26 January 2022

Welcome To The Jungle - Part Three (Apprentice Training)

HALFWAY DONE WITH TRAINING.  IT'S NAVY SCHOOL TIME...

SR HJ Peterson, RTC/NTC San Diego, 1988

CHAPTER EIGHT:  WELCOME TO SEAMAN APPRENTICE TRAINING

As part of my enlistment under the Sea College Program, I was not allowed to go to a full “A” school to be trained in a specialized skill like electronics, or radio operation or being an engineman.  Since they were only getting two years of active duty out of all us Sea College guys, they sent us to what was called “Apprentice Training”.  Basically, this is where they sent all of the guys who were too dumb to qualify for an “A” School.  The minimum score on the ASVAB to get into the military was a 35 – and some of the guys in Apprentice Training had taken the thing three or four times just to score that!  The majority of the Sea College enlistees (you had to score a minimum of 65 to be considered) were in the 80’s and 90’s on the ASVAB.  Our (the Sea College enlistees) guess was, that if the Navy was going to give away that much money for our school, then they were damn sure gonna make us pay for it, by giving us the worst jobs the Navy had to offer!

Apprentice Training was divided into three parts – Airman, Fireman and Seaman Training.  Airmen apprentices ended up on aircraft carries and at air stations where they cleaned airplanes and learned how to attach bombs and missiles.  Firemen apprentices ended up in the bilges and engine rooms of every ship in the Navy, where they sweated to death in deafeningly noisy spaces while covered in oil and grease, and breathing diesel fumes 24/7.  Seamen apprentices, like me, were sent to ships all across the fleet to chip paint, bust rust, swab decks, and live with one hand permanently curved around a paint brush.  We were the lowest of the low – the blue-collar sailor’s sailor.  As a seaman apprentice, the worst duty was to be sent to a ship in the Amphibious Fleet.  The Amphibious Fleet (or “Gator Navy” as it was affectionately known) was made up of the ships that carried the Marines everywhere, and were directly involved in the beach assaults.  The reason Gators were so bad for deck sailors was that everything on the ship was the responsibility of the Deck Department.  Unlike aircraft carriers or destroyers, which had large operations departments and aviation departments, on Gators, the deck sailors ruled the roost.  The Gators were also known for their hard-living crews and their rough and tumble duty assignments.  These facts were unknown to any of us at the start of Seaman Apprentice Training.

The Seaman Apprentice Training compound at RTC in San Diego was located in the far Southwest corner of the base – as far away from everyone else as you could get.  We didn’t fully grasp this seemingly inconsequential happenstance until after we made it out to the fleet, but the message was clear  - keep these guys away from the “smart kids”!  They put us up in a set of barracks across from the boot camp chow hall.  The barracks were very similar to the ones we’d just gotten out of, with the exception of the stand-up lockers by every bunk.  And instead of single beds, there were bunk beds for everyone.  The biggest change was the fact that in the Apprentice Training barracks, there were DOORS on the stalls in the bathroom!  No longer did we have to look at some other guy on the pot across from us while we were attending to our business.  The loss of all privacy in boot camp was probably the most difficult thing to deal with.  Now, in Apprentice Training, they gave us back a small amount of our privacy.  We were still living in a room with 100 other guys, but we had our own lockers, and we could crap in peace!

I learned a lot in Apprentice Training – mainly that the drinking age on base in San Diego was 18, and that I liked to drink.  I also learned that drinking led to puking, which led to passing out, which let to hangovers, which led to really long and difficult days in a stuffy classroom!  I spent the entire month of training trying to find a way to avoid this progression of events, but no matter how hard I tried to skip one of the steps, they all seemed to find me eventually. 

My class in Apprentice Training was made up of sailors from all over.  We had guys who had gone to basic in Orlando, Chicago AND San Diego.  I was the only one from San Diego Company 148 in Seaman Apprentice Training, although there were a couple of the other guys in Fireman and Airman training in the building next to us.  Our Seaman Apprentice Training class also had a few guys who had flunked out of “A” schools in San Diego, and in the Navy, when you flunk out, they don’t send you home, they send you directly to Apprentice Training – do not pass “Go”, do not collect $200.00.


CHAPTER NINE:  TRAINING IN EARNEST

The Seaman Apprentice Training experience was interesting, to say the least.  The very first thing we learned about training was that we no longer had to eat in the boot camp chow hall.  Now, we were sent to the other side of the building to the official NTC Galley.  NTC stood for Naval Training Command, as opposed to RTC, which was the Recruit Training Command.  We had moved to a new command at the same base, and NTC sailors were allowed to eat in the galley.  The galley seemed like a four-star restaurant to us then.  It was basically just a big cafeteria, but there were choices for meals – different entrees and a salad bar!  Even a choice of deserts and – hold me still – SODA POP!  There were also other places around the base we could eat – the bowling alley, the base club, a pizza restaurant and a little deli by the uniform shop. Oh yeah – and McDonald’s!    We didn’t have enough time during our lunch break to go to any of these, but the Galley was more than satisfactory to us.  You never heard the Apprentice Training guys complain about the food at the Galley.  Some of the “A” school guys who had been there for six months grumbled about it, but not us.

In addition to being able to eat in the Galley, we were also free to roam the base after our class hours.  We normally got out of class around 3pm, and our curfew on weeknights was 9pm.  That gave us 6 hours of free time a day to do what we wanted.  We weren’t allowed to leave base until Friday night, but since the drinking age at NTC was 18, none of us minded a whole lot.  Our typical evening schedule was: get out of class at 3 and go back to the barracks to change out of our dungarees, and into our dress uniforms.  You weren’t allowed to go to the bowling alley or the base club in dungarees so it was dress uniforms only (usually our “tropical” working white uniforms).  Once we had changed, we would normally go over to the Bowling Alley, where we sat in the bar and ordered a couple of pitchers of beer.  We sat there and drank until the base club opened at 5, then we headed over to the club.  We would sit and drink until about 5 minutes to 9, then make a mad, drunken dash back to our barracks before curfew.  This was our routine four nights a week, with the exception of our duty night once every third night when we had to stay at the barracks and stand watch and clean.  After a few nights of drinking and raising Hell, you actually looked forward to those duty nights when you were forced to get a good night’s sleep and eat something decent.  Everyone, that is, except me.  I soon found out there were benefits to being one of the smart kids.

