An American in Gaeta

By Hollis E. Forbus

An American in Gaeta is the autobiography of a US Navy sailor and his human and professional career; it is the portrait of Gaeta between the end of the ‘70s of the last century and the beginning of the 2000s: nightlife, mixed marriages, social tensions and surviving artifacts in the urban fabric of the city; it is, above all else, the story of two communities that lived in close contact during an era in which globalization was not so obvious and ubiquitous.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ali Ribelli Edizioni
• Release date: Aug 27, 2020
• ISBN: 9788833466804

Book preview

I – Boot Camp

In 1978 I was twenty years old and worked in a construction company as a manual laborer. A grueling job with little prospect of professional growth. Unfortunately, the economic possibilities of going to college were not there: university fees in the United States are very expensive, to study means taking on a mortgage and if you don’t have the right motivation you risk starting out on the wrong foot. So, like so many young Americans of yesterday and today, I came to the conclusion that by enlisting in the military I would learn a trade and at the same time travel the world.

Not that I was dying to cut my hair and shout Sir, yes sir! ... I was long-haired, I listened to Led Zeppelin and I lived in Key West, Florida, a small Caribbean island made famous by Hemingway in his The old man and the sea. But I thought, a man’s got to do what a man’s got to do.

One morning I went to the recruitment center in Key West with the idea of joining the US Army, because in those days there was a real possibility of going into armor as tank drivers and at that time the Army was giving $2,500 enlistment bonuses, a lot of money in those days.

Upon my arrival, the Army Recruiter was not in the office, however. He had hung a sign outside the door: Back in 10 minutes. I sat in the waiting room where I spent time leafing through some military magazines, to tell the truth with little interest. 30 minutes passed, but not even the shadow of the Recruiter. I decided to come back another day and was about to leave when the US Navy Recruiter looked out of his office.

Waiting for someone, son?

The Army recruiter.

While you wait, why don’t you come in for a cup of coffee?

You never say no to an offered coffee. The Navy Recruiter immediately proved very friendly and, while we enjoyed a cup of steaming coffee, he began to show me several slides of aircraft carriers, submarines, military ships of various sizes and firepower sailing in breathtaking scenarios, from the Arctic to the Pacific passing through the Mediterranean. I was struck by it.

"By joining the Navy you could become an Air Traffic Controller, it is a task of great responsibility that can lead to different professions in the civil sector."

The prospect of bringing jets and helicopters to a safe landing appealed to me a lot. I would have sailed the seas on the most technologically advanced aircraft carriers in the world, authentic floating cities, learning foreign languages and coming into contact with different cultures. In moments like these you don’t think about the ugliness of war, discipline and everything else; you are young, you are looking for a way, and someone arrives and puts the world in your hands. How do you refuse that?

The Recruiter closed the deal by spending unflattering words on the army’s account. The bottom line was that the turtle trudges over the ground, but at sea you spread your canvas and sail.

Shortly after that I was called to the Military Entrance Processing Station (MEPS) in Miami, Florida, where I was subjected to a series of medical and psycho-aptitude tests to certify my suitability. Once I got past these, I was sworn into military service.

I spent the Christmas of ‘78 at home. I drank each glass with relish. I listened to every song as if it were for the last time. I felt like I was condemned to death, but not in a negative sense: I was about to leave my old life behind and embark on a new one, with all the uncertainties, fears and hopes that came with

I left for Miami again in January 1979, where I took the train to Orlando with other recruits. Upon our arrival waiting for us were large gray navy buses: destination Boot Camp. If all went well, I would have stayed there for at least 13 weeks. I carried only the essentials with me: a bag with a change of clothes and 20 dollars.

We arrived late at night. As soon as we got off the bus, we were told that we would be searched and that, if we didn’t want to spend the night in a cell, we would do well to leave any contraband in the Amnesty Box. This was a cardboard box where, anonymously, new recruits could abandon doses of drugs and other illegal items. I had nothing but underwear and socks, so that when my turn came I simply peeked into the box: inside there were joints, knives and pills. Then, since this was the 1970s, we were searched from head to toe for weapons and drugs. Not everyone knows that in those years if you were a first-time-offender and you had committed minor crimes such as theft or drug use, Uncle Sam offered you a choice: serve your sentence in jail or join the armed forces¹. In the training unit to which I was assigned, the famous (or notorious) 077, almost half of the recruits were first-time-offenders.

After the search we were led to a dormitory, a large space with bunk beds already assigned and arranged along the walls. A few hours later, at 5 o’clock, we were woken up by a Petty Officer. After a hearty breakfast of bacon and scrambled eggs we went to the RIF (Recruits in Filing) section where civilian clothes were taken away and uniforms without belts and shoelaces (out of concern that someone may attempt to hang themselves) were issued.

That morning I said goodbye forever to my long, and thick hair. With my head freshly shaved, I was given a ditty bag² containing soap, shaving cream, razor, toothbrush and toothpaste, in short everything you need to be presentable.

The RIF limbo lasted a few days longer than the norm, 8-10 days in total, because our training unit struggled to reach the minimum number of recruits. Those days passed in a fairly monotonous way: sweeping avenues, painting walls and doing other labor, all obviously without belt and shoelaces, so if with one hand you held the broom with the other you held your pants up.

Then, one fine morning, we were awakened by a strong metallic clang: I opened my eyes just in time to see a large, aluminum garbage can, roll past my rack³ continuing down the entire corridor.

Wake up, wake up!

It was 4.30 in the morning.

I immediately understood that the actual Boot Camp was starting that morning. At that moment we were introduced to Company Commander, Torpedoman Mate 1st Class Passman, a concentration of meanness and insults all stuffed into 5 feet and 6 inches in height. Get your shit together you Grade Z Hamburgers, ‘cause you won’t be coming back here. We hit the head⁴ and then rushed to grab the few things we had been issued. Led by TM1 Passman, we sloppily marched out of the RIF barracks, some laughing and others cracking jokes. Passman didn’t say a word, he led us to breakfast then back through supply to get our shoelaces, belts and other uniform items.

Finally, we came to our Division where the 077 was barracked. Inside we found the senior Company Commander, a Chief Petty Officer whose name I can’t recall and who remained silent the whole time. The barracks was a spic and span clean space, furnished with rows of racks, thin mattresses rolled up on them. Passman began assigning racks and put up with our wise cracking until the last recruit was given his berth. Then, he suddenly screamed out Where the hell do you think you are? You’re not at fucking home anymore you Grade Z Hamburgers, but I’m gonna make you wish you were. Everyone froze, Come to attention in front of your racks, clumsily we tried our best to form up. That is when we received a tongue lashing from hell, and I realized then that the next 13 weeks were going to be miserable.

The next day started out at the usual 0430. We had 10 minutes to make our rack, shit, shower and shave, failing to do so meant skipping breakfast and doing extra exercises. After the grooming