tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26766903067567284402024-03-13T12:55:34.253-04:00Past is PrologueOur family history is our past, but it is the foundation upon which all else is built.Rich Kleyleinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06851914542167271998noreply@blogger.comBlogger107125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2676690306756728440.post-30225038921726239122020-12-28T17:22:00.002-05:002021-02-07T13:37:01.920-05:00But It Wasn't<div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Yeah, 2020 will be a year that no one will want to remember. Perhaps, like me, everyone everywhere is hoping to see this stupid year in their rearview mirror.</span></div><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdOu_IdhEf_5lZMSVJW2CkyVSH1trRbfgcVJgwTLJ0aHyn1ghTzA2Xji17Lgu1smgB_TJgu2BiLJnzXdOpeajONzewrkhiU1y27Z1W0YSJSCWqfwNNfauf7abDvywDyXqiwqyLLAQEuO0/s474/2020+in+Rearview.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="316" data-original-width="474" height="317" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdOu_IdhEf_5lZMSVJW2CkyVSH1trRbfgcVJgwTLJ0aHyn1ghTzA2Xji17Lgu1smgB_TJgu2BiLJnzXdOpeajONzewrkhiU1y27Z1W0YSJSCWqfwNNfauf7abDvywDyXqiwqyLLAQEuO0/w476-h317/2020+in+Rearview.jpg" width="476" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">I'm certain many people had it much worse this year than I did. But I held my own with some pretty nasty things assaulting me.</span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">So, to commemorate this stupid year, I am taking sound advice from Miss Shields of 'A Christmas Story' fame and writing a Theme. Although it may be more of a Précis or an </span><span style="font-family: arial;"><span class="aCOpRe"><span>Allegory. But I promise I won't make it an Epic.<br /></span></span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgs3OPFSU0MEgVWvtoSF7j40GtB-5d_5H0lOcvMYwPdO1Vndvgobxz_EbHhqCX59p3XvPB_U7U-S1lz78Q_uUPdeD16Xz6Zrc9p-L3MoatQ0VYNZin8o6E5qrXFYV85BWlwhCJZeHN4ux8/s500/Miss+Shields.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="381" data-original-width="500" height="323" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgs3OPFSU0MEgVWvtoSF7j40GtB-5d_5H0lOcvMYwPdO1Vndvgobxz_EbHhqCX59p3XvPB_U7U-S1lz78Q_uUPdeD16Xz6Zrc9p-L3MoatQ0VYNZin8o6E5qrXFYV85BWlwhCJZeHN4ux8/w424-h323/Miss+Shields.jpg" width="424" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 13pt; margin: 0in 0in 8pt; overflow-wrap: break-word; word-wrap: break-word;"><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 15pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span></span></span></span></span></p><div><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 13pt; margin: 0in 0in 8pt; overflow-wrap: break-word; word-wrap: break-word;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 15pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span> <span style="font-size: large;"><b>But It Wasn't</b></span><br /></span></span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 13pt; margin: 0in 0in 8pt; overflow-wrap: break-word; word-wrap: break-word;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 15pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span>And it
came to pass in the Days of Covid that there lived a man. He was a tall man,
with very little brains and a semipermeable heart. But there dwelt within his
soul the searingly bright flame of dignity and an unexpected and uncalled for
self-respect. He deserved neither of these things and it was a surprise to
everyone that he possessed them. ... But he did.</span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-size: small;">
</span><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 13pt; margin: 0in 0in 8pt; overflow-wrap: break-word; word-wrap: break-word;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 15pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span>The man
stumbled through his life, accomplishing little, bouncing off the walls of the
cattle chute that he thought was normality. But for reasons he could not
understand, he had relatives and friends who, because of their own personal
strengths and powers, stood by him steadfastly. No one knew why. ... But they
did.</span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-size: small;">
</span><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 13pt; margin: 0in 0in 8pt; overflow-wrap: break-word; word-wrap: break-word;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 15pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span>Then
one day, the ‘Hospital’ came for the man. The ‘Hospital’ was not a malevolent or
spiteful entity but merely inexorable. Over the years, the man had bumped into
the ‘Hospital’ but had managed to slide off with skinned elbows and a headache.
The man hoped this encounter would be the same, perhaps just a hard slap and a
kick while down. ... But it wasn’t.</span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-size: small;">
</span><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 13pt; margin: 0in 0in 8pt; overflow-wrap: break-word; word-wrap: break-word;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 15pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span>No,
this time, the ‘Hospital’ enveloped the man like an octopus envelops a whelk.
This time, the ‘Hospital’ overpowered the man and tore at him from inside and
out. It took away his well-being and gave him pain in return. There was sharp
pain, dull pain, breathtaking pain and exquisite pain, some of which he had
never felt before and some of which he wished he had never felt. ... But he
had.</span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-size: small;">
</span><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 13pt; margin: 0in 0in 8pt; overflow-wrap: break-word; word-wrap: break-word;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 15pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span>The
‘Hospital’ wrenched at the man’s body, taking away his weight and strength and
wormed its way in to extinguish the flame of the man’s dignity, removing it
entirely. Finally, it targeted the man’s self-respect, which may have been the
goal all along. The ‘Hospital’ ground the last of the man’s self-respect to
powder under its heel and picked up his body to see if there was anything of
value still left. ... But there wasn’t.</span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-size: small;">
</span><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 13pt; margin: 0in 0in 8pt; overflow-wrap: break-word; word-wrap: break-word;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 15pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span>When it
was finished with him, the ‘Hospital’ wrung the man’s shriveled body out like an
old, dirty towel and threw him into the street. The man picked himself up onto
his knees and searched for his dignity and self-respect, but they were gone now
and probably wouldn’t be coming back. As he looked around, he saw that he was
still alive and that was, at the very least, a start. The man considered what
had been lost and also what remained and thought, “Well, easy come, easy
go.”</span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-size: small;">
</span><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 13pt; margin: 0in 0in 8pt; overflow-wrap: break-word; word-wrap: break-word;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 15pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span>But it
wasn’t. </span></span></span></span></p></div>Rich Kleyleinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06851914542167271998noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2676690306756728440.post-87050305624696261292018-06-30T13:54:00.000-04:002018-06-30T13:54:03.691-04:00Navy Epilogue<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiPg0UbX48hTiIfmrjoUeoXA28eiN8zkhkQGL6oj_gj5Z2nudaTEITfQjq8wq16ezvW0h8iW0xicBfvPo6MBPgB8jpLB_HRqTo2Xzdz_5cxHLF0-uZWKpdhbHFjfO9bGZ487myu3tzkGw/s1600/Kurt+Vonnegut.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="319" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiPg0UbX48hTiIfmrjoUeoXA28eiN8zkhkQGL6oj_gj5Z2nudaTEITfQjq8wq16ezvW0h8iW0xicBfvPo6MBPgB8jpLB_HRqTo2Xzdz_5cxHLF0-uZWKpdhbHFjfO9bGZ487myu3tzkGw/s200/Kurt+Vonnegut.jpg" width="159" /></a><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">When I started this series, I discussed my hesitancy to talk about the Navy because it made me nervous. Now you know why. The whole story was just long and boring and drawn out and violated one of the basic tenants of this bloggg. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I promised early on that my topics would be random and unstuck in time just like Kurt Vonnegut would have wanted it. But I needed to make this segment (sort of) sequential because even I could never have made heads or tails of it otherwise.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">So... sorry.</span><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">The whole Naval mess ended, not with a bang, but a whimper, as in the poem by T. S. Eliot. The Hand Board declared me useless and bent. The hand wasn't going to return to normal and I was out. They told me to pack up my crap and go home and they would get around to discharging me when they were good and ready. At their convenience. </span><br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGUcuDiMZ1YGRG56K2fDWRUmWYfRhVwIeqmoXU8Ih_o1H2Jnv1MR9W1FEfAE-XgKE7_j19efoD4Ah1PItDbPD35vm69jng-w19GM3XpLjx_3jfeLM4jNaEi7J8J5Kg936WEspLM11EApI/s1600/Convertible.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1067" data-original-width="1600" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGUcuDiMZ1YGRG56K2fDWRUmWYfRhVwIeqmoXU8Ih_o1H2Jnv1MR9W1FEfAE-XgKE7_j19efoD4Ah1PItDbPD35vm69jng-w19GM3XpLjx_3jfeLM4jNaEi7J8J5Kg936WEspLM11EApI/s320/Convertible.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">So I packed up my crap and on January 19, 1968, I hitchhiked home. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">The last car that picked me up was some kids in a convertible in northern Florida. They took me all the way down to Miami and dropped me near my high school in Norwood, the town next to Carol City. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">From there, I shouldered my seabag and walked the rest of the way home. I just checked, it was 5.2 miles. I didn't care. Of course I had no way of knowing when I would get back to Miami, cell phones didn't exist, I didn't have a house key, and I was tired, so naturally, no one was home. I had to break in but thankfully security systems were unheard of in those days. Locks were only in place to keep your friends out.</span><br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFyK7gOwgNgqYUcv_InAMFbNp3FPnAIebS_J7-1m1aoKOYzgEGkIc9UJmubo6QyJC60RN66sNDLGrHxm5SPp0uaYoGguvvoxxVyGmAlM-9ab8rpTAgKGj6agnIumy3qkTi3RUeCu1_RAc/s1600/Messy+Hair.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="515" data-original-width="500" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFyK7gOwgNgqYUcv_InAMFbNp3FPnAIebS_J7-1m1aoKOYzgEGkIc9UJmubo6QyJC60RN66sNDLGrHxm5SPp0uaYoGguvvoxxVyGmAlM-9ab8rpTAgKGj6agnIumy3qkTi3RUeCu1_RAc/s200/Messy+Hair.jpg" width="193" /></a><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I did learn that when you ride 400 miles in the back seat of a convertible, your hair becomes a solid mass of dirty, windswept cactus. It took several days to get it clean. I've had an unnatural fear of convertibles ever since. But I was home.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">The law requires me to say that hitchhiking may have still been relatively (relatively!) safe in that millennium, it is definitely <b>not</b> recommended today.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">After a brief fling with catatonic stupor, I spent some days at the beach awaiting my final disposition. Days became weeks, weeks became months and eventually, without trumpeting fanfare, my Honorable Discharge arrived in the mail effective May 8, 1968. You will be contacted by the Veterans Administration, goodbye, kiss my foot.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">By then, I had already met my future wife and the page had turned.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">So how did that hand work out? Well, Doctor Davis, the finger moves. Not very well, I can't make a fist exactly, it's not too flexible, but it's <b>not </b>completely stiff and pokey! The index finger is considerably shorter than it was, about the length of my pinky and the knuckle is misshapen and warped, but that's understandable since a lot of the bone was simply gone.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgb0j8C6LAKcGENPkqNopqrVs7zukh1cArI42vMF2IAYdT0ZmnZ1TJhFGHZjZuAPppbJmGmf44hJMRTFjlkMCbQwHOQWZChJnoZ5JDBiAbT08KU0iJD0W05AGNgyvPG2CY22mV31y3k3ys/s1600/Bald+Mountain.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="545" data-original-width="729" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgb0j8C6LAKcGENPkqNopqrVs7zukh1cArI42vMF2IAYdT0ZmnZ1TJhFGHZjZuAPppbJmGmf44hJMRTFjlkMCbQwHOQWZChJnoZ5JDBiAbT08KU0iJD0W05AGNgyvPG2CY22mV31y3k3ys/s320/Bald+Mountain.png" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">The scars on my palm and knuckle are impressive and the other fingers are crooked as well from the insult. And on wet or cold days, my hand sings to me, often it plays Mussorgsky's 'Night on Bald Mountain'. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iCEDfZgDPS8" target="_blank">https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iCEDfZgDPS8</a></span> </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">But I still <b>HAVE</b> the finger, it's <b>still there</b>, still attached, still sort of working. I just checked to see if I use it to type and I don't, I've switched most of my keypad/button-pushing duty to my middle finger and it has stepped up nicely.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">But I have remaining, nagging questions, some of which are hypothetical. You might recall that I can trace my lifelong computer career to walking down a hallway in the Eastern Airlines personnel department at exactly the correct split-second. I must ask what would have happened if through a split-second delay my hand had <b>not</b> exploded that day?</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4wN4ss0imwOdHpKh_J01Y29L8ZlHG9iYFPZWAYM6x_jhieVCI8E-NatHFUWHu24p4c8U_sd8sCG09s_WrjZoKDLLbuTol5tlwPn-9b5o67GpLrmOJBujz5E99vJ7kSw-evSMo0kuA4U0/s1600/Kobayashi+Maru.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1000" data-original-width="1600" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4wN4ss0imwOdHpKh_J01Y29L8ZlHG9iYFPZWAYM6x_jhieVCI8E-NatHFUWHu24p4c8U_sd8sCG09s_WrjZoKDLLbuTol5tlwPn-9b5o67GpLrmOJBujz5E99vJ7kSw-evSMo0kuA4U0/s320/Kobayashi+Maru.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">You've forgotten all about that Naval Academy college career I had tested for, but I haven't. Once I was declared damaged goods, I'm sure that whole application package <b>and</b> the ribbon that tied it up were tossed overboard somewhere. But what if I had been approved and had attended Annapolis? Would I have stayed in the Navy? If I had eventually become a Captain would it be on the Kobayashi Maru?</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Or would I have gone on to Fire Control Technician Class A School and gotten involved with computers anyway. Then when I got out, after my full four year enlistment, would I have joined Eastern Airlines after all? Then what? Gone on to Shared Medical Systems?</span><br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvkYyKIML1jnIElDsJBL1HRnxi387m6s64Qz73nCr-JztjTRLgQy67-k0B-oKxriII03h2j2_r11cuqObT6lSgs7yfXIW-MmJ0ncHtf-eteNKCy4irLFuMYJpTMlh5L9o6pDYXZ9de2dI/s1600/Saline+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1404" data-original-width="870" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvkYyKIML1jnIElDsJBL1HRnxi387m6s64Qz73nCr-JztjTRLgQy67-k0B-oKxriII03h2j2_r11cuqObT6lSgs7yfXIW-MmJ0ncHtf-eteNKCy4irLFuMYJpTMlh5L9o6pDYXZ9de2dI/s200/Saline+2.jpg" width="123" /></a><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">And while we're at it, what happened to my stuff? Where is my red rubber ball? I should think having my dog tags would be pretty cool. And why did I get rid of my <b>Sterile Distilled Saline</b> medallion? I wore that forever. Shoot, I'd <b>still</b> wear that! </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I recognize now that it was very short-sighted of me to discard practically everything from the Navy, all I kept were my boots, watchcap and Peacoat. Everything else went away, even the seabag with the blood inside. In those days, I had no sense of historical or genealogical value. If I was done with something, out it went. </span><br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgW3s1ZnISJKwVDgzO_fk3oeuEgOkArBG-q0zHpOZ-G6AS7ulJhWebZ-ZkiDaFGI6iyDMS7gfpX3G4q5TeKFJdQoOK-koDOgTYLxcKTpaElcTxZTnKwWtDxrO1b0RYW_lidn3ESp3MRHUE/s1600/Sailor+Hat.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="141" data-original-width="250" height="112" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgW3s1ZnISJKwVDgzO_fk3oeuEgOkArBG-q0zHpOZ-G6AS7ulJhWebZ-ZkiDaFGI6iyDMS7gfpX3G4q5TeKFJdQoOK-koDOgTYLxcKTpaElcTxZTnKwWtDxrO1b0RYW_lidn3ESp3MRHUE/s200/Sailor+Hat.jpg" width="200" /></a><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">But the <b>red rubber ball</b>? Wow! And couldn't I keep one sailor hat? C'mon!</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Who took my place as Projectileman on the right side of the forward 5-Inch 38-Caliber gun on the Eugene A. Greene? Were they as good at it as I was? I don't think so!</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">What happened to Doctor Davis? Did he get to take off other fingers along the way? Was his heart in the right place, or was this all just practice?</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4jim6NwOKchJnOECAAVMnUXjy33SQCs3JxER7aIpr4LARC35a32stpYJt8xw5vd0oQS2Ep5bVqIXPG_K3Cyr4NEhXW8G6w_hwjOU814r3WAK8IQ4U9HjlFCs6gb-pCHmjiJJ3k911C9I/s1600/Orr.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="225" data-original-width="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4jim6NwOKchJnOECAAVMnUXjy33SQCs3JxER7aIpr4LARC35a32stpYJt8xw5vd0oQS2Ep5bVqIXPG_K3Cyr4NEhXW8G6w_hwjOU814r3WAK8IQ4U9HjlFCs6gb-pCHmjiJJ3k911C9I/s1600/Orr.png" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">And what about Tim? Was he actually the character Orr from '<b>Catch-22</b>' who gets skilled at crash-landing his plane so he could eventually escape to Sweden? </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Was Tim just orchestrating his discharge? Or was he actually insane? Is he a senator now or perhaps the CEO of a major multi-national corporation? Both are pretty good probabilities.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">If I hadn't come home when I did, I wouldn't have met my wife on schedule. Would I have met her anyway? But if there was no marriage, that meant there were no children and no grandchildren. So, yeah, that whole busted hand thing was an unlucky chain of events for me, but if any of my descendants are reading this... </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Boy, are <u><b>you</b></u> lucky! Cheers!</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmR5O2c6PR-mzH6cO2jkeXFmZSMv3CQUQ6s46HQp7QRZwFqm1rPE7xIVoc_nzN2Smspo85Lcj-I04P35aMUePsV8tbssnR12p_quNY4CBqZhwwvESXT_qLHxidul7LOPiNvpuWQMP2ZKM/s1600/1+Rich+03.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1242" data-original-width="1600" height="310" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmR5O2c6PR-mzH6cO2jkeXFmZSMv3CQUQ6s46HQp7QRZwFqm1rPE7xIVoc_nzN2Smspo85Lcj-I04P35aMUePsV8tbssnR12p_quNY4CBqZhwwvESXT_qLHxidul7LOPiNvpuWQMP2ZKM/s400/1+Rich+03.jpg" width="400" /></a></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> </span>Rich Kleyleinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06851914542167271998noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2676690306756728440.post-1126881679686621572018-06-29T07:39:00.000-04:002018-06-29T22:06:43.945-04:00Navy Portsmouth Part IV<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbY1_6bwmeRnvXnxznn-OzOgRy6U7TUb9SBIn8gkQRSllNqSr_Nxl8Jrc5-66F9YXMmg0EB8onQj48d1MNlAh6wzLgjRR73hCXPoddLN4iR91TLButWUIkFRjzOZe1OiLP_IgqlTt80M8/s1600/Portsmouth+Naval+Hospital+1.gif" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="288" data-original-width="464" height="198" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbY1_6bwmeRnvXnxznn-OzOgRy6U7TUb9SBIn8gkQRSllNqSr_Nxl8Jrc5-66F9YXMmg0EB8onQj48d1MNlAh6wzLgjRR73hCXPoddLN4iR91TLButWUIkFRjzOZe1OiLP_IgqlTt80M8/s320/Portsmouth+Naval+Hospital+1.gif" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">The time spent at Portsmouth Naval Hospital wasn't only hot wax and red rubber balls. I only had duty one weekend out of four, so other weekends were mine. The Navy provided a transportation service from the Norfolk/Portsmouth area to cities close by and one of those cities was Washington DC.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpvElXezRhvXmj0ZjDmtbaPuiuKebbOAVfnjQ9kG9vKbW5yXVZ1k6ylqEfOnb4b1OXc9d-DgGPWVXh0MHJal_BijwZYQKrTeR4gVFZLrU2QFi5sXMfanqTRJNWUaZgxF4KYHHvX4xgWA8/s1600/Washington+DC.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="250" data-original-width="334" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpvElXezRhvXmj0ZjDmtbaPuiuKebbOAVfnjQ9kG9vKbW5yXVZ1k6ylqEfOnb4b1OXc9d-DgGPWVXh0MHJal_BijwZYQKrTeR4gVFZLrU2QFi5sXMfanqTRJNWUaZgxF4KYHHvX4xgWA8/s320/Washington+DC.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I had never been to Washington. Living all the way down at the end of Florida sort of restricted your travel options when there was no money. Thanks to the Navy, I could get to DC on a bus for a couple of dollars and stay at the YMCA at a reduced rate for a couple more dollars leaving the only expense as food. This was a pretty sweet deal.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">The bus would leave Friday afternoon and bring me back Sunday afternoon so I took advantage of that for weeks on end. I got to go everywhere, sometimes with friends, sometimes alone. To exemplify the exuberance of youth, those friends and I decided not to wait for the elevator in the Washington Monument but to walk up the stairs instead. We definitely took the elevator down, up was bad enough.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhltTTqJYXdiGDigf0sg22vcel68H1iBMS5VmxSDGhAoNrVUn0Zn5fvWpOZ9qXJJEPWnQ7NYx5nHjAzo7Pc4YBIsyc9SKW9kstdDVbJeSQUmA-yYmOYd2RsY_64izeM2f-tF5BFPManwXY/s1600/YMCA.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="924" data-original-width="756" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhltTTqJYXdiGDigf0sg22vcel68H1iBMS5VmxSDGhAoNrVUn0Zn5fvWpOZ9qXJJEPWnQ7NYx5nHjAzo7Pc4YBIsyc9SKW9kstdDVbJeSQUmA-yYmOYd2RsY_64izeM2f-tF5BFPManwXY/s320/YMCA.jpg" width="261" /></a><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">The YMCA was located at 17th and K Streets quite close to the White House. I didn't know it at the time, but it was only a few blocks north of the Daughters of the American Revolution (DAR) Building where I would be spending some time later in life.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I have one clear memory of DC on a Sunday morning when it had snowed. The snowfall had frightened everyone else in Washington to stay indoors. But this was only maybe the third time I'd seen snow and everything was deathly quiet and empty so I walked all the way down the mall and up the steps of the Capitol. You could still do that in those days. It was quite a scene looking at the snow on the mall and Pennsylvania Avenue from up there, it stays with me till this day.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCWDyCPwCWjGOIy3BXmCZHOrnNoIkz9C8vDx7TK9H-v0cbGWwgIxwnkQpyUx41ANIFxV7ugfsPTCRUH4nkNxjsfnFsbPZbTUFN2BntE3WbYYlrhKcsXUEt7vqcse2KdHjpKRUdAZMkIjw/s1600/Capitol+Steps.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="300" data-original-width="450" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCWDyCPwCWjGOIy3BXmCZHOrnNoIkz9C8vDx7TK9H-v0cbGWwgIxwnkQpyUx41ANIFxV7ugfsPTCRUH4nkNxjsfnFsbPZbTUFN2BntE3WbYYlrhKcsXUEt7vqcse2KdHjpKRUdAZMkIjw/s400/Capitol+Steps.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I really enjoyed those trips to Washington, actually I still like going there. But there were other trips around the surrounding area with one of my friends. </span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiz45JJuvG8qJFf6VfShFXSijt_hMFhFyAXaHBaVVRJa-kLN1KevAoA560s0pz8l16zz-N-BypkcTxdK-5sP9yPJwWMykormwntMZr3MJR0Z1EfZP3G4PLr82SE_8bUJsnbIukUFw7ECE/s1600/Tim.