We no longer had a Company Commander, we now had a Chief Instructor.  The instructor for my class was a Second Class Signalman – SM2 Cadey.  SM2 Cadey was fresh from the fleet, and had never taught a class in anything before.  He was lost as to what he was doing, and told us straight out that he didn’t know anything about being a deck seaman.  What he did know was that the Navy had given him this plum shore duty assignment, and he wasn’t about to screw it up with his own incompetence.  The first day of class, he walked in and introduced himself.  He asked if any of us had been an RCPO in boot camp.  Not surprisingly, no one raised their hand. 

“Anyone an ACPO ?” again, no takers.  Finally, he said, “Okay – was anyone a Yeoman?”

 Finally, one guy raised his hand.  “Good – you’re the class RCPO.  Make sure they all get to class on time and march straight.  Now – who was an EPO ?” 

The kid he had just elected as the RCPO was a black kid from Louisiana who wanted no part of being in charge.  He told us later that he had lied about being a Yeoman in boot camp, because he thought he might get some extra liberty or something if he volunteered.  He needn’t have worried, however, because SM2 Cadey’s worst decision of all was about a week away, and we would have a new RCPO to take his place.

Against my better judgment, I admitted to having been my boot camp company’s EPO. 

“Good” he said, “Come see me after class.” 

SM2 Cadey then opened the large Naval Training Manual he had been issued for the class, and tried to make sense of the first chapter.  About all he managed to do was confuse the Hell out of all of us.  It was painfully obvious to us all that he had no idea what he was talking about.  Thankfully, it was soon lunchtime.  We all marched over to the Galley and ate.  Our lunchtime conversation centered around whether or not we were going to learn anything during the month we were here.  The odds were running about 100 to 1 against as we formed up and marched back to the classroom building.  Once back in our seats, we realized that SM2 was nowhere to be found.  He was fifteen minutes late from lunch, and the natives were getting restless, so I walked up to the front of the class, and opened the training manual.  I was more than halfway through Chapter 2 when SM2 sauntered in.  He had a big Jack-In-The-Box soda in his hand, and ketchup stains on his uniform. 

“What the Hell are you doing, Peterson?” 

“Well sir, you weren’t here, and we were ready to go, so we started without you”. 

“Oh…well…keep it up.  I’ll be in the lounge if you need me.” 

And with that, he turned and left.  This was the last day he would teach our class, and the first day of my newfound career as a Naval Instructor.

After class that day, I went and found SM2 in the instructor’s lounge. 

“You wanted to see me, sir?” 

“Yeah Peterson – good job today.  Here’s what I need you to do…”

 And with that, he gave me the instructor’s manual and the A/V teaching aids.  He then gave me the class schedules and the instructor’s study guides.  THEN he gave me a list of ten names. 

“These” he told me “are our Red Flags” 

“Red Flags?” I asked. 

“Yeah – these are all the guys who flunked out of boot camp testing and got sent here instead of their “A” school.  These are the guys we need to keep an eye on.” 

I kind of stammered and said “Me?  Are you sure?” 

“Well okay – here’s what I’ll do for you.  You hold a special study session for these guys every night after class for an hour or so, and I’ll recommend you for a promotion to E-2, AND take you off the duty list.  No duty for the whole month – how’s that sound ?” 

“Great – I’ll do it”. 

And with that, I became the lead instructor for my Seaman Apprentice Training class.

The first week went okay – no big problems.  SM2 would show up in the mornings to make sure everyone was there, then turn it over to me for the teaching part.  We had classes all day for four days, then a test on Friday.  The results of this test were what determined if we would graduate or not.  SM2 had told me that his goal was to have the class with the highest weekly test average in the entire school.  He told me he had a plan to get it done, but I knew our class – there was no way possible.  These guys weren’t exactly the cream of the crop.  “One taco short of a combo plate” was the phrase that came to mind first. 

Suddenly, it was Friday, and time for our first test.  I had been up all night with worried guys, trying to cram as much information into them as I could.  SM2 had informed the class that anyone who failed the tests would be set back a week, and have to start all over again – and they believed him.  So there we sat – Friday morning before our first weekend liberty, and worried about our first big test.  I sat at my desk, and SM2 came walking in with the stack of test papers and answer sheets. 

“Alright” he said, “I’m not allowed to read the test to you as you take it, but here’s what I’ll do.  Peterson – pass out these tests, but not the answer sheets.”

I passed them out.

“Okay, now open your books, and follow me.”

With that, he proceeded to read every one of the 50 questions, and give us the correct answers.  As soon as he had done this, he passed out the answer sheets and left the room.  Answers were passed back and forth, as we read through the test and colored in all the answer squares he’d just told us to.  When we were done, I collected all the tests and test books, and called SM2 into the room. 

“Okay – you guys go take a Coke and Smoke (coffee break), and me and Pete here will go grade ‘em”. 

The guys all walked outside while SM2 and I headed for the computer grader in the lounge.  It took us about five minutes to run the tests through the machine.  When it had spit out all of the graded sheets, it printed out the results page.  88%.  That was our collective score as a class.  I was dumbfounded – how in the Hell could we only get 88% on a test that he had given us the answers to?  Then I analyzed the results by person.  I was the only person who had scored a 100!  There were actually three guys who had flunked the damn thing!  I couldn’t believe it!  But the most unbelievable thing was that SM2 was ecstatic –

“Holy Shit!  Can you believe this?  We scored 88%!  That’s the highest test score any class in this building has had this month!  WhooHaaa!”

