Paul Davis On Crime: Navy Boot Camp

Showing posts with label Navy Boot Camp. Show all posts

Sunday, October 19, 2025

My Crime Fiction: 'The Barracks Thief'

Below is another chapter from my yet unpublished novel Olongapo.

The story below originally appeared in American Crime Magazine.

The Barracks Thief

By Paul Davis

It had been a busy time on the USS Kitty Hawk as the aircraft carrier launched and recovered aircraft on a moonless night on “Yankee Station” in the Gulf of Tonkin in the South China sea off the coast of North Vietnam in 1971.

I had just been relieved from my watch at midnight in the Radio Communication Division’s Message Processing Center. While on Yankee Station, we were on eight on/eight off watches, and as the days and nights flew by, we lost track of time.

On this night, as our aircraft performed combat sorties against the North Vietnamese and faced anti-aircraft fire and surface to air missiles, called SAMs or “telephone poles,” the atmosphere was hectic in the message center as we maintained communication with the combat pilots and processed a great number of highly classified message traffic and intelligence reports in “real time.”

I headed to the ship’s galley where they were serving “MIDRATS,” midnight rations. The ship’s cooks offered hot dogs, hamburgers, grilled cheese, and French fries to the sailors, airmen and Marines coming off watch, and for those who wanted a late-night snack.

The more than 5,500 men ate fairly well on the Kitty Hawk, and although I had a fine full dinner eight hours earlier, I stood in line with my tray and took a cheeseburger, a grilled cheese sandwich and some French fries. I laid my tray on a table and took a glass and filled it with a red Kool-Aid like drink that the sailors called “bug juice.”

I sat at the table and as I took a bite from my grilled cheese, I heard someone call my name.

I looked up and saw George Goforth from North Carolina. He was in my Boot Camp company more than a year prior at the Recruit Training Center at the Great Lakes, Ill naval base near Chicago.

Goforth hadn’t changed much. He was about five years older than my 18 years. He still had his close-cropped Boot Camp style haircut, and he was still stocky with a hard face that looked like it was carved from the side of a mountain.

Although I hated Goforth in Boot Camp, I let bygones be bygones. I smiled with a mouth full of my sandwich, and I waved for him to sit across from me.

Goforth sat with his tray of food and told me he worked in the radar division. I said I was in the radio communications division.

"So, you a radioman?"

"No," I replied. "I'm more of an admin security guy than a communication tech guy."

Goforth and I enjoyed our MIDRATs, and we spoke more about our jobs on the carrier, the great liberty in Olongapo in the Philippines, and the good and the bad ole days of Boot Camp.

I last saw Goforth on our last day of Boot Camp when we received our orders. As I had enlisted in the Navy when I was 17 in 1970 for two years under the “McNamara’s 100,000” program, which was Defense Secretary Robert McNamera’s program to recruit young men who prior to the Vietnam War would not have been accepted into the armed forces.

We were Vietnam cannon fodder, as one sailor explained it to me. The program was also known as “McNamara’s Misfits,” or “McNamara’s Morons.”

As a two-year enlisted recruit, I was unable to attend a Navy “A” school after Boot Camp, where one was trained in technical skills and then advanced in a Navy occupational specialty, known as “ratings.”

That was fine by me, as I was anxious to go to Vietnam. I had applied to be assigned to a Navy Swift Boat, officially called a Patrol Craft Fast (PCF). The Swift Boats patrolled the Vietnam coastlines and waterways.

I was attracted to Swift Boats as I enjoyed “McHale’s Navy,” a TV comedy series that portrayed piratical and comedic sailors on a WWII PT boat, as well as the film “PT 109,” the patrol boat that President John Kennedy had served on in WWII. And I was especially influenced by John Ford’s classic WWII film about PT boats in the Philippines, “They Were Expendable.”

But as a 17-year-old high school dropout, I was subject to what was deemed the “Needs of the Navy,” so instead of being assigned to a 50-foot-long Swift Boat, I was assigned to a 1,068.9-foot-long supercarrier. Goforth, with his four-year enlistment, I recall, received orders to go to radar “A” school.

At the Great Lakes Boot Camp in February of 1970, our company commander, a stout and gruff Boatswain Mate 1^st Class Petty Officer named Schmidt, selected four recruits to be “Recruit Petty Officers.” I had no issue with Jenkins, a tall, skinny, bespectacled 26-year-old, being selected as the leading petty officer, as he was the only college graduate in a recruit company of high school graduates and high school dropouts. But I did sort of resent Schmidt selecting Goforth as a recruit petty officer, as I thought he was dumb.

Schmidt, for some reason, seemed to like Goforth, and he immediately showed his displeasure with me. Although I was a good recruit in terms of classroom study, marching and PT, Schmidt did not like my questioning instructions and my sarcastic asides. He was not amused, and he often called me a smart ass.

One day outside of Schmidt’s office, Goforth told me that I had to stand the midnight security watch, where for four hours I stood at parade rest with an M-1 carbine rifle (unloaded) and guarded the barracks as the other recruits slept in their racks.

I complained that I had the midnight watch only the other day, so with a good many recruits in our company, why did he again assign the late-night watch to me?

