Navy Memories- “It’s only four years” My time in the Navy coincided with, and was about as successful as, the life of the Edsel brand produced by Ford Motor Company. During that 4 years, which included a recession, several other familiar auto makes went out of existence, such as DeSoto, Packard, Nash, Rambler, and Hudson. It was definitely a time of change.
Enlistment and Boot Camp - June to Sept., 1958 I really don't remember making the decision to enlist in the service, but I'm sure it had much to do with my having wasted a year at the University of Iowa. I was very disillusioned about the field of Fine Arts... "modern" art was becoming more prevalent, and I was convinced that it was being populated by no-talent people pretending to be creating something significant. Even though my major was Design, and even though much of my curriculum centered around the Masters' artwork, I was seeing people get acclaim for what I considered cheap trash. When my painting professor received the highest award at the Iowa State Fair juried competition for his solid black oil painting, I think it was the last straw for me. I had visions of becoming a pilot, but I wore glasses and found that made me unqualified. The criteria for becoming a Navy pilot were tougher than to become an Air Force pilot. I probably enlisted in the Navy because they had some fascinating fields to choose from. I chose Nuclear Weaponsman, Guided Missleman, and some other high-tech area. I was told that these areas were not guaranteed, but that the Navy would try to accommodate my wishes. With naiveté that only a teenager could have, I told my Dad that "it's only 4 years", and took the train off to Des Moines. I was put up in a small hotel, with other young Iowa guys who were in town to be inducted. The next morning, we went to some public building and took the oath. There were, I believe, 5 of us going from Des Moines to San Diego, and I was "put in charge" of the group, probably because I was the oldest of us, at 19, and had been in college ROTC. We flew non-stop... my first air flight. My memory of arriving in San Diego is vague, but, knowing the way the Navy operates, I suspect we were met at the airport by a bus that took us directly to the Naval Training Center. Our small group was combined with other recruits from all over the country. The first couple of days in boot camp was a flurry of activity, interspersed with periods of just waiting. I remember us getting uniforms issued, along with a seabag, and toiletries, getting a buzz haircut, and lots of inoculations, given in both arms simultaneously. Very quickly, we all began to look alike, and feel like anything but sailors. I asked one kid "who did you used to be?" During one of the waiting periods, still on the first day, and as an indication that we already realized we had made a mistake, we calculated how many days we had left until our discharge in 4 years (some would be out in less than 4 years... when they turned 21). Eventually, we were grouped into companies, ours Company 345) having 72 guys, and taken to our barracks, where we met our Company commander... Chief Leszczynski. His attitude toward us seemed to be that we were "his cross to bear"... another bunch to put up with. Our barracks building was like all the others in our row, which was like several other rows. We were in a large room full of double-decker bunks, across one end wing of the building. There was an identical room across the other end, so the building formed a kind of H, with a long hallway joining the wings, with several other smaller rooms. There were 2 identical floors in each building. Behind the buildings were the clothes washing areas, one for each barracks, with several pool-table-size concrete wash tables, and many clotheslines. The boot camp routine may be very different now, but it was pretty miserable in 1958. The Navy's goals became clear quickly: To reduce us from thinking individuals to obeying units... to make us clean to a fault, just as tidy, obedient, and to let us know who was unquestionably in control. We each had a small locker, and we were shown precisely how every item we owned was to be placed in it. Each recruit's bucket, for washing clothes, was to be tied tightly to the foot of his bunk. We were shown how to make up our bunk, and how to test the tightness of the blanket tuck by bouncing a coin on it. Everything we owned... which was very little more than Navy-issued gear, was in our lockers. Every day began with reveille, and with someone banging on a garbage can and yelling for us to "hit the deck". Shower, shave, dress, and head for breakfast in the base mess hall. After breakfast, as a group, we went to a variety of places on different days... to classes, to the dentist, to do various administrative things, and to the drill field to march. We marched with rifles, and there were exercises to do with the rifles... it became like a lightweight barbell, and with enough exercises, very, very exhausting, especially in the hot San Diego sun. There were frequent inspections... of our lockers and of our persons... checking the sweat band of our hats, the neckband of our tee-shirts, the shine on our shoes, the cleanliness of our uniform, and whether we shaved closely enough. These inspections seemed incredibly nit-picky. We took to wearing small strips of toilet paper inside the rim of our hats and tee-shirts, to keep them clean until just before inspection. Smokers hid cigarettes and matches in their socks. Each night we scrubbed our uniform and hung it on the lines, using short braided cords instead of clothespins. Each night we shined our shoes at a long picnic-style table down the center of our room. Any letter-writing was done at that table too, in the evening, along with any studying we had to do. Aside from the normal daily routine, there were "highlight" events that occurred only once, among them: A trip to the rifle range, to qualify on the M1 carbine. This was out in the hills somewhere, and we got there by bus. We learned to shoot in standing, kneeling, and prone positions, using the strap on the carbine to help steady it. I scored reasonably well. A trip to the swimming pool, to qualify for swimming. Guys who couldn't swim learned how to stay afloat and move, or they took a lot of grief, including being pushed back in if they tried to get out. A trip to a special fire-fighting school. Aside from learning how to man a firehose, we had to experience being trapped in a smoke-filled room. The room was a steel building, made to be like the inside of a ship. A group of us were put into one room, then an extremely smoky oil fire was set in an adjoining space. Our room filled with black smoke, and it became almost impossible to breathe, and impossible to see anything but the floor. The smoke burned our eyes, and it was very easy to become panicky... precisely the intent. Some guys bolted for the door, in a panic, and were shoved back in. It was frightening... they must have had the