 It was at this point I realized that I was in for a really, really long two years. 

When we had returned to the classroom with the results of our test, SM2 gave everyone the rest of the day off.  Everyone, that is, except the three guys who had flunked the test and me. 

“Peterson – you go over the test answers with these guys again, and when they’re ready, give them the test over!”. 

With that, he left the room and left me alone in the room with three very angry guys who didn’t get to go have a drink with the rest of their friends. 

“Don’t worry guys – let’s just take the test, and I’ll give you the answers as we go.” 

They all agreed, and over the next hour, we finished the tests and I had them graded.  All of them passed – with none of them getting over an 85 %.  Scary.  I reran the tests through the machine, and it upped our collective score to almost 90%.  SM2 thanked me, and turned us loose for the weekend. 

“See ya Monday, Pete” 

“Yeah, see you Monday, sir.”. 

With that, we were off for our first weekend of San Diego liberty.


CHAPTER TEN:  WEEKEND LIBERTY

Apprentice Trainees, unlike “A” school students, were not allowed to leave the base on weeknights, and on weekends, when we were allowed to leave, we had to be in uniform – no “civvies” for us.  There were several sailor traps right outside the base like tattoo parlors and fruit-juice only strip bars with a $20 cover charge.  Some of the guys went right for these, while the rest of us found the city bus system and headed downtown to Horton Street Plaza.  It was here that I saw hard drugs for the first time in my life. 

I had met up with one of my Company 148 friends who was in Fireman Apprentice Training in the barracks next to mine.  Sam Paugh was one of the guys I had come from Denver with, and he and I got along pretty well.  The two of us teamed up, and headed out for the “big city” of San Diego together. 

The bus picked us up in front of the base club late Friday afternoon, and the two of us watched the city go by out the window as we headed for the heart of downtown “San Dog”.  By the time we got to the stop at Horton Plaza, Sam and I were ready to go – so much to see, so much to do.  As we stepped off the bus, there were bums and street people everywhere.  One of the bums came up to Sam and said,

“Hey brother, you got two dollars for a gizzard dinner?” 

Sam looked at the man and said, “Sorry man, I’m broke” 

To which the bum immediately retorted, “It’s okay man – I got some glue, I can fix you!!” 

We weren’t quite sure what to make of the comment when suddenly I felt a tug at my sleeve.  I looked down, and sitting on the park bench in front of me was another homeless guy.  In his hand, he had a sandwich bag with some kind of white powder in it. 

“Hey sailor…dope?” 

I couldn’t believe what I was seeing – here was a guy sitting in the middle of a city park trying to sell be a bag of dope.  The sheltered, inexperienced virgin from Wyoming that I was, suddenly began to see that it was a big, scary world, and I was right in the middle of it.

Sam and I spent that first weekend discovering San Diego - learning how we could find transportation and how to get around our other restrictions.  The first thing we figured out was that there were department stores in the mall, and you could buy civilian clothes there.  We then learned that you could rent a locker in the YMCA for a couple of bucks a week and stash your uniform there while you ran around town in your civvies.  So that’s exactly what we did.  Once in “normal” clothes, we checked out the shops and tattoo parlors of Broadway street.  Sam decided to get a Mighty Mouse tattoo, so we went off in search of a reputable parlor to get him tattooed.  After walking through three or four shops, our search for “reputable” became a search for “not disgusting”, and we settled on one with a gruff, angry and half-drunk operator and decided that this was the place. 

Sam sat right down in the chair and rolled up his sleeve.    I had never seen anyone get a tattoo before, and was actually thinking about getting one myself.  Until I saw the needle gun.  It was louder than I imagined it would be, and the look on Sam’s face told me that it didn’t exactly tickle.  The guy giving the tattoo kept cussing about us “damn sailors” and how we were “ruining his shop by running out all the good customers”.  Funny thing was, during the hour we were there, I never saw another person come in to his shop.  His attitude, coupled with his “Hell yes it hurts!” T-shirt almost made up my mind not to get a tattoo that night.  But what finally clinched my decision was seeing Sam’s finished result.  Sam’s Mighty Mouse ended up distorted and cross-eyed.  It looked more like Marty Moose than Mighty Mouse.  Sam and I just kind of looked at each other, Sam paid the man and we walked out.  So much for getting my first tattoo. We went back to the YMCA, put our civvies in our lockers, ate a burger at the YMCA Grill, then got back on the bus for NTC.  We had planned to go to Sea World the next day, so it was time to get some rest.

San Diego was actually very “sailor-friendly”.  Most tourist attractions, like Sea World or the San Diego Zoo, would give great discounts to anyone in uniform.  The zoo actually let all of us in uniform in for free.  I tried to take advantage of all of this.  I went to Sea World a couple of times and to the zoo a couple of times.  We also went to the planetarium, Seaport Village, Figueroa Park, The Old Mission and to the beach several times.  For all of our big talk, there weren’t many of us that actually made the trip down to Tijuana.  It was a long trolley ride from Broadway street down to the border, and the threat of getting caught was a little too great for most of us.  We heard stories from guys who had been down there, but most of us weren’t willing to take the risk – at least not this far away from graduation!  For the most part, weekend liberty was a lot of fun.  We didn’t do anything too crazy, and got to see a lot of the city.  Most of the guys were just like me – small town boys from middle America.  It was a new experience for us all, and we thoroughly enjoyed it.


CHAPTER ELEVEN: BELLA POBLATE AND HOW I DISCOVERED BOOZE

Monday morning after our first liberty weekend came way too quickly for most of us.  Weekend liberty had been a blast, and we had taken great care to tell the guys who had pulled weekend duty all about how much fun we’d had.  Weekend duty was on a rotating basis, and everyone would have to take their turn at being stuck on base for the weekend.  Everyone except me.  As part of my deal with SM2 to teach the class, I was never put into a duty section.  The entire month of training, I never once had to stand watch, or pull weekend duty.  I was free to go every night and every weekend.  It was a great deal, and for a kid who had just learned about the joys of alcohol, it was also very dangerous.  I never drank before I joined the Navy, with the exception of an incident at church camp when I was 14, and my 18th birthday party.  Not exactly what you’d consider a party animal by any stretch of the imagination.  All that changed in Apprentice Training, however.

