Seeking Normal
In early 1969, I traveled to New Orleans to begin the end of my enlistment. I flew by plane from Missouri since the engine for the car I’d bought hadn’t yet been rebuilt. I arrived at the Naval Support Activity located in the Algiers section of New Orleans on the West Bank. The base was a cluster of World War II era buildings set about an area that appeared to have previously been part of a larger military installation. There was a lot of land around the main gate of the base where it was apparent from the cuts in the sidewalk there’d been driveways and, from the concrete walkways that led nowhere, that at one time there’d been buildings.
I would’ve never thought a military base could look this run down. My other stateside duty stations had grand entrances. Even St. Albans Hospital in Queens (New York City)[1] had an archway with stone guard shacks and a green space separating the road. Here, there was just a chain link fence with a white wooden guard shack, an older sailor in blues with a helmet liner painted white and a blue and gold sign above announcing Naval Support Activity. It was all a bit shabby if not seedy, kinda fitting considering the surrounding area.
The Activities, or unit functions, the base supported were Commander, 8th Naval District, the USS Hyman (DD 732, which was a Destroyer belonging to the Naval Reserve with the nickname of “Cherry Mary”) and the Navy enlisted housing in Algiers. It also supported Commander of Reserve units throughout the east and central states. There was no Naval Hospital there. If anyone needed to be hospitalized, they were sent to the Public Health Hospital on the East Bank where there was also a commissary and base exchange, both of which were small compared to other bases I would be stationed at later. But they were enough for the people in the area.
I had no idea how to check into a command like this. Not having a car meant I had to carry my sea bag and suitcase around wherever I went. So I went into the Medical Clinic since that’s where I’d be working. Thankfully it was easy to find because it was the first building on the left as you entered the base. I went into the dispensary[2] and announced myself at the dispensary’s administrative office. HM1 Doug Byers was seated at one of the two desks while the other desk was vacant. Byers looked up and said, “Can I help you?”
“I’m HM3 Hayes reporting for duty, and I’m not sure where to start.”
“Really? You’ve seen the building and you still want to check in and not run away?”
His sense of humor did not always match the situation or the person. “Ok, have you been to Personnel?” He asked.
“Nope, I have no idea what or where anything is. I saw the Dispensary sign and thought this would be a good place to start.”
“Ok, let me introduce you to Senior Chief Simpkins, that will be a good place to start.”
I hadn’t seen a real live Senior Chief since I left Great Lakes Basic Corpsman School. Turned out he was a bombastic individual, who’d been everywhere and seen everything and was determined to let the whole world know it. But he was also a good person — a good Chief who took care of his troops, a dynamic individual who was involved in the base and community activities. He was extremely loyal to the Officer in Charge of Dispensary, an alcoholic Navy Captain who was pretty much at the end of his career. Senior Chief Simpkins covered his ass pretty much every day. As he welcomed me, he asked me about my last duty station. When I answered, 2nd Battalion 3rd Marines, he responded, “Oh, ok, yea we have a couple of you survivors running around here.” Then he said, “Almost all of the people working here are married. How about you?”
No, just to booze, I thought to myself. “No, no I’m not,” I replied.
“Ok, not a problem, we’ll see about getting you put up for a while with HM2 Mike Moss while you begin apartment hunting.”
“Huh?”
“Oh, you didn’t know? There are no barracks or chow hall here so the Navy pays you an extra $77.10 a month to live out in town. That doesn’t cover everything, but it does go a long way if you’re careful how you spend your money.”
That was a good belly buster. The only thing I was ever careful about was ensuring my booze wasn’t watered down. Since I was a small child, if I had a nickel, I spent a dime. I made money to spend it, and I only spent it on my greatest necessities: booze; cigarettes; and food.
For the first time in my still young adult life (I was twenty years old), I had this extra burden of adulthood thrust upon me — putting a roof over my head. Up until this point, either my parents or the government had taken care of that. The barracks and chow may have sucked, but the price was right. I’d grown to love my three hots and a cot. Now I had something other that booze to spend my meager earnings on.
Senior Chief continued to explain that HM2 Moss had married a girl from Hong Kong while on R&R. He was waiting on her immigration paperwork to come through and could use some help with his rent while I looked for a place. Seemed like a good option, if not the only one. I figured I might as well try to be a normal person. Gotta start somewhere. So I headed off to his place, where I’d sleep on a fold out sofa and live out of a suitcase for a couple of weeks.
Turned out my new roomie Moss was quite a stoic, Clark Kent looking guy with a pragmatic and stiff personality, at least from what I could tell. He didn’t seem like the kind of guy who’d marry a woman he met during R&R, but years on this Earth have taught me people are never who you take them for.
