Sea Stories

Just to begin, I want to be sure that everyone understands exactly what a sea story is.

Basically, a sea story is kind of like a fairy tale but with a difference.  A fairy tale begins: "Once upon a time..." but a sea story starts with: "Now this is no bull..." (or words to that effect).

Is that clear?

Okay, good.

Breaking out of prison

Now, this is no bull (give or take a lie or two) because I'm going to tell you about the great prison break.  You can tell that this is true (mostly) because I'm not the principal protagonist ... or not the hero, anyway ... but I was there.

Things began with the Tropical Escape and Evasion Training Course.  This was a requirement before we could fly in Vietnam (strange how hard we worked to qualify for hell ... but that's beside the point) and, after several days of "classroom" instruction, we were each given ½ of a used parachute (we don't carry parachutes on choppers ... think about it) and 5¢ worth of candy (your choice but you could get a candy bar -- or a roll of lifesavers -- for a nickel.)   Of course, you were expected to have your flight suit, an aviator's knife (a large jackknife), a signal mirror, canteen, compass, flint and steel, wire saw ... the usual emergency provisions.    (We were also weighed going in ... and coming out.  But more about that in a moment.)

Optionally, you could also have a cigarette lighter and cigarettes (or cigars or a pipe, etc) if that was your personal preference.  (Having these, however, was not a wise idea -- no, not because of the Surgeon General ... but ... read on.)

Thus equipped, we were transported to a mountain location (somewhere in the Hawaiian islands), given a map and turned loose.  Objectives: feed yourself and get from Point A (on the map) to Point B (on the map).  And you had five days to do it.

Piece of cake, right?

Or did I forget to mention that there were a couple of companies of Marines out there looking for us?  The d*mn*d jarheads really enjoyed their part in this exercise.

Oh, yeah ... there was also an incentive for not getting caught.

If you got caught, you were taken directly to the prison camp.  Do not pass Go, do not collect $200 ...

If you didn't get caught but made it to point B, you didn't go to the prison camp ... until the fifth day.

Get the picture?

By the way, do you have any idea how cigarette smoke stands out in the jungle?

I did mention that tobacco was a bad idea, yes?

Okay, a half of a parachute makes an excellent source of very strong fabric and lots of strong cord.

It's also white ....  think about it.

Mud, tree sap and various crushed plants took care of the 'white'  (our flight suits were already camo'd) and a hammock strung high in a tree is really hard to spot.  Reasonably comfortable too.

As for food, tee-root gets pretty dull after a while but the base of each of the broad leaves proves a couple of generous bytes of fresh, starchy pulp and there are lots of fruits available ... if you don't mind too much about being green, ripe, over-ripe or partially dried.  (Tip: those fancy macadamia nuts you buy in the store?  They grow wild.  But green macadamia nuts are a powerful and very fast acting diuretic/purgative/laxative.  Very powerful, very fast.  On the other hand, the green husks are good for staining the skin a blotchy gray/green/brown.)

At one point, I snared a mongoose and then built a (very well concealed) smokeless fire.  I should have, however, eaten my boot and worn the mongoose.  (Mongoose can be very tasty ... when properly prepared and tenderized with papaya leaves.  Just this one wasn't.)

I did better trapping a large bird ... but I scraped a lot of tee-root leaves as well.

And I made it to Point B without getting caught.

At that time, our survival kits were taken away and we were left with boots and flight suits.

At least, they drove us to the concentration camp ... or maybe that was to ensure that we did get there?

Surrounded by cane fields, the camp was based on a number of old ammo bunkers and fortified structures left over from WWII; a collection of underground tunnels with railroad tracks running down the center and large (windowless) rooms with heavy steel doors.  As for the decor, all of the signs were in Cyrillic and the guards wore strange uniforms (they were actually US Marines but they sure enjoyed their assigned roles), spoke with thick accents of indeterminate origins and carried unfamiliar weapons.  And there were machine gun towers; doubled, tall barbed wire fences and an air of having stepped into a parallel universe. And not a very nice one.

Note: participation was entirely voluntary and anyone could opt out at any time simply by saying so ("I QUIT!")... but opting out was flunking the course.  Like I said, it still amazes me how hard we fought for the "privilege" of serving as airborne paramedics.

I'm not going to tell you all of the details of the prison.  I remember them all but, instead, let's fast forward a bit.

