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POLITICAL
CORRECTNESS IN THE MILITARY SURFACED ABOUT 1970
One
of the great "perks"I have enjoyed as Writer/Editor of
The Jerseyman, is getting to hear from many sailors and Marines that
served in the Navy and Marines at the same time that I did (1953-1975),
and from those that served our nation during World War II and Korea.
Writer/Editor
of The Jerseyman, he posting below was received today, and I am sending
this on only to those that I think might have their own military
experiences that might relate as to what is being said. The author
is not identified, but if you served during the 1940's and through the
1960's, I think you will probably nod your head in agreement that the
author knows what he is talking about. Some of what he writes
actually began changing during the late 1960's... and by the early
1970's "political correctness" had permanently surfaced it's
ugly head. It's a long read, but I think it's a good one.
Volunteer Writer/Editor The Jerseyman Before you get all up in my face
'bout what I'm 'bout to ramble on about, lemme first say that I know the
human memory tends to heavily discriminate the stuff it stores,
cataloguing things the way it wants to and reserving special places for
certain select events, sounds, sights, smells, and scenes. And not only
does it selectively edit things in and out, but it tends to embellish
events with its individualized set of filters, ethics, morals,
priorities, and tastes, magnifying some episodes and minimizing others.
O.K.
That said, I recently came across something that triggered memories
of my early experiences in the Navy. 'Smatterafact, lotsa things
do that as I get older. My holistic retrospect on my 24 years in the USN
is quite positive, and I often willingly go back to relive what were my
most exciting and satisfying times . . . all the way from a raw unranked
boot in San Diego to the guy responsible for maintenance and repair of
elex comm & crypto equipment for CincPac, SubPac, CinCPacFlt,
Com7thFlt, and several other high-powered commands in Hawaii.
Master
Chief Tom Helvig, USN (Ret.)
Volunteer writer/editor The Jerseyman
Battleship New Jersey Museum and Memorial
-4913
62 Battleship Place
Camden, NJ 08103
Home (856) 778-
Fax (856) 778-5668
Email: THelvig [AT] Aol.com
Hair
all shaved off. Personal effects confiscated. Clothes that didn't fit.
Strangers yelling stuff at me I didn't fully understand. Food that
tasted like stewed dirt. Beds that spoke of the hundreds who'd slept in
'em before. Marching in formation with guys wearing exactly the same
clothes I had to wear, carrying an out-of-date rifle with which I had to
master and demonstrate skills useful in no situation my fertile
imagination could conceive.
My
entire personality dragged out, ridiculed, abused, and tossed on a scrap
heap only to be replaced by one that knee-jerked instantly to commands
and single-mindedly carried out lawful orders, even though no one had
ever explained to me what exactly an unlawful order might have been. No
longer was I a college boy pursuing liberal arts and intellectual growth
but a cog in a 72-man machine dedicating every single waking moment to
causing no demerits to the company during inspections, drills, skill
training, or parades.
Home
was a narrow cot in an open-bay barracks featuring gang showers and rows
of sinks, urinals, and commodes with no provisions for individuality,
much less privacy. Lights out happened when the Company Commander
decided we'd absorbed enough humiliation for that day, that our lockers
were properly stowed, that our shoes were properly shined, our barrack
was properly cleaned, and that we clearly understood that we were still
useless raw meat that some unfortunate Chief Petty Officer would one day
be burdened with molding into halfway decent sailors.
Reveille
was 0500, even before the seagulls which swooped down to pick up the
lungers off the grinder were up yet. Formation was 20 minutes later,
after shaving and dressing and fixing bunks and being reminded that the
coming night would indeed be damned short if we screwed up ANYthing that
day.
Breakfast
was hard-boiled eggs and beans and soggy toast one day,
chipped-something-or-other on soggy toast the next, greasy fried
mystery stuff with soggy toast the next, hamburger with tomato sauce
on soggy toast the next, and all served with something vaguely white
called "reconstituted milk" and a dark, vile, burnt-smelling
but otherwise tasteless fluid some would-be comedian labeled
"Coffee." One good thing, though . . . you could have as
much as you could eat in the 15 minutes you were allowed inside for
breakfast. Lunch and supper were always filling and nutritious, even
if often unpalatable, indefinable, and unrecognizable.
