Karl H. Woodworth CTT3 1968-1972 1968, when I joined the Navy, was a time of intense turmoil in the nation; but the politics hadn't arrived yet at Oxford College in Georgia, where I was slowly sinking academically in my first year. So, for me the Navy was Plan B and I was warmly greeted by the recruiter and was inducted in July 1968 at the old Draft Board building in Atlanta. After boot camp, where I was known as "4.0" because I simply followed all instructions to the letter no matter how bizarre, I was sent to CT school in Pensacola. The code school was interesting - run by a bunch of Marines who yelled out either the dits for a letter or the letter itself, and we roared back the corresponding item - as in, them: "DIT DAH!" (slamming broomstick on a desk), us: "ALPHA!" (see, I can still remember the code). When everyone got a bit strung out doing this for hours, they would take us out on a run for a bit of fresh air, double-time singsong cadence and all. Later, in advanced ditty class, we would practice on typewriters from tapes of letter- or number-groups in Morse; we also practiced hand copy, which was much harder to do. The Chief running our class was a walking repository of jokes of many kinds, and so the intense ditty work was accentuated with the occasional burst of laughter. During ditty school we were in the big barracks, huge brick buildings with stone terrazzo flooring, and open rows of bunks. We reported daily at 5PM behind the movie theater for duty assignments - extra help at the NCO club, or moving chairs at the theater, etc. When I was eventually assigned to 'T' branch school we were moved to the small barracks, one-story structures with rooms holding 2 bunked racks, so four people. We rotated guard duty throughout the night, and there was a continuing underlying drama of people sleeping through that or claiming the on-duty watch had failed to wake them up. Must have been a real headache for the PO in charge. We were also supposed to be on guard for sleep-talking, and turn ourselves or others in if that occurred. One person who didn't like the duty faked some sleep talking and got transferred. Or maybe that was a rumor. 'T' branch was what was called a chickenshit outfit - floors had to be regularly waxed and polished with paste wax, and a legacy of technology around that, using blanket pieces to buff the floor, etc. was passed on from class to class. However, while I was there someone found a spare tile somewhere and polished it up real bright and then took it to the Chief in charge of housing and lit a match to it. Turns out paste wax is really flammable, and it was outlawed thereafter. The material covered in 'T' school was technical and quite interesting, and we had great instructors. Classes were small. For a time, I think it was because I was awaiting a clearance, I did guard duty at the gate to the instruction buildings. One morning about 6AM I was standing at the door to my little guardhouse, not thinking about too much, when someone came rushing by from inside in a khaki blur. I had just enough time to blurt out "canIseeyourbadgepleasesir?!!". He backed up, looked my square in the eye, showed me his badge, and said "Son, you just saved yourself an ass-chewing." He was a full Commander. I eventually went to Morocco. I was not an especially well-traveled kid, and was mystified as to how exactly I was going to get from where I was, to halfway across the globe to an exotic third-world country. It was quite an adventure, navigating myself from Grand Central Station in New York City to the Pan Am terminal at JFK. After a long sleepless flight full of yacky tourists a small group of us was met and transported in a bumpy bus ride to Sidi Yahia du Rharb. I mess-cooked for four months waiting for a billet to open up; My task was to get people to eat the cottage cheese somehow, so I decorated little bowls of cottage cheese with sawtooth-cut peaches and the like. I can still make a dynamite coleslaw. Finally in my billet, we worked a 2-2-2-80 (eve, day, mid) schedule which was the equivalent of 5 days on, 3 days off. It was the perfect schedule for seeing the country. During this time the Kent State Massacre happened at Miami U. in Ohio. This news shook just about everyone in my generation; we felt our peers had been summarily killed. There then ensued a sharp generational divide between the career enlisted and the ones who had joined in the late sixties. Anyone over 30 was suspect. It got ugly. In December 1970 I was assigned to Guam, and spent several weeks back home on the way over. Let me tell you, it was a far different country than the one I left in 1969. Woodstock, bra burning, Kent State, flag burning, drugs, you name it, it all blew up during the time I was away. When I was home I got myself a pair of wire rims, just to, you know, fit in. Guam ran a 1-1-1-54 watch schedule, which was grueling; it was a year with not enough sleep. If you weren't a sun and beach freak on Guam, you worked a second job or you drank too much. I had some friends who had contacts at Micronesia Tours, so I got a part-time job with them driving airport transfer and the occasional busload of Japanese honeymooners. I learned how to fit 11 airline crew members and their luggage into a 9-seater van. I did that for nine months and then drank too much for the rest of my time. While on Guam I saw the first 747 to the island, come in for a landing. In the workplace, the Generational War continued. Winter of 71-72 they began an early-out program so we were all crossing our fingers hoping we would get out early before the program met its quota. Mine came through in April 72 and I got out at Long Beach. I grew up in the Navy; sometimes I wonder why I didn't stay in, seeing as how I liked structure, as they say, and enjoyed the work. I think the generational divide was just too great. None of my friends stayed in. People say now, "thank you for your service", and sometimes I tell them the truth, which was that I was 19, needed a home, made great friends, and had interesting work. Karl H. Woodworth CTT3 1968-1972