If Moss and I developed a relationship, it was inconsequential, as I don’t remember a lot of conversation and we had nothing in common. At least a lot of things were within walking distance of his place, including a strip mall with a fried chicken joint and a bar. That worked for me. It was a couple of weeks before I found a place with another corpsman from the dispensary.
The following Monday morning quarters, I finally met my co-workers: HM1 Beyers (Medical Administration); HM1 Shyree (Pharmacy); another HM1 who was the X-ray technician and Sanitation Inspector for the Base; HM2 Walt Stein (Laboratory Technician), who was a hilarious guy from New York with a heavy Brooklyn accent; another HM2 Kathy (don’t remember her last name); HM2 Annie (again don’t remember her name); HM3 Landry, who was from one of the nearby bayous and a Vietnam veteran who’d been with the 1st Marine Division; and Dennis Courtney, an old buddy from Great Lakes Corpsman School and Field Medical School at Camp Lejeune. Dennis was a really nice guy. He’d served with the 1st Marine Aircraft Wing and became aircrew on CH46 helicopters flying medivacs in the Shithole, which in itself was death defying. Medivac helicopters often returned to base with a lot of bullet holes and wounded or dead aircrew.
We were a splendid, happy-go-lucky bunch who were all glad to be on shore duty and not at sea. The junior staff were a happy lot since they were coming to the end of their enlistments. It was a grand place to end an enlistment.
I was left to pretty much discover New Orleans on my own, and boy oh boy did I. Every street off of Canal by the river leads to the French Quarter. I was there early and long enough to learn my way around a bit before Mardi Gras. I was basically drunk or buzzed every day and night for the next eight months, except when I was working or had duty. I wrecked my car three times during Mardi Gras. All of the wrecks were front end. The only damage done was to the radiator and fan. I got really good at pulling out the radiator and running it to the shop up the street from the base using the dispensary’s van and then picking it up in the evening and throwing it back in. God bless the Chevy six-banger engine.
I also spent some time out in the bayou towns, but this is where I learned I wasn’t so smart as to stay sober enough to survive there without some back up. One night at a local Dew Drop Inn, I wanted to dance with a cute young lady who said sure, but then I found out her very large redneck boyfriend did not appreciate that and objected in a very pushy manner — so much so that I hauled my ass outta there as best I could and stuck with the city bars.
So many mornings I awoke with the first question being, where’s my car? Forget that, where am I? Eight months of drunk is what I remember.
Misery Hates Company
I was anxious to find out what my duties would be. Being in the jungle, I hadn’t done much in the way of Corpsman duties. I’d worked on a clean surgical, dirty surgical, plastic surgery and psychiatric ward. I walked from Danang to the DMZ and half way back, so my only real contribution to Naval Medical Society was being self-taught on medical records. Despite all my experience, I wound up somewhere where I was forced to use my non-existent people skills. And not even on military personnel. I was assigned to Outpatient Dependent Sick Call. I truly don’t remember the name of the section, but its purpose was to provide medical care to dependents of active duty personnel and the military retirees and their dependents. I was approaching a new aspect of life in Navy Medicine. And it wasn’t one I was necessarily overjoyed to do.
Courtney was tasked with showing me around the treatment area and introducing me to the four active duty doctors who staffed the clinic. As with junior enlisted personnel, all of the doctors were at the end of their obligated service. There was a Lieutenant Commander Mayer, Lieutenants Cucchiarri and Donaldson and a last one who seemed more like a caricature out of a Southern romance novel. I cannot remember his name, but he was a real ladies man.
All the Officers’ Wives Club would demand to see him, if not for any reason but to get their amphetamine fix for the weight loss club or their “Mommy’s little helpers” (Valium). He wrote them prescriptions that would get him arrested today. I remember how he used to write prescriptions right in the foyer of the clinic.
Anyway, Mrs. White was the charge nurse for the medical side of the clinic, and she was a real sweet lady who kept us enlisted folks in line and ensured the treatment area, the check-in area and all areas related to patient care were clean and stocked for the day’s appointments. She was the one who ensured that the patient care area, from check in to check out was run efficiently. I started out by working with her in the patient records section. Mainly the wives would come in and my job was to check their ID card and then pull their records and send them to the waiting room. I enjoyed it for all of thirty minutes.
Being new there meant meeting new people and for the regulars who came to the clinic frequently for their chronic conditions, I was a fresh face so they seemed compelled to tell me all about their miserable lives and how they ended up having to come to this place to avoid the end of time.
It was eye opening. There I was, an already miserable human being having to listen to a bunch of old people telling me what misery it is to live as long as they have, and to endure what they have, to get to the end of days. This is where I learned that old age sucks, but it beats the alternative.