timing very accurate, because I remember feeling close to passing out. The survival method, as we were told in advance, is to stay very close to the floor, breathe as shallow as possible, and stay calm... none of which is easy to do. NTC has an almost-full-scale destroyer escort ship named the USS RECRUIT... built on land... for training purposes, but I don't recall spending much time on it. (Even though the base is closed and most old buildings removed, that ship still sits alone, embedded in the sand) Another exercise in following instructions and avoiding panic... the tear-gas chamber. We were taken into a small building, which was then filled with tear-gas... after the door was locked. We just simply had to take it... breathe shallow or not at all... not rub your eyes... and wait until they let us out. Oh... we went in with gas masks on... then were told to take them off. Tear-gas smarts a lot. There were also times when we were assigned additional duties... sweeping streets, cleaning a variety of places, and working in the mess hall. One of my jobs on mess hall duty was cracking eggs into a big vat. I learned to crack them 4 at a time without getting too much shell in with the eggs. I also learned just how dirty and sloppy food preparation is, and the mess hall food never looked as good after that. Finally, if you've been good enough, graduation comes, with the large graduation ceremony... all companies marching and passing in review. Even that was tough... standing at attention for long periods in the heat. Several times, we could see, or hear the thunks of, recruits collapsing from the heat during the ceremony. They were carted off on stretchers. Unfortunately, not all who start with a company reach graduation at the same time. The Company commander has the authority to set someone back 2 weeks into a later company, based on how poorly you're performing. A set-back is a threat all during boot-camp, and we lost several guys. If you get set-back and still don't shape up, there is a "f***-up" company you can be sent to, and life there is far more miserable. Failing at that point is easy, and a less-than-honorable discharge is the result. I'm certain that many young men have been serverely damaged in that process. There is a testing day too, when we were given the Navy's well-accepted version of an intelligence test, which is used to help determine what kind of work you will go into. I have a record of those scores: GCT-73, ARI-63, Mech/Mat-55, Cler-48. Those scores alone qualify me for 2 levels above Mensa. Boot Camp lasts for only 9 weeks, but it seemed far longer. Virtually all activity is new to the recruits, and, for most, it is a total change of lifestyle. Being on a football team may be the only remotely comparable activity for most recruits. I went from being a college sophomore with a great deal of independence and respect to none of that. For me, the worst was being treated like a brainless robot, and I did hate it. Obey and conform are the lessons being taught. It's truthfully said that the military takes away all of your rights, then gives them back to you, one at a time, as privileges. When I look through the photos of the guys in my boot-camp company, every single one of the 73 graduating looks familiar, after all these years, and in spite of having been around them for such a short time. After graduation, each recruit gets orders to go somewhere for active duty... some to a variety of ships, others to one of the thousands of units all around the world. My assignment was to go all the way across town, to the Naval Amphibious Base... after getting 2 weeks off to go home. After boot camp graduation, I took the Santa Fe El Capitan back to Iowa. It was a grand train, with a formal dining car, observation car, and a very active bar car. This was the first of several such trips I would make. As the train approched the midwest in summer, I realized how incredibly green it is. San Diego has some green plants, but nothing like the marvelous deep green of Iowa. Naturally, my 2-week leave went by quickly. The highlight of that visit was meeting a bright and lovely high school girl named Georgia.	part of the Naval Training Center, 1958 I'm 4th from the left, learning how to lay line I'm on the right in this view Boot Camp Graduation day David Sparks, me, and Richard Clark
Naval Amphibious Base - Sept. 1958 to Feb. 1959 My assignment from boot camp was intentionally short, because there were already plans for me to attend Radioman school, so the Navy seemed to just give me temporary duty within the area. I was assigned to an Amphibious Group command, which was, I think, a small unit primarily to give our commander something to command. I don't recall his name, but he was a Commodore, the only one I've ever been aware of... an honorary title given during wartime, I think. This unit was large and active during WWII, and virtually all of the unit was killed. The unit task was to control Amphibious operations... beach landings... to coordinate. Reality was that we had very little to do. We had a truck with radio equipment, and a couple of jeeps, and we went on occasional exercises. The Amphibious base was on a strip of land running out from North Island... out past the world-famous Del Coronado hotel. The movie "Some Like It Hot" starring Marilyn Monroe, Tony Curtis, and Jack Lemmon, was filmed while I was stationed there. The Amphibious base also contained training facilities for UDT, (Underwater Demolition Teams, which eventually morphed into Seals) and their training regimen made our life seem luxurious... theirs was pure hell. UDT training is designed to make people drop out... only those willing and able to put up with anything will make it through... a small percentage of those who begin the training. The UDT survivors I've met are impressive... they all seem to be big, tough, tanned, athletic, and independent as hell. UDT is, or was, quite unique. Most people called them "Frogmen". Their duties during amphibious landings were to swim in ahead of the landing, do reconnaissance, clear mines, and secure the beach so the landings could be made. They are always the first ones to "hit the beach"... before the Marines or any others. During UDT training on the beach near the base, we could see them running obstacle courses through the sand, with live ammunition being fired over their heads. On the base there was a big pit with a rope strung across it, and trainees had to hand-over-hand across the pit (which was full of sewage). We also watched them doing calisthenics every morning. There were a couple of major events during my short with this unit. There was a huge amphibious exercise staged, up the California coast near the San Simeon castle built by Randolph Hearst. This was the largest exercise since WWII, and it was pretty impressive. Our Commodore was an umpire for the operation, meaning he was to judge the success of the landings and occupation. There were opposing forces, composed of Army