Back in the classroom that Monday morning, SM2 came in late as usual.  He then called our RCPO and myself into the hallway and dropped the bomb on us. 

“Guys” he said, “We’ve got a little problem.” 

“What’s wrong, sir?” 

“Well, they just assigned a new sailor to our class.”

“Okay, what’s the problem?” 

“She’s a woman.” 

“What !?” 

This was the first time I had even heard of a woman in Seaman Apprentice Training.  Evidently, it was also the first time SM2 had heard of it as well. 

“She just flunked out of MS (Mess Specialist) “A” school, and they didn’t know what to do with her, so they sent her here.” 

With that, he motioned around the corner, and out she walked. 

“Gentlemen” he said, “Meet Bella Pobleta”. 

Bella was an American Filipino with a bad case of acne and an even worse attitude.  She was dumber than she was ugly, but she was certain that she was God’s gift to the men of Seaman Apprentice Training.  What happened next is something I never will be able to rationalize or explain.  SM2 walked the three of us into class, introduced Bella and then told the class that SHE was our new RCPO!  The current RCPO was relieved, but the rest of us were in shock! 

“Hey – you guys are going to have to work for a woman at some point in your lives, might as well learn how to deal with them now!”.  And that was that.  Bella Pobleta was now in charge.  It was all downhill from there.

From the first moment, no one accepted Bella as a leader in any way.  She still lived in the MS “A” school barracks, and had a chip on her shoulder a mile wide.  She thought she was better than all of us, and never missed an opportunity to tell us so.  She was sure that all of us had the hots for her, and she tried to use her feminine wiles to get her way.  All she succeeded in doing was alienating herself from all of us.  Since she lived in another barracks, and had been in “A” school, she thought she was exempt from the rules that governed the rest of us.  She wore her civvies every night, and stayed out until midnight.  She frequently went off base, and refused to march to and from the classroom building with us.  In spite of frequent complaints to SM2, he remained steadfast in his convictions that we would just have to learn to deal with her.  To his credit, I guess he did teach us how to be more tolerant of a woman in a man’s world but he also created a giant schism in the class that we never really recovered from.  And to top it off, Bella would not come to the study sessions, and flunked or nearly flunked every one of the tests we took.  A great model of leadership she wasn’t, but looking back on it, I guess it did prepare us well for some of the leadership types we would be encountering once we got into the fleet.

I mentioned earlier that the drinking age on base at NTC was 18.  18 for beer, but 21 for anything else.  I wasn’t much of a beer fan, but since that was what everyone else seemed to be drinking, I joined right in.  Starting on our first night of training, we discovered the base club.  The base club was split into two sections – one was rock and dance music, and the other side was all country music.  I may have been from Wyoming, but at the time I was in serious denial, and had decided I hated country music.  I spent most nights over in the rock side of the club, drinking and trying to dance with the girls who were going to “A” school.  You had to be careful about who you told that you were in Apprentice Training.  As far as the women went, that was the kiss of death – they avoided us “dumb kids” like the plague.  We usually told them that we were in BM “A” school.  BM’s were Boatswain’s Mates, and Boatswain’s Mates were just deck seaman who had made petty officer.  There was no such thing as BM “A” school, but they didn’t seem to know that.  It was always better than admitting we were in the “special” class at NTC.  It probably didn’t’ matter anyway, because the “A” school girls wouldn’t have anything to do with anyone who wasn’t in their “A” school anyway.  Regardless, we became regular fixtures at the base club, and came to call it our home away from home.

Apprentice Training was also when I first discovered my predisposition for over-indulgence in alcohol.  I had not been a drinker before I got there, but it didn’t take me long to figure it out.  Drinking was a part of our daily routine, and since money was fairly tight, it didn’t take me long to figure out how to stretch my drinking dollar as far as possible.  Since I had to hold a study session every night after class for an hour or so, the other guys usually got a head start on me at the bar.  Our usual routine was to go to the bar in the bowling alley, where we’d sit around a big round table and buy pitchers of beer.  Rounds went around the table, and when it was your turn, you bought the next one.  Usually by the time I got there, they’d already been around the table once or twice.  I’d walk in, sit down and make sure I bought the next pitcher.  Then, by the time it came back to my turn again, they’d been through four or five more pitchers, were feeling no pain, and had forgotten that I’d been there for an hour or so. 

“C’mon guys, I just got here – I bought the last round…remember?” 

“Oh yeah, sorry – I’ll buy.” 

It worked like a charm – in the month I was at A.T., I spent less than twenty dollars on beer, and got drunk almost every night.  Where there’s a will, there’s a way I guess.  I never got too ripped up, but always drank enough to feel it.  All of that changed on our last night of A.T.  We’ll get to that story in a minute.


CHAPTER TWELVE:  END OF APPRENTICE TRAINING AND ORDERS

Before we could get to that last night, we still had a week’s worth of training to go.  The week started out with a bang, as we got our final orders on Monday morning.  These orders told us where we were headed in the “Real Navy”.  We were all nervous, wondering where we would be going.  Some guys were praying for shore duty, and others were praying for duty stations overseas.  I didn’t really care, but I was sure that I wouldn’t like where they sent me.  I had already figured out that Sea College guys were going to get the short end of the stick no matter what, so I steeled myself, waiting to find out how bad it was going to be. 

“Peterson” SM2 called out, “You’re going to LST-1182, the USS Fresno…and it looks like there are plane tickets here for you.  You’ll be meeting her in the Philippines – way to go, you lucky dog.” 

