​                                                                                                                                                     

                  
​                                                          FOUR YEARS BEFORE THE MAST

                                                                                                                    Anchors away My boy,  
​                                                                                                                     Anchors away!”  
                                                                                                                                      

  “Qualities of a Good Navy Man: 
        Be loyal. 
        Obey orders. 
        Show initiative. 
        Be a fighter. 
        Be reliable. 
        Keep a clean record. 
        Be fair. 
        Be honest. 
        Be cheerful. 
        Be neat.”        
 The Blue Jacket's Manual                                                                                            


   . JJ Lee, Seaman Recruit 

• Service #2353358 
• Company 441
• Great Lakes Naval Training Station
• Great Lakes, Illinois
• November 1948

When I think of that first day of boot camp I am always given one singular moment when my life was forever changed.  After we were fed lunch we were marched to a gigantic Quonset-like building.  Our heads were shaved and we were each given a box, told to strip naked and carefully place all our civilian clothes into the box. Shorn of hair, stripped of clothes, and deprived of any vestige of dignity I realized that my childhood, puberty and a few, all too brief, teen age years were going into that box to be shipped back to my home in Buffalo.

Anyone who has ever experienced boot camp will tell you it is a job of practiced endurance, silent suffering and fortitude.  We marched. We learned the manual of arms, how to salute - “if it doesn’t move, paint it, if it moves, salute it”. We marched. We learned a new language – the bathroom is the head, up is topside, down is below, a wall is a bulkhead, front is forward, back is aft, left is port, right is starboard, food is chow, chip beef on toast is shit on a shingle, and cold cuts are - well, never mind about the cold cuts.   We marched. We learned to stand a four- hour watch, wash our own clothes, and stand daily inspections. We marched. For the first few weeks there were muffled sobs at night.  More then one recruit was sent home for chronic bed-wetting. We lost a few to “mental strain”, and one was sent packing for admitted homosexuality. 

Great Lakes Training Station lies on the shores of Lake Michigan and we were there from November through the following January.  We marched, and marched, marched in the cruelest kind of weather.  We were vaccinated against every known sickness and disease.  The shots were always given on Friday afternoon. If you suffered side effects (cat fever), you could recover over the weekend and be ready to march again by Monday morning.  Boot Camp was one of the most valuable experiences of my life.  I learned a lot about personal responsibility, to take care of myself, my equipment.  A sailor has to live in confined quarters and neatness is an essential part of his existence.  As a consequence I began a life-long love affair with the joys of orderliness – there is order in the universe, there can be order in my life. I learned that you obeyed orders and followed the rules because that’s what makes your life work – and, at critical times, could save your life.  

At the end of three months we were prepared to “join the fleet”. I was given the designation of Aviation Seaman Second Class – two slanted green stripes on my sleeve.  My orders sent me to Alameda Naval Air Station, California.  For the first two months it was like heaven compared to boot camp.  The weather was beautiful and the barracks were spacious and modern. The food was wonderful and best of all, no marching.  There was one critical incident that occurred during this all too brief hiatus – the Navy became desegregated.  Prior to this time all black sailors were housed in separate quarters.  When the orders took affect there were no complaints from the white sailors. However, the black were extremely unhappy when they were ordered to quarter with the whites.

My honeymoon soon ended when I was given orders to report to the aircraft carrier USS Boxer CV21.  Now, some 60 years later I vividly recall my arrival at the dock on San Francisco Bay to board that floating monolith.  I was overwhelmed with her size: over 27.000 tons of metal, 888 feet in length (more than eight football fields) and 147 feet in width.  She Carried a crew of 3,448 officers and enlisted men.  In the 2 years I was to be aboard there were many sections of the ship I never saw.  I can still hear the high C pitch of the Boson’s pipe, “OOOWEE, OOOWEE, NOW HEAR THIS, NOW HEAR THIS: SWEEPERS MAN YOUR BROOMS.  GIVE HER A CLEAN SWEEPDOWN FORE AND AFT AND EMPTY ALL GI CANS ON THE DOCK.”  Me, in my dress blues, sea bag flung over my shoulder, scared to death, up the mid-ships gangway, a smart salute to the fan tail flag, another to the Officer Of The Day.  “Sir, JJ Lee, Apprentice Seaman, 2353358 requests permission to come aboard.” A salute in return, “Permission granted.  Welcome aboard sailor. Report to the Personnel Office below deck.” 