I was being interrogated, threatened with a pistol, given a deliberate misinterpretation of the Geneva Conventions, threatened with a pistol, subject to various, awkward and uncomfortable postures (also somewhat humiliating), threatened with a pistol, ordered to sign a "confession",  threatened with a pistol ... or have I mentioned that part?  

Well, pay attention, it's relevant.

Finally, at one point, my interrogator was standing in the wrong position and I was able to knock him off his feet, dive across the table and grab -- remember the pistol? -- his sidearm before diving through the door ...

... at which point, I received a rifle butt on each shoulder blade, sending me nose first into the cement.  

At that time, just for a change of pace, I was taken to a "black box" -- that's a slightly tilted box just barely big enough for a crouched human to fit inside.  Note that I've said nothing about comfort?  That's because there wasn't any.  As a rest cure, it really sucked!  (The only reason for the slant is to make sure that the victims don't pass out.)

Elsewhere, however, there were other things happening.  Originally, most of us -- thirty or forty of us -- had been herded into one large chamber where individuals could subsequently be extracted and escorted to interrogation rooms, etc.

Several people -- during the absence of the guards -- had worked together to get an access plate off of one of the ducts (the guards had missed one small tool taped to the inside of a guy's thigh.)  Before the guards returned, one man was hoisted up into the duct and the access plate replaced ... but held in place only by two strips of flight suit held by the "escapee".

Some time later, after all of the prisoners had been removed and parceled out to other locations and treatments, the escapee came down, "scragged" an unwary guard (verbal assault: "Okay buddy, lie down quietly -- you're dead"), took his weapon, "killed" two more guards, released three other prisoners, captured the black box room ... and began releasing prisoners en masse.

A short time later, we'd accounted for more than a dozen guards and we held one of the machine gun towers ... when the "Commandant" appeared to announce loudly: "Gentlemen!  This exercise is concluded! ... Congratulations!"

Later, I heard of three other "classes" who had escaped, "killed" guards and generally turned the prison into a battle zone.  One was a company of Seals (Navy Special Forces / UD Teams), the other two were mixed Navy / Marines (we only fight with each other if there's no-one else -- i.e., Air Force or Army ... or civilians -- handy.)

Later, before finally leaving Hawaii, I bought a 35mm Minolta ALs camera for Dad to try as a news camera.  I also took a couple of rolls of film, made a surreprious entry to the concentration camp (at a time when it was not in use) ... and photographed everything, shipping the film to Dad to be developed in a "safe" environment.

He loved the camera ... and the slides.

Oh, yes ... I mentioned that we were weighed going in and coming out?  Coming out, I'd gained five lbs ... and it wasn't fat!

I was also hungry as hell!

So, that's how we "escaped" from a concentration camp -- which is not in any way intended as a put-down to anyone who was in a real concentration camp.  Our stay was -- even without the "escape" -- only intended to be a weekend.  Come Monday, we'd have been out regardless.  Ours was a training exercise and I'm more than happy that I never was in the position of facing the reality.  

For those who have faced the realities of being a POW, you have nothing but my utmost respect.

The Meanest Muthas In The Valley

I don't like to fight.  The universe, however, does not always offer us an option to not fight. 

The reason I don't like to fight is simple: someone can get hurt ... and it might be me.  So, if it comes to the point where I have no choice, I'm going to do my damnedest to make the fight as short as possible ... and to make sure that, if necessary, someone else gets the pain.

The reason I mention this is because I'm also smarter than the average bear and have always preferred to fight with my best weapon -- my brains -- before engaging my brawn.

A case in point -- where brains definitely triumphed over brawn and did so repeatedly -- occurred back in the early 70's while I was stationed at Dallas Naval Air Station.  This was also a time -- for those too young to remember -- that there was a lot of black/white tension, when the "N" word was still in use but was inflammatory and when there were a lot of other stresses.   For several months before I left the Navy, I'd been put in charge of one shift of the base security police.  

Unlike the Army and Air Force, the Navy does not have a separate "police" force but almost anyone could be assigned such duties for a three to six month stretch.  As a combat vet -- and as 'Toon Commander for the "Provisional Rifle Team" (more about them in a bit), I was assigned these duties.

