As at Northwest, I repaired and calibrated R-1230 receivers and AN/FSH-7 one-inch, multichannel magnetic recorders when not supporting the CP-771/UYK-3.

It might sound impressive to be responsible for keeping millions of dollars of sensitive electronic equipment operational. It is impressive! But it was primarily dull work.

The receivers rarely failed but did require routine calibration. It was a tedious process that I won’t detail because it would likely put you to sleep reading it.

The recorders were more interesting to support. The routine maintenance involved cleaning the vacuum pads to remove dust so the tape tracked correctly. The exciting work was identifying and correcting failures in the many circuit boards. Problems could be in the power supply, signal input, or processing circuits that put the signals onto the magnetic tape.

Then, there were field days. It sounds like a nice afternoon picnicking, doesn’t it? It wasn’t. A field day was a different form of maintenance. It was stripping and waxing floors, cleaning bathrooms, dusting equipment, and ancillary things.

I have mentioned my love for bowling in other places. It began in Hawaii when I joined the maintenance department’s intramural team. We bowled at the base bowling alley, which I remember had four lanes, and air conditioning was the sliding vents on each side of the outer lanes. I bowled my first 600 series in a base tournament shortly before transferring to my following duty station.

My brother’s ship, the USS Tombigbee, returned from a deployment to the Tokin Gulf for upkeep and availability. Cletus and his friend, Dan, convinced me to join a bowling league in Pearl City. They were better bowlers but put up with my mediocre performances.

It was great spending time with Cletus at the bowling alley and other places. One time was to a luau. We drove over Kolekole Pass, by the large white cross, and down a winding road to get there. The Army removed the cross in 1997 as a result of a lawsuit.

I had two more noteworthy experiences there. I was caught in a riptide while snorkeling off Waikiki. I remember swimming at an angle to the tide and soon broke free. Wearing flippers helped. Sometime during the swim, I punctured my heel on a piece of coral that required treatment.

Second, I experienced a bleeding ulcer that hospitalized me in 1970. The first symptoms were loss of energy and a sick stomach. Then, I noticed black stools. The corpsman, I didn’t see a doctor then, called it a case of the flu. Two days later, they took me to Tripler Army Hospital by ambulance. I had expelled blood that decorated the bathroom walls and floor. Two units of blood later, I was placed in a ward where I remained for a month.

Sometime in 1971, I learned of the ADCOP program. It was the Navy’s Associate Degree Completion Program. Sailors spent two years at a junior college and would earn an associate degree. I applied, and a committee selected me to attend Del Mar Junior College in Corpus Christi, Texas.

In July 1972, I transferred to Naval Air Station, Corpus Christi, Texas, to attend college.

It was to become the location for many firsts, my first car, first promotion, first leadership role, and first reenlistment.

I was promoted to Petty Officer Third Class and then to Second Class here.

Thanks to my computer school training, I spent several weeks in the Net Control Computer Center before being recalled to the work center supporting the UYK-3.

The recall came after one of the section leaders suffered an accident. He was walking to the barracks and fell into a deep ditch. On the way to the hospital, the ambulance was in an accident with a car that ran a red light. Bad luck twice for this petty officer.

I became a regular on the command pistol and rifle team. I earned the marksman designation and the medals for both.

The team had a cookout at the beach after one rifle match. It was a hot day, and the call of the water was great. I ate quickly and got into the surf, where I soon suffered cramps. Fortunately, I survived to write this.

The months flew by while assigned to a watch section working the 2-2-2-80 watch schedule. We started with a day watch. So I stood two-day watches (7 am to 3 pm.) I returned to work for the first midwatch at 11 pm, eight hours after the second-day watch. A second mid followed. After the second mid, was another eight-hour break before the first-eve watch at 3 pm. I had eighty hours free between the end of the second eve and the start of the first-day watch. It was “rinse and repeat.”

Then, in January 1969, I was assigned to drive the guard mail and supply run between the command and Norfolk. I left early each morning, made my pickups and deliveries, and returned in the evening. Very boring. It lasted about two months before being returned to my section work.

I mentioned the rattlesnakes and copperhead snakes. Shortly after I came to the command, there was a fishing contest. I heard one boat was passing under an overhanging tree when a snake fell into it. One fisherman grabbed a shotgun. He shot it and a hole into the boat. Dead snake, sunk boat. Did it happen? I don’t know, but it does make a nice story.

I re-enlisted in 1969. There were qualifications to meet, but I don’t remember them. I re-enlisted for orders to Hawaii and, of course, the bonus they offered. I was in three years and obligated for six more.

I probably lost some bonus but made out in the long run. Not long after I signed, the Navy decided to “M” branch technicians to two other ratings. They selected from M branchers who had not re-enlisted before. I went to Hawaii, and some fellow techs went to new ratings.

I left Northwest in January 1970. I had three years and two months in service. And I was only obligated for five plus more.

Francis Leo Knott, my father, served over twenty-six years in the US Navy. He saw service in the last days of World War II, during the Korean War, and during Viet Nam. My father retired as an Electrician Mate Senior Chief. He passed in 2002. Read my childhood memories of him here.

Cletus James Knott, a younger brother, served twenty years in the Navy. We were in the Navy at the same time, but the Navy never detailed us to the same command. However, we had time together while I was stationed in Hawaii, and his ship spent some time in port. Though it was a short time together, we still had fun at Luaus, bowling and just being together. He retired as a Gunners Mate Guns First Class. Cletus died in a motorcycle accident after visiting the family home in 2002.