Two weeks later we set sail for a six-month cruise to Asia. That first cruise took us to Hawaii, Japan, Korea, China and the Philippines.  Imagine what it was like for a kid out of Buffalo to have the opportunity to visit exotic ports-of-call like Honolulu, Tokyo, Seoul, Hong Kong, Singapore and Manila.  On my first day of liberty in Honolulu I went ashore with four other young shipmates. I am pleased to this day that I was the only one who woke the next morning without a tattoo.  I marched in a parade in Tokyo, smelled the “honey wagons” of Seoul, bought clothes in Hong Kong and ate steak and eggs at The Raffles Hotel in Singapore.  On April 6, 1950 we crossed the equator and we, the uninitiated Polliwogs, were shaved bald, required to kiss The Royal Baby’s belly (slavered with various foul liquids) and generally subjected to a multitude of humiliations, all under a blazing hot sun. When the initiation was concluded I was officially inducted into the Ancient Order of the Deep and pronounced a Shellback.  That same year we also became members of The Imperial Domain of the Golden Dragon when we crossed the 180th Meridian on route to the Far East.  

As we proceeded on our westerly course out of Hawaii there was a palpable air of anticipation throughout the ship as we headed for our next port-of-call, Yokosuka, Japan.  The old salt’s regaled the new seaman with torrid tales about the beauty and talents of Asian women, with special attention to their legendary genitalia peculiarity, and their prowess in matters sexual.  These male fantasies were very likely formed initially by Marco Polo and his entourage and handed down through the ages by way of lascivious limericks and salacious sea chanteys. 


  Not one of the many yarns I was told prepared me for the incredible events that transpired when we first tied up at the pier in Yokosuka. It takes a lot of time and effort to dock an aircraft carrier.  We began our approach just after breakfast and finally secured our towlines just prior to lunch.  As we inched our way closer to shore we began to hear a distinct and audible chatter.  It was as if a giant chicken coop was somewhere on the dock. To the crew’s amazement (and delight) the chip-chip-chatter was the excited babble of a horde of young Japanese girls as they waited, in eager expectation, for the release (so to speak) of hundreds of testosterone loaded American sailors.

“OOOWEE, OOOWEE. NOW HEAR THIS.  LIBERTY. LIBERTY.  FOR THE PORT AND STARBOARD SECTIONS TO COMMENCE AT 1300 HOURS AND END AT 2400 HOURS.  All THOSE GOING ASHORE MUSTER MID-SHIPS ON THE HANGER DECK.”  Cinderella liberty.  When we arrived at the gate, there they were, Asian Cinderella’s all, dressed in soft, pastel angora sweaters, a string of pearls circled their necks, plaid, pleated skirts and (yes, yes, yes), bobby socks and penny loafers.  There was Mary Lou, Maureen, Sally, Susan, Betty and Barbara genuine clones of all the virgin girls we left behind. There they were with almond eyes, olive skin and some so petite, so doll like, I would not have been surprised to see a wind up key protruding from their elfin posteriors.  There they were, ready to take the Yankee dollar. 


  We stayed in Yokuska for two weeks.  It was remarkable but, sadly, true that despite the Navy’s very liberal and practical policy of prophylactic aids – condoms and pro stations available in all of our ports-of-call - by the time we set sail for China the daily line-up for penicillin shots ("the clap line") was half the length of the hanger deck.  In addition, Father O’Brien was kept unusually busy in the confessional.  I will spare the reader the details of my own adventures except to say that, while I got to know Father O’Brien pretty well, I never required the miracle of penicillin.    

It has been said that one of the most dangerous places on earth is the flight deck of an aircraft carrier.  My first job assignment was to man a tractor (a small, powerful, three geared vehicle designed especially for the Navy) to pull aircraft fore and aft, port to starboard, flight deck to hanger deck as ordered by the flight deck crew.  This was done before and after launch and recovery operations.  This was prior to the jet plane so all of our aircraft were propeller driven.  I consider it a minor miracle that not one man lost his head (literally) during my tour aboard the carrier.