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="249" data-original-width="474" height="168" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiz45JJuvG8qJFf6VfShFXSijt_hMFhFyAXaHBaVVRJa-kLN1KevAoA560s0pz8l16zz-N-BypkcTxdK-5sP9yPJwWMykormwntMZr3MJR0Z1EfZP3G4PLr82SE_8bUJsnbIukUFw7ECE/s320/Tim.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">For the purposes of this blog-ette, we shall call this friend '<b>Tim</b>'. Not just because I probably never knew his first name, but for the sake of confidentiality.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Tim was insane.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">He was a messenger for another division of the hospital, but we would run into one another dropping off stool samples or whatever. Yes, it was a crap job. Tim was one of those overly handsome, gregarious, magnetic types that could talk people into doing practically anything. He liked me because his baloney didn't work on me.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Tim was in the outpatient psychiatric unit because of... reasons. He kept telling me it was all a ruse to get himself out of the Navy although that was a pretty tough sell. But the boy could talk. Oh, my goodness. He talked one of the doctors we met into loaning him his car whenever the doc was on weekend duty. So some weekends we drove around Virginia and North Carolina hanging around in local colleges and sleeping in the car.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">But it was cold one night and Tim said, "Just follow my lead". Yes, a line right out of a movie where terrible things are about to happen. When we drove into the next small town we went directly to the jail. We walked in like we owned the place and Tim spoke to the Sheriff saying something like, "Hi, we're poor sailor-boys, can we sleep in your jail tonight?"</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQUeg_2kGHQEeBy-zYVAeSfDXRGwSSwBhVOJpmhjz6-M0VhWzGh75nCp8IrNYXXtjf8eza1CyQumeNtoiSLat2y5fD5VGpcYkFPw2hlTtZgrHcNgOw-CUejveV1DF0JP1ldgsncp9uWzA/s1600/Jail.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="1600" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQUeg_2kGHQEeBy-zYVAeSfDXRGwSSwBhVOJpmhjz6-M0VhWzGh75nCp8IrNYXXtjf8eza1CyQumeNtoiSLat2y5fD5VGpcYkFPw2hlTtZgrHcNgOw-CUejveV1DF0JP1ldgsncp9uWzA/s320/Jail.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Apparently, this was not an unusual request in some quarters, because the Sheriff said, "Sure, but I will have to lock you in." This was not a problem, so we had a free, warm place to sleep and he even fed us breakfast in the morning. Every now and then, you bump into a culture you never even knew existed.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7auwfmStCvvuw5ewpAEzeoKIzgg1NKwMeZTStuyPab8x_RUmpGO3sWMBtOCil0dHB1D9Cbdp08wR6asNwywWgZOWNxDLEwYT8JuFzzCF4scJl0Ajw3G7I4LjHVRKd54ol688fZtu8DqA/s1600/Psych.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7auwfmStCvvuw5ewpAEzeoKIzgg1NKwMeZTStuyPab8x_RUmpGO3sWMBtOCil0dHB1D9Cbdp08wR6asNwywWgZOWNxDLEwYT8JuFzzCF4scJl0Ajw3G7I4LjHVRKd54ol688fZtu8DqA/s320/Psych.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">One day Tim didn't show up at work and after making a few discreet inquiries, I found him as an inpatient in a locked psychiatric ward. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Even though he wasn't allowed visitors, I used what I had learned about talking from Tim and got in anyway. Naturally, he insisted it was all part of his plan to get discharged. But, it turns out that Tim was insane.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">And then immediately after this, Doctor Davis told me the Hand Board was about to make their decision regarding my fate.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> </span>Rich Kleyleinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06851914542167271998noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2676690306756728440.post-43938639007842494312018-06-28T09:55:00.000-04:002018-06-28T11:17:52.763-04:00Navy Portsmouth Part III<br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I like to think that the motives driving people are mostly good and positive. But when the doc suggested it may be time for my index finger to go the way of all flesh, I must confess that the thought crossed my mind that perhaps we were being a bit premature. On the other hand, no one wants a stiff, pokey finger. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">On the third hand, it was a <b>lot</b> premature.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Hence, it was a bit of a cringe for me when he described a process where he would carve and sculpt my hand in such a way that (quoting here), "people would hardly notice there was a missing finger". Yes, that's right, he told me that no one would notice.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Well, <span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><b>I</b></span></span> would notice! </span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyjuGinGOshJn67irRJAR4zKFKP_C3wJuGA46TGaDX5thaQ8Y7hUm0F1w4xdira5yHNrNPfnv9mIFcYo1YLA3Af-IvlA1eDWPfy233xnFw_sErys7_V4EyWhVuOY5gNRxDZa3vpWlrhIw/s1600/Missing+Finger.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyjuGinGOshJn67irRJAR4zKFKP_C3wJuGA46TGaDX5thaQ8Y7hUm0F1w4xdira5yHNrNPfnv9mIFcYo1YLA3Af-IvlA1eDWPfy233xnFw_sErys7_V4EyWhVuOY5gNRxDZa3vpWlrhIw/s320/Missing+Finger.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I don't even like cutting my fingernails and for a reason I can't put my 'finger' on, it makes me uncomfortable to have parts of me separated from other parts.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">My family has certainly had their struggles with fingers. Dave, my much handsomer brother decided it would be a good idea to catch a softball between his fingers splitting them apart. My father lost the tip of his pinky in some sort of automotive mechanic accident. And my <b>mother</b>! My mother was throwing away an old fire extinguisher and it caught her middle finger in the handle and the finger went with it. Right off! </span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJRe_OEJr43xtbW3jVV2i0VjFXzt8WTPWwNp9Z3Dp5Qjm0w3Jlbcv5l_IckzFfPTLeRcBvcpAoTFupxLhTE1hqS0q19IDF5QsPxEImPTkTYZ1eYYJhMIJLWApGVopRTaltFlEi1sRdREE/s1600/Stiff+Finger.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJRe_OEJr43xtbW3jVV2i0VjFXzt8WTPWwNp9Z3Dp5Qjm0w3Jlbcv5l_IckzFfPTLeRcBvcpAoTFupxLhTE1hqS0q19IDF5QsPxEImPTkTYZ1eYYJhMIJLWApGVopRTaltFlEi1sRdREE/s320/Stiff+Finger.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">They reattached it, but my family didn't have a stable of top surgeons to work through all the issues, so her finger was... in an amazing case of foreshadowing... <b>stiff and pokey!</b> Oh, my, that's just how the doc said <b>my</b> finger would be! </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">On a side note, it didn't strike me when I was younger, but now I can see that if my mother shook her fist at someone, she was automatically giving them the finger.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzSYWoE1B95_b4gyJc6iTpb23w5qOXQ1uS9ljo3fKdayKDIYkhirJtxtJwX2KBWE0rfgEV5A9gS4ARGt-Lryd_-QNrLJZOWnjrYxPgxVUgvcjpfG9fa1UbJGDRWWtMHerDj7eIyoA67Dk/s1600/Red+Ball.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="800" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzSYWoE1B95_b4gyJc6iTpb23w5qOXQ1uS9ljo3fKdayKDIYkhirJtxtJwX2KBWE0rfgEV5A9gS4ARGt-Lryd_-QNrLJZOWnjrYxPgxVUgvcjpfG9fa1UbJGDRWWtMHerDj7eIyoA67Dk/s200/Red+Ball.jpg" width="200" /></a><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">So, I took it upon myself (see earlier reference to self-reliance) to prove Doctor Davis wrong. I made my way to downtown Portsmouth, which as I remember was about two blocks long, and bought a red rubber ball maybe the size of a tennis ball. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I squeezed that ball to death. </span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I threw it in the air and caught it. </span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I bounced it. </span></span></span>I carried it everywhere. But my favorite use was throwing it against a wall, catching it and squeezing it with my busted right hand. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">The bouncing noise drove people crazy and they responded by throwing things at <b>me</b> until I moved to a different location. I finally found the perfect spot: The maternity floor! </span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEij3Dxptf4qXNRZ98Ksi-wyLH3rgaRVOv3a1-ay8SpmRHyXbBlvaDzEHRYcZ1XfojKoXUriC_WvUQQo24vMVacNVxXkDq_C8OslRpkzpu76VHtIxD7qcsNEsVeP1WwwAbghiqS69jJ8KLk/s1600/Elevator+Doors.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1058" data-original-width="1406" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEij3Dxptf4qXNRZ98Ksi-wyLH3rgaRVOv3a1-ay8SpmRHyXbBlvaDzEHRYcZ1XfojKoXUriC_WvUQQo24vMVacNVxXkDq_C8OslRpkzpu76VHtIxD7qcsNEsVeP1WwwAbghiqS69jJ8KLk/s320/Elevator+Doors.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">The maternity ward was located on one of the top floors of the main building. It was almost completely empty, rarely used and sealed off effectively from the little lobby where the elevators were. I would sit there in that little elevator lobby and throw the ball against the wall and catch it and squeeze it. For hours. For days. Until my hand was numb.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">If anyone ever came up the elevators, I could see that they were coming and when the doors opened, it was just a sailor sitting there. Clearly, I was on a mission. A little devious, but a mission.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguZwox2_Mk9aJdFLVpBjE2qJwpGf3Xefq5vZh1vcGytIE4rFILkH9C_RNwu2Ned8asfiUXZ7G7SVAiMHikmJLQiaV976wL-Lq-c4pTQ2HsEg_v41rAIBBUtQbRkMTDLahZYyi9FBR9G38/s1600/Hand+Torture.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="308" data-original-width="340" height="289" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguZwox2_Mk9aJdFLVpBjE2qJwpGf3Xefq5vZh1vcGytIE4rFILkH9C_RNwu2Ned8asfiUXZ7G7SVAiMHikmJLQiaV976wL-Lq-c4pTQ2HsEg_v41rAIBBUtQbRkMTDLahZYyi9FBR9G38/s320/Hand+Torture.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Then I was fitted with a hellish device intended to cause great pain and suffering. There are no images available of this mechanism because it was probably banned by the United Nations Human Rights Council. It consisted of a strong spring-loaded contraption that fit over my hand and pushed my broken, unyielding finger down. Hard!</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Wooo, that puppy hurt! I could take it for a while and off it came! Over time I could stand wearing it longer and longer. I took it as long as I could take it. And </span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I continued using it for a year, even quite a while after I was discharged.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Meanwhile, every time I had a doctor visit with Doctor Davis he would ask, "Well, are you ready for me to take that finger off?" Geez.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> </span>Rich Kleyleinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06851914542167271998noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2676690306756728440.post-70999139223318822022018-06-27T12:25:00.000-04:002018-06-27T14:00:45.025-04:00Navy Portsmouth Part II<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnwIy8-DL5iEjLr3XoJFsKxxqKN6IGx4hYH09sveI1fan2JQ2xT8BIJB9GdHEBKqD9ewM7bkmD11o5MZa9j0fHzb_eS9hxbAZuzhvbPPnH6E5X7P6Td_cm7ivHJfIE5NVd7wfK2t8sKZs/s1600/Popeye+2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="957" data-original-width="721" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnwIy8-DL5iEjLr3XoJFsKxxqKN6IGx4hYH09sveI1fan2JQ2xT8BIJB9GdHEBKqD9ewM7bkmD11o5MZa9j0fHzb_eS9hxbAZuzhvbPPnH6E5X7P6Td_cm7ivHJfIE5NVd7wfK2t8sKZs/s320/Popeye+2.JPG" width="241" /></a><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">It was a little odd how I was perceived by the Medical Corpsmen I worked closest with. They viewed me a bit deferentially because I was an actual sailor who had been on an actual ship and had done actual sailor-stuff. Most of these guys had yet to <b>see</b> their first ship, so they were a little leery of what they did not understand. Naturally, I did nothing to disabuse them of this<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> obsequious behavior.</span> </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Meanwhile, in the back of my mind, I certainly wasn't enamored with the concept of a stiff, pokey finger, so I was looking forward to therapy as odd as that sounds.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">But
first the pin had to come out, a schedule of those various therapies had to
be set and some new, peripheral problems had to be addressed.
'Peripheral' in this instance meant the fallout from having my hand
hanging from that stainless steel finger trap. That rather significant
pressure had created bad scabs in interesting patterns over my finger.
They had all resolved except one really huge, thick one about the size
of a dime that covered the pad of the last joint of my index finger. </span><br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHas4ALQCUK8rbeGQZlqXeq_2q5rvwz8a1XcuON-dyPyCiVPiFB_OFeZzgdxyGNTABKOvE0UH7d36l3NiJrtRhQZf_c3XKpPZhh0PmaoxhV7kaBQoXKKXr99cpxlGMomRpSZUBQT8YEQg/s1600/Kitten.png" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="436" data-original-width="531" height="262" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHas4ALQCUK8rbeGQZlqXeq_2q5rvwz8a1XcuON-dyPyCiVPiFB_OFeZzgdxyGNTABKOvE0UH7d36l3NiJrtRhQZf_c3XKpPZhh0PmaoxhV7kaBQoXKKXr99cpxlGMomRpSZUBQT8YEQg/s320/Kitten.png" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I
was going to post an example photo of that scab, but they were all so disgusting
that it was too scary even for me. Instead, I'll just show you a picture
of a kitten to take your mind off what's about to happen. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">So,
the doc says, "Here, let me take a look at it." And in just that
fraction of a second, he reached in and pulled that humongous, thick,
discolored monstrosity off. !!! Looking back, I know what he was doing and I
know it was the right thing to do, but I felt so betrayed. And it hurt
like... like... uh... ... heck? </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Aren't you glad I showed you that kitten? The
scab that formed on that secondary wound was much lighter and came off
on it's own volition. However, the first scab had taken my fingerprint
with it, now there was just smooth skin. And since a few (!) years have
passed, a little of the fingerprint has come back around the edges, but
the middle is just a void. </span><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi57QQOcM4wVk0sJ9j5nqYC7qNEaiXp3mV46q5VfxqXNmjnVsiCix9Pp9lc1A8jwfQ7xCXd5cpIwMKhoXliCoNQvWq9DzGZH2cVK-_2M0sNp7GRu50aHNmZXojnMKtmmC8M7al2KrXaaVE/s1600/Vice+Grip.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="208" data-original-width="509" height="130" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi57QQOcM4wVk0sJ9j5nqYC7qNEaiXp3mV46q5VfxqXNmjnVsiCix9Pp9lc1A8jwfQ7xCXd5cpIwMKhoXliCoNQvWq9DzGZH2cVK-_2M0sNp7GRu50aHNmZXojnMKtmmC8M7al2KrXaaVE/s320/Vice+Grip.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">And
then it was time to remove the pin from my second metacarpal. The doc
did a small incision to expose the head of the pin and at least this
time he told me to 'hold on'. He grabbed the head of the pin with pliers
and jerked it out, thankfully in one motion. And you know those vinyl
cushions that go on the examination room tables? The ones that are
covered by paper to keep your sweat from offending the next person?
Well, I tore the paper for sure and I don't know if the vinyl was torn
before, but it was certainly torn when I was done.</span><br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirZiGbdq0z3gTkHUMXnweYco4BuPIMdm2fAOsmK2qixjKDGFB0kwuv7OpWNy265fT-8f_ITpzoDRJhPgab1nkIb2RKsv4B5HDptR_WHpN7_Gw1qIjVq5Evo3SVdFurYR1CzbBBeORDH_s/s1600/Brute.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="350" data-original-width="475" height="235" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirZiGbdq0z3gTkHUMXnweYco4BuPIMdm2fAOsmK2qixjKDGFB0kwuv7OpWNy265fT-8f_ITpzoDRJhPgab1nkIb2RKsv4B5HDptR_WHpN7_Gw1qIjVq5Evo3SVdFurYR1CzbBBeORDH_s/s320/Brute.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">There
were three kinds of therapies on my schedule. One of them was to
improve my range of motion. So this big, brutal therapist would grab my
hand and try to force the fingers to move in directions they didn't
want to go. Everything was stiff because there was just a mass of scar
tissue but I could tell most of the fingers were going to move. Not so
with the index finger and it was the source of significant, non-trivial
pain.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Another
therapy was deep massage. This was intended to break up and/or loosen
up the scar tissue to allow more movement inside the hand. They showed
me how to do it, but sessions with the massage therapist seemed a tad
rougher than anything I did. Go figure.</span><br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9zejB8wtGp-LiRvFme2N1ZwBefPIkE-VqT9K3x8VOho1IKPvagiSXp-zB2p9w2DMaCrYG2Vkc5D_BnNvLR8_Ms5JYuewGgsYJADUXphJS3Vj7IqGV3XZGS-T6Kw_piDXmLDUwBIGy5Bg/s1600/Paraffin.jpeg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="300" data-original-width="303" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9zejB8wtGp-LiRvFme2N1ZwBefPIkE-VqT9K3x8VOho1IKPvagiSXp-zB2p9w2DMaCrYG2Vkc5D_BnNvLR8_Ms5JYuewGgsYJADUXphJS3Vj7IqGV3XZGS-T6Kw_piDXmLDUwBIGy5Bg/s1600/Paraffin.jpeg" /></a><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">The
third was paraffin wax therapy. This action consisted of dipping my
hand repeatedly into melted paraffin thereby building up layers of hot
wax. This heat would serve to loosen up the scar tissue. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Apparently,
this is still a viable therapy in wide use. There are lots of these
little bathtubs for sale around the Internet but at the time I had never
heard of such a thing.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I even found a video that is a close approximation of what I did in my sessions. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=h9SSBD_ffjI" target="_blank">https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=h9SSBD_ffjI</a> </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Then,
Doctor Davis introduced an alternate plan that he thought might serve
me well. He suggested that since my index finger wasn't going to move
again, it was time to remove it.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> </span>Rich Kleyleinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06851914542167271998noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2676690306756728440.post-91665696725802978772018-06-26T10:32:00.000-04:002018-06-26T10:32:57.347-04:00Navy Portsmouth Part I<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> </span><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnryDN42jXNuhCDpXy74Tntl-eaOWvSzCkMkm8ipI5xX21y0y3YmdJQqVg-bbv6pHHsF6Tn4r42Xemg0aU92TpOxuNT9V9bVAAO2MXe3Ud-dpDjoesGm-nLT6g_ANCS9Eu5BiylEDbAgM/s1600/Donald.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="225" data-original-width="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnryDN42jXNuhCDpXy74Tntl-eaOWvSzCkMkm8ipI5xX21y0y3YmdJQqVg-bbv6pHHsF6Tn4r42Xemg0aU92TpOxuNT9V9bVAAO2MXe3Ud-dpDjoesGm-nLT6g_ANCS9Eu5BiylEDbAgM/s1600/Donald.jpg" /></a><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">One of the things that shape you in the armed forces is your new-found self-reliance. You must take care of yourself, because no one else will. Even in the very short checkered tenure I've been writing about, there have been disruptive events that have changed the entire population of people I had contact with. Here today, gone tomorrow.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">There are articles written about how your familial or educational or friendship-based 'support groups' are important to help you through troubling or changing times. But like most Sailors and Marines who entered US Naval Hospital Portsmouth Virginia, I did so completely unassisted. No one carried my bag or kissed my foot or told me everything would be all right. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">People in the military may have to go through something like this periodically for their whole career. And I believe for me this was a good thing, because it strengthens you and convinces you that you will be able to get through things. Too much 'support' atrophies your resilience and can make you weak.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">But enough philosophy, let's discuss the hospital I was entering. Portsmouth Naval Hospital was big and even then had a lot of history since it is the Navy's oldest hospital in continuous operation. It's been right there since 1830 and while it was already large, it has gotten <b>much</b> larger since I was there. They now call it a 'Medical Center'.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8KD8q9BRWMr6ozrz82RJG9mNsL0oEa0763HVddGXnfojp_a4nZjvajaiXkZ640Mb7H7wGzZ0TMXtbMASGtx-mVTWIIw9IXVVNiJBFjpTmTRM1UHqnlLFitsgSW9bVFTdQcwBQzNcWiFI/s1600/Portsmouth+Naval+Hospital+3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1034" data-original-width="1448" height="285" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8KD8q9BRWMr6ozrz82RJG9mNsL0oEa0763HVddGXnfojp_a4nZjvajaiXkZ640Mb7H7wGzZ0TMXtbMASGtx-mVTWIIw9IXVVNiJBFjpTmTRM1UHqnlLFitsgSW9bVFTdQcwBQzNcWiFI/s400/Portsmouth+Naval+Hospital+3.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">This image above is the way the main building looked when I was there, but there were lots of surrounding, ancillary buildings with special purposes. </span><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvASRtVjB7UO7PDe0_jDwJb09HLMcAzLD2X99aY5olFcAYkT6j8b4bc5C1Q985O1KeCL9wvABIr9Y80rnydYXythpvDlGKGeAKCr-GNiZnaE9cBg8CPT_7L3nUv9wq4MWMizgJ5VNSEiQ/s1600/Portsmouth+Naval+Hospital+0.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="781" data-original-width="1600" height="195" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvASRtVjB7UO7PDe0_jDwJb09HLMcAzLD2X99aY5olFcAYkT6j8b4bc5C1Q985O1KeCL9wvABIr9Y80rnydYXythpvDlGKGeAKCr-GNiZnaE9cBg8CPT_7L3nUv9wq4MWMizgJ5VNSEiQ/s400/Portsmouth+Naval+Hospital+0.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">This aerial above shows that this structure is now being rehabilitated, since many other modern buildings have been added to the campus.</span><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPYWoaAOv9Tms3LK71TTqmKbRHFTYxRzJ2B0WR7tnkKehT6B4TWysS_NJOol_gH0KUY9yGv7rMHjOn_bi1wdv3V9JZqkurSr4puVIbSEVE4sP-YPMx8Mcf56STH9hxGj2r6sMk0lqET4E/s1600/Baby.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="675" data-original-width="900" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPYWoaAOv9Tms3LK71TTqmKbRHFTYxRzJ2B0WR7tnkKehT6B4TWysS_NJOol_gH0KUY9yGv7rMHjOn_bi1wdv3V9JZqkurSr4puVIbSEVE4sP-YPMx8Mcf56STH9hxGj2r6sMk0lqET4E/s200/Baby.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">When I arrived, I was assigned a bunk in a temporary duty dormitory about the size of a basketball court. And then I was given the next available job suitable to the nature of my injury. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">That job turned out to be the messenger/gofer for the Pediatrics Division. Yes, you read that right, since this was a full service hospital, those services extended to the families of Naval personnel. Some of those family members were little children, so there was a Peds Unit. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiweAI5mkpOScXasqipRmDS-qX35Hm2f4zsUMfbTQKb-8p9F8WsRGsiyPaITm7QltAw0HVW8skDR9f5GjoBfRFxZ5ueeJPKk3AVU2GhvuhK4qd_3R17jeULSf1UUrlIRRtrv_RZnYjOxZA/s1600/Nurse.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="300" data-original-width="232" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiweAI5mkpOScXasqipRmDS-qX35Hm2f4zsUMfbTQKb-8p9F8WsRGsiyPaITm7QltAw0HVW8skDR9f5GjoBfRFxZ5ueeJPKk3AVU2GhvuhK4qd_3R17jeULSf1UUrlIRRtrv_RZnYjOxZA/s1600/Nurse.png" /></a><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">My first reaction was disdain. I'm a big, tough sailor, who wants to be around the baby department? But when I got there, I discovered this duty was what all the young nurses wanted. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Furthermore, it was also the gathering place for the young nurses from all the other divisions who wanted to hang around the babies. And I had been <b>ordered</b> to work there. How about that! Of course they were all officers, but nobody's perfect.