The Long Escape Read online

  From Missoula we went to Butte, where we were sworn in. From there, we caught a train to San Diego, where we were picked up and transported to the Recruit Training Center.

  Boot Camp was not nearly as confusing as the Army’s Basic Training had been. Many of the trainees in my company were from Montana and all were roughly my age, so the major education and experience differences that I had experienced at Fort Ord weren’t there this time.

  The first few weeks went very well. Joe and I were inseparable and, having a friend made the whole ordeal much easier. In addition, I was really looking forward to getting married when I got home. So I was enthused and I actually wrote letters and made plans. Life was hectic, but good.

  Then Sue wrote me a letter that I never forgot. At the time, it was as if she had dropped a bomb on me. She wrote to tell me that she could not go through with it. She said that she had thought long and hard about it, and it just wasn’t fair to me. She had confessed the truth to her parents and had even gone to visit with my mother about it. She went on to tell me not to try to find her because she had made arrangements to go live with relatives, and she was not telling anyone where she would be.

  Needless to say, this news was a real shock. I could see the little house with the white picket fence fading off into the distant future, and that wasn’t good news. I immediately wrote back and tried to change her mind. She replied right away, but stayed firm. She said that we could meet after the baby was born, whenever I was home, and go from there. But for now, her decision was final.

  I almost went AWOL the night I got the second letter. I was convinced that I could change Sue’s mind if I could just get home to see her. But luckily, my friend Joe was a lot calmer (and stronger) than me. He talked to me for hours and even, at one point, threatened to just knock me down and hold me there until I came to my senses. It was a long night, and I went through a lot of emotions, but he kept me together. By morning, I realized that he was right and so was Sue. We were not ready for marriage and family. Hell, we didn’t even know each other except for church and an occasional group get-together.

  Thank the Lord for Joe! If it hadn’t been for him and his help, my Navy career would have ended that night.

  Boot Camp became a routine for us and we sailed through it. Then, in the last week or so of Boot Camp, another shoe dropped. We received our orders telling us where we were going after we graduated. Although the recruiter had promised me an electronics school, the Navy refused to honor the promise. Their rationale was that, without a high school diploma, I couldn’t be expected to pass any school that they sent me to, so they were not willing to waste the money.

  My orders were to take me from Boot Camp directly to an older destroyer where I was to be assigned to the deck force. Joe, who had graduated from high school, was to be transferred to Tennessee to be trained as a jet engine mechanic. So we were to be split up after Boot Camp.

  I did some research and found out that ship I was assigned to, USS Cogswell (DD-651), was built during World War II and had been in almost continuous service since then. I knew enough by this time to know that serving on the deck force of such an old destroyer would be rough duty. The deck force was the crew that worked as the ship’s janitors and handymen. They cleaned and painted the ship, shined the bright work, handled the lines (ropes), and operated the small boats. The deck force was run by boatswain’s mates, reputed to be the roughest, toughest, hardest-drinking, hardest-fighting people in the Navy.

  If there was a bright side to this, it was the fact that the ship would be deploying, and I would be able to see some of the world. But that really didn’t cheer me up.

  I took a bus home after Boot Camp for two weeks’ leave over Christmas. As had become normal in our family, Dad ruined the holiday by throwing Christmas dinner out into the snow. As usual on the holidays, he was drunk, and when he was drunk it always seemed like he could not stand to see us happy.

  This time I stood up and tried to stop him. But, he weighed about a hundred pounds more than me at that point, so it only took about a half-dozen punches to leave me bleeding on the kitchen floor. I ended up pretty battered, but at least he stopped hitting Mom for the afternoon.

  Shortly after my encounter with Dad, I had the first of the nightmares that have haunted me through life. This time it was a coffin-sized hole that was so tight my arms couldn’t move. Something was stalking me. Then the earth opened and I fell… and fell…until I came awake, startled by the sound of my own incoherent screams.