It
was cold all morning out marching around toward no place in
particular, and hot in the barracks at night when the giant inventory
of our individual and collective miscreancies was recited to us by
members of our own group temporarily endowed with positional authority
over us. And I loved it. I'd go back and do it again if they'd let me
and I thought my digestive system could survive it. Yes, I loved it,
yet I counted the days, the hours, the minutes that I had left to
endure in that young-adult Boy Scout camp before I could go see the
real Navy and have some fun . . . AND get paid.
Once
actually out IN the real Navy, I was astonished at the importance, the
almost religious reverence, that people in khakis showered upon two
things: control over the free time of non-rated personnel, and rust. To
me the sole purpose of Chief Petty Officers was to ensure that anybody
in pay grades E-1, E-2, and E-3 get dirty as soon as possible after
morning quarters and NEVER have an opportunity to go ashore and act like
sailors (i.e., drink beer and bring great discredit upon their beloved
United States Navy).
My
first assignment after boot camp was on a tanker whose duty was to fuel
ships anchored beyond the breakwater, deliver AvGas and MoGas to
detachments on islands off the California Coast (San Clemente, Santa
Catalina, and others), and defuel ships going into the yards for
overhauls or extensive refits.
When
not involved in the specific act of transferring fuel in one direction
or another, my primary value was in ferreting out and annihilating
pockets of rust everywhere on the ship except in the engineering spaces,
where my red-striped non-rated peers busied themselves at the same
thing, except that their enemy was oil, grease, steam, and water leaks.
Six
months later, now a fully-fledged sailor in all respects with three
white stripes on my left arm, I got orders to Electronics Technician
School at Treasure Island (San Francisco), where my primary duty was to
listen to fatally boring lectures on basic electricity and make
absolutely certain that my shoes were spitshined at all times.
A
giant conspiracy existed amongst the staff, primarily the CPOs, at the
school command to do everything in their power to keep those of us who
had actually been to sea from contaminating the ones who'd come to
school straight from recruit training. The strategy consisted mainly of
ensuring that we fail enough quizzes and tests to require our spending
all our evenings at night study, thereby keeping us from going into town
or to the club to fill our bellies with beer and our eyes with the
silicone boobies of Broadway.
Probably
what amazed me even more than the fanatical interest that Schools
Command CPOs had in ascertaining that everyone's shoes reflected light
better than polished onyx was the number of people who couldn't take the
pressure of boot camp or service schools and went to extreme lengths,
such as bed wetting, to get out of the Navy and go back home to Mama.
Other
than its unnatural interest in shoe shines and haircuts, tho, the Navy's
plan was beginning to make sense to me. First you got stripped down
nekkid, both inside and out, all your strengths were identified and your
weaknesses exposed, you were shown how to do a job, and then you were
sent out into the field to see if you could hack it. In front of you at
all times were both good examples and bad examples: you saw the carrot
side reflected in the gold hashmarks on Chiefs who'd learned how to work
within the system and you saw the stick side in the red ones on career
E-5s who either couldn't cut it or didn't know how not to get caught.
Everybody
smoked. Everybody drank beer. Everybody had a disgustingly nasty coffee
cup. Everybody cussed, except when the chaplain or some officer's wife
was around. You did your job, and if you were good at it, you got pay
increases through promotions. You pissed people off and didn't get the
message, you stayed in the lower pay grades and got really good at
handling brooms, trash cans, and scrub brushes.
The
Navy I joined had the old-fashioned Chiefs, those keepers of tradition,
guardians of ancient lore, solvers of problems . . . those grouchy,
irascible, sarcastic, but indispensable guys who'd been around longer
than anybody else on the ship, except maybe the Captain. They knew where
everything was, how everything worked, what everything was for, and who
was responsible for what.
Becoming
a CPO was really a big deal in that Navy, involving a time-honored
festival of near-orgiastic silliness designed to close out the years of
irresponsible ignorance with one last naked dance through the fires of
humiliation and excoriation to emerge reborn as full-grown lion guarding
the gates of the repository of all useful knowledge.
