___________________________________________________________

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

Rectangular in shape, the camp began at the highway and ran about a third of a mile butting to the edge of the ocean. The facility was near three quarters 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 twenty yards to the entrance.

A white guardhouse in the center of the road divided the road in two: one side ‘ingress’ the other ‘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.’

A “Becoming” excerpt in sequence: 10/9/52 CG 1

______________________________________________________

Cape May, New Jersey

October 9, 1952

A handsome man. Well over six feet tall, at thirty-nine years of age ‘Chief Petty Officer John Slattery’ had prematurely gray hair, light blue eyes a ruddy complexion and, unless crossed, an extremely likable disposition… Chief Petty Officer John Slattery 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 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. “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.

Through 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 doing ‘drill’ in the field.

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— That he would learn how to tie later— 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. Other clothing would be issued upon arrival to first assigned duty station.

The clothing, unless the recruit knew his sizes—Mitchell had still relied on his mother to buy, minimally, 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,— were 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’.”

In greeting, 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, came back to the barracks and 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 snug 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 was pocked with acne 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 realized that all  talking had stopped and the men were all looking in his direction, and he also realized 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 terrifying minutes spent with Guido and Al, but knew that—now he had become 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. 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 newly issued 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, Mitchell caught his shorts just as they begun to slip past his thighs. “…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 ‘S’wartz’.” His hand clasping Mitchell’s, “I like what you did to that goyish’a dick.”

“Yeah,” grinning, “me, too… “ ‘S’wartz”?”

Smiling, “Yeah, these red-necked schmucks can’t figure out how to say “ ‘Schwartz’,” so they call me ‘S’wartz,” 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…. By the way, call me ‘Mickey”

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

****

Mitchell had spent the long hours during the trip from Chicago rationalizing his reasons for a four-year enlistment.

First off, the war in Korea had ended in July and no one would be shooting at him. Also, unless in college, he would be eligible for the draft within the next year and, really, the only thing he had been doing at ‘Wright’ was taking up space and Mitchell didn’t know how long he would have been able to last there.

He further rationalized that in four years, after he was out of the Coast Guard, maybe he would be better prepared for college. Also, maybe he would learn a vocation in the Coast Guard.

All rationale aside, though, the reason for his enlistment, the ‘real’ motive, was that he could not stand the thought of being that close to Susan and ‘not’ be allowed to see her, not be allowed to be with her.

Other than that, he had thought about the Coast Guardsmen stationed at the ‘Randolph Street Lifeboat Station’ in ‘Chicago Harbor’. The Coast Guard seemed like romantic, adventuresome and not too difficult duty that would get him away from Chicago and Susan, and bring him into contact with any number of girls.

He had also felt, especially since taking the written Coast Guard exam, that the quality of people he’d meet in as ‘elite’ a branch of the military as the Coast Guard would be better, intellectually, than the Army….Oh, yeah!

‘Day is gone.

Gone the sun,’

Taps.

Boatswains Mate Third Class Gustand threw the switch turning the lights off in barracks 7.

‘From the lake,

Fom the hills,

From the sky.’

His fingers absently caressing the stubble of his military brush, lying on his back with his hands behind his head listening

From the far end of the camp the mournful sound of the bugle echoed softly… then all was quiet.

Sad. Lonely. Feeling the thickening in his throat and the stinging behind his eyes. swallowing, he attempted to hold back tears.

In Barracks 7 there was the rustle of fifty beds, the breathing of fifty men, and the muffled sobs of more than just a few, when…

“Hey, y’all!” In a light, chirpy, southern accent. “Y’all ever see a fuckin’ rocket ship a’blastin’ off?”

“Aw, ‘no’, ya rebel son-of-a-bitch! Don’t y’all go an’ be doin’ that ol’ shitty shit again!”

Slightly deeper, the second voice had the same southern accent.

“Aw, come on, Mac! These ol’ northern cock-suckers ain’t never seen a fuckin’ rocket blast… Don’t j’ya’all rookie, fuckin’ boots wanna see a fuckin’ rocket ship a’blastin’ off?”

“Wha’j’ya mean, ‘rookie, fuckin’ boots’?” In a Brooklyn accent, coming from the other end of the barracks. “You two fuckin’ rebel sons’a’bitches got here yesterday, an’ that makes you two fuckers fuckin’ old salts? An’ where the fuck you think you are?” the voice asked good-naturedly. “This here’s the fuckin’ Coast Guard, an’…”

“ ‘You’! The Yankee fucker with the big mouth! ‘Shush’! Don’t’j’y’all go on an’ be encouragin’ the little fucker like that!”

“…not the fuckin’ Air Force,” Brooklyn going on. “An’ we ain’t got no fuckin’ rocket ships! An’ even if we did, we sure as shit wouldn’t go givin’ ’em to any dumb-ass, asshole, rebel fucker like you!”

“ ‘Y’all’ hear that, Mac? That Yankee som’m’bitch thinks that just ’cause this here’s the fuckin’ U.S. Coast Guard we ain’t got no fuckin’ rocket-ships!”

“ ‘Shit’! Now y’all done it! Y’all went an’ made the lil’l fucker mad! ‘Aw, shit’!”

In the dark, on their elbows, the entire barracks were looking back and forth towards the directions of the three-way harangue.

“Y’all ready, Mac?”

“Well, I warned’j’y’all. Yeah! May as well get it over with.”

‘Scklech’. The sound of the flywheel of a Zippo cigarette lighter on flint, and the northeast corner of the barracks became illuminated by the high, flickering flame.

The... “Uhh!” ...sound... “Uhh!” ...of someone...“Uhh!... grunting.

“ ‘Lord’a’mercy’! The lil’l fucker’s conjurin’ up a bad’un.”

“I’s almost ready, Mac. ‘Uhh’! I’s almost ready!”

“ ‘Oh, Lordy’!”

Except for the rustling of springs, there was not a sound in barracks 7.

Suddenly, illuminated in the wavering orange glow, someone’s naked buttocks were pointed upward…

“ ‘Oh, Lordy’! ‘Lordy’!”

‘Phhhzzz’!

As his intestinal gas hit the flame of the lighter, a bright blue flame jetted five feet from the anus of the ‘rocket man’ and the rotten stench of burning sulfur percolated throughout the barracks.

“ ‘Jesus, K-rist’!” Coming from the northwest corner of the barracks, “You ‘fucker’! You stink worse’n fuckin’ shit!”

“I tol’ya’all! But ‘no’, y’all wouldn’t listen! Y’all wouldn’t believe me! Serves all’a’ya fuckin’ Yankees right!” Covering his head with his pillow to keep the stench out, “Mmffm!”

The overhead lights going on. Frowning, “So you want to play, do you?” Chief Slattery was standing in the doorway. “Reveille’s at 0500 and we’ll see how much energy you boots got then!” He’d seen it, heard it, and smelled it all before. His frown turning to a smile, “And the guy that blew out his asshole better get to the sick bay first thing in the morning… Smells like something crawled up your ass and died.”

For Mitchell Lipensky a whole bunch of realizations came to mind: There’s no war going on and smart guys don’t enlist for four years! It’s okay to be drafted for two years, but—at the moment forgetting the real reason he had enlisted—only an idiot would enlist for four fucking years! And that southern guy; did he and me take the same test? And if we did, am I so dumb that I even ‘thought’ a couple of the questions were hard? Hell, any guy that sticks a lighter up his ass and farts so he can pretend he’s a human flame-thrower can’t be all ‘that’ smart. Smiling to himself, What if he’d’a hiccuped?

 Next “Becoming” excerpt in sequence: 10/10/52 & forward (CG2)