What Readers Are Saying
The Misadventures of Russell Quigley, Photographer’s Mate, United States Navy is a hilarious collection of sea stories woven into the fabric of Russell’s life as a Navy photographer.
“What a great book. I couldn’t put it down.”
David M. DeCoux, SMSgt, USAF Retired
“. . . a hilarious collection of sea stories . . .”
Rick Krolak, AGC(AW/SW) USN
“. . . an emotional roller coaster.”
Robert De Los Santos, ABFCS(AW), USN
“Terrific tales of lunacy Navy photographers endure.”
Brian Wimett, PHC(AW), USN
“Funny, funny, funny . . . and all true. This was one of the most entertaining books I've ever read.”
Edward Cafarella
“Not since Admiral Dan Gallery has anyone caught the highs and lows; ins and outs of everyday Navy life. As we say in the Navy: Well done, David Griffths, Well done.”
Jere Jaillite
If you were a Photographer’s Mate between 1953 and 1986, you will recognize some of the characters in this book!
The Misadventures of
Russell Quigley
Photographer’s Mate, United States Navy
by
David Griffiths
Copyright © 2000 by David Griffiths
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the written permission from the author.
Cover: Official U.S. Navy Photo by Photographer’s Mate Craig McClure
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
To Chief Petty Officers,
past, present, and future
Acknowledgments
Special thanks to Jane Hyer, who first suggested that I write a book; to Mike Nichols, who insisted that I write a book; to Carol Owens, for her editorial assistance; and to my wife Perla, who, without a single complaint, endured many nights alone while I hacked away at the computer.
Table of Contents
Russell Quigley
Airman Prep School
Photo School
Treasure Island
The Fleet Air Photo Lab
The Photo Center
A Civilian Again
The USS Wasp
The USS Enterprise
The Naval Photographic Interpretation Center
The Defense Intelligence Agency
The USS Observation Island
Photo School, Again
The USS Midway
Kadena Air Force Base
RUSSELL QUIGLEY
I grew up in South Dakota during the depression. I remember eating a lot of biscuits and gravy and getting a whipping for putting both butter and jelly on the same piece of toast. I also remember my mom complaining, when things got a little better, that my older brother wouldn’t stop hiding cookies under his clothes in his chest of drawers. They would get old, crumble, and get all over everything.
I think I was born afraid. Maybe it was my father's explosive temper. Anyway, I spent a lot of time hiding out behind the garage. And I was angry all the time. I don't know why I was angry; I just know that I don't ever remember seeing a picture of me where I wasn't standing a foot away from the rest of the family, arms folded, pouting, and looking down. I started selling papers on the street when I was in the third grade as much to get out of the house as for the money.
And it wasn't just the family. I was the kind of person everybody loved to dump on. I attracted the attention of the school bully, Abel Leaman, who was a year ahead of me. He wasn’t satisfied just to beat me up; he had to beat me up everyday after school, and everyday I went home crying.
My mother complained to my dad; my dad complained to me. He said the bully would never stop bothering me until I showed him that I wasn’t afraid of him.
Dad, I fight back as hard as I can, but . . .
“No buts,” he interrupted, “if you come home crying and upsetting your mother again, I’ll give you something to cry about.”
Well, I was more afraid of my father than I was of Abel, so I knew what I had to do.
Abel always managed to get out of class first and be waiting for me. He beat me up again, but this time when he got up to leave, I tackled him from behind. As a result of his surprise, I managed to hit him once in the face. He rewarded me with the most severe beating ever. He bloodied my nose and puffed both of my eyes.
But when he turned to leave, I tackled him again. He beat me up again; I tackled him again. He never got more than 10 feet before I tackled him again. He started crying when it got dark. He wasn’t hurt; he just wanted to go home. He kept asking me to let him go home, but I wouldn’t stop.
Our parents and the police caught up with us at the same time. My mom was furious. Abel’s mom called me a monster. The police were annoyed, but there was a twinkle in my dad’s eyes.
Whenever I saw Abel after that, I turned towards him just to watch him turn and go the other way. I vowed never to be afraid again and to stand up against all bullies including my father.
Not long after, I walked in on my dad while he was building a breakfast nook in our kitchen. It was not going well and my mother made the mistake of laying a plate on the tabletop before it was finished. He picked up the plate and hurled it at her as if it were a Frisbee.® She jumped back, and it smashed against the refrigerator.
I stepped forward and said, “If you do that again, I will smack you.” I was eleven.
He picked up a hammer and came after me. I fled down into the basement. He followed me with the hammer raised over his head and I knew he meant to hit me. I spotted a hatchet, grabbed it, and spun around. He stopped dead in his tracks and glared at me. He dropped the hammer, turned around, and went upstairs. I stood there for the longest time, hatchet raised, body trembling. Finally, I put the hatchet down and crept upstairs. I had to sneak by his bedroom to get out of the house. He was crying. We never got along after that; but then, to the best of my recollection, we never got along before that either.
I was petrified by an emotional account of Pearl Harbor being bombed emanating from a radio hidden in a cathedral that was taller than I was. I also read about the war in my newspapers, and listened to the war every night. And, I watched the war every Saturday afternoon when my uncle took me to a 12-cent western with my cousins. It seemed like the war would never end, and I was sure that I would have to fight. I ran to and from school to keep in shape. I lifted weights. I fought every chance I got. I had my own paper route by the time the war was over.
My older brother, Roger, seemed to fare better than I did. He didn't get along any better than me at home, but he got along great at school, and he had lots of friends. He was a stranger to me by the time he left for the Naval Academy.