Rangers. Actually, I don't know where the Commodore was during the exercise... I don't believe the rest of us even saw him. The three of us set up our radio truck on a point overlooking the landing beach, and, as usual, did very little except watch. We camped out there, and drove around some. Since we were neutral in the operation, one of the opposing Rangers stopped briefly at our camp on his way out onto the point. He was being chased by the invading forces. The point was only about 50 yards across at it's widest point, and when they came looking for the Ranger, there were enough men to stretch across the point, almost touching each other. They swept out to the point and back, and never found him. I don't know where he was hiding, but he evaded them. As near as I can recall, there were perhaps 50 boatloads of Marines that hit the beach during the attack, with maybe 50 men on each landing craft. Those boats... the ones you've seen in old movies with the front gate that flops down into the water... were loaded and dispatched from ships further out from the beach. Landing is tricky... the flat-bottomed craft skid up onto the beach, and it seems to be quite tricky to do that well... they often stop too far out and the men and vehicles step out into deep water... or they skid in too hard and then can't get back off the beach. There were a lot of both kinds of errors. Another guy and I went to Tijuana one evening. Tijuana was a wild place then. Mexico was involved in a sort of civil war, so U.S. military personnel were to be out of Mexico by midnight every night. There were always stories floating around about people who had been arrested in Tijuana, gone to jail, and were never heard from again. We did nothing of significance except go from bar to bar drinking, and watching the wildest floor shows imaginable. Nudity was only the beginning. We were trying to hit every bar on the main drag in the raunchy part of town, and we timed it well, with just enough time for a drink in the last bar before heading back to the border. Suddenly, the bar was raided by Tijuana police. We headed for the men's room to see if we could escape through a back door or window. No such luck. The police simply rounded up everyone in the bar and hauled all of us off to jail. All the stories we had heard came to mind again. My friend and I had a bright idea and stuck our money in our underwear. We were questioned briefly, searched, and stuck in a cell with a couple of local drunks. The jail was one big area, 2 stories, with cells around the outside and a 2-story open middle. On the 2nd floor, women were singing. We found out later that this is a nightly routine by the police… to gather extorted money. Obviously the women (bar girls) were used to it and made a sort of party of it. We were released the next morning, and returned to the base. Unfortunately, because of the restriction, we had been AWOL since midnight. Both of us received Captain’s Masts, and were probably restricted to base for a few days. The other major event that took place during that 6 months was personal and involved the girl I had met while on boot camp leave, in Iowa City... Georgia. She wrote to me a lot while I was at the Amphib base, and I was enthralled with her. As time went by, I missed her more and more. In spite of the easy duty, I was not at all happy being in the Navy. I hated being one of thousands of sailors in San Diego, and used to try to get away from sailors. I would change into civilian clothes for liberty, and look for places where there were no other sailors. I walked a lot, and I drank a lot. One night, after a drinking session, I took a cheap room in the Iowa hotel, a sleazy joint right in downtown San Diego. When I woke up the next morning, I was already late for returning to the base... meaning I was AWOL (absent without leave), a serious offense. I also had no money left... not even enough to get me back to the base. I was hung over, scared, depressed, frustrated, and lonely for Georgia and home. I started walking... in the opposite direction from the base. I walked out to the San Diego zoo and Balboa park, and then kept on walking. I walked all day and well through the evening until I came to a tiny town on the highway east of San Diego. By that time, I was committed to leaving... to going home. I was tired, dirty, and very cold. The desert is very cold at night. At a tiny whistle-stop, I went into a phone booth and was ready to sleep there, when a guy came out and offered me a place to sleep inside. He gave me a couple of blankets and I slept on the floor. The next morning I left, again walking east. This trek turned out to be a 3-day ordeal, during which I wore large holes in the soles of my shoes. There is a lot I don't remember, but I do remember getting some free food at a small lonely diner, and I remember getting a couple of rides, one from a guy who had worked at Boy's Town, and another from a couple of cowboys. I think I slept while I was in their cars. Eventually, I ended up in Tucson, Arizona, very hungry, filthy, and worn out. I searched out the Navy recruiting office and surrendered myself to them as an AWOL sailor. As I was to shortly discover, my trek was not unusual. I was taken to a nearby military base, which I later identified as Davis-Monthan Air Force Base. There didn't seem to be much activity at that base, but it was a graveyard for old military airplanes. I was put into a barracks with a bunch of other AWOL sailors... evidently the desert stops a lot of treks in Tucson. By this time, I figured that the rest of my life was ruined... probably a dishonorable discharge that would follow me forever. There were sailors with me who were far more desperate than I... guys that wanted out so badly that they would deliberately injure themselves. After perhaps 2 days, I was told that someone was coming to get me from the Amphibious base, and a small plane arrived. I have no recollection of the pilot/guard, but there were just the two of us. We flew back to San Diego and I ended up back in my unit, due for a Summary Court Martial. When I arrived back in my unit, there was a huge letter waiting, from Georgia. It really hurt to read that letter, because I thought I might never see her again. A Summary is serious... a General Court Martial is worse, but any court martial is serious business because the punishment is often "hard labor with confinement", the Navy's term for prison. I guess I got lucky... my punishment was "30 days hard labor without confinement", meaning that I would put in several hours each night doing extra work. My work was cleaning heads (bathrooms)... work that I actually didn't mind, but it was tiring, doing it after a regular day. I was lucky. Eventually, the 6 months passed... the court martial seemed to be forgotten, and there were some good times again, and it was time for me to attend Radioman School... back on the same base where I had boot camp.	Coronado Amphibious Base Me and a buddy San Simeon, CA
