I took them in my hands and added them to the pile in the napthalened atmosphere of patient tension and frenzied confusion that exemplifies the paradox of boot camp. The irony in the smell of mothballs that pervaded the entire recruit training experience did not escape me; my brand new dress blues and I were being activated together, not decommissioned.
This new attire was stiff, rough, and completely incongruous with the lifestyle and attire I had just recently left behind. To me, at that moment, it was still something nostalgic- meant for a black-and-white WWII photo, a Popeye cartoon, or a Cracker Jack box and not something to actually be worn today- by me.
We learned how to wear it, fold it and stow it. We were schooled on the history of the uniform and its practical uses.
My recruit training took place in Orlando- not Chicago- and was a place for white uniforms. Our whites were typically what were worn following our completion and subsequent training there in A school. The whites seemed less severe, not as serious. They gave the Navy a bright and cheerful tone. I had earned the right to wear my uniforms, but there was always that lingering feeling that I wasn’t quite worthy of those dress blue cracker jacks yet. They, to me, were the reminder that I was in the military and it was a serious venture, as if the very darkness of them, the blackness, not blue despite the name, represented death both past and present and a reminder to never forget it. It was a very serious business I had just joined despite the fact that I was a student in a sunny place wearing a bright white uniform similar to an ice cream vendor.
Despite wearing the blues through the winter of 1987 at recruit training and having my first official photo taken in them; I always had a feeling as if they were wearing me and not otherwise- a protective second skin that hadn’t fully grafted and was uncomfortable to my person.
I had a respect for this uniform from the beginning. When Lynn, my wife-to-be at that time, sent me photos of herself wearing her grandfather’s blues from his tour in the Navy; it did not affect me the way one might think. Certainly too large for her petite frame and her long red hair loaded up into the Dixie cup white hat, one might think it would be cute in a tongue-in-cheek humor kind of way. Not so. To me it was inspiring and a prophecy of her commitment to me and represented the legacy of her own family to the Navy to which I had pledged my own commitment. Lacking the training that I was receiving at that time in military honors and methods; nonetheless, she executed a perfect, smart salute in those photos to me. It said to me “I’m with you on this.” I cherish those photos.
Some of my first memories wearing that dress blue uniform reflect the lingering awkwardness I still felt when in that garb.
I reported to the USS JACKSONVILLE, my first submarine assignment, in December of 1988 in my blues. A high energy, gung-ho-mile-a-minute-sailor that I am, I recall shooting out of the corpsman’s office after checking in and running straight into the commanding officer spilling his coffee all over the front of his pristine khakis. This was my first meeting with my new captain.
Soon thereafter, I re-enlisted for two more years in that uniform. It was a big decision and not a popular one amongst my fellow shipmates. It was not cool to reenlist and there was pressure not to do so on that ship. It was this decision that continued to fortify me being my own person, a man with a family now, making the right choices. I didn’t know it at the time but this was when I started showing hints of wearing the blues instead of them wearing me.
Lynn and I attended our first Submarine Ball in 1988. A very formal affair that was recorded in our photo album with her fancy dress and my dress blue uniform adorned with a couple medals and my shiny new silver dolphins. This event was significant in both humility and pride in being a young submariner. I walked a bit taller in those blues after that.
The true, significant power and influence of the Navy dress blue uniform did not manifest itself until the event of my grandmother’s death in 1990. This was very tragic to me; my grandmother was, and is, very dear to me. I attended her funeral in my dress blues, somewhat reluctantly, but prompted by family members to do so as it would be what my grandmother would want me to wear. It was a somber occasion there with all of my family and the many friends of my grandparents. We were there celebrating her life and sharing the sadness of her passing and, throughout I could not help but detect a certain reverential acknowledgement of my uniform by those of my grandmothers generation in particular. It now was an extreme honor to represent my grandmother in the most perfect attire one can possibly don to pay her tribute. I realized that there is not a suit of any cloth from the finest of tailors that can surpass the impact of this dress blue uniform with white piping and black neckerchief.
