MemberWhile in boot camp in Great Lakes, Illiinois, (June 1969), I was not alone in regard to family, for my identical twin brother and I enlisted at the same time. Because we both had musical talent, we were chosen to not go through boot camp like other men. Instead, we were assigned to the jazz ensemble, we thought.
Somewhere, somehow, someone changed their mind, for when we were being interviewed for placement in the music program, the interviewer discovered I could type 65 WPM ( I type 85 now). He immediately forgot the music department, smiled widely, and assigned me to be a Drill Instructor's assistant for a group of poorly capable enlistees. The name of the outfit was called MIC or Mickey Mouse by the staff, designed to train men of limited competence to fold their clothes, linen and towels, and to make their beds, properly. In addition to my office work, I led the men to chow, to get shots and physicals, and returned them to the barracks.
My brother, Dennis, also was reassigned. We think it was because the jazz ensemble was becoming less important. Rather than play his guitar, he was selected to be a night time Master at Arms who roamed the building in search of enlistees who were breaking the rules. He was given training for the position and accordingly outfitted. While our boot camp training was underway, we seldom met unexpectedly. Daylight duties had Dennis leading large group exercises on the grounds.
It was my job to write to all of the families of the men in my unit to inform them their son would be delayed in coming home as he was being placed in a program to prepare him too pass the living requirements. Also, I typed various forms of correspondence conveyed to me by the D.I. Only one mistake did I make in those six or so weeks when I accidentally jumbled addresses and names of two men in the letters I sent home to their loved ones. The D.I. would not forgive me.
As I see it today, it was an easy mistake to make by a seventeen year old, but the D.I. really laid into me for my oversight and refused to recommend me for yeoman school. It was one of the deepest hurts I encountered while in the Navy. Had I become a yeoman, I could have advanced more easily. Instead, I was placed aboard a destroyer to chip paint, and scrub and grind floors.
While we were in boot camp, we were asked where we'd like to be stationed. Both my twin brother and I selected the Noa, on which, Tony, our older step brother, was already aboard. Home ported at Mayport Naval Base near Jacksonville, FL, the USS Noa (DD-841) became home for me for a few months past three years.
Remember the Sullivans during the Second World War? http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sullivan_brothers Those men were five siblings who were all killed in action during or shortly after the sinking of the light cruiser USS Juneau (CL-52), the vessel on which they all served, around November 12, 1942 during World War II.
Debate arose following that tragedy, whether to again allow brothers to serve together aboard the same ship, but no one thought to dissuade us from sticking together.
Our trio, unfortunately, lasted only briefly.
For shortly after he arrived to home port after deployment on a West Pac cruise (Vietnam), Tony raced to PA to be with his wife whom he was unable to trust. He never returned. We saw him for a mere few weeks before he chose to go AWOL (absent without leave).
The Shore Patrol finally caught up with him, after which he was sentenced to the brig and given a discharge that may have been less than honorable. I never found the truth about that, and he never registered with a VA hospital, so he may not have been eligible.
Discharged in June, 1972, I walked to the road, stuck out my thumb, and managed a ride to the beach. Dennis had already been discharged for some molehill that was made into a mountain. I can still feel those thoughts in my mind as I stood on the base for my last time, "Where will I go now?" When confused, I always say, do something right, and so I enrolled in college before the year ended, and stayed in school for the next nine years. A hard road it was, but worth every bit of effort.
David
Somewhere, somehow, someone changed their mind, for when we were being interviewed for placement in the music program, the interviewer discovered I could type 65 WPM ( I type 85 now). He immediately forgot the music department, smiled widely, and assigned me to be a Drill Instructor's assistant for a group of poorly capable enlistees. The name of the outfit was called MIC or Mickey Mouse by the staff, designed to train men of limited competence to fold their clothes, linen and towels, and to make their beds, properly. In addition to my office work, I led the men to chow, to get shots and physicals, and returned them to the barracks.
My brother, Dennis, also was reassigned. We think it was because the jazz ensemble was becoming less important. Rather than play his guitar, he was selected to be a night time Master at Arms who roamed the building in search of enlistees who were breaking the rules. He was given training for the position and accordingly outfitted. While our boot camp training was underway, we seldom met unexpectedly. Daylight duties had Dennis leading large group exercises on the grounds.
It was my job to write to all of the families of the men in my unit to inform them their son would be delayed in coming home as he was being placed in a program to prepare him too pass the living requirements. Also, I typed various forms of correspondence conveyed to me by the D.I. Only one mistake did I make in those six or so weeks when I accidentally jumbled addresses and names of two men in the letters I sent home to their loved ones. The D.I. would not forgive me.
As I see it today, it was an easy mistake to make by a seventeen year old, but the D.I. really laid into me for my oversight and refused to recommend me for yeoman school. It was one of the deepest hurts I encountered while in the Navy. Had I become a yeoman, I could have advanced more easily. Instead, I was placed aboard a destroyer to chip paint, and scrub and grind floors.
While we were in boot camp, we were asked where we'd like to be stationed. Both my twin brother and I selected the Noa, on which, Tony, our older step brother, was already aboard. Home ported at Mayport Naval Base near Jacksonville, FL, the USS Noa (DD-841) became home for me for a few months past three years.
Remember the Sullivans during the Second World War? http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sullivan_brothers Those men were five siblings who were all killed in action during or shortly after the sinking of the light cruiser USS Juneau (CL-52), the vessel on which they all served, around November 12, 1942 during World War II.
Debate arose following that tragedy, whether to again allow brothers to serve together aboard the same ship, but no one thought to dissuade us from sticking together.
Our trio, unfortunately, lasted only briefly.
For shortly after he arrived to home port after deployment on a West Pac cruise (Vietnam), Tony raced to PA to be with his wife whom he was unable to trust. He never returned. We saw him for a mere few weeks before he chose to go AWOL (absent without leave).
The Shore Patrol finally caught up with him, after which he was sentenced to the brig and given a discharge that may have been less than honorable. I never found the truth about that, and he never registered with a VA hospital, so he may not have been eligible.
Discharged in June, 1972, I walked to the road, stuck out my thumb, and managed a ride to the beach. Dennis had already been discharged for some molehill that was made into a mountain. I can still feel those thoughts in my mind as I stood on the base for my last time, "Where will I go now?" When confused, I always say, do something right, and so I enrolled in college before the year ended, and stayed in school for the next nine years. A hard road it was, but worth every bit of effort.
David