We prospered along with the country, and by 1953 my dad was a radio engineer with the Voice of America in Tangier, North Africa. My father mellowed some. My mother was delighted to have a maid.
My little brother, Rolland, was more like me. He was 12 when we went to Tangier, an international free port. Tangier was the smuggling capital of the world and a center of international intrigue. It was often described as the world’s wickedest city. Rolland was deported when he was 15 for socially and politically incorrect behavior.
I weighed 135 pounds when I decided to join the Navy. I was five feet, nine inches tall, had unruly red hair and hazel eyes. A little thin, otherwise, I was pretty average all around. I thought joining the Navy was a great idea. I wanted to be a photographer, and I also wanted to go to school eventually, so the G. I. Bill was just what I needed.
I didn't realize how unprepared I was for the Navy. You see, I was a man of principle. It did not matter how small an incident was, if it violated one of my principles, I was compelled to let someone know. I was loyal to the Navy, to my country, and to my God, but not so much to my supervisors. In fact, I was frequently referred to as a sea lawyer, that is, someone who thought they knew more about Navy regulations than anyone else did. If a petty officer missed a rule, or regulation he would hear from me.
Warrant Officer Butz wrapped me up in one sentence: “Quigley,” he said, “you are the most arrogant, condescending, self-righteous bastard I ever met.”
I was destined to have problems and I did: a dozen captain’s masts and a hearing for a summary court martial in the first four years. It wasn't all my fault. The Navy violated a lot of principles, and the Navy had a lot of bullies.
With all of my problems, you’d think that I wouldn’t have any friends; however, I was always the instant leader of the downtrodden and the malcontents. I was the leader of the opposition. If you stepped on someone, I instantly became his or her champion. For all the trouble I had, I don’t know of any other organization that would have put up with me. And back then, they wiped the slate clean when you reenlisted.
BOOT CAMP
When the last line is removed and a US Naval ship breaks away from the pier, the officer-of-the-deck announces, “Underway, shift colors” over the speaker system. And so it is that I begin my story by breaking family ties and moving out on my own.
I left Tangier, Morocco, by train with $35.00 in my pocket. Not knowing it was illegal to transport American dollars from Spanish Morocco to French Morocco, I didn’t try to hide my money when the Spanish Militia at the border asked to see what was in my wallet. They took all my money. They were nice about it, but they took it. When I asked how they expected me to travel without money, they told me there was a Red Cross office in the next train station. I never expected to see my money again, but they sent it to my folks in Tangier just like they said they would.
The Red Cross people said it happened all the time and they were very sympathetic. They loaned me $15.00 even after I told them I wouldn’t get paid for three months. They said it was no problem. So I arrived at the Port Lyautey Naval Base happy and well fed.
I was given a physical and a bunch of shots that were duly registered on an international shot card so they wouldn’t give them to me again in boot camp, but of course, they did. The dentist said they didn’t usually take people in with braces; however, I needn’t worry, because according to Navy Regs, once I was sworn in, the Navy would have to take care of them even if they had to send me to a civilian dentist. The personnel office handled my enlistment and I was soon on my way to Bainbridge, Maryland for recruit training. I landed in Baltimore, Maryland, where a bus was waiting to take me the rest of the way.
Boot camp was the Naval Recruit Training Center, Bainbridge, Maryland. In the winter of 1953-1954, it was a barren little base with buildings as gray as the weather. Boot camp, as it was called because we all wore those high-top shoes the Navy called boots, was drills, marching, classes, swimming, more classes, remedial swimming, too many watches, too little sleep, and an endless stream of all-you-can-eat buffets. I gained 11 pounds in three months.
SIR
“Chief’s ass, SIR to you,” bellowed the bellicose, potbellied chief glaring down at me through the window of his white, wooden outhouse in the center of the road. Well, I didn’t know much, but I knew those anchors on his collar meant he was a chief, so I said, “Sir?”
“Yes, SIR,” he said. “While you are here, you will address all senior petty officers as SIR.”
“Yes sir, SIR,” I said.
Naked City
He took my orders and pointed me towards another bus that would take me to a gym where a new company was forming up. I glanced at the clock behind Chief SIR; it was 11:15 p.m.
A bunch of people was standing buck-naked on the gym floor like rows of corn, but with more space between them. I was handed a cardboard box and told to undress and put all my belongings in the box. I was told I would get it all back when I graduated, but of course, I never did.
“Hurry up Quigley; we ain’t got all day,” barked First Class Petty Officer SIR. So I hurried up, and then I stood there buck-naked like a fool along with the rest of the men for forty-five minutes while they “formed” a company. Nobody looked happy, but a tall redhead, shoulders slumped, knees bent, and rocking back and forth was saying to no one in particular because all of the SIRs had left the area, “It ain’t right; they can’t do this to us; it ain’t right.” Finally, we were asked to march our nakedness down a narrow hallway lined with small rooms with half doors with junior petty officers behind them, which I SIR’d anyway.
“Pants,” screamed Junior Petty Officer SIR.
“Size 28,” I screamed back, but it didn’t make any difference because he gave me the ones he already had in his hands, which were two sizes too big. I was still wearing baggy pants when I got to my first duty station.
“Shirts.” “Skivvies.” “Shoes.” “Sea bags.” And so it went until I had more new clothes than I had ever had in my life.