Afterward, my emotion was complimentary to the color I wore at that time and Dad and I set out to wake. We arrived at Mom and Dad’s Bar, a local establishment in south Toledo where we both grew up. It was a bit on the seedy side to any other patron that was a stranger to this end of town but familiar to us.
Upon entering you first notice that it is predominantly a biker clientele with the appearance of a certain rough attitude. In walks Dad, in a suit somewhat looking like the schoolteacher type that he was, with me, fully clad in my Navy Blues, in tow.
Now this was a significant and enlightening event for me in two ways, to which I will explain in some detail here.
The first eye-opening aspect of our arrival to this inauspicious yet familiar establishment was the greeting. Dressed as we were in contrast to the patched, leathered and tattoed crowd, one might expect that sudden spaghetti western movie saloon silence when two strangers stand in front of the swinging-creaking doorway. Instead, and quite conversely, we were greeted by a unanimous “Jimmy!” as they first sighted my father. Now, don’t get me wrong, I have always had the highest admiration for my father and he can be an imposing and intimidating man, especially to me when I caused some troubles. But the surreal greeting of this thin schoolteacher in a suit by a bunch of bikers, more appropriate for the gang leader or a Mafioso boss, threw me for a loop.
Dad got us some beers and I sat down at one of the choice picnic tables as he went off to catch up with the various outlaws, grim reapers and others of questionable occupations. I over-dramatize here for effect; in actuality these are my favorite types of people and were essentially just the good-natured, blue-collared, beer-drinking younger brothers of all my Dad’s buddies. He was their celebrity for the evening and he was clearly enjoying the break from the sober event from which we had just departed.
I left him to it as I sat alone there brooding in melancholy on my island of silence amidst the din of laughter, chatter and Bob Seger jukebox night moves.
A proclamation of “I can kick your ass.” jarred me from my ruminating and beer and I looked up, way up, to see the familiar figure of Raymie, the local giant bum. Now, here I do not overdramatize for effect. When I say giant, I do in fact mean giant by every definition of the word. This was a man of such uncommon magnitude and malignity that almost excludes him from classification as homo sapiens and more suited to sci-fi wookie or legendary sasquatch. And by bum, I certainly mean a lifelong occupation of vagrancy and dwelling of everywhere- except for his house- of which he has none. I grew up seeing this huge presence roaming the streets and everyone knew his name. Seeing him up close is equivalent, on the scale of life events, to encountering a polar bear in the arctic after having only seen pictures in a National Geographic.
“Yes sir, I do believe you could.” was my obvious response to this statement as I glanced around to see where my Dad might be and if he was aware of my situation. He was nowhere near in the crowd so I resolved to handle this myself somehow.
Raymie proceeded to sit across from me and continue to rant about how all of us Navy guys thought we were tough. I proceeded to agree that this was probably true, stereotypically, but I however might be a possible exception in that I did not feel particularly tough, at least in this moment. After an awkward and prolonged period of tension and silent staring that went on for three or four days, he performed a bipolar shift and emitted a laugh that had a unique scary creepiness all its own. He reached out to shake my hand and said he was just messing with me. In my sudden relief I shook his hand. This was when my hand disappeared into the Bermuda Triangle for about ten seconds or so and then reemerged. This giant bum, a description to which I will hold to as fact given the unmistakable smell of filth, proportional to his size, he exuded, had a hand so large that it enveloped mine like a tsunami overtaking an Indonesian schoolhouse hut.
This back-and-forth bipolarity went on for several cycles over the next fifteen minutes, “kick your ass”-“just kidding” and repeat, when my Dad finally walked over and big giant Raymie stood up and gave my Dad the same endearing greeting received upon entry to the bar. I was flabbergasted. I couldn’t help but notice the reverence Raymie had for my Dad as Dad got all of us a beer. Later, I also noticed my Dad slip Raymie twenty bucks- My father was a great guy under the gruff exterior.
