Ten Thousand and a Wake-Up: A Navy Journey

By Stephen Krueger

Ten Thousand and a Wake-up is a series of stories about a journey through five decades in the Navy. From Seaman Recruit to Commander, Stephen Wendt took a different, distinctive, humorous path to success. From a non-qual on a submarine, to a Chief Staff Officer of a Submarine Squadron, to a contractor at Submarine Force Headquarters, Stephen was witness to, and part of, major social changes in the U.S. Navy. The Navy after the Vietnam War, Life on a Boomer in the 70s, the last days of The Admiral, Women on Ships, Dont Ask; Dont Tell, and Fraternization Policies were all part of his Navy experience. Ten Thousand and a Wake-up is a look at these changes through a slightly off-center lens.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jun 7, 2013
• ISBN: 9781479798674

Stephen Krueger

Stephen Krueger was born in Milwaukee, Wisconsin and grew up in Belize. In 1976 he joined the U.S. Navy as a Seaman Recruit at the age of 18. While in the Navy he served onboard submarines and at submarine commands for more than 20 years. He was advanced to Chief in 1985 and was commissioned as an officer in 1988. In 2004 Steve retired from the Navy as a Commander. He is a Plankowner on USS OHIO (SSBN 726) and completed three tours as an Executive Officer or Chief Staff Officer in the Submarine Force. He is married to Susan, whom he met in Belize. They have three children and three grandchildren.

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Copyright © 2013 by Stephen Krueger.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Rev. date: 06/04/2013

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CONTENTS

The Beatings Will Now Commence

Davy, Davy Crockett

The Admiral

Reign of Terror

Norman

All but the Crying

THE BEATINGS WILL NOW COMMENCE

CHAPTER 1

Lifers

Lifers, also known as queer designated, suffer from a morbid craving for security. They must also have a pronounced masochistic streak. Anyone who likes putting up with all the Mickey Mouse Bullshit that gets thrown around probably beats his meat with a greasy ball peen hammer. Lifers are most likely to exist due to a loss of the ability to maintain a coherent train of thought during the first enlistment. After the mental disruption of two hitches the poor fish is really fucked, eventually he becomes totally alienated from the land of humans. Lifers have one redeeming characteristic. They tend to become more gross, rotten and depraved than single hitchers. They are usually the ones to bring boots into the fold of the Snorkel King.

Philosophic Revelations of the Snorkel King, 1966

G ET THE FUCK out of this fucking bus and line up on the fucking feet outside, screamed a six foot one inch, red haired, slightly hunchbacked man in a Navy outfit.

Some of us stood up, some just remained in our seats and one of us, in the front of the bus, started to laugh.

The redhead turned on him. Who the fuck do you think you are douche bag? Are you laughing at me? the tall munchkin wailed at the bewildered young man with hair down to his shoulders, like so many of us on the bus. You fucking long hair, hippie motherfucker, get out of the bus and onto the feet now.

Everyone stood, ready to move, but the bus exit was cut off by our soon to be Company Commander. All of you douche bags, get the fuck out of here, NOW!

We crowded closer to one another but still could not exit due to the rocket scientist blocking the door. Get the fuck out! the purple face bawled. What is fucking wrong with you idiots?

You’re blocking the door, an anonymous voice replied from the back.

What fucking douche bag said that? the face shrieked while simultaneously contorting quizzically in realization of why we couldn’t get out. Get on the feet he yelled one last time before he turned and exited.

Now free to leave the confines of our dark blue transport, the forty or so of us made our way off the bus. Our screeching friend, soon to be leader, stood outside the bus door and continued his rift, labeling us as we passed. Fucking douche bag, sperm receptacle, whale shit, asshole, long-hair, hippie, freak, scum-sucker, douche bag.

Painted in bright yellow, on the cement between the bus and the building, were sets of feet. Most of us exited the bus, moved as directed and stood on the feet. A few of my first shipmates, of course, couldn’t figure it out and spun without a clue.

Ah, fuck the redhead said as he shouted at the ten percent. I’m surrounded by idiots, get on the fucking feet. NOW! The voice was cracking and soon his arms began shoving the confused few toward the designated feet.