We marched our naked bodies back to the gym with our arms full. All our boxes were gone. We dressed in boots, dungarees, white hats, and P-coats. It only took a minute to see that I was not being picked on. Only a handful had clothes that fit. There seemed to be a correlation between big, good looking guys and well fitting clothes. That would explain my baggy pants. We stuffed our remaining new clothes in our new sea bags, threw them over our shoulders, and marched through wet snow and mud to our new barracks.
Moving In
The barracks were pre-World War I buildings. They were built about four feet off the ground with brick supports on the corners and about every 20 feet in between. The first deck consisted of an open bay with rows of bunks and lockers and an office for Company Commander SIR.
We marched inside, not realizing that we would have to clean all the mud off the floor—soon to become a deck—before we could get some sleep. Mud is revered in South Dakota, but here it was used for punishment. We stowed all of our gear in our lockers, and figured we would be hitting the sack. It was none too soon, either, because it was nearly 3 a.m. However, it was not to be. We weren’t even ready to scrub the deck yet. It was time to go over to the mess hall and take our General Classification Tests. My “GCT” was 69. I wasn’t used to scoring that low, and I was sure I could’ve done better with a full night’s sleep. Years later, after several years of college and a full night’s sleep, I scored 70.
We never made it to bed that first night. We began the day with a huge breakfast, and then we went to medical. I had a 28-inch waist, a 32-inch chest, and weighed 137 pounds. We had a huge dinner and went to dental. The dentist told me that I wasn’t supposed to be in the Navy with braces, and that they wouldn’t be able to adjust them while I was in boot camp. I asked if I could see a civilian dentist. He smiled, and then we had a huge supper and learned how to “fall in” and “stand at attention” and “stand at parade rest” and finally to be “at ease.”
The next day, after another huge breakfast and a skinhead haircut—I was the only one whose appearance improved—we began our classification interviews. I told Petty Officer SIR that I was going to be a photographer. Petty Officer SIR said my scores were too high, and that I shouldn’t be so cocky. I really didn’t understand. I wasn’t being cocky; if anything I was a little embarrassed; I was used to scoring in the 70s and 80s. Anyway, Petty Officer SIR said I would be a sonarman. Being a sonarman was the last thing I wanted to be.
We were forming up to march to the mess hall for lunch when Company Commander SIR ordered me to “fall out” and report to Regimental Headquarters. “You must have really stepped in it, Quigley,” he hollered after me as I began trotting across the parade grounds.
A Commission
“Russell Quigley, you are being considered for the Naval Reserve Officer Training Corps. How would you like four years of college and a commission?”
“That would be great sir, SIR,” I replied. My heart began to pound. I would be an officer just like Roger.
“We are impressed with your scores and the fact that you have a brother at the Academy. All you have to do is answer a few simple questions and you’ll be on your way. Who is your regiment commander?”
“I, ah, I don’t, I, um, oh, that’s you sir, Lieutenant Commander Love, sir,” I read from the plaque on his desk. He obviously wasn’t impressed, and his tone became less friendly.
“Who is your battalion commander?” he asked sternly. I felt sick. I didn’t know. He was introduced somewhere between field day and breakfast.
“I don’t know, sir,” I said flatly.
“Who is your company commander?” he asked. My spirits lifted. I had heard his name a hundred times already. But it wouldn’t come to me.
“Well, Quigley,” said Lieutenant Commander Love, “It’s obvious why your brother Roger is at the Academy, and you are here. Dismissed”
The Red Cross
When I got back to the barracks, I was told to report to Battalion Headquarters, which of course, was in the same building I just came from on the other side of the parade ground. The name on the desk was Ensign Bonham. I sure could have used that information a few minutes ago. He said, “Quigley, it says here that you owe the Red Cross $15.00.”
“Yes sir, SIR,” I said, “But I told them I wouldn’t get paid for—”
“Goddamn it, Quigley, I didn’t ask for any excuses. You owe ’em; you gotta pay ’em. We don’t need any deadbeats in the Navy. And what the hell is this, I hear you don’t know my name?”
“Well, sir, I remember you came over, but I just didn’t remem—”
“Goddamn it Quigley, I just told you I’m not looking for any excuses. My name is Ensign Bonham and don’t you forget it. You ever forget my name again you’ll be one sorry son-of-a-bitch; you understand me, Quigley”?
“Yes sir, SIR,” I said.
“Get outta here, now,” he hollered, “If I see you again, you will automatically be in trouble.”
A Tale of Two Cities
A number of New York City street punks were allowed to enlist as a group and they immediately started bullying and intimidating people. The leader was a big homely man named McMurdy, who later became the Sixth Fleet boxing champion. One of the gang made the mistake of picking on a big good-looking guy from Boston whose clothes fit perfectly. Boston picked up New York City and threw him out a window, which wasn’t open yet.
New York City made Boston an instant member of the New York City Street Punks Association, but Boston never really fit in because Boston kept warning people about what the punks were up to. Friction grew between the cities until one night Boston asked, “How many of you punks want a free trip to the hospital?”
McMurdy stepped forward and said, “Just one, Boston, just one.”
Boston looked surprised. McMurdy was usually an instigator, not a participant. “Okay,” Boston said with a stone face. McMurdy was much bigger, had huge muscles, and ill-fitting clothes, but if Boston was intimidated, he didn’t show it.
The two Titans stepped to the center of the quarterdeck and a crowd formed around them. McMurdy landed the first blow and it caught Boston square in the mouth and sat him down. McMurdy’s training took over; rather than going in for the kill, he stepped back and waited for Boston to stand up. That was a mistake. Boston was a street fighter and promptly kicked McMurdy’s feet out from under him. McMurdy bounced right back up and landed two rapid punches, and this time he didn’t step back. Boston grabbed McMurdy’s left fist with both hands, turned it to the outside, and pushed back and down so hard that McMurdy’s feet went into the air, and he crashed through the deck shoulders first. McMurdy landed flat on his back on the ground about four feet below the deck.