  Sue never came home while I was there and I wasn’t able to find out where she was hiding. I had secretly hoped that she would be home when I arrived and that I would be able to change her mind. But, with that hope quashed, and Dad still being his old abusive self, I was actually happy to get on the bus and head back to San Diego.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Destroyer Life

  I reported aboard USS Cogswell (DD-651) at 11:00 p.m. on December 31, 1958. The ship was tied up at the foot of Broadway in San Diego, in a nest of four destroyers. The ships were decorated for the holidays, with Christmas lights from the forecastles (foc’sles) up and over the masts then down to the fantails.

  I went aboard the first of the ships, stopping at the top of the gangplank to lower my seabag, come to attention and salute the Officer of the Deck (OOD). Then I picked up the seabag and moved on to the next ship where I repeated the routine. I crossed the second of the two inboard ships safely and correctly, thanking myself for having memorized these procedures while I was on the bus from Montana.

  When I reached the quarterdeck on the third ship, a bright brass-on-wood sign announced that this was USS Cogswell (DD-651). I was there.

  I saluted and requested permission to board, lowered my seabag, and handed the OOD my official orders. The OOD was a young ensign, who I later learned had only been out of college about six months, but he certainly looked old and official to me.

  When I was all signed in at the quarterdeck, the OOD had his messenger-of-the-watch escort me down to one of the crew living quarters with instructions to find an empty bunk for me. I went through a maze of passages and stairs, surrounded by bunks and sleeping people, always trying to be as quiet as possible. The bunks around me were mostly three-high, with the top bunk slightly above my head. There were red night lights located strategically along the decks, so I could see. Everything was grey, and I can still remember the overwhelming maze of grey cables running everywhere through the overhead.

  When I got to my destination, the messenger pointed me to a bunk in the middle tier and told me, “You can sleep here tonight ’cause Bos’n Cowell is on leave and no one will be using it tonight. Tomorrow they’ll assign you your own bunk.” He showed me where to find the nearest head (bathroom) and left me there. I crawled into the bunk he had indicated and was soon sound asleep.

  I was very rudely awakened a few hours later. Someone had lifted me out of the bunk and dropped me on the floor! The perpetuator of this offense was not particularly quiet either. “Who in the fuck do you think you are, sleeping in my rack?” I was staring up at one of the biggest black men that I’d ever seen, and he was definitely not happy.

  I must’ve mumbled something, but I have no idea what I said.

  He apparently decided that I was just not worth worrying about, because he asked me my name and, after I replied, said, “Get the fuck out of here” and crawled over me and into the bunk that I had just vacated.

  I took my seabag and moved to a small table in the corner and sat down. I stayed there until shortly after 6:00 a.m., cleaned myself up, and got dressed. So went my first night in my new home, the place where I would spend the next three years.

  I later found out later that the messenger had thought it would be hilarious if he put the new Boot in the bunk of the toughest boatswain’s mate aboard—a man who had a reputation for coming aboard in the wee hours after a hard night on the town. Luckily for me, Cowell was actually a pretty smart guy, had understood the situation immediat
ely, and had taken mercy on me.

  Even aboard ship, New Year’s Day was a holiday and no one was stirring that morning. As I had been directed the night before, I reported to the OOD on the quarterdeck, and he assigned another young sailor to show me how to find the mess decks and get breakfast. After breakfast, I reported to the duty boatswain’s mate, who assigned me a bunk and a locker just across the passageway (aisle) from where Cowell was still snoring. I received instructions as to where to go the next day and was given my freedom for the remainder of the holiday. I immediately began unloading my seabag and making my new “home” as comfortable as possible.

  After my belongings were stowed, I put on my casual uniform and started walking around the ship, finding my way wherever I could go. I found that I was much more comfortable above decks, where I could see the world and breathe fresh air than I was below decks. I did go down into the boiler rooms and machinery rooms, but I didn’t care for them. For the only time in my life, before or after, I felt claustrophobic down in those spaces. The heat and the narrow passages between massive rows of pipe were just too much for me.

