House Mouse

Having been a paramedic, I know something about the human body. Scientists tell us, basically, that we have only half a brain. That is, the left side of the brain controls the right side of the body, and the right side of the brain controls the left. Somewhere in the back of our heads is a control center I don’t know what it’s called, but it sorts out all the bullshit and tells us how to act.

Well, I call the left side of my miniscule brain “Stan”; the right, “Ollie”.

Standing in front of First Sergeant Thorpe’s desk while he explained my options under the Uniform Code of Military Justice, I could just picture “Ollie” telling “Stan”, “This is another fine mess you got me in to!”

We were aboard the USS Renville, an APA, or troop transport which sailed out of Long Beach. The entire Battalion, minus Mike Company was aboard. We slept in shifts on canvass bunks with our rifles and sea-bags, five high and two across. We were five decks below sunlight. Huge sixteen-inch timbers vertically covered a hole in the hold’s port side bulkheads, and seawater seeped down on to the deck of the bay. We swabbed constantly, wringing out our mops into buckets, taking the buckets topside and emptying them over the side.

At first, the Top was apologetic, almost effusively so. He was gushing excuses there was a mix-up; nobody reviewed my personnel file; he wasn’t aware. Hell. I didn’t know what he was talking about.

Then he told me. Normally, if you keep your nose clean, promotion to Private First Class (E-2) was supposed to be automatic after six months of service. I had been in eleven months. I was promoted to PFC on the spot, and my promotion would be retroactive. Sounded okay to me.

Then, he read me the riot act. If I went through an Article 15, the Commanding Officer could reduce me in rank to Private, take two weeks pay and restrict me to the Company area for thirty days.

Geez!!! I just got promoted, and in ten more minutes, I was gonna get busted back to Private. That would have been the shortest promotion in the history of the Corps.

Sergeant Fletcher brought in the charge sheet. I was accused of “failure to appear at the appointed place of duty at the appointed time”.

There had been a meeting of the 1st Squad, 1st Platoon of which I was not aware. The squad leader was really pissed off. I didn’t fit in anyway. I was a transfer from Kilo Company, and I wasn’t a true Infantryman. I was “Anti-tank Assault”. I wasn’t trained as a grunt and I wanted to be in Weapons Platoon with the 3.5 inch rocket launchers. That is what I trained to do.

But, India Company needed bodies to fill in the platoons, so I was assigned to the 1st Platoon. In fact, I had never trained with these guys. Don’t get me wrong, they were all great guys. But, they were Grunts. It was common knowledge that it took more brains to become an 0331 (Machine Gunner) or an 0351 (Anti Tank Assault man) than an a run of the mill 0311, your common, generic, standard issue “Grunt”. (Now that I’ve insulted most of my comrades, please bear with me and continue.)

First Sergeant Thorpe showed me the paperwork with the charge on it. I had to sign on the bottom and a few other places; like I had been advised of my rights and that I understood the charge against me. I wasn’t feeling too good about this.

I was led into the Company Commander’s office. Lieutenant Kopfler sat behind his desk and didn’t seem too pleased to be involved in this whole episode. He asked me my name, where I was from and what my job was. I stood at attention, very, very nervous and answered. He corrected me when I answered, “Sir. Private Czarnowski, Sir.” He said, “No. You’re Private First Class Czarnowski.” Great. Rub it in.

The Skipper didn’t read the charges out loud. That is required at any military disciplinary hearing. He just looked up at me and said, “Okay. We all know what happened here. Do you have anything to say?”

Hell, yes I did. And I started to plead my case. I told him that from the time we left port, almost every Marine got seasick. I, however, told myself that I wasn’t going to get sick. It was mind over matter. My mind set was that I could overcome the stench of vomit below decks, watching guys heave their guts out on the mess deck and telling myself I could beat this rotten feeling.

Then three days out, I related, I was midship along the port rail, trying to let the sea breeze freshen me up when I looked up and saw an Officer approach the rail just outside of their mess hall, lean over and chug all his cookies over the side. I caught a broadside right in the face, and I lost it. I was sick for three days. I became a figure on the fantail, like those carvings you see on the front of old sailing ships, but I was most noticeable for having my ass up in the air and facing the wrong way, in the throes of violent gastrointestinal discomfort.

The Renville finally hit calm seas about the fourth day of my distress. I was exhausted. I lay on the deck, just below the Mike boats and in front of the Quad .50 caliber turrets, watched the glass like Pacific and the absolutely gorgeous sky and fell asleep. I had slept from morning until into the evening, when one of my fellow squad members found me and told me that, as usual, I was in a world of shit.

When I reported to my Squad Leader, he didn’t want to hear any excuses. He told me that he was pressing charges against me and that I was to report to the CP the next morning.