One of the chaps working for me -- he was also assigned these temporary duties -- happened to be very dark skinned, as tall as I ... and maybe 40 lbs heavier.  It wasn't fat.

But we shared one very important characteristic: neither of us like to get in a fight.  And we believed in handling such potentially painful situations in the same manner.  Of such things are friendships forged.

But here's how it worked in practice.  Anytime there was a disturbance call from the enlisted club ... or the officers' club for that matter ... I'd leave someone else to watch the desk and Jerry and I would take the call.  On the way over, we'd flip a coin.

On arrival, the winner would make a noisy entrance, slamming the doors, stalking in (to attract everyone's attentions) and stopping for a count of ten.

On ten -- assuming I'd won the toss -- I'd turn back to the door and start cussing Jerry ... in the worst possible language of which the "N" word was probably the mildest term used.  

That would be his cue to enter ... cursing me ... in equally racist terms.

Inside, he'd take the whites and I'd take the blacks ... and we were both perfectly pleasant and polite about it ... except to each other.

Think about it a moment ...

Nobody -- and I mean NOBODY, no matter how drunk or belligerent  -- ever tried to raise a hand to either of us.

Three reasons: 1) they were effectively in shock, 2) they were waiting for us to attack (and kill) each other and .... 3) we were -- obviously -- the meanest muthas in the valley ... or anywhere else for that matter.

As a matter of fact, it was so effective that someone reported our "animosity" to the CO and he called us on the carpet demanding to know what the problem was; that he'd thought we were friends.  Jerry and I -- of course -- had no idea what he was talking about.  When we figured it out and explained -- offering a demo -- the CO just shook his head and told us to ... well, he was a sea dog too, so never mind exactly what his words were ... aside from being extremely improbable and -- mostly -- physically impossible.  (But, hey, he was grinning when he said it.)

Note: Today, I remain a militant pacificist -- i.e., I'll kill the SOB who tries to make me fight!

No, don't laugh ... it's not a joke.

The Provisional Rifle Team

The Provisional Rifle Team was a euphemism for a riot-control force.  Remember, this was in the early 70's -- the days of the Weathermen Underground, violent peace protests (and bombs) ... well, it wasn't the best of times.  We had a two company structure: one Navy and one Marine with three platoons in each, consisting of ten squads of three in each 'toon.  (Yes, I know, a regular "platoon" is much larger -- but these were special purpose.)

A three man squad is just the right size to safely -- everyone's safety -- restrain and immobilize a rioter.

I was in charge of one of the Navy platoons -- selected because of my record and because I was pretty competent at unarmed combat.

Unarmed combat is an idiotic term.  As long as I have a brain, I assure you, I'm not unarmed.  And, if I need a firearm or a single stick or whatever, there's always some idiot who's going to supply me ... and over their dead body always remains an option.

We spent a lot of time training our 'toons in physical restraints, in the less than fatal application of force, in how to NOT fight if at all possible.  Our men were also armed with semi-automatic rifles and spent time each week on the range (but also spent a lot more time learning other uses for a rifle -- there are other -- less terminal but far more painful -- uses).  The six of us who were 'toon commanders were issued .45 automatics ... and we also spent a lot of time practicing our marksmanship.

In my military career, I drew my sidearm three times (aside from on the range) ... but did not have to fire it once.  I'm more than glad that I never needed to but I was always ready to do so -- otherwise, I wouldn't have been carrying one in the first place.

For the most part, the training and teams were just that: training and exercise.  There was one occasion, however, when a Peace March -- beginning in Fort Worth and ending in Dallas also had the announced intention of coming aboard Dallas Naval Air Station to demonstrate.

We were prepared with fire hoses hooked up and ready, with crash trucks (fire-retardent foam is wonderful stuff ,,, and can retard more than fires) positioned strategically at the ready and the six riot 'toons formed up and waiting in the gymnasium (very close to the main gate).  Two of us, however, took a pickup truck and a driver (yes, we were armed as well) and went to the mess hall to pick up the largest kettles they had, filled them with water and ice, went to the PX and cleaned them out of paper cups, took a bullhorn and then drove out to the highway to meet the marchers.

It was a hot day and, I explained over the bullhorn, we could not allow them entry to the base but, we did have ice water for everyone.