It was too cold to get much sleep that night with winter coming up through the hole in the deck. I had learned to respect those skinny green wool blankets, but this was too much even for them. Reveille was louder than usual the next morning, and we had to fall in outside before we had a chance to clean up. Standing at attention, we could see Lieutenant Commander Love SIR and Ensign Bonham SIR coming towards us across the parade ground. Company Commander SIR called us to attention and saluted smartly.
They kept us at attention for an hour and a half waiting for someone to tell them who made the hole in the deck. Finally, Lieutenant Commander Love SIR said, “You’ve got until 1600 to tell your company commander who did this, or I’m going to come back and run you around the parade ground until you drop.”
We returned from classes at 1600 and, of course, no one had told. There was a ten-foot square of new wood where the hole had been. Company Commander SIR had us fall in where we could all see it.
“Men,” he said, “have you ever heard of holystoning a deck? Well, you’re in for a treat. We used to holystone the old wooden carrier decks to get the gunk off them. You take an old brick and some sand, and you use them to grind off a layer of wood. I want everyone to go outside and get a brick off the pile out there, and I’ll show you how to use it. Now we ain’t got no sand, but I’m sure you can do the job without it.
“Now then, you get down on all fours, put your weight on the brick, and slide it back and forth on the deck until you see it making a difference. Remember, you got to keep it up until that old deck looks just like this new one. One more thing before I go men, don’t bother going to supper, and don’t bother hitting the sack until I say you can.”
Well, we all stood around looking at each other in disbelief, then we started going outside and getting our bricks. We formed two rows across the barracks about ten feet apart. As luck would have it, I wound up in the center of the new deck. I sat there for a minute wondering what to do when I remembered seeing an old bucket out by the bricks. I got up, went outside, got the bucket, filled it full of mud, came back, and dumped it in the middle of the new deck.
Some of the guys went into an instant panic, certain that I would get them into even more trouble. Others, frustrated by the impossibility of the task, cheered, and came over to help spread it around and rub it in. The new deck was soon a more reasonable gray and the task did not seem quite so impossible.
Most of the guys were busy “holystoning” the deck, but to no avail. The deck was gray all the way through and no amount of rubbing with bricks was going to make any difference. We had actually lost ground with all the mud we tracked in getting the bricks.
The Punks called a meeting. They emerged in a few minutes, and one of them said, “We’re gonna go buy some bleach. Anybody wanna chip in?” They had $30.00 in no time. “Why don’t some of you guys clean the shit can, so we can have something to put it in when we get back?” Again, some of the guys were moaning that we were going to get into more trouble, but nobody was going to stand up against the Punks.
The trashcan was ready for them, and they literally filled it full of bleach. We had plenty of swabs, so we drenched the deck in bleach in a matter of minutes, but to our amazement, it didn’t make any difference either. In desperation, they started pouring bleach on the deck by the buckets full, and all of a sudden the deck was so slippery guys had trouble standing up. We all started coughing and opening windows. The temperature quickly dropped to below freezing, and we started huddling together and asking, “What the hell do we do now?”
One man, that same redhead from Naked City, kept right on holystoning even though he was engulfed in a river of bleach. We hardly noticed until he screamed in a wild and raspy voice, “I can’t see! I can’t see!” The watch called an ambulance, which carted the redhead with his tie-dyed bell-bottoms off to sickbay. Now, I was scared. I figured they would court martial the whole company.
“ATTENTION ON DECK.” It was the watch announcing the return of Company Commander SIR. “Out, out, everybody out. Open the windows; Open all the windows. Watch, call the fire department.” Company Commander SIR toured the barracks to make sure everyone was out. Then he told us to fall in, and put us at ease.
The fire department arrived. They hosed and squeegeed as much of the bleach off the deck as they could. They left after about an hour, but we couldn’t go in until we got an “okay” from the medical department representative. The corpsman kept making phone calls; he finally said we could go in, but we would have to keep the windows open.
We all expected to catch hell, but we were so cold by that time we didn’t much care; however, none of the SIRs said a word. They didn’t even seem to notice that our bell-bottoms were turning white, or that the guys who had fallen down were beginning to look like Casper.
The Redhead
It didn’t take long to figure out boot camp: the goal was to weed out the weenies by making life as miserable as possible. That way, the Navy wouldn’t have to go to war with anyone who couldn’t take it. One day I said to Company Commander SIR, “SIR, why don't you feed us some germs? That would really weed out some weenies.”
“Quigley let me show you how I weed out weenies and smart asses. Drop down and give me 20 pushups while I figure out what it is about you that I don't like.”
Well, our first casualty was Raymond Squigley. We all saw it coming; if you stepped on his heels while marching, he would cuss a blue streak and take a swing at you.
One morning, after noticing Ray’s bunk was empty, we were asked to empty his locker, pack his gear in his sea bag, and turn it in to Petty Officer SIR over at Battalion Headquarters. We never saw Raymond again, but the rumor was that he had taken a swing at Company Commander SIR.
I didn’t think much about it, but that night I was called in to Duty Petty Officer SIR’s office and placed on report for leaving my clothes on the clothesline outside the barracks. Well, I hadn’t left any clothes anywhere let alone outside, so I instantly created a ruckus. Duty Petty Officer SIR calmly said he had them right there in the box. “See for yourself,” he said.