My first thought was “What the Hell is an LST?”  A quick check of my Bluejacket’s Manual told me that LST stood for Landing Ship, Tank.  It also said that LST’s did beaching, causeways, small boats, helo landings, and every other deck evolution you could think of.  It also said that LST’s were part of the notorious “Amphibious Fleet”.  From first glance, it looked like an LST was the absolute busiest ship in the Navy if you were a deck seaman.  It just sort of made sense that they would send us Sea College pukes to LST’s and other amphibs.  I mean, if you were trying to get your money out of slave labor, wouldn’t you give it the worst job you could think of?

Most guys were happy with their duty assignments, with the big exception of Archie Grand.  Archie was one of my “Red Flag” group, and he and I had become good friends over the course of our month.  He was a Native American from a reservation in Northern California.  He told me that he had joined the Navy to see the world, because he’d never been off of his reservation before.  Archie had struggled to pass the tests and graduate from A.T., but we got him out somehow.  Unfortunately for him, though, when they passed out the orders, Archie was given what most would consider a plum assignment.  He was to report to Treasure Island naval station in San Francisco as base security.  Everyone in the class was insanely jealous of him, because it was unheard of for a Seaman Apprentice graduate to get a shore duty station as their first duty station.  Archie was crushed.  He had signed away four years of his life in the hopes that he’d get off the reservation and away from home, only to be stationed less than 100 miles from his house.  The only good part of it was that he got to go to security school in New Jersey for a month before he was to report to Treasure Island.  It’s a sad thing when going to New Jersey is the highlight of your life.  Poor kid.

The rest of us were spread around the fleet pretty evenly.  Some guys were going to the East Coast, some to the West Coast.  We had guys going to Aircraft Carriers, Destroyers, Battleships and Amphibious ships.  Three guys got shore duty, and one of them was sentenced (er, stationed) to Adak, Alaska.  It only figures that the kid who got stationed in Adak was from Miami.  I think that somewhere deep within the bowels of some Navy administrative office, some guy was matching up recruits and duty stations according to what would piss them off the most. 

It was nice to finally know where we were headed, and I was excited to know that I was going to the Philippines.  I had never been there (of course) but SM2 told some great stories about the bars and the party life there.  I was excited.  With only one week to go until graduation, all that was left to do was pass the final academic test, and the final PT (physical training) test.  It seemed like a lock, no sweat – we were fleet bound.

The last week of classes was easy enough, and the partying got a bit bigger and wilder, as we sensed the end nearing.  We were scheduled to take our last academic test on Thursday, then our PT test on Friday morning, and then ship out.  Most of us, like me, would be headed home on leave before we went to our duty stations.  The anticipation grew as every hour passed. 

So far, our company’s test average was hovering around 90% (after some careful “refiguring” from SM2)  We were locked in a neck-and-neck battle for overall score lead with another class, and SM2 told me that if I could get his class to win, then he would definitely promote me to E-2.  That was incentive enough to me, and I helped study the class as hard as I could that week.  With test day fast approaching, SM2 told us that, as was the usual threat, anyone who failed the test would be set back one week and have to do it all over again.  The threat was pretty empty, but the point was made, and we all cracked the books a little harder.

The day before the test, SM2 decided we needed a little break from our regular PT regiment of running, push-ups and sit-ups.  He brought a football and decided we should play a little touch football.  We were all pretty excited about getting to hit somebody, and played with gusto.  SM2 even played on one of the teams, and we all tended to get carried away and forget it was a friendly game of light-contact touch football.  Our RCPO, Bella, conveniently developed a “sore ankle” and sat out of the game.  Damn.  We were all looking forward to a little bit of retribution!  As the game wore on, it got rougher and rougher until, on a kickoff return, SM2 shouted out

“Forget touch – this is tackle football!!”

 SM2 was running the kickoff back, and must’ve though he had a clear shot to the end zone - but he didn’t see me bearing down on him when he shouted that.  I hit him full force at full speed, and drove him into the ground.  I had been in the band in high school, and had never played football.  Consequently, I had never learned proper tackling technique.  SM2 became instantly aware of this, as my forearm drove the back of his head into the ground, causing him to slip into the inky black nothingness for a brief moment.  As we stood huddled around the inert form of our Instructor laying on the ground, many thoughts ran through my head – mainly how many years I’d do in the Navy Brig for murdering a Petty Officer.  My plans for a college career instantly turned into hopes of parole before 30.  I was still mulling my now-ruined future when SM2 moved. 

“Unnngh.  Damn.  What say we stick to touch football, okay.” 

He slowly sat up and got to his feet, still a bit wobbly.  “Nice hit, Peterson” he said as he slapped me on the back. 

This was really the first time I had any idea that I could be physically intimidating.  It was at this point that the wussy little band geek I imagined myself to be began to slowly fade away, to be replaced by the outgoing, gregarious, raging drunk I was to become.

Final test day dawned bright and clear, as usual.  We marched in formation to the classroom building, and took our seats for our usual pre-test answer session.  SM2 informed us that we would win the high-score competition, passed out the tests and left the room.  I “administered” the test by getting up front and reading each question out loud and giving the answers from the answer guide in front of me.  After we had taken the test, I gathered up the answer sheets, and SM2 and I went upstairs to grade them.  Our class had scored an average of 97% on the final test (even with the answers!).  That brought our final average up to just over 90%.  It was the first time any class from AT had graduated with an average of over 90%, and gave us the scoring title!  SM2 was beside himself.  My personal average was 99% (I still have no idea what question I missed – I just figured that the answer key must have been wrong).  SM2 did live up to his word, and submitted my name for a promotion, which I received.  I graduated from Apprentice Training as an E-2, an official Seaman Apprentice.  My first promotion, only three  months in.  I was so proud.  When the rest of the class found out we had all passed, the jubilation ensued.  The guys all promised me a night I wouldn’t forget for getting them through the test, and we headed back to the barracks to get ready for our big celebration.  Now I had been in “training” for this night all month.  I had learned (or so I thought) how to hold my alcohol fairly well.  How wrong I would be proven this night. 

