Part II – Awkward and out of place

The helicopter descended in a slow, lazy circle. The change in our speed or pitch of the engine roused the others, and sitting across from me, Jim mouthed something to me, pointing out the round window. From the side I was sitting I had not realized another Sea Knight flying alongside. Jim’s hands zoomed around dogfighting, reenacting the “Ride of the Valkyries” attack scene from Apocalypse Now. In my mind’s eye, the helicopters would swoop in for a graceful landing on the flight deck. But it was all in slow motion — crawling to the big ship, then hovering, for what seemed like forever…waiting.

While we were in the air, the helmet’s earmuffs had mashed the roar of the engine and rotors into a kind of subtonic dance track, pulsing just on the edge of resolution. Just above that, I could hear my heart beating in my throat and the swish of coursing blood. The pace and volume intensified as we landed, and with a soft thud, the aircraft’s 24,000 pounds met the deck. The ramp door fully opened and my crazy dance track became louder with my heart rate. I could hear my startled eyes blink with a clicking counter rhythm, reacting to new movement everywhere.

I craned my neck to see the flight deck, bathed in the fading light, with Technicolor clouds low on the horizon. The loadmaster motioned for us to stand, hesitated, then nodding to unseen voices in his headset, he had us sit again. A few seconds later, we stand– then sit. Rolling his eyes, he stepped off the ramp and out of sight. Suddenly, from behind us, Pete was bolting through the helo, heading straight for the ramp. Each of us flailing out as he dashed past, yelling to stop. The loadmaster stepped from around the side and back onto the ramp from the flight deck, then, like a linebacker, sweeps him up with one outstretched arm and deposited him neatly in the canvas seat beside me. Avoiding our wide-eyed stares, Pete leaned in close and explained to me over the din.

“While we were standing…I didn’t see you sit back down…”

In the darkness, he thought we had left. He started running for all he was worth, oblivious of our hands reaching and grabbing. Our loadmaster again had us stand, and we finally followed him down the ramp.

Snaking out onto the flight deck we follow someone else next. His dramatic arm movements helped compensate for the noise, reading lips with sour facial expressions. I suddenly missed the calm of the helo and turned for a thank you wave to the loadmaster, but he had already turned, heading back into the darkness. Two Sailors struggled with a chain under a nearby helicopter. Three other Sailors crashed through our line, dragging their chains off in another direction, leaving the last few of us scrambling to keep up. As I scan the two-acre beehive of activity, new noises and vibrations are added to the crazy dance track exploding in my mind. I realize I am bopping my head in time as we wind through the parked aircraft. Out of nowhere, flight deck Sailors with outstretched arms encircle and push us farther starboard, pinning us against the bulkhead of the towering island. I did not appreciate their rush until the hot squall of burnt fuel vapors molded us all into a cowering huddle. Helicopters farther aft were launching, flaring out wasp-like, one after the other. I caught a glimpse of Jim, gritting his teeth and smiling. He gave me a wink. “Ride of the Valkyries” indeed.

We were soon moving again, through a door and down a ladder. With my eyes still adjusting, I can only see the white helmet in front of me and stumbled down the ladder. The dramatic Sailor led us into a ready room, where we shed the float coats and helmets. I could not keep up with the conversation, now focused on berthing arrangements, our evening meal, and who we would muster with and when. All important details I would need for the coming week. Someone bopped the back of my head to follow, and Dave waved as we were led away in different directions.

My rack was in a Marine junior enlisted compartment. The rest of the band were senior to me and kept together — even the Air Force and Army members. Not only was I still new to the group, but I was also the odd man out. I had never been singled out as the ‘junior man’ and did not like it.