“Cause I said so,” Goforth said. “I do the watch bill.”

I suggested he do a better and fairer job of it, when I heard Schmidt bellow out, “Listen to the man, Davis!”

Goforth gave me his best shit-eating grin.

I recalled that on our very first weekly written test, Schmidt went ape shit as more than half of the recruit company failed, including Goforth.

Under my breath, I told Goforth, “Enjoy being a recruit petty officer here, because in the fleet, you have to take tests to become a real petty officer, and I suspect you are too fucking dumb to pass a written test.”

Goforth walked away without a word.

“Yes, go forth, Goforth,” I called after him.

On top of the intense and tiring training we were subjected to, we had a bit of drama in the barracks as several recruits’ money and other items of value were reported stolen.

It appeared that our barracks thief had lock-picking skills.

After the third reported theft, Schmidt held muster and told the assembled recruits to be sure to lock up their valuables and watch out for each other.

“There is nothing lower than a barracks thief,” Schmidt said with a disgusted look. “If I catch anyone stealing, I’ll bust his ass right outta the Navy.”

The barracks thief was a major topic of discussion on our down time, but one night a black, muscular, six-foot-tall recruit named Robert James was discussing boxing with me. He was speaking about the great Rocky Marciano and Joe Louis bout. James said he had been competing for the Golden Gloves in his hometown of Cleveland when he feared his draft notice was imminent.

“I fight anybody in the ring,” James said. “But I ain’t fightin’ no Viet Cong in no jungle, so I up and joined this here Navy.”

We laughed.

“You was a boxer too, right?” James asked.

“I boxed at the South Philly Boys Club. Strictly a low-rent amateur,” I replied.

“What you lookin’ at, boy,” James said looking over my shoulder.

I turned around. Goforth turned and walked away.

“We ought to use Goforth as a punching bag,” James said with a laugh.

“The thought occurred,” I said.

I recall an old joke about a Navy recruiter asking a recruit if he could swim.

“Why?” the dim recruit asked. “Ain’t there enough boats?”

I could not swim when I joined the Navy. Growing up in South Philly, I spent a lot of summers under an open fire plug as the water was splayed at us and over us and passing cars. I also spent a good bit of time at neighborhood swimming pools, but I splashed around rather than actually swam.

So after I was assigned to a Boot Camp recruit company at Great Lakes, I and two other recruits from my company were instructed to report to the indoor pool after the day’s training sessions were over.

One of the two recruits was Donald Jones, a quiet, short and skinny 19-year-old from Arizona. The other was Alfred Dinkins, a tall and stocky 20-year-old from Baltimore. Dinkins was loud and pushy. Like most of the rest of the company, I took an instant dislike to him.

It was freezing cold outside but the bay with the swimming pool was steaming and warm. Jones, Dinkins and I lined up behind a half dozen other non-swimmers at the ladder leading to a diving board ten feet over the deep end of the poll. Two petty officer swimming instructors stood on either side the pool.

We moved up in line as the recruits, one at a time with arms crossed over their chests, stepped off the diving board and dropped straight down into the pool. If you kept your arms crossed over your chest, you smoothly hit the water, went down, and then bobbed backed up. But if you outstretched your arms, which was a apparently a natural reaction, your outstretched arms broke your smooth entry into the water and you flopped around uncontrollably.

When Jones took his place at the head of the diving board, he froze. I stood directly behind Jones and Dinkins stood behind me.

“C’mon, Pussy,” the swimming instructor yelled from the side of the pool. ”Cross your arms and drop off the board.”

“I’m a scarred,” Jones said trembling.

“Pull out your swim trunks and look down,” the swim instructor instructed Jones.

"What, Sir?”

"You heard me, puke. Pull out your trunks and look down.”

Jones, standing on the edge of the diving board, followed the instructions and pulled out his swim trunks and looked down.

“Do you see a pair of balls?” the swim instructor yelled. “Then fuckin’ jump!”

Everyone laughed, which made Jones even more upset. I too laughed, but I felt bad for Jones. To be honest, I was not looking forward to dropping off the diving board next.

I felt a movement over my right shoulder, and I saw Dinkins’ big arm push Jones into the pool. Jones let out a scream, and he went into the pool, arms and legs at all angles. I turned and faced Dinkins.

“Who made you an instructor? You’re an asshole.”

Dinkins did not reply, and I heard the swim instructor yell out, “Girls! If you’re done would you please step into the pool?"

I looked down and saw that the instructors had pulled Jones out of the pool and he sat in a heap by the side of the pool. I crossed my arms and stepped off the diving board. But on the way down, I stretched out my arms instinctively and hit the poll hard. I splashed around in a panic until the instructor used a long pool to reach me. I grabbed hold of the pole and the instructor pulled me to the edge. I climbed out of the pool and caught my breath.

“Don’t just sit there, Mary,” the swim instructor said to me. “Get you ass up there and do it right this time.”

I walked over to the line of recruits and took my place. I got to the top of the diving board, crossed my arms and stepped off. This time I kept my arms across my chest, and I slipped smoothly into the water. I went down a foot or so and then I rose to the surface naturally. I then began to swim around the pool three times. It was if I had been swimming all my life. I loved it.