We quickly left the barracks after getting back from the test, and headed to the pizza parlor.  A quick pizza and a few pitchers of beer later, we headed to the bowling alley.  A few more pitchers of beer after that, we headed to the base club.  By the time we got to the base club, a little after 5:00, I was already drunker than a skunk.  The guys had more in store for me, however.  We started out on the rock side of the club, and somehow, they had found someone who was over 21 to buy us hard liquor.  Long Island Iced Teas began to flow, as the inebriation factor rose by a multiple of ten.  Somewhere around 7, we found our way over to the country music side of the club.  On the big screen T.V., they were playing scenes from the Cheyenne Frontier Days Rodeo.  Three months of being away from home sunk in, and I sat down and started drinking beer and watching rodeo on TV while listening to some good ol’ country music.  It was at this precise moment that the rest of the façade faded away, and I accepted the fact that I was a drunken hick from Wyoming.  Beyond accepting it, I began to relish the fact.  My friends from AT, however, weren’t done with me yet.  The booze began flowing faster, and by 9:00, I knew I couldn’t walk to the barracks on my own.  I had to have a private escort of ten take me back to the barracks and heist my drunken ass into my top bunk.

As I lay there in my rack, I felt the room begin to spin.  I knew then that I was going to puke, and puke hard.  I sat up, gathered my bearings and swung my legs over the edge of my top bunk.  I jumped to the floor, and weaved my way into the head, where I knelt over an open stool.  I felt the engines reverse, and knew it was coming….I was poised and aimed over the stool, and then it hit.  I blew chunks with a velocity heretofore unimagined in my life.  The only problem was that I had blown so hard that I had missed the stool.  I hurled all over the floor and made quite a mess.   Once the initial mass was out, I decided I had better clean up after myself.  I stood up, walked over to the closet and took out a swab and mop bucket.  I filled the bucket, and then tried to clean up the puke all over the floor.  However in my state, I completely forgot to squeeze the excess water out of the swab.  About all I managed to do was flood the head with cold, dirty, puke-infested water.  A couple of the guys came in and found me, standing in my boxers, a t-shirt and a pair of socks, trying to clean up after myself.  They decided to spare me from my misery, and walked me back to my bunk.  It took the two of them ten minutes to get me up and into it, at which time I passed out completely. 

Reveille came very early the next morning.  Very, very early.  I sat right up in my bunk, and never having felt the effects of a “real” hangover before, I couldn’t understand why I couldn’t focus my eyes or get the taste of cigarette butts and catfish powerbait out of my mouth.  I got the bright idea to hop down out of bed, forgetting that I was still wearing the soaking-wet socks I’d had on the night before.  The instant my wet feet hit the ground, I felt my stomach hit my throat.  The effects of both hit me simultaneously, and I immediately puked and passed out in a heap on the floor.  The guys tried to help me up onto my feet, but some joker had poured an entire bottle of hand lotion onto me as I slept, and I was now nothing more than a slippery, stinky, passed out lump of drunken crap.  This presented a distinct challenge to our company, as we were scheduled to take our final PT test in about an hour.  Once again, the “If one person doesn’t pass, then the WHOLE class gets set back a week” threat was in place and every one was scared.  They threw me in the shower to clean me up a bit, then carried me to my locker to get dressed.  I was still not completely in control of my faculties, and I required more than a little help to get properly dressed, and get my tennis shoes tied.  Then they helped me downstairs and held me up in formation as we marched over to the PT field. 

We stood in formation as SM2 took roll call.  Someone answered for me, and then we teamed up for our first test – push-ups.  We were supposed to do 50 of them.  My partner decided that I should go first, so I got into the “up” position, as he put his fist under my chest.  His job was to count for me, and ensure that I touched my chest to his fist on every “down”.  I made it from the “up” position to the “down” position exactly once.  I couldn’t get “up” again, so I just laid there. 

“One…two…ten…FIFTY!”

SM2 gave us a look, but knew that I was in no shape to go any farther, so he looked the other way.  Sit-ups were next, and my partner went first.  I sat there and held his feet as he did 100 quick sit-ups.  We switched positions and I attempted to do a couple. 

“One…two…three…Holy Crap, man – stop!” 

“What?” 

“Dude, you’re turning green.  Just stop before you puke on me!”. 

I stopped.  SM2 just looked over at us and shook his head.  Unfortunately, the last test was one that no one could help me with.  Just like with the final Boot Camp PT test, we all had to run a mile and a half in under twelve minutes.  I was still so damn hung over that I could barely stand, and now they expected me to run a mile and a half?!?

“Go!”

The gun went off, and the company took off running.  We were supposed to do eight laps around the classroom building compound, and it was 90 degrees outside already.  I had finished my second lap, and my fifth trip to the bushes to puke, when SM2 yelled out –

“Get a move on, time’s half up!!”. 

I knew then that I was in trouble.  I’d never make it the rest of the way in time.  The realization that I wasn’t going to make it sunk in to the other guys as well, and every time that they lapped me, the would scream both encouragement and death threats at me. 

“If you don’t make it, we all flunk!  RUN!!!”

The last two laps of my run were probably pretty scary to watch.  They consisted of me running with everything I had, while being pursued by the entire class, shouting epithets of every imaginable type.  From insulting my mother, to questioning my ethnicity, to threatening to cut off my manhood - they were very encouraging.  SM2 stood at the finish line, stopwatch in hand, as I finally staggered across. 

“11:57…11:58…11:59 – just made it!!”. 

And with that I stumbled into the bushes and passed out.  I know that I must have been around the fifteen minute mark, but it’s good to have friends in high places.

