"The Maze Is Hell, Sir!"

By Lenard Davis

Douglas Bollinger decides to abandon his career, his girlfriend and his family to take up a new calling to join the United States Navy. Accepted at Officer Candidate School in Newport, Rhode Island, Bollinger finds himself suddenly thrown into the rigorous training program required to gain his commission as a Navy Ensign. He begins the program as a lowly Cumin (Civilian Under Military Instruction) and undergoes a hellish first week culminating by his going through the dreaded Maze. The program puts to the test Bollingers physical, emotional and academic stamina while he suffers personal loss and tragedy and also finds himself as a witness to an unfolding political upheaval in the days before the militarys infamous Dont Ask, Dont Tell policy.
Through it all, Bollinger navigates his way through the program which is designed to winnow the field so that only the most able, capable and talented candidates successfully complete the course. Not all of his newly-found friends make it through the program and we only learn at the very end of the story whether Bollinger does, either. This novel brings to life a short period of time in recent military history and how it impacted one young man.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Sep 13, 2013
• ISBN: 9781491814567

Lenard Davis

Lenard Davis grew up in Newport Beach, California and attended Officer Candidate School in Newport Rhode Island in 1978. He left the program voluntarily and returned to his original career teaching history in the public school system for thirty years and becoming teacher of the year before retiring. Since then he has written four books and is now working on another novel.

Book preview

"THE MAZE IS

HELL, SIR!"

A NOVEL BY

LENARD DAVIS

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AuthorHouse™ LLC

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© 2013 by Lenard Davis. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 09/11/2013

ISBN: 978-1-4918-1458-1 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4918-1457-4 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4918-1456-7 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2013916351

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Contents

1 In A Strange Land

2 Uncle Sam Wants You

3 Stupid, Worthless Cumin

4 New Kid In Town

5 The Maze

6 Inspection Time

7 Cuming Out

8 Give Me Liberty Or Give Me Watch

9 Potholes

10 Terry’s Secret

11 An Officer In Training

12 The Winnowing

13 The Test Is Hell, Sir

14 More Worthless Cumin

15 Facing The Consequences

16 With Flying Colors!

17 Detour

18 Make Up Time

19 The Drop Out

20 Just Doing His Duty

EPILOGUE

AFTERWORD

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

OTHER BOOKS BY LENARD DAVIS

Newport!, A Novel

Lido Isle, An Illustrated History

Wine Memories, the Personal Recollections of a Wine Lover

MISSION OF NAVAL OFFICER CANDIDATE SCHOOL

(from NCOS Regulations)

The Mission of the Naval Officer Candidate School is to provide, by a system of training and instruction in essential naval subjects, a source from which qualified officers may be obtained for the United States Naval Service.

1

IN A STRANGE LAND

A irports have always confused me. Some folks can just get off a plane and know exactly where to go and how to get where they need to. Unless I have someone to meet me when I arrive in a strange town—or even my hometown for that matter—I feel lost and disoriented. That’s exactly how I felt when I arrived in Providence. That’s in Rhode Island, that tiny state wedged between Connecticut and Massachusetts. Being from Miami, I was amazed to discover that Little Rhody could almost fit into Dade County. Anyway, there I was, a thousand miles from home in a strange airport and prepared to embark on a new career in the United States Navy. It was March of 1978.

I was headed for the Naval Training Center in Newport, a new recruit for Officer Candidate School—OCS for short. My head was filled with visions of captaining some great warship and issuing orders to everyone. I had a romantic picture of what life in the Navy was all about, a picture that was far from the reality of what would soon await me.

The sight of a man in uniform caught my attention. He had an ensign’s stripe on his sleeve—likely a recent OCS graduate. As I needed to know how to get to Newport I figured I’d ask him and also see what else I might find out.

Sir! I called out, can you please tell me how to get to the base in Newport?

You goin’ to OCS? he grinned.

Yessir, I answered, already mindful of his superior rank. How did you guess?

It’s written all over your face, he said. Just finished up, myself. I’m on my way to my next assignment.

Where to?

I’m a pork chop. I’m going to Athens.

I was puzzled. Sorry, don’t quite understand, I said.

