Cresting a rise in the road, the facility came into view.

Rectangular in shape, the camp began at the highway and ran about a quarter of a mile butting to the edge of the ocean. The facility was near two-thirds of a mile wide and all visible structures—row upon row of long, squat buildings—were painted white.

Making a left turn, the bus went about thirty feet to the entrance.

A white guardhouse in the center of the road divided the road in two: one side, the ingress, and the other, the egress. In front of the guardhouse was a huge, white painted anchor. Above the entrance, covering both the ingress and egress, was a white sign with black lettering reading:

U.S. COAST GUARD TRAINING CENTER—CAPE MAY, N.J.

________________________________________________________

Cape May, New Jersey

October 9, 1952 to February 8, 1953

A handsome man, well over six feet tall, at thirty-nine years of age, Chief Petty Officer John Flattery had prematurely gray hair, light blue eyes, a ruddy complexion and, unless crossed, an extremely likeable disposition… and he immediately became the father figure to a number of the new recruits.

“I’m the boss here! But when I’m not around,” jerking his thumb towards the man in the jeans, “this is Gunners Mate Second Class Monroy, and he’s the boss.” Tapping the edges of the thirteen envelopes on the palm of his hand, he studied the ragtag line of men from one end to the other, then, “Carry on, Gunny.” Turning, allowing the door to slam shut behind him, Slattery went into the barracks.

“Like the man said, I’m Gunnery Mate Monroy…” Tall, with a deep commanding voice, “and for the next sixteen weeks I’m going to be your training office. While here on base, when you talk to me you’ll address me as Sir. If you should run into me ashore, my name is Monroy. Remember that! The Chief, to you boots, is always Sir… We know you haven’t eaten since last night, so we’re going to get some chow now, then you’ll draw your gear.” Jerking his thumb over his shoulder, “Stow your bags on whatever empty bunk you find. Permanent berths will be assigned later.”

If not for the white, rather than olive-colored blankets, the interior of this barracks was almost exactly as Mitchell remembered Camp McCoy.

“Hustle it! Fall in!”

The group was marched, more or less, to the mess hall where they had fresh orange juice, scrambled or sunny-side-up eggs, pork sausage or bacon, toast, a choice of three jellies, and coffee or milk… Very unlike what Mitchell remembered of Camp McCoy.

Finished eating, the thirteen were marched, more or less, back to the barracks where they were issued bunks that had not been assigned to the recruits that had arrived on the previous day, that at this time were in the field doing drill.

Noticing the name printed on the adhesive tape on the frame of the bunk next to his: Schwartz, Michael J. Could be Jewish, Mitchell thought. That would be nice.

Motioning to the open space between the foot end of the two long rows of bunks, “Fall in! As of now,” Monroy said, “and for the term of your enlistment, civilian time is officially over. From now on you will run on Coast Guard time only! And when I say fall in I mean drop whatever the fuck you’re doing and fall the fuck in!”

The military disease, the “fuck” disease, as Mitchell well remembered of Camp McCoy, also ran rampant at the U.S. Training Facility: Cape May, New Jersey.

The balance of the morning was spent at the quartermasters.

Mitchell was issued six sets of underwear: T-shirts and boxer shorts—that he had always hated because, used to the snug feel of Jockeys, boxers always made him feel as though his penis were dangling—six pairs each of black and white socks, ten handkerchiefs—that felt as though they were made of stainless steel—the large, silky, black neckerchief that was to be worn with winter and summer dress uniforms, one set of dress blues and one set of dress whites—the bib front, 13-button, bell-bottom trousers had been out of issue for years, but were allowed and could be worn once out of boot camp, if one were willing to pay a civilian supply house—three sets of denim jeans and chambray work shirts, one pair each of black, dress, and work shoes, blue and white web belts with plain black buckles—brass buckles with the Coast guard emblem could be purchased at the Post Exchange and were allowed to be worn—a white sailors cap, a blue knit watch cap, a pea coat, a white ditty-bag to hold dirty laundry, and a large, blue sea-bag to hold everything.

The clothing, unless the recruit knew his sizes—Mitchell had still relied on his mother to buy, at least, his underwear—was issued through the practiced eye of the Quartermaster.

Later, as he began to wear his issued clothing—except for the boxer shorts, which were slightly snug in the waist—Mitchell was surprised at just how well everything fit.

