us to put the stuff back. We need to stage the truck so we can carry in and stack and then go back for more. The room is only like a five by ten or so. Plus, this will be on top of what they had already replaced, so it is going to be a test of spatial relations.” I said.

“When are we doing it?” Meeks asked. That was a good question, it was Saturday and the MP’s ran more patrols on the weekends.

“Sunday or Monday night, we’re going to have to secure all this until then, Meeks, take the truck in and tell them we need a bigger one with a covered bed. That will take care of it.”

It had taken him a couple of hours. But he came back with a large green covered wagon of a five ton. We all wasted no time loading the rig and cinching down the rear and making sure it was properly sealed from prying eyes. Then we headed back to the barracks. There was a lot of laughing and merriment on different scenarios of what will happen when they open the door.

“I have a plan for that too!” I said.

We returned and parked the five ton as we had parked it since we arrived to not attract any suspicious eyes. It was going to sit for two days. We then changed and aimed for the club for a little alcohol fueled revelry and fun. They were supposed to have a live band. I stayed until 2200 hours and returned to the barracks. The band started at 2100 hours and it didn’t take long for the ringing in my ears to drive me out of the place. I opened the door and the Senior Chief was writing a letter of some missive in a notebook that I noticed him writing in every night. I sat and watched the club finishing my drink that I had smuggled out. The band was okay, but they were loud. I could easily hear them as if they were playing in the same room I was currently in.

The night pushed on and as per tradition, the club closed and the alcohol fueled revelry went from the club to the barracks. Then it was the same old routine with the slamming around of the furniture.

The Senior Chief got up, walked over to his bunk and extracted what looked like a fragmentation grenade. He made for the stairs. He stopped and turned. “This ought to sober them up. It’s a dummy grenade, but they do shit to them every now and then to keep them on their toes.” Saying that, he slithered up the stairs. I heard a light squeak then something not unlike a large queue ball bouncing off the concrete floor.

The screams were incredible.

Not a single one of them was chivalrous enough to dive on the grenade to save his buddies. But they were flying out of every sizeable opening in the room. Open windows, doors, why no one was injured was truly a mystery. The Senior Chief sneaked back down the stairs re-assembling the grenade. Everyone from upstairs was outside in their underwear. Senior Chief tucked away the training device and promptly lay in his rack and smiled liked the cat who had a tasty canary, but was not going to share it.

Soon, one of the security guys came into our area, “Did you guys hear a disturbance upstairs?”

“You mean like every night? It always sounds like a WWF wrestling match upstairs every night after the club closes.” Senior Chief said.

“I am referring to tonight.” He said.

“No, it’s been consistent, they come in sounding like a demolition crew for about an hour before it even begins to get quiet. Why do you ask?” He asked them.

“They say someone threw a grenade into the room.” The MP said.

“Wow, with all the thrashing around, how could they tell what anything was?” I asked.

“What are you trying to say?” He asked.

“Really, every night, after 0200, the club closes and I am awakened by thrashing furniture, things sliding across the floor into other things, wrestling, hollering, and screaming. Seriously, they do this every night. We heard nothing out of the ordinary.” I said, my smart-associty beginning to flower.

“Have you called it in? Were you the one that threw a grenade in their room?” He asked getting angry.

“I was asleep as usual when they crashed in, and where would I get a grenade? Seriously, and would it do any good if I had complained?”

“That’s enough O’B, apparently the lack of sleep is getting to you.” Senior said, then changing the direction of the conversation. “What is going on Corporal?” Senior Chief asked and the Corporal repeated the account. The Senior Chief was on the verge of laughter. “WOW, that’s pretty good, I wish I had thought of it.” He said.

“Thank you, Senior Chief.” The MP said and left. It took all I had to keep my mirth under control until they had left. When they did leave. The rumpus room re-ignited with a fervor that would have made any pro-wrestler proud.

They finally did calm down about 0400. I had an appointment with one of the MP’s. He was going to take me up the surf line to a clothing optional section of the beach. I was interested to go racing up and down the beach in a 4X4, and if we saw a pretty female, that was fine with me. But remembering what happened at Black’s Beach in San Diego, I was not going to hold my breath.