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">The job itself consisted mostly of running fluids to the various labs and carrying paperwork or films from place to place. That way, I got to learn the whole campus and there was absolutely no one watching over me. I just had to let them know when I was going off to one of my own doctor visits or therapies.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Soon after I arrived, I met with my new primary doctor, Doctor Davis. He was a hand specialist and one of the members of the Hand Board who made collective decisions about hand dispositions and therapies. He gave me an examination and took new X-Rays and his initial inclination was that the prognosis for any further movement of my index finger was low. In other words, it would be a stiff, pokey finger. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Stiff and pokey. Well, that's just <b>great</b>! What was that I said about self-reliance?</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> </span>Rich Kleyleinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06851914542167271998noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2676690306756728440.post-65987466292779977982018-06-25T10:23:00.001-04:002018-06-25T10:23:48.194-04:00Navy Guantanamo Bay Part VI<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhR2YquYccNwAYCggB05_BwPDYLenVmq7O_nWuixDjs7itiW2mdO9uw42IX1CCIpe-4_YZjmozi6g28EEclb_C32ZOvJVyh6w_bdED_2dtwDdR3W-6ef3Rit6nk22CvLvUBTLxzE1bMaWY/s1600/Guantanamo+Bay+Naval+Hospital+4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="360" data-original-width="504" height="228" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhR2YquYccNwAYCggB05_BwPDYLenVmq7O_nWuixDjs7itiW2mdO9uw42IX1CCIpe-4_YZjmozi6g28EEclb_C32ZOvJVyh6w_bdED_2dtwDdR3W-6ef3Rit6nk22CvLvUBTLxzE1bMaWY/s320/Guantanamo+Bay+Naval+Hospital+4.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">As my days staying at the Guantanamo Bay Naval Hospital and Holiday Resort were coming to an end, I was informed that the next part of my recovery was scheduled to take place at US Naval Hospital Portsmouth Virginia, which happened to be a top-rated hospital. </span><br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1abHFKtlhMpSk4z1-BW3iDJmjFAKFuAyW10g-OTbAkZFxMnpEKnDzSaFjGNd7hPfk9qbBq2Awr9hrv3oXfdorGSw_FYiSU1KprUbyjteVbpsS1M2Et7ZkLPaV8PHs6YqgnbP7aTKSChg/s1600/Eugene+A+Greene+DD711+11a.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="458" data-original-width="838" height="173" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1abHFKtlhMpSk4z1-BW3iDJmjFAKFuAyW10g-OTbAkZFxMnpEKnDzSaFjGNd7hPfk9qbBq2Awr9hrv3oXfdorGSw_FYiSU1KprUbyjteVbpsS1M2Et7ZkLPaV8PHs6YqgnbP7aTKSChg/s320/Eugene+A+Greene+DD711+11a.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I would be transferred there at the convenience of the US Navy. And while I had been lolling around in the hospital on Guantanamo Bay, the Eugene A. Greene had completed it's shakedown and weapons testing and was going to be heading back to Norfolk, Virginia which was it's home port. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">So, instead of flying me to Portsmouth which would have taken a couple of hours, they decided to ship me back on my own ship and that would take over a week. That's called '<b>convenience</b>'.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">The open wound had closed up and healed, all the </span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">surface </span>stitches had been removed and the infection was gone. My hand was still in a soft-cover molding mostly to protect my index finger which wasn't moving at all. The other fingers were very stiff from the insult they had endured, so I had no grip strength in my right hand. The good news was that unless I banged my hand into a door the pain level was fine.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">My duty level was low on the trip back. For example, I stood lookout watches, but I didn't stand any watches at the helm. They didn't want me flipping the ship over. I couldn't use a broom (aww!), the bow had been repainted where it had scraped along the pier and there was no more old paint to remove. So, it was a cruise.</span><br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgh5NLkE5wt6_GDoyM14uqAu_hA631JPhYq4wlTMLxijsuSMmM9sPAfNhkffkwe_fvOAYYxWeLkCsABTBZd5lnB2cFjrJFANvT4zGCykY9fD07jr5qFuTIjS269ejYS4_WksNE1hSgz6_0/s1600/Seabag.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="700" data-original-width="350" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgh5NLkE5wt6_GDoyM14uqAu_hA631JPhYq4wlTMLxijsuSMmM9sPAfNhkffkwe_fvOAYYxWeLkCsABTBZd5lnB2cFjrJFANvT4zGCykY9fD07jr5qFuTIjS269ejYS4_WksNE1hSgz6_0/s320/Seabag.jpg" width="160" /></a><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">All the time I was an inpatient I had worn hospital pajamas. </span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I had been wearing jeans and a work shirt when my hand exploded</span> and the hospital personnel had returned the clothes to the ship. Someone (I never found out who) had taken these filthy, bloody clothes, wadded them up, unwashed, and jammed them into my seabag. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">When I took them out after weeks had passed in Caribbean heat, the coagulated protein had turned the mass into a concrete block. I don't think washing them even entered my mind, but if I had kept them they would have made an interesting sculpture.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Fortunately, they had put my boots on top so they came through relatively unscathed. I continued to wear them for years.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">My orders to report to Portsmouth Hospital were 'TDY' - Temporary Duty. I would be an outpatient at the hospital but would also be assigned some sort of job. So, when I left the Greene, I had to take all my belongings because no one knew if I would be back. As it turned out only three weeks later the Greene departed on a six month deployment to Africa, the Middle East and Pakistan. Without me.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I would never see the Eugene A. Greene again.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUfQJ7BZ6erTGTZw0LQ7d42BaJFlx5kWAnO4fSt0sYv-8AsjvEp_8G96oAxaF7D5mdIWsSHLyH0qJmZYH21GKmBohX8rfaVEXh1LqVHcR4GAS0jhi2deA8IExoE_a3dvUmpzzDK5mPEjo/s1600/Eugene+A+Greene+DD711+40+Spanish+Name.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="122" data-original-width="500" height="77" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUfQJ7BZ6erTGTZw0LQ7d42BaJFlx5kWAnO4fSt0sYv-8AsjvEp_8G96oAxaF7D5mdIWsSHLyH0qJmZYH21GKmBohX8rfaVEXh1LqVHcR4GAS0jhi2deA8IExoE_a3dvUmpzzDK5mPEjo/s320/Eugene+A+Greene+DD711+40+Spanish+Name.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Just a few years later, on August 31, 1972 the Eugene A. Greene DD-711 was transferred to Spain and became the <b>Churruca D-61</b>. In English, Churruca translates to 'Churruca'. Seriously, it was named for a previous Spanish ship. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Here's a photo of the ship after it had gone into Spanish service. Look, there's my gun still in place, still working like a champ.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZPLyGB70tnZYHIzcMa2FeeJAFG4iag8wSrqx12-bRZQy-nDUL0ZgWBJ-8qlVLt-Blf7d63J2jIoAy5ubGp5VmNh-OskgEVBFOSmn4ZJy1QUIGphvXJkhqxm8ocGC1P21MU8rJmVk6K98/s1600/Eugene+A+Greene+DD711+39+Spanish+Service.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="978" height="313" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZPLyGB70tnZYHIzcMa2FeeJAFG4iag8wSrqx12-bRZQy-nDUL0ZgWBJ-8qlVLt-Blf7d63J2jIoAy5ubGp5VmNh-OskgEVBFOSmn4ZJy1QUIGphvXJkhqxm8ocGC1P21MU8rJmVk6K98/s400/Eugene+A+Greene+DD711+39+Spanish+Service.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">After twenty more years of service to Spain the Greene was sunk as target practice on December 12, 1991. Believe it or not, the sinking is actually available on YouTube.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Here's Part 1.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0Om2wlRAn3A" target="_blank">https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0Om2wlRAn3A</a></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">And Part 2.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=A_w3eFoXmx0" target="_blank">https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=A_w3eFoXmx0</a></span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Boy, things certainly go away quickly around here. And as I was about to discover, sometimes, that included me.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> </span>Rich Kleyleinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06851914542167271998noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2676690306756728440.post-20693813687339874982018-06-24T11:17:00.000-04:002018-06-24T11:17:14.267-04:00Navy Guantanamo Bay Part V<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAxcfiE8TOms8PqGvdqzCJj1dPddKx5ENQSwwDc9V2SQYDx8Appr1ijVb0-tbmMKZyLt64y7zZI5yq3t8dS9uiW82vhmMVJIAzWX8Kr6Jqt7Z0NA_wSM-OfDJYP2MPAztiTiwnDBDbxoY/s1600/Guantanamo+Bay+Naval+Hospital+3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="411" data-original-width="640" height="205" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAxcfiE8TOms8PqGvdqzCJj1dPddKx5ENQSwwDc9V2SQYDx8Appr1ijVb0-tbmMKZyLt64y7zZI5yq3t8dS9uiW82vhmMVJIAzWX8Kr6Jqt7Z0NA_wSM-OfDJYP2MPAztiTiwnDBDbxoY/s320/Guantanamo+Bay+Naval+Hospital+3.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">The surgical ward at Guantanamo Bay Naval Hospital was populated by quite an eclectic
bunch. The Marine next to me had a hole in his back large enough to put a fist into from some incident
that we never talked about. A Machinist Mate across the aisle had been
hit with super-heated steam when a valve failed. It had hit him in the
arm and his skin had sloughed off like a sleeve. So, you know, the usual.</span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> </span><br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwZ0E-ntlvgnN9CdDmSQlhUP1rjBi8lGCO9h2gCSatKn4f8Kw5hh5WOK-XBGoDX6gNbB9TOwDtCi-RtNyq3bBkvbbDiv96Qup7mVdPlplG5kcuYbAgzlB_wJ0OPfpidUMRaZBSVINyrOM/s1600/Scratch.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="400" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwZ0E-ntlvgnN9CdDmSQlhUP1rjBi8lGCO9h2gCSatKn4f8Kw5hh5WOK-XBGoDX6gNbB9TOwDtCi-RtNyq3bBkvbbDiv96Qup7mVdPlplG5kcuYbAgzlB_wJ0OPfpidUMRaZBSVINyrOM/s320/Scratch.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Based on what some of the other patients on the ward were suffering with, it made my little scratch seem inconsequential. Some of these guys were going home for certain as soon as they could leave.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">But in my own selfish way, I
was concerned whether my new nickname might be 'Stumpy' or 'Captain Hook'. </span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6dY7vqkPZe3QrkUhrChf00AnggpV5X4CvneMr5Dk82y-1DaFfUR9TYF3iQKz80TwiH9z1MQ077Zm6dy9ezwD2wLpLyW8lPTgXXOOVL-J1ct-b6il8CpeWrhB_ZMa-PzTSbQKRqXuIFvI/s1600/Print+Them+ALL.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="396" data-original-width="452" height="175" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6dY7vqkPZe3QrkUhrChf00AnggpV5X4CvneMr5Dk82y-1DaFfUR9TYF3iQKz80TwiH9z1MQ077Zm6dy9ezwD2wLpLyW8lPTgXXOOVL-J1ct-b6il8CpeWrhB_ZMa-PzTSbQKRqXuIFvI/s200/Print+Them+ALL.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Years before all this I
had determined my handwriting to be so bad that I had abandoned cursive
and simply printed everything. Imagine if I had to try that crap with my
left hand! Forget it, pal!</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I was also not the best, most consistent writer of letters home. Is that a phrase? It doesn't look right, but you know what I mean. However, I <b>was</b> sending money home to my parents for their car payment. They didn't know anything about this incident yet and I was trying to figure out a way to gently ease the information into their hands. In the end I decided a phone call was best even though that was also not a part of our normal culture. Of course I downplayed it, wouldn't you? In the meantime, I was practicing my writing (i.e., printing).</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">For whatever reason, we had pretty much free run of the hospital. During rounds we'd listen in while the docs were talking to the other patients and watch while work was done on them. And if we needed something from the store room, we just went in and got it. So, in addition to the rounds of antibiotics, I was washing my hand a dozen times a day with Phisohex and soaking it in a little pan with distilled saline working the dead, burned skin off with an oversized q-tip.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I went through a lot of those five gallon bottles of distilled saline. But whichever of this combination of therapies worked, I didn't care, because the infection was finally beaten back and no one had to come in with a hack saw and cut off my hand. Although, probably the other guys in the ward would want to watch.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhK9QrosLAIMjxDNdYiDPR82Fky1Rev70NzUAd_JB6SZI-SU-Rv3YCZWWPU9o3X-JfzKYdcCd1_N0c7q0E4WNGnxzxGxc505ea0IFceCZrJzDa3vD7Ricc7dIWmDuFwg17AI8PV4_GX3_g/s1600/19680200+10+05a+Kleylein%252C+Richard+at+Haulover+Beach.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="484" data-original-width="404" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhK9QrosLAIMjxDNdYiDPR82Fky1Rev70NzUAd_JB6SZI-SU-Rv3YCZWWPU9o3X-JfzKYdcCd1_N0c7q0E4WNGnxzxGxc505ea0IFceCZrJzDa3vD7Ricc7dIWmDuFwg17AI8PV4_GX3_g/s320/19680200+10+05a+Kleylein%252C+Richard+at+Haulover+Beach.jpg" width="267" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">To honor the value of the magical saline, I stole one of the metal medallions that hung around the big five gallon bottles and wore it on a chain around my neck. The medallion said <b>Sterile Distilled Saline</b> and I wore it for a couple of years. It disappeared after I got married, but I do have a photo of me wearing it at Haulover Beach. This was about a month before I met my future wife, so you can see how miserable and unhappy I was.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Life in the hospital was pretty easy, we had no assigned duties. We were just supposed to be getting better, so life centered around meals. Three times a day, we got a little printed menu where we could circle what we wanted for the next meal. </span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEian9rmN5PuCyEPSIeeuYVDrFYfmPhbSGtnTrKgqssm-JEBJWwxjf7xydCDepG8C5MSxwwJKxkigwCIWc-ixJV8_ROPmjneqUMy3M9UehQxZnFHl6RY16iYk0xy0yBc4Omctx4E8ooacTg/s1600/Ward+Trolley.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="274" data-original-width="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEian9rmN5PuCyEPSIeeuYVDrFYfmPhbSGtnTrKgqssm-JEBJWwxjf7xydCDepG8C5MSxwwJKxkigwCIWc-ixJV8_ROPmjneqUMy3M9UehQxZnFHl6RY16iYk0xy0yBc4Omctx4E8ooacTg/s1600/Ward+Trolley.jpg" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Then they brought the food right to us on a cart. How cool was that? This one time I found a fly in my mashed potatoes and it was so exciting I went around to show everyone. The Marine in the bed next to me wanted to see it and as soon as I brought it close enough he lurched out and ate it. Don't mess with Marines, they have different thought processes.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">At night, if the weather was good they would show movies outside on an outdoor movie screen. You might think the mosquitoes would bother us, but there were so many bats flying around they kept the population down.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">There were <b>so many</b> bats in fact that they would interfere with the movie sometimes. This is why they didn't let us carry weapons because there would have been so much gunfire that just the accidental wounds would have kept the hospital full. And there were quite frequent earthquakes, but mild ones, just enough to remind you that you should leave.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">And just as Lord Halifax wrote, in the fullness of days, it was time for me to leave, too.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
Rich Kleyleinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06851914542167271998noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2676690306756728440.post-28589663872040177552018-06-23T11:36:00.000-04:002018-06-23T11:36:16.564-04:00Navy Guantanamo Bay Part IV<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">The Guantanamo Bay Naval Hospital is located right on a little peninsula that juts out into the Caribbean. </span> </span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwbU2tRzykRbUAJw92O3kBU08s43w9pI6bO3ldgsqaBOEJgES975nTO-fWaYh02EigySxx-hQ-2YdkoKDRHL3GQ3Dq85k0fNT_QGDM6g_tZdH3umUX8Zw5GITaxPk7ut5Bkw3iqYvZEpo/s1600/Guantanamo+Bay+Naval+Hospital+0.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1009" data-original-width="1600" height="251" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwbU2tRzykRbUAJw92O3kBU08s43w9pI6bO3ldgsqaBOEJgES975nTO-fWaYh02EigySxx-hQ-2YdkoKDRHL3GQ3Dq85k0fNT_QGDM6g_tZdH3umUX8Zw5GITaxPk7ut5Bkw3iqYvZEpo/s400/Guantanamo+Bay+Naval+Hospital+0.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I arrived at the hospital toward evening, so normal day shifts were over. As I was sitting waiting for them to round up a surgical team, I was thinking about, you know, things. Of course it's my right hand, I thought, after all, I'm right handed! What else? I speculated about whether spending so much time inside a cannon would affect my hearing in later years. Oh, and would I be able to play the piano with only nine fingers, I wondered? That would be cool, since I couldn't play the piano <b>at all</b> before all this happened!</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Finally the surgeon came in and went to work. My hands had been dirty, the line had been dirty, the speeding, surging line had gone through our hands burning them a little, the wound was ragged, everything was bloody and the metacarpal head was in tiny bits, some of it was just gone. They hosed it all down, confirmed that the tendons and nerves were abused but not severed, rebuilt the knuckle with some of the bits as well as possible, inserted a long pin through the second metacarpal, and sewed the whole mess up with fifty-five stitches in the palm (inside and out) and another eight over the knuckle on the other side.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicjOVbmsiRP_hHpjdYEZxaf0YdWmmyF-namvCs2XlZyjQZl-L3sgq8jlhGYgaVA3xmUYc2LDaVWMiIzMmrWC1kAUz7CVjv_DOjP_BhaR0o2UuvybC2itjHIlOAn-BHVo-z-OM30xom4f0/s1600/Pin.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="132" data-original-width="837" height="61" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicjOVbmsiRP_hHpjdYEZxaf0YdWmmyF-namvCs2XlZyjQZl-L3sgq8jlhGYgaVA3xmUYc2LDaVWMiIzMmrWC1kAUz7CVjv_DOjP_BhaR0o2UuvybC2itjHIlOAn-BHVo-z-OM30xom4f0/s400/Pin.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Later, I could feel the head of the pin under the stitches because eventually, it would have to be removed.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjP5xtdJA8sWQNkMK2mV5Rz1aWviL10wfVv2_tBe7N9v0kjL1-Ta9poi-Hc9UT-hMGq_Byr23ZhsoC2iQSUWdPxN2y2Q2r56o4c2g6la_asjXv0MQ67n2MfZ-vN9qxo1dd9xSP08PXAduI/s1600/Finger+Trap.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1400" data-original-width="1400" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjP5xtdJA8sWQNkMK2mV5Rz1aWviL10wfVv2_tBe7N9v0kjL1-Ta9poi-Hc9UT-hMGq_Byr23ZhsoC2iQSUWdPxN2y2Q2r56o4c2g6la_asjXv0MQ67n2MfZ-vN9qxo1dd9xSP08PXAduI/s200/Finger+Trap.jpg" width="200" /></a><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Then they installed a weighted stainless steel finger trap on my index finger to keep it stabilized. That's this thing over on the right there. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">The way the finger trap is devised, the more you try to pull your finger out, the tighter it gets. There are toys called 'Chinese Finger Traps' that do the same thing. So my immensely traumatized hand filled with stitches was now hanging by my nearly severed and broken finger. Go on, picture it! Whee! </span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnWcl33tWOASBecf9mvnjAepkOxod-Qlx_l8rzkkxsVW6CCY1FksAW8PwoU9mIBSTMrQlxTKjV4JLS9yUbVPt1EalwpOdY617ryKW4YVjF4SN2ylSXRyub2vCEUD1VxD8YK_QgyfMvRt0/s1600/Finger+Trap+2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="426" data-original-width="599" height="227" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnWcl33tWOASBecf9mvnjAepkOxod-Qlx_l8rzkkxsVW6CCY1FksAW8PwoU9mIBSTMrQlxTKjV4JLS9yUbVPt1EalwpOdY617ryKW4YVjF4SN2ylSXRyub2vCEUD1VxD8YK_QgyfMvRt0/s320/Finger+Trap+2.JPG" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">OK, so you couldn't picture it. Then use slightly less imagination with this image on the left and pretend it's just the index finger involved. I can't do everything for you, it's been fifty years! We didn't have fancy-dancy smartphones with us that could photograph every step in our lives. We were just experiencing things as they actually happened!</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Then came the best stage of all, the administration of the Morphine. Morphine is great! I mean really, really great. Three days went by and when they started to wean me off the stuff, I got all huffy until they gave me some Darvon. Darvon is good, too, but it's no Morphine! </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">After a couple more days, maybe five total, or six? who knows? the doc came in and said they were going to have to reset the knuckle because piecing it together hadn't come out as planned. But this time, the anesthetic would just be local. So back into the surgical theater. They set the screen in place between my head and the work area and he started setting my hand up. I told him, "You know, I can feel that." And he said, "No, that's just psychological because you know I'm working on your hand." </span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZii9_BjJ3-kKbraEF_jhvy2_npCPo3-9euyirL-whn649ODFkPJnjLTopI3Ywzj-vVLxZn4PN53bPNBYs8XnMvKexN6xayyvgmVtBIKp1GDAOf82AEShPMUYzojpQnrQUXbIitqz3OTs/s1600/Ship+Smoke.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="800" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZii9_BjJ3-kKbraEF_jhvy2_npCPo3-9euyirL-whn649ODFkPJnjLTopI3Ywzj-vVLxZn4PN53bPNBYs8XnMvKexN6xayyvgmVtBIKp1GDAOf82AEShPMUYzojpQnrQUXbIitqz3OTs/s320/Ship+Smoke.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Then he re-breaks my knuckle which I felt perfectly and of course I screamed like the proverbial stuck pig. The surgeon gestured a 'downward motion' with his finger to the anesthesiologist who turned a valve on my IV and away I went. I got yur 'distant ship smoke on the horizon' right heer!</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">When I arose from this round of purple haze, they installed me in a bed on the surgical ward. It seemed like a lot of beds to me at the time but I imagine it was perhaps sixteen Sailors and Marines. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">My doc comes and gives me the news that my hand is infected. Uh, yeah, with all the dirt and grease and nylon fibers and burning and a wide, wide world of other things that were introduced into that wound, it would have been a shock if it <b>wasn't</b>. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">He tells me we're going to have to work on that infection because after all, "we wouldn't want to lose that finger... or the hand." Oy.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> </span>Rich Kleyleinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06851914542167271998noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2676690306756728440.post-27261468351652665122018-06-22T10:33:00.000-04:002018-06-22T10:33:47.818-04:00Navy Guantanamo Bay Part III<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">No matter how hard you try, you just can't beat physics. Do the math and if the math doesn't work, then the thing won't work. The End.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMnmejL8LuIr96WU2DaAyj61Qv80Nr1KhyETe2gbaurI73rvAdpVng-8B3Z1aqrBUrDpeg9BlHlXf-N_bNPr44H1BKegmQgAbrrGScYKQm_90OG3rjkQVhrtBb38pSjwlvFH3otY71s3o/s1600/Nylon.