Category: Sea Stories

Black Belt

THE INTRODUCTION

During the first few days of boot camp there were several fist fights between Navy recruits in my 80-man company. Nothing serious. A busted lip, a bloody nose, and it was over. Maybe that was just part of getting acquainted.

After a week or so of fighting one of the recruits climbed up on what looked like a picnic table in the middle of the barracks and yelled for quiet. He had something he wanted to say.

I didn’t know the guy but I could see that he wasn’t very big, 5-10, 160 pounds, maybe. He talked country.

“I don’t want to fight anyone, because I don’t want to hurt you,” he said. “I’m a black belt.”

Some of the guys laughed,  and started making unkind remarks.  Black Belt interrupted:   

The head in a recruit barrack
The head in a recruit barrack

“I know some of you don’t believe me, so let’s get this over with now.  I’m going to go in the head [that’s what sailors call the bathroom] and wait. If you want to fight, line up at the door. Bring your piece [rifle] with you so at least you’ll have a chance.”

And without another word he stepped down off the table and went into the head.

No one was laughing now. And no one lined up at the door.

THE BONDING

We were marching to breakfast when the recruit who had been named commander of our company sang out, “Column left, march!”

It was a surprising order but our guidon, the guy who claimed to be a black belt, turned smartly and so did the columns of men behind him. Our company commander had spotted a gap in the long line of companies waiting to go to chow and had turned us into the gap.

We had broken in line.

Recruit company commanders were selected more for their brawn than their brains.  The Navy picked the biggest, toughest looking recruit in each company and put him in charge, so he could enforce order with his fists.

Within seconds the commander of the company behind us strode up to our guidon and asked who was in charge, where was our company commander?

“I don’t know,” Black Belt answered.

Where was he? He was hiding!   Our commander had stepped into the ranks and, in effect, disappeared after he got one look at the monster who had come calling.

“Gimme me your flag!” Monster said to Black Belt. “I’m gonna turn you in.”

He grabbed our Company 26 guidon and tried to pull it away, but Black Belt held on. I was a squad leader, so I was standing at the head of a column, the closest man to Black Belt. I stepped out ranks, and took hold of the guidon.

Monster, who was roughly the size of a pro football tackle, turned to me and said he could beat my fanny from one end of the grinder to the other, or words to that effect.

“I don’t doubt that,” I told him. “But you still can’t have our guidon.”

And then he just let go and walked away.

THE PAYBACK

I was sweating, but what could I do?

I had put one of the guys in my squad on report for constantly talking in ranks. As punishment he was going to have to wear his hat in his mouth for weeks, until boot camp was over. He was pretty sore about that and had put the word out that he and his friends were going to give me a blanket party.

Blanket parties can be brutal affairs. A blanket is thrown over the honoree and the guys who are throwing the party beat the hell out of him. If you don’t have friends who are willing to stand up for you, to fight for you, you get hurt.

Recruits were packed together and, early in training, you only knew the guys who bunked close by.
Recruits were packed together and, early in training, you only knew the guys who bunked close by.

I thought the guys bunking around me would help me but, well, you really never knew about that until the party started.

It was almost lights out when Black Belt, who bunked pretty far away, yelled at me. Everyone could hear.

“Hey, Stith,” he said. “I hear they’re going to give you a blanket party tonight.”

I replied, “That’s what I hear.”

“When the party starts, call me,” Black Belt said. “I’ll come help you.”

There was no blanket party for me that night, or any other night.

Coming Monday: A Unique And Special Gift

Be Good Or Be Gone

When I was a petty officer aboard USS Los Angeles (CA-135) one of my duties was to put a little fear in the hearts of new guys in my division: stay squared away or else. I did that by introducing them to an old Navy tradition.

The Executive Division, my division, got the smartest of the seamen and firemen apprentices coming aboard ship right out of boot camp, the ones who had a year or two of college or who had high test scores.  That wasn’t exactly fair, but that’s the way it was — the ship’s personnel office was part of our division.

And if a new guy didn’t work out, we got rid of him.

On these special teaching mornings I would have the watch wake me real early. Then I’d tell the new guy to get up, get dressed, and come with me. We’d go to the compartment where I worked, right below the main deck, and  I’d make coffee, light up a Crook cigar, and wait.

There was no talk.  I’d just let him sit there, wondering what was going on.  When I heard a low rumbling coming from the main deck, and sailors counting, “A-one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight. A-one, two…” I’d tell the new man, “Let’s go.”

Sailors holystoning the decks of USS Los Angeles.
Sailors holystoning the  USS Los Angeles.

We would climbed the ladder to the main deck and there before him would be a pretty remarkable sight –scores of sailors, pants legs rolled up, holystoning the deck, like American sailors had done for almost 200 years. 

The Los Angeles had teak decks and they had to be kept spotless — we were a flag ship, we had an admiral on board.  Holystoning was the best way to do that.

A holystone is a piece of soft sandstone, about the size of a brick, with a hole in the middle that didn’t go all the way through. Sailors stuck what looked just like a broom handle into the hole, bent over, and pushed and pulled the holystone back and forth, scrubbing and whitening the LA’s decks.

There would be six or eight sailors in a line here, four in a line over there, 15 working on a wider spot over yonder. All of them would be chanting, “A-one, two, three…” When the count got to eight they would move forward four inches and started again.

Saliors assigned to deck divisions holystoned in good weather and bad and always in the early morning hours, before breakfast.

We would stand there a few minutes, watching in silence.   And then I would tell the new guy, “If you [mess up] we are going to send you to the deck. Now let’s go back to sleep.”

NOTE from the USSConstitution.org web site:

“In the 18th and 19th centuries, Constitution‘s sailors began their day by cleaning the ship with the unwelcome task of holystoning the decks. A hand old time holystonepump wet the deck with seawater, and men with buckets cast sand over the planks. The watch then scoured away the previous day’s dirt and grime with soft white stones and stiff brushes. Some believe “holystoning” got its name because scrubbing sailors looked as if they were kneeling in prayer. This was the “most disagreeable duty in the ship,” wrote Samuel Leech, a sailor aboard during the War of 1812, especially “on cold, frosty mornings.”

Coming Friday:  If I Were The Boss Of Everything