  Topside, though, I found things much more interesting. The ship’s bridge fascinated me, with its windows looking out over the bay, its control center, big steering wheel, compasses, and radar screens. Even the big leather captain’s chair spoke to me of adventures to come.

  When I tore myself free of the bridge, I worked my way aft, stopping to admire the signalmen’s deck with its array of signal flags poised for use. Then I came onto two big twin gun mounts that sat almost in the middle of the ship. I spent a good bit of time inspecting them and trying to figure out how they worked. Of course, I had seen them in a million old movies—filling the sky with tracers and huge bullets as they blasted away at Japanese kamikaze planes—but these guns, the real thing, looked far bigger and more impressive than the ones in the movies had ever looked.

  The ship was virtually deserted since it was a holiday. The two-thirds of the crew who were not on duty were all gone ashore. The remaining third, the duty section, were aboard, as were a few stray sailors who, like me, had no place else to go. On this holiday it was a bit chilly, so even the duty section was below decks, and I was able to wander unchallenged until I reached the amidships torpedo tubes. I was on the narrow outboard walkway one level above the quarterdeck looking over at the huge torpedo tubes when I heard a friendly Southern drawl behind me, saying “Good Mornin’, Red.”

  Startled, I spun around and almost fell off the walkway, but a strong hand grabbed my arm and steadied me. “Careful, Red. We don’t wanna get blood on the quarterdeck.”

  I found myself facing a powerfully-built man about my height, with brown hair and a wide, friendly grin that somehow seemed to make the world right with itself. He was wearing dungarees and had a greasy rag in his hand, as if he was working on something. I immediately noticed that he was a third-class petty officer, so I grew more flustered, saying, “Sorry, Sir” and stammering something about not meaning to cause him any trouble.

  He laughed loudly, “Calm down, Redhead. You’re not doing anything wrong—except don’t ever call me, ‘Sir.’ Only the officers are ‘Sirs.’ That’s a mistake only a Boot would make, and it’ll get you a world of problems if you do it where anyone else can hear you. Just call me Bob.” He then introduced himself as Torpedoman Third Class Bob Lawler. He had been lying on his back under the torpedo tubes, apparently cleaning some miniscule part, when I had come by. He had come out to see the new guy who was wandering topside when everyone else, as he put it, had sense enough to stay below where it was warm.

  His big grin won me over, and we started talking. Somehow we seemed to recognize kindred spirits and we ended up talking for hours, first on the torpedo deck and later on the mess decks. It turned out that he was a few years older than me and was also a high school dropout from “the swamps of Florida.” Like me, he had been assigned to the deck force when he had first come aboard, but he had “worked his ass off” and had eventually been transferred to fill a vacancy in the torpedo crew. He had studied and passed the test for third-class petty officer and had recently been promoted.

  Bob explained to me that the deck force was a dead end for many people. Usually the people who went from Boot Camp directly to a deck force had either tested badly on the Navy aptitude tests, had a very poor education, or both. Others came to the deck forces after flunking out of a Navy school. People who were on the deck force saw very few promotions above seaman (E-3). If they became petty officers, it was in the boatswain’s mate rating where promotions were so slow that it was not unusual to see a third-class bos’n with sixteen to twenty years service.

  Usually the people who were assigned to the deck force just stayed there until they were discharged. But the Cogswell had a policy that allowed the gunnery officer to let some of the more exceptional “deck apes” try working with other shipboard groups.

  Bob told me stories about the people who had tried the program. A few, like Bob, had actually made it in their new jobs and had become petty officers in their new specialty. Others just became the cleaners and painters in their new work groups. Others had screwed up and gone back to the deck force to serve their time out.

  He told me what to do and how to do it, and I listened and learned. His advice was fairly simple: “Work until you know that you can’t do another thing, then work some more, but always work smart. Think about what you’re doing, and do it right!”

  My introduction to shipboard life was made much easier by the friendship that I developed with Bob. I didn’t realize it then, but this was the beginning of a friendship that lasted for a lifetime.