Finally after a two minute sandblasting that lasted for what seemed like two hours, there was quiet except for the after rumblings of our host. Fucking douche bag, end of the year idiots. Why God, Why me? Do I need this shit? He looked up to the sky hoping for a sign. He was on his own.

Those of us on the feet looked at one another as the tall troll roamed back and forth in front of us while four other men dressed in black surrounded us. Good choice on joining, mon I thought to myself.

Everybody shut the fuck up and listen!

Nobody had said a word in the past four or five minutes except for him. Maybe his own voice was echoing in his head.

Look at me!

He had to be kidding, where else could we look? He quickened his pace, hands behind his back, chin out, slightly hunched, hat set back on his curly flaming hair. The look was familiar to me. He seemed to be imitating my father.

I am Petty Officer Drummond he said in a strained, damaged voice, not screaming any longer. I own you sorry group of douche bags until you graduate from this place. He surveyed the crowd and tweaked his head as if trying to clear the thoughts that bounced around. What a sorry ass group of someday Sailors. I cannot believe that the Navy recruited any of you. You are the kind of bullshit the Navy gets when this country ends the draft. This country overflows with long-haired, dumb-ass motherfuckers and you represent the worst of the worst of the bunch. I heard the Navy didn’t get enough Sailors this year so at the end of September they opened up the flood gates to every swinging dick they could find. And here you are. I heard I got felons, retards, high school drop-outs, drug users, fairies, fags, sister-humpers and motherfuckers. Lucky me. You are the shit that stuck to the wall after all the other shit fell off. After the Navy scraped and scraped they found all of you at the bottom of the bottom of the barrel. Lucky fucking me. I served my country for almost twenty years and a war and you are the douche bags that they send me to someday take my place in the finest Navy the world has ever seen.

I rolled my eyes as Drummond strolled by.

He turned on a dime and headed for me, stopping about an inch from my face. What the fuck are you rolling your eyes at? Who the fuck are you, douche bag? Are you a felon, retard, drop-out, drug user, fairy, fag or motherfucker?

I no finish high school, mon, I replied in fear.

What the fuck did you just say?

I no finish high school mon! I replied a little louder.

Oh fuck! He turned to one of the others in uniform. What the fuck is this douche bag? A fucking white Jamaican? Are we recruiting in Jamaica now? How hard up is the Navy? Probably not even a citizen of the greatest country on earth.

I one citizen mon.

Shut the fuck up. You don’t sound like a citizen.

I one citizen mon.

I said shut the fuck up, douche bag. He turned to somebody else in uniform, this one wearing a blue rope on his left sleeve. I can’t deal with this shit anymore. First Vietnam, then the Iranians at boot camp and now this. What is my country turning into? He turned to me. You are mine—you fucking foreign douche bag. What is your fucking name?

Stephen Wendt I said, staring straight ahead without a word.

I’ll remember that you fucking Jamaican sounding douche!

He finally backed off. You douche bags and about forty more just like you will belong to me for the next eight to ten weeks. I am now your daddy and your mommy. You are my little douche bags. I am going to make you all into Sailors. That process begins tonight. You bunch of deadbeats and losers and I are now part of Company 253. Staples march them over to the barracks.

The guy with the blue rope stepped up. Everyone follow me to the barracks. We followed our blue roped leader in quiet shock. He could have taken us to a slaughter house and we wouldn’t have cared or said a word. Probably welcomed it.

He led us to a big room with about fifty bunk-beds. Pick a rack and get some sleep, tomorrow starts early, he said. We scurried off, removed our hippie shoes and fell into whatever bed we could find. As I lay on my back I thought What the fock have I done mon? What the fock have I done?

Two heartbeats later, five AM welcomed us with flying garbage can covers, courtesy of Drummond and Staples. I knew these metal objects could fly but I had never witnessed them flying with such precision. Staples and Drummond could, like good plate spinners in a cheap circus, keep about ten in the air at once. Get up douche bags, brush your teeth and get outside, on the feet. You got five minutes. I’ll be back for you if you aren’t there and you do not want that, Staples sneered.

Ninety percent of us made it to the designated feet on time.