The instructor yelled for me to get out of the pool. I climbed out and the instructor told me to hit the shower, get dressed and then return for a signed document that claimed I passed the swim test.

Dinkins also passed the swim test that night, but I never saw poor Jones again. I suspect that he was given a general discharge declaring he was unfit for military service. I felt bad for him.

A few days later I entered the barracks and saw Dinkins bent over and rooting through another recruit’s locker.

I crept up behind Dinkins, and I kicked him square in the ass. He screamed and tumbled across the deck.

“Davis! You on report!” I hear Goforth shout behind me.

“Dinkins was rooting through Martin’s locker. He’s our barracks thief,” I said.

“I bent down to tie my shoelace and Davis kicked me,” Dinkins said in protest.

Goforth took me and Dinkins into Schmidt’s office.

I stood at attention in front of Schmidt’s desk, alongside Goforth and Dinkins.

Goforth spoke first. He told Schmidt that he saw me kick Dinkins. I spoke next, explaining that I caught Dinkins in Martin’s locker. Dinkins then denied that he was looking in Martin’s locker.

“Goforth, go get Martin,” Schmidt ordered.

Goforth came back to the office some five minutes later with Martin in tow. Schmidt asked Martin if his locker was locked or unlocked.

“It was unlocked, Sir. But I only went to the head for a minute.”

“Are you missing anything?”

“No, Sir, I checked.”

“He would be missing something if I hadn’t kicked Dinkins in the ass,” I said.

“Shut up, Davis,” Shmidt bellowed.

“Didn’t I tell you pukes to keep your lockers secure?”

“Yes, Sir,” Martin said sheepishly.

“Martin and Dinkins, you are dismissed.”

After they left the office, Schmidt rose from his chair and looked hard at me.

“Davis, I should put you on report for assault,” Schmidt said. “But instead, I want you to give me ten laps around the grinder. Goforth, escort Davis out to the grinder.”

Goforth handed me a 12-pound M-1, and we went out to the grinder, a cement parade ground the size of a football field.

Holding the M-1 across my chest, I began to run around the grinder as Goforth stood to the side with a smug, shit-eating grin - the dumb bastard!

Sometime later, we were given our first “liberty” and allowed to leave the base. Most of the recruits talked about going to Milwaukee. But being a big city boy, I chose to go to Chicago, and I went by myself.

Like the Great Lakes Boot Camp, Chicago was cold. Dressed in my “crackerjack" Navy-blue uniform, white hat (called a dixie cup) and a Navy-blue pea coat, I walked around Chicago. As an aspiring crime writer and student of crime, I boarded a tour bus that offered a tour of Chicago’s gangland history.

The tour bus drove past the site of the St. Valentine’s Day Massacre, where in 1929, seven men from the bootlegging North Side Gang were mowed down from tommy guns, reportedly ordered by Al Capone. The garage was long gone and, in its place now stood a building.

Likewise, the site of the Biograph Theater, where in 1934, the FBI gunned down the infamous bank robber John Dillinger after he was betrayed by the “woman in red.” The bus stopped and the tour guide pointed to a nondescript building.

Not only was the bus tour rather boring, but the tour guide also got several of his facts wrong. I spoke up and corrected him the first time and I received a dirty look from the guide for my trouble. I stayed quiet when he erred again and again, as I was worried that he would throw me off the bus.

After my disappointing tour, I resumed walking around the famous Loop in the center of downtown Chicago, and I bundled up my pea coat to ward off the frigid winds coming off Lake Michigan.

I walked by a pretty blonde girl in bell bottom jeans and a fluffy coat. I smiled at her. Most girls at that time would not look or talk to sailors or soldiers in the street, so I was taken aback when she smiled at me and asked me if I were in the Navy.

I told her I was from Philadelphia, and I lied and said I was 25. She said her name was Carol and she was 21 and she was from a small town in Illinois. She said she was a business student attending DePaul University and she shared an apartment with another female student.

I asked to buy her lunch, and she agreed and suggested a small place just up the street. We had a good meal and a good conversation and afterwards she invited me to her apartment where she said she had wine and pot. She noted that her roommate had gone home for the week.

We drank, smoked pot and kissed on the couch. We then moved to the bedroom.

A couple of hours later I asked if I could use her shower. I showered and dressed in my uniform.

“Are you leaving?”

“Yes,” I said. “I have to be back at the base before midnight.”

She reached for her notebook and pen, and she wrote down her name, telephone number and address and gave it to me. I took the note and kissed her.

“This was fun. Thanks for inviting me here.”

“I’m glad I meet you,” she said. “I hope to see you again.”

“I’ll call.”

Back at the barracks, we all heard the news that Schnidt had caught Dinkins in his office. Schmidt made Dinkins empty his pockets and Dinkins pulled out Schmidt’s brass money clip with a good bit of cash. Schmidt called the Naval Investigative Service and civilian special agents from the base came over and took Dinkins into custody.

