Editor’s Note: Marlow reflected the national scramble for COVID vaccine search earlier in the series. That experience has been reflected by many pals. I am uncertain about what to do about it, but Refuge Farm has a bit of distance from that particular aspect of this tumultuous year. Equally distant is memory, and this morning he takes on one from the shores of Narragansett Bay. Considering the direction of our new SECDEF for his department to “stand down” for 60 days to fix all sorts of things, this tale reflects things “the way they used to be.” More on current affairs tomorrow. They are interesting.

– Vic

Author’s note: During this long plague several shipmates electronically shared thoughtful articles on their past Navy escapades during the Cold War. When coupled with the cold fall weather W and I experienced in Appalachia and the Midwest, these tales surfaced a few brief, Navy-blue memories of long ago, dead of winter, arctic times at Newport’s Officer Candidate School (OCS) as the hot war in Vietnam wound down.

– Marlow

——-

“Okay, all you cheese-dicks, you’re mine, all mine. Fresh college boy meat for me to grind into shit-burgers. Don’t worry — I won’t dip you in shit! You just gonna love the US of N. For f@cking ever! It’s gonna be endless twenty-four-sevens of no soft sleepy time wakeups! Oh, Lord, we’re gonna have some fun!”

We all stared at this taut-faced Chief Petty Officer, some with haunted, hollow eyes. Many of us new skinheads were a bit shell-shocked, some were frightened and haggard, and a few sported a telling diseased look.

Cold winter sunlight filtered through the low, dark grey skies above, as another company formation of young, exhausted officer candidates struggled past us to stay in formation on the icy asphalt terrain buffeted by the implacable northern Atlantic winter storm season winds.

This poisonous coiled snake of a Chief Bosun had our attention. Our ice-cold metal poopie-ville helmets had no cool combat graffiti or conveniently carried packs of smokes. Some of us stole glances at our neighbor’s growing blue fingertips and lips. Barked commands kept us more or less together as we wheeled and pivoted to a new parade direction. No one complained about the pace or the close to zero-degree Fahrenheit temps buffeted by the winds barreling over what we derisively called Nasty Gansett Bay.

At the top of an incline, one of our company was mildly shivering and shallowly panting, suffering the telltale effects of a coming frostbite induced loss of consciousness. He turned to his left and was blown over by a strong cold air blast. Knocked unconscious by the pavement, the fierce winds began to move his body over the ice as we wheeled in precise space and rhythm over his corpse.

As he groggily came to, we double-timed in place with the Chief bellowing, “Hey, college boy, what you waitin’ for? This wind ain’t gonna kill you. But if you don’t get up and back into formation, I will kick your cherry ass good and hard. Hurry it up, bubble-butt!”

The former enlisted in our ranks whispered warnings cautioning us cherry newbies to drink water since these temps and winds would insta-dry us out making us more susceptible to frost-freezing and loss of consciousness.

Remarks like “Come on, you useless dick-skins! You ain’t got all f@cking day!” continued our daily US Navy vocabulary lessons which we would soon incorporate into our very bones and souls.

As his “lame shit-asses . . . you don’t know you don’t know shit . . . you shit-for-brains” phrases rained down on us, deep inside we became indifferent and then hardened to our blue faces and fingers. We sported frozen slight smiles that might look out of place, but if you looked closer it was easy to trace our journeys to a new toughness.

After the first week or two of non-stop indoctrination training and hazing with candidates dropping out on their request or DORing, we were smaller in number but could march and drill smartly as the Chief dropped lots of new F-bomb combos on us. We deftly marched through the snowy, icy wasteland like ghosts floating over a barren landscape.

There was no right or wrong in the midafternoon’s early-rising frozen stars above us as we finished our last close order drill of the day. They were just there in the growing darkness. The Chief believed in what he was doing. And we believed in what we were doing. He’d been kickin’ our and others’ asses before us for so long to weed out the weak and wash out the “dickcheese.” He wanted to make sure when it was our time to lead others, our side would kick ass.

Midway through OCS, the struggle for the possession of our souls was over — we were no longer civilian candy asses. We no longer struggled to maintain not only our strength, but our sanity and ability to anticipate the physical and mental demands of the school.

As the classes became more numerous and technically demanding, it all became a blur. We now had boundless energy to shoulder the huge classroom assignments as well as write home as midnight approached. No longer sleep deprived despite endless days of only 4-5 hours of shut eye, our morale increased as the uncivil war with the Chief ended. We were no longer fighting him, ourselves or each other.

We were moving it out.

With many weeks left in our 120 days the Chief completely checked his fire.

Still, we remembered those blue-cold day-after-day times when we went back onto that frozen-iced, wind-swept grinder. It felt like a crime scene as many of us came to the same cold weather induced unconsciousness as if we were the bait to lure those winds out.

All we had to do was make it outta there, get commissioned and it would all be gravy. Every day, the rest of our REG NAV lives — gravy!

We’d get to do what we wanted. Nobody would or could f@ck with us.

“Look out, Mad Dogs on the march!” someone shouted as we headed off to our first ever Friday night off-base liberty during our last few weeks at OCS.

No longer were we the soft, naive, innocent and idealistic kids from the 60s. We had been corrupted into becoming part of the USN incorporating the mature message that things and people could be built together into being bigger, stronger and smarter, and maybe, just maybe, from time to time we’d gain a bit of wisdom about the meaning of life.

Looking back, we did not fight enemies like the cold but with the persons that we brought with us to OCS and the ignorance inside us.

Postcard photo of the 6-winged King Hall of Navy Officer Candidate
School (OCS) in Newport RI along the frigid waters of Narragansett Bay

Postscript: Immediately after being dismissed from our commissioning and graduation ceremony, the 18 surviving and newly commissioned Ensigns of November Company doubled timed our way back in formation to the quarterdeck of King Hall. There, as we suspected, our Chief was hanging out. We lined up single file shortest to tallest to warmly receive our “first salute” from an enlisted service member and render him the traditional silver dollar in return. It was our mark of respect to him for all the much-needed mentorship and hard-assing that he given us.

​Chief done committed the truth
To us pea-coated blue tooths
Like some shaman in a diaper with a poopy pot
Told us unasked as we shivered “Just think hot”

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