Athens, Georgia, he replied. I’m in the Supply Corps and have to report there for more training. They call us ‘pork chops’. He pointed to an odd looking patch on his sleeve just above his gold stripe. See that? Looks kinda like a pork chop, so that’s what they call us. The Navy’s got names for everything. What’s your designator?

My what?

Your designator. Whatcha goin’ to be? Line Officer?

Oh, yes. I’m supposed to be a line officer—when I get out of OCS.

Hmph, he grunted. Well, good luck. I’ve got a plane to catch.

He took off before I had even had a chance to find out what I needed to know. I looked around the terminal and saw a desk advertising bus service to Newport. It wouldn’t get me to the base but it would get me closer to where I needed to be. Then maybe I could catch a cab or something.

First, I needed to locate the baggage claim area to pick up my gear, thinking of my Dad’s prophetic advice: Don’t take more than one suitcase, he had warned. They’ll give you everything you need and you’ll probably end up sending almost everything you take home again.

Dad was an ex-Navy man. He had been a lieutenant during the Korean War. My common sense told me he was right but my stubborn nature had gotten in the way. I wanted to take a few comforts from home with me. Now I was saddled with two big suitcases. This was back in the days before everyone had rolling luggage. I also had a heavy briefcase. There were no baggage carts or porters around either.

I slowly dragged it all back to the bus kiosk and bought a one way ticket to Newport. The ride was pleasant enough, except for the numerous potholes in the road. The winter had been hard that year I was told and there was still quite a bit of snow on the ground; still more began to fall, ever so gently. While this was a normal condition for Rhode Island in early March, it was quite foreign to me. Having lived my whole life in Florida, I had never even seen snow.

I noticed how different the houses were. Back in Florida, the houses were mostly concrete block flat roofed bungalows surrounded by palm trees and Pinellas pines. In Rhode Island, the countryside was dotted with little white clapboard farmhouses with steeply pitched roofs. The trees were barren and gray. Already I felt homesick.

When the bus pulled up at the depot in Newport, I noticed several predatory cab drivers all waiting for the bus passengers to disembark. Struggling with my bulky suitcases, I was ready to surrender them to the first cabbie to come my way. Then I noticed four other young guys my age looking about as uncertain as I must have.

Would any of you happen to be heading to OCS? I asked.

Sure am, said one tall, lanky fellow.

We all are, added another. Care to chip in for a cab with us? The more the merrier.

And cheaper, too! said the third in a thick Brooklyn accent.

Is there enough room? I wondered. I’ve got a lot of stuff.

We’ll manage, said the tall guy. By the way, my name is Frank. He stuck out his huge hand.

I’m Derek, said the second.

Marvin, said the third.

I’m Cliff, said the last one. He had to be either from California or Florida. Nobody else could have a tan like his in March.

My name’s Doug Bollinger, said I.

Howdy! said Frank. A definite Texas accent.

Well, said Derek, We’re all properly introduced. Let’s get going.

How much is it gonna cost to get to the base? Marvin shouted out.

I’ll take you boys there for two dollars a head! called out a nearby cabbie.

Stonah! shouted another driver, hanging his head out of a waiting car, you’d sell your grandmothah fer an extra dollah. I’ll get you boys theah fer a buck each. That’s the goin’ rate. Besides, my cab’s biggah, anyway. Off to OCS, eh?

Yessir, I said.

Fine. Just fine. Just pile your things in the back. Heah, I’ll open the trunk fer ya-theah-just shove it in. This heah cab’s got lots o’ space.

We all climbed into the huge automobile. It was a vintage Checker sedan with little fold-away jump seats in the back. Since there were so many of us, I ended up sitting on one.

You boys come from the ayapoaht? the old man began, not really expecting a response as he rattled on. Yup, been takin’ you boys out to the base fer twenty-three yeahs now. They come and they go. Some of ’em makes it and some of ems don’t. Nope, the Navy ain’t fer everyone. Hey, you fellas evah need a cab fer anythin’, you jes gimme a caahl. Got me cahd right heah, he said as he handed one out to each of us and hardly watching the road at all. Now, you fellas keep those and if yer needin’ a raahd anyweah, I’ll be pleased to fetch ya.

