My Redacted Life. 1

My military life ended when I told a boldfaced lie to a two-star admiral of the United States Navy. I didn’t think too much about it at the time. I was a Third Class Bosun’s Mate. That’s a highly respected position, one largely earned by bluster, bullying, deception, and prevarication. Since I only knew one admiral on a personal basis, I lacked perspective.

Here’s the deal. I read somewhere that each of us should write the story of our own life, redacted of course, omitting those parts that would threaten hard-earned reputations, marital harmony, or “free-world” status. Yesterday, someone egged me on.

I begin with my exit from the navy. That experience had begun in San Francisco, California when the Draft Board sent my Sainted Mother a letter that translated roughly as, “Tell him he cannot run from us any longer and that if he doesn’t report to the Oakland, California Induction Center by the date specified, the entire resources of the Federal Bureau of Investigation shall be unleashed upon him. Along with this message, you might suggest to him that he have a will prepared, for his chances of a long life aren’t particularly promising.”

We respected our federal institutions in those days, and with a charming invitation like that, I sought a military solution that was more forgiving of negligent attitudes than the United States Army, or so I thought. There was also the prospect of carrying a rifle and slogging through the jungles of Southeast Asia.

So, I joined the United States Navy, and they first thing they did was to send me to the jungles of Southeast Asia and start me slogging around carrying a rifle. I still fail to understand the obsession that some have with those things (They don’t really make it larger. Trust me).

After that rather unpleasant experience, they sent me aboard the USS Hunley out of Charleston, South Carolina. That’s where I met my Admiral.

They, the Navy, had taught me to drive boats. We carried different varieties and sizes, from 50-foot wooden crafts, to officers’ vessels, to landing crafts left over from the Normandy Invasion. I drove them all.

After I had performed a year as naval coxswain without sinking a single boat, they told me that two jobs were open for which they, the Navy, felt I was eminently qualified. The first was a return to Southeast Asia, this time to drive boats on the rivers there. The second was as coxswain of the Admiral’s Barge (a nice swanky boat).

With a premonition of the dreadful manner in which the future Republican Party would treat those who drove boats in Vietnam, but with a twinge of adventurous patriotism, I went to the ship’s fo’c’sle late on a moonlight night, watched the flying fish guiding the ship, and pondered what would be a major life’s decision.

For almost 15 seconds.

That’s how I came to know my Admiral. As I say, he was a “two-star.” That’s where the Navy started them, admirals I mean. They saw no use for a BG equivalent so I began as coxswain for the equivalent of a major-general.

My duties varied from taking the Admiral’s wife and her friends to Fort Sumter to taking the Admiral out to meet a submarine returning from patrol. I had to move alongside the sub while we were both sailing along and let him jump from the barge to the sub. The experience chewed up the seats of my dress white trousers every time we did that, but I never dumped him.

Back to my last day of active duty. I was signing out, ready to say for the last time, “Request permission to go ashore, Sir,” when I was called to the phone in the Captain’s headquarters. The Admiral wanted to speak to me. “Come to my headquarters on the Main Base,” he said. “I have something for you.”

“Mary, Mother of Jesus,” I thought. Then my mind locked and loaded and went into attack gear. “Admiral,” I said, “I’m transferring out this morning, and I have three shipmates I promised to take to the airport on a tight schedule.” 

I imagine that may have been the first time anyone had told the “Old-Man” no in 20 years.

Anyway, after some wrangling, he agreed to have his aide mail it to me. It was a Naval Citation. I tried to trade it for a cup of coffee once, but they wanted money too.

Of course, there were no shipmates and no promises for transportation to the airport. I had lied. There was only freedom. I always regretted it a bit, but I’m sure the Admiral got over it. For me then, it was all, “Give me a fast car, for I intend to go in fun’s way.”

They, the Navy had paid me for travel all the way back to San Francisco, and I planned to take advantage of their offer. First, though, I planned a stop at my childhood home. I gave the stuck up, hateful, and military-loathing people of Charleston “the finger” as I drove through town.

It was “Goodbye Navy, hello Arkansas.”

One duty of a Coxswain, is too take
part in "Man Overboard" drills while at sea.
Look closely, I'm the one with my arm out.