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="500" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMnmejL8LuIr96WU2DaAyj61Qv80Nr1KhyETe2gbaurI73rvAdpVng-8B3Z1aqrBUrDpeg9BlHlXf-N_bNPr44H1BKegmQgAbrrGScYKQm_90OG3rjkQVhrtBb38pSjwlvFH3otY71s3o/s200/Nylon.jpg" width="200" /></a><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">For example, if a length of nylon line is stretched to the limit of it's ability to stretch, one of two things will happen. The line may break whereupon the remainder will swing in an arc pivoting on it's last connection point. Very, very bad things will happen to any non-metallic structures (e.g., humans) that might be in the way of that swinging arc. Please reference any of a number of horror movies for a graphic example.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">The other possibility is that the slack will 'surge' from the part of the line not under strain to ease the tension of the part under strain. We've all heard the noises a rope makes when it's under a strain. It's kind of a creaking, rubbing, stretching sort of noise. Like this:</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">\\<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=X2FBzFY5R-U" target="_blank">https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=X2FBzFY5R-U</a></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Well, the nylon line the three of us held in our hands that day was making noises no one on Earth had heard before. Scary noises, </span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">spine-chilling</span>, intimidating, </span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">brain-freezing</span> noises. These were 'forget your orders and run for your life' noises. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">So as it surged, spinning through the figure-eight pattern on the bollard burning off the paint, we dropped the line to make that last dash for our lives and two of us made it.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">The ungainly goon in the back was struck by another phenomenon of physics called a wave pulse. You may have exercised this peculiarity of wave motion when you whipped a garden hose or a jump rope. With a little wrist motion, you can send a wave down the hose or jump rope or in this instance, a 2-inch nylon line. </span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9oMyrF_w-MuwbBefXm8-NxGb7VGu8RCcJZ4tnNHIslgLS2Fz6YcaFFLV4-EiqAhUR5U8eZVvchn9va85IvtqRlOiufbwG-z7S8Sq_51362QAZWE1CLziBfTZdY-8d3qVld_fyrB1AAFU/s1600/Wave+Pulse.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="472" data-original-width="680" height="277" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9oMyrF_w-MuwbBefXm8-NxGb7VGu8RCcJZ4tnNHIslgLS2Fz6YcaFFLV4-EiqAhUR5U8eZVvchn9va85IvtqRlOiufbwG-z7S8Sq_51362QAZWE1CLziBfTZdY-8d3qVld_fyrB1AAFU/s400/Wave+Pulse.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">The math for this action can be seen in this simple Fourier Transform.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9GXiRG9brN8zm_j7YYjscwA31UALdEvurO7ZcW-VEcfFEyaoav8OYqG4uj7-kaqSlyRGYoXsacvyFyn_D3J7F95NuB2MEmeTkgnaAfdiIpe4PA-VKDeKWXLubphL3UZNjSorSQYzVbOo/s1600/Fourier+Transform.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="581" data-original-width="495" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9GXiRG9brN8zm_j7YYjscwA31UALdEvurO7ZcW-VEcfFEyaoav8OYqG4uj7-kaqSlyRGYoXsacvyFyn_D3J7F95NuB2MEmeTkgnaAfdiIpe4PA-VKDeKWXLubphL3UZNjSorSQYzVbOo/s320/Fourier+Transform.gif" width="272" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhedSkiV61WR14NtLXLTWH0alg4hReH9ytW0MWWVkfZtNsUjV0GYysuXMY7zJbjBf-ZHgn8FOjj3qphAYx10MnZUxVTWVNTOEqLPiRZXHUFVwfipA-TbBeHDFkiDp_2oXEyIi4saV0O_Rk/s1600/Ripe+Pomegranate.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="666" data-original-width="972" height="219" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhedSkiV61WR14NtLXLTWH0alg4hReH9ytW0MWWVkfZtNsUjV0GYysuXMY7zJbjBf-ZHgn8FOjj3qphAYx10MnZUxVTWVNTOEqLPiRZXHUFVwfipA-TbBeHDFkiDp_2oXEyIi4saV0O_Rk/s320/Ripe+Pomegranate.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">In other words, the surge had sent a wave pulse down the line and while passing by, it struck me (the aforementioned goon) in the palm of my right hand. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">The impact of the wave pulse burst open said palm much like you see here in this over-ripe pomegranate. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Sorry, if that's a little graphic, but you should have seen it in real life. (!) </span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAdwbT-L-EdJwF6q2sp7tZSuBkeUZwjCCS_cUWFhxP16Mnfib8fOlzqrZXHGbLD015BdM5OlcFFdftjPNt1CCap3qmudl9Y9-YjJNh6XiHKm7LRDXfNvXtooweBHwBFF-Y91HwVXunruM/s1600/Hand.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="562" data-original-width="475" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAdwbT-L-EdJwF6q2sp7tZSuBkeUZwjCCS_cUWFhxP16Mnfib8fOlzqrZXHGbLD015BdM5OlcFFdftjPNt1CCap3qmudl9Y9-YjJNh6XiHKm7LRDXfNvXtooweBHwBFF-Y91HwVXunruM/s320/Hand.jpg" width="269" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">The action exploded the head of my second metacarpal (the knuckle of my index finger) into tiny fragments. The index finger itself was almost entirely severed, hanging on only by the skin on the back of my hand. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">The impact had sent my arm flying and had spun me around spraying blood in a Fibonacci pattern that would have kept Dexter busy for a week. When I brought my hand up, I discovered that it makes you very uncomfortable to be able to look inside your own body. Again with the blood everywhere, but there seemed to be even more this time. Not quite like that Monty Python sketch, but darn near.</span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I'm
told I let out quite a stream of curses at this juncture. I don't
recall, but those legends you hear about 'cursing like a sailor' are
fact-based. In the Navy I was introduced to curses you just don't hear in the civilized, civilian world. At this point, I may have used them all.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgus8z0D-wIfQnDzlw8b4rb4h33ivsQkz6aS3yYKthWaJD9r0WNHjf13MbpK4txszeRNoKkswm8jZvA834LmaTsV6xwpo6LSyJ-TITIgO3plfTz7vrcIA40CiVXTWB1CXuTKJiTFz2H-7w/s1600/Palm.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="604" data-original-width="413" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgus8z0D-wIfQnDzlw8b4rb4h33ivsQkz6aS3yYKthWaJD9r0WNHjf13MbpK4txszeRNoKkswm8jZvA834LmaTsV6xwpo6LSyJ-TITIgO3plfTz7vrcIA40CiVXTWB1CXuTKJiTFz2H-7w/s400/Palm.jpg" width="272" /></a><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">The major part of the wound was Y-shaped with one opening running from between the index and middle fingers almost to the wrist and the second running off perpendicularly separating the thumb from the index finger. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">This little drawing I've done only conveys the shape of the wound, not the ragged, discolored, exploded horror I was goggling at. The movie 'Alien' wouldn't be released for another ten years, but it <b>still</b> looked like a little alien had burst out of my hand. Oddly enough, I felt little pain and was clear-headed. You never know how you'll react under a bit of pressure. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Briskly, I teleported myself to sick bay where the jovial corpsman told me, "Well, I could sew it up for you, but maybe we should have a doctor look at it." All things considered, I found that to be good advice. </span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIixtVp8WUa5GBGWr59BRO3X95p20U7o90DWo-B4CvXLF4TV1JxFOoTmqEV2nK8LQy9GFIqwpzY5Iv2xokOQzSVkPfYzPxaU2vfROvdQ6NfyWfQJp6i8SuzRVsfNofj_Oz6iQeFJpW0iM/s1600/Carrie.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1031" data-original-width="937" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIixtVp8WUa5GBGWr59BRO3X95p20U7o90DWo-B4CvXLF4TV1JxFOoTmqEV2nK8LQy9GFIqwpzY5Iv2xokOQzSVkPfYzPxaU2vfROvdQ6NfyWfQJp6i8SuzRVsfNofj_Oz6iQeFJpW0iM/s320/Carrie.JPG" width="290" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I wish I had a photo of what I looked like at this point. I was covered in blood and it was like a preview of <b>another</b> as-yet unreleased movie, 'Carrie'. I've wondered what my shipmates thought as they saw me strolling along. 'Well, just another day on the Greene.' </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I don't suppose Brian de Palma and Ridley Scott were hanging around Guantanamo Bay in 1967. I can only speculate that they may have been following me around to pick up some dreadful ideas. It would have provided a treasure trove for them.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiN_uTHrlKQNscWeKjui-0T42u-K5wVfBLc10XPmqxyC-P8TFs__NLQikpHHGlHCxzlwhQFRPI4yJBf85fO0X4tU0qBN2bFm3P9A0B10ZuuVMG1gT9HqIsTk_AjWDeKuevhnT-TBCRLoeU/s1600/Guantanamo+Bay+Naval+Hospital+7.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="512" data-original-width="1024" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiN_uTHrlKQNscWeKjui-0T42u-K5wVfBLc10XPmqxyC-P8TFs__NLQikpHHGlHCxzlwhQFRPI4yJBf85fO0X4tU0qBN2bFm3P9A0B10ZuuVMG1gT9HqIsTk_AjWDeKuevhnT-TBCRLoeU/s400/Guantanamo+Bay+Naval+Hospital+7.png" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">So the corpsman somehow stole a jeep from somewhere and drove me to the Guantanamo Bay Naval Hospital which would be my home for a while.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> </span>Rich Kleyleinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06851914542167271998noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2676690306756728440.post-41824855977848397522018-06-21T09:54:00.000-04:002018-06-21T09:54:01.204-04:00Navy Guantanamo Bay Part II<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEha1gCjE6ES7lnxdzS_FxUaAi2nlaC7QsFzut6H29PEDh3sCdvLsNnIidxuxTYG6nyfecvXDiGIZZMoMY90oZyx57wTWzG5pfD5qKMzNzR3NDWPLg4YanfgKSkkE1mrqqeEMOLsVY8OQBA/s1600/Puddle.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEha1gCjE6ES7lnxdzS_FxUaAi2nlaC7QsFzut6H29PEDh3sCdvLsNnIidxuxTYG6nyfecvXDiGIZZMoMY90oZyx57wTWzG5pfD5qKMzNzR3NDWPLg4YanfgKSkkE1mrqqeEMOLsVY8OQBA/s320/Puddle.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Most people learn to drive some time or other. Except my mother, she never drove and to the best of my knowledge, she never even tried. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">But even if you're pretty good at driving, you can still have accidents. Just two months earlier, I had been home on leave to attend Bob Deeter's wedding to the lovely Judy Powel and on the way home had driven through one of Miami's infamous 'puddles'.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiU7By4HOVuUqZ4mfX3Ub6Lf7o4FalfYdGFCVA5orDhlISEK2FhKLHIRHTDvVO_9y6NnlEzuJL5Mg6MLYmj3c3B9npKF53nYGZyuELynPxnOGTz_csDuR6hwuK-sD75d4L8Dj07aDOkgCg/s1600/19670703+11+Kleylein%252C+Richard.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1591" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiU7By4HOVuUqZ4mfX3Ub6Lf7o4FalfYdGFCVA5orDhlISEK2FhKLHIRHTDvVO_9y6NnlEzuJL5Mg6MLYmj3c3B9npKF53nYGZyuELynPxnOGTz_csDuR6hwuK-sD75d4L8Dj07aDOkgCg/s320/19670703+11+Kleylein%252C+Richard.jpg" width="318" /></a><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Water doesn't drain well when it has nowhere to go (like in Miami) and in those days, if you got your brakes wet, sometimes they would just... disappear. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">And that's exactly what happened causing me to run into a Cadillac on Biscayne Boulevard. <b>Had</b> to be a Cadillac! I was in uniform and thought maybe I would catch a break, but <b>no</b>! No breaks! No breaks for <b>you</b>! Here I am showing off my ticket for posterity.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">But remember what was probably the hardest part of learning to drive? That's right, parallel parking! And that's essentially what the Executive Officer of the Greene was attempting as we pulled alongside the pier that Wednesday, August 30, 1967.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDl2BuHS0nMAbhN0o7r7-xuZMP4X2SIxRvNrnXsfljEmp6khRFbs11mxRQcvfH9K1KH5kvHtN7FR3513hWI-y-MVnmI3RKyftXERJqSzTLDgJ6-t5UjDuTUwh5l6PEITTuMnF21aLjfF0/s1600/Eugene+A+Greene+2+Inch+Double+Bollard.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="800" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDl2BuHS0nMAbhN0o7r7-xuZMP4X2SIxRvNrnXsfljEmp6khRFbs11mxRQcvfH9K1KH5kvHtN7FR3513hWI-y-MVnmI3RKyftXERJqSzTLDgJ6-t5UjDuTUwh5l6PEITTuMnF21aLjfF0/s320/Eugene+A+Greene+2+Inch+Double+Bollard.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">The problem was that we didn't 'pull alongside' as much as 'run into'. Normally, we would have to fling our lines to the pier but because we came in a little hot and on rather too sharp an angle, we could reach the pier just by dropping the lines over the side. So they moored the lines on the pier and we tied our end off on the ships bollards in a figure eight pattern just like you see them in this photo and held on for our lives.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">In this actual photo from the Greene, you can see the bollards are merely just stools that only have lines on them when the ship is docked. </span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEif77IGN2wDzNgJ_eEgV55ZVE7IJPyMiJX7VzAmI0Ve3fXh6JphgflNmRK9rrIiDDJIREWkDKsNyLh-MVusWidHbJbhoVoxEy1pnpTrITBpxPnHIUQ-qxDcmLYBM6Uq3ebHmp1bIMpkevo/s1600/Eugene+A+Greene+DD711+62+Focsle+1968.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="953" data-original-width="1152" height="330" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEif77IGN2wDzNgJ_eEgV55ZVE7IJPyMiJX7VzAmI0Ve3fXh6JphgflNmRK9rrIiDDJIREWkDKsNyLh-MVusWidHbJbhoVoxEy1pnpTrITBpxPnHIUQ-qxDcmLYBM6Uq3ebHmp1bIMpkevo/s400/Eugene+A+Greene+DD711+62+Focsle+1968.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">So as we scraped along the pier, those of us who did painting were all cringing at the thought of how much work was clocking up for us as the grinding continued. Meanwhile, the stern was much too far to reach with lines so we held the bow and ran the engines to pull the stern in closer.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpkHPI6uOoDH-eOmL9Brlln4lkmxg8osHQl1p7QQXrrGAvSDpz4GsFhuUfbXidJprtYXTPhi1QqC0jCZmJlKj21UUpf9ZnCXxAkTIfo98jzjLasKsSm_HPWFHBDJsGM4oEkbuzN48Lf0o/s1600/Line+Hauling.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1065" data-original-width="1600" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpkHPI6uOoDH-eOmL9Brlln4lkmxg8osHQl1p7QQXrrGAvSDpz4GsFhuUfbXidJprtYXTPhi1QqC0jCZmJlKj21UUpf9ZnCXxAkTIfo98jzjLasKsSm_HPWFHBDJsGM4oEkbuzN48Lf0o/s320/Line+Hauling.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">We were going to have a bow line that day, but it was going to be metal, we had already laid it out, so the line my two shipmates and I were holding that day was called the bow spring, the next line up from the bow. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">The line ran from the dock, in a multiple figure eight pattern around the bollards on the ship and the three of us held the end. Essentially, we were trying to hold a Destroyer under power with a 2-inch nylon line. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">In retrospect, we should have foreseen that something untoward was in the offing.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">And so it was.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> </span>Rich Kleyleinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06851914542167271998noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2676690306756728440.post-8744016582224011782018-06-20T09:10:00.000-04:002018-06-20T09:10:39.544-04:00Navy Guantanamo Bay Part I<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> </span><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGE8Cgk3CO_9m_Pf7k1vBclPbpe6RdeDpVu32w0jAXYjgLNH-Fva0tkgNkafPnCRoU49oUwBOiRI8-VHnYkxM8mLaStsplcJFMZyGAbCOJU6bKis8d1nYKDyJx5Lj6Dv-c5fz19Rq4a6E/s1600/Guantanamo+Bay+Map.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="321" data-original-width="631" height="162" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGE8Cgk3CO_9m_Pf7k1vBclPbpe6RdeDpVu32w0jAXYjgLNH-Fva0tkgNkafPnCRoU49oUwBOiRI8-VHnYkxM8mLaStsplcJFMZyGAbCOJU6bKis8d1nYKDyJx5Lj6Dv-c5fz19Rq4a6E/s320/Guantanamo+Bay+Map.png" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">After sailing around in the Caribbean for a while we finally headed for our target destination: Guantanamo Bay. Yes, <b>that</b> Guantanamo Bay. Known officially as the 'Naval Station Guantanamo Bay' or Gitmo as it is commonly called, the station is the oldest US overseas naval facility.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Acquired just after the Spanish-American War, the 45 square mile naval station is rented from Cuba for $4,085 a year. As you may imagine, the Cuban government is unhappy that it is there. Imagine how scary it was to be on that base during the Cuban Missile Crisis.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrat5Qbw5cg8-tT6XJLqaey2RdMohpGSPDvfXeOomaUYmsOvCmEv_AbPl4tigaeAEWUMNUaImvJ9PWwLLvDZ8zY8pXAt6eWzzvCz9a6e4HKdeLztP-SOG4laMoHnVWsaH__DLASzN_tZo/s1600/Sweating.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1067" data-original-width="1600" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrat5Qbw5cg8-tT6XJLqaey2RdMohpGSPDvfXeOomaUYmsOvCmEv_AbPl4tigaeAEWUMNUaImvJ9PWwLLvDZ8zY8pXAt6eWzzvCz9a6e4HKdeLztP-SOG4laMoHnVWsaH__DLASzN_tZo/s320/Sweating.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">The Greene went to Gitmo because there are some islands nearby that are used for target practice and we were going to attempt to sink them. Remember my mentioning how heavy and slippery those projectiles were in the 5-Inch 38-Caliber gun? Now add in a little stifling heat and humidity, jam everyone into close quarters and fire your cannon for ten or more hours a day. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">There was a really good reason for doing all that. The experience was getting the gun team better, faster and more cohesive and the fire control people were getting better at aiming. You have to practice and sometimes battles are waged during uncomfortable conditions.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">So, late in the afternoon one day, we were coming into our dock at Gitmo and it was time for one of those life-changing events. </span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi568naQexXJLdYqPba_tIpqSzpkWcKG3p5jM7laRdQmyq_gjW2gC4MKVsp9Ck_BOz2gcXgo3gBb_D9MJ4OZDbfLejuU-hi11l7I7vglUqcDpScf6MRmdFHLpmYAprns96-0dk4hjtlpXE/s1600/Mooring.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="541" data-original-width="1000" height="172" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi568naQexXJLdYqPba_tIpqSzpkWcKG3p5jM7laRdQmyq_gjW2gC4MKVsp9Ck_BOz2gcXgo3gBb_D9MJ4OZDbfLejuU-hi11l7I7vglUqcDpScf6MRmdFHLpmYAprns96-0dk4hjtlpXE/s320/Mooring.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Even though most of us had been working at one of our jobs all day blowing that poor, defenseless island to bits, many of us had another job when we came into port. After all, you can't just park the ship and put money in the meter, there's a whole process to mooring a ship. Entire books have been written about it. </span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4BF2tXdBJf_Hvejmgz45CPiZi_jZ8aLIqQmU-R1ozYhlijTP-n1dEdOn9UMzImUJXjrs4t921vcGjlWKyM6AtVBlQLuEm7RS_TW4kghcxTKXShgfnLPPoXJNFu4t2yFGNuVlfz7oiCbg/s1600/Fender+6.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="468" data-original-width="350" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4BF2tXdBJf_Hvejmgz45CPiZi_jZ8aLIqQmU-R1ozYhlijTP-n1dEdOn9UMzImUJXjrs4t921vcGjlWKyM6AtVBlQLuEm7RS_TW4kghcxTKXShgfnLPPoXJNFu4t2yFGNuVlfz7oiCbg/s320/Fender+6.jpg" width="239" /></a><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">One must carefully position the ship next to the pier and use the engines to bring it close enough to toss the lines to the men waiting on the pier. No, they are <b>not</b> ropes. In the Navy, you don't refer to a rope as a 'rope', it is a 'line'. Geez. Identification is made by the width of the line for example '2-inch nylon line'.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">And part of that process is to toss these devices you can see on the left here called 'fenders' to hang over the side which prevent the ship from rubbing directly against the pier saving the paint. You <b>have</b> to save the paint!</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> It was bad enough going over the side to scrape paint with having to do so unnecessarily.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_GqYen6Q1CL0iOrf9-1AY8LviXKifQGIfVcr3cf4vl1O9JjsF3NVJNDbjmdFkD5MA_3vNoUlOozyz5NjdxYF5pPl1rDRYRyJaROcAlm7p7Tsb4YnBr0M4IOpd8dFrvG86f697lSnsXZE/s1600/Eugene+A+Greene+DD711+49+Painting+1968.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="945" data-original-width="1489" height="253" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_GqYen6Q1CL0iOrf9-1AY8LviXKifQGIfVcr3cf4vl1O9JjsF3NVJNDbjmdFkD5MA_3vNoUlOozyz5NjdxYF5pPl1rDRYRyJaROcAlm7p7Tsb4YnBr0M4IOpd8dFrvG86f697lSnsXZE/s400/Eugene+A+Greene+DD711+49+Painting+1968.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">If you dropped anchor, like we did in the harbor at Charlotte Amalie in St. Thomas, that was a completely different process. Hearing those chains going down is quite a thrill to hear. It sounds like... <b>Liberty</b>! </span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglR_yCKLaYxyEuQ9U0Qaewr7Y0JOsIsj3Vcblfj6Ds2IVLS8xxbEosR4jbXOppydUHJAm7uHrUviCGb9-aRM78cS7txJDChOGOVVTPJaArNuMGz2kVJAlOBA5ud_xG4i_e0z-eeWCmIJE/s1600/Eugene+A+Greene+DD711+47+Focsle+1968.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="826" data-original-width="1600" height="206" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglR_yCKLaYxyEuQ9U0Qaewr7Y0JOsIsj3Vcblfj6Ds2IVLS8xxbEosR4jbXOppydUHJAm7uHrUviCGb9-aRM78cS7txJDChOGOVVTPJaArNuMGz2kVJAlOBA5ud_xG4i_e0z-eeWCmIJE/s400/Eugene+A+Greene+DD711+47+Focsle+1968.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> But this particular day, the Greene was coming in to moor at a pier at Guantanamo Bay and the Executive Officer would be bringing her in. Because even officers need to get experience. </span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqI4O4fGCPLJ43jEcu3kwYC28QXZVQH6vUDtTpw29z4tBme-AeSrbzyPcgmqrUnw-DbBePyslhSi0g4hASFJeFKDWzaPnejntZCMiL5RtOfZC20UYE9oV2JxmHmTwNZFopDBqDAwI9fiY/s1600/Eugene+A+Greene+DD711+27+Norfolk%252C+August+1964.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="458" data-original-width="800" height="228" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqI4O4fGCPLJ43jEcu3kwYC28QXZVQH6vUDtTpw29z4tBme-AeSrbzyPcgmqrUnw-DbBePyslhSi0g4hASFJeFKDWzaPnejntZCMiL5RtOfZC20UYE9oV2JxmHmTwNZFopDBqDAwI9fiY/s400/Eugene+A+Greene+DD711+27+Norfolk%252C+August+1964.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">And experience was what we got.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> </span>Rich Kleyleinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06851914542167271998noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2676690306756728440.post-60948986568770012862018-06-16T12:38:00.000-04:002018-06-16T12:38:16.719-04:00Navy DD-711 Part VIII<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> </span><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieTY5Ix1G5p5H4erQbxwu9x2efzGR7LBeJMIbtZqEf_N-kYQi5FDkUCJx1RXAW4ulaEVlyjkjOZnKQOomugleNCAoMM9mcyYmIlPGqBEtaa_hbjNkCOiIrqn96ssNVePAqP_YzXmIYjlQ/s1600/Ship+Leaving.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="141" data-original-width="251" height="179" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieTY5Ix1G5p5H4erQbxwu9x2efzGR7LBeJMIbtZqEf_N-kYQi5FDkUCJx1RXAW4ulaEVlyjkjOZnKQOomugleNCAoMM9mcyYmIlPGqBEtaa_hbjNkCOiIrqn96ssNVePAqP_YzXmIYjlQ/s320/Ship+Leaving.jpeg" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">It's one thing to be on board a ship in port. It's another to be at sea. A few things change - like always hearing the drone of the engines, water is conserved so you shower in seawater and just do the final rinse in fresh water and you stand duty on the bridge. </span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJ2yRSvvy-tAg0kh1AT1wWGZNJZJIezZsVSAm6OUtyorAfg6cjSC8Hy6PvO2LKyuTB5o1IN7GzM_kgqScSZ9ef9Gxz1y88H3q5IjJ3BxlAR1vqNL1W6Bw3MDqtByl59z5-icimGzUXVYo/s1600/Popeye.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="939" data-original-width="715" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJ2yRSvvy-tAg0kh1AT1wWGZNJZJIezZsVSAm6OUtyorAfg6cjSC8Hy6PvO2LKyuTB5o1IN7GzM_kgqScSZ9ef9Gxz1y88H3q5IjJ3BxlAR1vqNL1W6Bw3MDqtByl59z5-icimGzUXVYo/s400/Popeye.JPG" width="303" /></a><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">And when you have the duty, you get to steer the ship, not somebody else, just you. Yes, piloting like a million other sailors before you. I'm sorry I don't have any photos of me on the bridge, but this is a close approximation.