I stride into the Crazy House as if I own it. "What's with you?" Mother asks.
"I signed the papers."
"What are you talking about?"
"I joined the Navy."
"You're not old enough."
"I will be."
"You have to wait until your eighteen because I'm not signing for you."
"You don't have to. The recruiter says he'll date and sign those papers on May eighth. It'll all be over but the shouting." I grin.
Not looking at all pleased, Mother says nothing more. She wants me to attend college as my older brothers have, but that's not going to happen. I don't like school. Plus, I loathe textbooks. Plus, I want to get out of this town. Plus, I want to see the world. Plus, I want to get away from Mother.
"The Navy recruiter, a Boatswain Mate chief petty officer, seems more like a friend than an official naval functionary, carrying out his obligations," I brag to my older brothers during their Christmas vacations.
Doc III and Will-yum are overcome. They don't just laugh. They howl. "That's his job, you dumb shit," says Doc III.
"What a dumb ass," offers Will-yum of Dorkdom.
"I don't care what you guys say. The Chief's a nice guy."
The recruiter regales us with tons of "sea stories." It's obvious he loves what he's done and what he's doing. Most important to Don Regalia and me, the recruiter guarantees in writing that Don and I'll serve the first part of our four-year enlistment in boot camp together on the "Buddy" plan, meaning we won't get separated.
Although Don and I attend the same high school for almost four years except for one semester I spend at the "Hill of Happiness," he and I haven't been close friends.
However, since we discover as seniors that both of us intend to join the Navy after we graduate, we start becoming buddies. Incidentally, Don agrees with me that Oldsmobiles are the fastest American-made cars and the best vehicles on the road, bar none.
"After you fellows finish boot camp," the chief explains, "the Navy will probably send of you to separate places. At this point, however, nobody knows where."
"That's okay with me," I say.
Don nods, takes off his glasses, blows on them, and wipes them clean with a white handkerchief. "At least, we'll be together for the most difficult part of our enlistment. That's what my brother tells me," Don says.
Don and I are more than pleased the way things are progressing. So, too, is the Chief. He's happy because I score well on the Navy aptitude test he earlier gives to me and Don. "That means you're gonna do pretty good on your tests in boot camp, and I'll most likely meet my quota."
I don't know what he means by meeting his quota, but I do know what tests are. "More tests? I've had enough tests for the past twelve years to last me a lifetime."
"You're gonna take," the Chief says, "more tests than you'll have the time to count. Using tests, the Navy will find out what you know and what you don't know."
Since Don's older brother served in the Navy, I ask Don, "Do you think he'll talk to us?"
Don shrugs. "What can he say?"
"What do you mean 'what can he say?' He can tell us about the ships he served on, and if he liked the Navy, or not."
Don takes off his glasses. "He's too busy with his own family now. Anyway, he thinks it's better we find out on our own."
"So, you asked him already?"
"I did. By the way, he left his sea bag, loaded with all his uniforms at our house. You wanna try them on one of these nights?"
"Is the moon round?"
I still wonder why Don's older brother won't talk to us. No matter, one night, Don does invite me over to his place to try on his brother's uniforms. Nothing fits. Everything's too tight although Don wears the uniforms with ease. I'm intrigued with the dress blue trousers. They have thirteen Navy blue buttons with embossed anchors. "They represent the first thirteen colonies of the United States," explains Don.
"Who told you that?"
"My brother."
"Still wish he'd talk to us."
"He's afraid if we don't like the Navy, we'll blame him."
"I wouldn't."
"That's the way he feels."
Harvey Patterson, who's my best buddy through high school, is joining the Marine Corps. All through high school during every lunch period, he and I leave the school grounds and smoke Camel cigarettes before we return for afternoon classes. "I can't wait until we graduate," he says, "and get this school shit out of the way."
"I agree with you totally."
Another classmate, Donald O'Connor from Nekoosa, has already signed with the Marines. He's a gung-ho John Wayne type. The reason I don't join the Marines is due to my fear of remaining in the United States. My Uncle John, an Army sergeant during WWII, never left the states.
Besides, I've wanted to join the Navy ever since I was a little kid. Those Navy posters in front of our Post Office almost guarantee that guys like me who become sailors will "see the world," or at least part of it. And get this: I'll get paid for being on a U.S. fighting ship that visits foreign ports.
"Not necessarily," says our recruiter.
"Huh?"
"You might not serve on a ship if you become a Tit-less Wave—which is what we call Yeomen."
"Yeomen?"
"They're the Navy's clerk typists—you might be assigned to Washington, D.C. or other U.S. Navy bases and do nothing but sit on your ass before a typewriter and pound keys all day long. I personally know a Chief Yeoman who's never left the states in twenty-three years."
"Then, I know for certain I don't want to be a Yeoman."
"Do you type?" asks the Chief.
"Yeah, I took typing class last year."
"Don't tell anyone at Great Lakes," he warns. "If you do, they'll send you to Yeoman school."