Well, I looked at the clothes in the box, and of course, they belonged to Raymond Squigley, so I showed Duty Petty Officer SIR the difference between the name on the clothes and the name on my shirt. Duty Petty Officer SIR apologized nicely, and told me not to worry about it and that was the end of it.
That is, until Saturday morning when the phone rang and some ill-tempered SIR informed me that since I failed to muster for extra duty, I had an additional 20 demerits. When I tried to explain, I was told to shut up and get my butt over there, or I would have an additional 40 demerits to work off. Well, I figured there would be at least one SIR over there that would listen to me so I hustled on over. It was snowing and there was a half-foot of snow on the ground. I remember being thankful for the boots.
“You Quigley?” asked Chief Petty Officer SIR.
“Yes sir, SIR” I replied.
“You being a smart ass?” Before I could answer, he said, “Fall in over there.”
“Excuse me chief, I mean SIR, but I ain’t supposed to be here—”
“You are being a smart ass,” he growled. “Get your ass over there before I kick your butt.”
“Yes sir, SIR,” I said.
“Ski, give that asshole 20 pushups.”
“Right away Chief. You heard the man; give me twenty, now,” said First Class Petty Officer Ski SIR.
Everybody stopped—they were doing calisthenics—and watched me do my best to do 20 pushups. Petty Officer Ski SIR soon got tired of waiting and ordered me to get a rifle and join them. We turned that rifle every way but loose for the next two hours, and then marched to chow. To my amazement, Petty Officer Ski SIR worked and marched right along with us. The other SIRs just stood around barking orders.
Most of the guys got to go back to the barracks, but those of us who were late reporting for extra duty had to return to shovel wet snow off the parade ground. They issued about 30 of us the flimsiest snow shovels I’d ever seen. The curved blades were about two feet wide and held a heap of snow, but the handles were only a half-inch in diameter.
Well, the shovels started bustin’ left and right and the SIRs were getting madder and madder and accusing us of breaking them on purpose so that we wouldn’t have to shovel snow. It wasn’t long before my shovel broke, and it was the proverbial shovel that broke Petty Officer Ski SIR’s back. Petty Office Ski SIR dragged me into see Chief Petty Officer SIR who dragged me into the Duty Officer-of-the-Day SIR who commenced to chew my ass after Chief Petty Officer SIR explained how I was being disrespectful and destroying government property.
“It ain’t my fault your puny shovels are busting like match sticks. I mean, I’m from South Dakota, and I know what a real snow shovel looks like.”
Duty Officer-of-the-Day SIR kept trying to interrupt me and tell me to shut up until finally he screamed, “Goddamn it Quigley, don’t you know how to talk to an ensign? As far as you’re concerned an ensign is God, and when an ensign speaks, you shut up.”
“But sir, I wasn’t even supposed to be—”
“Shut up” he interrupted again, getting up out of his chair and coming towards me. “Quigley, you’re on report for disrespect and for destroying government property. Report to building 12 at 0800 Monday morning, and tell your company commander because he has to be there with you.”
Well, you know, I was scared, and I worried all weekend, and I told my company commander everything when I saw him. I expected him to be sympathetic because it wasn’t my fault to begin with, but he was irritated and told me it would be good riddance, and that he was tired of my mouth anyway.
There were 42 recruits lined up outside the captain’s office waiting for captain’s mast. The thought of justice didn’t even enter my mind; I just wondered what kind of punishment I would receive. When my turn finally came, I was surprised at how calm and how cordial the captain was. “Quigley, why don’t you tell me what happened,” he asked.
I started to pour out my story, getting more and more emotional as I went along. I did not leave out a single detail. I even told him what the ensign said about being God, and in a burst of self-pity, said that if he was God, I didn’t belong in this Navy anyway because I sure wasn’t going to pray to any ensign.
Well, I was sure I overdid it because I could tell the captain was mad; he was glaring at everyone. Finally he asked, “Bishop, who had the watch Friday night?”
“Mildred had the watch, sir,” replied Company Commander Bishop SIR, and when he saw the captain’s eyes widen added, “That’s his last name, sir.”
“Did you ask Mildred if Quigley is telling the truth?” the captain asked.
“No sir,” answered Company Commander Bishop SIR.
“Bishop, you’re supposed to be here representing this man, and you can’t even tell me if he is telling the truth?” asked the captain, his voice getting an edge on it. “Don’t ever bring anyone to me without doing your homework. Get Mildred here on the double, and don’t bother coming back.”
We didn’t have to wait long for Duty Petty Officer Mildred SIR to appear. The captain told him what I said, and asked him if it was true.
“Yes sir, Captain, it was my mistake. I tore up the chit, but I forgot about the hard card,” replied Duty Petty Officer Mildred SIR.
“Do you have any idea how much trouble you’ve caused this man by not paying attention to detail? All of you, you remind me of Keystone Cops. Mildred, I want you to stand a couple of training watches until you get the hang of it. “You can go now,” Captain Postel said while turning his attention to Chief Petty Officer SIR.
“Mahaffy, it says here that Quigley broke the eighteenth shovel. Where are the other 17 sailors?” asked Captain Postel.
“Sir?” replied Chief Petty Officer Mahaffy SIR.
“If 18 shovels were broken, I should have 18 sailors on report. Don’t tell me the first 17 were accidents? Why did you single this man out?”
“Because he has a rotten mouth,” blurted Chief Petty Officer Mahaffy SIR. “He is extremely disrespectful.”