After six months of operations in the South Pacific, I was the only tractor driver who had not dented a plane. I was “promoted” to forklift recovery duty. Of all the job’s I had on board ship none was more perilous. When our aircraft were in recovery mode there were times, usually because of bad weather, the tail hook missed the wire, the plane jumped the barriers and crashed on the flight deck.  If the plane flipped over the pilot was locked in upside down. It became my job to drive out, position the forks under the wing, and lift the plane so the pilot could escape. The greatest danger, of course, was fire.  Fortunately, on the three occasions I had to assist, no fire occurred. 

In addition to my work on the flight deck I got to do the two worst jobs on the ship – mess cooking and side cleaning. I was lucky in the first instance and got to work in the Chief Petty Officer’s ward.  It was hard work but the chow was a few cuts above the enlisted men’s fare.  I started at five in the morning to make coffee.  I introduced my mother’s recipe of salt and eggshells and after a couple of mishaps (too much salt) the chiefs were very pleased. There were four of us and we had to prepare the tables for the three meals, serve the food, clear the tables and clean up in general.  By the time we were through it was all we could do to make it to our bunks. 

The side cleaning was truly grunt work. It required us to lower ourselves in “bosun’s chairs” rigged out of line (never called rope) and chip and re-paint the sides of the ship.  It was not the worst job I was to have in my life, but it came in a close second.  I did earn one word of praise from our division chief that made all the hard work worthwhile.  A shipmate told me he said, “If you want a job done right, get JJ Lee.” 

We were on our way to Australia in 1950 when the Korean War broke out.  Until then our mission had been to show off America’s military might throughout Asia.  Now we had to race back to the States and prepare for the invasion of Inchon.  When we arrived the operation was in full swing. The first plane we launched, loaded with bombs, crashed into the sea just after take-off.  All of this was my first experience of the love affair men have for war.  On our first cruise it was all practice, but the excitement of launches of fully armed planes to “seek and destroy” was blatant.  War; I hated the insanity then, and I hate it even more now.

There are many ways to define an individual, their manner of dress one of the most obvious.  However, if you belong to an organization that requires all it’s members to wear uniforms, other than rank or age, there is no way to distinguish one from another.  It became clear to me very early on that there were two very observable ways to define individuality in the US Navy: books and music. I was intensely aware that I had made a serious error when I dropped out of my senior year before graduation. While I only lacked a few credits I also lacked a high school diploma.  When I began my carrier duty I vowed that I would take every moment possible to further my education.  Until that time I had a cursory interest in historical novels, mysteries, humor.  Now I began a personal journey into the world of literature.  However, reading books like The Great Gatsby or Look Homeward Angel was equivalent to a declaration you were, “a little different, a little funny, ya know?” “OOOWEE, OOOWEE, NOW HEAR THIS: BEWARE of JJ LEE, APPRENTICE SEAMAN IN THE V2 DIVISION.  HE READS BOOKS THAT HAVE NO PICTURES, WRITTEN BY WEIRD PEOPLE WITH NAMES LIKE HEMINGWAY, DOS POSSOS, AND FLAUBERT.” 


  Music; there was nothing that defined (or divided) the men of the entire fleet of the United States Navy more then their choice of music.  The line of separation was absolute, unmistakable: it was either Country Western or The Big Band Sound, Hank Williams or Harry James, “shit-kicking” or sweet and smooth.  It may seem strange, but I must confess, that prior to my enlistment I had never heard of Hank Williams, Patsy Cline or any of the Nashville crowd. I had been weaned on Miller, the Dorsey brothers, Ella Fitzgerald, Sinatra - the mellow sound.  There was no question which group was in the majority.  Hank Williams died of a heart attack in the back seat of a Cadillac on New Years Day, 1953 on his way to Canton, Ohio where he was to perform.  It seemed as if the entire fleet went into mourning.  You would have thought they had nuked Nashville.  If it was possible, his Navy fans (fanatics) would have changed our National Anthem to, “Your Cheatin’ Heart.”  