Look, I was scared, okay?  More scared than I think I have ever been before or since.  Two sidearms and a rifle just don't cut it against thousands but we had to be armed or not there at all.  (We would have tried to run before anything else if necessary but being out there unarmed ... well, that would have been even stupider ... or something like that.)

Fortunately, there were enough cool heads in the crowd to tame the hot heads.  For a couple of hours, we passed out ice water (the highway was littered with paper cups afterwards; a work party from the brig got the job of picking them up) and, finally, with the last of the marchers departing, we drove back aboard the base where we were met by the CO.

His instructions were simple: dismiss our men ... and then report to him at the club.

We needed drinks!

On the (Wrong?) Side of Law & Order

The Provisional Rifle Team was called on at one point to provide a very unusual service.  The Dallas PD had several classes of rookies whom they wanted to train in riot-control techniques.

And we were asked to provide the riot ... Yeah!  Smart choice!

A part of the base -- belonging to the Texas Air National Guard -- was mostly unused during the week and. for the day of our riot, nobody was allowed in line of fire.  A lot of preparations had gone into setting up strategic cameras, we'd also arranged several snipers at difficult to reach positions while the rules of engagement were simple: throw nothing heavier than a wad of paper, and break off all encounters at the sound of a whistle.  (The rules were followed ... more or less.)

We were also in civvies, of course; we were supposed to be rioters, right?  I was wearing Mary's favorite fringed leather vest (as she's reminded me many times), levies, a T-shirt and a bandana on my head.

The other five 'toon commanders and myself had agreed. We'd distance ourselves from our men -- after all, they're supposed to be rioters -- and act as an independent mob.  The idea was -- that without our "leadership" -- they'd do more to emulate a real mob.  

It didn't really work like that, of course; we'd trained them too well and what the police were actually facing were some sixty three-man squads ... independent squads but mutually supporting as well.

Hey, they damned well couldn't avoid it -- we'd either drilled it into them or flunked them out.

Two of the 'toon commanders and I worked out a strategy where two of us would wait around the corner of a building while the third would go out and try to engage the officer on the end of skirmish line.  As soon as the rookie broke ranks (serious error) his taunter would lure him around to where the other two waited.  And then it was: "Have a seat, you're dead." and another of us would take his turn at baiting.

Hey, sure, we were acting as a team ... what do you expect?  And so were our men; it was automatic.

Also, there were a few surprises not covered by the "rules" -- such as a burning dumpster which trundled across the road forcing the rookies to scatter (or get run over),  a fire hydrant that suddenly doused everyone ... you know, little things like that?  Real injuries -- some are inevitable -- were limited to a few scrapes and one twisted ankle but the exercise had to be suspended several times in order to "revive" the deceased rookies and renew the ranks of the Dallas PD riot squads.

We also took a lunch break -- hey, this was a civilized riot -- and had great fun lecturing the rookies on how they were doing, demonstrating some of the things that our men had been taught and -- just a little bit -- rubbing the lesson in.

We broke off that afternoon (with everyone pretty well exhausted) and called it a day.

And that was it until a few weeks later when the DPD Chief offered us his thanks ... and expressed his sincere desire that "none of his men would ever have to face a real riot of our caliber."

Hey, I wouldn't have wanted to face us either.

But, since I'm trying to honest ... this one was FUN!

They Probably Wished I'd Shot

I said that I'd only drawn my sidearm on three occasions?  Only one of those was critical; one night in the early 70's (yes, while I was running security).  We were on high alert, there had been a number of bomb threats (this was the hey-day of the Weather Underground, our home-grown terrorist faction of the peace movement) and there had been some bombs as well -- just not where we were.

And there were parts of the base which were "off limits" to anyone except authorized personnel; not so much because there was anything secret there but for other, more mundane reasons.  One such area was a series of old WWII ammo bunkers which were on the far side of the runway with a chain link fence beyond and a lake beyond that.

It was sometime after eleven when I had a call from the control tower, One of the controllers on duty was pretty sure he'd seen something on the far side of the runway; a vehicle of some sort ... but no lights.

In response, I sent one team in from the west, one from the east and Jerry and I (we made a good team) went straight south across the runway (no lights at all, happily also no flights expected).  On the far side, on the access road, we met with one of the teams, then turned and proceeded down until we could dimly see another vehicle parked by a bunker ... and another pickup -- ours -- just beyond.

