A Civilian Hiatus

Chapter 4 of 13 of LOOKING BACK
by John E. Hunt
Copyrighted 1996
Filed with CIS Writers Forum as LOOKBK04.JEH

At this time, I haven't a market for this book. It is a work of love, detailing events that have happened to me in my lifetime, as a boy and a man. I appreciate anyone critiquing this work, and especially this chapter, because I think the chapter starts great but could be presented more strongly - I'm not comfortable with it.

C HA P T E R 04
(1961-1963)

The lights hurt my eyes and someone kept asking me questions. I didn't understand all of it. I hurt! I slept, and maybe I died. "Hail Mary ... grace ... Lord is with thee ... Blessed ... women and ... fruit of thy womb, Jesus. Pray... and at hour of our death, Amen."

The priest, he's giving me the last rites! I've seen him do that before! There's my mother and brother . . . Why doesn't Harold look at me?

God! I hurt all over! ....I know where I am now! It was a hospital ward and I'd been hurt. "Here's Mom and Harold again. He is still avoiding my eyes and leaves the room a lot." What happened? No one would tell me anything! We had a car accident! "Is everyone okay?" "Yeah, don't worry." "Your job is to get better."

I saw myself in the bathroom mirror on day four, after being helped out of bed. Then I knew why my brother wasn't looking at me. Mom was full of smiles, but she must have been hurting like hell inside to see me all busted up like that. I was thrown from the back seat, through the front windshield, and the car came to rest on the back of my neck. I had compound facial fractures, with my nose and upper jaw being broken in several places. I was wired together with what is called a Barton Cap. I would not be able to open my mouth for about six weeks. My meals were taken through a straw.

What happened to my boss? He got a broken hip and leg. He was worried I might sue, so he sent his girl friend, a pretty brunette, to make small talk, and keep me company during the day. She was nice, and good at distracting me. The Quartermaster, I found out later that he took the steering wheel through the chest. He had a wife and two teenagers too. She wrote me later. She didn't understand what had happened, but did not hold me to blame. God, I felt terrible reading her letter! What do you say to a grieving wife, and mother of two teens, who has just had her life torn asunder? How to explain it? Her husband was older than I was, and I suppose one could say he knew what he was doing. That doesn't make it any easier to swallow though.

Eventually, I was well enough to leave the hospital and go home to convalesce. They wouldn't let me go until I was made to understand that I must wear a scissors tied around my neck twenty-four hours a day, until the rubber bands came off my jaws. That was to prevent me from choking to death if I were to regurgitate. An airway could be cleared by cutting the bands.


When the bands came off, I was assigned to temporary duty until a new assignment became available. The temporary duty involved being a prisoner chaser at the brig (jail) on the Naval Base. I was issued a loaded, 45-caliber pistol, helmet, night stick, and webbed belt. My job was to escort the prisoners, day and night, any time they had to leave the cell blocks. I also had to account for silverware at meals, razors in the morning (we watched them shave), and in general, maintain order and discipline among the inmates.

Most of the prisoners were in for petty crimes like AWOL (absent without leave), shoplifting, failure to obey a lawful order, etc. Some, however, were doing hard time for rape or murder. They're the ones who had me worried. I had just gotten out of the hospital with a broken jaw, and look what kind of assignment they gave me! I sometimes thought, if one of those hard cases had turned and stared real hard, my jaw would have broken again!

I only had one bad moment. It was on a wash detail one day, when a prisoner began teasing me, and threatening to run away. I told him to go ahead, that I wouldn't chase him, but would just shoot him in the back. He didn't know how to take that, so he stayed. It was a bluff, though. They gave you the equipment, but told you if you shot one of your charges, you'd end up in the brig in his stead.

My permanent assignment orders came in, and in the spring of 1962, I reported to the USS Rockville, EPCER-851 (Experimental Patrol Craft Escort-Rescue) based at the U.S. Naval Research Laboratory, Alexandria, Virginia, which is just outside our nation's capital, Washington, D.C.