“I would be too,” said the captain, “if I had been treated as he has. Mr. Becker, did you really tell this man you were God?”
“Yes, sir,” Ensign Becker SIR replied. I was surprised at his truthfulness.
“Mr. Becker, do you remember where I live?” asked Captain Postel.
“Yes, sir,” Ensign Becker SIR replied.
“Good. I want you to accompany me and Emily to church for a while until you learn the difference between an ensign and God. It won’t take long because one’s on top and one’s on the bottom, and I’m going to explain which is which.”
“Yes, sir, Captain Postel.”
“Quigley, I apologize for these clowns. I can assure you the real Navy is not like this. If you have any more trouble, you just come over here and tell me about it.”
“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir, SIR,” I stammered.
“Dismissed,” he said.
Loose Buttons
The SIRs were on a scavenger hunt for loose P-coat buttons. They inspected all of us at quarters, and then came around anytime, day or night, and inspected the watch standers. When they found a loose button, they slipped their fingers under it and snapped it off. It would cost a dollar over at Battalion Headquarters to get it back.
The P-coat material was thick, and the buttons were forever coming loose. We were always at risk. I watched my bunkmate solve the problem. He removed his buttons and sewed them back on while holding the buttons about a quarter inch away from the P-coat. Then he would wind thread around the loose threads behind the buttons until the buttons were fastened with a thick cord.
I imitated him. I sewed my buttons on loosely and then wrapped thread around and around the loose threads, and then sewed some more until I was sure I had the most secure buttons in the Navy because I didn’t have a dollar. There was a small problem. The thread held the top button out a little too far and the button drooped. I wasn’t worried because there wasn’t any way it could be pulled off.
A week later I had the mid watch in the barracks. Ensign Bonham SIR, himself, came by to inspect me at 0200. He should have been sound asleep. Anyway, he spotted my droopy button. I saw him smirk as he slipped his fingers under the button and jerk. I nearly came out of my boots, but the button held. He jerked again, harder this time. I fell forward to the deck, almost taking him down with me. He backed up, turned around, and left with my button. It had a three-inch piece of my P-coat attached.
I was furious and I refused to pay for a new button. I wore my P-coat defiantly, daring anyone to say anything about the large hole where my button used to be. After about a week, Company Commander SIR took me back over to Naked City and swapped my P-coat for a new one. I got a bonus; it fit.
I’ll be Home For Christmas
Tall poles with lights and loud speakers surrounded the parade ground. They started playing Christmas music about two weeks before Christmas; it was my first experience with surround sound. It was pleasant. The ground was covered with snow reminding me of South Dakota, and listening to White Christmas made me feel good, if not a little homesick.
The music had a positive effect on the SIRs; there was less bullshit. About a week before Christmas, the music was interrupted by a young sailor bawling like a baby and an impatient SIR trying to calm him down.
“Why do you have to keep playing I’ll be Home for Christmas over and over and over when you know we won’t be home for Christmas,” blurted the young sailor between sobs, unaware that his lament was being broadcast over the loud speakers.
“Look, kid, it’s only a song and it’s in the middle of a record; I ain’t gonna stop playing it,” said the impatient SIR.
“But I can’t go home and I can’t keep hearing that song,” the young sailor cried. “If you don’t stop playing that song I’m going to call my mom and—”
“You’re gonna do what?” screamed the impatient SIR. He immediately switched to a sarcastic tone and said, “Well son, I wouldn’t want you to tell your mother. Why don’t we just reach over here and turn it off.”
Silence.
I figured the music would start again after a while, but it never did. We had a quiet Christmas. The bullshit returned. I was depressed.
The Red Cross, Again
I had to see Ensign Bonham SIR again. They had received another letter from the Red Cross saying that I owed them $15.00 and that I was delinquent and that they needed their money, so they could do great things. I thought Ensign Bonham SIR was more reasonable this time, but it did seem like he was speaking through clenched teeth. Anyway he asked nicely if I would write a letter explaining
everything, and I said I would and I did. I expected that would be the end of the Red Cross thing.
Non-Qualified Swimmer
I spent more and more time in the swimming pool as the swimming staff was determined that I was not going to leave boot camp a non-qualified swimmer. They tried hard, but I just kept sinking to the bottom of the pool. They seemed to think if they kept teaching me new swimming strokes; surely, one of them would work. The dog paddle was the worst. I wound up walking on my hands on the bottom of the pool. The backstroke came the closest to working. I still sank to the bottom, but I sank more slowly.
The Navy took swimming seriously, and I had to sign a waiver to stay in. They said if I didn’t learn to swim by the time I got to my permanent duty station, I wouldn’t be able to stay in the Navy.
Classification
I missed the final classification interview because of remedial swimming classes. I had to go over to the classification center for a make-up session. I dreaded being a sonarman. I saw a different Petty Officer SIR this time around and he was more cordial. I think everyone was more polite because we were getting close to graduation.
Anyway, Petty Officer SIR said, “Quigley, I have bad news for you. The sonarman rating is all full up; there are no more quotas. Is there anything else you want to try for?”
“Well, SIR,” I said, “I guess I could tolerate being a photographer.”
“Great,” he said, “I’ll send you to Airman Prep School.”
I thought I had been sucker punched again, but I was told I had to go to Airman Prep School before I could go to photography school. I made it. I was going to be a photographer.
AIRMAN PREP SCHOOL
“Knock off that boot camp shit,” said the chief at the duty outhouse. “I am a chief petty officer and damn proud of it, and furthermore I ain’t no SIR, and I’m damn proud of that too.”