We stood lollygagging on our feet waiting for the other ten percent to eventually arrive. Attention screamed Staples. We all stood up straighter. I said attention, idiots, he screamed. When I say attention, you stand up straight, hands to your side, palms in, eyes straight ahead. NOW!

We came to some form of attention. Drummond walked by inspecting us and I peaked at him. Seizing the opportunity, he turned and came directly at me. Are you eye-balling me again, you fucking white Jamaican douche bag?

No mon, I said, eyes now straight ahead.

That’s No Sir to you, you fucking drug user. I bet you don’t make it to tomorrow after we give you the drug test. You talk like that and have hair half-way down to your ass you must be using drugs. By tomorrow you’ll be out of this man’s Navy. Use drugs don’t you?

No mon, I no use no drugs.

Fuck, can’t you talk right?

I be talking right mon, I replied.

His head shook in disgust. Lucky for me somebody else caught his eye. What the fuck are you looking at? he squealed as he walked toward another recruit.

Ten minutes and fifteen ass chewings later we were all at some semblance of attention in our civilian clothes—bell bottoms, t-shirts and heeled shoes, dressed for travel.

Look at your dumb-asses, Drummond said. You can’t even stand at attention. It’s the simplest shit but you can’t even do that. Today we go to chow, and then we get haircuts, answer questions and throw away those stinking faggot clothes you’ve been wearing and replace them with what men wear. Right face.

Ninety percent turned to the right and of course ten-percent turned to the left. Fuck went up in unison, by Staples and Drummond. The pit-bull and the chihuahua went into immediate attack mode to those who had turned to the left. All I heard was fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck and some crying noises from those who didn’t know their right from left.

Drummond and Staples eventually took pity upon us and started herding us toward the Chow Hall. Upon arrival we went into a line behind hundreds of men already in uniforms. Thus began the time honored military ritual of hurry up and wait. While we waited we were treated to the harmonic tunes of our fearless leader and his chosen puppy. You fucking idiots. You don’t even have uniforms yet. Look at these guys around you. They are on their way to being Sailors. You are the scum of the ocean. After today, you are going to look just like them. Good haircuts, nice uniforms.

Those in uniform around us snickered as we received an extended dose of ass-chewing while we slowly made our way into the Chow Hall. Five hundred douche bags after we entered the line, we made it to the entrance of the chow hall. Here’s the deal girls, Drummond said. You take it, you eat it. I don’t care if you don’t like it. You take it, you eat it. All of it. You sit together at two or three tables. You have ten minutes.

We headed into the Chow Hall. Thousands of eyes stared at us. Some Sailors jeered, some wolf-whistled. Sounds of poor-bastards and I’d kill myself if I had to do that again, spewed from the peanut gallery. We all got a metal tray shoved at us along with some silverware as we entered the line. Like good little prisoners we held our trays out, but unlike prisons where you get very little, here the cooks began piling on as much food as they could. Heaping spoonfuls of eggs as well as mounds of bacon, sausage and ham, along with multiple slices of toast, and ladles of shit on a shingle, barf on a bun, oatmeal and whatever else they could think of for our morning fare were slapped onto our trays. Remember girls you have seven minutes to eat all of that, all of it, and get back out in formation, Drummond said. You run your plates by me before you leave. All your plates will be clean.

Right on cue, nine out of ten were able to complete the task. After fifteen minutes the last few of our company straggled out, full of food and temporarily smiling with contentment.

You fucking douche bags think it’s funny? Drummond screamed at all of us. You are fucking with my time. I say ten minutes I mean ten minutes. Nobody fucks with my time. Everybody down for push-ups. On my count. We all went to the ground. One down, two up. One, two, one, two, one two. You bunch of fat ass, long haired pussies will learn to follow directions. It’s always the ninety percent that have to pay the price for the ten percent of fuck-ups. First you don’t know right from left and now you can’t tell time. One, two. One, two. Stop lying on the ground like little girls. Push-ups. One, two.

Petty Officer Drummond had his own ninety percent rule. His rule was that ten percent had to puke before we could move ahead. He achieved his goal quickly.

Anonymity came next. We, now magically numbered at 80 men, where the other 40 came from I don’t remember, marched to the barber shop and waited to enter the shearing chamber.