My weapon was drawn as I got out of the pickup.  There were six of us in all as we quietly approached the dark car and, with my left hand, I turned a flashlight on through the windshield ... with my .45 next to the glass on the driver's side door.

Granted, I've never before seen four people sober up so fast ... but that didn't mean that I felt any less tense.

The reasons were simple: these stupid idiots wanted a private place to neck, sure.  But their choice of a plainly posted off-limits area had put my men in physical danger.

No they weren't armed or anything -- the idiots, I mean; they weren't quite that stupid -- but we were armed ... and that constitutes a danger. And nobody does that to my men ... PERIOD!

The two girls were released to their parents ... several hours later.  The two guys were given quarters in the brig ... but only after I had leisurely outlined their ancestry, personal habits, other shortcomings ... and probable future.

Well, maybe it wasn't leisurely ... but I felt a bit more relaxed afterwards.

They didn't but I didn't care about that.

The next morning, the CO pretty much echoed my remarks of the evening before ... the only differences being 1) that he was even madder than I was (and for the same reasons) and 2) that he had the authority to ensure their immediate future ... and to see that it was not comfortable but would be memorable.

They might have been happier if I'd fired!  

I might have been also.

But I'm still glad I didn't.

Moral: there's always a penalty for stupidity ... just that some idiots are luckier than others.

Battle Shock

In general, I'm adverse to talking about 'Nam.   Occasionally, in the company of other Vets who were "in country", we may swap a few thoughts -- usually rather sketchy ones but they're enough for the others to recognize and fill in any necessary details.  Otherwise, there's a them and us aspect to this; if you were there ... then I don't need to spell anything out.  If you weren't, there's no point ...

But there is one story I've told several times because ... well, because, to be honest, it's funny.  Or funny to me anyway.

We were flying SAR (Search and Rescue) off the Kersarge.  The way this worked was that we'd pulled all of the sonar and ECM gear out of the choppers, outfitted them with some armor plate (but only a minimum, it's heavy) and mounted two M-60 machine guns.  No, we did not have a red cross on the choppers -- for the same reason that we didn't paint bulls eyes on them.  The choppers were camo'd, we were camo'd and armed and we had rather elaborate med kits.  Our job was simple, as directed we would go in, pull some poor bastard out and get him to a hospital ship ASAP and, hopefully, still alive.  (High point, if they live, they owe us five gallons of ice cream from the ship's store ... a debt they're happy to pay ... it's an old tradition.)

To do this, we would take off and fly in a small circle around some point in the ocean for about twelve hours.  Every hour or two, we'd swing over to a DE or whatever else was handy, drop a hoist cable, pull up a heavy hose, lean out of the rear hatch and fasten the hose to the fuel tank and fill up ... and then go back to circling that small spot in the ocean.

At some time, we'd get a hot vector -- a location inland (usually) where one of our fighters or bombers had gone down or something similar and where we were needed for an emergency rescue.  In general, we never knew if we were north or south of the DMZ ... and it didn't really matter, we were likely to be shot at either way.

Anyone who's been there -- or in a similar situation -- knows exactly what we mean when we describe the job as hours of sheer boredom ... punctuated by minutes of sheer terror.

If available, we might have one or two Cobras (Marine attack helicopters and some of the most beautiful gun platforms which have every flown) as an escort; if not, we went in alone.

Okay, that's the background ... briefly.  (If you want more, you weren't there; if you were there, you don't need more.)

I had a rather eerie experience recently while on the ferry between Bainbridge Island and Seattle.  Paralleling us on each side was a Coast Guard gun boat ... each with a very familiar-looking machine gun up front.  It was both an oddly reassuring escort ... and an echo of ancient terror.

My first pickup -- we're all virgins once -- was a downed pilot who'd suffered an abdominal breach in the crash.  Basically, he was leaning against a tree, trying to hold his intestines in place.

Okay, it shook me.  Badly.   And if there's anything amusing about that, be very careful that you don't laugh where I can hear you.  For that matter, be very careful that nobody hears you ... you might pick a Vet. 

In any case, it shook me badly enough that I dropped the battle bandage which I'd just ripped out of a sterile envelope ... and I was standing there holding the envelope with this big gauze pad (with ribbons for tying in place) lying in the dirt.

So I took the plastic wrapper -- the inside was sterile -- and covered the intestines, tucking in the edges and then used the dirty bandage to cover that.

