A “Becoming” Excerpt in sequence: CG3/Rockaway

Cape May, New Jersey

U.S. Coast Guard Training Facility

Weeks into months

‘KP’: Serve chow. Scour pots and pans. Swab the deck. ‘Yeah’, peel potatoes… but not mountains of them. Serve chow. Scour pots. Scrub pans. Swab the deck. Then… Dinner. Start over again.

‘Guard duty’: Back and forth. Back and forth in the dead of night with the stock of your ‘M1’ rifle growing heavier upon your shoulder. Back and forth for four hours in the dead of night with the collar of your pea coat pulled up and your watch cap pulled down with the arctic wind blowing down your back with that god-damned M1 on your shoulder.

‘March’. “Hup-two-three-four!”

“Stroke! Stroke!”

‘Semaphore’

“Up that rope!”

March…

“Gi’me another fifty!”

‘Morse Code’

“Faster!”

March…

“Faster!”

“Even up on the davits! Lower that lifeboat!”

March...

****

It’s over!

Finished!

Boot camp is done!

‘Permanent duty assignments’!

“I got a fuckin’ buoy tender.”

“So what? Least ways you’ll be stationed in port.”

“In fuckin’ Buffalo!”

“ ‘Buffalo’! It’s colder’n’a witch’s tit in fuckin’ Buffalo!”

“No shit!”

“Damn, I’m on the fuckin’ Westwind!”

“The Westwind’s a fuckin’ weather ship.”

“No shit! Six fuckin’ weeks at a time in the fuckin’ Atlantic Ocean!”

“Christ! Better pack the fuckin’ cold weather gear. I got me a fuckin’ ice breaker.”

“So? What’s so fuckin’ bad?”

“Out’a fuckin’ ‘Newfoundland’?”

“Fuck, I got a fuckin’ lighthouse outside Boston. I’ll be beatin’ my meat watchin’ the fuckin’ seagulls.”

“Hey, Lenfield, where’s ‘Far Rockaway’?”

Looking at Mitchell, “Huh?” The New Yorker asked. “ ‘Far Rockaway’?”

“Yeah, Far Rockaway.”

“Lippy, don’t tell me you’ve got duty at fuckin’ ‘Rockaway’!”

“Yeah,” looking at his papers. “ ‘C.G. Patrol Station, Far Rockaway, New York’.”

“ ‘You’…” Lenfield said unbelievably, “...got duty at fuckin’ Rockaway?”

Becoming concerned, “It’s bad at Rockaway?”

“Bad? ‘Son of a bitch’! Outside of, maybe, Hawaii, it’s the best fuckin’ duty in the fuckin’ Coast Guard! There’s more fuckin’ broads in Rockaway then you can shake a stick at! Far Rockaway’s a fuckin’ resort place!”

More broads than you can shake a stick at! Becoming excited at the prospect of duty at ‘C.G. Patrol Station, Far Rockaway’, but enjoying Lenfield’s consternation. “It’s got’a be kind’a cold’n’lonely in the winter, then, huh?”

“’Asshole’! Rockaway’s across the fuckin bay from ‘Coney Island’! It’s across from ‘Sheepshead Bay’!” Lenfield said excitedly. “It’s an hour to ‘Times Square’! Rockaway’s a fuckin’ paradise! Jesus Christ! How the fuck can anyone be lucky enough to pull fuckin’ Rockaway and not even know what the fuckin’ place is? I’d give one’a my balls for Rockaway!”

****

Formal graduation ceremony over.

Assembling together one last time.

Their sea bags at their feet, the men of barracks 7 stood at ease.

Chief Petty Officer Slattery, Gunners Mate Second Class Monroy and Boatswains Mate Third Class Gustand standing before the group.

“I want to thank you men for your fine effort,” Chief Slattery said. “And I know I speak for ‘Gunny’ and ‘Boats’ here when I say that working with you men has been a pleasure. Men such as yourselves make our job easier.” He came to attention.

“Tench hup!” Monroy called.

Coming from this man, swelled with pride, The men of barracks 7 snapped to attention.

Still before them, Slattery, Monroy and Gustand saluted the men.

“At ease!”

“Two last orders! If you ever see us again,” cocking his head, Slattery motioned to Conroy and Gustand, “don’t salute us and do not call us sir. Your bus is waiting. Good luck. Dismissed!”

Each man carried a manila envelope with his orders, military record and a mimeographed copy of how to get to his duty station, along with the proper transportation tickets and, for those traveling longer than eight hours, additional chits for food.

The Coast Guard bus took them past Wildwood— Mitchell’s mind flitting to Christmas Eve and ‘Connie’— along the coast to Atlantic City where they boarded a train for New York City.