The mission of the ship was to support the research of the scientists at the Naval Research Lab. They were testing equipment for listening to sounds underwater. Our job was to take them to the various locations they used, such places as Bermuda, and the Tongue-Of-The-Ocean, in the Carribean.

My job was essentially the same as it had been aboard the USS Hoist. I had to keep the radio telecommunications equipment operational, maintain proper logs of incoming and outgoing message traffic, and encode and decode messages for the commander. When I first reported aboard, there was a second class radioman in charge of the radio shack. I made third class petty officer shortly before reporting aboard, and shortly after that, the second class left the ship. I had my own radio shack, with a subordinate third class, and two radioman strikers under me. I was king of my castle.

On one trip to sea, a scientist must have taken pity on me because I didn't have anything to do (I was off-shift in the radio shack), so he showed me how to operate his equipment. It was a radio, photo facsimile set-up, and it fascinated me to be able to capture a picture from a radio signal. He taught me to listen for what a facsimile signal sounds like, and how to tune in to it.

It was the winter of 1962. To get to the ship, it was necessary to pass through the grounds of the Naval Research Lab, and through a large, chain-link gate at the head of the pier. The pier was about 250 feet long, and the Rockville was berthed at the end at a T-junction.

We had to have liberty cards in those days when we left the ship for pleasure ashore. The gate was generally locked after midnight, so if you didn't make it back from liberty on time, the gate had to be scaled; not an easy task to accomplish, this! Especially if it was two or three in the morning and you had been out partying in downtown Washington, D.C.

In the winter, that pier was a torment to cross. Being right on the river and open to the weather, on a blustery evening, the trip to the ship could sober up a guy. When you are twenty-two or twenty-three years old, though, you don't let little things like that stop you. It was rough at times, because our day usually started aboard ship at 5:30 a.m. Weekends were much easier on the health.

Aboard the Hoist, we had a ship's laundry, and turned in our dirty clothes to them to be cleaned and ironed. The Rockville did not have such amenities. One simply stored one's dirty clothes in a "ditty" bag at the foot of one's bunk for a few days, and then made a trip into Alexandria to a laundromat. In emergencies, the sink in the head (that's what a bathroom is called aboard ship) was used.

I used to go to a nice little laundromat I found, about three miles from the ship, within walking distance. There was a bar a few doors down that had a nice atmosphere (not a dive) and a good pool table. Generally, I would get the clothes started, and go next door for a couple of cold beers and some pool. Occasionally, I would check on the clothes, and transfer them to the dryer when needed, then back to the bar for more beer and pool. When the clothes were done, I'd fold them, put them back in the clean ditty bag (I washed it too), and store it behind the bar until I was ready to leave.

During the course of the evening, I would go down the street to a restaurant that made fabulous bean soup and crackers. That became a regular routine with me while we were in port, unless the wicked lights and temptations of downtown D.C. beckoned. That happened often enough also. Let's face it, though, I could only have just so much night-life on a RM3 paycheck.

In the Fall of 1962 we went into the Philadelphia Naval Shipyard for an overhaul and repairs. Gee, how could I get so lucky? In less than two years, and on two different ships, I had to go through that routine again! Again, the ship had to be put up in dry dock, stripped completely of paint, and repainted from stem to stern.

I got a little luckier this time around though. I had to get a driver's license to operate a mail jeep between the post office ashore, and the ship, which was in the yards, completely across town. In addition, I had to drive the commander around town during the day, if he needed me. I made the trip across town at least twice a day, which carried me past such famous spots as the Philadelphia Town Hall, with the Liberty Bell outside; Connie Mack Baseball Stadium (now called Veterans Field, I believe), and the notorious traffic circle at midtown. Additionally, I was able to pinpoint a few of the nicer establishments to frequent in my off-duty hours. That was quite an experience!

After we left the yards, we didn't have such a rigorous shakedown cruise as the Hoist had. We did have a mission to perform in the Atlantic, which involved some testing of sounds by lowering a device on a cable deep into the ocean. The scientists had all kinds of hydrophones and listening devices they checked out. This particular mission was to be sidetracked though, and when I tell you why, you will realize how desperate the situation had become.

