The U.S. government and its military are always quick to point out without any reservation that its service members are brave “men and women.” This is despite the fact that nearly 20 percent of those serving in the Army and about the same percentage in the Navy, and nearly 40 percent of those in the Marine Corps, are all between ages 18-to-21.
In civilian parlance, some serving would be called “teens.” That same below-21 group are also the ones who can’t legally buy alcoholic beverages in the United States. But likewise, the same group can have their legs blown off by roadside bombs in Afghanistan or Iraq or those who come home, might end up changing that blue star on their parents’ door to a gold one.
Like it or not, the military has had the tendency to treat their “warriors” as if they were Wally Cleaver and Eddie Haskell about to go out to a local dance. I say this with both respectful memories from the military I love and the recent news of how some military services are blocking Web sites — including those of The New York Times — which have published classified material from the rogue open government “Wikileaks.” Earlier in the month the Air Force’s “cyberspace command” blocked 25 Web sites carrying reprinted classified material. The military service isn’t alone in what would seem to be trampling on one’s First Amendment rights. The federal government has also put out word in different agencies for their employees to not read these sites, some of which are the nation’s largest media outlets, either on government or employees’ private computers.
With the government having little else they can do other than stomp their collective feet they resort to what has been described as closing the barn door after the horse has bolted. But it is just another act of nanny-ism engaged in by the military and not just for the under 21 members but, while directed at all, especially is it meant for those who are in lower non-commissioned ranks or below.
I particularly remember an incident of such nannyism that to this day irritates me. It happened when my ship, a Navy destroyer, pulled into a Pacific port near Sydney, Australia. Since we may or may not have been carrying nuclear weapons on board it was not unusual back in those days, 30 or so years ago, to be met with protests. While the Australians were perhaps the most friendly people I have ever experienced, and it saddens me to say but even friendlier than my home state of Texas, some folks there didn’t like the thought of ships carrying nukes in their ports. Though I didn’t particularly agree with their point of view, I understood their concern and as was the case in my own country, I could appreciate their right to protest something not to their liking.
My destroyer and a U.S. frigate were making a “friendship tour” of New Zealand and Australia during the Thanksgiving and Christmas-New Year’s holidays that year. As was the case, we didn’t stay out at sea for too long a period — perhaps a week at most — during those two months sailing in and out of those two wonderful countries. Nevertheless, even after a short period of time at sea one would have the yearning for someone not wearing Navy utilities or chief and officer khakis. Even more so was that the case if those non-Navy types were non-male types, if you get my drift.
So we had arrived in port. I was not doing anything in particular at the moment, so I went up on the so-called “helo deck” — at one time it could accommodate a helicopter but at the time it was mainly a point over which a helo could hover for unloading Dr. Peppers, ammunition or the squadron chaplain (the Holy Helo) — to watch the small anti-nuke protest off our starboard side. I remember one particularly clever sign held by a protester which read: “FRIENDships–Not WARships.” Being a half Peacenik, hippie sailor, I thought that was a pretty cool expression. And, of course, I really enjoyed the attractive look of the coastal Australians “birds” or women with their healthy tans and the shorts and halter tops which exposed those tans so well.
While admiring the protest, mainly the protesters, the XO came walking by. The XO means, for those not into military parlance, the Executive Officer. He was second in command of the ship, usually a lieutenant commander on a destroyer, while the captain was a full, silver oak-leaf-wearing commander. Even though he was called captain, a rank which wears a silver eagle on his collar like an Army or Marine colonel, most destroyer or frigate captains held the rank of commander.
I probably saw the XO as much or more as any enlisted man on the ship. That was because I was legal yeoman. I took care of all the ship’s legal paperwork and even acted as the ship’s legal officer when the ensign who served as that legal officer was gone. The military justice system in a nutshell went like this: A sailor commits an offense –> He is written up or charged –> An Article 32 Investigation (like a grand jury for more serious offenses) is held –> A sailor is sent to XO’s mast where his or her charge is either dismissed (plea bargained) or sent to —> Captain’s Mast. The Captain can either send the case to court martial, dismiss or mete out “non-judicial punishment.” NJP, called Article 15 or Office Hours in other services, is a misdemeanor court outcomes where punishments can range from fines and restriction to base or ship to loss of rank. This explanation is all kind of simplified but it’s the best I can do. Nonetheless, I would see XO quite frequently even though I never visited him for XO’s Mast.
Getting back to the Helo Deck that day when I was checking out the protest signs and the nice Aussie birds, XO said, benevolently, “Don’t stand there and watch them. That is what they want you do do.”
Well, I thought, “You think?” Of course, I would never say such a thing because XO as well as the Old Man (Captain) both had grandiose things planned for me post-enlistment — like I would go to an officer’s program, go to college, become a Navy officer. The few, the proud, the brave, the little gold ensign’s bar on my collar. I do feel, I don’t know if I can say honored but someone encouraged, that the Old Man and the XO saw potential in me. I did end up going to college but never returned to “Uncle Sugar’s Navy.”
But there was that little bit of feeling I felt in later years through the eyes of a younger person which was so akin to those days of the XO and his fatherly tips. The time of which I speak was when I was lived with a girlfriend for a couple of months and living with us were her two early elementary school-age kids. While we all got along pretty well, it inevitably happened eventually that some thing blew up one way or the other and one of the kids uttered that phrase no boyfriend with short-term step-kids wants to hear: “You’re not my Daddy.”
It took awhile later to feel so strongly the same way. Of course, if I had told either the XO or the Old Man back then that “You’re not my Daddy,” it probabaly would have led to a very uncomfortable reaction. So, the end of the story, I just said “aye, aye, sir” to the XO, and went to my office, where the porthole was opened and I could stare out to the protesters without being bothered by anyone. It all worked out because, of course, XO, you aren’t my Daddy.
