The
balance of August went by rapidly in a blur of classes and rowing whaleboats on
San Diego Bay. (Later I did not
understand their insistence that we know how to row as all of the whaleboats in
the U.S. Navy by then had gasoline engines.)
It callused our hands and toughened our back muscles.
During
the first week of September examinations for special training were give. I requested aviation machinist mate (AMM)
school. The Bluejacket’s Manuel spelled
out the duties as: “Assemble, service and repair airplanes and airplane
engines. Splice aircraft wiring. Know principles and theory of flying.”
Richard
had been correct. The examination was a
snap. It dealt primarily with
identification and use of basic hand tools and question concerning mechanical
knowledge and skills. The time limit was
one hour. I finished in 35 minutes and
when the grades were posted I had a 4.0 and was accepted for AMM school on
North Island.
Sometime
around then, we from the Pacific Northwest had a real run-in with the Texans in
the first platoon. One evening just
before taps I was coming back from the library and there was a commotion
outside our barracks. I found a circle
of Texans taunting Jimmy Williams, a small fellow from Astoria. In high spirits, they were calling hi a
“prune-pickers” and using him as a human medicine ball; pushing him from one
side to the other. The ringleader
appeared to ba a tall, drawling Texan, named D.S. Langford.
Jimmy
was not particularly enjoying the game.
I shoved my way through the group and confronted Langford. “Okay,” I said, “why don’t you guys pick on
someone your own size?!”
Langford
looked down at me from his more than six-foot height. “Well, if it ain’t our plane spotter! Why don’t you find someone my size?”
My
short-fused temper asserted itself. “Why
don’t you Texans get off our backs,” I fumed.
“You think you are God’s gift to creation but you are as full of crap as
a Christmas goose!”
Langford
came at me and I ducked a wild swing and tripped him onto the ground. He came up swinging and a melee erupted. Jimmy went scooting up the stairs yelling for
the second platoon.
In
less time than it takes to tell, a battle royal was in progress that worked its
way into the first floor barracks. As
more of the second platoon prune pickers poured down the stairs there were
blows, grunts, and a crashing of metal bunk frames. It halted abruptly when there was a sudden
roar, “A-TEN-shun!!”
“All
right! Who started this?”
Langford
was standing directly across the aisle from me.
He looked at me and I stared back at him. After a hesitation he said, “I reckon maybe I
might have, sir. I threw the first
punch, I guess.”
That
did not seem right to me so I spoke up, “Only after I tripped him, Chief.”
The
others caught on and there was a chorus of voices all taking the blame. Nelson finally shook his head. “Okay, you people, get this mess cleaned up
by taps and hit the sack. I will be back
and I do not want to hear one sound that the base commander might hear at his
house on the hill!”
Both
platoons pitched in and we had the first floor barracks set to rights by the
time the bugle notes of taps echoed across the compound and the lights went
out. I had just fallen asleep an hour
later when the man in the next bunk nudged me and whispered, “Pass the word,
fall in in uniform with leggings and rifles!”
In
the moonlight I could see Chief Nelson glowering from the doorway. I could hear muffled noises from the floor
below as the Texans turned out. Nelson
got us in ranks and marched us out onto the grinder. For two hours we marched in
close order drill to muttered commands in a moonlight parade.
As
it turned out, Nelson’s playing one platoon against the other paid off. There was no company on the station that
marched with the precision of 40-52 as each platoon endeavored to be the
best. The following weekend all
companies, in dress whites with leggings and rifles, were transported to the
Marine Training station for a dress parade and admiral’s marching competition.
Just
before we marched out with Chief Nelson in the lead, he addressed us, “Okay,
you people, we are gonna have our own little competition today. I want to see who the best platoon may
be. See if you can keep those lines straight
and stay in step!”
It
was a heady feeling when we marched out onto that huge parade ground to the
beat of the marine band playing Sousa marches like “Under the Double Eagle” and
“The Stars and Stripes Forever”. Our
lines were precise and our heels hit the ground as one man, all eyes straight
ahead with our bayonetted rifles exactly aligned. There were ten companies of sailors and ten
of marines.
It
was an even more heady feeling when, at the conclusion and we were all drawn up
on the parade ground at parade rest, Chief Nelson was called front and center
with our recruit company commander and they were presented by the admiral’s
lady with the blue and gold Navy E flag for excellence. Company 40-52 was the best, including the
Marine Corps!
Finally,
we of Company 40-52 were Navy shipmates.
It no longer mattered where we were from, we were the best. We celebrated together.
The
admiral’s review at the marine base had been on a Friday. The next day while we were getting ready to
go on liberty, word was passed that the results of the tests we had and
assignments had been posted on the bulletin board. I hurried to check the list and there was my
name on the assignments to AMM school, North Island. The name immediately beneath mine in the
alphabetical order was “Langford, D.S.”
As
I turned to go, the tall Texan and onetime foe was standing behind me. He grinned.
“Well, Frieze, looks like we have not seen the last of each other!”
I
smiled ruefully. “No, I guess not. You know, Langford, you didn’t have to try to
take the blame for that ruckus that got us the moonlight parade last week.”
“Well
hell,” he said, “you didn’t have to chime in either. Sure was a good little se-to while it
lasted. No hard feelings?” He stuck out his hand.
I
laughed and shook his hand. “No, no hard
feelings. What say we go ashore and have
a couple of beers to celebrate?”
We
went and had a great liberty afternoon.