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">And even though radar and sonar work really well, we still watched the air and sea with binoculars and unbelievably, sometime we spotted things the advanced technology missed. It happens.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhS5DvH7YIuxl6zgMS7jcpZu7ht_h1sB_mi8K5jK5C2EFJmrwOH2lUWZy7jbRY4sikXxOpb7MlmlIuYKJikBM44-pYmxJ_TLdVsDZf5gRsMp9o4sAwU9FYaxnY-HiIioPfq93-IJ0PxaUA/s1600/NGC+590+Stellar+Jewelbox.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="800" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhS5DvH7YIuxl6zgMS7jcpZu7ht_h1sB_mi8K5jK5C2EFJmrwOH2lUWZy7jbRY4sikXxOpb7MlmlIuYKJikBM44-pYmxJ_TLdVsDZf5gRsMp9o4sAwU9FYaxnY-HiIioPfq93-IJ0PxaUA/s320/NGC+590+Stellar+Jewelbox.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">And at night, the stars come out. Lots of stars. Different stars. Blinding stars. Stars enough to read by. More stars than you thought there were. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Heading south from Portsmouth, we were going off to make a circuit around the Caribbean and the Captain wanted to see how the engines were doing so he really cranked it. Gearing-class Destroyers could do nearly 37 knots which is about 42 miles per hour. That's speed-boat speed, friends. The fan-tail sank and the focsule rose and we zipped right along. No showering at all for a time while that was going on.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2Y2n2qu5UWcgrRclyH7JrXwMM2kGUPisk233yaikLp5eLOgHx2U5zj7u6teLDrTQGHYJNbHRm66usuJT2-JmzdYBHbQ63AHl_-ob29LjSPMGmN4CYnyxFoXddlOdhOi8BRiUcvyOAMWM/s1600/Eugene+A+Greene+DD711+15+1947.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="941" height="261" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2Y2n2qu5UWcgrRclyH7JrXwMM2kGUPisk233yaikLp5eLOgHx2U5zj7u6teLDrTQGHYJNbHRm66usuJT2-JmzdYBHbQ63AHl_-ob29LjSPMGmN4CYnyxFoXddlOdhOi8BRiUcvyOAMWM/s320/Eugene+A+Greene+DD711+15+1947.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Running into a little weather, I learned why there were windshield wipers on the bridge windows even though they were four levels up. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Not just for the rain, but the waves and bow-spray. That whole mess would go right over everything. Yes, I was sea-sick, everyone was sea-sick. Whee!</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXg4snCG3vYuwgZcmR7KiVHwL8O5Kgx96E6bCQC2aVUWCwyWtDAJAofNq7hsJs-d3-nb62CTMfVTyyHpqsuYMDawLzvp2FqQOgFlcSVsqOhan54gF3TqaUXuRtsp-K4bMvaw6Q5mT8a5U/s1600/Eugene+A+Greene+DD711+54+Watertight+Doors+1968.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="903" data-original-width="991" height="291" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXg4snCG3vYuwgZcmR7KiVHwL8O5Kgx96E6bCQC2aVUWCwyWtDAJAofNq7hsJs-d3-nb62CTMfVTyyHpqsuYMDawLzvp2FqQOgFlcSVsqOhan54gF3TqaUXuRtsp-K4bMvaw6Q5mT8a5U/s320/Eugene+A+Greene+DD711+54+Watertight+Doors+1968.JPG" width="320" /></a><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">And that's why there are water-tight doors! They keep the ocean from coming in and drowning us all. That was good thinking because it wouldn't take long. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">So we went all over the Caribbean to Puerto Rico, the Virgin Islands, Jamaica, the Dominican Republic, you name it. I've been to most of those places since, but it's not the same when you're not sailing up in a warship.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Our last stop was where we would be doing our weapons testing - Guantanamo Bay, Cuba.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> </span>Rich Kleyleinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06851914542167271998noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2676690306756728440.post-74013561285233429642018-06-15T10:40:00.002-04:002018-06-15T10:40:50.600-04:00Navy DD-711 Part VII<br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">In case there is anyone left out there who hasn't learned the following fact, allow me to provide insight and tutelage:</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Keep your mouth shut.</span></b></span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEju5QzUqSVLE9Yn_N1j-VJL6BqQ47LR2Du-B3PJwML6JyJRYpm9EC-0fwaS0qw6oK1Y7R48wVGcnaItm5YLq1zfIlqlPOPMejSkGoyhoX6S7JkyOsO_4QgnyFe7hyFr68wMwOyoy8Xfj1s/s1600/Mouth+Shut.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="489" data-original-width="715" height="218" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEju5QzUqSVLE9Yn_N1j-VJL6BqQ47LR2Du-B3PJwML6JyJRYpm9EC-0fwaS0qw6oK1Y7R48wVGcnaItm5YLq1zfIlqlPOPMejSkGoyhoX6S7JkyOsO_4QgnyFe7hyFr68wMwOyoy8Xfj1s/s320/Mouth+Shut.JPG" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">This is good advice. It will help you all your life and extricate you from many dangerous situations. However, it's always been a tough lesson for me personally and what happened next was another instance. We had arrived for our first class about our new gun and the Gunner's Mate was giving us the rundown on the weapon and the operation thereof.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Of course, I'm sitting there yammering to one of my friends and paying no attention and the Gunner's Mate crooks his finger at me and says, "C'mere, you're going to show us how the projectile-man does his job."</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhc6DgqINlsPC2XVz5pVsbMUrdumNvob-jnXxBRvZUOu08yA8mN0X4Abvb7PSNEqdl-zHs4kk9WHuqo8rPh9wk_YGAVPp-gZ0fbkLCSBUjuNRjG78OzlNuKhh6SxIprqOgvNhLeTDAeUY4/s1600/Eugene+A+Greene+5in+38cal+04.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="1600" height="143" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhc6DgqINlsPC2XVz5pVsbMUrdumNvob-jnXxBRvZUOu08yA8mN0X4Abvb7PSNEqdl-zHs4kk9WHuqo8rPh9wk_YGAVPp-gZ0fbkLCSBUjuNRjG78OzlNuKhh6SxIprqOgvNhLeTDAeUY4/s320/Eugene+A+Greene+5in+38cal+04.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Well, the 5-In 38 is a pretty big gun and it fires pretty big shells. The bullets you may be familiar with have the projectile and powder all combined into one cartridge. In this case all that together would be about five feet long and weigh too much for one person to handle, so the projectile is separate from the powder. As a result, loading the breech is a two man job. </span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEic1kf_zM1yg2OKLeiinhq4BlsVCQH_c8I6jiIqROpy9r9DrhumCJQ7fvuIPyTHpdZT-tvVVn3-U6EKaSppU3cV0auDsbfWSHAQQu_gLsObItkDQF-z4u1YtYc-o1SYjtJ-2Ph89mvgaCU/s1600/Eugene+A+Greene+5in+38cal+01.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1308" data-original-width="1600" height="261" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEic1kf_zM1yg2OKLeiinhq4BlsVCQH_c8I6jiIqROpy9r9DrhumCJQ7fvuIPyTHpdZT-tvVVn3-U6EKaSppU3cV0auDsbfWSHAQQu_gLsObItkDQF-z4u1YtYc-o1SYjtJ-2Ph89mvgaCU/s320/Eugene+A+Greene+5in+38cal+01.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">The powder-man pulls his powder from the powder hoist, slams the powder into place and with perfect timing, the projectile-man pulls the projectile out of his elevator, slams the projectile into place, steadies it and reaches up to pull the rammer control lever to load the newly formed combination into the barrel. Then he signals the gun captain and off we go.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">The <b>projectile</b> weighs 55 pounds, is smooth as glass and has no handholds. Oh, and it explodes. The man who handles this delight is the <b>projectile-man</b>.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">The manual for the gun has this helpful hint:</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><i>Precautions: 1. Never drop a projectile</i> ... because the fuses are '<i>quite delicate and, when struck, may fail to operate entirely - or may even explode prematurely</i>.'</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><u>To review:</u> Projectiles weigh 55 pounds, they're smooth as glass, you pick one up and load it every four seconds for possibly hours on end and if you drop one, you may kill everyone you know. Bottom line - No pressure on the projectile-man!</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLiQkr44Ke6zQtaR1RByC18uRwzSdt_EiTdN4YQ9nfNav9s7Y40oLwAGUoj3sXkkOcycly2-A03HnzWjLybLD_xjlQH-ghUsErcIprx2_8VyIBk2VnkRZvMQ5LAR_RwDPO9nxT8oYSj0k/s1600/Eugene+A+Greene+5in+38cal+07.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="359" data-original-width="537" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLiQkr44Ke6zQtaR1RByC18uRwzSdt_EiTdN4YQ9nfNav9s7Y40oLwAGUoj3sXkkOcycly2-A03HnzWjLybLD_xjlQH-ghUsErcIprx2_8VyIBk2VnkRZvMQ5LAR_RwDPO9nxT8oYSj0k/s320/Eugene+A+Greene+5in+38cal+07.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Part of what was going to happen during training was that we would be assigned a job within the gun team on one of the three levels of the gun. This wasn't a fast-food joint, so we weren't going to rotate around to different jobs. You kept one job because you had to become expert at it. Your movements had to be smooth, you had to have flawless timing and you couldn't make a mistake. You were big boys now.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">These assignments wouldn't be made for quite a while, so it's easy to figure out what the Gunner's Mate was doing when he beckoned me to the front of the class. He had been annoyed by my talking and was intending to embarrass me by having me fumble the projectile-man job like an idiot and drop the dummy shells so he could talk about the danger of explosions. What he didn't realize was that I had been going to the gym excessively over the past six months. Consequently, after I had done 20 or 30 loads in a row effortlessly, suddenly I <b>was</b> the projectile-man. Karma.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">To close out the class, we did some live firing and I must say it's an adrenaline rush to hear that cannon fire and see the hot casing come flying out the back of the breech where the hot-casing-man used his huge asbestos glove to bat the casing down into the casing drain. There's only room enough inside the gun for us to stand and it would be no fun at all to have a red-hot brass casing rolling around by your feet. </span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg37wVTAcvr0-rhT_HFOtoIkgkhzaAirTNAp-iPMj4_dKXrtY2idMh2IN0VfcZapiSJU4lnQOC8wbHuSe9I7_GumTidB05KtOJGJK8AqKu2reMokFkmQ9jNoLdt3PTeEAe7_pt0ci-TibE/s1600/Rich+1967+2a.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1084" data-original-width="1600" height="216" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg37wVTAcvr0-rhT_HFOtoIkgkhzaAirTNAp-iPMj4_dKXrtY2idMh2IN0VfcZapiSJU4lnQOC8wbHuSe9I7_GumTidB05KtOJGJK8AqKu2reMokFkmQ9jNoLdt3PTeEAe7_pt0ci-TibE/s320/Rich+1967+2a.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">When we got back to Portsmouth, someone took this photo of me in front of my gun. That's my barrel there behind me on the left. Look how happy I am. Those are the bridge windows up there above the gun. That's where Captain Kirk sits as he's firing on the Klingons.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjblHmmaoWyaoqii8FJTedjLxb4pwMxaVpYwiN7Mfi9LYoQUv9vAT-Zh10zfAO5pTmDE0m2ozkTmHDpm_LY1ivVWZbTe4nQWyGqP1iob7OAKENkcjNLaSVouLN0ln4EGtQ9YXItjmpogb8/s1600/Rich+1967+1a.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1565" data-original-width="1600" height="313" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjblHmmaoWyaoqii8FJTedjLxb4pwMxaVpYwiN7Mfi9LYoQUv9vAT-Zh10zfAO5pTmDE0m2ozkTmHDpm_LY1ivVWZbTe4nQWyGqP1iob7OAKENkcjNLaSVouLN0ln4EGtQ9YXItjmpogb8/s320/Rich+1967+1a.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">In this closeup, you get the full, brutal impact of this imagery. This is really something to write home about, isn't it, folks? If you look very closely, you can actually read my name stenciled on my shirt. Because I wouldn't want anyone to steal <b>that</b> shirt! No way!</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">It turned out that
the training we had just received was 'just-in-time' training. The Greene was
about to head to the Caribbean for her 'shake-down' cruise following the refit.
This was done not only to ensure the upgrades all worked properly but to get the
crew working together as a team.</span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> </span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZsB9UUd-H4otKLVepEAb3jsDAeenYbwe6tRNT-vmF_AhuxVBQOc6oNuz3SgDekrpEptSvPcgEmJr-qxnptzhjpcVA3VyuKAlAAXqlfeli-vIIwOQ1F03n2O-SCy-ovy_1P97GjWEmwpg/s1600/Eugene+A+Greene+DD711+30+Vietnam+1966.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="648" data-original-width="995" height="260" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZsB9UUd-H4otKLVepEAb3jsDAeenYbwe6tRNT-vmF_AhuxVBQOc6oNuz3SgDekrpEptSvPcgEmJr-qxnptzhjpcVA3VyuKAlAAXqlfeli-vIIwOQ1F03n2O-SCy-ovy_1P97GjWEmwpg/s400/Eugene+A+Greene+DD711+30+Vietnam+1966.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Of course, we were also going to blast one small island practically out of existence.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> </span>Rich Kleyleinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06851914542167271998noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2676690306756728440.post-33505349266598534852018-06-14T09:53:00.001-04:002018-06-14T09:53:26.002-04:00Navy DD-711 Part VI<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6IB_K1DTubUVF6B7JfApqwZypogepDn-v58Fw4nnN9O3zaghfTr6CRkU94ujQbVRn_DeEfC4Euh2x4CSbHAL32HW5hMaWYT-UvSVcZYZasZArA-i3QwVMeI6o8CIqYwT6bAmWnxO5fuY/s1600/Naval+Academy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="380" data-original-width="600" height="202" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6IB_K1DTubUVF6B7JfApqwZypogepDn-v58Fw4nnN9O3zaghfTr6CRkU94ujQbVRn_DeEfC4Euh2x4CSbHAL32HW5hMaWYT-UvSVcZYZasZArA-i3QwVMeI6o8CIqYwT6bAmWnxO5fuY/s320/Naval+Academy.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">The blind joy associated with all that paint chipping and repainting couldn't go on forever. Sure enough, an end date began looming. But then something happened which distracted me a bit. The scores from all those tests I took during boot camp came back like the ghost of Christmas Past. After six months, one of the officers on board had gotten around to looking at my file and coincidentally had just seen a memo reminding staff that the Naval Academy at Annapolis routinely accepts a few dozen cadets from the enlisted ranks.</span><br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTUQ07ZBlsBB10iCtnUybDtqV_T2pzkmz0clOtWKRK4UEu_nVShSMCOOQfGz43T-lMCGcQcW8Q7R79yIZQxMZh_qOdyEyjHnoTSOwDFnnL1jfrgudaa3WF6wInaXb4yR-CHU_riNinntw/s1600/Rorschach.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="437" data-original-width="447" height="195" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTUQ07ZBlsBB10iCtnUybDtqV_T2pzkmz0clOtWKRK4UEu_nVShSMCOOQfGz43T-lMCGcQcW8Q7R79yIZQxMZh_qOdyEyjHnoTSOwDFnnL1jfrgudaa3WF6wInaXb4yR-CHU_riNinntw/s200/Rorschach.png" width="200" /></a><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">He thought it would be prestigious for the Greene (and his own career) to contribute a candidate. He asked me if I was interested. You know, to get a free college education and a commission. Oh, all right, but I was looking forward to chipping some more paint! </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">So, more tests. But there were also some much more involved physicals including an evaluation of how I would look in uniform. Geez, picky. Then the psychologists! OMG! They desperately wanted to see if I would crack under pressure. I remember one of them examining my fingernails under a magnifying glass and I wanted to know what in the <b>world</b> he was looking for.</span><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEja4V42Z8WsDfBreEkX9iZhyzEDHSKs_OMtGmhSfJ0mz8xaMiNJDT1_TDnIBmjXGx1eDR8zR2x6bqPN91DFokLi8JvKa_VvCusU2Bnh1vyim6ETSGoRm8cCK8mGdoSySqB9C3DblHTo7Lw/s1600/Nail+Biting.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="265" data-original-width="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEja4V42Z8WsDfBreEkX9iZhyzEDHSKs_OMtGmhSfJ0mz8xaMiNJDT1_TDnIBmjXGx1eDR8zR2x6bqPN91DFokLi8JvKa_VvCusU2Bnh1vyim6ETSGoRm8cCK8mGdoSySqB9C3DblHTo7Lw/s1600/Nail+Biting.jpg" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">"I need to make sure you're not biting your nails." This was apparently a sign of deep, untreatable naval psychosis. So, I said, "Oh, no, I can't bite my nails." </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">"<b>What?</b>", he said, looking up at me sharply. "What do you mean by that?" "I can't, they're too hard" and slammed my fingers down - nails first - onto the table a few times. The way he stared, it was clear that in his world what I had just done was impossible. But after a prolonged silence, he just made an impressed face and wrote out a critical-looking note. I'd love to know what he had written! Perhaps '<b>Hard as nails</b>!'. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">So someone somewhere bundled all these findings up, put a bow on them and off they went into the ether. They would 'get back to me'.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">On a Destroyer, everyone has half a dozen jobs. For example, you may have regular daily duties, but a different job to perform during Search and Rescue, another if there is an active fire and another for General Quarters otherwise known as Battle Stations. For your listening pleasure, this is what you hear for General Quarters:</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=B0B8iIYjO4U" target="_blank">https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=B0B8iIYjO4U</a></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Try ignoring <b>that</b>, huh! Since there were quite a few departures from the Greene after the cruise to Vietnam, there were some job functions open. As a result, a flurry of us were sent off to gunnery school in Virginia Beach. We were going to be a team that operated a 5-Inch 38-Caliber cannon.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Cool!</span><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibONLh6tnJnvOBcMRFuU6GdVghqgnhrfW4cA6QaeSXuirrXB8iJxLH-GY3hT-L93MPBpXxxHcMe4yCQL5mh03S0p4r8INP1VPMuh471DPwIGkntfsUQx3mU3i_A6s6ylBcxBbvJ0CGUKc/s1600/Eugene+A+Greene+5in+38cal+02.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="957" data-original-width="1364" height="224" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibONLh6tnJnvOBcMRFuU6GdVghqgnhrfW4cA6QaeSXuirrXB8iJxLH-GY3hT-L93MPBpXxxHcMe4yCQL5mh03S0p4r8INP1VPMuh471DPwIGkntfsUQx3mU3i_A6s6ylBcxBbvJ0CGUKc/s320/Eugene+A+Greene+5in+38cal+02.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">You've seen this gun before on the deck of the Greene, but this is a closeup image, although it's not <b>my</b> particular gun. Technically the weapon is named the Mark 12 5-Inch 38-Caliber Dual Purpose Mount Naval Deck Gun. We wouldn't be breaking in anything new, these guns had been in active use since 1934 and had seen plenty of action in World War II, Korea, Vietnam and elsewhere.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">The '<b>5 Inch</b>' part of the name meant the projectiles it fired were 5 inches wide and the '<b>38 Caliber</b>' part meant the barrel was 38 times longer than the width of the projectile or 190 inches. The '<b>Dual Purpose</b>' part meant it could be used against surface targets and aircraft.</span><br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiO8NV7GV6dEsWfF7fxrcaXb4ygC_DdfIshcUoN8md-8bxBR2eyYYToFX3HhPghMZA1_ZmiTzGuI1Z8bD7SgyucnkrLQL6bMrSOKDJmH4Rb_Y9O0ja8Qrl8YYrsLtI75v1Z2GkDQxGSkqs/s1600/Eugene+A+Greene+5in+38cal+06.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="577" data-original-width="667" height="276" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiO8NV7GV6dEsWfF7fxrcaXb4ygC_DdfIshcUoN8md-8bxBR2eyYYToFX3HhPghMZA1_ZmiTzGuI1Z8bD7SgyucnkrLQL6bMrSOKDJmH4Rb_Y9O0ja8Qrl8YYrsLtI75v1Z2GkDQxGSkqs/s320/Eugene+A+Greene+5in+38cal+06.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">What can be seen above deck is only part of the greater system which is three levels deep. It took a lot of men to operate this thing efficiently. A well coordinated team could fire each barrel 14 times per minute. When fired, each of those 55 pound projectiles could go as far as ten miles. So they had to train us and get us some real life experience or we would kill everything around us including ourselves.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">To get us trained, they scooped the team up and sent us around the corner to Virginia Beach on the Atlantic where we actually got some beach time and I managed to learn a valuable lesson.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> </span>Rich Kleyleinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06851914542167271998noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2676690306756728440.post-20478179790753116872018-06-13T10:07:00.000-04:002018-06-13T12:58:14.483-04:00Navy DD-711 Part V<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbfVcw_B_snrphwfteHgYZoX4JVrtjJZ4RCZtUkFfyaOjd0adx9mFAOMZY9S10sfFN9FwuRxNNGFA-4sK79EgAz3BbtY8Jl1JKD9m9YvSgSNEXEANwCnkO0vVJyD4_nF4YzgqkJKevz34/s1600/Eugene+A+Greene+DD711+41+Insignia+1968.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1038" data-original-width="919" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbfVcw_B_snrphwfteHgYZoX4JVrtjJZ4RCZtUkFfyaOjd0adx9mFAOMZY9S10sfFN9FwuRxNNGFA-4sK79EgAz3BbtY8Jl1JKD9m9YvSgSNEXEANwCnkO0vVJyD4_nF4YzgqkJKevz34/s320/Eugene+A+Greene+DD711+41+Insignia+1968.JPG" width="283" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">The Greene as a Destroyer was primarily an anti-submarine weapon. A sub killer. It's even part of the ship's insignia. I really struggled with that Latin phrase, it seems to be saying:</span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> 'S</span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">tate an</span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">d Clears Prepared'. Really? What does that have to do with laxatives? </span><br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1hfEkntizSxeXutd_yNvw5uDpmjmQTZ6ELLXfur1ebITuOn7Yl_HXaIz2p8jUBnAS4hfXYYGyu83h9EEdnpaDj___e9NQoGTj-gHvROFlb2P59BuFCcInl0h9vbYxaASFADUEBeEBkFY/s1600/Eugene+A+Greene+DD711+02+Patch.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="407" data-original-width="315" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1hfEkntizSxeXutd_yNvw5uDpmjmQTZ6ELLXfur1ebITuOn7Yl_HXaIz2p8jUBnAS4hfXYYGyu83h9EEdnpaDj___e9NQoGTj-gHvROFlb2P59BuFCcInl0h9vbYxaASFADUEBeEBkFY/s320/Eugene+A+Greene+DD711+02+Patch.jpg" width="247" /></a><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">On the ship's patch is an English phrase: On the Affirmative Way'. Hmm? I think I like</span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> 'S</span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">tate an</span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">d Clears Prepared' better.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Well, choose whichever phrase you'd like. At least the dice make sense. There was also a tradition to blast a song whenever we pulled up alongside another vessel. The song was '<b>Green, Green</b>' by the New Christy Minstrels. If you're bored you can listen to it here.</span></span><br />
<br />