Amongst
the Chief's primary duties were making sailors out of farm kids and
smartalecs and goldbricks and Mama's boys, showing them the skills and
qualities required for them to fill his shoes when the time came for him
to retire his coffee cup. The Chief nominally reported to a young
butterbar whom he had the awesome challenge of transforming into a
leader of those other young men he was making sailors of.
Chief
reported to the Ensign, but he delivered the real status to the Ensign's
boss, usually a seasoned Lieutenant or Lieutenant Commander. Chief
generally had a special relationship with both the XO and CO, both of
whom sought his advice and assistance in all sorts of problems and
situations. His niche and his positional authority were well established
and completely understood by every member of the crew. Any white hat
entering the Goat Locker had better have his hat in his hand and a
damned good reason, and Heaven help him if he forgot to knock first.
Today
. . . I'm not so sure I'd make it. Chief no longer has that special
relationship with CO and XO, and he rarely does business directly with
his department head. As soon as he sheds his dungarees and shifts into
khakis, he enters a confusing political arena of Senior Chiefs, Master
Chiefs, Warrant Officers, and LDOs all doing what the Chief used to do.
He's simply gone from technician to supervisor, and his initiation has
become as watered down as his authority.
In
the Navy of the 50s and 60s, traditions aboard ship were honored,
cherished, and observed. Various initiations occurred from time to time,
such as making Chief or crossing the equator, during which rookies or
newbies were ritually cleansed, humiliated, and physically abused to
degrees generally powers of 10 more severe than anything the Gitmo
terrorists ever had to endure from their guards.
Such
episodes served the purpose of reminding every member of the crew that
new experiences, new threats, new life-altering events could bring even
the proudest and strongest to his knees. And when the purging was over,
the initiates were welcomed as brothers, tougher than before because of
what they'd learned they could withstand if necessary.
But
it was a good Navy, a Navy that won wars, intimidated dictators, brought
relief to victims in faraway lands, had fun, and proudly carried the
flag. And I loved it. But I'm not entirely sure that what we have today
is the natural child of that generation.
In
1960 if you got drunk on liberty, your shipmates got you back to your
rack and woke you up in time for you to make morning quarters. If you
found yourself in jail, the Chief or your DivOff would bail you out and
work with the local cops to fix whatever you broke, or stole, or lost,
or insulted, or forgot to pay for.
Today
you get drunk and you wind up in a rehab facility with entries in your
service jacket that'll haunt you for years.
Same
thing for behavior on the ship. In 1960, you mouth off to the Chief or
get caught goldbricking one too many times and you got a blanket party,
or extra duty, or both until you got your act together. You also didn't
see much of the quarterdeck or the brow, and you could forget that
recommendation to take the next rating exam.
Today
you act like a jerk and you wind up in a seminar, or a counseling
center, or a psych ward and they load you up with a ton of paper that
follows you until you abandon ship and go to work for IBM or AT&T or
the local sanitation service.
In
1960 you came out with four-letter words and some heat in your voice
toward what you saw as petty rules or regs or some would-be politician,
and people either agreed with you or stayed away from you 'til you
calmed down.
Today
you say "Hell" or "Damn" and you'd better be talking
about either the Revelation or furry little aquatic animals with big
teeth and flat tails.
In
1960, when they were in schools or on shore duty, sailors lived in
barracks and ate in chow halls.
Students
in today's Navy or sailors on shore duty live in hotels like the
dormitories rich college kids used to have in the 60s. They're called
"Unaccompanied Enlisted Personnel Housing Facilities" and look
like Ramada Inns. And sailors today eat in "Dining Facilities"
like debutantes, and there aren't any grouchy old Navy cooks in the back
stirring the pots or grumbling mess cooks scrubbing pans and swabbing
decks.
In
1960, sailors leaving the ship or station on liberty wore the uniform of
the day, either Dress Blues or Whites. Officers and senior enlisted were
often privileged to wear civilian clothes ashore, but not always.