We later learned that Dinkins had been a burglar in Baltimore, and a judge gave him the option of joining the military or going to prison. He chose the Navy, where as a "McNamara Misfit," he continued to ply his criminal pursuits.

I felt vindicated, having earlier accused Dinkins of being the barracks thief, but neither Goforth nor Schmidt said a word to me. After discussing the fate of our barracks thief, most of the recruits spoke of their liberty. It appeared that I was one of the few recruits to have met a girl on liberty.

I felt good about Dinkins getting caught and my liberty with Carol, and I sat on my rack smiling to myself.

“Davis, you got the midnight watch,” I heard Goforth say, ruining my moment of happiness.

Note: You can read other chapters via the below links:

Paul Davis On Crime: My Crime Fiction: 'Salvatore Lorino'

Paul Davis On Crime: My Crime Fiction: The Old Huk

Paul Davis On Crime: My Crime Fiction: Join The Navy And See Olongapo

Paul Davis On Crime: My Crime Fiction: 'Boots On The Ground'

Paul Davis On Crime: My Crime Fiction: 'The 30-Day Detail'

Paul Davis On Crime: My Crime Fiction: 'Cat Street'

Paul Davis On Crime: Chapter 12: On Yankee Station

Paul Davis On Crime: My Crime Fiction: 'The Cherry Boy'

Paul Davis On Crime: My Crime Fiction: 'The Hit'

Paul Davis On Crime: My Crime Fiction: Welcome To Japan, Davis-San

Paul Davis On Crime: A Look Back At Life Aboard An Aircraft Carrier During The Vietnam War: 'The Compartment Cleaner'

Paul Davis On Crime: My Crime Fiction: 'Murder By Fire'

Paul Davis On Crime: My Crime Fiction: 'Admiral McCain'

Paul Davis On Crime: My Crime Fiction: 'Hit The Head'

Paul Davis On Crime: My Crime Fiction: 'A Night At The Americano'

Paul Davis On Crime: My Crime Fiction: 'Missing Muster'

Paul Davis On Crime: My Crime Fiction: 'The City of Bizarre Happenings'

Paul Davis On Crime: My Crime Fiction: 'Go Forth, Goforth'

Tuesday, June 17, 2025

A Little Humor: Navy Boot Camp Medical Condition

I enlisted in the U.S. Navy when I was 17 in 1970.

I attended Naval Recruit Training at Great Lakes, Illinois, which sailors call Boot Camp, back in February of 1970.

I recall suffering through one particularly freezing and grueling day on the grinder, marching and doing strenuous exercises with a 12-pound rifle.

I finally had enough and I told the drill instructor that I had a medical condition. He told me to report to sick bay.

I saw a Navy corpsman in sick bay and I told him I had a back problem.

About a half hour later the corpsman ushered me into the Navy doctor's office.

The doctor consulted a sheet and asked, "You have a back problem?"

"Yes, Sir," I replied. "I wish I was back home in Philadelphia."

Thursday, February 20, 2025

Looking Back At Navy Boot Camp 55 Years Ago

I find it hard to believe that on this day 55 years ago, I was a 17-year-old seaman recruit at the U.S. Naval Training Center, commonly known as Boot Camp, in Great Lakes, Illinois.

The story below about Navy Boot Camp is chapter seven in my crime thriller Olongapo, which I hope to soon publish.

Boots On the Ground

By Paul Davis

Prior to going on watch in the aircraft carrier USS Kitty Hawk’s message processing center as we were operating on "Yankee Station" in the South China Sea off the coast of North Vietnam in 1971, I was standing in line in the galley waiting for chow to begin being served.

Standing in line with me was Willie Henry, a bulky 25-year-old black sailor from Houston who worked with me in the aircraft carrier’s Communications Radio Division. Henry was wondering what was going to be served.

“If I can’t put it between two pieces of bread, I ain’t eating it,” Henry explained.

“I guess soup is out,” I said.

In the past, I’d seen him place a large piece of meatloaf between two pieces of sliced white bread, and another time I saw him slap a thick steak between slices of white bread. I even once saw him place a mound of mashed potatoes between slices of white bread and squash it down.

“Gangway! Prisoners!”

We moved aside when we heard the Marines yell as they marched the dozen or so brig prisoners past us to the head of the chow line.

“That’s Lupre,” I said, pointing towards the brig prisoners.

I recognized the tall and lanky black sailor, his head shaved, marching in close order with the other brig prisoners, toe-to-heel and crotch-to-ass.

“You know Louie Lupre?”

“Yeah. He was my friend in Boot Camp.”

Henry told me that he met Lupre in Olongapo. Henry said that this was Lupre’s second time in the brig. Lupre, usually a low-key guy, was working as a mess cook when he assaulted a petty officer who threw a mop at him and ordered him to swab the deck. Lupre hit the petty officer with the mop.

Henry said that Lupre had previously punched out a petty officer who was stupid enough to raise his voice to him. Henry also told me a story of Lupre in the “Jungle” section of Olongapo, where black sailors preferred to hang out away from the white sailors.

“Two brothers were razzing Lupre about being a dumb, country-ass fool,” Henry said. “Lupre didn’t say anything back. He just punched them both out. One, then the other. That crazy brother hits hard.”