Why do I mention this encounter in such detail? Because it was my first realization of how powerful that crackerjack uniform can be. It apparently adds about a foot of height and 100 pounds of weight to a sailor when worn and makes him someone a giant considers- then reconsiders- picking a fight with. In this I jest somewhat in describing a true emanation of this black hued sailor attire. More importantly, I was becoming aware of the effect it was having on me. There was honor in wearing it and it deserved to be presented so. I took my image very seriously and endeavored to represent those brave sailors before me, the ones the elderly generation remembered when they saw me. It was still wearing me, but I was starting to understand it better.
I was born to wear khaki and anchors. I knew it when I earned them; it felt right and true- this was who I was- a Chief. As I retired my crackerjack uniform for my current dress blue uniform I did so with veneration as I hung it in the closet. My crow and red chevrons and hashmarks displayed an end to that phase of my life and represented the beginning of this current one.
These are not the only times I have worn the blues of course. Many ceremonies; reenlistments, changes of command, retirement ceremonies I have attended, each was a very special and memorable occasion.
The most significant and somber occasion occurred with the sudden and early death of a young sailor named Jay Morrall.
Taken too early and leaving behind a wife and baby girl, this devastated our crew on the USS TOPEKA.
At this time we were stationed at Pearl Harbor preparing for change of homeport to San Diego. My family had already moved to San Diego as I remained in Hawaii for several more months. I was a Senior Chief at this time and opted to live in the same barracks with the junior enlisted crewmembers as some added supervision for the command to help ensure the antics and shenanigans were kept to a minimum. Those who know me and are reading this are getting a good snicker out of this I’m sure.
I enjoyed many aspects of this time in the barracks and I was fortunate to be invited to the homes of some of the sailors in my division as well as outings to the beaches and bars.
Residing there did, however, have certain drawbacks. There was a particular Torpedoman Seaman Apprentice that dwelled in the barracks room below mine. This young kid had a habit of playing his rap music loud at unreasonable hours. After an early Saturday morning search of the maintenance spaces of the barracks, I found what I was looking for- the circuit breaker panels. This solved the loud music problem.
It was on one of those amazing Hawaii evenings that tragedy struck.
I had just left a gathering of friends at the home of the Lister family and had returned to the barracks. Shortly thereafter, a Master-at-Arms from base security came to my door to inform me that there had been an incident and I was needed back at the Lister residence. I returned to find that Jay Morrall, who had arrived to the home with his wife and baby girl shortly after I left, had suddenly just keeled over. Unconscious and bleeding from the head wound that resulted from the fall, he was rushed to the hospital on life support. His friends had kept him alive with CPR until the paramedics arrived and took over. He later died in the hospital.
We were stunned. This young man was so full of life just hours before. There was no explanation- he was fit with no signs or symptoms of any illness or affliction. He… just died.
I was assigned to the duties of the CACO- Casualty Assistance Calls Officer- to assist the family with this crisis which encompassed representative support, comfort, and assistance through the bureaucratic processes of benefits and funeral arrangements. Through this very trying time I grew very close to the Morrall family and will tell you that this was the most difficult, and at the same time- rewarding, assignment I ever had during my entire twenty-six years of naval service. It was rewarding in that I had the privilege to honor the life of Jay Morrall through my service to his family.
I wore my dress blue uniform as I escorted Jay’s body back to Illinois and his family for the funeral. This was the year after 9/11 and service personnel were not supposed to wear uniforms on planes anymore. I didn’t care and wore it anyways; it seemed wrong not too. I will never forget how honorable and accommodating the airline personnel were throughout this journey as well as the respect shown by the other travelers to this somber event.
It was during this time in Illinois that I acknowledged why they are called a service dress blue uniform. It was there that I learned the true nature of service- to willingly sacrifice anything- eating, sleeping, and sometimes dying- for others because it is right and because it is honorable.
We remember you Jay Morrall.
Following the funeral, our return flights to Hawaii were reserved for September 12th. Brian Truckenmiller- one of Jay’s best friends and a fellow shipmate- was traveling with me as he was a pallbearer and friend of Jay’s family. We noted that he was flying on American Airlines and I was flying on United Airlines. We decided to fly back early and wear our uniforms on 9/11 in both tribute and defiance.
I cannot adequately describe how surreal yet special this day was.