Radioman "A" School - Feb. 1959 to Aug. 1959 Hard to believe I spent 6 months in Radioman school, because I remember very little about it. School has always been a bore for me. I'm sure I reacted as usual, and coasted through with somewhat above-average grades. I recall that our instructor had spent a couple of years at the South Pole. We studied the concepts of radio transmission and reception, the hardware of transmitters and receivers, learned how to read wiring schematics, and do a little soldering. We learned the proper way of speaking on Naval radio transmissions, including the way to spell out words with the phoentic alphabet... alpha bravo charlie delta echo foxtrot golf hotel india juliet kilo mike november october papa quebec romeo sierra tango uniform victor whiskey xray zebra. The one part of Radioman training I enjoyed and applied myself to was Morse code learning and practicing. Morse code use is one of those activities that, once mastered, becomes automatic... your brain, without concious thought, instantly doing a translation and causing an action (writing or typing). It can be truly remarkable. Morse code can be heard and typed just about as fast as one can type. I think 20 words per minute was required, but I went far beyond that. As the automatic process of hearing and typing gets "on a roll", one becomes almost oblivious to it. I recall typing almost a full typed line behind what I was hearing. In fact, it can be helpful to be thinking about something else entirely. It makes little difference what the text is that is being transmitted... a sensible story or nonsensical code; it just comes in your ears and triggers your fingers. I graduated Radioman school and could then put the Radioman symbol on my uniforms. That gives a certain sense of identity lacking until that time... no longer just a seaman, but a Radioman. Graduation from a school means a new assignment, presumably to some unit that needs a radioman. Since the U.S. Navy has units all over the globe, new orders are eagerly anticipated... some want to get an assignment to a ship that will sail the seven seas... some want to see Europe, or the Mediterranean, or any number of other exotic places. My orders were less than exciting... after 3 assignments in the San Diego area, I was given yet another assignment there, on North Island, to some unit named Tacron 11 (Tactical Air Control Squadron). A SQUADRON... that sounds like it has some excitement... fighter planes, bombers... whatever.	The Radioman "Sparks" insignia Morse code standard code key
Tacron 11 - North Island What sounded like a unit that could have some exciting duties turned out to be anything but. A squadron with NO aircraft and, as it became obvious, with no apparent connection to aircraft. Truth is, I never did learn what Tacron 11 was intended to do. What we did was have a good time. I suspect there are a lot of units in the peacetime Navy with little to do except wait for a war and then fill a role. Later, several Tacrons were eliminated, then brought back when the need arose. It was only 15 years after the end of WWII, and a huge wartime Navy with more than enough to do was left with a lot of units and sailors with not nearly as much to do. The military does not downsize easily or quickly. Lots of careers depend on keeping units in operation. Commanders have to command something. Tacron 11 spent half of each year on North Island, and the other half on a Far East cruise. On North Island, we did little of significance except hang out. One of our squadron members was a genius at inventing games to play. His was the first version of what we would now call fantasy football. What I recall of it was very much like today's version, with lots of stats, updated each week, and trading of players. It was also the first time I played Battleship... perhaps he invented that too. During that time, I started to learn the Russian language, and organized "The Seekers", a little school presenting intellectual material. Both were interrupted by the annual cruise and never restarted. Tacron 11 was in a pleasant one-floor building of our own. I learned that nobody had ever been transferred out of Tacron 11 since the end of the war, so I was looking forward to spending the rest of my time in what seemed like country-club duty. Then came time for the cruise, eagerly anticipated. We departed up on the U.S.S. Cavalier, APA-37, an attack transport. It seemed big to me, but the size got continually smaller with time. Each of us was assigned to work with ship's company, doing whatever they do, so I became part of the radio shack crew. Our officers went to officer's quarters, and the enlisted men were sent to a hold deep within the ship for our quarters. These were quarters for troops during wartime. There were rows of bunks hung on chains from the overhead to the deck, with minimal space between bunks vertically and horizontally. In other words, there was a bunk right above your face, and someones feet just beyond the top of your head. Depending on which bunk you had, you climbed up and down. There was a small "recreation" area, meaning a sort of picnic table useful for playing cards, writing, etc. We had our own head, or toilet, with showers. The toilet itself was a long trough, perhaps 15 feet in length, with seats attached. One end was somewhat higher than the other (during normal weather) and water flowed from one end to the other, carrying one's deposits to the drain at the lower end. One never has great privacy in the military, but this facility provided none at all. I went to work in the radio shack, standing watches just as if I were ship's company, but returning between shifts to our all-steel barracks in the bowels of the ship. It was good to be able to work as a Radioman, although most communications were either voice or teletype rather than Morse. Radioman do enjoy sending and receiving morse code, though, so we would get on the radio and find someone to communicate with. It was then that I learned to use a "speed key" (Vibroflex semiautomatic) that, with practice, can produce faster code. Multiple dits or dots are generated by moving the key to the right and holding it for precisely the right amount of time. You can tell when someone sending you code is using a speed key... it is more fluid, and has a "swing" to it. Amazingly, you can come to recognize an operator's "fist"... his particular style of sending. I didn't have time to become really proficient at using a speed key, but I got close enough to appreciate the real artistry of a good operator. I was aboard ship for the first time, and I found that I loved being at sea. I enjoyed standing on deck and seeing nothing in any direction but sea. Because of the curvature of the earth, one can only see 20-25 miles at any time, so cruising from the U.S. to Japan provides a lot of empty sea views. Despite all the hubub of ship activity, the interaction of a ship with the sea, in calm waters, is very peaceful. At first