Chicken Aerobics

In boot camp I had a lot of down time. I had down time because the Navy saw fit to place me in a drill company. A drill company was a company of recruits that provided entertainment for the graduation ceremony. Drill company recruits played in the marching band, were members of the flag team, and threw bayonet clad rifles in a rifle company. When we were not practicing our respective duties we were allowed to hang out, while non-drill companies marched relentlessly.

I learned an entertaining game in boot camp during this down time. It was called “Grinder Ball.” A “grinder” was a large, open, cement lot where companies practiced their marching skills. The ball in “Grinder Ball” was a peanut M & M. The players were pigeons. We’d sit on the patio next to our barracks with a bag of M & M’s and roll them one-at-a-time into a flock of pigeons. The pigeons would chase the M & M in an attempt to eat it, but the candy was so large that a pigeon couldn’t get it in its mouth. With a peck the candy ball would shoot across the cement, and the pigeons would fight in the avian equivalent of rugby. It was fun to watch.

One of my boot camp company commanders wanted to know how I was placed on a drill company.

“What instrument do you play?” he asked.

“I studied piano in my senior year of high school,” I replied.

“Piano?” he asked. “There aren’t many pianos in a marching band.”

“That’s probably why I’m in the rifle company, sir,” I observed.

It wasn’t like I had any choice in where I attended boot camp, or what I did once I arrived. I went where I was told to go and did what I was told to do.

Major Havoc and I recreated grinder ball this morning with blue berries and chickens. We sat on the patio and rolled blueberries towards the birds. They raced to be the first to catch the little ball of fruit. Our chickens don’t like to swallow whole blueberries, so there’s a bit of a tussle when they pick apart the fruit and eat it in two bites. One bird will pick up part of the blueberry and race across the yard while the others follow in vain hope of capturing a meal. I need to Google “chicken aerobics” to determine whether or not this counts as exercise.  But the boy thoroughly enjoyed himself.

(Neither chickens nor pigeons were injured in the writing of this blog.)

The Greatest Generation

This is my favorite hat. It is easy to see that it gets regular use. It is 24 years old, and one of three that I own. It’s been washed many times, but each washing seems to be less effective than the previous washing. One day I’ll have the patch removed and transferred to a new blue ball cap, but only when this one falls apart. The value is in the patch. The nostalgia is in the entire hat.

I have recently become aware of how many stares this ball cap invites, especially in a town where soldiers and army paraphernalia are a dime a dozen, where Colonels are as common as quarters. You can determine my entire naval career by looking at this cap. At least the important parts. I was submarine qualified. I served in Antarctica. Most people assume that I went to the South Pole on a submarine, but that is impossible. Subs go underneath and/or surface in the Arctic Ocean. I know that many sailors live in Antarctica each year, but the number is so small that in the 24 years since I served on the ice I’ve never met another person on the street who has been there. I’ve met plenty of prior enlisted men, and many former sailors.

Last Saturday night, the Boss and I stopped in a Goodwill store on a whim. While I was there I met an older man who was himself a former sailor. He looked to be in his early to mid sixties. He saw my dolphins and shook his head.

“You sub boys,” he said. “I couldn’t do that. I was on a carrier.”

“Ouch, carrier duty,” I replied. “That’s a lot of people on one boat.”

Competition between surface and sub sailors can be fierce, but this was a genial conversation.

“Oh, it wasn’t so bad. I had three squares a day and a place to put my head each night.”

“I understand,” I assured him. “I was a cook. Of the sixty people in my cooking school class, 52 went to carriers. The other 8 went to subs. For a cook, subs were better duty.”

“I worked in the engine room,” he told me.

There was a brief pause and then man said something that completely changed this benign conversation about naval duty.

“We were docked in Tokyo Harbor when the armistice was signed.”

“Armistice!” I thought. “That means…”

“You were in Tokyo Harbor when the Armistice was signed?” I asked, just to make certain that I had heard him correctly. “You served in World War II?”

“I did,” he replied.

I extended my hand to shake his. “Thank you for your service to this country,” I told him. “I do not get the privilege of speaking with World War II veterans very often.”

“And thank you for yours,” he replied, shaking my hand.

“Carrier duty,” I said. “That was dangerous duty in the Pacific.”

“We never got attacked directly,” he explained. “But of course some of our planes returned shot-up.”

“I bet they did. So, did you lie about your age to enlist? You do not look old enough to have served in that war.”

He laughed. “My mom signed the papers for me. I was seventeen. I had read about the beating our boys were taking in Okinawa.  I did not want to be soldier because I knew that I would be sent there. I knew I would be drafted, so I enlisted in the Navy. I’m 84 now. ”

The conversation ended as nicely as it had begun after the man’s wife indicated that she had completed her shopping. I watched them walk out the door together, briefly wondering if the Boss and I would be blessed to be out shopping together on a Saturday night when I am 84 and she is 80. I hope so.

Can I just say, “Wow?” I cannot imagine being 17 and facing the choice of serving in the infantry of the army or the marines on the island of Okinawa or facing the threat of Japanese submarines or Kamikaze pilots on a floating city target in the middle of the ocean. Furthermore, I cannot imagine being so humble about serving my country in the time of war that I would casually mention my service on an aircraft carrier as if it had taken place during the peacetime of the 80’s like my time in the service. I’m glad that I took my turn and served my country, but let’s face it; my service was not the same as that man’s service, or the service of the men and women who enlisted during Persian Gulf One, Persian Gulf II, or any of the action that has taken place since I left the armed forces. That a man such as this one even remotely considers his service and mine to be equal only serves as a testament to the fact that his generation is aptly named The Greatest Generation.

I was honored to have spoken with him.