Before we entered, the red-headed wonder decided to talk to us like humans, or almost humans, for a second. Well girls, it’s just about your time to get respectable. No more hippie hair. I told them since you have been so good to cut you a little slack and cut your hair to regulation rather than all off. Just tell them what you want. There are pictures on the wall. Point to the one you want.

He be bullshitting us mon, I said to the guy standing next to me.

No he isn’t he replied. He wouldn’t lie to us. Where are you from anyway?

‘I from Belize mon."

You better learn how to talk right.

I shut up and waited for my turn.

Inside the shop hair had permeated everything. Every chair, about ten of them, was occupied and every chair had a smiling barber quickly moving over the head of his lamb. One guy was sweeping continuously but he couldn’t sweep fast enough to keep up with the amount of hair falling on the floor and onto the counters. There were no regulation haircuts going on here, except for boot camp no hair regulation, but all the barbers played the game. As I sat in my designated chair I could hear all the barber’s asking: How would you like it. Some of the fish around me believed it and replied Just take a little off or Please just don’t cut it all off. Yeah right.

I didn’t say a word. I didn’t have to. My barber took all of my blonde, shoulder length hair in a couple of sweeps of his clippers. Years of growth peeled off and fell to the ground. My scalp glistened just like all the other scalps surrounding me. I looked in the mirror and didn’t recognize myself. At least I didn’t have many dents, unlike some.

There you go, just like you wanted. repeated itself throughout the barber shop. Get back outside.

We all now looked pretty much alike, except for our clothes. Without our hair we were not nearly as distinctive as we had once been. In a few hours, we would all have our uniforms and the appearance transformation would be complete.

Petty Officer Drummond spoke. See girls, that wasn’t so bad. I told you they wouldn’t cut it all off. They left a little. He looked at us, searching for tears. He found some.

Drummond went off. You’re crying? Crying over a haircut? What is wrong with you pussies? It’s just a fucking haircut. You afraid that your girlfriends and mommies won’t love you anymore? You’re right, they won’t, but don’t worry girls. I love you. I will be your mommy and your daddy. Staples get them in formation; it’s time to get rid of those stupid hippie fag clothes.

We gaggled up and semi-marched into the world of Navy clothing. Pure assembly line. We were stripped, measured and told to take a box. We walked along rollers and people threw clothes at us. Lots of them. Winter clothes, summer clothes, blue clothes, black clothes, white clothes, three pairs of shoes, six pairs of white socks, six pairs of black socks, jackets, a pea coat, handkerchiefs. The list went on and on. We probably received 200 pounds of stuff.

In the end, we all wore prison dark blue pants and shirts along with a Navy ball cap. We looked like doofs and would for the next few days with our unhemed pants and goofy straight brimmed ball caps.

When complete, Staples and Drummond counted us up and we headed to our new home—Worm Island.

Worm Island in San Diego. So called, because all new recruits were once known as worms. I had been called everything but a worm since my arrival. Being called a worm would be nice change of pace. We would spend the first five weeks of our boot-camp experience on Worm Island. The island was separated from the rest of the base by a bridge which we would cross only once in the next five weeks—when we finally moved to the advanced side.

Our little group scurried off to our new home—barracks located on the top floor of a three story building. Behind our building was an eight foot tall barbed wire fence. Before we went up to see our accommodations Drummond decided to give us a speech.

Girls, on the other side of that fence is the Marine Corps boot camp. If you decide that you want to run away, please go that way. We won’t care and the Marines will pick you up and enjoy the experience. They can still hit you. The Navy fairies have determined that I can’t touch you anymore. If I touch you I will get into trouble but over there things are different. They can kick your ass. It makes me want to get out of the Navy and join the Marines after what I’ve seen so far from you douche bags. I’ll tell you what though, let’s take a ten minute break before we go and see our new abode. Smoke’em if you got em. We looked at each other. Oh, I forgot, we made you throw out all your cigarettes. Oh well, they were probably dope anyway, and we didn’t stop at the exchange yet for you to get some smokes. Tough shit. That’s what you get for all your lateness. Maybe later in the week. Relax for ten anyway.