At the end of the line a stencil was made with his name—last name first—and his serial number.

In barracks 7 again, Gunners Mate Second Class Monroy was showing the men how their gear was to be stenciled—in indelible white ink on the dark clothing and indelible black ink on the white clothing—when the original thirty-seven men of Company Seven, wearing watch caps, jeans, chambray shirts and pea coats, each carrying a Garand, M1 rifle, marching from the drill field at 1145 hours, was led into the barracks by a thin, pockmarked sailor with one red chevron on his sleeve.

“Tench-hupp!” Monroy called the company to attention.

The day-old recruits, plus Mitchell—having prior military training—“snapped to.” The twelve others sluggishly came to attention.

“For you new men, this here’s Boatswains Mate Third Class Gustand, and he’s my assistant. You can call him Sir, or you can call him Boats, Sir.”

Gustand nodded his head at the new men.

“In case you’re wondering,” Monroy went on, “about ‘siring’ and saluting non-commissioned officers; it’s only for the duration of your training here. Once you’re out of camp you don’t salute us,” nodding towards Gustand, “and you don’t ‘sir’ us! But while you are here, anyone that’s got more on his sleeve than you rates a sir and a salute. And you’ll notice that none’a you fuckers got shit on your sleeves. To make things real easy for you,” looking at the new men, “just remember that you fuckers are lower’n whale shit, and you all know where you find whale shit!” Now looking at the men that had arrived from the field, “don’t you?”

“Yes, Sir, Gunners Mate Second Class Monroy, Sir!” the thirty-seven “old timers” yelled in unison. “At the bottom of the ocean, Sir!”

“And there’s nothin’ lower’n whale shit! Is there!?”

“No, Sir, Gunners Mate Second Class Monroy, Sir!”

“You’re right! … Fall in for chow!”

                                                                         **** 

After lunch the balance of the day was taken to show the men how to roll their clothing, how the clothing was to be stowed in their sea bags, how the dress neckerchief was to be folded and knotted, how to square their caps… and how to make a bunk, the Coast Guard way, when…

He yawned again.

“You! You tired? You fuckin’ bored, sailor?”

“Uh,” straightening his body, “me, Sir?”

“Yeah, you! What’s your name, sailor?”

“Lipensky, Sir.”

“What the fuck kind’a name’s…”

Holding his breath, waiting to hear La-pimp-sky, but…

“…Lipensky?”

“Uh,” Let him prove it isn’t. “French, Sir. It’s pronounced La’pensky, Sir.”

Smiling, “French, huh? Okay, La’pensky,” ripping the tautly tucked blanket and sheet off the bunk, “let’s see you do it!”

“Yes, Sir, Gunners Mate Second Class Monroy, Sir!”

Flicking the sheet in the air to remove the wrinkles, letting it drift onto the mattress, Mitchell rapidly made the bunk the Coast guard way, which was exactly the Baylor way, which coincidentally was also the U.S. Army way.

“Very good, La’pensky! Where’d you learn to do it?”

“Me, Sir? In the Army, Sir. I’m a, uh… Korean veteran. Uh, sort of.”

“A Vet! You? I don’t fuckin’ believe it!”

“Yes, Sir. It’s in my file, Sir.”

“And you can bet your ass I’m going to check it.” Glancing at his watch, “Oh, yeah! You girls got an appointment at the beauty shop. Fall in outside!”

                                                                         **** 

By the time they’d had their haircuts, it was 1700 hours and time for supper.

After eating, the recruits were given time to go to the PX to purchase items they would be needing: writing paper, envelopes, stamps, sewing kits, shoe polish and, of course, shiny brass buckles with the U. S. Coast Guard emblem.

Until lights out at 2100 hours, it was their time for writing letters, becoming acquainted, shining their dress shoes and, of course, polishing their U.S. Coast Guard brass buckles.

He had gone to the PX directly from the mess hall, come back to the barracks, taken a shower and, having had only about five hours sleep in the past 48 hours, as most of the men who were planning on turning in early, wearing only a T-shirt and a pair of his new boxer shorts—being a bit tight anyway, especially after eating, having unsnapped the top snap—Mitchell was sitting on the edge of his bunk spit-shining his dress shoes.

