Ahoy there ye blarsted landlubbers for the ship's admiralty is about to board.
Pipe away at the forward gangway as the admiral's gig pulls alongside, give 'im the hand salute whil'st the gun crew astern fires a salute.
Bearing a scroll which makes lowly Seaman Beaumont a full Admiral in the Great Navy of the State of Nebraska, the new "old man" is about to take command. Break out the cough medicine to wet your whistles a wee-bit. Better post a watch to make sure Chief Rivett doesn't appear to spoil the partee.
Many thanks to Lt. Cdr. Vincent Armstrong, former Citian, who arranged the Nebraska Admiral award for me.
Just the heck of it, Vince, I tried "pulling my rank" on my wife as soon as I got home, but boy, did I get lowered to the bilges. The Missus sported her Admiralty certificate issued by former Governor Val Peterson when she was a state high school officer in the Future Homemakers.
Well, Vince, I tried but it didn't work, so next I tried pulling time in grade on my eldest daughter, but she lowered the gangway by informing me she was born in Hawaii eight (my goodness, almost nine years now) years ago and drew sea overseas pay long before her daddy was commissioned.
Well, this ole' sea hoss had just about had it when, looking for some moral support, he came across an old Bluejacket's manual amongst a box of basement-smelly books. And thar it was SR (Seaman recruit) Ivan D. E. Beaumont, Co. 136, Great Lakes Naval Training Center, serial number 318-47-09, October 4, 1950.
And so, here's Part I of . . . the sea story.
They unleashed country-boy Beaumont in a camp with 20,000 other raw recruits who had the toughest ornery critter you've ever seen for a company boss.
"Woody" as we later learned to address him (at that time, however, it was "sir" or "that S.O.B.") looked down on his 126 charges and bellowed, "Awwright youse guys, I ain't here to play patsy with youse. When youse guys leave this camp, you're going to be sailors. Now hear this — sailors!!"
And brother, did he mean it. Never once after pep talks the first day did he ever say "hey, youse guys." From then on when he wanted you in particular, he bellowed, "Sailor!!" and 126 of them dashed for his quarters.
There is a song about "don't rob another man's castle" but at the time I sure wished they would have said "hair." It took 11 seconds and we were then called "skinheads," a term which didn't suit many. One of the smoothest haircuts they gave was to Orval (Sam, we called him) Bass, an SCS man at Syracuse.
On the first day in the barracks, which the chief said would be home for several weeks, we were taken to the "wash" room. Here, there were metal covered tables, water taps and large sinks . . . about six of them. "This is the place you sailors will scrub your clothes," the chief said.
We had been told in the Navy, "cleanliness is next to godliness." Everyone was required to wash his skivvies and other clothing every night. "Where's the washing machines?" a green sailor asked.
"Right here, sailor," the chief said as he produced a three gallon galvanized bucket and a box of powdered soap. "Let me have your skivvy shirt," he said. The sailor obliged and the chief instructed his 126 charges in rub a dub dub between knuckles in a bucket of warm soapy water.
We all learned much later how easy it was at "boots," especially when we had limited fresh water and absolutely no hot water.