Now, let’s remember that although I am in the military, I am by no means a combat warrior. I am a submariner and an engineer. Yes, I maintained qualification using a 9MM and M-16, but, I didn’t have any fancy hand-to-hand combat training nor was I in possession of a weapon (obviously). On this flight home, it didn’t matter. The comfort and ease I provided to my fellow travelers that day through my mere presence in my dress blue uniform was astounding. I had several of the few passengers traveling that day, including some of the airline attendants, tell me that they felt safer with me on board. In their eyes I was some kind of Navy Seal commando. Brian said he encountered the same experience on his flight. The uniforms made them feel safe.
Never forget.
It was after this experience that I started to wear the blues instead of the other way around.
The Navy Dress Blue uniform is my favorite and I think it is the best one of all the services. As I continued to wear it for military ceremonies and occasions throughout the rest of my career, it accumulated medals, stars, and gold service stripes- or hash marks. During my Master Chief years, I loved the feel of my heavy left arm laden with gold. I think it’s, well… just cool.
I wore my Dress Blues when I reenlisted at the Cabrillo National Monument on the cliffs of Point Loma in San Diego, California. This was very memorable and special because I shared this event with Brian Truckenmiller and Mike Poston, two mechanics in my division, who also reenlisted that day. Our reenlisting officer was our Commanding Officer, Rich Correll- one of the finest people I have ever worked for and the best CO I ever had.
The highlight of these years was the occasion to walk my daughter Lindsay down the aisle at her wedding to Kevin. I will never forget how happy and beautiful she was on that day as she took my gold laden arm and we proceeded to the altar. I was a proud father as the guests looked on adoringly. I couldn’t help but see the irony as Kevin awaited Lindsay down that aisle, also wearing his dress blue uniform- cracker jacks with three stripes- similar to what I had worn 25 years before when I married Lynn. When I married Lynn- in Orlando, Florida- I wore my Dress White uniform and also had three stripes- red ones- to indicate that I was a Fireman. Kevin was wearing his Dress Blues with stripes of green indicating that he was an Airman.
So, there we were- the old and the new, both clad in blue- turning over the hand of my little girl to someone she loves and who loves her. Unlike turning over a ship, command, or duty, this was not a relinquishing of responsibility- she will always be my little girl.
In my last years of the Navy, approaching my own retirement, I was honored to be the Master of Ceremonies at the retirements of several of my peers. I had always liked attending retirement ceremonies as they were steeped in tradition and provided a chance to reminisce the old days. I have always enjoyed and been comfortable speaking to an audience so being emcee for these occasions was natural to me. It got to the point where I was booked as emcee for several in succession. It was an honor each time to be a spokesperson and lead the proceedings for these special events in my friend’s lives.
I was also honored to be the First Salute at the commissioning of several Sailors that I served with through the years. One of these events, in particular, had special significance to me.
I was honored to be the guest speaker and first salute for one of the best Sailors I ever served with- Chuy Herrera. The event took place in the Rickover Memorial Auditorium at Naval Nuclear Training Command in Charleston, SC. Chuy was an instructor there while I was serving down the road as Plant Master Chief at Nuclear Power Training Unit. He was selected as a Limited Duty Officer and was being commissioned as an Ensign. I had served with Chuy on the USS TOPEKA when he was a young ELT in my Engineering Department. His commission was well earned and deserved. Lynn and I were pleased to share this special day with Chuy and his family, as Lynn was in attendance while I spoke as the guest speaker and rendered Ensign Herrera his First Salute.
Later, after looking at photos of the event, I came across one of me sitting on the stage, in my Dress Blues, at some point in the ceremony. It perfectly captured how I felt on that day, at that moment. I remember I was thinking of my career in the Navy coming to a close and was reminiscing through the collection of memories that I was adding this event to. In the photo I looked like I felt relaxed, at ease, no... at peace. There is nothing more natural- more perfect and fitting- than the way I looked and felt in my Dress Blues that moment. It was at that moment-looking at that picture- when I realized that the uniform didn’t wear me, nor I wear it-
We wore each other.
JArtB