With that final bit of bravado, Apprentice Training was over.  We had passed, and we were on to the fleet, and our Naval futures!  I had my plane tickets back to Denver to enjoy two weeks of leave before I flew out to the Philippines, and I was looking forward to getting back to my family and friends for awhile.  Once recovered from the PT torture, I got myself cleaned up, and packed, then said goodbye to my friends and met up with Sam Paugh once again.  Together, we caught a cab to the airport, then hopped on a plane to Denver, where my Dad was waiting.  The first part of my Navy life – Training - was over.  I was now a full-fledged sailor.  It was time to get to the fleet and make good on my two-year promise.  But first, it was back home for a little R&R.


CHAPTER THIRTEEN: LEAVE AND LEAVING

The cab that Sam and I took to the airport from NTC was driven by a cabbie who definitely knew his way around sailors.  He knew that the majority of us were just dumb kids from parts unknown who had never been to San Diego.  As a result, he took us the longest, most circuitous route to the airport I have ever seen.  He claimed that this was the easiest way to get there.  Sam and I had just spent three months living directly underneath the landing approach to the runways, and we could damn near see the terminal from our barracks.  We knew there was no way that a trip from NTC to the airport should take a half hour and cost $45.00.  When we made that point to the cabbie, he started to get nasty with us and tell us that we had to pay him.  One simple threat to go call the on-duty military liaison officer at the airport and tell him we just got ripped off, thereby denying the cabbie his on-base privileges for life, settled the matter.  Suddenly he remembered that he had taken a wrong turn, and the actual fare was only $10.00!  Funny what happens when you act like you know what the hell you’re talking about.  I had absolutely no idea where to find the military liaison officer in the airport, or if there even was one!  Just goes to illustrate life’s #1 rule – “Never bullshit a bullshitter”.

The flight home was fairly uneventful.  We spent most of the time sleeping off the day (and the night before)’s activities.  When we landed in Denver, Sam and I hustled off the plane.  It was good to be home.  My Dad was waiting for me at the gate, as was Sam’s family.  We introduced our families to one another, then said our goodbyes and headed off to the baggage claim and home.  This was the last time I would see Sam Paugh – our Navy careers took us in opposite directions, and our paths were never to cross again.  The majority of my military friendships ended up like that.  I’m not sure why, I guess I was just anxious to be done with it when I was done with it.  My personal separation from the Navy included leaving everything and everyone associated with it behind when I left.

Dad did have a surprise for me when we got to the parking garage at the airport – he and Mom had bought a new car!  It was an ’89 Dodge Ramcharger, and it was Dad’s very first new car.  They had bought it a few weeks earlier, and had been keeping it a surprise from me ever since.  It must have killed them not to say anything, but it sure was a surprise!  We drove the three hours from Stapleton International Airport to Laramie, and caught up on old times, and swapped Navy stories.  It must be a source of pride to share your military stories with your son, and I found out a lot of things about my Dad that I had never known before.  This trip home definitely let me know that our relationship had changed.  We were still Father and Son, but there was something new here.  He looked at me as more of an equal than as just his kid.  It was great to be treated as an adult, and I was looking forward to our future relationship.  By the time we made it home, we were having a grand old time.  Later that night, after my brother and Mom had gone off to their bed, Dad and I were still up talking.  Then he did something that let me know I had really arrived as a man in his eyes.  He went over to the cupboard and brought down his Meagher’s Whiskey and two glasses.  Meagher’s was a rye whiskey you could only find in Canada, and Dad had brought some back after a trip to visit our Canadian relatives.  It was awesome stuff, and his supply of it was very limited.  Only the most important guests in our house were offered the Meagher’s.  Now here I was, a mere kid three months ago, being offered a glass of my own.  That one gesture in itself did more to cement our relationship than almost anything else he had ever done or said to me.  The Navy had made me a man – and with a glass of whiskey, my Dad had confirmed it.

The first day of leave, I rolled out of bed around noon.  It was so nice to sleep in my old bed again.  My brother had claimed my room, but he was gracious enough to allow me to sleep there while I was home on leave.  I walked upstairs and enjoyed some of Mom’s lunch.  Home cooking was even better than I ever imagined.  I didn’t realize how bad the Navy food really was until I tasted Mom’s cooking again.  I always looked forward to coming home to visit, if for nothing else than to eat Mom’s cooking.  After stuffing myself, I headed out to see my old friends.  All of my group had stayed in Laramie after graduation, and I was glad to see them.  I stopped by the high school to see my old band director to tell him about boot camp, and they told me that he had quit!  I couldn’t believe it!  Oh well, I guess times change and the world goes on.  Being on active duty really sheltered you from the real world, and you kind of just expected the rest of the world to be on pause until you got out and came home.  You forget that everyone else is just doing their best to get by as well.  It was nice to see some of the other kids again though, but it was kind of odd how these kids who had been friends of mine a few months ago now seemed so young and immature.  I guess those three months I’d been gone changed me more than I thought.

I spend the majority of the first week on leave just hanging out with my friends and enjoying my time at home.  One of the biggest changes in me from the time I left, until I came home on leave, was my body.  I had entered basic training at 6’1”, 195 lbs and about 18% body fat.  Three months later, I came home at 6’1”, 195 lbs and about 5% body fat.  I was, to put it mildly, ripped.  It was the first time I had ever noticed girls looking at me.  One night, my friends and I went to the one club in town that let teenagers in.  While we were walking through the club, I felt someone pinch my ass!  I turned around to see a really hot gal with three of her friends looking at me and smiling.  Being the complete idiot I was, I just said “Hi” and kept walking.  Duh!.  I had no idea about the opposite sex.  I had never even kissed a girl before (well, there was the redhead at FBLA nationals in Cincinnati, but…).  All of that would change before I left home.

One of the big reasons I was excited to be home was to see a girl.  Her name was Anna, and she and I had been friends in high school.  She was a year younger than I was, and still a senior, but I didn’t mind.  We had exchanged letters while I was in basic, and those letters usually contained more than a few double-entendres.  I had promised her I’d take her out when I was home on leave, and was looking forward to my first “date with possibilities”.  I was too busy the first week of leave to get anything scheduled, but the first weekend I was home, I went to a party for the high school band.  Anna was there, along with a bunch of my other friends, and she and I sat and talked most of the night.  We agreed to get together before I left the next Friday, and she said she’d call me and we’d set up a time for sure.  I was walking on air as I left and headed home – my head full of thoughts of the fun to come.  By the end of my last week of leave, she still hadn’t called, and I was on my way to my first lesson in women.