Anxious to meet “Schwartz, Michael J.” he glanced at the bunk to his right. But to his knowledge the man hadn’t returned all day so the only thing Mitchell was able to conclude was, He’s probably on KP.

Until friendships were formed, for the same reason a Lipensky wanted to meet a Schwartz, having found their “own kind,” a number of the men had assimilated into groups of their own ethnicity.

“Hey, you! La’pinsky!”

“Putting the shoe on his lap, “Yeah?” he looked at the man standing at the foot of his bunk.

One of the group from Chicago, Anton Sobileski had a sharp face, a light complexion and blonde, almost platinum-colored hair. Slightly taller than Mitchell, although not exactly skinny, he was on the thin side. In shorts only, Sobileski’s upper chest and back were pocked with pimple scars.

“La’pinsky ain’t no fuckin’ frog name!” Sobileski said loudly, belligerently. “You’re a fuckin’ Jew! Ain’t’j’ya, La’pinsky?”

Glancing about the barracks, Mitchell saw talking had stopped and that the men were all looking in his direction, and he knew that — Mitchell Lipensky was a peaceful person, actually considering himself a coward. Having both occurred before the age of ten, he had had only two punching fights in his entire life and still had an occasional nightmare over those few terrifying minutes he had spent with Guido and Al, but knew that—now he was a man and how he was going to be accepted throughout the entire four years of his enlistment might very well depend on how he handled this situation, now, on the very first day of his enlistment and, What the hell, he thought, I might as well get into it with this skinny schmuck as some big shlub! So…

“Yeah! That’s right, Slob’ileski! I am a Jew, and you’re a Polack! So what?”

Coming closer, “This thing,” lifting the mazozza with the tip of his index finger, obviously showing off, looking over his shoulder at his new-found friends, “this what’ch’ma’call’it? It’s somethin’ like some kind’a kike cross, ain’t it?”

Two remembrances came to mind: of Guido yanking on his mazozza, the chain cutting painfully into the back of his neck, and of Sargent Martinez and Skorupski outside the armory. Now—not actually cognizant of the move—clasping Sobileski’s finger, standing suddenly, bending the finger sharply backward…

The smirk instantly leaving his face, his complexion becoming even whiter, bending at the knees, attempting to go with the pressure, Sobileski leaned forward, but, the pressure increasing, “La’pinsky,” trying to hide his pain, “you’re, uh,” the pain getting the better of him. “You’re hurting me!”

“No shit!” For emphasis he pushed even harder, causing Sobileski to drop to his knees. And Mitchell would certainly have been enjoying the fact that for once in his life he was the master of the situation, except… Uh, oh! The top snap unsnapped, his boxers were falling.

“Le’go’a’me, La’pinsky! Please!”

“Okay, but…” Releasing Sobileski’s finger with a shove that pushed him against the bunk on the opposite side of the aisle, he caught his shorts just as they begun to slip past his buttocks. “…stay the fuck away from me!”

“Yeah, okay, I didn’t mean nothin’! Ya don’t gotta go getting’ all ticked off.”

“Fuck you!”

“Bravo!”

“Hey, I’ve been wondering when you were coming home.”

“Yeah, me, too. Been on KP.”

“That’s what I kind’a figured.” Reaching across his bunk, “I’m Mitch Lipensky.”

“Mickey Swartz.” His hand clasping Mitchell’s, “I like what you did to that goyish’a dick.”

“Yeah,” grinning, “me, too… “Swartz”?”

Smiling, “Yeah, these red-necked schmucks can’t figure out how to say “Schwartz,” so they call me “Swartz,” Where you from, Mitch?”

“Chicago. You?”

“Detroit.”

About 5'7", stocky, partially bald with dark, thick stubble on his face, Michael Schwartz looked considerably older than his 32 years.

Surprised at his appearance, motioning towards the barracks, “You look kind’a old to be with this bunch.” Mitchell said tactlessly.

Sighing, “Yeah, I spent three years during Korea in the Merchant Marine thinking I’d be excempt from the draft, but guess what?”

“Jesus, no shit?”

“Yeah, no shit! They wanted to draft me into the fucking Army, so here I am… Look, I’ll talk to you later. I want to hop in the shower before lights out.”

“Yeah, sure, Mickey. Talk to you later.”