I liked Lupre and I felt bad for him. As I stood in the chow line, I thought of our time together in Boot Camp.

The road to Olongapo for me began on a platform at the North Philadelphia train station on February 9th in 1970 when I was 17 years old. My mother and father were with me as we waited for the train to take me to Chicago and then on to the Naval Recruit Training Center at Great Lakes, Illinois.

Salvatore Lorino was also there, standing alone a few feet from me. I recognized him from our South Philly neighborhood, and I was surprised to see him there. I nodded to him, and he nodded back.

We later spoke on the train as we barreled towards Chicago. Sitting in the diner car, I looked at the menu, thinking I was worldly and cool like actor Sean Connery as James Bond on the Orient Express train in the film From Russia With Love. The waiter disabused me quickly of this notion, as he told us that as Navy recruits, our meals were planned and prepaid.

Lorino told me over dinner that a judge ordered him to join the military or go to prison, so he decided to enlist in the Navy. He wondered if he had made the right choice.

I told Lorino that I needed to use the restroom, and I went off in search of one. The train was rocking hard from side to side as it sped on, and I tried with some difficulty to keep my feet firmly on the restroom’s floor and keep my stream of urine directed at the center of the toilet as I swayed uncontrollably from the train’s motion. I recall hoping that my aim would be better on the Navy’s rifle range.

When we reached Chicago, all of the recruits transferred to a bus that took us to the Navy base, arriving late in the evening. It was bitter, bone-chilling cold, as we stepped off of the bus. As we emerged from the bus, we were greeted by a screaming wild man. The wild man yelled out that he was Gunner’s Mate 1^st Class Petty Officer Calhoun, our company commander. Calhoun had a pronounced rural Southern accent, and he cursed us as he herded us into the barracks like we were cattle.

The barracks, built in WWII, was decrepit and dreary. And very cold. The two-tier bunks, called racks, appeared to be even older than the barracks.

Calhoun was a muscular 6-footer with close-cropped blonde hair. He berated us and hurled insults ranging from “fucking pussies” to “candy-ass pukes.”

Navy recruit basic training was informally called “Boot Camp” and recruits were called “Boots.” We were in the U.S. Navy, but for the next three months we would not go aboard a ship or go to sea. First, we Boots had to be trained as sailors and military men ashore at Boot Camp. We were, in a sense, Boots on the ground.

Once in the barracks, Calhoun informed us that in the U.S. Navy’s order of things, Boots like us were less than human and we would be treated accordingly. Calhoun had us line up in front of our assigned racks. He informed us that we were in a temporary barracks and in one week’s time we would be “crossing the river” to our new barracks.

The following day we were issued uniforms and had our heads shaved. We spent that first week at Boot Camp marching, running, doing calisthenics and extreme exercises with a 12-pound M-1 rifle. As punishment for infractions, the recruit offender had to extend his arms outward and hold the rifle horizontally at shoulder’s length.

Sounds easy? Try it for a half-hour, as I did on several occasions.

I hated the company commander, as we all did, even though as the son of a former Navy chief, and a voracious reader about the Navy and the military, I knew that these extreme basic training conditions were meant to instill military discipline and teamwork. Still, I thought the company commander went way overboard, and he appeared to truly enjoy torturing the recruits.

That first week in Boot Camp we had to memorize the 11 General Orders of a Sentry, and we had to recite them to any drill instructor who happened to visit us while on watch. We stood security watches across from the company commander’s office, at the head of the passageway between the rows of bunks in the barracks. While on watch, we stood at parade rest, our right hand on our M-1 rifle as it leaned forward at our side, and the left hand placed behind our back, with our legs spread apart.

While standing watch one early morning as the recruits were asleep, Calhoun snuck up on me. He looked me up and down, shook his head in disapproval, and called me a candy-ass and a puke excuse for a sailor. I stood rigid and said nothing, but I had a fine thought about punching this old man's lights out if I ever encountered him outside the base.

Calhoun placed his ugly, twisted face nearly up against mine and screamed, “What is the 5^th Order of a Sentry?”

"To quit my post only when properly relieved, Sir!"

Calhoun looked disappointed that I knew the response. He walked into his office without another word.

Over the course of the first week, I saw many other recruits draw a mental blank through nervousness, and some broke down and stammered, and some even cried when Calhoun screamed, cursed, waved his hands about, and stomped his feet in an effort to confuse the sentry.

Having been raised by a former Navy chief who ran our house like a ship, I felt like I grew up in the Navy. So this was not new or especially intimidating to me.

"Did you eat shit for breakfast?” I recall Calhoun asking one recruit.

“No, Sir,” the recruit replied.

“Then why you got a shit-eating grin on your fucking face?”

Calhoun didn’t take particular notice of Lorino and I, thankfully, but he tormented Louis Lupre, a tall, gangling and soft-spoken 20-year-old black recruit from Louisiana.

Calhoun seemed to always find fault with Lupre, from the way he made his rack, to the way the tall recruit stood at attention. At least twice a day, Calhoun would be on Lupre, mocking his name and his looks, and criticizing the recruit’s actions. Lupre took it all in stride, and this appeared to infuriate Calhoun.