Khrushchev began pounding his shoe in the United Nations, and storing missiles in Cuba at about this time. Kennedy was talking blockade. He had backed Khrushchev to the wall and given him an ultimatum to get the missiles out of Cuba. To do this, Kennedy had to have a show of force, blockading the island nation. You guessed it, he called for all ships operating in the area at the time, to head for Cuba, and become part of the blockade.

We didn't even have the advantage of a 40-millimeter antiaircraft gun that the Hoist had. Small arms were the extent of any armed resistance we could offer. Nevertheless, go we did! Fortunately, it was called off before we got there, or the Russians might have split a gut laughing.

The U.S. Navy tests all its enlisted men periodically in two areas, general military knowledge, and job skill. This comes in the form of written examination, and hands-on application in both areas. In order to take these tests, the enlistee must make it known through his chain of command that he is ready to take the test for advancement to the next higher grade. The personnel office will order the tests in that man's name if the executive officer has okayed it. The tests are given twice a year, and you are competing against everyone else in the Navy, trying for that same job skill advancement.

Only a certain percentage of those with the highest grade will advance in rank. That means that you could technically pass the test, but still get passed over for promotion, if someone got a slightly higher test score than you. I neglected to mention that your supervisor (next higher ranking in your skill) submits a written evaluation of your performance, which is also taken into consideration.

Once while I was on the Hoist, and once on the Rockville, I had been asked by my superiors if I wanted them to order the test for my advancement to RM2. Both times, I had declined, saying I didn't think I was ready for that responsibility. After the RM2 on the Rockville had left the ship, I was in charge. I ran the ship's communications for eight months. Naturally, I thought I had gained sufficient skill and knowledge to pass the test, and so, requested the personnel man to order the tests for me.

In late 1962, when it came time to take the test, one rating (job skill) after another was given the test on the mess deck. I kept waiting to be called to the mess deck for testing. When I wasn't called, I went to personnel to find out what had happened. I was told that no test had been ordered for me. I went to my signal officer and asked him to find out what had happened. Shortly thereafter, I was called into the presence of the executive officer (XO), LTJG Nunn, whose job it had been to okay the ordering of the test. My signal officer, a young ensign whose name I cannot now recall, was present. The XO told me he hadn't ordered the test. When I asked him why, he said he didn't think I was ready, and outlined an incident that had happened several months before.

As I recall the incident, the commander was expecting a message to come in on the teletype (subject matter forgotten at this time but unimportant for purposes of this narrative), and when it wasn't forthcoming, he sent the XO to the radio shack to double-check the files for it. He found it in the incoming log of messages, and my junior operator and I, had both initialed off on the teletype copy, as having reviewed the files. The XO called me on the carpet for that one, because I was the senior man.

After looking at the message, I knew why we had missed it. The shore station had readdressed the message incorrectly, and the call letters that we checked for in the heading of every message, had not been inserted. The only way we could have been expected to spot that message was if, like the executive officer, we had known the contents of the text to look for. The XO didn't buy that excuse, so I went to the radio shack and got the appropriate publication, which showed how the shore station should have readdressed the message to us. The XO had to admit that the fault for missing the message was not ours.

Apparently, being shown in black and white that we were not culpable, rankled the man, and his method of getting a pound of flesh from me was to not order my test. This last was to cause irreparable harm shortly.

The Rockville picked up some scientists, and we were off for the coast of the beautiful island of Bermuda; gently rolling seas, clear green water, and lots of white sand and colorful rooftops. The azure of the sky was reflected into our eyes by the gentle rolling of the sea. The mission of the scientists was continuing. We had been operating for several days.

When not on duty, the men lolled around on deck, getting a tan or writing letters home to wives or girlfriends. Some of the men fished. About the only thing that we seemed to attract, though, were sharks. Someone had a bright idea for sport, and talked Cookie (the chief mess cook) into letting the men have some meat to bait hooks for catching the sharks.

Old, orange-colored kapoks were used for floats on the line to keep the line from sinking out of sight beneath the keel. The water was clear as crystal, and one could see to quite a depth.