Both the Korean War, and the “cold war” with Russia, prompted the Pentagon to re-activate several US Naval Air Stations that had been idled after WWII.  In September 1950 I received the rank of Petty Officer 3rd Class and transferred to Ault Field on Whidbey Island in Washington State where I was assigned to a patrol squadron. Initially my job was to work as a member of a maintenance crew that serviced the two Pratt & Whitney engines on nine P2V patrol bombers. Just prior to my transfer from the Boxer I had spent 3 months in Memphis, Tennessee at an aviation machinist school so I was well prepared for the duties.  There was a lot of oil, grease and safety wire involved. I learned enough about airplane engines to know that it was not something I wanted to pursue as a career. 


  One Friday evening in March of 1951 my best buddy, Jim Meyers, asked me to go into town and drink a few beers with him.  I declined because I wanted to go to the USO dance being held at the base.  I think it is true that we make up our lives as we go along by the choices we make. That one choice, to go to that dance, was to alter my life forever.  Simply put, I met a girl. 


  She wore a white blouse and a pleated navy blue skirt.  I noticed immediately that the blush of her cheeks matched the red rose she wore at her collar. I was stunned by her beauty. She was the virtual girl next store and before I knew it I asked her to dance.  We exchanged names.  I had to ask her to repeat hers because I had never heard it before: Camilla.  We made the usual small talk.  I was pleased to hear she was from a small town not too far from the base, Anacortes. When the first dance was over we continued to talk and, in fact, danced together for the rest of the evening. When the dance was over we agreed that I could call the next day. I went back to my barracks (drunk on love), woke my buddy (drunk on beer), and told him that I just met the girl I was going to marry. 


  It was at this time that I was assigned to a flight crew.  Each plane had a crew of seven men: pilot, co-pilot, navigator, ordinance man, radio operator, the plane captain (1st mechanic), and me, the 2nd mech. My primary ground duties were to maintain engine performance and proper oil and fuel levels. During take-off and landing I sat between the pilot and co-pilot and checked for proper fuel pressure and prop pitch.  My in-flight job included a myriad of functions including coffee making.  Again, my mother’s recipe of eggshells and salt made a big hit with the crew. While our squadron’s home base was Whidbey Island, Washington, in June of 1951 we were assigned to Barbers Point on Oahu, Hawaii.  We were to be there six months but just a few months into our assignment a patrol squadron assigned to Kodiak, Alaska had lost 28 men in four plane crashes within a few weeks.  They were flying PB4Ys, a four-engine plane poorly designed for the prevailing weather conditions of Alaska. In September we flew back to Whidbey Island for one night, then, with a good deal of trepidation on everyone’s part, it was north to Alaska. When I look back on the many and varied experiences during our Kodiak duty I am amazed that our crew survived.  Once every other week we flew out of Kodiak west along the Aleutian chain to the Navy base on Adak Island where I refueled and topped off the oil and fuel supply.  We stayed overnight and at 4am the following morning we took off for an extended submarine patrol mission north over the Bering Sea to St. Lawrence Island. Part of the mission took us close to Russian waters where I was assigned to the rear gun.  There was no heat in the aft section and, although I wore heavy clothing, in addition to being alone and scared, I damn near froze to death.  I was thankful I never had to fire that gun.

On two occasions we were unable to land on Adak because of severe whether conditions.  We could not go back to Kodiak so were required to proceed west to an Air Force base on Shemya Island, (The Black Pearl of The Aleutians), one of the last islands of the chain.  It was as flat as a nickel and the poor bastards who were stationed there (mostly Air Force screw-ups) hated it.  They called it "Anus Mundi"; the ass hole of the world. We were told there was a naked girl behind every tree.  The first time we landed on that “Black Pearl” a great commotion was in progress. A young lieutenant had just blown his head to bits with a forty-five revolver.  We were told it was the second suicide within a month. 

For me the worst of our time on Shemya was the ordeal involved in our oil and fuel supply.  The Air Force oil and gas nozzles were too large to fit into our tanks.  It took all afternoon, in the worst kind of whether, on the top of our planes wings, to painstakingly refuel our plane.  Needless to say, the entire crew would do anything to avoid a landing on Shemya Island. 