I told all of this to Lt. Kopfler. That was my defense. Kind of lame, I’ll admit, but a defense just the same. The Skipper looked over at 1stSgt Thorpe. Thorpe wanted my ass. I wasn’t going to make one of his Sergeants look like a jackass if I got off.

Lieutenant Joe looked up at me. “You don’t want this on your record, do you?”

“Sir. No, Sir!”

“Will you accept Company Punishment?”

“Sir. Yes, Sir!”

Our young Commander took the charge sheet and tore it up. That’s required. But, I was placed into the hands of one First Shirt who wanted his pound of flesh, and he also wanted me to go through hell for making one of his Sergeants look like an ass and for not losing my ten-minute old stripe. I got three days of punishment to be designated by 1stSgt Thorpe. Here was hell to pay. I was assigned mess duty in the CPO (Chief Petty Officer) quarters. That’s where Thorpe thought he had me by the balls.

I reported to the CPO Quarters, and there was this Bos’n in charge. He told me my duties: the problem was he was talking in “bells” Do this at four bells, at five bells serve breakfast, at two bells serve lunch. I thought, “What the fuck in hell are you talking about?” Then, he explained it to me in military time.

At 0400, I was to report to the mess deck with my “slop buckets”, take them back to the CPO mess and serve breakfast at 0500. He explained all the other times I was to report to cooks to pick up lunch and dinner. He showed me how to operate the steam table; it was a water-filled cabinet which had to be emptied and cleaned after ever meal because the Navy said so. He showed me how to fill and empty it and how to fire up the steam pipes which heated the water and then the trays containing food. Actually, that was the first thing I had to do when I got up. Get that damned steam table filled and fired up which meant I really had to get up around 0330.

I was also responsible for making up the bunks of the NCO’s and for the cleanliness of the quarters. Every third day, I was to take the linen to the ships laundry and exchange it for clean linen. I also had to do the same for the Sergeants’ and Chiefs uniforms. The Boats took me around the ship, showed me where I had to report on the mess deck and at the laundry, took me back to the CPO quarters and wished me luck.

I could have used some. The first day was a disaster. There was no provision for a Private to sleep in their quarters, since the CPO mess wasn’t authorized a full-time person to attend to it. So, I slept on the floor of the galley on the steel plates.

At 0330, I awoke to my little alarm clock, shut it down, got dressed and approached the steam table. I did exactly what the Bos’n said. I filled it with water and turned on the steam valves. BANG!!! CLANK!!!! BOOM!!! HISS!!! The steam rattled through the pipes like a locomotive. It woke up all of the Non Coms who started yelling and swearing at me. I turned the valves off, and then, slowly reopened them. This time, the steam flowed much more quietly.

I got my five little slop buckets together and headed for the mess deck. I had to rinse them out there because that galley had a deep sink. The buckets were about six by six inches across and maybe eighteen inches deep, made out of brushed aluminum. They cleaned very easily compared to the steel and cast iron pots I had cleaned while on Mess Duty at Camp Pendleton.

There were four Gunnies and five CPO’s in these quarters. The First Shirts were quartered topside near Officer Country. Especially, 1st Sergeant Thorpe. Word was that he was some sort of Military Intelligence expert and closely advised the Battalion Commander and his Staff. Thorpe had spent years in Moscow at the American Embassy.

The cooks at the mess deck filled my buckets to the brim with eggs, bacon, and hash browns, grits and orange juice. But, no coffee. Nobody told me that I had to make the fuckin” coffee!

How the hell did I miss those big two tanks with glass tubes and spigots in front of them? Jesus! When Sailors and Marines get up or sober up all they want is coffee, not sex, and not booze. They want coffee; hot, black and now. Sex and booze were out of the question. I had to make coffee, and there wasn’t much time left before I got back, put the food in the steam table and served breakfast.

I emptied the slop buckets into the serving trays which were nice and hot by the time I got back from the mess deck. I had about twenty minutes to work a miracle and make coffee in two huge urns. It wasn’t going to happen because those damn things take about an hour to heat up. So, I fired up the stove, filled every pot in the galley with water, and threw them on the stove until they were boiling. I filled the screen with coffee grounds and put them in the urn. When the water was boiling on the stove, I took the pots and dumped the water over the grounds, and much to my amazement I had hot coffee. It would take another forty minutes for the pressure urns to be ready to make a new batch. I learned to never turn them off.

While the NCO’s ate breakfast, I had to make up their bunks. I would make sure everyone was happy at the table, then I’d go into their quarters and make up their bunks, actually berths, as tight and as neat as I could. Then I’d go back to the galley and serve any requests and start to clean up.