Of best laid plans, again!

We were racing north along the water line on the surf in a Dodge Ram 50 when we heard a pop and the truck fish tailed but kept going. We looked at each other and he began to slow down. “I wouldn’t stop if I were you. If the front axle quit pulling. The sand will swallow this thing.” To which he replied by stopping in the soft dry sand up off the water.

Not seeing anything obvious, we re-entered the truck and he gunned the throttle promptly burying the rear of the truck up to the axle in sand. He tried reaching someone on the radio with no success. The jack was a rusty mess and there was nothing to use to gain traction, so, we sat.

In the surf, about a mile out, I saw three L.A.R.C.s (Landing, Amphibious, Resupply, Cargo) coming our way. They floated to dry land then shifted to driving mode. One stopped to see if we needed any help then I heard. “Is that you O’B?”

I looked and saw Ferg dismounting one of the L.A.R.C.s. “Hey, you are a sight for sore eyes. How the hell are you? And yes, we can use some help. The front axle quit pulling and he buried the rear. Can you help us?” I asked.

“Better than you from the looks of things. Is she broke?”

“Just the front axle, she still rolls, but he had to stop after we heard something break in the front end. Can we get a push?” I asked.

“You bet, you guys get in and we’ll get you rolling, and don’t stop until you get to pavement or back to where you came from.” Ferg said.

They got us rolling and I waved. I’d thank him again when I saw him at work the next week. We drove back and I went back to the barracks. It was a day wasted, but it was interesting.

Sunday night came and the club closed at midnight. The tank treads upstairs calmed down and passed out, the security was back to 30-minute rounds, so we took advantage of the calm and gathered everything to complete our mission.

The patrol passed and I walked over, opened the door. The guys wasted no time reorganizing, and moving everything from the truck back into the room which not only filled up the room, but almost couldn’t get everything back into the room. The last items were precariously packed in with the door literally holding it inside. I couldn’t wait for morning as I pushed the door closed with some help and made sure it would stay closed.

We went to breakfast early and returned in time to see them almost open the door. The one turned the knob and the door didn’t just pop open, it exploded open followed by an avalanche of tools and wheel barrows falling out. They dived for cover and then stood looking at the new development. The one left and returned with the MP’s in tow. Now they were really scratching their heads as we did our best to stifle our laughter.

The rest of the week was spent on the beach with beer, volleyball, and swimming. Not always in that order.

We parted ways and we bid the Senior Chief a happy retirement. I had drill in two weeks at the reserve center. I had planned to go inactive reserve for a few years then return to active reserves or maybe active duty. I had less than eight years if I went active duty for the time I needed for retirement. I just had not decided on my plan of action yet. I did need a break. The hard decision would be made simple by an obnoxious, overzealous, asshole chief.

I arrived at the reserve center and looked up the Lieutenant who was talking to the chief. I waited respectfully as they were in a light conversation, and nothing that I needed to walk away from. I got my break in the conversation. “Lt. Can I get your ear for a minute. I wish to go inactive reserve for a while then I want to go back to active status, I just don’t know if I want to go back to active reserve or active duty. But I need to go to inactive reserve for a time, how would I go about doing that?” Was my question to the lieutenant. The mistake I made was asking in front of Chief Lifer. He went off like a tornado siren that malfunctioned and locked into a loop that stayed on. I looked at the lieutenant and he tried to calm him down. He yelled at me for throwing my military career away, then went on about my obligation time.

I turned to the lieutenant. “Lt. he needs to stop or I go home. Chief, I’m a non-obligor, I can quit any time I want. I just need some time . . .” But he cut me off and he kept going. Even the lieutenant tried to get him to be quiet. “Bye Chief!” I said as I walked away toward the parking lot via the office building. I told the gal in records that I quit and left the building and walked to my bike. I saw the lieutenant chewing out the chief as I took off my green utility shirt, rolled it up and bungeed it down on the bike, fired the bike up and went home.