Petty Officer Drummond reached into his shirt pocket, pulled out a pack of non-filtered Camels and lit one up with his shiny Zippo lighter. We looked around at one another. Some of us introduced ourselves. Men who had met last night had to re-introduce themselves because they couldn’t recognize each other without their hair and their clothes. This seemed like a fresh start for me. I decided from now on to use my best English.

Hello, my name is Steve I said to the young man standing next to me.

Hola, I’m Norman. What da fock is going on here? he asked me with an accent much like the one I was trying to get rid of. Dis isn’t what dey told me it would be like.

Yeah, me neither. Where are you from? I asked perfectly.

Bolivia he said.

Friends? I asked and stuck out my hand.

Amigos he replied as he took my hand and shook it.

CHAPTER 2

Cheaters

Be careful what you ask for, you might get it.

Anonymous

T O THE REAR march Machinist’s Mate First Class Antonio Drummond ordered. We quickly came around reversing course in a neatly choreographed action. In fifteen seconds we were 180 degrees from where we began, keeping time in front of our barracks.

Company Halt

Three more steps in formation and the deafening thump of 80 boots hitting the ground at the same time echoed through the complex.

You fucking douche bags might make it after all Petty Officer Drummond yelled out. Everyone was great except for the usual seven or eight idiots. He singled out a few idiots. Not me.

Maybe someday we’ll even get a flag douche bags. I’m thinking tomorrow will be the day despite the fact that you are the stupidest motherfuckers I have ever seen in my life. Maybe it’s time for a little help. We’ll talk about it later. Fall out. Smoke’em if you got em scum.

We fell out of formation and headed for the smoking area, a twenty by sixty foot painted area of cement designed for our pleasure. That 1200 hundred square feet was one of the only areas we could be ourselves and drop the Navy crap for a while. Even Petty Officer Drummond and Seaman Staples, our assistant company commander, came over and lit up with us.

At the time, almost everyone in the Navy smoked. There weren’t ten out of the eighty of us who didn’t smoke. The Navy made it almost impossible not to smoke at the price of twenty-five cents a pack. The Surgeon General had only just begun to tell us about the risks of our smoking and since most of us ranged from eighteen to twenty years old; frankly we didn’t give a shit even if we thought smoking was hurting us. We were indestructible, thought thirty was ancient and, what the hell, we made 153 dollars every two weeks and a pack a day cost less than four dollars a pay day. We had to spend it on something.

The sun was setting over San Diego after a long day of marching, school, physical training, screaming and more marching. Four weeks into this evolution, we had lost about 30 of our original 80 douche bags. They were quickly replaced by others that had fallen back in their training.

We lost felons, at least five, after police record checks. We lost about ten guys to physical problems from bad knees to asthma. We lost a couple because they claimed homosexuality. We lost a few who couldn’t read; don’t ask me how they passed the initial test. A few alcoholics detoxed right in front of us and went away, and some druggies who pissed positive on the urinalysis went away as well. Throughout the process the original herd continued to thin. Every week brought a new surprise, the loss of a few more of us, and their immediate replacement by others who had fallen back due to physical, mental or whatever reasons.

Norman Eiley, my best friend in boot camp, stood next to me puffing away on his Kool cigarette. He and I bunked next to each other and had few problems once we got rid of our accents. Hailing from South America he spoke in much of the same dialect as I did when we arrived in boot camp. We naturally lined up with one another. Initially our accents threatened to terminate our young careers but we learned quickly too stand at attention, shut the fuck up and only answer Yes Sir or No Sir to questions asked. Anything different was frowned upon and driven out. At this point, less than a month after arriving, I had lost my accent. No more Yeah, mon and No, mon. I pretty much left my accent with my hair on the barber’s floor in an effort to survive. I doubt if Petty Officer Drummond could even place me after my hair fell off. Norman had lost most of his accent as well and he strictly held to the two word Yes Sir, No Sir code when authority came near.

Oh fuck. Will you look at those assholes Petty Officer Drummond announced loud enough for all of us to hear as he looked over and took a drag from his Camel. I hate those scum buckets. Look at all that shit.