For days, we caught sharks. They were unpredictable as to when or why they attacked. Sometimes they attacked the brightly colored kapok instead of the meat. The old wives' tale that they had to turn on their back to hit a target on the surface was laid to rest. They can hit you from any angle. When the men landed one, invariable it was drawn up on deck and bludgeoned to death or eviscerated. Some of the men removed the teeth for souvenirs, and one enterprising young man took out the eyes, which he said could be dried out and made into interesting jewelry. This "sport" lasted for about three days, and then we headed in to Bermuda for a little liberty prior to going back to home port. On the way in, someone caught a pompano and it was prepared for the Captain's meal that evening.

I was granted liberty when we tied up in Bermuda at Hamilton Bay. No one had prepared me for Bermuda. I didn't know that the local populace was black, for example, and it came as a bit of a shock, I suppose, but I don't know why. There are vestiges of prejudice in us all, I guess. Once on shore, I headed for the nearest bar. I wanted to tie on a good one. I was still mad as hell about being denied the opportunity to take the test for promotion. I learned long ago that solace will not come from a bottle. I was only twenty-two at the time and didn't know any better. I think I went to several bars until I found the one that captured my fancy the most.

The decor inside was tropical, the bartender as black as polished ebony! His lilting speech, rolling off his tongue in the Queens' own English, fascinated me to no end. He played a mean game of Ship, Captain, and Crew also, this latter being a dice game, whereby participants take turns tossing five die to determine who can obtain a ship, a captain, and crew before the other. The winner must get the most crew. The game is played for money, or it can be played for drinks. Ah, that bartender! He was a most genial host. He liked Yankees also, and was generous to a fault with the libation of rum he was serving me. Just what I needed, right? Wrong!

I woke up the next morning in a jail cell. A jail cell is unmistakable in any country. I knew where I was, but I didn't know why. I knew my ship was supposed to get under way for homeport that morning. Hollering did not produce anyone willing to help me. I was pretty disheveled, and my eyes were red and bleary. My uniform was a disgrace also; it looked like I had slept in it, which I had.

My signal officer arrived, tight-lipped and ashen-faced, in late morning to take me before the Magistrate of the Queens' Bench and face my charges. I was placed in the dock, and a jury and three judges dressed in black with (God help me, I thought this was only supposed to happen in movies) white-powdered wigs sitting atop their heads (they weren't even good-fitting wigs), took their places, and the charges were read.

It appears I had broken a glass pane in a door of a house I was trying to enter to see my sister (I had one, but she died before my birth). It was late at night and the black family inside had retired for the night. They must have been terrified when I kept trying to get in. They called the police, and I was picked up.

The family whose home I had tried to break into was there, the arresting officer was there, and the proof of a crime was my quaking body in the dock. How did I wish to plead, the magistrate wanted to know? What choice had I? I plead guilty, naturally. Were their any extenuating circumstances, he wanted to know? Here, my signal officer stood up for me and said how out of character my actions had been, and that my military record bespoke of no derogatory facts until now. He asked for the courts' mercy on my behalf.

My sentence was approximately thirty-five dollars in fines (he said it in pounds and shillings, which I didn't understand), and I was banned from returning to Bermuda for the next twenty-five years, unless I first received permission from the Bermudan government. My signal officer paid the fine, and I was taken back aboard ship, a very crestfallen young man. It wasn't over yet.

Back aboard ship, I was allowed to clean up and make myself presentable. Then I was called before the commanding officer for a Captains' Mast. The captain gave me a monetary fine (I forget how much it was now), and reduced me to radioman striker.

I had been the chief radioman aboard that ship for over nine months, with three men working for me. Now I had to take orders from them because they all outranked me. I knew more about the operation of that radio shack than any of them and they knew it so they did not boss me around. They could have, had they wanted to, made my life miserable. I had always been fair to them, however, and pulled my just share of the workload. They felt sorry for what had happened to me.

The situation was actually very untenable for me. I had three months to go until my discharge/reenlistment date. When the last day had arrived, I chose to get out rather than try to salvage that military career. In April of 1963, I saluted the ensign at the stern of the Rockville, and the quarterdeck watch officer, and asked permission to go ashore. I was a civilian again.