Tough, Part Vb

My ship was in Gitmo for Reftray. To you lubbers, that's Guantanamo Bay, Cuba, where every US Naval Vessel goes after a long yard period so the crew can undergo refresher training in damage control. To sailors, damage control--the ability to put fires out and keep the ship afloat--is almost more important than being able to fight the ship: it's tough to operate effectively as a fighting team in spaces maintained at the combustion temperature of fuel oil.

During Reftray, dozens of experienced Chiefs of all ratings; Enginemen and Ops and of course, a horde of Damage Controlmen, come aboard the ship to conduct a series of inspections and General Quarters drills, where the crew mans various battle stations and practices their responses to simulated fire and flooding casualties. This tends to put the crew under a tremendous amount of stress, which they must somehow learn to cope with on the way to becoming that effective fighting team.

Twice a day for two weeks, we did four or five-hour long GQ drills. It was exhausting, with many hours spent in battle dress. Battle dress includes a fireproof hood on top of leather clothing and fireproof gloves. The ship's close corridors grow humid and heavy, and the grueling schedule and the broiling Caribbean sun only make it worse, piling layer upon layer of simmering misery. As a final, heat-trapping insult, they make you tuck your pants into your socks. I'm not sure how this is supposed to protect you from fire, but it certainly helps sop up the sweat that runs down your legs before it gets into your boots.

Despite the simulated chaos, the drills are actually run in an orderly fashion. Because of the need to stand watches, the morning exercises were typically scheduled to conclude at 1130 and the afternoon drills by 1545. This well established routine allows the watch teams to grab a bite to eat before taking either the noon or dog watch.

On one of these drill mornings, I was scheduled to stand at noon for Petty Officer of the Watch. My GQ position was phone talker for Repair Locker 4, which was situated all the way aft, on one of the lowest decks of the ship. My watch station, and the galley, were on the main deck high above and far forward. Transiting between the two places involved climbing several ladders and took a good five minutes.

1130 arrived, but DC Central still hadn't passed the all-clear. I informed the Locker Officer that I had the noon watch and requested permission to hit the galley. He refused, since the drill hadn't finished. I told him I couldn't be late for watch, he knew how these things worked, could I please go up now, sir? But there was no point in arguing with the LO, a butter-bar with an over inflated sense of self-worth. No matter what I said, he wasn't going to let me leave. I sat back down in front of the phone box, pissed off that I wasn't going to get any chow before my watch.

It was about then that the Bosun came down the passageway and stuck his head into the locker.

"Fucking G____! Don't you have the next watch? What the hell are you still doing down here?"

I tried to explain about the LO. The Bosun, a black Warrant Officer who'd come up through the enlisted ranks with thirty years of experience, was having none of it. He ignored the young white ensign, grabbed me by my shirt and threw me out into the passageway. The headset of my sound-powered phone was still plugged in to the wall socket and as I flew through the door, it yanked off my head and smacked me on the nose as it dragged up my face.

"Fucking G____! Get your dumb ass up into that goddamn chow line RIGHT NOW and don't you be fucking late to take the watch!"

Up I went, rubbing my nose.

The galley was on the starboard side of the main deck, directly across the passageway from the DC office. The chow line ran right past the DC office door, which was open. The Damage Control Assistant was leaning against the door frame with his arms crossed.

The DCA was also a Warrant Officer, with as much time in rate but of higher rank than the Bosun. He was an old goat from way back, the only officer aboard with Vietnam experience. Not to mention that in the hierarchy of the ship's command structure, Damage Control outweighed the Deck Department.

The DCA was watching the line his Damage Controlmen and guys from the engine room got their early chow. Behind him, I could see some of the Gitmo inspectors talking to the DC team about the drill. I tried to turn away and hide my face, hoping the DCA wouldn't notice me in the line. I was the only deck ape in the crowd, I should have known better than to even try.

"Fucking G_____! Aren't you supposed to be manning the phones in locker 4?"

"DCA, I have the next watch, the Bosun said ..."

"I don't give a fuck what the Bosun said, get your ass back down to that repair locker, RIGHT NOW!"

Down I went, muttering curses. By now it was 1140, and I knew that no matter what happened, chow was a lost cause. I didn't make it halfway down to the repair locker before I met the Bosun on his way up.

"Fucking G_____! Didn't I just tell you to get your ass up on the main deck?"

"Yes, Bosun, but the DCA said ..."

"I don't give a fuck what the DCA said. If you don't take that watch, I'm going to write you up for failure to obey! Get your ass topside, RIGHT NOW!"

Back up I went.

Since it was 1145, I didn't bother getting in the chow line this time and went straight for the door to the quarterdeck. Unfortunately, this was also in the main deck passageway, about 50 feet from the galley and the DC office.

The DCA was still standing in the doorway. When he saw me round the corner, his face turned bright red. He glanced over his shoulder at the inspectors. He said,

"G_____, if you don't get back to your battle station and stay there, I'm going to write you up for dereliction of duty." His voice was low and angry.

I did an about face, turned the corner to head back down below and punched the bulkhead as hard as I could.

A sailor was walking down the passageway in front of me. When he heard the flat crack of my fist on steel, he stopped short and whirled around to stare at me, his mouth open.

I tried to unclench my fist. I couldn't, and I knew that at least one of my knuckles was broken.

"What the hell, are you alright, man?"

My arms were shaking, my brow clenched. I don't know what I looked like, but when I stopped staring at my fist and glared at my shipmate, he took a step backwards.

"The fuck are you looking at?" I said and he kept backing up until his back hit the door to the flight deck. He scrambled to get the door open, leapt through it, and slammed it shut behind him.

As I walked away, I looked back over my shoulder and saw the Bosun and the DCA standing together at the end of the passageway, watching me.

I ignored them both and went all the way aft, to the smoking area. I stayed there, smoking butt after butt, until they called the all-clear. When I finally took the watch, I was a half-hour late and got chewed out by the Officer of the Deck. I told him I'd been at my GQ station.

Didn't I know, the OOD shouted at me, that I was supposed to go to early chow so I could relieve the watch on time?

It took days for the swelling to go down and it was weeks before I regained any kind of strength or control over my hand. I had to write in the log with my left hand, which led to several more ass-chewings for poor penmanship. However, I never did get written up by either the Bosun or the DCA and neither of them saw fit to mention the incident to me for the rest of my time on the ship.

To this day, the knuckle of my right ring finger sits almost a centimeter lower than the opposite knuckle on my left hand, and I occasionally get stabbing pains that make my fingers twitch and clench.

These hands, this pain, this is the legacy of tough. Though I am now only middle-aged, my hands are ready to retire. As I've grown older, I've had to adapt to this legacy. That's why, these days, I'm far
quicker to use an elbow, a knee or a heel than a fist. Though these kinds of attacks require more training and coordination than simple punches, they have the double advantage that I can inflict heavy damage while at the same time sparing my hands from further abuse.

After all, you don't expect me to stop fighting, do you?