Conclusion

My time in the Bees was a series of ups and downs. There were a lot more ups than there were downs and I could not write many of the things down due to space or of the situation itself. Some of the situations I had not mentioned would have been too pointed and those in the know would have or could have been seriously embarrassed. Obviously, I changed all of the names of everyone except mine to protect the innocent, guilty, and the victims. I had no regrets over my military career and my experiences. It was a fun time and I learned to finely polish my talents as a smart-ass. I also made quite a few forever friends and brothers. An experience in my life that if I had to do it all over again, I would most definitely do it all over again!

The average Seabee is a tough skinned, hardworking, Can Do anything, with a get it done attitude, and an alcohol fueled fighting machine. When you positively, without a shadow of doubt need it demolished, rebuilt, and protected overnight, there is only one group you can call. The United States Naval Seabees!

On a final note, the Seabee was best described in toughness on a joke that I heard several years ago. The author of this joke is unknown, but full credit goes to him. Well, this joke can go with any branch or situation, but I like it in this situation.

“There were three officers sitting and drinking in the “O” club one night. They were all bragging on how tough their men were. The banter was light as they first began to brag.

“My men are the toughest men on the planet.” The Air Force Officer said.

“My men are the toughest bastards on the planet!” The Marine Officer said.

“My men are the toughest men on the planet.” The Navy Officer said.

The Air Force Officer said, “I’ll show you tough, come out to the tarmac in the morning. I’ll show you tough!” So, the next morning, they gathered at the tarmac where a young airman was working on an aircraft engine with the props spinning wildly. “Airedale!” The Officer shouted getting his attention. “Come here NOW!” The urgency of the command caused the Airman to run through the prop cutting him into pieces killing him instantly. “Now that’s tough!” Said the Air Force captain.

“That was pretty effing stupid if you ask me! Gentlemen, meet me at the training center tomorrow morning and I will show you tough.” So, the next morning, the three were gathered at the Marine training center. Soldiers were jumping and running, climbing over things, zip lining, chewing on trees, and there was a few parachuting from a tall tower. The Marine Officer spotted a PFC floating gently from the tower. He yelled. “Harine, Heow, whoo, heyah MOOOO!” To which the young Marine pulled the release mechanism from his harness falling 200 feet to his death. “That’s tough!” said the Officer puffing up his chest with his medals standing at attention.

The two Officer turned and looked at the Navy captain with a look of incredulity as he laughed hysterically. “How is that different from, oh never mind. Gentlemen, meet me at the construction site as it is quite obvious that you have no idea of what tough really is.”

The next morning found the three Officer on a busy construction site where everyone was working and turning two getting the job done. They focused on a second-class Steel worker sitting on the gangway of a water tower he had just finished putting the finishing touches on. In one hand he had a cup of coffee and in the other hand a cigar, and he was enjoying the scene. “Second class, get down here NOW!” To which the second class replied with almost no hesitation, “Screw you, you want me, you come up here!”

The Navy Officer turned to the two drop jawed Officers, smiled and calmly said. “Gentlemen, that is tough!”

END

This tome is dedicated to the hard working, fighting, drinking men and women of the Seabees. Giving some or giving all in the line of duty to their country. I salute each and every one of my brothers and sisters. Times are and were tough, but making the most of each day, no matter how challenging or laughable make us tougher and stronger. It will also make us more mature, experienced, and give us a better sense of humor. Make the best of every situation, whether you’re building, burning, cleaning, or poking fun. Pay attention, do your job, and check your six. And always, always BEE the best you can BEE!

SW-2 O’Brien entered boot camp in San Diego in December/1983. Went to “SW-A” school in Gulfport Mississippi, then on to ACB-1 in San Diego, followed by ADAK AK, in the PWT. He was honorably discharged in October 1988, then enlisted into the reserves with RNMCB-16 in December of 1989 where he was assigned to Delta Company and was activated for Desert Storm. He was honorably discharged from active duty and was returned to reserve status in 1991. In 1994, he was honorably discharged from the Navy to become a civilian, well sort of, you never quit being a BEE. It is who you BEEcome.

Thanks to all who read this and I hope you found it as entertaining and memory provoking as I did writing it and remembering.

Laughing and Griping, My Life in the Bees

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Jess OBrien