Then we loaded the poor guy, spun up and exited seaward.  

According to the specs, the SH-3A can turn 130 knots.  According to the ground tracking doppler radar, we've redlined at 140 ... and we use every bit we can get.  (If there's ground fire, then to hell with the redline.)

We got back with our patient still alive, turned him over to the medics, filled out our reports (routine can actually be soothing at times) and then I tried to replay -- in my mind -- what had happened, how I'd felt, why I wanted to cry ... little things like that.

I was still sitting there in the Ready Room -- the recliner chairs are very comfortable -- when a door slammed open to reveal a surgeon, masked, dressed in greens, bloody gloved hands held  up ... and his words were:  "Who's the son-of-a-bitch who plas ...."

He broke off in the middle of the last word and disappeared just as suddenly but I surmised that he meant to continue with: "...tic wrapped ..."

Later, I explained and he apologized.  We understood each other perfectly; stress does that.

Oh, yeah ... the pilot paid off with five gallons of chocolate ... he lived.

Okay, looking back at the story, maybe it's kind of difficult to see where the humor is but it's funny to me.  

Maybe because it hurts too much to cry?

Or maybe you just had to be there ...

Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD)

I don't remember if I've told this story before -- maybe, maybe not -- but, even though this happened four decades later (more or less) than the other events related here, this is where it belongs.

I should begin by introducing a friend: Joel Courreges. Make that MSgt. Courreges. Joel is a Marine (they say there's no such thing as an ex-Marine), retired and now a DAV Service Officer. He's also one of the nicest guys I know and he can have my back anytime.

Joel's only shortcoming (or only that I'm aware of) is that he's a lousy clerk; primary because his typing is biblical (i.e., seek and ye shall find).

The relevance is -- while Joel was filling out a form on the computer and I was looking at some of the photos on display -- he suddenly turned around and said quietly: "Ben, I'm putting you in for PTSD."

"What the @#$%^&* are you talking about," I roared in my best bo'sun voice. My bo'sun voice (even though I was never a bo'sun) is one designed to reach right now someone's spine (bypassing their brain entirely) to demand an instant reaction. The string of symbols is simply because I've no intention of improving your vocabulary.

As for both the volume and the language, I'm quite sure they've heard worse of both; this is a DAV office.

"You're crying," Joel responded calmly.

"@#$%^& of course, I'm crying. Who the &^%#$% wouldn't be!" (I been looking at a picture of the Vietnam Memorial ... and, quite bluntly, if I hadn't been crying, I wouldn't want to know me.)

Then I calmed down a bit. He was right. But I still maintain that if I didn't react that way, I wouldn't want to know me.

And he did hand me a kleenex ...

Oh, btw -- after a very uncomforable evaluation interview with a psychiatrist ... yeah ... I'm rated as suffering from PTSD.

But, on a happier note, I've been seeing a really good therapist; a lady who is ex-Military and who doesn't need everything explained.

Telling Sea Stories

Okay, I've told you a few sea stories.  For the most part, they're true enough (like I said, give or take a lie or two).

Where I have altered the facts, it's mostly to omit what would need too much explanation or, maybe, just because there are things that I don't want to explain.  (I.e., if you need an explanation, then it's definitely none of your business.)

Or maybe, I'm just protecting you.  It doesn't really matter which.

But I could hardly talk to you about my life and leave these items out.  To do that would be a lie.  Good or bad, these are part of what I am, they're part of what made me what I am ... and, uncomfortable as some things are, I'd not wish to forget any of them.

But, just read them as sea stories.  If you enjoy them, fine. If not .. well that's your hard luck, okay? 'Cause I don't really give a ........... well, you can fill in the blanks -- your choice.

Apoligea (of a sort)

There are some pretty coarse jokes about preparing guys (and gals) to return to civilian life. Commonly these involve such things as teaching them to say "please pass the butter" without certain modifiers not normally used in polite society. Normally, I'm pretty polite or, if I desire to insult, I'll do so in such a fashion that it may take a few moments for you to realize this has happened.

The point is -- if my language here tends to be somewhat coarser (even if only by suggestion) these are memories of a more stressful time.

Ergo, you may consider this a pro forma apology ... just don't take it too seriously, okay?

to be continued ... maybe

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