I was scheduled to leave on Friday at noon, and when I hadn’t heard from her by Wednesday, I pretty much just wrote her off.  And then, late Wednesday night, my phone rang.  It was Anna saying,

“Oh my God, I am so sorry – Are you leaving this Friday?  I thought it was next Friday!” 

“Yeah, two days from now.  I’m headed out.” 

“Well then, we need to go out – what say you come pick me up at 7:00 tomorrow night?” 

“Okay – sure!  See you then.” 

And that was that – I was going on a date.  I had heard, from several sources, that Anna was fairly easy and that I was definitely in for a good time.  I spent Thursday getting ready.  I washed and waxed my car, starched and pressed my clothes, and showered and shaved.  I was ready to go.  I even remembered that her favorite song was “Hotel California” by The Eagles, and I had cued it up on the tape player in my car so it would start right when she got in.  I was smooth!  Finally, 7:00 came and I drove to her house to pick her up.  I was worried about meeting her parents (especially her Dad), but she made it real easy, she met me halfway up the sidewalk on her way down. 

“C’mon, let’s go”

.I couldn’t believe my luck!  I opened her door for her, then got in and fired it up as the Eagles started singing, “On a dark desert highway….”  Oh yeah, this was going to be good.

The only problem was that I hadn’t exactly planned what to do next.  It’s not like you can just open up with “So, you just want to go to The Point and screw, or what?”.  We made polite small talk for a couple of blocks when she mercifully said,

“So you want to go get a coke or something?”

So that’s where we headed, out to JB’s to have a coke.  We sat and talked for awhile, and to admit, I really wasn’t paying any attention to what we were saying, I was just trying to figure out how to get her up to The Point for some fun.  Just then, Anna looked at me and said,

“My coke’s empty, and it’s a school night.  I have to be home by 9:00 - You want to go up to The Point?”

I damn near spit my drink out my nose, but somehow maintained enough composure to pay the bill and walk her to the car.  I think running was more like it, but we got there nonetheless.  We drove up to The Point, parked the car and sat and stared at each other.  I really had no idea where to go from here, I was just hoping that Anna would have some clue as to what to do.  Finally, she leaned in and kissed me.  I couldn’t believe it – here I was, in my car, with a girl, at The Point and making out!  I had been waiting for this since my freshman year of high school.  I wasn’t sure how far it was going to go from here, but I didn’t really care.  I was just enjoying the moment. 

“What do you want?  Tell me.”  Anna whispered in my ear. 

I had no idea what to tell her…”ummm…ummmm…I’d like to feel your skin”

was what came out.  I don’t know what I meant by that, but it’s all I could think of at the time.  She just sat back and smiled, and lifted her sweater up over her breasts, exposing her bra.  Then she grabbed the front clasp and undid it.  And there they were – the first pair of titties I had ever seen!  Wow!  I just sat there and stared at them, not sure what else to do.  She finally reached over and grabbed my hand and placed in on her left breast and smiled.  This was it, I knew this was going to get good!

We kissed and felt and touched and breathed heavily for awhile, and then I felt her hand go for my zipper!  I couldn’t believe my good luck as I felt her pull it down and go fishing.  It didn’t take her long to find her prey, and she grasped it with a fervor and began to administer some very attentive TLC to what she had a handful of.  I was enjoying it most wholeheartedly, and decided I should get in on the action as well, so I let my hand trail from it’s resting place on her chest to her waist, and then on down.  I got an immediate reaction from her, but not the one I expected.  I suddenly felt her hand grab my wrist and I heard her say

“Nothing below the waist!” 

I couldn’t believe it!  Here she was with a handful of…well, a handful of “me”, and she was telling me “nothing below the waist.”  That pretty much ruined it for me – the spell was broken and reality came crashing down on me like a ton of bricks.  I began to realize that I’d never get laid.  Ever.  Anna and I kissed for a little bit more, then I noticed the time and told her I’d better get her home.  On the way she made me stop at McDonald’s so she could fix her hair and makeup so her parents wouldn’t know what she had been up to.  We pulled up in front of her house, and I tried to open the door to get out and walk her to her front door.  She told me not to, because she wanted to kiss me goodnight, and didn’t want her parents to see with the dome light on.  She then went on to tell me about how what we had done was wrong, and how it was against her morals, and how she couldn’t believe how I’d led her astray.  Talk about your guilt trips – I actually felt bad for corrupting this poor innocent girl!  I gave her a quick peck on the cheek, and watched her walk into her house, then I drove home more confused about women than ever before. 

The saga of Anna and I was far from over, however.  She would continue to play a part in my life for the remainder of my Navy career, and into my collegiate career thereafter.  More than ten years after I was out of the Navy, Anna resurfaced as a major player in the divorce proceedings of one of my best friends.  Isn’t it weird how people can follow you around for the rest of your life whether you want them to or not?

The last morning of my leave, November 9, 1988, was a typical Laramie early winter day.  It was ten below and blizzarding.  I was set to leave and fly to meet my ship in the Philippines that afternoon.  I told my Dad the story of my date with Anna – or at least parts of it, and he had no advice for me. 

“Good luck, son.  She sounds like a real ….. ummm, piece of work.”

I called most of my friends and said goodbye, then we loaded in the new Ram and drove to the airport in Denver.  I had my winter dress blues on, and my peacoat, and I was still cold.  It was not a particularly pleasant day in the Rocky Mountain West that early November Friday.  I had no idea that my entire world would be turned upside down some 30 hours later, as my plane touched down at Clark Air Base outside of Manila.


Next up - Part Four - Overseas and Underway - Welcome To The Jungle...

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