Dispatch Number Eleven

The Extra Mile Leads
To Sweet Revenge.

DATELINE:
Wednesday, January 3, 2001, at 1200 hours CDT.

By Mickey Miles
Once Upon a Time in Alaska.
SPECIAL to CornDancer.com

EDITOR'S NOTE: Mr. Miles is a professional journalist and political operative who moved to London in summer, 2000, to explore a new line of endeavour.

I was, at one time in the distant mist of memory, a 4.0 sailor.

"He is a four oh Boatswain's Mate," they would say about me. That meant I was top-of-the-line. To United States sailors I was a top performer. I was a gun-mount captain, which meant I could shoot the ship's guns and make sure the gun-mount crew correctly loaded and fired the twin-mount guns. I could lower and raise the ship's anchor as head of the special sea and anchor detail.

As coxswain, I was responsible for the captain's gig (powerboat) and could captain the ship's small boats.

I was also trained as a cargo handler. That meant that I could set-up and run a ship-to-ship transfer of goods at sea while both ships were doing about 25 knots. I could also set and run the detail that tied the ship or set her free at dock.

I was also an expert marksman at shooting the .45 pistol and the Browning Automatic Rifle (Clyde Barrow's favorite). I wasn't bad at the Thompson sub-machine gun or the M-16.

I could set-up in port a rig called the Modified Housefall, which we used to load and unload cargo. And I could pilot a huge ship with the best of them, or fight a fire on board.

In short, I was trained, skilled and motivated — and, as I said, a 4.0 sailor.

When the United States decided to launch an invasion of Cambodia as part of the Vietnam War, I helped supply the 750-pound bombs for the B-52s.

Extra Pay Also Means Extra Work.

One day, in the summer of 1970, July I think, Chief East, a man for whom I had enormous respect, asked me if I was taking the training course on Saturday for the E-5 exam. I was an E-4 and had two years to go, so I had no interest in taking the E-5 exam. (Sure, it meant extra pay, but it also meant extra work.)

Chief East, starched green fatigues, shiny boots, and a 4.0 sailor if there ever was one, got in my face, literally. "I have NO respect for anyone who does not try to advance themselves in this life. Do you understand?"

I don't know why Chief East singled me out. I was the only one he addressed at quarters that day. "But you see, Chief, I have, uh, no intention of staying in the Navy."

"As I said, I have NO respect for a person who does not try to advance themselves."

"I will be there Saturday."

"Good."

I showed up for study class for Boatswain Second Class. A couple of weeks later I took the test but did not learn the results and forgot about it.

Time for Reassignment from Guam.

More pressing matters were at hand. My outfit, Cargo Handling Battalion Number Two, was being broken as the Vietnam War wound down. All of those with under a year were to be discharged if they wished (and they all did) and others would be reassigned. Guess who had more than a year?

I was reassigned to Adak, Alaska, a far distance from tropical Guam, my home base at the time.

Fast forward to Adak. I had hell in Adak at the start. I was assigned to the Blue Shed in Labor and Equipment in the Supply Department. It was a three-man outfit charged with offloading and backloading supply ships, which arrived once every two weeks in this cold outpost, closer to Russia than the United States.

The Navy was in the throes of a reduction in strength, which meant that manpower was being reduced. Gone were the seaman and seaman apprentices who did the grunt work. Now it was the E-4s (moi) who had to take a step back and do the grunt work.

Join the Navy and Man the Foxhole.

In Labor and Equipment, someone had to sweep down the shed — an enormous 400-foot-by-100-foot, concrete-floored beast, housing a good dozen forklifts, dock mules, trailers, etc. Someone had to make the coffee. Someone had to change flats on the forklifts and dock mules. Someone had to stand NAG-DEF; that is to sit, twice a month, in a foxhole for hours at night in the cold Alaska wind, equipped with an M-16, to slow down a perceived attack by Russian ground forces. And someone had to examine the civilian cars that were shipped to the island to see if they had been damaged (or stolen).

At any rate, in 1970 I was proclaimed to be the low man on the totem pole to one Michael Moore, an E-4 Boatswain's Mate, who had me by two months seniority. It didn't matter that I was by far the more highly trained sailor, the more qualified, and the better sailor; I was deemed, by navy tradition, to be the lower form of life.

And God did that man Lord it over me, all with the blessing of Sadler (first name forgotten), the E-6 who was in charge of the station. Sadler and Moore were thick as thieves, literally. They made life miserable for me.

"Make the coffee and sweep down the shed." I can still hear Sadler saying that. He and Moore took their coffee in the small wooden shed while I swept out the cold, unheated, hanger-like building. I endured this crap for two months. I never complained. I didn't like it, but I did the job.

A Surprise from the Past Brings Changes.

One day the phone rang in the shed. Since my superiors in rank were gone, I answered. It was the supply chief and he was asking for me. "Why didn't you tell us you had taken the exam, Mickey? The E-5 exam?"

"Huh?"

"Why didn't you tell us about taking the Boatswain's Mate Second Class test?"

"Huh? Oh yeah. I had forgotten. How did I do?"

"You passed! You've been a Boatswain's Mate Second for four weeks. We owe you a back check."

"Wow."

"Go the disbursing office and get your back wages. And stop by the supply office and pick up your other stripe. Congratulations!"

"Fantastic!"

"And take the rest of the afternoon off."

"You mean it? Great."

"I'll tell Sadler."

"No, that's ok, Chief. I'll let him know."

I didn't tell Sadler or anyone.

I took the rest of the afternoon off. Got my back pay. Got my new stripe and sewed it on my blue jacket.

The Worm Turns on Moore.

Next morning I showed up at work. Sadler was pissed because I took afternoon off. "Make the coffee and when you are done, sweep down the shed."

"Wait a minute."

Pregnant pause. Both Moore and Sadler look up.

"Didn't you say, Sadler, that the lowest ranking sailor sweeps down the shed and makes the coffee?"

"Yes, that's right."

Sadler is smarter than Moore and he is starting to realize something is up. My extra stripe is not visible. I have, as is my usual course, worn my blue jacket under my long overcoat, which does not have a rank insignia.

"Go to it, Mickey," Moore, always the dummy, says.

"Well, we have a problem," I reply.

I am drawing this out to exact a little revenge.

"What's the problem?"

I take off my overcoat for dramatic effect and point to my new stripe. "I'm a Second Class now. The lowest ranking sailor makes the coffee and sweeps the shed. Moore?"

Moore looks at the new stripe and his face turns white. He has one chevron and I have two. That makes all the difference. Sadler, who is soon to be transferred, takes one second to switch allegiances to the new heir apparent.

"Yeah, that's right," Sadler says. "Moore, make the coffee and sweep the shed down."

Get Better at What You Do.

Chief East may be dead by now, who knows, but on a summer day he taught me a lesson that I have never forgotten: Always get better at what you do, go the extra mile, and it will pay off.

EDITOR'S NOTE:

WATCH FOR DISPATCH NUMBER TWELVE
sometime soon (we hope).
Mickey's weekly Dispatch from London is available by E-mail.
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