<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PfxgbsXeTdE" target="_blank">https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PfxgbsXeTdE</a><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I always loved that the lyrics include "Say, buddy, can you spare me a dime?" Because, you know, we're homeless and we're worthless and we have no money. It really lifted my spirits.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">At this point, I was sending a lot of my paycheck home because I was still making the car payments on the car I had given to my father. It was his first relatively new car since I had bought it less than a year before. The money was going home via <b>money order</b>, ever heard of them? People without a checking account (like my parents) had to pay their bills in person or buy a money order at 7-11 for the amount plus fifty or seventy-five cents and then mail in the money order. My parents refused to get a checking account because they said it would cost too much. ... ... Yeah, I know, I tried, but they never got a checking account.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRw2n0LWS3Lqyup-ZNGuPYiuspwSVpaVy-EX7WNcl8W9fM-rlAPr77AOFnFPtupiEz04e56KPEBlzZLtkPPefIvJD3dI2C4yxaM55y8Df8SuUFY1FTYNVnl9ri3weKsqyvicHOMD_CsrE/s1600/Loan+Shark.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="558" data-original-width="568" height="314" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRw2n0LWS3Lqyup-ZNGuPYiuspwSVpaVy-EX7WNcl8W9fM-rlAPr77AOFnFPtupiEz04e56KPEBlzZLtkPPefIvJD3dI2C4yxaM55y8Df8SuUFY1FTYNVnl9ri3weKsqyvicHOMD_CsrE/s320/Loan+Shark.JPG" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">But even sending that car payment home I always seemed to have more money than everyone else and they were always running out like the day after payday. So I developed a pretty lucrative loansharking business. Calm down, I never overcharged and I only loaned money to my friends so I never had to break anyone's legs. In retrospect, I was only providing a </span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">service based on a clearly defined consumer need. That's what I tell myself anyway.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">The base where we were doing our refit was as big as a small town. There was every kind of mechanical shop you can image along with human niceties like bowling alleys and restaurants and a huge gym which I used all the time. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">But after working all day, sometimes you wanted to get those grimy clothes off, wash the paint chips away and go have a drink. In this illegally taken photo, someone kindly captured the essence of Rich the sailor-boy standing with my friend Owens who had no first name. Look how happy and filthy I am! I was probably going to be leaving the ship soon.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsBF6PypJlFz1AEw1GV5OlD3lsAnFrWWz-JUhywgr7epGs5EXUKzjKI3OCMXWbRQLq6XvTtliEREG_nW5Bgg9wjwSeGRfuKGTomf1r7FsvUomgS-DpkFycgXY9aZXI8W46CJxdYEqnDzU/s1600/Rich+1967+3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1067" data-original-width="1600" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsBF6PypJlFz1AEw1GV5OlD3lsAnFrWWz-JUhywgr7epGs5EXUKzjKI3OCMXWbRQLq6XvTtliEREG_nW5Bgg9wjwSeGRfuKGTomf1r7FsvUomgS-DpkFycgXY9aZXI8W46CJxdYEqnDzU/s400/Rich+1967+3.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">But no one wanted to go into town in uniform. You were treated much better if you were in civilian clothes. Some businesses had signs posted that read '<b>No Dogs or Sailors Allowed</b>'. However, when you left the ship, you had to be in uniform and that created a conundrum. </span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjG176XgwYLMH43R_tqD3BOZEI483jk_UCGRlxg58MEcHqpTh3Uq6uN2wE_UYk8nW9GojftqR9GYL6tuoDGqI7uKmfi5i9tM8yFsaBBZWjKykkYQcrRY77RBSeqE6GINZUpbW56OtSUYnk/s1600/No+Sailors.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="535" data-original-width="663" height="258" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjG176XgwYLMH43R_tqD3BOZEI483jk_UCGRlxg58MEcHqpTh3Uq6uN2wE_UYk8nW9GojftqR9GYL6tuoDGqI7uKmfi5i9tM8yFsaBBZWjKykkYQcrRY77RBSeqE6GINZUpbW56OtSUYnk/s320/No+Sailors.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">This collision of worlds was solved by entrepreneurs who developed a system of locker rooms which they built right outside the base gates. You could rent a locker and keep your civilian clothes off base and change and shower right there. </span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3mEJ089ySm_ho-I80pjAwr5mxTnE8dp8yoWVbyfrQJaFgOeK3EUE2aZn11s_sbg5y_DRau97_hBZo-Tc-DRvCZwVFuk6zShJsmDTd1n7Jq6BJDT8BpJ11V2upfGJLoLLPZavVNfvJ9nI/s1600/Drunken+Sailor.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="296" data-original-width="270" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3mEJ089ySm_ho-I80pjAwr5mxTnE8dp8yoWVbyfrQJaFgOeK3EUE2aZn11s_sbg5y_DRau97_hBZo-Tc-DRvCZwVFuk6zShJsmDTd1n7Jq6BJDT8BpJ11V2upfGJLoLLPZavVNfvJ9nI/s320/Drunken+Sailor.jpg" width="289" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Many of them also ran a bar, a tailor and a laundry so when you came back at the end of the evening, you gave them your disgusting, sometimes bloody clothes and they would be ready for you next time around. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">This was the true essence of capitalism, the creation of a service based on a clearly defined consumer need. Even if the consumers were sailors.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> </span>Rich Kleyleinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06851914542167271998noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2676690306756728440.post-80833009059877453032018-06-12T09:59:00.001-04:002018-06-12T12:16:47.968-04:00Navy DD-711 Part IV<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1C0RzEHIMJfOjv-Sq7Wr6i9UJMqkOe8WvGxNG5WfRiz8P4kMmtgKrZKC7O_hJ3rZMclTc1I-3pcCgcfm5Ytm1Sld3Fat6HvcH3gz4Ofmq0WJzpLrR2n7YV7_NPwzins0Mwaq4lz57bN8/s1600/Eugene+A+Greene+DD711+09.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="422" data-original-width="530" height="254" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1C0RzEHIMJfOjv-Sq7Wr6i9UJMqkOe8WvGxNG5WfRiz8P4kMmtgKrZKC7O_hJ3rZMclTc1I-3pcCgcfm5Ytm1Sld3Fat6HvcH3gz4Ofmq0WJzpLrR2n7YV7_NPwzins0Mwaq4lz57bN8/s320/Eugene+A+Greene+DD711+09.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">There were always watches to be held aboard ship. Since the Greene was now deep inside a Naval Base, watches were mostly to keep an eye out for fire. But we did have some advanced weaponry on board. Beside the cannons and anti-aircraft guns, the torpedoes and depth charges, there were cruise missiles and DASH - a Drone Anti-Submarine Helicopter.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6RlFB5KrpMTZZf7mvZVf_ghZLxNwarkL7Bo-ggYqVGnTgeUmyBzO6rvw4f72Va0LRAnxOTw3eJXQyc9NMY13-J5khGx6MnDWrHuUtzVUPx9WRIZ_tvQu72fEZ9rLGBZZZNDIOXpZsuHo/s1600/Eugene+A+Greene+DD711+53+DASH+1968.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="884" data-original-width="978" height="289" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6RlFB5KrpMTZZf7mvZVf_ghZLxNwarkL7Bo-ggYqVGnTgeUmyBzO6rvw4f72Va0LRAnxOTw3eJXQyc9NMY13-J5khGx6MnDWrHuUtzVUPx9WRIZ_tvQu72fEZ9rLGBZZZNDIOXpZsuHo/s320/Eugene+A+Greene+DD711+53+DASH+1968.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">The DASH was pretty cool considering this was all happening more than fifty years ago. So the watches were at least to some degree security minded what with the tactical nuclear devices and all.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Watches were kept 24 hours a day, usually four hours long with the worst being the dreaded 'midwatch' which ran from midnight to 4 AM. The mess always had coffee going and would cook up some chicken noodle soup for the midwatch people so they wouldn't pass out and fall overboard.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I was a little surprised to discover that while in port the concept of 'weekends' existed. I just thought they would work us like rented mules except for rare instances of liberty. But even during the rehab of drydock, if we didn't have duty, we were usually granted liberty. Let me be clear, if we <b>could</b> get off the ship, we <b>got</b> off the ship. Since the drinking age was 18, there were all the bars in the world to choose from.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Along the main drag of Norfolk were bars, cheap restaurants, a couple movie theaters, and at the end of the street, the Douglas MacArthur Memorial. Speaking of movies, this one time I went to town early intending to meet up with my friends at some bar or other. But mid-day, I went to see 'Casino Royale' with Peter Sellers. </span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmmXYMIKN5w_-zIbrQDw71Sffzqr9jD6x-pcCQV6-8Bd5t49u9ppSp6hsOQmCQZ2nT16exCHizq3Xix60iWrFoXSBmOrotE5tYr4R7tRTiHchk6MstvGlLoZFZoieXrdawl2Z9uNmLuk8/s1600/Casino+Royale.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="798" data-original-width="1024" height="249" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmmXYMIKN5w_-zIbrQDw71Sffzqr9jD6x-pcCQV6-8Bd5t49u9ppSp6hsOQmCQZ2nT16exCHizq3Xix60iWrFoXSBmOrotE5tYr4R7tRTiHchk6MstvGlLoZFZoieXrdawl2Z9uNmLuk8/s320/Casino+Royale.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">In those days, there was something called 'continuous showings'. When the feature ended, the theater went right into the previews and then the feature started again with no 'lights up' time in between. So I sat there and watched that movie over and over until the theater closed. I've never done anything like that before or since. No other movie ever deserved it.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Even though it was very uneven and had maybe five different directors, Casino Royale was hysterical then and I still watch it whenever it comes on TV. Why, I could watch it again right now!</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgP0N7-vZniqp9rUakV50auK4aSM_QSNPcdxNdUMUBWA_lOptzFHxvVz0jiNgR9WTpRPs_okOLa4khsuTyCrzw7jQCS_XKXqOYl13RKYxUj_XcyGrxrIbHdmSrIIXXG9pKXmRTjKpXlucI/s1600/Smoking.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="252" data-original-width="200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgP0N7-vZniqp9rUakV50auK4aSM_QSNPcdxNdUMUBWA_lOptzFHxvVz0jiNgR9WTpRPs_okOLa4khsuTyCrzw7jQCS_XKXqOYl13RKYxUj_XcyGrxrIbHdmSrIIXXG9pKXmRTjKpXlucI/s320/Smoking.jpg" width="253" /></a><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Practically everyone on the ship smoked and they all made fun of me for <b>not</b> smoking. But even then I just told them I was rebelling against my parents by not smoking. This always amused me. The phrase 'The smoking lamp is now lit' meant nothing for me!</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Our days were spent around paint. Paint, paint, paint. Taking paint off and putting it on. Taking it off and putting it on. First red lead, the primer and then some shade of grey. But first we had to take the old, tired paint off. To do that trick, the first tool we used was the pneumatic needlegun which shoots metal rods in a repetitive pattern out of the end of the device with the side effect of loosening your teeth. </span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBXAXjKv8bYOgBkcWEMEkl3kKp00yBKRgOit3cHUsufSjRULSuGusQ27PbsxPWJJ7mzAsWynv91zhzosBj5EEbqjIuaVkkKU5DWmzzXzRbf40wL_qYV2esHYDm8ONbMt1spmtlJJH1lvc/s1600/Needlegun.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1065" data-original-width="1600" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBXAXjKv8bYOgBkcWEMEkl3kKp00yBKRgOit3cHUsufSjRULSuGusQ27PbsxPWJJ7mzAsWynv91zhzosBj5EEbqjIuaVkkKU5DWmzzXzRbf40wL_qYV2esHYDm8ONbMt1spmtlJJH1lvc/s320/Needlegun.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Only on infrequent occasions would one of the needles disconnect from their little cage and shoot someone in the leg. The slamming action it performed would burst any loose paint off the surface and into your eyes and mouth where it evidently belonged. The person in this photo is wearing eye protection. Hah! Not in 1967, such an innovation had not been invented.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4AlZw-pJ1crVUUtR1KzaPB7M4KcNS1tc3A-gqZ-jaIbt_i3M-17mrQtFx_t_oBagjcfwDBkfINb1cbW1uG3nMSI0mTrOPbuojZveZgMeAK5Kw7UVQewYv4ePknwnpDoyszFwqDQDKuso/s1600/Disk+Sander.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="201" data-original-width="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4AlZw-pJ1crVUUtR1KzaPB7M4KcNS1tc3A-gqZ-jaIbt_i3M-17mrQtFx_t_oBagjcfwDBkfINb1cbW1uG3nMSI0mTrOPbuojZveZgMeAK5Kw7UVQewYv4ePknwnpDoyszFwqDQDKuso/s1600/Disk+Sander.jpg" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">The other main device was the pneumatic disk sander. The thing would sand the remaining paint off in a dust cloud that would enter your lungs and stay there killing you. The trouble with this monster was that after using it for ten hours, it seemed to actually get heavier. And when you're the tall guy who can reach much higher than other people, most of your sanding is done over your head where it got even heavier.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdgnTFs252T9svgxj3N72Cjv4dtmBCvPdxVKewo_72PqS6yuF1DyK0HI9rHOEdG0EdTnGR9cCywgUiXlZEPK9vVrms42b3Dnf4GrjAq2Kftv2fp8JTtjGZ9N4x1ar7TX1LGiAUL6Mtl6k/s1600/Bleeding+Knee.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="620" data-original-width="1044" height="190" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdgnTFs252T9svgxj3N72Cjv4dtmBCvPdxVKewo_72PqS6yuF1DyK0HI9rHOEdG0EdTnGR9cCywgUiXlZEPK9vVrms42b3Dnf4GrjAq2Kftv2fp8JTtjGZ9N4x1ar7TX1LGiAUL6Mtl6k/s320/Bleeding+Knee.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Sure enough, I brought it down one time right onto my knee. <b>CHING!</b> Cut a huge groove in my kneecap. You might not think there was that much blood in the kneecap area... but there <b>is</b></span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">! Enough to run down your leg and fill up your boot so that as you walked to sick bay, you would leave bloody footprints behind you. And of course, your shipmates are yelling at you because now they're going to have to mop up all that blood and that was inconveniencing them. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Yes, the scar is still there and the groove is still in my kneecap and I still hate my friends. Good times.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> </span>Rich Kleyleinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06851914542167271998noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2676690306756728440.post-1110196952954195902018-06-11T10:08:00.000-04:002018-09-25T14:29:11.860-04:00Navy DD-711 Part III<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguFW7mW19QOqnkigoNk-3tTvwU52n_GOSm1G0Gz1RYJdo6rDE54yiDmN2nyAWQyb_43d4ilq-eFcZysZY2aUjPDJSMGDwcQnLb7JRQMAIGky2mTy33GWdWH_MoOL7t8w08mzeZBr5NpIA/s1600/Eugene+A+Greene+DD711+63+Kitchen+1968.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="872" data-original-width="760" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguFW7mW19QOqnkigoNk-3tTvwU52n_GOSm1G0Gz1RYJdo6rDE54yiDmN2nyAWQyb_43d4ilq-eFcZysZY2aUjPDJSMGDwcQnLb7JRQMAIGky2mTy33GWdWH_MoOL7t8w08mzeZBr5NpIA/s320/Eugene+A+Greene+DD711+63+Kitchen+1968.JPG" width="278" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Eating was a major event, it was that 'change of pace' that broke up the day and we ate like kings. The food in the Navy was always top-notch. There were steaks and crab cakes and the first time I ever had lobster tails was on board the Greene. But the enlisted mess deck only held maybe 40 or 50 men so there was no dawdling over brandy and cigars. You got in, you got out and sometimes you had to take your food elsewhere. Once in while they would have a cookout on the fantail and on Sundays they would serve brunch all morning in case someone could sleep.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">This photo above is an actual photo in the galley of the Greene and this man from the Philippines is about five feet tall. Now picture me at six foot four hunched over like a vulture. I always dreaded mess duty, it took me another week to recover my ability to stand.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhXZjhx9fm1Fu_qYeFHFirBi5IiHofnxkWWmj2ie3Z7TLxCapjyuQawqAoPE0zF5JYB5x1jGzYnA89pO3SJZ7tP9bGhx-feH-z9bBJgjcQs78JtCV4UO7zGaH70yzevWgvyfTPBcZFGgY/s1600/Eugene+A+Greene+DD711+57+Brooms+1968.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="986" data-original-width="1072" height="294" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhXZjhx9fm1Fu_qYeFHFirBi5IiHofnxkWWmj2ie3Z7TLxCapjyuQawqAoPE0zF5JYB5x1jGzYnA89pO3SJZ7tP9bGhx-feH-z9bBJgjcQs78JtCV4UO7zGaH70yzevWgvyfTPBcZFGgY/s320/Eugene+A+Greene+DD711+57+Brooms+1968.JPG" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">The morning opened with reveille and these orders: "</span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Sweepers, Sweepers, man your brooms. Give the ship a good clean sweep
down both fore and aft! Sweep down all decks, ladders and passageways!
Dump all garbage clear of the fantail! Sweepers." The ocean is still clogged with all the brooms thrown overboard because as soon as we could, they were tossed and we went down for breakfast. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">You may notice that the normal daily uniform was just jeans and a blue work shirt. You only wore your dress uniform on board for arriving and departing port. And these were 'working' dress uniforms, we would never wear them for liberty... heavens!</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">And, yes, all our uniform pants had bell bottoms. No, not for style or tradition but because large bell bottomed pant legs could be quickly and easily folded up when the deck was awash.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Fun on board the ship took two forms: leaving the ship as soon and often as we could and fighting. There was no TV and the ship's library was a single shelf of books maybe three feet long. The nightly diversion was a movie shown in the crew's mess. Since it's more difficult than you might think to fit 250 men into a space that accommodates no more than 50, disagreements arose and were rarely settled via negotiation and compromise. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Since we all carried large knives which were required for our jobs, it is amazing we had the discipline not to carve one another up like Thanksgiving turkeys. But the fist fights and food fights would put any fraternity to shame. It's interesting to note that when you see people punching one another in movies, they may show teeth getting knocked out, but they never explain that teeth are hard and sharp and can take chunks out of your knuckles. and when those chunks are right on the bendy parts of your fingers, it can take weeks to finally heal. {The more you know!}</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Our first actual cruise took us from Norfolk to Portsmouth, Virginia. That sounds cool, but it was only a couple of miles around the harbor. Because the Greene was going into drydock and the level of paint chipping and scraping and sanding and painting was about to reach monumental proportions.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">But, be that as it may, I had now been on an actual warship underway under it's own steam. It was really very interesting to feel the rumble of the big engines. Because who knows what might happen next!</span><br />
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Rich Kleyleinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06851914542167271998noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2676690306756728440.post-27198059942973252422018-06-10T11:15:00.000-04:002018-06-10T11:24:35.999-04:00Navy DD-711 Part II<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLrBwjUxk3dOcjElAkcjaIVqSgT4YTqWvR3aibuT6Gk5dQJxoxvrawOao_jMg2M0r8H4YlxQpdSLIMGee9Wpc7FSvrx5YwZqoUctfHz86JtPQoI50Fd9iJw4i3K0b5Ix7eXxW5fvsWlAo/s1600/Fire+Control.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="361" data-original-width="688" height="167" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLrBwjUxk3dOcjElAkcjaIVqSgT4YTqWvR3aibuT6Gk5dQJxoxvrawOao_jMg2M0r8H4YlxQpdSLIMGee9Wpc7FSvrx5YwZqoUctfHz86JtPQoI50Fd9iJw4i3K0b5Ix7eXxW5fvsWlAo/s320/Fire+Control.JPG" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Coming out of boot camp, I had been targeted with the rating (job function) named Fire Control. Before you get all excited and think, OOOooo, a <b>fireman</b>!... No. No. 'Fire Control' in this instance means the technicians who handle the computers that target, aim and fire the ship's weapons. This symbol is for the Fire Control rating. So, long before I ended up at Eastern Airlines at their computer division, the Navy had somehow figured out my facility for computer-work even at this early stage. I guess all those tests we were taking weren't just for fun.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">But you don't get to be president of the company without having to do some work first (usually), so all the new kids went into First Division. Here were the actual sailors who did sailor-stuff on the ship, steering the boat, loading stores, chipping paint, you know... sailor-stuff. The people who worked permanently in First Division came under the rating Boatswain's Mate, pronounced Bosun's Mate. This symbol is for the Boatswain's Mate</span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> rating</span>. Look, they're <b>anchors</b>! </span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzASmpZqspw4mk1U7b6DTZA3BF8PsZ85TCwoGntwhzr2fL59PpL5FrP07iDadQRRD_BnQKXMWUG2u5JAM9hO0H3e_Y6sUIij8D5JHurcg3B5dcXOfdVICltJROlENqCr4ba9NrE24wMmY/s1600/Eugene+A+Greene+DD711+44a+Lennox%252C++R+BM2+1968.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="979" data-original-width="793" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzASmpZqspw4mk1U7b6DTZA3BF8PsZ85TCwoGntwhzr2fL59PpL5FrP07iDadQRRD_BnQKXMWUG2u5JAM9hO0H3e_Y6sUIij8D5JHurcg3B5dcXOfdVICltJROlENqCr4ba9NrE24wMmY/s320/Eugene+A+Greene+DD711+44a+Lennox%252C++R+BM2+1968.JPG" width="259" /></a><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">My immediate superior was a Boatswain's Mate Petty Office Second Class named Lennox. I should have already pointed out that no one I encountered in the Navy ever used a first name, so I have no idea what his first name was or even if he had one. But he was responsible for my performance ratings which were always high and had pivoted on one event early on. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Often, people would take the attitude, "If you're not watching me, then you don't care and I'm not working." But BM2 Lennox had taken me high into the mainmast rigging where I had to work alone scraping and painting some equipment. There was only room for one person to hang on so he left and when he came back I was just finishing up what had been a considerable amount of work. I think he was so surprised, he nearly fell to his death.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">After that, he knew he could trust me to do work unsupervised, which freed him up to drink more coffee and this pleased him. Coffee was available 24 hours a day and many of the career men were never seen without a coffee cup on their finger. Even when they were sleeping or showering.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCIK5jjaKpaij1C58kaBtRSwXLam7r-N4qqIxXp6pKv5E6_mTzTzUI6aPewO592yhXrsxnfp5yTkj0fsFuhj4hD8mg68V6lw_zBszJMlcHUUdlAVaX8Fk3hmY4cwtxjvs7s8OD566lCOI/s1600/Eugene+A+Greene+5in+38cal+03+711.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="511" data-original-width="793" height="206" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCIK5jjaKpaij1C58kaBtRSwXLam7r-N4qqIxXp6pKv5E6_mTzTzUI6aPewO592yhXrsxnfp5yTkj0fsFuhj4hD8mg68V6lw_zBszJMlcHUUdlAVaX8Fk3hmY4cwtxjvs7s8OD566lCOI/s320/Eugene+A+Greene+5in+38cal+03+711.png" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">The sleeping area for First Division was arguably the harshest on board. But at least air conditioning had been added before the ship had gone off to Vietnam. Our racks were located at the very front of the ship under the forecastle which is pronounced 'FO</span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">'ksul'. This is the part of a ship that rises and falls the most when driving through seas. It was right under that forward 5 inch 38 caliber cannon destined to become <b>my</b> cannon. Compare sleeping there versus the stern section nearest the fantail which remains calmer and flatter even at high speed. Yeah, well, if you want the whole experience, then <b>have</b> the whole experience!</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Our living/sleeping/studying/entertainment/recreation area was one thin rack in a stack of three </span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">with a thin mattress </span>and one locker just big enough for our clothes. The lockers were built-in to fit the shape of the ship so no two were the same size or shape. When someone left the ship for a new assignment, imagine what happened when he emptied his locker! Of course, I could only fit in my rack sideways or with my knees bent. Oh, and if you wanted to stand up straight and you were my height, well, good luck, buddy! </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiedbNf0IBOoKOosNn2V9P2SYaiqgLwsDIo0i7BHoXXhujWoWdwdSPNxGG8AbFujZBz-pgKviPhu1dkAwCUkqKj4OeZXvJTjSH_yzvxmzIxI-PNh_1XFK_GAlzl9MXHGvcjZFzlAShwgvQ/s1600/Eugene+A+Greene+DD711+56+Overhead+1968.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="777" data-original-width="1600" height="193" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiedbNf0IBOoKOosNn2V9P2SYaiqgLwsDIo0i7BHoXXhujWoWdwdSPNxGG8AbFujZBz-pgKviPhu1dkAwCUkqKj4OeZXvJTjSH_yzvxmzIxI-PNh_1XFK_GAlzl9MXHGvcjZFzlAShwgvQ/s400/Eugene+A+Greene+DD711+56+Overhead+1968.JPG" width="400" /></a></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Only once while I was on board did we haul those mattresses up topside to beat them with sticks and give them a little sun to air out. But this was a real, working Navy ship with a job to do and responsibilities to perform. The Greene had been part of the Cuban Missile Blockade, capsule recovery for both the Mercury and Gemini space programs and had been around and around the world. It's a thing.