My time in the outpatient care section of the clinic was filled with greeting patients as best as my hung-over ass could muster, pulling records and logging them in. I actually lasted there for quite longer than I thought I would. Most people were nice or, at the very least, reasonable. One day though (come on, you didn’t think this would last did you?), a very haughty woman came in. We were busy, which meant no open appointments unless it was a bona fide emergency. Not accepting my “no”, the woman used a phrase I was hearing for the first time in my life but it would not be the last: “Don’t you know who I am? I am Commander So and So.”
“Your ID card says you are a dependent wife, you’re not active duty,” I replied.
“WHAT did you say petty officer?”
“Look lady, your husband is the Commander. You are a dependent wife.”
“I demand to speak with whomever is in charge!”
“Sure, go the fuck ahead, my fucking Senior Chief is right down that fucking hallway, and I’m sure he’ll kiss your ass, cause I’m not.”
Not much time passed before I saw her storm out the front door of the clinic. Senior Chief Simkins stood across the foyer from me. “Hayes, in my office, now.” Everyone was looking, shaking their heads but with slight smiles at the corner of their mouths. I went in and closed the door. Simkins had his back to me and was looking out the window of his office. (He had a knack for the drama, and I learned a bit from him). After a few beats, he finally turned around and informed me in a quiet voice that he was not a “Fucking Senior Chief, but a Senior Chief.”
At least he implicitly acknowledged that I’d done what a lot of front line corpsmen who deal with over-bearing dependent wives and children of officers would have liked to do. Having earned a bit of credit for surviving Vietnam, I’d be spared a Captain’s Mast (non-judicial punishment) and would be given extra duties assigned after normal working hours for one week. I would also be pulled out of the outpatient section and assigned to Medical Administration working for HM1 Beyers. “No more outbursts with the patients,” he advised.
I got away with a lot back then, but working with Beyers was not all fun and games. The one duty he gave up as soon as I walked into the admin office was to turn over the outpatient appointment log. Now I’d have to talk to these demanding creatures all day long and fulfill their every wish when they wanted it.
Talk about Karma. I learned a lot from working there, including that I would not want to do that ungrateful job for those ungrateful people ever again. If you’re ever booking an appointment with a live person, be nice. It’s a suck-ass job.
This is also where I was able to learn from an expert, HM1 Beyers, about active duty medical records and all of the papers that go into them. These were things I knew from the BAS, but now I was learning more.
Another thing I learned about was seniority, which was something I didn’t have. Since I was the most junior enlisted in the clinic, all of the crappy jobs fell my way. Naval Support Activity provided funeral details for active duty personnel in the 8th Naval District so when one was to be held I would get the call and off I would go in my dress blues with about nine enlisted and one junior officer. Can’t remember the town, but a Seabee had been killed in Vietnam, and we were sent to carry out the detail.
It was a miserable, rainy Saturday. The ceremony went fine until the end. I was on the end of the casket that would receive the folded flag. The other side started the fold, and they fucked it up royally. By the time the sailor across from me and I received the flag, it was a solid square. Not sure about anyone else in the detail, but I was mortified. I handed this to the lieutenant, and I saw in his face disgust and anger that I knew we would hear about. We got back to New Orleans after a very, very quiet van ride. We stood in the rain folding and unfolding a flag until nightfall. That Seabee’s family deserved better.
Another thing I learned was how to be a line handler, which is the technical term for one who ties up a ship to the pier. You stand on a concrete pier and the sailor on the ship throws you a “Monkey’s Paw”, a knot of small line that you pull until the line eventually becomes the large hawser that you slip over the cleat on the pier. You need to make sure once you get it on the cleat you help the other sailor with his line and then get out of the way. The sailors on the ship wrap their line around a winch and tighten it all up. I was detailed to an old cruiser, the USS Springfield. One day the handlers were allowed onboard for lunch. I couldn’t believe I was actually on my first warship. I was in awe. I don’t remember what I ate or how it tasted, I was too busy gawking at the magnificence of it all — metal tables bolted to the floor, err deck, stools welded to the table, metal trays.
Another detail was for the USS Hyman. She had been out in the Gulf of Mexico conducting gunnery exercises when a rag became entangled with her lower front mount so when it fired, it blew one of the barrels off the upper mount. There were several injured and so the line handlers went in on a Sunday morning to assist with her docking. The jokes were unmerciless: The Cherry Mary got her own cherry, and the only ship in the Navy to shoot itself and so on.
At least no one died.
[1]See Whatever You Say, Sir https://medium.com/war-cigarettes-and-san-miguel/whatever-you-say-sir-d84b1e71fbdf
[2]Dispensary is the archaic term for clinic.