The Chiefs and the Gunnies would leave, stopping in their quarters for whatever they might need to start the day. That first morning was an eye opener. After I cleaned up the dining room, galley and steam table, I looked into the bay and saw four mattresses on the deck the Gunnies had ripped up their bunks. The Navy Chiefs didn’t. I was a Marine Corps fuck-up, not a Navy fuck up. If anyone was going to mess with me, it was going to be relegated to the Marine Corps.

I stripped the beds and pillow cases of their linen and stuffed the mattresses back into the berths. I folded the linens in Navy fashion, three folds long, three folds over with only one edge showing for counting purposes and headed for the ship’s laundry and then to the mess deck, slop buckets in tow.

When I got to the laundry, I was trying to think up a story for why I needed to change four sets of linen. Heck. Back at Pendleton, we were only issued clean sheets once a week.

As I went to the laundry, I was trying to make up a great story as to why I needed all these sheets and pillow cases. The guy in charge looked at me and said, “Oh. You’re that guy on ship’s punishment. Working in the CPO Mess, aren’t you?” Before I could answer, he handed me a pile of linen. It was the Skipper’s policy that the crew receive fresh linen at any time, as long as they did it on a one for one exchange.

BINGO!!!! Flash bulbs went off in my head. I could really make points with the Gunnies and Chiefs if they had fresh, crisp, clean linen each day. It became part of my plan.

I went back to the CPO quarters and remade all the bunks. I had those new sheets stretched out tighter than a gnat’s ass stretched across a rain barrel. I plotted to take down nine sets of linen the next morning and exchange all of them for new.

I caught a break at lunch. The menu consisted of cold cuts and white bread. I made up a condiment tray and placed it on the table instead of at the end of the steam tray. That worked out great; there was no delay when the NCO’s had finished going through the line.

I don’t remember what was served for the evening meal. But, there was a movie planned for that evening. A Sailor came down with a projector, and this guy didn’t know his ass from a hole in the ground. He couldn’t thread the film through the gears.

Having grown up in the trade show business, I had set up a lot of projectors, albeit most of them had “looped” canisters of film, which ran continuously. But, I did thread a lot of spools through the gears. It’s actually simple. The projector has little arrows stamped from top to bottom through the gear path, and all one has to do is feed the film in the direction the little arrows tell you to go. I had that movie going in less than a minute.

It was a two reeler. When the first spool was up, I didn’t take the time to rewind it. I just slapped on the second spool, turned on the motor and then the lamp (you don’t want to burn the film), and “BAM!” the movie continued almost uninterrupted. Won me a lot of points. But, I was still the Marine Corps’ fuck up.

That night I slept on the floor of the galley. Don’t feel sorry for me. I was a lot better off than my fellow Marines. I had a wool blanket and a pillow.

The next morning I awoke and started my routine. This time I started up the steam table the right way. On the mess deck, my slop buckets were inspected for cleanliness by a steward, and they passed with flying colors. Hell. I was getting this routine down pat.

I served breakfast, and things went well. I went into the NCO quarters and found the same four bunks on the deck. “Well, okay”, I thought, “the Gunnies are still messing with me.” No problem. By morning, they and the CPO’s would have new, crisp sheets on bunks with hospital folds that Tinker bell could jump on without making a dent.

By the afternoon of the second day, I had that mess running like a fine clock. I also managed to scare up some popcorn for movie time. The Navy CPO’s loved me. To the Gunnies, I was becoming less of a fuck up and more of a nuisance. The better I did, the more they started liking me, and they hated that. It was like betraying the traditions of the Corps. I was becoming a regular “House Mouse”.

I finished my third day of duties with no mattresses on the deck. The evening meal and movie went well, I even served cut up candy bars on a couple of trays. Prayed for’em myself. The next morning, I’d be returning to the 1st Platoon.

Day 4 turned into Day 6. Day 6 turned into Day 9 and so on into Day 12. Finally, I got the word to return to India Company and report to the First Sergeant. Holy Shit! What did the Top want with me?

I was in the galley packing my sea bag when one of the CPO’s walked in. He asked me what I was doing. I told him I was told to report back to India Company.

The guy stared off into a far bulkhead. He seemed lost. He looked at me and said, “So, what are we supposed to do now?”

I reported to India, and was made a clerk. Turned out that I was much more a rotten clerk than I was an Infantryman. Sergeant Stan Zaidinski needed another radio operator, so I was assigned to him, and he took me under his wing.

I’ll never know how well the CPO mess fared after my departure. After the bunk tear down incidents and after gaining the confidence of the Gunnies, I guess the Senior NCO’s accepted me. Maybe I didn’t make it as an Anti Tank Assault man, in the Infantry, as an “Office Specialist” or even as a Radio/Wireman, but I sure as hell was one heck of a “House Mouse”.

Author/ Jerry Czarnowski