(New Chief Engineer continued from Page 6)
On one certain late January morning in 1967 the air was cold. There was a gray overcast with fog, and the sounds that carried over the parade field seemed to be amplified by the dampness. The air carried the crisp orders of the inspectors as they descended on the opened ranks. Orders bellowed left and right, from afar, near, from all sides, echoed throughout the compound and reverberated on the hill sides off Mohulland Drive, blanketing further into the Marine Recruit Command next door to Camp Nimitz. Cerberus was on the loose, and hungry.
Each recruit was waiting for his turn. Each turn came. Down each line until the inspector was going over the next person down. Then it was him. Hearts pounded and stress levels elevated to a peak. It was a visitation of fate as the inspectors worked their way down each file, descending on each victim while keeping a sharp weather eye up and down the files for any movement or effect by which attention would be directed to an offender. As an example, failure to maintain a proper “parade dress” stance while under arms, a crime perpetrated by allowing the hand to slope downward below the heavy canvas duty belt instead of keeping palms open and parallel to the duty belt. Discovery resulted in having the arm and offending hand thrust down behind the belt, leaving the recruit tied up to the elbow, piece in one hand; the other hand bound and corseted. It was an exhibit to all why everyone should learn, and quickly, the order of parade rest under arms and how it related to a sharp military appearance.
“What is your first General Order, lad!” answered by, “Sir, my first General Order is, Sir: To take charge of this post and all government property in view. Sir!” To the left might have been, “Who is the Secretary of the Navy, lad;” answered with, “Sir, the Secretary of the Navy is, the Honorable Paul H. Nitze, Sir!” and to the right: “What is this dirty skive shirt during in my inspection! Are you some kind of hog!” Occasionally, there might have been a punctuation with a break such as, “What are you looking at, squirrel? Square those eyes to the front!” and so on. At the time the person under inspection might be patted down. Hands would be plunged into pockets in an aggressive search for unauthorized items or counter-brand as they were called. The pockets were supposed to be empty and if there was anything in them at all it was counterbrand. It is worth repeating, those pockets were supposed to be empty.
Countering the demands, answers were either yelled back, squeaked shrilly, or by a strained whisper. Sometimes voices were simply lost. In which case the intimidated one drew even more attention. In boot camp, intimidation tendencies quickly evaporated. Only God could help those who might cry. The canapé of voices went on as though they were deliberately controlled and timed in highs and lows. Occasionally, there might be a silence or perhaps some pitiable answer such as, “Sir, my memory fails me, Sir!” followed by a loudly voiced opinion by an inspecting Chief or First Class Petty Officer as to the quality of the recruit’s memory. The same opinion was given to those who unwisely chose in, say, the case of an unacceptable shoe-shine, a plea of no time to complete this important task. The recruit who chose this response was usually informed of what he could do with time. In time, it was learned the best answer, though poor, was to submit to the mercy of the inspector by offering, “Sir! No excuse, sir!”
Each man in each company was inspected from top of head to tip of
shoe---loose buttons, or buttons buttoned that were supposed to be
unbuttoned, those that were unbuttoned but should have been buttoned,
etc, shaves, ears, stencils, and hats.
Particularly sensitive was the skivvie shirt---perhaps the most aggressive element of the process whereby the inspector would vigorously grab the shirt by the collar pulling pull it up and out to observe the inner liner of the neck ring. Any minute discoloration around the neck was like gasoline tossed on a raging fire. Ring around the collar was noted as a derivitative of the what ever state the recruit hailed from as that state’s “sunshine.” It was synonymous for scrounge. The term “scrounge” became an anathema of doom in the threatened form of blanket parties, wire brushes, and brillo pads. Even a minute lint ball picked out by the eagle eyes was enough to set off a banshee fury that caused a shriveling effect on the surrounding ranks. The appearance of a lint ball to the inspector was filth, it was gear adrift, it was a violation of orders, it was totally unacceptable and not in keeping with good naval order. Scrounge designation was avoided by rigorous scrubbing of necks with Lava soap and scrubbing Tee shirt collars with a stiff brush. The end results were very clean necks and Tee shirts with holey collars. After all, “Cleanliness is next to Godliness, Sir!”
On this morning it appeared there was an inordinate number of lint balls, an intolerable increase in the scrounge count, and a heavy case-load of amnesia in the assembled companies. The chilled air was warmed. One finding was particularly outstanding and brought a recess in all the other sounds that emanated from the ordeal. Across the field a particularly vociferous inspector found cigarettes in the shirt pocket of a hapless victim, an event that set off flocks of seagulls as they sensed danger and make their escape from the galley dumpster area.
There was a series of provocative expostulations from that direction that brought silence to the entire field. This was death and all hands were electrically zeroed in on the sound effects. Essentially everything stopped. A naval vocabulary was loosened that would have stolen fire from hell. That Chief was a true expert. He had developed the naval vocabulary to an art form. It went on for about a minute, “Blankety, blankety, blank, boom, bam, boom!” except no word was repeated. Finally, there was an order that carried over the entire unseeing mass of humanity: “Open your, blank, blank, mouth! Now, chew, blank, blank, it!” Silence. “Now, blank, blank it, SWALLOW!” This was followed by a dead still. The muster sounded like a graveyard. Seconds later the drama was concluded by retching and dry heaving sounds of the unfortunate recruit who that morning had sworn off smoking for a lifetime.
Another quick silence followed, almost like that of stage scenery being rearranged, a space in time equal to that of a lighting strike having struck and those near by realizing they had not been struck. People began to breath again. Then, the tempo of the morning inspection resumed as though nothing had happened. The routine was close to its climatic end. The thunder of the morning tempest began to recede until the last faint echoes rolled across the hills adjacent to Mulholland Drive.
It was time for the morning exercise. “Come to ready!” The blaring rhythmic music began it scratchy broadcast and the routine of morning exercise known as physical drill with arms commenced. There were seven contortions to be performed with the piece to the recorded tune apparently borrowed from a carousel. “One, two, three, four! One, two, three, four! One, two, three, four!” One, two, three, four!” Each movement repeated four times. The last cycle, the side twists, ended with the order, “Halt! the music stopped, then, “Order arms!” The manual of arms followed, and it was here that a grave omission occurred in the ranks of Company 67-052.