one feels as if the ship is "conquering" this vast area. That feeling doesn't go away, but becomes tempered as one experiences the awesome power of the sea. Sailing IS a battle. Ships are marvelous at what they do, but the sea is always potentially more powerful than any ship. After some time aboard ship, settled into our little steel nest in the hold, word passed that the ship was picking up a UDT (underwater demolition team, or "frogmen"). I don't know how they got to our ship, or where they went later, but we were very aware of their presence, because they moved into our quarters. Suddenly we had several very large, tough-looking, tanned individuals who just sort of took over our space. UDT are part of the Navy, but were very independent. While they were aboard, there was no sign of a uniform or any indication of rank. I had seen what these guys had gone through in UDT training at the Amphibious base, and I had no problem giving them the space they wanted. After a few days, they were simply gone. Eventually, the word passed that we were approaching Japan. The Cavalier docked, and we had our first liberty since leaving San Diego. I wish I could tell you where we docked, but I had enough alcohol that night to just obliterate that information. At age 20 from a land in which the legal drinking age was 21, I wasn't very experienced. Later, we sailed on and docked at the Yokosuka Naval base, the major U.S. naval base in Japan. We of Tacron 11 were again transferred temporarily. I was assigned to work in the base communications center, and to live in base quarters. Yokosuka was essentially a Navy city, with businesses oriented to service naval personnel. I was surprised and embarrased to find that the local population so seriously deferred to us. Japanese are normally very polite and respectful, but their deferrance was stronger than that. They seemed to admire everything American. Perhaps that is a natural result of having been so seriously defeated in WWII. I would later learn that Yokosuka attracted the more desperate or ambitious Japanese, and there were many of those after the war. In the very large communications center, which was the hub of all communications in the Far East, I was assigned to sending out messages to the fleet, done by just loading paper tapes into feeders and sending them. All the messages I sent went out on one frequency, and I loaded one tape after another continuously. Once fed through, the message tapes just dropped into a bin for disposal. The transmitters there still used vacuum tube technology, and were so large that some tubes were large enough to walk into. My time in Yokosuka was very relaxed. I started hanging out evenings in a particular bar, with a couple of guys I don't remember at all. Japanese bar girls were very entertaining... and very attractive. One small girl could crush a beer can with one hand (cans were made of steel then), something that few men could do. Girls could take discarded cigarette packs and fold them into fascinating shapes... origami, but often creating practical items. Mostly, they were fun to be around. Soon, I found myself going home with one of the girls, a strange experience for a green 20-year-old from Iowa. She (Sue) lived in a small town maybe 40 miles from Yokosuka. She took me to board the "bullet train", an experience in itself. The train was uniquely efficient and fast transportation. You boarded quickly or there were young uniformed men whose job it is to push you on. The electric train accelerated and decelerated quickly, allowing it to make frequent stops and carry large numbers of passengers. The bullet train was far superior to anything in the U.S. We got off the train, about the 7th or 8th stop, and exited to a small town. After a short walk, we arrived at Sue's place, a nice Japanese house on a hill. In fact, it was a small duplex, and she introduced me to the young woman who occupied the other side. Each side was much like an efficiency apartment, with the emphasis on efficiency. The kitchen was especially tiny. I had my first encounter with a traditional Japanese toilet. Made of porcelain like ours, but set almost flush with the floor, requiring a squat that most adult Americans would find a real stretch. After looking for some way to flush the toilet and finding none, I heard why... my deposit was running down the hill outside, in an open trough. On my second visit to Sue's place, she took me to visit the town's hot bath. It wasn't what I expected. We were escorted in to bathe in water much too hot for me, and, to make it worse, with two young girls who were to help us get clean before entering the hot tub. The hot tub was the size of a small room, and already occupied by a Japanese family. It wasn't until then that I understood that it was a communal hot bath. Over the next few visits, I learned something of the story of these two particular girls. Sue told me, reluctantly, that her father was a high-ranking Japanese officer, meaning that her family was very proud. She had gotten pregnant as a young girl, and was banished from the family in shame. The other girl was from Hiroshima. Obviously, she wasn't there when the A-bomb was dropped, but the rest of her family was, making her an orphan of the war. On Easter Sunday, 1960, I hopped on the bullet train and went to Tokyo, alone, a move that seems adventurous in retrospect. I hired a pedicab (like a rickshaw, but with a bicycle front-end) and told the driver to show me Tokyo. That he did, weaving us precariously through very heavy downtown traffic. I had him go to the Imperial Hotel and leave me there. I wanted to see Frank Lloyd Wright's design, and spent some time wandering around there. I bought a ticket on a Gray Line tour that evening, which turned out to be great. The group of 20 or so on the tour were from all over the world. One stop we made was at a large Tokyo bar, where we got a view of what Japanese men do with their evenings. At that time, it was acceptable for a Japanese man to have a mistress and to spend time partying. Bars such as this catered to that clientele. Later, we had reservations at a geisha house, and I learned that geishas are not prostitutes, but highly trained, highly paid entertainers. In their elaborate costumes, they sing and play instruments, and carry on intelligent conversations with guests. In the traditional Japanese setting, it's an enjoyable experience. I enjoyed my few visits to Sue's tiny place in the small town. The Japanese have a real talent for making the most of what they have, treating it with respect, and enjoying it. One day, Sue told me that the Cavalier was leaving Yokosuka. Now, Japanese civilians were not supposed to know ship movements, but they always did, and usually before the sailors did. She was right, and Tacron 11 returned to the Cavalier. I know that Sue, and many other girls, would soon have another sailor from another ship, to take my place. It's a matter of careful scheduling. When we moved back aboard