“You got kerosine rags around your ankles, Lemonade?” Calhoun asked Lupre while we were all at attention for an impromptu inspection by the crazy company commander.

“Sir, what?”

“You got kerosene rags around your ankles to stop them ants from crawling up your leg to eat your candy ass.”

Lupre frowned and shook his head, “No, Sir.”

“You eyeballing me, boy?” Calhoun said as Lemon stood at attention.

“Don’t’ call me boy,” Lupre said in a low voice.

“Don’t call me boy - Sir!” Calhoun yelled back. “I ain’t calling you boy because you is colored. I’m calling you boy because you is a boy – a young boy Boot!”

I was one of many, if not all, who silently urged Lupre to strike Calhoun.

Thankfully for Lupre, he did not.

At the end of that long first week, Calhoun told us to go to afternoon chow.

“I don’t care if you just drink a glass of chocolate milk, I want you back here in fifteen minutes at 1300,” he screamed, his face red and distorted, saliva spitting out from his rubbery libs. “I want to see you in full uniform at parade rest with your sea bag in front of your rack ready to march across the river.”

We quickly gobbled some food and then rushed back to the barracks. “Full uniform” meant a Navy-blue wool watch cap, a Navy-blue wool turtleneck sweater under our chambray shirt, bell bottom dungaree pants, “BoonDocker” boots, and a heavy, double-breasted Navy-blue peacoat. After about a moment or two of standing at parade rest, our arms folded behind our backs, legs apart, we discovered that the insane company commander had raised the heat up in the barracks.

The barracks was like the proverbial oven and with our layered clothes, the sweat poured off of us. The barracks had a wall clock and out of the corner of our eyes we watched time tick on slowly as we remained at parade rest. No one moved, as we were terrified that Calhoun would sneak in and catch us off guard.

It was not until 1400 that a grinning and prancing Calhoun swept into the barracks. He appeared to enjoy seeing our discomfort.

"I got some bad news for some of y’all,” Calhoun announced to the sweat-soaked and weary recruits. “We are splitting the company up. Some you pussies will not have the pleasure of serving in my company.”

He explained that those he called out would be transferred to another company under another company commander.

“When you hear your name, fall out.”

After the fourth name was called, I heard him say “Davis, Paul.”

“Thank fucking God," I said aloud without thinking.

Calhoun was on me in a flash. His twisted face, which no doubt housed a twisted mind, came within an inch of my own.

“You don’t like me, do you boy?”

“No, Sir. I don’t” I replied.

“Well, at least you’re fucking honest. Move out!”

Lorino remained in Calhoun’s company as I joined Lupre and the other recruits outside of the barracks. We met our new company commander, a stout Boatswain’s Mate 1^stClass Petty Officer with thick glasses named Schmidt. He was no sweetheart, to be sure, but he was certainly less manic than Calhoun.

The new company commander lined us up and marched us across the mythical “river’ that separated the old base from the new. “Across the river” was often mentioned that first week and we were all taken aback to discover a body of water more accurately described as a small creek than a river. And the bridge across the shallow water looked like the kind of “bridge” one would see at a miniature golf course.

Thankfully, the new barracks we moved into was recently constructed and we felt much more comfortable. Lupre’s rack was across from my rack in the barracks, and we became friends. Lupre told me that he was glad he was no longer in Calhoun’s company.

“At some point, I would have punched that cracker and ended up in the brig.”

Lupre told me that I was his first white friend. He said that in the rural Louisiana area where he was born and raised, he had seen the occasional white man, but as his neighbors and his schoolmates were all black, he had no real contact with white people. Lupre, who didn’t say much, told me he got a kick out of my stories and old jokes.

One humorous story I told Lupre, and a couple of other recruits cracked him up.

“I passed this old guy on the sidewalk the other day. “How ya doin?” I said to him in passing.”

“Sailor!” I heard the man call out behind me. I turned and asked, “Are you talking to me?” I wasn't sure if he was talking to me, as no one ever called me a sailor before.”

That got a big laugh from the other recruits.

“Look at my uniform, sailor.” The man bellowed in a commanding voice.

“Hey, don’t feel bad,” I replied. “Look at the one they gave me.”

That also got a big laugh.

“The man looked frustrated and angry. He sputtered and finally said, “I’m an admiral!”

“Yo, that’s a good job. Don’t fuck it up.”

My fellow recruits laughed heartily.

I also told my fellow recruits about the time I saw a Navy corpsman in sick bay and told him I had a back problem.

About a half hour later the corpsman ushered me into the Navy doctor's office. The doctor consulted a sheet and asked, "You have a back problem?

"Yes, Sir," I replied. "I wish I was back home in Philadelphia."

Another time when a recruit mentioned that he joined the Navy to see the world, I responded, “Well, I don’t want to sound arrogant, but I joined the Navy so the world could see me!”

That made Lupre laugh out loud.

On one cold and gray day, Schmidt stood in front of us on the “grinder,” a football field-sized cement parade ground across from our barracks where we marched, ran and performed physical training, called PT. Seeming out of the blue, Schmidt told us that the best tool our enemy the Communists have is “McHale's Navy,” a popular TV comedy that aired in the mid-1960s. He did not elaborate and moved on to another subject.