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNUAk04UPpjADeWCwsGsYX1_M-g5oMaiJmJMSJSXoUB7KjMiPVjb7MxcRC53dYIfIlL4OhtXv5F7OpuWjF5CXVv94tm3NJQ1TNJ2dfTf05VeghVNcZufSXiOBs6L6UdwoSbFwqruQT2s8/s1600/Eugene+A+Greene+DD711+08+La+Spezia%252C+Italy+May+28%252C+1970.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="644" data-original-width="1024" height="251" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNUAk04UPpjADeWCwsGsYX1_M-g5oMaiJmJMSJSXoUB7KjMiPVjb7MxcRC53dYIfIlL4OhtXv5F7OpuWjF5CXVv94tm3NJQ1TNJ2dfTf05VeghVNcZufSXiOBs6L6UdwoSbFwqruQT2s8/s400/Eugene+A+Greene+DD711+08+La+Spezia%252C+Italy+May+28%252C+1970.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Look where I was at the very top of that mainmast above the bridge and I didn't fall off and get killed or <b>anything</b>!</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> </span>Rich Kleyleinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06851914542167271998noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2676690306756728440.post-72758847771553578762018-06-09T15:55:00.000-04:002018-06-09T16:23:40.611-04:00Navy DD-711 Part I <br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh65d6UDquEXi8RrtiosjnPvaul0xnCj8Uls9zK9WS8hd2MvOy6n7_rd-S9J4CddY865AmKLoGa6RW1fzObgO2JEkrkeT7TsuWfxACrY7O3XYYU4-WlwwUI4JeBhtVeDzMyiwHOjZf7jt0/s1600/Great+Lakes.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="855" data-original-width="803" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh65d6UDquEXi8RrtiosjnPvaul0xnCj8Uls9zK9WS8hd2MvOy6n7_rd-S9J4CddY865AmKLoGa6RW1fzObgO2JEkrkeT7TsuWfxACrY7O3XYYU4-WlwwUI4JeBhtVeDzMyiwHOjZf7jt0/s320/Great+Lakes.JPG" width="300" /></a><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">When I left my Boot Camp barracks, I had no idea I would never be able to return. Not that I <b>wouldn't</b> return, I <b>couldn't</b> return.The recruit buildings are gone. Gone right down to the ground and nothing built where they were. Just grass. Other buildings are still standing on the base after 150 years, but these brand new, modern, concrete structures are gone. Was it because of me? Was it so fouled by my presence that the whole building I was in and the dozens like it all had to go? Who made this decision? Geez. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">But pondering a return to Great Lakes was not on my priority list as I reported to the Eugene A. Greene on December 17, 1966. This trip was a little different from reporting to boot camp. This time, I was completely on my own. Yes, there were going to be a couple of guys from my recruit company, but I hardly knew them. However, I was probably not the first kid to go through this, so... tough it out, dude.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGdx0IoXzVxR57iQbQBKKp4wxV5LuZuNJnqzbtmh8UW9FRWZJw0uEBEWnbgT9677y1sZP593asRifLeEvR5opN7c5HuJW7ryLqSEFu17_e2DKJPPdMe6h0GTkrhEYOka9Xswl3rm4ym6o/s1600/Ship+Comparison+1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="537" data-original-width="897" height="190" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGdx0IoXzVxR57iQbQBKKp4wxV5LuZuNJnqzbtmh8UW9FRWZJw0uEBEWnbgT9677y1sZP593asRifLeEvR5opN7c5HuJW7ryLqSEFu17_e2DKJPPdMe6h0GTkrhEYOka9Xswl3rm4ym6o/s320/Ship+Comparison+1.JPG" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Norfolk, Virginia is a huge Navy town and there</span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> was a whole area designated just for Destroyers. My ship had come in (get it?) so I made my way to Tin Can Alley. The euphemism for a Destroyer is 'Tin Can' or just 'Can' because it is a relatively lightly armored, relatively small and very fast little boat that can actually feel the sea. The bigger warships are more like ocean liners that can smooth out the waves, but compared to them a Destroyer bounces on the ocean like a tin can.</span></span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgccaEHmajuVz6hoeTOA14cfEzxknd7chIUEoMnBcLk_YxCXQRfUE5WgnebfiCUwTR5mFBB6NBKY6QHyGu_wOoGMU8ORPwTECWg0_X386TgQhBZxQUck3Zvywand78iv6Z6HNbKSieXmrM/s1600/Eugene+A+Greene.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="406" data-original-width="300" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgccaEHmajuVz6hoeTOA14cfEzxknd7chIUEoMnBcLk_YxCXQRfUE5WgnebfiCUwTR5mFBB6NBKY6QHyGu_wOoGMU8ORPwTECWg0_X386TgQhBZxQUck3Zvywand78iv6Z6HNbKSieXmrM/s400/Eugene+A+Greene.jpg" width="295" /></a><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">The Eugene A. Greene was named for... wait for it... Eugene A. Greene! He was a Navy pilot who was killed in action in 1942 during the Battle of Midway. The Navy has a naming convention for their classes of ships and it was decided long ago to name Destroyers after Naval leaders and heroes. His wife actually christened the ship when it was launched in 1945.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">So the E. A. Greene was already 21 years old when I arrived on board. That was the very day it had arrived from a really long deployment to Vietnam. That's why so many new sailors were coming aboard and we had to jump out of the way of those leaving, many whose enlistments were up. They would have pushed us right off the gangplank.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">This photo below was taken the year I joined the ship so that's very much how it looked. </span></span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOp72FurbTe11ULcTOzeYKZuFNXTU-uC2jWYQq3rO3wYsFUN6T9nkgiMPpxuVWz_QpMXuKkwq6TdD6BNA8TRATyxgXrHXgIaSeufnQtBWIPjhn62TdtzMhfRHtBqpZs46PCf38bVDvqh0/s1600/Eugene+A+Greene+DD711+29+1966.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="501" data-original-width="790" height="252" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOp72FurbTe11ULcTOzeYKZuFNXTU-uC2jWYQq3rO3wYsFUN6T9nkgiMPpxuVWz_QpMXuKkwq6TdD6BNA8TRATyxgXrHXgIaSeufnQtBWIPjhn62TdtzMhfRHtBqpZs46PCf38bVDvqh0/s400/Eugene+A+Greene+DD711+29+1966.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">The specifications for this class of Destroyer call for a ship's crew of 336 officers and men. That's right, no women at that point. With that many men jammed on a World War II era boat, I don't know where they would have stayed anyway. Neither the sleeping areas nor bathrooms were fitted for 'privacy'. There was no such thing. Look at the size of her! Even after a major refitting where missiles and other armament were added and the crew reduced to 14 officers and 260 enlisted men, that was 274 people who lived, worked, ate and slept with nowhere else to go. You were never alone. </span></span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFSGRHy-mA7pAQ4MmGCBGDNKKX1x7lzSrRS_IN8IFUNi57nBABA-7bRzWADHq-bgZwuixRBkFPqXyCbdjwBVPAQWSHObFLVQLuac0fqkT-t7J8qCqHYW7TFB4vzaRMCDrtIPYKF6xXues/s1600/Eugene+A+Greene+DD711+26+Italy+October+1+1956.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="636" data-original-width="1024" height="198" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFSGRHy-mA7pAQ4MmGCBGDNKKX1x7lzSrRS_IN8IFUNi57nBABA-7bRzWADHq-bgZwuixRBkFPqXyCbdjwBVPAQWSHObFLVQLuac0fqkT-t7J8qCqHYW7TFB4vzaRMCDrtIPYKF6xXues/s320/Eugene+A+Greene+DD711+26+Italy+October+1+1956.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Destroyers don't get individual moorings next to a pier. They are usually stacked outward, so you may have to walk through multiple ships to get to yours. Each time you board and depart a ship, you salute the ensign (flag) at the stern (back end) of the ship and then the Officer of the Day (OOD). So if you're on the third ship moored out from the pier, you have some saluting to do, pal.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">When I came aboard, I presented my orders and was instructed that I had been assigned to First Division.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> </span></span>Rich Kleyleinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06851914542167271998noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2676690306756728440.post-58404298597427914302018-06-04T09:45:00.001-04:002018-06-04T09:45:56.812-04:00Navy Boot Camp Part IV<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhIQQQTtRjF9hl7B5ynPovEfarb0Kf09Y0iMCYzzJQWL7CMflhefMX-ZcKqtcfMYsOPi4BSmyp98M3gD3praA1uDZ0JFGIzWsOG4gD76sT9dRBx3uxa8cjTKNoZuTDDYQUKxOlMmoAx8c/s1600/Spitshine.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="375" data-original-width="500" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhIQQQTtRjF9hl7B5ynPovEfarb0Kf09Y0iMCYzzJQWL7CMflhefMX-ZcKqtcfMYsOPi4BSmyp98M3gD3praA1uDZ0JFGIzWsOG4gD76sT9dRBx3uxa8cjTKNoZuTDDYQUKxOlMmoAx8c/s320/Spitshine.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">One of the things Boot Camp spends an inordinate amount of time on was polishing shoes. We polished the <b>hell</b> out of our shoes. We used a technique called 'spit-shining'. It was the diluting of the polish with, well... spit or... water if you wished. The combination allowed the polish to get deeper into the pores of the leather and fill them to create the desired reflection. And reflect they did, I got mine to the point you could easily see your facial features.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh02C7NZOaT5JNttw0u6Rh_-BbB6vyV3qyypVdCNZ4GqJPeZHM5rLOf1HwE0bkGgvuubYkYUBYvicDTuBa42v8p3Jdox9gYKXtJbdNcpvcai6UOSGTw3ywKf0wbHyXZDDw7RrWDa5jVyGI/s1600/Leggings.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="410" data-original-width="605" height="216" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh02C7NZOaT5JNttw0u6Rh_-BbB6vyV3qyypVdCNZ4GqJPeZHM5rLOf1HwE0bkGgvuubYkYUBYvicDTuBa42v8p3Jdox9gYKXtJbdNcpvcai6UOSGTw3ywKf0wbHyXZDDw7RrWDa5jVyGI/s320/Leggings.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Then, above the boots, all day, every day, we wore leggings. No, not the skin-tight, girly 'leggings' of today but the same kind of canvas leggings used during World War II. You may recall seeing this image from a couple of blog posts ago. They held your pant legs tightly around your ankles and in our instance, kept our new bell bottomed pants from flapping in the breeze. </span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKX8xuiB48mNkC_4_Uwa3-eUV7wbyQbMH1nA4tfXrHzoO7fiKndooaCqgtWPjBj_6GJTYHISLikztB1GPZDhmLJbsphDKLvvlRC_dpXxqwgKR_kJobwrMnJsjqJtThyB9L3Fbh5veYErk/s1600/Leggings+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1121" data-original-width="1600" height="224" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKX8xuiB48mNkC_4_Uwa3-eUV7wbyQbMH1nA4tfXrHzoO7fiKndooaCqgtWPjBj_6GJTYHISLikztB1GPZDhmLJbsphDKLvvlRC_dpXxqwgKR_kJobwrMnJsjqJtThyB9L3Fbh5veYErk/s320/Leggings+2.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Perhaps you remember that Navy uniforms are different during different times of the year. In warm weather, the uniforms are cool white cotton. In colder weather, they are dark blue ('navy') wool. Wool as in <b>Wool</b>. One hundred percent wool. Killer wool. To wear the leggings, you had to wrap the woolen pant legs tightly around your leg and when the leggings were added, they kept that wool tight. Yesss, as in 'tight'. So tight in fact that as we marched along the movement sandpapered the hair off our legs creating unusual patterns. There would be a normal hairy area, then suddenly, a crescent-shaped area of red hairless skin. For all the world, it looked like we had been stricken with mange. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Now ask me if it ever completely returned to normal. Go ahead! <b>Ask me!</b></span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSM6iZfYUBCDtivW4bMWTGupuJQ7MiZlqqCDJV2lz_mywpSucc-K_IWZm66l_9fxhf7aR32ThJxV4zHV_vEgYKPHT0sslirmnj6ZeVLqeOsjKhR6sMlU_oJRRGgybSltrAIixxSpr7XE4/s1600/Sideburns.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="640" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSM6iZfYUBCDtivW4bMWTGupuJQ7MiZlqqCDJV2lz_mywpSucc-K_IWZm66l_9fxhf7aR32ThJxV4zHV_vEgYKPHT0sslirmnj6ZeVLqeOsjKhR6sMlU_oJRRGgybSltrAIixxSpr7XE4/s320/Sideburns.jpeg" width="256" /></a><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">There was also a lot of energy put into shaving. All the time we had gained by not having to comb our hair was redirected to shaving. And since the length of our sideburns was such a concern, those of us not shaving our whole heads were shaving our sideburns up to the level of the top of of ears.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">The guys with really heavy beards were always getting screwed because their face could be just as smooth as a baby's butt and they'd still get hit with demerits for their shave because it <b>looked</b> blue.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">We redirected all that pent-up angst, of course. Because the shower room was just a room with no individual shower stalls and had a high lip on the threshold, we would block the drains with towels and build a swimming pool and kick water at each other. Don't judge, we didn't have any TV.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwMKEDkotoeEfAa5l3QNun9uMk_BTj8CKRnCijc59Zqmjb9rs4KqqGVdkz89wVTYwXOya1R-zDIIA_V4y0dqBnWnG61hW3manldpQ6V4soosu0yLvFYccUFcKM1C_3XGnQWNVTldp3XK0/s1600/Great+Lakes+Map.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1185" data-original-width="814" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwMKEDkotoeEfAa5l3QNun9uMk_BTj8CKRnCijc59Zqmjb9rs4KqqGVdkz89wVTYwXOya1R-zDIIA_V4y0dqBnWnG61hW3manldpQ6V4soosu0yLvFYccUFcKM1C_3XGnQWNVTldp3XK0/s400/Great+Lakes+Map.JPG" width="273" /></a><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Toward the end of this grand experiment, they allowed us 'liberty' to go either to Milwaukee or Chicago since Great Lakes is right in the middle. I chose Chicago, not knowing that many of my relatives had lived there. In fact, my great-grandfather John Pawlak had married Bronislawa Lewandowska there and my grandfather Roman Pawlak was born in Chicago. It was probably different from when I was there. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">What it <b>was</b>, was <b>cold</b>! This was the middle of November and it was the coldest and windiest this Miami-boy had ever experienced. Just the week before I had seen snow for the first time in my life and now I was ready to never see it again. Keep it, you can have my share.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">The week before we graduated, our orders came through. I was assigned to a Destroyer, the USS Eugene A. Greene DD-711. Two other guys from my company were going to the same ship.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">A week later we graduated with great pomp and circumstance, marching around with flags and loud military music. Some parents actually made the trip to see the graduation. This was another culture shock for me. There were families who actually did things like that!</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxKdxn1ZP989luiM2r8jWM1RlvHLggn6MAL2KI1hS8v1L4idPaQ-SUVaSPmRetFLBpHp7o8o70IKr9o19Xyp2iUcW-imuajJQX3QE98-pn_52leB_WcNfQcCyRMaiqsM7OJUcvAp-yBQk/s1600/Great+Lakes+11.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="538" data-original-width="1024" height="210" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxKdxn1ZP989luiM2r8jWM1RlvHLggn6MAL2KI1hS8v1L4idPaQ-SUVaSPmRetFLBpHp7o8o70IKr9o19Xyp2iUcW-imuajJQX3QE98-pn_52leB_WcNfQcCyRMaiqsM7OJUcvAp-yBQk/s400/Great+Lakes+11.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">The Navy had paid for my flight to Great Lakes, but I had to pay my own way home, so I took the bus. But it was OK, because I didn't have to report to my ship for 24 days! It was still at sea on the way back from Vietnam so I didn't have to get to Norfolk, Virginia until it did.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Another great adventure begins.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> </span>Rich Kleyleinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06851914542167271998noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2676690306756728440.post-80884241552611593342018-06-03T11:10:00.000-04:002018-06-04T09:46:26.758-04:00Navy Boot Camp Part III<br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Being in the Navy provided an introduction to discipline. What kind of person would I be if Bob and I weren't so exhausted that day driving down NW 27th Avenue in Miami that going into the Navy seemed like a good idea? Beats me, because that's the way it happened. Would I do it again? Hmm.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">There was no one available to kiss your foot in boot camp. This startled some of the company then so I can't imagine what a lot of our modern youth would think of such demands to suddenly grow up. Even the need for cleanliness was a shock for some. We were taught all manner of hygiene and not just for our own health. After all, we were going to be jammed together in tight places for long periods of time and who wants to be near someone who stinks? </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjW7kjBSYuMan-iBvgsMig-P1GuXdOECUEJaoUcYFKyTQ8Ni4jP-w-qKowvbi-UsAA4z2tNFIm_tWCbB3aSgWgaUbIMjL7ooDR1BE6G5ZDq45YbElWJU52pndcnpTix1PmXjyaWptbE25U/s1600/Great+Lakes+10+Clothes+Stops.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="368" data-original-width="566" height="208" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjW7kjBSYuMan-iBvgsMig-P1GuXdOECUEJaoUcYFKyTQ8Ni4jP-w-qKowvbi-UsAA4z2tNFIm_tWCbB3aSgWgaUbIMjL7ooDR1BE6G5ZDq45YbElWJU52pndcnpTix1PmXjyaWptbE25U/s320/Great+Lakes+10+Clothes+Stops.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">We washed all our own clothes by hand and hung them out on lines in the courtyard or in the drying room and for some bizarre reason we were not allowed to use clothespins. We had to tie the wet clothes on the line with little strips of string called 'clothes-stops'. If the knots were tied wrong, the clothes were pulled down and thrown on the ground. I imagine we were being made familiar with tying knots since knots are very important in the Navy, what with the sails and all.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">We marched everywhere to provide us an introduction to coordination and teach us how to respond to orders and we carried those rifles and performed lengthy rifle drills to build up our upper bodies. Of course, no one explained any of this, we just did as we were told. We even marched to meals, where the food was always good wherever I went. The signs were clear and blunt: <b>Take all you want. Eat all you take.</b> Not a bad slogan. </span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnL_8IeNIO7Ubd-uqXWOLDY1rwPjgHyriKqQUx-d-rLaf49dd0BxuvJani-eeNK8KGtN77SgvWmZlp7u1v1cN-fOIWg-sfFmUwpxB170UiPhPxFh_UWd1O3-cxmSJ-ip2lwYe6Y6xrfG4/s1600/Bluejackets+Manual.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="650" data-original-width="532" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnL_8IeNIO7Ubd-uqXWOLDY1rwPjgHyriKqQUx-d-rLaf49dd0BxuvJani-eeNK8KGtN77SgvWmZlp7u1v1cN-fOIWg-sfFmUwpxB170UiPhPxFh_UWd1O3-cxmSJ-ip2lwYe6Y6xrfG4/s320/Bluejackets+Manual.jpg" width="261" /></a><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">The Navy provided a guidebook to everything 'Navy' named <b>The Bluejacket's Manual</b>. They started using them in 1902 and they're still in use. I recently acquired a copy of the edition that was current when I joined and sure enough, I recognized every image. It contains all the basic information required to get along in the Navy: rankings, ratings, when to salute, how not to drown, you know, the basics. A lot of the classes we attended were to explain what was in this book.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgK5KYqUw0jFAMZ9eITumk4ZJ2B0iFf0PEDlQoiPl3WNVeLXIvgzKUcrCcB5Rb6DKGiCsU7MZfLHB0tuFRLqWceu5eUpyBFD5m4IOa4bJPJEtLm3gkY3feBwLAL3BNbGX21yVidtCUnVJc/s1600/Great+Lakes+04.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="416" data-original-width="600" height="221" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgK5KYqUw0jFAMZ9eITumk4ZJ2B0iFf0PEDlQoiPl3WNVeLXIvgzKUcrCcB5Rb6DKGiCsU7MZfLHB0tuFRLqWceu5eUpyBFD5m4IOa4bJPJEtLm3gkY3feBwLAL3BNbGX21yVidtCUnVJc/s320/Great+Lakes+04.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Beside the marching and drill work and the classroom study, there were practical, hands-on education sessions. Growing up in Miami, I can't remember <b>not</b> knowing how to swim. So I was surprised when I found quite a few of my company couldn't swim. They joined the Navy and couldn't swim. Huh? A couple admitted they'd never even seen the ocean. Talk about getting out of your comfort zone! But it was good to learn how to surface for air when there's an oil fire burning for hundreds of yards around you. That part of swimming I was unfamiliar with.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">We spent quite a while on fire-fighting because fires are bad on a ship not just because you have nowhere to run, but pretty much everything onboard can explode or burn. So we became firefighters. Along with that, we had to become comfortable wearing gas-masks as well. Not dying is a priority I easily bought into.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxlMuKX35Zv-EoJvr27QUAhZ0rSWvV34WjAwzq0VgRkb1BaV_Kxt0B5rqxTpDTIEiQG61-3bZgbqIy4KlbqOGTP9Yj-xNlXgKDDpuEMCuPwrxY1PWuqe-30tVg12LQ_lRwfKBzJcJhyu0/s1600/Eugene+A+Greene+Forecastle.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="452" data-original-width="602" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxlMuKX35Zv-EoJvr27QUAhZ0rSWvV34WjAwzq0VgRkb1BaV_Kxt0B5rqxTpDTIEiQG61-3bZgbqIy4KlbqOGTP9Yj-xNlXgKDDpuEMCuPwrxY1PWuqe-30tVg12LQ_lRwfKBzJcJhyu0/s320/Eugene+A+Greene+Forecastle.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">There was also hand-gun and rifle training, ship identification and terminology. It was cool to learn the origin of the terms still used on modern ships. And we had to learn the rules around standing watch. To train us, we had to stand watch over the garbage dumpsters in case someone came on base to steal our garbage. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Along about the sixth week, each company had to provide 'services' to the command for a week. Depending upon where you were assigned for 'Service Week', it could be custodial work, food service, warehouse work or whatever else was required. Because I was First Platoon Leader, I was assigned </span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">as a mentor </span>to a new company in their first week on base to help them with the transition. If we had one of these assigned to my company, I don't remember ever seeing him. Oddly, I found this task to be a lot of fun because they really seemed to appreciate the guidance I could provide. And since this new company spent a lot of time marching and drilling and in the classroom, I had that time to myself. So I wandered around the base exploring and going into all the old buildings. Benefits of rank.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">A couple of weeks later, we were marching along and my Service Week company marched by and they all yelled "Hey, it's Service Week!" which was their title for me. They actually broke rank and ran over to me! Boy, there was a lot of yelling and screaming from the instructors. Good times.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> </span>Rich Kleyleinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06851914542167271998noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2676690306756728440.post-20227129052939366022018-06-02T10:28:00.000-04:002018-06-04T09:46:38.661-04:00Navy Boot Camp Part II<br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">My daughter told me recently that, knowing the way I am, she couldn't really see me in boot camp. That I wasn't 'boot camp' material, you know? The circumstances exist that serious physical harm or at the very least, psychological warfare would have raged uncontrollably. Military prison or a very long hospital stay were some of the best possible outcomes. She was right, of course, but it depends dramatically on how one sees 'boot camp'.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDgPbzxccemQnucN0QgGDCwEkOh5zl2zhL-agdPfFTj6SGNKl0dVr2v2KhvdJ8kXODBZ8tsccbKzPWA8Z-T_T0i700tvKr9jl_FIt5ZjdwNyM4mANQ9axtH8yO0D-DMgf3lra0yXHbr9A/s1600/Full+Metal.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="1280" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDgPbzxccemQnucN0QgGDCwEkOh5zl2zhL-agdPfFTj6SGNKl0dVr2v2KhvdJ8kXODBZ8tsccbKzPWA8Z-T_T0i700tvKr9jl_FIt5ZjdwNyM4mANQ9axtH8yO0D-DMgf3lra0yXHbr9A/s320/Full+Metal.