the Cavalier, I knew we were headed for Hong Kong, but there was plenty of excitement before arriving there. Our first stop was at Okinawa, where there have long been U.S. bases. The first evening, the Cavalier found out there was a typhoon headed our way, and left port for safety. I was on watch in the radio room when the typhoon reached us. We sat on sturdy steel chairs to work, and the ship was heaving up and down so much that we had to hang on to keep the chairs from tipping over. I went out on the small deck to watch. Looking forward, I was shocked to watch the bow of the ship bury in the seas until the whole front half of the main deck was underwater, and then thrilled to watch it rise back up, only to bury again. I was soaked from the spray, but the experience was awesome. I remember us passing by the coast of Taiwan, and then continuing on to Hong Kong. Hong Kong at that time was in the control of the British, and mainland China was a huge, quiet enemy. Even in 1960, Hong Kong was an amazing place... crowded, with seemingly every resident an entreprenuer. Bars, stores, street vendors, sidewalk hustlers, all trying to sell us something. We went to one large market where many vendors have booths. Hong Kong was a great place to buy almost anything, from tailored clothing to china, jewelry, or just about anything else you can imagine. I bought a star sapphire ring and was fitted for a sport coat, which I picked up the next day. I would have bought much more, and had it shipped back to Iowa, but Tacron 11 always returned to the Far East every year, so I decided to just enjoy the first trip and do serious buying on the next trip... a procrastination that didn't work out. Back aboard the Cavalier, we headed back to Yokosuka, where we transferred to the U.S.S. Ranger, CVA-63, at that time as large as aircraft carriers came. Everything about a carrier is impressive. The main deck is like a football field. The elevators that carry planes between the hangar deck and the main deck are each large enough to carry any plane used by the Navy. Below decks, it was very easy to get lost. Meals were available 24 hours/day and several snack shops were also open around the clock. There were several shops that sold nothing but cigarettes. The Ranger had it's own TV station, radio station, and newspaper. I stood watches in the radio shack, which was right under the main deck. The sound of the steam catapult just above us, thrusting airplanes to takeoff speed in a couple of seconds was at first startling, but soon became normal background noise. It gave us an incentive to keep our headphones on. Our quarters were modern, still cramped, but each bunk was separated from the next man. We had nothing but good weather on the way back to California, but I'm not sure I would have noticed anyway. The ship is so big that you're not even aware that you're at sea... no noticeable movement, and only the slightest vibration from the engines. The trip was uneventful. For some reason, when we returned to North Island, we moved into different office quarters, on the 2nd floor of a building near the 9-hole base golf course. That location, and with little to do, meant that I played golf regularly. About the only duty I had was copying the log book to make it neater. Each duty officer made an entry, usually messy, and signed for his shift. I had a duplicate book that I copied entries into. I should have gotten each officer to sign the duplicate book, but it was easier to sign for them. I became expert at duplicating signatures. I doubt that the officers could have told whether they signed it or not. One very rude day, 3 of us got orders... completely unexpectedly. My orders read "Midway Island". I don't think I'd ever heard of Midway, and I certainly had no idea where the hell it was, or what to expect. My return to the Far East was not to be, replaced by something mysterious.	North Island U.S.S. Cavalier, APA-37 speed key Teletype paper tape, widely used for communication at that time Me in Tokyo 1960 Gray Line tour photo (me peeking from the back right) The U.S.S. Ranger, CVA-63
Midway Island... June 1961 to May 1962 Perhaps because moving is such a confusing event, I remember very little about arriving at Midway. I remember that the flight to Honolulu seemed like an eternity in a prop plane. I remember the view of Hawaii from the air was especially gorgeous. I boarded a flight from Oahu to Midway on a small commercial airliner. My memory of arriving on Midway is of seeing the signpost all arriving people see... that shows the direction and surprisingly large number of miles to all of the places nearest to Midway... they are all a long ways away. Midway is in the middle of the Pacific ocean... the most westerly island in the Hawaiian chain. To my knowledge, Midway has never had a native population. Midway is actually a coral atoll with 2 islands within it. The largest island is only a little over a mile long, and much narrower in the other direction. The smaller island is quite small. I just realized that, during the year I was there, I was never on the smaller island, because it was a secured area, consisting of a radio listening post, monitoring all frequencies. The history of Midway is pretty remarkable for something so small and otherwise insignificant. Pan-American Airways used Midway as a refueling spot for their remarkable cross-Pacific flights in the Clipper planes. Midway was also used during the laying of the Trans-Pacific cable line. At some point in time, Midway became a U.S. Naval Station, strategic because of it's centralized location in the Pacific. During World War II, the Battle of Midway was the turning point toward U.S. victory over Japan. Midway was bombed and strafed by Japanese planes during that battle, and the major carrier-based sea battles were waged nearby. That battle followed not long after Pearl Harbor, and, had the Japanese won, would have all but destroyed the rest of the U.S. Pacific fleet, leaving Hawaii, and eventually, the western U.S. coast, easy pickings for the enemy. Perhaps my original, clear memory is being met by guys from the radio shack unit, and being asked if I played softball. I answered yes, and was immediately accepted. The radio shack was actually a concrete blockhouse with walls 3 feet or more thick, with a wooden superstructure... a little flat-top house... on top of it. I actually didn't work as a radioman for very long. During that time, we naturally worked shifts around the clock. In the barracks, a game of Euchre operated continually, with the players changing as the shifts changed. I did play softball on the radio shack team, but not for long. I may have pitched a couple of games. For some reason, I was temporarily transferred to work as a Master-at-Arms... and that temporary duty lasted until I left Midway. At first, I ran prisoner work crews doing clean-up work outdoors. Other MAA duties included manning the office, in the front of the main barracks building, and