Bloody Friday – August 14, 1970

 

I enlisted in the Navy in 1970 and spent my summer at the Naval Recruit Training Command in San Diego. As luck would have it, my company drew a sadistic drunk as a Company Commander. He had a nasty habit of going to the enlisted men’s club or off base and getting sloshed while we were doing anything from being lead to classes by recruit petty officers to simply being left in formation on the grinder for a couple of hours until he felt like retrieving us.

There were, perhaps still are, two separate weeks that marked our progress toward graduation. Service Week, when we learned how to do with very little sleep while we worked in the scullery and mess hall from very early to very late; then there was Colors Company Week, when we attended the raising and lowering of the flag. For the ceremonies we were dressed in Class “A” Whites and stood inspection. On Friday of Colors Week we didn’t so well at inspection… according to our Company Commander. We didn’t know about it for a few hours.

After “Colors” in the morning we were led to a couple of different classes by our recruit petty officers, then chow, then back to our barracks where we were waiting out one of our Company Commander’s absences. We were still in our white uniforms. We were in our socking feet, as was our standard operating procedure to keep the deck clean and polished.

His name has been changed to protect the guilty.

From the rear of the barracks a voice rang out loud and clear, “Attention on deck!” We scurried into two lines bracketing the center aisle as our company commander came swaggering through the open back door. Ship Fitter First Class Billy T. Cracker marched silently and slowly between us. His mouth was tightly closed in a lipless slash as his half-opened eyes glared straight out over the flared nostrils of his reddened face. Reaching the front of the barracks, Cracker staggered slightly as he turned and regarded us scornfully as we stood in tense, tomb-like stillness.

I had never been the direct object of Petty Officer Cracker’s abuse. His targets were not random; he would only fire all of his guns at once and explode into the face of recruits guilty of some breach of protocol. I had been coached: keep your mouth shut and your eyes forward, and quickly do exactly as you are told. Like the story about two guys meeting a bear in the woods, I didn’t have to outrun the bear; I just had to outrun the other guy.

Cracker shattered the silence, “What a pathetic bucket of worms! A bunch of squirrels could have done a better job at inspection than you maggots did this morning! March to Georgia, NOW!” In pairs, we scrambled to lift a set of bunks and started marching in place. Cracker soon ordered us to put them down, pile all of our gear, and the lockers it was stored in on the bunks and then pick them up again.

A sailor can carry all of his Navy issue in a sea bag about three and a half feet tall, but we had the added weight of the metal bunks, our rifles, our lockers, and our boondockers. Cracker didn’t give the order to march, but he did begin to prowl among us. I knew he was drunk. I knew he was mean. I didn’t know how far he would carry the punishment... nor did I know how long I could carry that load.

After an eternity of two or three minutes, I heard the tick of a bunk leg tapping the deck. There was the clatter of loads being dropped as Cracker plowed through us and battered the poor boy who had been first to surrender. With spittle flying and eyes bulging, Cracker screamed for us to grab our rifles and form up outside for calisthenics… on the concrete apron in our socking clad feet.

The recruit next to me got out of time and Cracker bulled through our ranks, knocked him to the ground, hit him in the face, and ordered him to stand at attention on a concrete laundry table with his rifle held above his head. One of the recruit’s shoulders had been badly hurt when Cracker pushed him to the ground, he couldn’t raise that arm. He had to stand there holding the rifle over his head with one hand as bright red blood dripped from his nose to the front of his stark white jumper.

Fridays were the days of graduation ceremonies for companies that had finished their training and were leaving for schools and fleet assignments. The streets in front of the barracks were crawling with civilians who were on their way to Prebble Field to watch their sons/brothers/nephews graduate. There were witnesses. There were complaints. Cracker was put on report for maltreatment and sent to alcohol rehab. We were counseled, received an apology and a replacement company commander. We were the last company Cracker would ever be allowed to lead. That pathetic bucket of worms may have been a first class ship fitter, but he was a no class leader.

Can Do

They’ve labored in the tropical sun and they’ve dug in the Antarctic snow. For 67 years, from World War II Pacific islands to Middle Eastern sands, they’ve built our bridges to freedom with a tool in one hand and a rifle in the other. They are the United States Navy Seabees. Tell them what you want done, supply the materials, and then get out of their way.


Congress recognized the need for more naval support bases by 1938. Civilian contractors were at work expanding the support network in the Pacific by 1940. After the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor on December 7, 1941, it was recognized that further expansion of facilities would have to be conducted by military units. Under international law, it was illegal for civilian construction workers to resist enemy military action. To have done so would have led to their immediate execution as an illegal guerilla force.


The speed with which the First Construction Detachment was recruited, organized, and deployed is amazing compared to the pace of bureaucracy today. On the 5th of January, 1942, Rear Admiral Ben Moreell received authority to form a Naval Construction Regiment. By the 17th of February, just 6 weeks later, the 296 men of the First Construction Detachment were unloading their equipment and supplies on Bora Bora in French Polynesia.


The need for speed led to the relaxing of normal recruitment standards. The first Seabees were an all volunteer force with men from the age of 18 to 50 being accepted. It is a tribute to the spirit of those work hardened men that many over the age of 60 had lied about their age in order to be accepted. They came from the ranks of men who had built Hoover Dam. They came from building highways and tunneling for subway systems. They came from building skyscrapers, docks, ocean liners, and aircraft carriers. The average age of the first recruitment was 37 and they were ready to go to war.


From paving our nation’s way to victory across the Pacific, through good will building projects for local nationals all over the world, from relief assistance in the aftermath of natural disasters at home and abroad, and on to the sands of the Middle East, the United States Navy Seabees have established a solid tradition of service in war and at peace.


While the two word motto, “Can Do,” says a lot about the Seabee spirit, the inscriptions on the Seabee Memorial at Arlington National Cemetery expands on that theme. In addition to the familiar “Can Do,” there are two other inscriptions that pay tribute to the service of the Seabees over the last 67 years:

“WITH SKILLFUL HANDS AND WILLING HEARTS,
THE DIFFICULT WE DO AT ONCE.
THE IMPOSSIBLE TAKES A BIT LONGER.”


“WITH COMPASSION FOR OTHERS
WE BUILD – WE FIGHT
FOR PEACE WITH FREEDOM”