  The next morning brought the typical military checkin routine. I found my way to the ship’s personnel office after breakfast and I spent the rest of the day meeting my chain of command and checking in. I had been assigned to the ship’s Second Division, a group comprised of deck seamen, boatswain’s mates, and gunner’s mates. As luck would have it, Boatswain’s Mate Third Class Cowell was to be my supervisor. But by the time the day was over, he had actually laughed with me about his finding me in his bunk. He’d decided that it had been a “pretty good joke” when he’d woken up and thought about it.

  Later that day, I was assigned my new job on the ship. I was officially the “After Head Cleaner.” The after head was, in reality, a huge bathroom on the main deck of the ship that serviced over a hundred sailors who were berthed in the vicinity. It had about thirty sinks, eight showers, and several troughs with seats over them that served as toilets. It was my job to somehow make that space immaculate, working on it between the hours of 8:00 a.m. (0800) and 12:00 a.m. (1200). Then, each day at 1:00 p.m. (1300), I reported to Bos’n Cowell for my afternoon assignment. Since I was the junior man on the deck force, the afternoon assignment was seldom any more desirable or appetizing than the morning one had been. Then, late each afternoon, it was my job to go back and “spiff up” the head to take care of any problems that the afternoon had brought.

  I think that I can honestly say, without fear of contradiction, that I started my Navy career in one of the worst job that the Navy had to offer!

  I worked as I never had before. Bob’s advice stayed with me and I knew that my only hope of escaping from this hellhole was to work my way out of it. I had to convince my superiors that I deserved a chance to do something else aboard Cogswell. The ship was small enough that a person would be noticed, one way or the other. I was determined to make sure that when I was noticed, it would be for the better. No ship’s head ever shined better than mine did!

  It didn’t take very many days of this kind of life to convince me that perhaps I should’ve given high school more of a chance. I decided that, if I wanted to make anything of myself while I was in the Navy, I had to get a high school diploma as soon as possible. I’d been aboard ship less than a month before I ordered a GED Test which, as I was informed by the ship’s personnel office, would be administered “as soon as we get enough applica
nts to make it worthwhile to hold a test.” So I waited. It never occurred to me that I should probably study for the test.

  In the meantime, I literally polished the After Head, volunteered for other jobs, kept my clothes immaculate and even shined my boondockers (work boots). I also ordered the correspondence courses that were required for me to advance from seaman apprentice to seaman. The courses came right away and I went to work on them in the evenings.

  My evenings were not busy. I had taken out an allotment to my mother in an attempt to help her feed the family. With her allotment taken out, my “take-home” pay was $12 per payday or $24 per month. That took care of my necessities, but money for Liberty was nonexistent, so I stayed aboard and either read or studied. The ship had a small library and a movie was shown every night on the mess decks, so I had some entertainment.

  The Cogswell had just returned from a six-month deployment to the Western Pacific (WestPac) a month before I came aboard, so it was a relatively slow period when I arrived. The ship was not scheduled to get underway for almost two months, after which we were heading for San Francisco where it would spend three months in a shipyard. This was perfect for me, since I could get a lot more personal work done while the ship was in port and most of the crew was focused on Liberty and time with their families. I had the opportunity and the time, so I worked and studied harder than I had ever done before.

  When I reported aboard, I had been assigned a General Quarters Station in one of the ship’s four 5”54 caliber gun mounts. We held regular training sessions aboard ship, during which the ship’s gunner’s mates would explain our roles and train us in the operation of the huge gun. I was an “Ammunition Handler,” working in the ammo handling room immediately below the gun. My job was to take the projectiles from a rack and load them on a chain hoist that took them up to the gun where another sailor would load them into the gun’s breech for firing. (The projectiles were heavy and the job was, as I was to find out, backbreaking. But the worst part of the job was the unbelievable noise in the tiny ammo handling room when the gun fired immediately above you.)