Today's
sailors wear cammies most of the time, and it's hard to find a sailor in
dress uniform any more.
In
1960, the Navy Exchange was there to provide low-cost uniform and
toiletry items for sailors and their families. Selections were limited,
but quality was good and savings were considerable on things such as
booze, cigarettes, candy, and trinkets. Today the typical Navy Exchange
is a poorly managed, badly stocked, miserably staffed business failure
that sees more merchandise go out the back door in a lunch bag than out
the front with a sales receipt on it. You want selection and a good
price, go to Wal-Mart. Commissaries aren't much better except for meat
and cosmetics.
In
1960 many officers had at least some experience in enlisted ranks or
engines or management and were patriotic military men who commanded
respect by understanding the jobs their personnel did and staying out of
their way while they did them, then sending them on liberty when they
got the job done.
Many
of today's officers are politicians who are afraid to say what's
actually on their minds for fear of offending someone's delicate racial,
ethnic, cultural, or religious sensitivities. They're generally much
better at leaping to premature cover-my-six conclusions than making
well-researched but tough decisions.
In
1960 sailors went to night clubs and titty bars and kept pin-up pictures
of girlfriends or movie stars in their lockers.
Today the girls go to sea with the guys and hope they bought the right
brand of condom. Any sailor looking at a picture of a girl today is
doing it either on his blackberry via e-mail or on a porn site with his
laptop. >
In
1960 you got medals for doing something extraordinary, such as saving
lives or preventing disasters or killing and capturing enemies in
battle.
Today many sailors get medals for not being late for work for more than
6 months at a stretch and never coming up positive on a random drug
test.
In
1960 many sailors were involved in collecting human and signals
intelligence and analyzing it.
Today
the MAAs collect urine and civilian contractor labs analyze it. In 1960
we had clear-cut rules of engagement and unambiguous descriptive names
for our enemies. The basic rule of engagement was to wipe out the enemy
by whatever means available, and we called them "Red Bastards"
or "Commie Sonsabitches" or words our grandmothers wouldn't
like to know we used.
Today
we call people who want to destroy us, cut our heads off, enslave our
women, end our way of life, "Aggressors" or
"Combatants" or "Opposing Forces" or "Islamic
Warriors" to avoid offending them. Our sailors are no longer
allowed to kick ass and take names, only to Mirandize and make
comfortable.
In
1960, victory meant that the enemy was either completely dead or no
longer had the ability to resist, that all his machines and networks
were captured or out of commission, that he had surrendered or been
locked up, that the fight was over and he accepted defeat.<
Today
we declare victory when the opposing forces call time out, insist that
it was all a big mistake, and that they'll stop resisting if we rebuild
their cities, their refineries, their factories, their infrastructure.
The
Navy I joined was easy to understand. It was organized and
straightforward. The hard workers got the bennies and the shirkers got
the brooms, and everybody in between was anonymous and safe so long as
his shoes stayed shined and his hair never touched his ears or his
collar. Chiefs ran the place and officers did the paperwork until
required to put on their zebra shirts and referee bouts between CPOs
engaged in pissing contests.
Anything
a sailor needed to know, the Navy taught him, from tying knots to
operating fire-control computers on 16-inch guns. A sailor never had to
worry about what he was going to wear; that decision was made for him
and published in the Plan of the Day, which was read every morning at
quarters, usually by the Chief, the source of continuity, stability, and
purpose for everyone in the division.
Today
a kid can't even get in the Navy unless he finished high school and has
a clean record with law enforcement. He's expected to be keyboard
literate from day 1, and he speaks a completely different language from
what his Korean- or VietNam-War grandfather spoke, no matter if that was
English or what. He doesn't play baseball, or football, or hockey; he
plays golf, and tennis . . . more often on a Wii than on a course or
court. The modern Navy doesn't keep people around to dump trash cans and
scrub galleys and clean heads; that's done by civilian contractors. And
the majority of CPOs today are expected to either HAVE a degree of some
kind or be working toward getting one soon. Today's successful Navy
non-com is a paper-chasing button pusher, not a sweat-stained commie
killer.