“Yes, sir,” I said.
When I got to the personnel office, I found out I was already on report. Ensign Bonham had felt compelled to forward all letters from the Red Cross along with a summary of the counseling I had received for refusing to pay back a loan.
“I have no use for a man that would short change the Red Cross,” said my new commanding officer.
“But sir, I had an agreement with them to—”
“I don’t want to hear any excuses. What I want is for you to give my secretary a $15.00 money order and a stamped envelope addressed to the Red Cross within an hour. Failure to do so will seriously jeopardize your career. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
“Yes sir.”
“I don’t understand you kids now-a-days; you have no sense of responsibility. Dismissed.”
I liked Airman Prep School. I learned about all the aviation ratings including Photographer’s Mate. I also learned some practical things like welding and soldering. And I learned a lot of exciting stuff about aircraft carriers and airplanes and I figured I was in the right place.
I had remedial swimming lessons three times a week. I didn’t mind because I really wanted to learn to swim; however, the two instructors weren’t very helpful because they concentrated on helping the women. They didn’t say five words to me all the time I was there. I tried swimming on my back, but it was hopeless; I just kept sinking to the bottom. After a while I gave up and just watched the instructors play with the women.
We had Cinderella liberty every Friday and Saturday night. Friday was out because I didn’t finish swimming until 2000, but I was ready to go, come Saturday night. I had a great time. Norman, Oklahoma, was a great place. The people were friendly, and I was overdue for a good time. Mostly, I just talked to people and drank a few beers. I headed back to the base about 2330 because I sure didn’t want to be late. But, of course, I was. Can you believe it? Cinderella liberty ended at 2300. I was put on report at the gate.
Because it was my first Cinderella liberty, and because of my superior knowledge of literature, the captain actually let me off with a warning.
I was not so lucky the next time around. I guess the captain had to do something because it was the third time he’d seen me. Without any warning, the swimming instructors had put me on report for dereliction of duty. They told the captain I never made any effort to learn to swim. I couldn’t believe it. These guys had hardly said a word to me. Anyway, I told the captain about the women, and he relieved them of instructor duty without even asking them if it was true. Captain’s mast is a real crapshoot. I received another official reprimand.
I saw the captain again before I left. I was honor man for Class 254. I was off to photo school, and I was excited.
PHOTO SCHOOL
The U.S. Naval Schools of Photography were located at the Naval Air Station, Pensacola, Florida. The large, elegant, white sandstone building looked more like a hotel in the Alps than a military school. Its four-inch-thick doors, 14-inch-thick sandstone walls, brass expansion bracelets, brass periscope, and intricate beams that held the roof up without any nails made a unique home for the Photo Schools.
The building, formerly the Bachelor Officer’s Quarters at Fort Barrancas, housed the basic Photo School, a motion picture school, and a camera repair school. The building faced the ocean, and the white sand beaches of Escambia Bay were only a few blocks away. We fell in for quarters every morning on the parade ground immediately in front of the building. Beyond the parade ground was a large park that was separated from the beaches by a road that ran along the bay.
It was a great place for a Photo School for Southerners. For people from South Dakota, there was a little problem with the heat, the humidity, and the roaches. The heat was unbearable. The humidity was oppressive, and I was terrified of the roaches. I don’t ever recall seeing a roach in Rapid City, South Dakota. They mustered in front of my bunk every evening for the sole purpose of intimidating me. It worked. I had nightmares of being carried off on a bed of roaches.
I was given one sheet and one pillowcase when I checked into the barracks. “Is this all I get?” I asked.
“It’s all you need,” came the flat reply.
I lay awake all night listening to the roaches call cadence and wondering when it would cool off. By morning, I understood why I didn’t need a top sheet. There was a wet imprint of my body on the bottom sheet when I got up. The school was 15 weeks. I wondered if I could go that long without sleep.
We marched from the barracks to the school, sat through an hour of indoctrination and three hours of class. We bused to the galley and back; sat through four more hours of class, held a 30-minute field day, and marched back to the barracks. The instructors seemed cold and indifferent, but they were good. We did everything by the numbers; there was no room for creativity. Most would become artisans; few would become artists.
I was placed on report my second night in the barracks for sleeping in the windowsill.
The school was about 75 percent theory and about 25 percent practical. The first time I saw a photographic image appear in a tray of developer, it was pure magic. I have been hooked ever since. I was enthralled, and I studied simply because I enjoyed it, something I had never done before.
A Hole in the Wall
I was called downstairs to the Barracks Master-At-Arms office the evening of my third night in the barracks.
“Quigley, I’ve been told that you punched the holes in the wall outside my office, and I am officially notifying you that you are on report.”
Something inside me exploded. I spun around and hit the wall with my fist so hard that it went all the way through.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
“If you’re going to put me on report for punching holes in the wall, then by God at least one of them is going to have my name on it.”
“Well, you didn’t have to do that. You could have just told me.”
“Yeah, like you would have believed me.”
“You shouldn’t have done that; you really shouldn’t have done that. Go to your room and stay there until I get back to you.”
He never got back to me, and he didn’t put me on report, which was a relief because I hadn’t seen the captain yet for sleeping in the windowsill.
When I finally went to mast, all I got was a warning, but I was really starting to worry. Do they keep count? Are they going to kick me out when I hit a certain number?
Step to the Back of the Bus
I made my first friendship with a colored man—well, that’s what we called them back then. His name was Henry Mason. Henry was much more outgoing than I was and a lot of fun to be with. He could mimic all of the instructors and all the rest of us with uncanny accuracy. He seemed to be aware of everyone’s relationship to everyone else, and was a constant source of insight and amazement.