Company 254, our neighbors on the second floor of our barracks, marched in. Not only did they carry their Company 254 flag but they also carried flags in academic excellence, physical excellence, marching excellence and just plain overall excellence. We carried no flags for excellence. Zero. We always came close to earning them but in the end we found a way to fail.

254 dismissed Senior Chief Ware directed his troops. Smoke’em if you got em boys, nice job today. Winners again. He glanced at Petty Officer Drummond and our motley crew. Make sure you take care of those flags gentlemen, people around here might steal them since they can’t earn their own. His troops laughed and headed for their smoking area immediately adjacent to ours. None of them said a word to us. They didn’t need to. Their snarky expressions spoke for themselves. We were the dregs of the Navy to them.

All you swinging dicks in 253 get the fuck upstairs now, Drummond yelled at us. Shower and get your shit ready for tomorrow. We have a test tomorrow on General Military Knowledge. One hour everybody meets in the central room.

We headed up as ordered to the snickering and laughter of Company 254.

The hour passed quickly and we all mustered in the central room with our Bluejackets’ Manuals. The Bluejackets Manual was the Navy’s Bible. The 19th edition told us everything we needed to know about everything we needed to know. If it wasn’t in the Bluejackets Manual or in our seabag it didn’t count. It never even existed. According to the Navy, our girlfriends and mommy’s didn’t exist since neither was mentioned in the Bluejackets Manual nor issued with our seabags.

Petty Officer Drummond appeared in the front of the room. Douche bags put your manuals down. I’ve had it with those fuckers in Company 254. If we can’t beat them straight up we will do what is necessary in the finest Naval tradition—cheat. Those fuckers are cheating anyway. I know they fucking are. I don’t know how, but I know they are and that is why we are gonna cheat, just like them, to get our own flag tomorrow for academic excellence. He began to pace, slightly hunched with his chin stuck out. You people…

Oh fuck, I thought, he is like my father. Anytime I heard the words You people my sphincter puckered up. Those two words were the two words I hated most in the English language. I could take fuck you or You cocksucker but hated You people.

Drummond continued on, You people aren’t smart enough to get a flag the real way so we are going to do what we have to do. If we ain’t lying, we ain’t trying. If any of you tells anybody about what I am about to talk about, I will deny it and make your life a living fucking hell. You will never make it in the Navy. Do you people understand me?

What could we say? We said neither yes nor no but sat there in silence, our heads slightly bowed and our mouths open. What he was saying went against everything we were taught in the last four weeks. The words honor, courage and commitment were being tossed out the door along with the general rule that A recruit shall not lie, cheat or steal. I was pretty sure those things were in the Bluejackets Manual but I also knew, even after four weeks in the Navy, that the phrase If you ain’t lying, you ain’t trying did not exist in official written word.

Anybody have a problem with what I am saying? Not one of us chicken-shit bastards said a word. I vowed to myself to not cheat. I wonder how many others did the same.

Tomorrow at 0800 we are taking a military knowledge test and we will be cheating on it. Amarillo, Best, Chance and Davey you are the smartest fuckers in the Company whose names start with A,B,C and D, even though that’s not saying much. You are going to be designated A, B, C and D, just like the first letters of your last names. The test is, like always, multiple choice and whenever the answer is A, Amarillo you will bob your head up and down twice, Best you are answer B, Chance you are C and Davey you are D. There are 20 seats in each row of seats in the testing room so I am going to space you accordingly. That way when we enter the room each of you will be in the front of each of the four rows. Get it? All the rest of you morons have to do is look to the front and whoever is bobbing his head has the correct answer. If Amarillo is bobbing his head the answer is A and everyone fills in the A on the answer sheet. If Best is bobbing his head B is the answer, same for Chance and Davey. Get it douche bags? Any questions?

Silence.

Dismissed, go refold your clothes and get ready for tomorrow. Taps at 2200. Don’t fuck this up.

We headed back to our racks. I turned to Norman. I’m not doing it; I don’t give a fuck what he ways.

Me neither, Norman replied. What happened to all the stuff they taught us the last four weeks about not lying, cheating or stealing?

Who the fuck knows? I’m not doing it. I spoke loud enough