A team player or one of the most generous bastards that ever lived. His
Dolphins said that and his goodness was certified by the simple fact
that he was accepted by his shipmates. This left him free to hurl
outrageous insult, baseless, totally absurd accusations. And
insensitive attacks on everything people hold dear. It was ships'
entertainment Kind of a playground game.
We were far beyond the civilizing influence of feminine contact. Nobody
in his or her right mind would have considered stationing female naval
personnel on a smokeboat. For the same reason that at the
time, the Girl Scouts weren't holding Brownie meetings in gorilla cages
at the zoo.
America still had places where red-blooded American boys could be rowdy
and do and say what has since become socially unacceptable. And
damn, it was fun. Nobody died, became irreversibly psychologically
damaged or had his soul consigned to hell beyond future salvation.
Submarines were iron canisters of rowdy fun-loving lads who engaged in a
level of naughtiness that would have brought down celestial lightning
bolts on a church picnic.
The humor was original, engaged in by all and relentless. Like prize
fighting, if you dropped your guard and left a sensitive nerve exposed,
left a vulnerable opening. You got tagged. That was how it worked. The
rules were simple. If you didn't want to play, get a transfer or go find
a quiet place and slit your throat. Until you figured out one of the two
choices. Stay the hell out of the alligator pit that was the 'After
Battery'.
We received zero instruction in sensitivity and consideration of inner
feelings. We didn't engage in lockstep behavior or mutual kitty licking.
That would have been laughed off as total absolute bullshit.
We were all big boys and bouncing stuff off each other was a major part
of the life we loved. There is a line in Owen Wisters, western classic,
The Virginian where the Virginian tells Trampas,
"When you call me a sonuvabitch, smile."
We did a lot of smiling.
A modern submariner would probably find it impossible to understand, but
beneath all the crap you would have found as fine a body of men as any
that have given selfless, dedicated service to this nation.
Our problem seems to be that we never changed. Down-line, the sub
force started to go with quiet machine spaces, clean air and the poopie
suit of the day. Submarine skippers started crying on the televised
evening news, the President found himself apologizing to nations
responsible for the wanton death of millions. And we never went through
the attitude scrubber or had our souls recalled for a sensitivity
makeover.
We remain a pack of old crusty bastards who still throw our crayons in
the air and don't give a damn if we color life way beyond the designated
lines. Maybe we are weak-minded idiots because we can't live life or
celebrate some form of service other than that, which we lived.
Personally, I feel sorry for the poor, uniform of the day, bastards of
the Sub Force today who have to get an authorization chit from the
behavior monitor Chief, simply to sow oats and do a little pissing
against the wind.
The sad fact is that you can't miss a life you never knew. When Hyman
decided that technical competence was incompatible with diesel boats'
happy-go-lucky professional competence, he created a eunuch society to
go with decidedly weakened coffee in far more delicate cups. When you
trade heavy rolls and sunsets, you lose.
If Rickover was around today and saw that adverse publicity newsprint
involving his Navy far outweighs anything the peacetime smokeboat
service ever racked up, I wonder what he would say. I wonder what he
would say about his boat skippers up to their armpits in control room
tourists running Disneyland OPS. Who knows? That might have been his
vision of the future.
I miss it. I miss the hooting and hollering of good men. I miss the raw,
unvarnished humor of the merry men of long ago. I miss not having a
place where old men, who paid their dues at a time when forgoing crew
comforts and gentlemanly hygiene were expected. A place where
these old unsalvageable bastards can go and verbally kick hell out of
each other simply for yukks.
They can tell us we have outlived our era. They can tell us we are out
of step with the reality of today. We found very special women to marry
us. Maybe they are the only ones who truly understand us. But no
matter how they love us, we can never make them understand what the
After Battery meant to us. Only the old gray-headed sonuvabitches, who
parked their worthless butts on potato lockers, cussed the cooks and
ragged each other, will ever know.
Maybe when we die. Maybe wherever you go they have an 'After Battery'. A
bunch of unshaven dirty rascals sitting around an old nicked up
messtable drinking coffee that would float bricks. And when I step
through the watertight door from the control room, some idiot mess cook
will hand me a cup and some old raggedy ass Engineman will yell,
"Hey Dex! Plant your worthless, good for nothing ass and tell us
what's going on in the world of loafing Torpedomen."
And I will be home.