  There were many other hazards during our stay in Alaska with severe and totally unpredictable whether our worst problem.  The most frightening experience occurred on a return leg to Kodiak from our patrol to St. Lawrence Island.  To this day I have no idea exactly what happened, but for several hours every bit of our radio and navigational equipment crashed.  We were required to fly at very low altitude just above the frigid waves of the Bering Sea, under a low, thick overcast.  It was a wet, gray nightmare.  We were all aware that at least four of the prior squadron’s planes were lost at sea. In preparation for our missions all crew members were given notice that, in the event of a ditch at sea, the frigid temperatures of those waters were not conducive to long term survival. Because of the zero visibility our other fear was a crash into one of the many island volcanoes.  We all had great respect and confidence in our skipper.  He was a seasoned pilot and was, at last, able to break through the overcast and gain altitude for a safe trip home.  The sighs of relief and gratitude were palpable.

Our final mission was on Christmas Day and it was a sort of celebration for the entire crew.  The cooks at Adak had prepared a turkey dinner for our flight and we had been told that we would be flying back to Whidbey Island on New Year’s Day.  Can you even imagine how I felt? I was going back to a young lady named Camilla.  We had written each other every day and it was clear to us both that we were very much in love.  I had no idea at the time what it would all lead to, but the thrill of anticipation at the thought of seeing her again was the best Christmas present I ever had. 


  When we returned to Whidbey Island the flight crews were reduced in size for the purpose of pilot training. I served as plane captain for the remainder of my tour of duty with the squadron.  We did an exercise called, “touch and go.”  The pilot trainees, with the aid of a qualified pilot, would take-off, circle the field and land, take-off again, circle, land, ad infinitum.  We also did navigational and instrument training sessions.  The trainee was required to wear an eye shield and fly “blind” with only the aid of the instrument panel.  We got “lost” on more then one occasion. 


  It was during this time that another unforgettable incident occurred.  After takeoff we discovered the lock pin that secured the front wheel while parked had not been removed.  We were unable to retract the wheels.  The pilot said we would have to go back to the field and land in order to have it removed.  Up jumps our radioman, a hulking, stalking mass of true Texan. “You don’t have to land Skipper, JJ and I will get it out.”  Down to the wheel well we went.  Tex told me to hang on the back of his belt while he lowered himself into position.  We were four, maybe five thousand feet above the Strait of Juan de Fuca, a heart beat away from an appointment in Samara and a swim with the fishes. Me, spread- eagled across the wheel well, my hands locked in Tex’s belt as he stepped onto the wheel and reached for the pin. After what seemed the better part of an eternity he was able to pull it out.  When I hauled him up we sat for a moment and grinned at each other.  He had the key in his hand


I was due for discharge in October 1952.  I had signed up for three years but Truman extended all enlistments when the Korean War broke out.  In June of that year our squadron was ordered to Kwajalin, a remote island in the south Pacific.  By this time I had married the girl of my dreams and had been accepted for enrollment at a local college in September.  I wanted out.  Up to this time I had been a damn good sailor but I was anxious to start school.  Our division commander, a fascist Hun and Annapolis grad career officer said, “No way Lee.  If the Navy wanted you to have a wife they would have issued you one (he said that, he really said that) besides, you just made plane captain and we are we can’t afford to lose you.” I was devastated.  I did not want to leave my new bride and I was determined to start college in September.  That was the primary reason I had joined the Navy. I did something I never thought I would do – I went over his head and requested an interview with our squadron commander, who as it happened, was my plane’s skipper. After I plead my case he could not have been more sympathetic. He commended me on my plan to enter college and even suggested I consider a commission in the Navy Reserve upon graduation.  

For the brief remainder of my time with the squadron I was persona non grata as far as the Nazi was concerned – he never spoke to me again. On September 29, 1952 I was granted an Honorable Discharge from the US Navy.   Two years later I graduated from Skagit ValleyJunior College and went on,  with Camilla and Jack, Jr., with a scholarship to the University of Washington in Seattle.