Back at the barracks, I told Lupre that “McHale's Navy” was one of the reasons I joined the Navy. Lupre never saw the show, so I told him that “McHale’s Navy” starred actor Ernest Borgnine, a real Navy veteran, as the commanding officer of a PT boat in WWII with a crew of rough and roguish sailors. McHale’s sailors were wild and undisciplined on shore, but when it came to fighting the Japanese at sea, McHale’s PT boat had the best combat record. McHale’s nemesis in the show was Captain Wallace Binghamton, portrayed by actor Joe Flynn. Binghamton was an incompetent and ambitious officer who resented McHale’s combat success. He was called "Old Lead Bottom” contemptuously by McHale and his crew.

I told Lupre about one particular episode that I loved. In that episode, Binghamton was sucking up to an admiral at lunch. Binghamton told the admiral that McHale and his crew were pirates. He said he had to watch them all the time.

"You have to be ruthless with them, " Binghamton explained.

The admiral responded that his style was less adversarial, and the men under him loved him.

"But that's me, admiral," Binghamton proclaimed. "Lovable and ruthless."

Lupre laughed.

Despite a rigorous schedule of physical training and classroom instruction, we had some humorous moments in Boot Camp. As part of the recruit uniform, we carried a folded 8x5 notebook tucked under our belts. Schmidt often pulled out our notebooks to see what notes we were taking from our classes.

One afternoon in the barracks, while we were all at attention in front of our racks, Schmidt pulled out the notebook belonging to this odd, quiet recruit named John Trevor.

The company commander was furious to discover that Trevor had drawn several crude pictures of female anatomy in his notebook.

“What the fuck is this, Trevor?” Schmidt asked. “You defaced Navy property with your stupid drawings of tits, ass and pussy!”

Trevor looked as if he were about to cry.

“You like pussy?” Schmidt asked.

“Yes, Sir,” Trevor mumbled.

“Then eat that pussy.”

Schmidt tore out a page from the notebook, crumpled it up and shoved it in Trevor’s mouth. Half of the page protruded from Trevor’s lips as he stood rigid at attention. We all started laughing.

“Anyone who thinks this is funny, get down and give me 20,” Schmidt yelled.

I hit the deck, like Lupre and most of the recruit company, and began doing the 20 pushups as we continued to laugh.

The following day our company was ushered into a gymnasium where we were addressed by a Navy Captain. The big, red-faced Irish Catholic Chaplin said he was from Philadelphia, and he asked if anyone was from Philadelphia.

I raised my hand.

“What part?”

“South Philadelphia, Sir.”

“What are you, a South Philly hoodlum forced to join the Navy because you stole a car?”

I stammered and started to respond, but the Chaplin moved on, speaking to someone else.

Back at the barracks, I was approached by Ronald Watts, a 22-year-old tall and muscular black recruit from Chicago. Earlier, Watts had been pointed out to me by another black guy from Chicago. Watts, I was told, was a notorious drug dealing gang leader and supposedly a hit man. When he was arrested for various crimes, his lawyer greased palms - the Chicago way - and the bribed judge offered to drop charges if Watts joined the military. Although Watts was a veteran of gun battles on the streets of Chicago, he feared gun battles in the jungles of Vietnam, so he joined the Navy.

“So, you a hoodlum from South Philly?” Watts said to me with a broad smile. “A judge let me join up in this here Navy to avoid prison too. Better the Navy than the joint, huh?”

I agreed.

Watts was a bully and he enjoyed tormenting the other recruits who were afraid of him, but he left me alone, thinking I was a fellow hood. But Watts made a mistake in ridiculing Lupre. Like Calhoun, Watts thought Lupre was an easy target. Watts would tear into Lupre whenever he passed by, mocking him for being a country boy and calling him “Stepin Fetchit,” after the black vaudevillian and film comedian whose stage persona was billed as “the laziest man in the world.”

While we were in the head brushing our teeth one cold morning, Watts started in on Lupre, calling him a “country boy retard.” Without a word, Lupre turned and hit Watts. Watts fell to the deck and was out cold. Several recruits, including me, laughed.

Watts was picked up and taken to sick bay, where he told the corpsman what he had told the company commander - that he slipped and fell.

Later that day, I told Lupre that I was impressed with the punch he threw at Watts.

“I boxed at the Boys’ Club in South Philly. Did you train as a fighter too?”

“No,’ Lupre said softly. “That was only the second time I hit somebody.”

“Wow. That was a good punch. Good snap. But I was taught to throw combos, a combination of punches together, not just one punch.”

“I only needs one punch.”

“So you do,” I replied.

“The first time I hit a boy was in school,” Lupre said. “This boy was always calling me a slowpoke. I didn’t pay him no mind until he shoved me into some lockers. I punched him.”

"Don’t tell me: you knocked him out?”

"Yeah, I did.”

"You should go into the ring. You’re a natural.”

“No. I don’t like fighting.”

“Tell that to Watts.”