His twangy voice droned on as we all quietly gazed out of the car windows at the strange new environment. We had all arrived a day early—didn’t need to report until 8:00 a.m. the next morning according to the papers I had been given. I figured I’d have a little time to get accustomed to what would be my new, if temporary, home. After listening to the cab driver give a weather report on the past fifteen winters, a detailed inventory of his stamp collection and an intimate account of his recent prostate operation he finally brought us to building K-61.

I’ll be lettin’ ya out heah, he said. You fellas check in theah and leave you bags on the steps theah. They’ll be a givin’ ya dihrectins aftah that. Now you boys caahl me iffen evah ya need a raahd.

We paid him and he went on his way. The building we walked into was a postwar vintage structure with an arched roofline and painted inside and out with that ubiquitous institution green. Inside, we came upon a desk staffed by an enlisted man who took our orders and subsequently directed us to another building. Meanwhile, the five of us managed to chat a little and find out where we were all from.

Derek was from New Mexico. He had just graduated from college with a degree in engineering and no job. He figured the Navy would provide an opportunity to earn some money; he had a young wife whom he had left behind in Albuquerque and this was his chance to provide for her properly.

Marvin was, as I had guessed, from Brooklyn.

I was right about Frank, too. He was from Dallas and proud as hell about it.

Cliff turned out to be from Malibu, California. He wasn’t sure just what he was doing here. He mentioned that he had been a lifeguard on the beach the previous summer and worked as a busboy during the winter. One day he had become bored with his life and decided to join the Navy and so here he was. I had the feeling we would become good friends as I had a bit of the beachcomber in me.

We walked through double glass doors into King Hall. If I had entertained any ideas before that this place might be the least bit of fun, or anything at all like college, I suddenly knew upon passing through those doors that it would not be so. Quite abruptly, the stiff, regimented formality of the military presented itself in the form of a very attractive and immaculately uniformed young woman stood at attention directly before us next to the reception desk. Tucked under her left arm was some sort of spyglass—for what I hadn’t a clue.

Hi there! said Cliff, a grin on his face. He looked ready to move in on her right there.

You will stand at attention and request permission to approach the quarterdeck, she snapped.

Huh? Cliff asked, obviously taken aback.

Stand at attention! she commanded. "All of you!"

We quickly complied with the order.

Now, she explained with strained patience, one of you is to say, ‘request permission to come aboard, ma’am.’

Request permission to come aboard, ma’am! Cliff cheerfully called out, saluting her.

"You do not ever salute unless you are in uniform," she scolded.

Sorry, Cliff said, sheepishly.

Now do it right, the woman ordered.

Request permission to come aboard, ma’am, Cliff said once more, looking like a wounded pup.

Permission granted, she replied, saluting us. Then she relaxed somewhat and stepped forward. Officer candidates, I presume?

Yes, ma’am, I said, mindful to show proper respect. We’ve just arrived.

She was nonplussed. Obviously. Write your names on these cards and give them to the gentleman at the table to the port side. Your name will be called shortly. In the meantime, you will stow your gear in an orderly fashion near that door there, she said, pointing to a door behind the tables. While we did as directed, she resumed her original stiff position, spyglass tucked under her arm, facing the front door. Something told me it was to be a long sixteen weeks.

2

UNCLE SAM WANTS YOU

I was bored with my life. Having graduated from college in 1975 I had managed to land a job working for a data processing firm. My college major had been history, which did not seem to prepare me for anything useful, except teaching and I didn’t want to do that. My older sister teaches third grade. She is twenty-eight and her hair is already starting to turn gray. Besides, teaching jobs in those days were pretty hard to come by, especially for history majors. Dana—my sister—was always worried about being laid off at the end of each school year; I did not want that type of insecurity in my life.

So I became a data processor. The pay was good and the work was steady, but boring as hell. My boss liked me, though, and I could have probably stayed with that company for ever. There were some pretty girls working as secretaries and we all had the same lunch hour. Some of them seemed kind of interested in me and I could conjure up a picture of married life and a long-term career in a job which I hated. As it turned out, all of them were either engaged or married—except the fat one.

Then one day, while mailing a letter at the Post Office, the sight of a recruiting poster caught my eye:

TODAY’S NAVY WANTS TO JOIN YOU!