At Grand Central Station the group splintered into parties of men going in the same general direction, and individuals going in different directions…

But not before sentimentalizing.

“ ‘S’wartz,” Mitchell smiled. “Mickey, good luck, buddy.”

Bound for Staten Island and the weather ship ‘Westwind’, “Look,” Mickey said, “we’re really not all that far from each other. I’m just a ferry ride across the channel to ‘Staten Island’ and you’re down at the tip of ‘Brooklyn’. There’s no reason why we can’t get together every once in a while. Maybe meet at the U.S.O. in ‘Manhattan’ and see if they’ve got tickets for a play, or take in a movie, or maybe just go to chow together.”

“Yeah, Mickey, I’d ‘really’ like to do that.”

“Okay, then,” clasping each other about the shoulders, “let’s stay in touch.”

“ ‘Absolutely’!” Mitchell agreed… But they never did.

“Hey, Lippy. Look, man, I’m sorry, you know… About that time…”

Offering his hand, “It’s okay, Sobileski. No hard feelings.”

“Thanks.” Shaking hands, “So long, Lippy.”

“Yeah, be seeing you.”

Suddenly alone.

Feeling lost, Mitchell stood within the hustling crowd in the cavernous edifice of ‘Grand Central Station’ for a full minute then, taking the mimeographed directions from the manila envelope. Studying them, he caught a south-bound subway, got off at ‘Canal’ where he transferred to an east-bound subway. At the end of the line he took the ‘Flatbush’ bus as far as it went, then caught a second bus.

Traveling through the southern end of Brooklyn, the bus passed ‘Floyd Bennett Field’, and within a minute crossed the ‘Marine Parkway Bridge’ and…

There, below, just to the west of this huge, center span lifting bridge is the three-structure compound of ‘U.S.C.G. Rockaway Lifeboat Station’.

Making a loop in the wide turnaround, “End’a the line, fella.” the driver said to his lone passenger. Stopping, facing in the direction they had come from, “ ‘Rockaway Beach’!” the rear door opened.

Standing, “Yeah, thanks.” Glancing at his watch, still thinking in civilian time, ‘3:43’. He buttoned his coat, put his cap on, slipped the web belt of his sea bag over his shoulder and stepped down the two steps to the curb.

The cold wind hitting him. Turning his collar up, he jammed the cap further onto his head.

Shutting the door, the driver put the bus into gear and drove away

 
February 8, 1953 to March 19, 1954

U.S.C.G. Rockaway Lifeboat Station

Mitchell Lipensky stood at the crest of an asphalt- and concrete grade that overlooked ‘Brooklyn’ to the north, ‘Long Island’ to the east and ‘Far Rockaway’ to the west.

Below, to the south, row upon row of white-capped waves furled out of the ocean, slammed onto the sand and rolled back into the foaming, dark green sea.

Except for the swarming sea gulls that hovered in the air and milled on the sand, the beach was vacant and becoming lost in the mist in either direction, seemed to go on forever. The sharp cries of the gulls could be heard above the wind and crashing waves.

The wide street made a hairpin turn to the right, narrowed to two lanes, went down the incline, turned to the left and passed the station about a quarter mile below and went through the narrow, Rockaway peninsula for as far as Mitchell could see.

Dropping his sea bag to the curb he put his gloves on. Lifting the bag he swung onto his shoulder and started down the incline.

Still above, he saw that three sides of the compound were fenced in six-foot-high chain link and that the fourth side was open to the bay. There were three structures: an oblong, red brick two-story building; a smaller red brick building; and a white, clapboard boat house.

Coming closer he heard the whine of a high-powered marine engine and the sounds of men at work.

Opening the plate-glass door at the front of the two-story building, he stepped into an alcove entry.

Directly across the wide hall was another alcove leading to the bay and work area. In the exact center of the bisecting hallways— in the high sheen, dark-blue linoleum floor— was the gray and blue Coast Guard emblem. To his right there was an up-going stairway. To his left was the closed door to an office and an open, small sliding glass window.

Two men were in the office. At the far desk, wearing work blues, the younger man had the double red chevrons and crossed quills of a ‘yeoman second class’ on the sleeve of his tunic. At the desk directly below the window, wearing sharply pressed khakis, the second man had the silver boatswains symbol on the point of one collar and the emblem of a ‘warrant officer’ on the other.

As Mitchell approached the sliding window, both men looked up.

Letting his sea bag drop to the deck, “Hello,” nodding at the sailor, handing his orders through the window, “I’m to report in today, Sir.”