supervising barracks cleaning crews. Working as a Master-at-Arms is not a pleasant job, unless you enjoy weilding power. I had to work patrol shifts, walking around the island, making sure that sailors were in proper uniform, not violating any regulations, or settling disputes. We were naturally not well liked. In the MAA office, we played a lot of Acey-Duecy, sort of a Navy version of backgammon. As I said, Midway had no native human population; it was all Navy, and a real mixed bag of Navy personnel. A large portion of the island was runway and hangars, manned by a substantial roster of "airdales"... Naval air personnel. Midway was the southern end of the famous DEW line (Distant Early Warning), the northern end being in Alaska. Navy Super Constellations with huge radar domes flew between Midway and Adak constantly, watching and listening for any encroachment toward the U.S. Midway had a downtown area, with a store, post office, barbershop, base offices, movie theater, and Enlisted and Officer clubs. This part of the base was manned by "regular" Navy personnel, each having been assigned there for a year. At the opposite end of the island from the airdales was a set of barracks occupied by a "MOB", officially known as a Mobile Construction battalion, commonly known as Seabees. A MOB was assigned to Midway during most of each year... a different MOB each year. Like many sailors at Midway, these construction workers didn't have a lot to do. Our barracks was centrally located, attached to the Mess Hall where everyone ate... near the downtown area. Across the street from our barracks was a tiny little frame building that was the base library. To the west from our barracks was a large open field that was the primary residence of Midway's non-human native population... the Gooney birds (Laysan Albatrosses). If you have ever seen movies of large gull-like birds trying very hard to take off and land, and failing, you have seen Gooneys. The Gooneys nested all over this large field (and in almost every other location as well). They are very large sea birds, an adult weighing perhaps 35 pounds, with an amazing wingspread of about 7 feet. Being built for gliding, those long wings make it difficult for them to get airborne and to land. They actually had their own runway... a strip where the wind is strong, to assist them in takeoff and landing. Actually, if there is significant, steady wind, they performed quite well. I was fascinated by them (what else was there to be fascinated with) and spent many hours sitting in their midst, on their runway, photographing them. Midway was a U.S. Federal game preserve, meaning that all birds were protected by law. Part of our job as MAA's was trying to catch sailors killing or otherwise harming Gooneys. That was a frequent occurrence; there was a lot of drinking at Midway, a lot of frustration, and the birds could be annoying at times. They really were everywhere, and if you walked too close to one, you might get a serious bite. They also had a nasty habit of throwing up if they got too excited. At their best, Gooneys are really beautiful birds, and impressive when airborne. Those long wings allowed them to glide for great distances like hang-gliders. The relationship between the Navy and the Gooneys was a very serious one. 35-pound birds flying all over Midway were a deadly danger to planes... even having caused fatalities. Hitting a gooney could destroy propellers, crash through a cockpit, or rip off a radar dome. The Navy had tried many things to coax the Gooneys off of Midway. They modified another island, trying to make it ideal for the birds, including building them a runway, then transplanted them. They came back. They played recordings through loudspeakers alongside the runway, sounds that were supposed to frighten them. They actually gathered around the loudspeakers to listen. There were a great many other birds as well... Boatswains, who can hover and actually fly backwards a bit, but who have very minimal legs and really can't walk on land. My favorites were the fairy terns... beautiful little white birds. There were also Boobies, so named because their eyes were right alongside their beak. They looked normal from the side, but looked like cartoons from the front. There were two kind of albatrosses... there was a minority population of dark gray gooneys, almost black. Other than color, they seemed to be identical to the mostly white ones. The usual tour of duty at Midway was one year, a long time away from civilization. To make that isolation even worse for some of us, there was a sizable group of families present... wives and children of officers stationed there. To most sailors, being able to see women and girls but not even talk to them was probably worse than being completely isolated. Midway had it's own school system... elementary and high school, for these dependents, located in the very nice residential area for officers. There was also a large church in that neighborhood. There were also row-house-style quarters for married enlisted men and their families. Undoubtedly the best duty I had at Midway was running the Transient Hotel. This was a 2-story building located in the trees near the airfield, and it's primary use was to provide living space for civilians whenever a MATS flight had to stay overnight at Midway because of mechanical problems. I had my own quarters in the hotel... very nice quarters indeed, with a fully-furnished room... couch, chairs, tables, and my own 2nd floor deck. I managed prisoner cleaning crews to keep the hotel clean and furnished with clean linen. One part of the cleaning I did myself because I enjoyed it... waxing and buffing the long hallways. Whenever a flight was to be laid over, I would receive a phone call... sometimes in the middle of the night. My first job was to distribute the passengers from the plane to various sleeping quarters... enlisted men to enlisted barracks, officers to the BOQ (Bachelor Officer Quarters), and civilians to my hotel. I was provided with a bus and driver, and we would deliver everyone and settle them in. There were usually about 50 people to be housed. If this occurred during the daytime, I would give them a verbal description of the island as we traveled about. As I did a good job of maintaining the hotel, and few flights had trouble, I had considerable free time while on this duty. From my deck, I had a view, through the trees, of the nearby runway. One night, I was awakened by a very loud roar. Although it sounded like an airplane, it didn't sound like any I had heard before. The next day, I found out that Midway sometimes had U2 spy planes present. Soon I had the chance to watch one of them take off... an impressive sight indeed. The U2 had extremely long, slender wings that drooped when stopped or moving slowly. The takeoff was extremely fast, and once airborne, the plane shot almost straight up. The U2 was best described as a glider with a jet engine, with some space for a pilot. I