Troop berthing, where the racks in the compartment were canvas, cot style, and stacked right on top of each other, four or five high. There were no lockers because Grunts carried no valuables, bringing only what they needed for the fight. Young Marines nestled in corners, playing cards or Monopoly with real money. The theme song to Jeopardy blared from a television suspended from the overhead. In the back row, a few sat and polished boots while watching a pair of younger men argue over rules of mumblety-peg. Knives stabbed into the linoleum tiles of the deck. I felt out of place as I searched for an empty rack.

I threw my backpack up to a vacancy at the top. As I bent over and tugged on my seabag, the backpack came tumbling down on my head. I cursed and reared back for another toss but suddenly stopped when I saw angry eyes glaring at me, daring me to throw it again.

This compartment was a sea of green camouflage uniforms and olive-green skivvies, so I noticed Dave’s dungarees quickly. He had found his way to me to lead me to the mess decks for the evening meal, long past.

The smell of baking bread and the rattle of cutlery filled the passageway. Dave explained that we were eating with the Marines and Sailors from aircrews and the flight deck, and we had to be quick or lose the opportunity.

Stepping through another door, a young Sailor handed us green plastic trays and motioned to the rack of steaming, freshly washed silverware. Other Sailors scurried about cleaning, some glancing up at us. I felt guilty being late until I turned in time to see a large group of Sailors from the flight deck fall in behind us. Just ahead of me, someone was too slow in their selection, as it was difficult to see what was behind the steamed glass.

“What’s good?” Pete asked with a smile.

Stony silence at first, but the crank’s blank stare slowly melted into a grin.

“You should be asking “What’s not so bad…Petty Officer?”

“Well then, that’s what I’ll have…Petty Officer.” He quickly added “Please.”

Farther back down the line, hoots and hollers from the flight deck crew. The mess crank ducks from a thrown bread roll. We were all hungry and ate quickly.

I noticed everyone else had cleaned up, even putting on fresh uniforms. When I had asked the Marines in berthing about a shower, they answered the ship had set “water hours” and no showers would be available until the morning. On a deployed ship, water conservation is often the rule, with strict times for crew showers. All showers have a push button and timer valve. Punch the button once for an initial amount of measured water to rinse. You soap up and scrub down, including shampoo for your hair, before pushing the button again for your rinse. More than that is considered wasteful and ridiculed as a “Hollywood Shower.”

After dumping our trays and clearing our table, Dave led me back to my compartment to grab my toilet kit, and then to where they had showered. It was a small out-of-the-way head, in a cross passageway near the galley.

“Be quick” was the only warning he left me with.

The water felt glorious, and I hurriedly scrubbed off two days-worth of travel. Lathered up, I could not find the rinse button. Blindly swiping my arms back and forth, reaches blocked by a hand. Wiping away soap, I follow my eyes from this hand up to a khaki-clad arm. I had invaded a senior Non-Commissioned Officer’s head, and the arm belonged to a Master Chief. Instead of letting me rinse off, he handed me a stack of brown paper towels. He stood there and patiently explained personal responsibility and the importance of water hours while I mopped the soap off my body and out of my eyes.

Looking back, on my first deployment as a Navy Musician, each of us felt out of place. Our Soldier and Airman felt as I did, just being on a ship. The others, Dave, George, and Pete must have been to sea before, but not with the amphibious Navy — carrying Marines into combat. Even if not for our wide-eyed stares, we certainly looked out of place.

Before leaving Naples, the Navy had changed our working uniform from the cargo pants and chambray blue shirt back to traditional dungarees. Many in the band begrudgingly bought them at the last minute. The new uniforms were still stiff and uncomfortable, and the dark denim a stark contrast to the well-worn, faded, and often stained dungarees of other Sailors. Pete and I had even worn short-sleeved shirts, not allowed underway. To keep our seabags light, we had only carried dress oxfords, wearing them instead of the required steel-toe boondockers.

Everywhere we went, we drew stares and looked awkward and out of place, so we tried not to walk around.

Later that night, Dave woke me to tell me to be ready to roll in the morning. We were performing for the Marines ashore tomorrow, and we would be flying early.