His eyebrows knotting over his dark-brown eyes—causing the young man to squirm under the man’s intense gaze—‘Warrant Officer Floyd Richard Ewing’ stared at the face framed within the window for seven full seconds before… Taking the envelope, Ewing swiveled his chair turning his back to Mitchell. Opening the flap, he removed the sheath of papers and quickly glanced from page to page...Swiveling back, now facing Mitchell he slapped the papers onto the desk

“ ‘Holy shit’, Mac!” Floyd Richard Ewing said. “Will you look at what they sent me!”

Standing loosely at ease, now bringing his head through the window, looking at his papers, Mitchell tried to see what might have caused the man to make that kind of an exclamation. “Uh, something wrong, Sir?”

Ignoring him, taking the papers, “Christ, Mac,” crossing the room, “just look at what they sent me for a fuckin’ replacement!” Slapping the papers on the Yeoman’s desk, Ewing pointed a stiffened finger to something on the top of the third sheet of paper.

McDonald glanced at the paper, then looked at Mitchell and, when their eyes touched, quickly averting his, “Yes, Sir.” he said to Ewing.

Smiling, his thin lips twitching, “I know what to do with his kind,” jabbing ‘McDonald’ on the shoulder with his elbow, “don’t I, Mac?”

Glancing at Mitchell—with a look upon his face that might be taken as sadness.— “Yes, Sir.”

“How do you pronounce your fuckin’ name, sailor?”

He’d been at CG Rockaway Lifeboat Station for about four minutes. Certainly not long enough for this man to form any type of an opinion, to dislike him. Yet he knew he did, but had no idea why. “Lipensky, Sir.”

“Well, Lipensky,” going back to his desk, “I’m Captain Ewing, and I’m the boss here!” His mouth twitching, “And you know what?”

Ewing’s twitching mouth appearing as somewhat a smile. Relaxing a bit. “No, Sir.”

Hardening, his eyes made contact with Mitchell’s—who looked back a moment, then looked away—“Your ass is grass,” Ewing said. “And I’m the fuckin’ lawnmower!” His stare stationary, turning his head slightly while speaking over his shoulder. “Who’s this guy go with, Mac?”

Looking at a clipboard, studying the roster, “ ‘210’, Captain.”

“Who’s in 210?”

“ ‘Minnossa, Machinist Mate Three’, Sir.”

“ ‘Minnossa and Lipensky’, eh? Sounds like a fuckin’ vaudeville team.”

Looking at the chronometer on the wall, “ ‘1602’… Looks like the Coast Guard can still get some work out of you before chow, Lipensky. Take your gear to 210! Stow it and get into denims and report back to the bridge in five minutes.”

“Uh, ‘the bridge’?”

“ ‘Sir’! Whenever you speak to me you say ‘Sir’ or ‘Captain’! ‘Here’! You don’t understand English? This is the bridge!” Waving his hand. “Now get your ass in gear!”

“Yes, Sir… Uh,” pointing upward with his thumb, “210, Sir?”

“Yeah,” Ewing said facetiously, “seem a pretty good bet that 210 would be on the second deck.”

Feeling a bit queasy in the stomach due to his reception at C.G. Rockaway Lifeboat Station. “Yes, Sir.” Hefting the sea bag onto his shoulder, he went up the one flight of stairs, turned right then, noting the brass numbers on the doors, realizing he was going in the wrong direction, turned back.

The second floor contained the enlisted men’s quarters with ten bedrooms on either side, and one head at both ends of the highly polished, blue and gray linoleum-floored hallway. The doors were open and Mitchell could see that nearly all the rooms were exactly alike: twin beds against the walls on either side of the room, with two three-drawer dressers and a window.

Room 210 was the last room on the north side corner of the building. This room had two windows: one overlooking Rockaway peninsula and the other facing the bay. As in the other rooms, the beds were tautly made with blue bedspreads with the Coast Guard emblem in their exact centers.

Ain’t too bad, he thought. Real beds and… turning, he saw two closet doors. Opening one he found it full of hanging clothes: government issue and civilian. Closing that door he opened the other and found it empty…My own closet. A great view and even cross ventilation.

Remembering Ewing’s order for him to be back in five minutes.

Dropping his sea bag Mitchell opened it and rummaged till he found a pair of rolled jeans and a chambray shirt. Digging deeper, felt for his work shoes. Kicking his dress shoes off and hanging his pea coat and uniform on wire hangers that had been left in the closet, he hurriedly re-dressed.

Glancing at his watch as he rushed downstairs: 4:11.

Next “Becoming” Excerpt in sequence: CG Rockaway/Ewing