Hell, I thought, why not? There was a picture of a debonair young officer on the deck of a destroyer. By his side was a cute female officer with a cheery smile. They beckoned me and I conjured up the words to a poem by John Masefield that I recalled from my school days: All I want is a tall ship, and a star to steer her by!

I was ready to join up right then.

Conveniently, I had forgotten about the negative image that the NROTC had held for me during my college days. I forgot about the sneering jokes that my friends would make about dumb-ass military types, not to mention the stigma of the recently concluded Vietnam War. Four years before, if someone had suggested that I, Douglas James Bollinger would actually volunteer to join the Navy I would have told him to get out of town.

The first thing Mom said was something to the effect that her only son was going off to war.

Aw, Mom, there isn’t any war on, now. I’ll be fine. It’s just a job.

Dad, Lt. Richard H. Bollinger, USN retired, was quietly pleased. I was a chip off the old block. Finally.

Yeah, Dad. I think it’ll be great. We can share war stories someday.

My younger sister, Katie, who always looked up to me and admired anything I did, just smiled and acted all proud. She would go around bragging to her friends that I was probably going to be an admiral someday.

Dana couldn’t understand. Her husband, Rob, thought I was nuts. He had demonstrated against the War all through college and reveled at marching in front of the White House hell bent to impeach Nixon just a few years before. Once Rob had been arrested and spent a night in jail for his protesting.

But Rob, our country needs to be able to defend itself. Besides, it’s a good job with great benefits, better than what I have now.

My best friend, Peter, was a little upset. We had been very close since thirds grade and now I was leaving him. Heck, he’d even get jealous when I was going out on a date.

Pete, it’s not as if I’m going to Mars. I’ll write and hopefully I can get stationed someplace close after my training is complete. We’ll keep in touch.

When it became clear that I actually was going to go through with my plan, Linda, my girlfriend, broke up with me and went after some tennis instructor. She said she wasn’t going to be any war bride.

I didn’t know we were married anyway, I hissed back to her as I left her apartment, secretly hurting inside.

The decision being final, I languished in Miami for two months while the Navy proceeded with vigorous inertia processing the required paperwork. I was thoroughly investigated so as to obtain a security clearance. I had to fill out a dozen forms in triplicate, acquire references from friends, neighbors, employers and my Aunt Minnie in Birmingham. I needed to provide copies of all my school records, sign depositions affirming that I was not into drugs, communism, homosexuality and that I didn’t drink excessively. I also underwent a complete physical.

I reported for my physical on the assigned day along with two dozen other guys. We were herded into a small locker room and ordered to strip, butt naked, and then march through various stations where medics tested our eyes, nose, throat, stomach and so on, down to the toes. Then, I swear to God, they told us to form a big circle in the middle of the room, crouch down on our tippy toes and hop around while holding our arms out straight, stark naked.

Some joker squealed, this is wonderful!

Personally, I didn’t quite enjoy having the doctors poking their fingers into every one of my bodily orifices or up my crotch and commanding me to cough, particularly in concert with twenty other guys. But it seemed to make the doctors happy.

Eventually, just in time for the March OCS class, I received a letter of congratulations. Dad did the honor of swearing me into the service, since he was qualified, and said, you’re in the Navy, now! Yet I don’t recall feeling any different at all.

My buddies staged a final night party for me, complete with a cake shaped like an aircraft carrier complete with little plastic toy planes on top. Would I ever actually command a ship like that? I thought about the glamour of life at sea. I pictured scenes of the infamous Captain Bligh and the mutinous Mr. Christian from Mutiny on the Bounty. I recalled studying the naval victories of Admiral Dewey and John Paul Jones who famously cried out, Don’t give up the ship! I remembered Commander Bucher, who did just that off the North Korean coast in 1968 and the resulting court martial even though he had done it to save the lives of his crew. I thought of Admiral Nelson and of Damn the torpedoes Farragut. I also thought of Presidents Kennedy and Carter, also Navy men.

Patriotism? I had a little and I won’t apologize for it. There was honor in the Navy and in serving one’s country and now I was to be a part of that. I had the exuberance of a child who sees a fire truck and decides he wants to drive one when he grows up.

Well, I was certainly grown up now. I was twenty-five and had been living on my own since college. Now I was going off to the biggest bathtub of all to play with ships. However, far from being play, I would come to see that