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">You see, I did not go through the boot camp as characterized in the movie <b>Full Metal Jacket</b>. The boot camp the US Navy provided was a series of schools to produce a healthier, more compliant resource that would serve the interests of the Navy and who will not die the first week they were placed in a duty situation. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">As you begin this process, the crutches of the past, your 'self', your individualism, the control of your time for eating and sleeping, bathroom needs, the choices you made about clothes, hairstyles, jewelry, even eyeglasses, are all removed. You are left with nothing to worry about except conforming and complying.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjB8ik2YshkuXURySZdnkfK5QOjiWA5F_P3NMb6xc3odvj9aQwvUy3lkRZ7bdYqKrps-JaMPbACTC13kdJzA1QDQlmQhIe_WjezJDWfijiCkZDjU36xL_0W9MeDHU-MmjwypQX_yLIojj8/s1600/Full+Metal+Hair.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="506" data-original-width="783" height="206" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjB8ik2YshkuXURySZdnkfK5QOjiWA5F_P3NMb6xc3odvj9aQwvUy3lkRZ7bdYqKrps-JaMPbACTC13kdJzA1QDQlmQhIe_WjezJDWfijiCkZDjU36xL_0W9MeDHU-MmjwypQX_yLIojj8/s320/Full+Metal+Hair.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">At the start of it all was uniformity. I'm sure you've all seen the movies of the head shaving, the issuing of clothing and bedding, medical and dental testing, all of that. There was no concern about what to wear and no one had to worry about combing their hair in the morning and shampooing was irrelevant. Naturally, some of us had to go above and beyond by shaving our heads right down to the skin. For those who had fairly long hair, there's some awfully white skin under there. Some people were made temporarily blind by the reflected light. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">There were several rounds of inoculations, but there were no needles, the fluids were pneumatically blasted into our arms (or rear ends) with air guns, it was all very efficient. Some guys had to see the dentist quite a bit. I was FINE because I had just had all my own work done on my own dime. It's called 'timing' people, look it up. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">So, after the 'induction' process was over, we were assigned to our units. Bob Deeter and I had joined together, but we were told there was no guarantee where we would end up. After all this, we were both made part of Company 555. We were the first company to use a brand new building in the new section of the Recruit Training Command. We were on the ground floor right where that red arrow is pointing.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfv45Mgk0IXwRGlringDmIjdv-Czi_QL6e0av3YsPmPfBtgfkzrVVK8cvt_jgsYx5aF_oUZNWLZL6bgXDFbj7DuRlLNN2itwj8SMnMrbRDOphyakynVsV1f_nsCSd3bm4373fsiS9Vj3M/s1600/Great+Lakes+02a.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="992" data-original-width="1600" height="247" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfv45Mgk0IXwRGlringDmIjdv-Czi_QL6e0av3YsPmPfBtgfkzrVVK8cvt_jgsYx5aF_oUZNWLZL6bgXDFbj7DuRlLNN2itwj8SMnMrbRDOphyakynVsV1f_nsCSd3bm4373fsiS9Vj3M/s400/Great+Lakes+02a.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">As you can see, this was a large facility. Each of those buildings held twelve companies and there were a lot of buildings. They had to have an efficient process to get us in and get us out.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEip6-cxpJiLcmmnxoQHMZB79qhsew6ynNkRtmQfh0n6eTTV2DJmiD1yxhd67FoOBKhu-QCV4F-Q6f2UaHtO_1tHjfW5Jk85A0nIVQpNmK8CM5dPQkX-OIzsbvp9w_7Q5DS-9L5HQqW5NPA/s1600/Great+Lakes+05a.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1021" data-original-width="1600" height="204" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEip6-cxpJiLcmmnxoQHMZB79qhsew6ynNkRtmQfh0n6eTTV2DJmiD1yxhd67FoOBKhu-QCV4F-Q6f2UaHtO_1tHjfW5Jk85A0nIVQpNmK8CM5dPQkX-OIzsbvp9w_7Q5DS-9L5HQqW5NPA/s320/Great+Lakes+05a.JPG" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I don't have an actual photo of what the interior of the barracks looked like, but this is a pretty good approximation. Rows of two level bunk beds with lockers in the center dividing the room. The bathroom, shower room, laundry room and drying room were all at one end, the rest of it was just one big open room. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">One of the first creation steps of the new company was the assignment of leadership roles within the recruit population. There were regular naval personnel assigned to us, but this was a hierarchy within the recruits themselves. There wasn't any discussion of who would do which role and no one revealed what the selection process was. It was simply announced that Bob was Company Commander and I was First Platoon Leader. And that concluded our training. Company 555 consisted of perhaps 80 or 90 men and I was suddenly responsible for half of them. I can't recall if Bob and I ever discussed the odds of the two people who knew each other ending up in the top two positions in the company, but there it was.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1QuSL_2-o5iloZ-zMrkEe5MewHlPmmJxO3ZMF1xelYtDl8knZqh3T4Cq469K4ceEHYZI-71nUxAHxErbnHOCbrZTSbpOO5b1x9haQAtyYeV_aJa1I3-78ZeFc-5uOplPjGhGiRa5SI84/s1600/19661022+Deeter%252C+Robert+Kleylein+Great+Lakes.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1160" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1QuSL_2-o5iloZ-zMrkEe5MewHlPmmJxO3ZMF1xelYtDl8knZqh3T4Cq469K4ceEHYZI-71nUxAHxErbnHOCbrZTSbpOO5b1x9haQAtyYeV_aJa1I3-78ZeFc-5uOplPjGhGiRa5SI84/s400/19661022+Deeter%252C+Robert+Kleylein+Great+Lakes.jpeg" width="288" /></a><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Someone along the line secreted in a Polaroid camera, and I'm very glad he did since this is the only photo I have of the uniforms we wore as recruits. So here is Bob Deeter on the right and me on the left in front of the World War II-era rifles we carried everywhere. Notice that on our right shoulders we are displaying our recruit rank, Bob with four stripes and me with three.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">The Navy did produce a Company 555 'Yearbook' for us with actual photos, but that was lost a long time ago. Perhaps they sent someone in the dark of night to steal it because it had such sensitive information. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Or not. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> </span>Rich Kleyleinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06851914542167271998noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2676690306756728440.post-10712633057030270062018-06-01T13:35:00.000-04:002018-09-25T14:25:13.953-04:00Navy Boot Camp Part I<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_FB_HbsjFbLAvc4xPGOwirIRnJxswZMSh1B7PRlCHlJWROduu-V3CheWoSMBNEt5QgGmK84b-fzxax1OrvdtwFgNvB5L5eOi7-rvp_GDLh2IBSCY7BedovrcLkjBZESJjyOKb7nOHj4I/s1600/19661121+Kleylein%252C+Richard+Boot+Camp+at+Great+Lakes.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1110" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_FB_HbsjFbLAvc4xPGOwirIRnJxswZMSh1B7PRlCHlJWROduu-V3CheWoSMBNEt5QgGmK84b-fzxax1OrvdtwFgNvB5L5eOi7-rvp_GDLh2IBSCY7BedovrcLkjBZESJjyOKb7nOHj4I/s320/19661121+Kleylein%252C+Richard+Boot+Camp+at+Great+Lakes.jpeg" width="221" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">About a thousand years ago (OK, it was February and March of 2009), I broached the subject of my being in the Navy. I didn't continue the story because, frankly, the whole topic makes me a little nervous. I'll explain why, but it may not make any sense to you. Here to the right is our callow hero himself in the official photo taken in boot camp. I thought about drawing in a mustache, but you can do that yourself.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">It's still remarkable to me that so many, practically all, of my relatives going back generations were in the Navy and even though I was completely ignorant of that... there I ended up. If you're actually bored enough to learn how that happened, well, go back to 2009 in this thing and read all about it.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">We're going to pick the story up as I entered the Great Lakes Naval Training Center. At that point, there were only two Navy 'boot camps'. One in San Diego for the western half of the country and Great Lakes, a bit north of Chicago, for the eastern half. Just a few years later, they opened a new one in Orlando, but that would have been too easy and convenient for me and no one wants that.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIrAqjLdusLcMB8d4N6tsM4hcfD4W5Wvvn1f-oWTWhtUVoL2E-n6RFZviwpreeNBUODd7QIsGj7f7fElUzqg1f4k80s754ZRcP-ATpfbT5N85PVlSNoOuxhVTOi7HUM81DQtAeqhAVtMg/s1600/Great+Lakes+09.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1000" data-original-width="1000" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIrAqjLdusLcMB8d4N6tsM4hcfD4W5Wvvn1f-oWTWhtUVoL2E-n6RFZviwpreeNBUODd7QIsGj7f7fElUzqg1f4k80s754ZRcP-ATpfbT5N85PVlSNoOuxhVTOi7HUM81DQtAeqhAVtMg/s320/Great+Lakes+09.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">This is the official insignia of the Great Lakes Recruit Training Command which was only one of the schools in the Great Lakes Center. I don't remember any lightning bolts zooming through the place, but maybe I was there at the wrong time of the year.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">With the passing and mellowing effects of time, I'm glad I got to see the historical nature of the place. When I was there, the facility had already existed for nearly a hundred years, so it's a hundred and fifty now. I got to go into buildings in use during World War I and II and it made me appreciate new construction even then.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Here, seen for the first time in fifty years, is the map of the place that I sent home to my parents so they could visualize where I was. I was not in a position to take 800 photos a day on my phone to instantaneously show them what I was doing every passing minute like people can today, so they had to use their imagination.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbGJQX0Y9ASn0gAnhuZg6cmrewjcWn5Uk_dvolOmHtSvD-ZbNuECClRu_lb4BEnK5T54Bod8ZEhbMk1ZfqY4V5g3M-m2ytZn4WRPZzkA4EthrF7znLmJBQpqW9muALwr3cPC0sJ8ftpNU/s1600/Great+Lakes+19660912+Great+Lakes+Naval+Training+Center+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1085" data-original-width="1600" height="270" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbGJQX0Y9ASn0gAnhuZg6cmrewjcWn5Uk_dvolOmHtSvD-ZbNuECClRu_lb4BEnK5T54Bod8ZEhbMk1ZfqY4V5g3M-m2ytZn4WRPZzkA4EthrF7znLmJBQpqW9muALwr3cPC0sJ8ftpNU/s400/Great+Lakes+19660912+Great+Lakes+Naval+Training+Center+2.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">If you click on the image, you can zoom in on the details. Please note that true North is off to the left.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">In this aerial photograph, taken October 26, 1972 just a few years later, you may get a better perspective of the building layout. I have kindly turned it to the same orientation as the map. See what a nice guy I am? </span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOQ84TSG3l-LfAIS3D4kzczbosAeuI_VvPTdiUIuc9wAGS8znjm09CxfcRSO78IaxKBsIZt8N4SjkoEFvv3O1wnSZaPPwLvAMIgTu1N7Kbt2dHAKU8wZJaZBnRYF7PZ4LBonVYFA4VvTE/s1600/Great+Lakes+19721026+Great+Lakes+Naval+Training+Center+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1334" data-original-width="938" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOQ84TSG3l-LfAIS3D4kzczbosAeuI_VvPTdiUIuc9wAGS8znjm09CxfcRSO78IaxKBsIZt8N4SjkoEFvv3O1wnSZaPPwLvAMIgTu1N7Kbt2dHAKU8wZJaZBnRYF7PZ4LBonVYFA4VvTE/s640/Great+Lakes+19721026+Great+Lakes+Naval+Training+Center+2.jpg" width="449" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPY5jAHjLYODJLwYdr_QhfYHDds6bl6tHXM64shj3oliN0QMTSYv1qUQWllbEyIkpoNM9QpR2MPYqXtfOU0G76JkfIFz5imsMWPsqjTtYLU10roUGj_mHn8l0VB2iAyW3Fu_2K4bhPhMo/s1600/Hick.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="634" data-original-width="537" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPY5jAHjLYODJLwYdr_QhfYHDds6bl6tHXM64shj3oliN0QMTSYv1qUQWllbEyIkpoNM9QpR2MPYqXtfOU0G76JkfIFz5imsMWPsqjTtYLU10roUGj_mHn8l0VB2iAyW3Fu_2K4bhPhMo/s320/Hick.JPG" width="270" /></a><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">When we first arrived in our dopey civilian clothes with our cardboard suitcases looking like extras from a high school production of <b>42nd Street</b>, the first thing they had us do was ship our suitcases home with everything we had brought. We were now conformists of the highest degree, the whole 'individuality' thing was over.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Couldn't they just have told us, "Don't bring anything with you, nitwit, we'll supply some new baggy underwear, just calm down." Or would that have made too much sense?</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">The adventure begins. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> </span>Rich Kleyleinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06851914542167271998noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2676690306756728440.post-59964912742968984502018-03-24T15:37:00.000-04:002018-06-03T13:17:09.104-04:00North By Northwest<br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">No, we're not going to discuss the movie, this is the third installment of my genealogical Peripherals trilogy. </span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhT8hgMvibris7u5wdHjb-L4HtTO5TZIOtJGXWJpCXCDe8GRKPdbheECgSW-btS878bP160wZYHbQkCbDTUxeDSZQgbeMtFxTz6v_-SWXe1ewXFkjFR8mYILQEzwNL-oI5rwKLrrLlAj0/s1600/Cary+Grant.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="420" data-original-width="645" height="208" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhT8hgMvibris7u5wdHjb-L4HtTO5TZIOtJGXWJpCXCDe8GRKPdbheECgSW-btS878bP160wZYHbQkCbDTUxeDSZQgbeMtFxTz6v_-SWXe1ewXFkjFR8mYILQEzwNL-oI5rwKLrrLlAj0/s320/Cary+Grant.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">However, if you're being strafed or buzzed in a wide open area with no cover,</span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> like Cary Grant was, </span> the safest position to take is not to run, but to lie down horizontally to the plane's approach thus offering the smallest target. When I was managing people, I used this trick all the time, that's how I survived. Geez, Cary, think things through, you make me nervous. </span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9GMNmwM5zh8sHrgfFvwXyAdf3c0QWTuQoDWD5BnjToRDZrF6lJbs9FA4WsIRy6Ciw4ElRrtmuiSdJVTlLDMCJxfBeKWfn9EVWX6t73yo1hfgj2lCKXS07KOyBXQrqITsz2SNVufhj0Vo/s1600/Jackson+Memorial.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="283" data-original-width="589" height="153" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9GMNmwM5zh8sHrgfFvwXyAdf3c0QWTuQoDWD5BnjToRDZrF6lJbs9FA4WsIRy6Ciw4ElRrtmuiSdJVTlLDMCJxfBeKWfn9EVWX6t73yo1hfgj2lCKXS07KOyBXQrqITsz2SNVufhj0Vo/s320/Jackson+Memorial.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Years before I knew anything about Giovanni Venturella, I had gone on a search for the hospital where I was born. Shouldn't be too hard, right? My brother Dave had been born in Jackson Memorial Hospital, one of the largest and most highly regarded medical institutions in the South, so I was probably also born there. Right?</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Wrong.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhd1q0pOSNOHBhrdsIiKCNcJ8wS905lBCgYGAyZFXO0fq-oPAINqytheh25mZ1lVmJPtKI6JnX6bWkec0GJKXqyogKiXEtFrtHtKmO86KUNIIJlnY5-mD76DV0IgHSrSfjvcnnXhba6I2g/s1600/Hospital+Sign.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="420" data-original-width="300" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhd1q0pOSNOHBhrdsIiKCNcJ8wS905lBCgYGAyZFXO0fq-oPAINqytheh25mZ1lVmJPtKI6JnX6bWkec0GJKXqyogKiXEtFrtHtKmO86KUNIIJlnY5-mD76DV0IgHSrSfjvcnnXhba6I2g/s200/Hospital+Sign.jpg" width="142" /></a><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">According to my Birth Certificate, I was born at Northwest Hospital in Miami. Well, that should be easy enough. Wrong again. Even the magical Internet had nothing about it - absolute radio silence. Perhaps it was a ghost hospital. If you search today, the only results for 'Northwest Hospital in Miami' are my plaintive requests for photos and information. So, back to the Polk City Directories of Miami and <b>yes</b>, there it was on 79th Street.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">My guess was that it was no longer a hospital, but that wouldn't stop me from getting some photos of the place. When I traveled there on one of my sentimental journeys to Miami, I went to the address as listed. Here's what I found. </span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjv-_xv9QcU3ECgpK9cLtX8CZYglHOkaEKqNAXPZYa2s6Wdu309UuAIJWksXFvbKjvVRkQHGRccEokM2IrTA4x7YFRas0U3T8JnucoU31cXiq7Wq9GeptI4n-rVCKlijLqQ3hrnXk9dBgs/s1600/Northwest+Hospital+1060+NW+79th+Street.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="528" data-original-width="1600" height="131" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjv-_xv9QcU3ECgpK9cLtX8CZYglHOkaEKqNAXPZYa2s6Wdu309UuAIJWksXFvbKjvVRkQHGRccEokM2IrTA4x7YFRas0U3T8JnucoU31cXiq7Wq9GeptI4n-rVCKlijLqQ3hrnXk9dBgs/s400/Northwest+Hospital+1060+NW+79th+Street.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">There, just beyond the Rotor Rooter van was an empty lot, and I couldn't get a really good feel for the place from that. And it turns out that I hadn't missed my photo of the hospital by just a couple of months (wouldn't that be annoying!). No, as near as I can determine I had missed it by fifty years. Fifty years gone and it's still an open lot? Holy crap, was it a toxic waste dump? What the hell happened here? Was it because of <b>me</b>?</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Maybe the hospital had been really, really old and had collapsed from the weight of years? But I checked the 1943 Fire Insurance Map, and no, it looked like farm land. But there in the 1948 Fire Insurance Map, <b>there</b>, Northwest Hospital in the Red box! Yay!</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjX6HebbJwfp-bwVizsTcBOiJRT6tfTkKis797_2H7789sYj7o1Syfm7GZUb4ZI0ibhVxgIvVCXVytPb1tFIwfz0vuw_xzDoAkVkvkyqQYhMWGv3XPORHQuf1RQxsXBphzwPI-3BHsM5Dc/s1600/1948+Northern+Miami+23-1+Northwest+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1009" data-original-width="873" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjX6HebbJwfp-bwVizsTcBOiJRT6tfTkKis797_2H7789sYj7o1Syfm7GZUb4ZI0ibhVxgIvVCXVytPb1tFIwfz0vuw_xzDoAkVkvkyqQYhMWGv3XPORHQuf1RQxsXBphzwPI-3BHsM5Dc/s400/1948+Northern+Miami+23-1+Northwest+2.jpg" width="345" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Wait a minute.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Northwest Hospital was about as large as a medium-sized McDonald's. Definitely smaller than Jackson Memorial Hospital by a factor of 1,000. So my brother is born in the fancy upscale hospital and I am born at McDonald's. <sigh> There are no photos of Northwest Hospital because there weren't any cameras small enough! </sigh></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">However, you may have noticed two other colored boxes on that Fire Map above. The address of Northwest Hospital was 1060 NW 79th Street, just across the street from 1015 NW 79th Street where Giovanni Venturella was operating the Fannie Grill (Green Box) which was next door to 1005 NW 79th Street where Giovanni's Restaurant (Yellow box) was built that same year. See how this all ties together? Well, do you? I made Giovanni's box yellow in honor of the Yellow Meat Market now located there. See what a nice guy I am!</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">On the Google aerial today, the outlines of some of the Northwest Hospital buildings are still evident. The hospital and the Fannie Grill are gone. Giovanni's lives on as the Yellow. </span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjs3f4FkFAA7w-C37hLJWv0mr3oeMjNV6y9yvJM6EdZ_jgd5sbMjdbwRR5W71Q4RAkEF_RTSziUXNp9XR-XnaF5TZGf6X70aKxwTrLV3e9YLTWM4A_4oHpiKy7DBcN5u_SF8gy2Dj4FDY/s1600/1948+Northern+Miami+23-1+Northwest+4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1105" data-original-width="989" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjs3f4FkFAA7w-C37hLJWv0mr3oeMjNV6y9yvJM6EdZ_jgd5sbMjdbwRR5W71Q4RAkEF_RTSziUXNp9XR-XnaF5TZGf6X70aKxwTrLV3e9YLTWM4A_4oHpiKy7DBcN5u_SF8gy2Dj4FDY/s400/1948+Northern+Miami+23-1+Northwest+4.jpg" width="357" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I must speculate on how I came to be born at Northwest Hospital. Did Giovanni Venturella tell my parents about the new, little hospital across the street from him? Or perhaps they saw it as it was being built when they went to one of Giovanni's places. Or was it all just a coincidence? There is no one left to ask. Bummer.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzfwJl-CXeYOgJnWlAFvXIP7QjD3YxPO8d2UuUNbLMOw-_-t7SZ032oL6SvCNt5s7zZKDIJ7iJm1k65yhJHjrh4JFpNyTpeToLsQoBOES-2tfBofukY66n3lWtQ9UgEzqeXjay2zuNRZw/s1600/Dunn%252C+Paul+Dr.+Miami+News+19751117.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="850" data-original-width="483" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzfwJl-CXeYOgJnWlAFvXIP7QjD3YxPO8d2UuUNbLMOw-_-t7SZ032oL6SvCNt5s7zZKDIJ7iJm1k65yhJHjrh4JFpNyTpeToLsQoBOES-2tfBofukY66n3lWtQ9UgEzqeXjay2zuNRZw/s400/Dunn%252C+Paul+Dr.+Miami+News+19751117.JPG" width="226" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">There is another possibility. The doctor who delivered me at Northwest was Dr. Paul Vincent Dunn an Osteopath who was a co-founder of the hospital. His address at the time was 1054 NW 79th Street, next door to the hospital and right across the street from the Fannie Grill and Giovanni's. Perhaps my parents met him in one of those places. Or some other bar. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">For Dr. Dunn was an alcoholic. Later, in 1975 when he was Medical Director of Dade County's Alcohol Detoxification Program, he described his experiences to the Miami News and explained that he did not stop drinking until 1970. That was about the time the hospital went away.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">His description matched perfectly with what I had seen working with my friend Mike Mulhall when we traveled all over the US together. Mike drank continuously and prodigiously and other than getting redder in the face, <b>never</b> showed it. Is that the way it was with Dr. Dunn?</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">This makes me really wish I had been there when I was born. Yeah, I guess I was, but I wasn't actively taking notes, I was too busy squalling. But you know what I mean. In addition to what was described here, Dr. Dunn was also a big-time hunter and fisherman with a houseful of trophies and championships in pistol marksmanship and skeet shooting. The Doctor had some interesting elements in his personality. I wish I could have met him again after that first brief encounter. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">As I indicated at the outset of this little trilogy, it is the Peripherals that add the spice to a cold, analytic document like a birth certificate. And this particular chain of connections turned out to be spicy indeed.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><u>UPDATE: June 3, 2018</u> - Thanks to the magic of social media, I can now provide a photo of Northwest Hospital. It turns out, it was just a very small place as I had presumed. Very plain and simple.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEsRZH_Huog_qDbnnBH1r1LFmNzcoox-x-vynV4CBdwUSzytHUZYwcb04xC6smeToKRInZO-mpQMt4-5iLBvyP-0NnOHhyphenhyphenVmbhhvGLoj6piSXLlx4lCrT6CXOpb7Y3a_J_ta13EinLdQo/s1600/Northwest+Hospital+1060+NW+79th+Street+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="705" data-original-width="1121" height="251" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEsRZH_Huog_qDbnnBH1r1LFmNzcoox-x-vynV4CBdwUSzytHUZYwcb04xC6smeToKRInZO-mpQMt4-5iLBvyP-0NnOHhyphenhyphenVmbhhvGLoj6piSXLlx4lCrT6CXOpb7Y3a_J_ta13EinLdQo/s400/Northwest+Hospital+1060+NW+79th+Street+2.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">And that's probably Dr. Dunn's house visible through the underbrush off to the left. It turns out the Internet does have <b>some</b> value!</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> </span>Rich Kleyleinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06851914542167271998noreply@blogger.com1