was fascinated by it, and, while watching it from my hotel deck, I decided to take a few photos. I may have known that it was against regulations to do so, but I had seen photos of the U2 in books at the base library, and supposed that, from that distance, it wouldn't be a problem. I was wrong. There were security guards around the plane, and they must have seen a light reflection from my lens, because they spotted me through the trees and ran over to me, confiscated my camera, and reported me. I was brought up on a Captain's Mast, meaning a hearing before the base commander. I explained that I had seen photos of the U2 in Jane's Fighting Planes, which angered him. He asked me if I thought I was some kind of sea lawyer. I was given 30 days hard labor without confinement, but I don't remember doing any kind of special work. Maybe they thought what I was doing was already punishment enough. Oddly enough, there was one other person up on the same charges that day... another MAA. That's probably what made the Captain most angry, that both of us were supposed to be enforcing regulations, not breaking them. People were somewhat crazy at Midway. Fights were not unusual, especially around the Enlisted Men's club. There was another group of law enforcement men... MP's (Military Police), who ran the base jail and also patrolled. While I was stationed there, one young man drowned, evidently after having gotten drunk on wood alcohol. Since there were 3 distinct kinds of sailors on Midway... regular Navy, Seabees, and Airdales, there was always some "bad blood", especially between the Seabees and Airdales. I was on duty in the MAA office on the night of New Year's Eve. After the Enlisted Men's club closed, the Airdales had to walk past our office to get to their end of the island. This night, they were followed by a taunting group of CB's, and a fight broke out right in front of our office. There were two of us on duty at the time, armed only with nightsticks, and there were about 30 guys fighting in front. My partner walked out of the barracks door and took about one more step and was flattened by a punch. I walked out next and a guy swung at me. I stuck out my open hand and caught his fist... and he fell over backwards. He must have been pretty drunk. It was then that I noticed a Seabea officer, sitting in a jeep out front, just watching the fight. Soon, he called off his men, and the area cleared out. There was a brighter side of Midway as well. The island was surrounded by beautiful white sand beaches, and the water inside the atoll was clear and light aqua in color. Beyond the reef, the ocean water was dark blue. The base had a deep-sea fishing boat. There were no private motorized vehicles allowed on Midway... just a few jeeps and official cars. We all had bicycles, and being our only and constant transportation, bikes were important. Surprisingly, girls' bikes were greatly favored, being far easier to mount and dismount. Bike auctions were held regularly, since nobody took their bike with them when they left. Customization of bikes was also common. I recall one that must have been 10 feet tall. Exploring Midway could be interesting too, even though there wasn't much territory. The beaches were honeycombed with tunnels left over from the war. There were a couple of half-sunk boats in the lagoon, from WWII. There was also a large single pier, so that ships could dock, and we had regular visits from transport ships, usually from Japan, bringing goods to sell at the base store. While there, I bought a stereo and several records, and 2 cameras... a great Polaroid and an equally great Kodak Retina Reflex S 35MM. While I worked in the radio shack, the late-night watches involved very little in the way of duties, and I sometimes wrote letters home. I would type the letter on a Teletype machine, creating a punched paper tape at the same time. This would allow me to run the tape back through and type out a fresh copy, or to stop the tape to make corrections or additions. We normally used that Teletype to transmit messages to another base on Oahu. There was a simple switch to either use the machine locally or to transmit to Hawaii. One night, we got a voice message from Oahu saying that they enjoyed reading the letter to my mother, but that I should reserve transmissions for Navy business. I had had the switch in the wrong position. We had radios that could pick up commercial radio from Hawaii, and I clearly remember enjoying listening to Mel Brooks' 2000-year-old man broadcasts. One of the major events of that year was a typhoon... certainly the most awesome display of nature I've ever seen... rain so heavy you could only see about 50 feet, and wind so strong that the rain was almost horizontal. I had no idea that palm trees could bend so far over. It did no serious damage, so it was fun to watch it. It didn't take close to a year to explore all of Midway's possibilities, nor to get thoroughly tired of it. Looking back on that year, though, it seems idylic. I suspect that the reenlistment rate from Midway was close to zero, but, in retrospect, it was an interesting year. Sailors who had their families with them at Midway enjoyed the duty, so much so that the Navy had to put a 10-year limit on staying there. I've since communicated with many people who were stationed at Midway. Those who were children there loved it, and I've even heard from one person who was born there.	Midway from the air Midway, a satellite image The Communications bunker An albatross about to crash-land... into me. For many more photos of Midway, see my Midway web pages.
On the way out As I neared the end of my year at Midway, some people were having their discharged dates extended. Luckily, I wasn't one of them. In fact, for some unknown reason, I left a bit early, headed for San Francisco to be discharged. Getting on that outgoing plane, then looking over Midway from the air was a thoroughly delightful experience. I was glad to be leaving Midway, but even more pleased at becoming a civilian again. I was offered a chance to reenlist, and declined with little or no consideration. With a flight to Honolulu and then on to San Francisco, I checked in at the Naval Station on Treasure Island in San Francisco bay. There began about a week of mostly waiting, menial duties, and tests. I did get to see some of San Francisco. I remember going to a place called Big Al's, that had some gorgeous strippers. Of course, after a year at Midway, almost any woman might have seemed gorgeous. I filled out forms, and had a final physical. They took what seemed like a gallon of my blood. It felt like it was their last chance to drain me and they weren't going to miss it. Eventually, THE day came, and I was FREE! You might think that I would describe all the details of my long-awaited CIVILIAN trip back to Iowa. I wish I could, but, for some reason, I don't remember it at all... not even whether I flew back or took the train. It seems odd, but that's the way it is.