"Thanks, Chief, I'll remember that."
"I signed the papers."
"What are you talking about?"
"I joined the Navy."
"You're not old enough."
"I will be."
"You have to wait until your eighteen because I'm not signing for you."
"You don't have to. The recruiter says he'll date and sign those papers on May eighth. It'll all be over but the shouting." I grin.
Not looking at all pleased, Mother says nothing more. She wants me to attend college as my older brothers have, but that's not going to happen. I don't like school. Plus, I loathe textbooks. Plus, I want to get out of this town. Plus, I want to see the world. Plus, I want to get away from Mother.
"The Navy recruiter, a Boatswain Mate chief petty officer, seems more like a friend than an official naval functionary, carrying out his obligations," I brag to my older brothers during their Christmas vacations.
Doc III and Will-yum are overcome. They don't just laugh. They howl. "That's his job, you dumb shit," says Doc III.
"What a dumb ass," offers Will-yum of Dorkdom.
"I don't care what you guys say. The Chief's a nice guy."
The recruiter regales us with tons of "sea stories." It's obvious he loves what he's done and what he's doing. Most important to Don Regalia and me, the recruiter guarantees in writing that Don and I'll serve the first part of our four-year enlistment in boot camp together on the "Buddy" plan, meaning we won't get separated.
Although Don and I attend the same high school for almost four years except for one semester I spend at the "Hill of Happiness," he and I haven't been close friends.
However, since we discover as seniors that both of us intend to join the Navy after we graduate, we start becoming buddies. Incidentally, Don agrees with me that Oldsmobiles are the fastest American-made cars and the best vehicles on the road, bar none.
"After you fellows finish boot camp," the chief explains, "the Navy will probably send of you to separate places. At this point, however, nobody knows where."
"That's okay with me," I say.
Don nods, takes off his glasses, blows on them, and wipes them clean with a white handkerchief. "At least, we'll be together for the most difficult part of our enlistment. That's what my brother tells me," Don says.
Don and I are more than pleased the way things are progressing. So, too, is the Chief. He's happy because I score well on the Navy aptitude test he earlier gives to me and Don. "That means you're gonna do pretty good on your tests in boot camp, and I'll most likely meet my quota."
I don't know what he means by meeting his quota, but I do know what tests are. "More tests? I've had enough tests for the past twelve years to last me a lifetime."
"You're gonna take," the Chief says, "more tests than you'll have the time to count. Using tests, the Navy will find out what you know and what you don't know."
Since Don's older brother served in the Navy, I ask Don, "Do you think he'll talk to us?"
Don shrugs. "What can he say?"
"What do you mean 'what can he say?' He can tell us about the ships he served on, and if he liked the Navy, or not."
Don takes off his glasses. "He's too busy with his own family now. Anyway, he thinks it's better we find out on our own."
"So, you asked him already?"
"I did. By the way, he left his sea bag, loaded with all his uniforms at our house. You wanna try them on one of these nights?"
"Is the moon round?"
I still wonder why Don's older brother won't talk to us. No matter, one night, Don does invite me over to his place to try on his brother's uniforms. Nothing fits. Everything's too tight although Don wears the uniforms with ease. I'm intrigued with the dress blue trousers. They have thirteen Navy blue buttons with embossed anchors. "They represent the first thirteen colonies of the United States," explains Don.
"Who told you that?"
"My brother."
"Still wish he'd talk to us."
"He's afraid if we don't like the Navy, we'll blame him."
"I wouldn't."
"That's the way he feels."
Harvey Patterson, who's my best buddy through high school, is joining the Marine Corps. All through high school during every lunch period, he and I leave the school grounds and smoke Camel cigarettes before we return for afternoon classes. "I can't wait until we graduate," he says, "and get this school shit out of the way."
"I agree with you totally."
Another classmate, Donald O'Connor from Nekoosa, has already signed with the Marines. He's a gung-ho John Wayne type. The reason I don't join the Marines is due to my fear of remaining in the United States. My Uncle John, an Army sergeant during WWII, never left the states.
Besides, I've wanted to join the Navy ever since I was a little kid. Those Navy posters in front of our Post Office almost guarantee that guys like me who become sailors will "see the world," or at least part of it. And get this: I'll get paid for being on a U.S. fighting ship that visits foreign ports.
"Not necessarily," says our recruiter.
"Huh?"
"You might not serve on a ship if you become a Tit-less Wave—which is what we call Yeomen."
"Yeomen?"
"They're the Navy's clerk typists—you might be assigned to Washington, D.C. or other U.S. Navy bases and do nothing but sit on your ass before a typewriter and pound keys all day long. I personally know a Chief Yeoman who's never left the states in twenty-three years."
"Then, I know for certain I don't want to be a Yeoman."
"Do you type?" asks the Chief.
"Yeah, I took typing class last year."
"Don't tell anyone at Great Lakes," he warns. "If you do, they'll send you to Yeoman school."
"Thanks, Chief, I'll remember that."
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