I later had my own fight in the head. Hanson, a recruit from Oregon that I barely knew pleaded with me to switch security watches with him, He had the earlier watch and he begged me to switch with him so he could go the Gedunk, where they sold hamburgers, hotdogs and sodas to off-duty recruits, and use one of the bank of payphones there. He said he had to call his girlfriend back home as she had written him a “Dear John” letter and broke up with him.

Reluctantly, I agreed to take his watch, and he said he would take my midnight watch. I stood his watch and then hit my rack. I was asleep when Schmit kicked my rack and woke me with a start.

“Hell, Davis!” Schmit screamed, waking everyone in the barracks. “You got the watch. Why the fuck are you sleeping and not on watch?”

I stammered something about switching watches with Hanson, who I saw was in his rack a couple of rows down.

“Shit, Davis, you dummy. You can’t do switches without my approval. Now get up and stand your watch.”

I dressed quickly and relieved the recruit on watch. For the next four hours I thought about bashing in Hanson’s head with my rifle butt as he lay sleeping.

The next morning, after returning to the barracks from breakfast, Schmit told me I was on report and ordered me to follow him to the Quarterdeck, where the Division Lieutenant had his office.

I followed Schmidt down the stairwell to the Quarterdeck and Schmidt told me to stand at attention in the outer office as he knocked and then entered the lieutenant’s office. As I stood there rigidly at attention. Two chiefs, both drill instructors from other recruit companies, barged in. They stood on each side of me and asked what I was doing there, and I responded that I had failed to stand my security watch. Outraged, the two chiefs began to berate me. Some recruits would have been mortified, but having been raised by a former Navy chief, this was, to me, just another Tuesday.

Schmidt called me into the office and the lieutenant, a grim-faced young officer, began to chew me out. He did not ask me why I didn’t stand my watch. I started to explain, but Schmit tapped my leg with his boot. When the lieutenant was done chewing me out, he ordered me to perform four extra hours of duty as punishment.

Later that evening, I walked into the head and Hanson was there at one of the sinks. He looked at me and said something about hearing I was in trouble. I was furious. This 25-year-old must have thought I was a 17-year-old kid that he could take advantage of. Well, he was right, I was a kid - a South Philly street kid. I hit in the jaw with my “Sunday punch.” The straight right dropped him to the deck and he lay there against a bulkhead, moaning softly.

“Don’t ever talk to me again or even look at me,” I said in a low voice. “And be thankful that we're not on the street, where I’d bust your head wide open.”

The following week, perhaps to redeem himself in the eyes of the company after Lupre decked him, Watts took on a big, white country boy named Baines. Without provocation, Watts punched Baines square in the face. Baines absorbed the punch and grabbed Watts around the arms, which prevented the Chicago hoodlum from throwing another punch.

Schmidt witnessed the entire altercation in the barracks. He broke up the fight and ordered Watts to go to the building’s quarterdeck and report to the company’s lieutenant. Watts did not return to the barracks, and someone gathered up his personal belongings and took them away. We later heard that Watts was kicked out of the Navy.

Schmidt didn’t like me. I asked too many questions, made sarcastic comments, and talked too much, as Schmidt told me several times over the course of our training.

“You’re a real smart ass, Davis,” he said.

But I scored high on the classroom instruction weekly tests, and I could march, shoot, and do PT, so Schmidt tolerated me.

One cold February morning at 0400, Schmidt and another drill instructor entered the barracks, turned on the lights, and began to bang metal trash can lids together.

“Out of your racks,” Schmidt screamed. “The barracks are on fire. Clear the barracks now!”

I woke up and quickly pulled on my dungarees and my BoonDocker boots.

Schmidt was on me like a flash.

“Would you put on your pants and boots if the building really was on fire?”

“In the Great Lakes in February, yes Sir,” I replied.

He walked away shaking his head.

Although I incurred the wrath of our drill instructor, I was the only one not standing in the freezing cold outside of the barracks barefoot and clad only in a t-shirt and skivvies underwear. Even with my dungarees and boots without socks, I stood at attention shivering as the cold wind whipped through me. After about 20 minutes in the cold, Schmidt secured the drill and ordered us back into the barracks.

On the last day of Boot Camp, as we were preparing to go home on a week’s leave before reporting to our assigned ships, stations or service schools, Schmidt looked at me and Lupre as we were packing our seabags.

“You got plans to fuck a girl when you get home, Davis?”

“Several, Sir,” I replied.

Lupre chuckled softly.

Once the Kitty Hawk’s brig prisoners were seated together with their trays of food, the cooks began to serve the rest of us. Henry was happy because they were serving ham, so he was able to make a ham sandwich for himself.

I looked over at Lupre. With the Marine guards watching him and the other prisoners closely, Lupre’s eyes faced straight forward as he chewed his food.

Henry leaned over and told me that he heard that Lupre was going to be kicked out of the Navy with a dishonorable discharge once he got out of the brig.

I felt bad for Lupre. As I recalled from Boot Camp, he was a friendly, unassuming guy - until he was pushed.

Note: You can read other posted chapters via the links below:

Paul Davis On Crime: My Crime Fiction: 'Butterfly'