Henry was always happy and could see humor in almost everything. I don’t know how anyone could not like him, but the instructors were all down on him except for one we all called Big Jim. The instructors were always asking Henry questions that were beyond what was being taught and then ridiculing him for not knowing the answer. I was given two hours extra duty one day for telling an instructor that the question he asked Henry had not been covered, and that none of us could answer it. Henry came and marched right along with me. We had so much fun we almost got another two hours.
When we were back in the barracks, I said, “Big Jim is okay, ain’t he, Henry? I mean he is powerfully good looking, and his clothes fit so well I think he has them tailored. He is the only one that doesn’t give you a bad time.”
“Well, he really is something. You know he is banging every broad in the joint. The girls are crazy about him.”
“How do you know all that stuff, Henry?”
“Open your eyes, Russell. They follow him up and down the hall everywhere he goes. Yesterday, one of them even followed him into the head, but he run her out. Rumor is, he has three of them pregnant.”
“I still don’t know how you pick up on all this.”
“Russell, the next time you see him, count the number of girls with him, look at their faces, and watch the way they touch him, and then tell me they ain’t all crazy about him. Women don’t touch men like that unless they’ve been intimate.”
“How do you know they’re pregnant? You can’t tell that by looking at them. Ain’t nobody showing.”
“That’s what the girls are saying. Don’t you talk to the girls, Russell?
“Not much.”
“Well, that’s your problem, Russell. If you don’t talk to girls, you’ll never know what’s going on. You know they’re into everything.”
I was amazed that all this was going on around me, and I didn’t have a clue. I made a vow to be more observant and to learn how to talk to girls. I really didn’t like to talk to girls unless I was drunk and horny. Henry enjoyed talking to everyone. I wanted to be like Henry. I still do.
Henry and I took the shuttle bus downtown one Saturday just to look around. We got off at Garden and Palafox and walked over to the Saenger to check out the movie. It didn’t interest us, so we went across the street to the Sears and Roebuck Company. Henry says, “If they don’t have it at Sears and Roebucks, you probably don’t need it.”
We ate at a corner café, walked back to Garden Street, and decided to catch a city bus back to the base. We got on, paid our fares, walked back to the middle of the bus, and sat down. Well, the bus wasn’t going all that fast, but it stopped so suddenly that we all were thrown forward. I heard someone curse behind me.
The bus driver came back and looked at Henry and said, “Would you please step to the back of the bus?”
Henry didn’t say a word; he just stood up, squeezed by me, and went to the back of the bus. I was stunned. I had heard about segregation, but it really caught me off guard. The bus was moving again by the time I decided to move to the back of the bus and sit by Henry. Henry didn’t give me his usual smile.
This time the bus came to a gentle stop. The bus driver opened the doors before coming back and pointing to me. “You, off the bus.”
I was about to challenge the bus driver when he shoved me towards the door. The stairwell was behind me, so when I stepped back, I fell completely out of the bus on to the road. I was surprised, hurt, and angry. I was about to tear back into the bus and into the driver when he said, “Officer, a little assistance, please.”
A police officer helped me up, and then held on to my arm.
“What’s wrong, driver?”
“That man is trying to make trouble with the coloreds. Make sure he doesn’t get on another city bus.”
The police officer was still holding on to me when the bus pulled away. I wondered why Henry didn’t get off the bus.
“What did you do?” the officer asked.
“I sat with a friend.”
“You mean you sat with a colored friend, and that’s not legal.”
“I can’t believe that it's illegal for one sailor to sit with another sailor.”
“If you like, I can arrest you, and you can see for yourself how legal it is.”
“No thanks. I believe you. Do you know how much it costs to take a taxi to the base?”
“You don’t need to take a taxi; you can take a bus. That driver runs a bus, not the whole city.”
To this day, I do not understand why Henry did not get off the bus, but even more puzzling is why he never spoke to me again. They dropped Henry from the school about half way through.
Mustang
Big Jim was selected for the Limited Duty Officer (LDO) program. It caused quite a stir because the three girls really were pregnant. LDOs, or Mustangs, as they are called, have to go to “Knife and Fork” school to learn how to be gentlemen. Big Jim was transferred. The three girls were dropped from Photo School and put out of the Navy.
Another Redhead
His hair was blond and his eyes were blue, but I could see that he was another redhead. I clipped his heel while we were marching. He spun around and hit me so hard three of us went down. I knew better than to fight back. I could see the adrenaline pumping through his veins and popping out his eyes. I’d seen that look before. I just listened to him swear a blue streak and let it go at that. I wondered how long he would last.
A few weeks later, I had the 0800 to 1200 barracks watch on the second deck. There were stairs on each side of the lobby with an open-air railing between them. It was Saturday morning. Normally, it would be a quiet watch because everyone would be on liberty. However, the Officer-of-the-Day was Lieutenant Asshole, who said we didn’t get the barracks clean enough yesterday, so he ordered another field day, and said he would be here at 0900 to inspect.
Well, all I could do was walk around and watch, but everybody else pitched in and the place was ready for inspection by 0900. I stood by the railing so I could see down into the lobby to watch for Lieutenant Asshole. Everybody was anxious to go on liberty, so of course they were annoyed when he didn’t show up. Everybody quit cleaning and stood by their room ready to sound off whenever Lieutenant Asshole showed up. Everybody that is, except Red. He kept cleaning his room over and over and imploring his roommates not to touch anything.