Today's
sailor is in touch with his "significant others" by e-mail or
cell fone almost anywhere he's sent. The idea of a 6-month deployment to
Southeast Asia with no contact other than snail mail seems cruel and
unusual torture to him.
No,
it's doubtful I could succeed in today's Navy as I did in yesterday's. I
prefer my triggers to be on pistols and rifles, not on joysticks
controlling surveillance drones and other bots. My policy as a division
officer was never to tell a tech to do something that I couldn't do
myself, much less that I didn't understand. Today I'd have to learn a
completely new vernacular and become familiar with a strange culture
before even TALKing to my troops.
And
though it dates me and cements me into a mindset that's fallen out of
fashion, I think I liked the Navy that I joined better than the one we
have today. Yes, of course the capabilities we have now are wider, more
sophisticated, more potentially effective. But they're more fragile,
too, and techs can't even FIND the discreet components in a printed
circuit board any more, much less actually isolate a bad one and replace
it.
I've
let technology pass me by, willingly and completely. My skill set is
anchored in tubes and resistors and 18-guage wire and cathode-ray tubes
and hand-held multi-meters and bench-mounted o-scopes that weighed 120
lbs. But still, I LIKE those old Chiefs with the pot bellies and the
filthy coffee cups and the scarred knuckles and the can-do attitude
backed up by years of hands-on experience, both on the job and in the
bars all over the world.
I
LIKED guys like Harry Truman who weren't afraid to make hard choices and
fire egomaniacs and take personal responsibility for their own
decisions. It was GOOD to see people standing on a beach or a pier
waving when the ship pulled in, knowing there'd be dancing and singing
and fistfighting and dangerous liaisons, not snipers with Russian-made
rifles and lunatics planting IEDs along the streets.
Yes,
we lived with the omnipresent fear of instant nuclear annihilation,
mutually assured destruction, uncertainty about tomorrow, and all that.
But it seemed that the government was on our side, that our country did
good things throughout the world, that the US was the best place to live
on the planet and our presidents didn't feel they had to apologize for a
goddam thing to anygoddambody.
It's
not so much that I want a do-over; I just want teachers, and senators,
and taxi-drivers, and clerks, and college professors, and congressmen,
and judges, and doctors, and kids growing up to see my country the way
we all saw it in 1960 . . . as a strong, charitable, fun-loving, loyal,
don't-piss-me-off place with no patience for petty tyrants and loonies.
I
wonder what my British counterpart might feel about the direction HIS
country's taken in the last 60 years or so. Probably much the same as
what the native-born Roman Legionnaire of the 4th century felt when he
saw what had become of his beloved SPQR.
Author
Unknown
Webmaster
Note: Erasmo "Doc" Riojas was promoted to HMC(T)
in 1961while onboard the USS Fulton (AS-11) while on shake down
cruise in Norfolk VA. from homeport New London
Conn. He underwent full CPO
initition ! |
Interesting
SEAL Stuff
Court Martial! 
this book and other SEAL books are on sale on amazon.com for $0.01 plus
shipping. Yes, ONE cent !
June 2008: I am presently writing a book about my military experience in
the Korean Police Action as a FMF Corpsman with an infantry platoon, and also
my tours to the Vietnam war games as a U.S. Navy SEAL. I am sure my
book will be for sale in Amazon.com for the same price.
Corbis
Very
tiny mouth. He cannot strike like a viper, but has to nibble
at the webs between your fingers. 3d most poisonous
snake.
Ken
& Son Bryce
from
kgw:
Don't
worry - Portland
is not under attack. Low flying military helicopters buzzing downtown
Portland looked like a scene out of a movie. Monday night’s drama was all
part of a military exercise. Newschannel8 has learned, the Army and Navy are
conducting Urban
Military Training in Portland and Salem from August 17-30.
from
willamette
week: Here's the text of an April letter from Mayor Tom Potter to the
U.S. Navy authorizing last night's helicopter training exercises downtown,
which caught Portlanders by surprise and scared a good number of them.
Coronado
Bridge
Erasmo
"Doc" Riojas