Joseph Paul Knott, the youngest brother,  also served in the Navy. But his service was cut short due to medical reasons. He passed in 2003.

Dad, Cletus, and Paul. Thank you for your service.

I was on an airplane, leaving my family home for the Naval Communications Training Center, Corry Station, Pensacola, Florida, to start a new chapter in my life.

My orders were to the CP-771/UYK-3 school, whatever that was. I knew the prefix marked it as a computer, but no one could or would tell me what kind.

I committed to change from Electronics Technician to Communications Technician in ETA school for these orders.

When I arrived at my new base, I learned I couldn’t start school because my security clearance investigation wasn’t complete. So, they assigned me to a shop where I used the skills learned in A school to repair equipment.

An aside here. While on leave, I repaired a television for my parents. It required a bit of minor troubleshooting and replacing a vacuum tube. The training paid off.

I received my clearance and started school in January 1968. It wasn’t long before I wondered why a high-level security clearance was necessary to attend this school. After all, the manuals and training materials were all unclassified.

I decided it wasn’t necessary for the school, but they shouldn’t train someone who couldn’t receive follow-on assignments. So, it made sense to wait for a completed clearance.

In class, I learned how to use “and” and “or” gates to form logic cards, use logic cards to form a register, write and use test programs, and naturally—troubleshoot.

Classes were on weekdays, and I usually had weekends free unless one was a duty day. So they never interfered with school.

Some friends from ETA school also received orders to Pensacola but to a different school. One had a car, and several of us would go partying together. We drove just into Mississippi a few times to drink since some of us were underage in Florida. But, of course, I was a sensible drinker and never got drunk (wink-wink.)

I had a roommate, Ken, who was also 20. Ken learned there was a bus to Biloxi where we could barhop to closing time and catch an early morning bus back. So, on several Fridays, we sometimes did as described.

Biloxi was home to an Air Force technical school. I met several airmen from the school in some of the bars. They liked to brag about what they were learning about equipment repair. So Ken and I secretly laughed, behind their backs, when they talked about learning to repair by replacing defective boards. We were learning to fix broken computers by changing components on failed boards. We were more than board changers.

Drinking was not the only entertainment on base for students. The command had several hobby shops, but my favorite was the one with a racetrack for 1/16^th-size cars. I built a Maserati model that screamed around the track and spent many hours racing all comers.

I would be remiss, not to mention I remember Pensacola as a welcoming community to the students at Corry Station. Initially, I had to remain on base for the first weeks of school, but I enjoyed what the city offered once freed to tour the city.

The day finally came. I submitted my “dream” sheet shortly before the end of the course. I listed three localities where I preferred assignments. In those days, the highest non-rated student was guaranteed an assignment to one of their choices. I was that person.

My dream sheet listed Washington State, Norfolk, and San Diego. But, as it turned out, I received orders to Naval Radio Stations (R) Northwest, Virginia. The barracks, my home, was in Virginia, but I worked in a building located in North Carolina. More about it in another post.

Graduation day came, and I was on an airplane, ready to start another chapter.

My turn came, and I sat across from him. I would recreate the actual conversation, but honestly, I can’t. However, I remember the significant parts.

The classification officer commented on my Armed Services Vocational Aptitude Battery (ASVAB) scores, especially the language score. The language test used verb declension and sentence structure familiar to me from my three years of French and four of Latin. So my good score was a matter of recognizing the test design.

The officer asked me what I thought about becoming an interpreter in Chinese or Vietnamese. I was not enthused and asked for alternatives.

He saw me coming, for he had one alternative. I could extend my enlistment by two years for the Advance Electronics Field (AEF.) So  I executed the extension, and he placed me in the Electronics Technician (ET) pipeline, a twisty pipeline leading to over twenty-five years in the Navy.

I graduated from Bootcamp, took leave, and returned to San Diego, California, for school. The first school to become an ET was the Basic Electricity and Electronics School. The course modules weren’t memorable, but the classroom was since it was on the top floor of a building directly under a flight path for the San Diego airport. So many times, instruction was interrupted by a plane passing closely and loudly when landing.

I graduated six weeks later and transferred to Naval Technical Training Center Treasure Island, California, for ETA schools. Treasure Island is an artificial island in San Francisco bay, reached via an exit off the Oakland Bridge.

The school I attended had three sections. Memory suffers. I don’t remember particulars regarding what they taught in phases A-1 and A-2. Still, somewhere I learned about resistance to current flow and capacitance, reading the value of a resister using its color bands. It was likely then.

What I remember of A-3 was troubleshooting equipment. First, the theory side of the class addressed how the significant elements of the hardware worked. Then, The module ended with a written test followed by a practical test.

I must have done okay on the written tests since they kept me in school. However, I remember particularly enjoying the practicals. Each involved finding three failures in the equipment within a specific time limit. We had a grace period before they took off points. Grades depended on how long one needed to find the problems and return the unit to operation.

I managed to ace, scoring 100, on several prior practicals. However, this test was on the R-390 receiver, which consisted of replaceable modules. So, I stood before my receiver this day, and the instructor started the timer.

I removed the receiver’s cover and laughed. The instructor had removed several modules—leaving me with a bare chassis. Then, the instructor brought over a box with the missing parts. He said to hurry since my time had started. The laugh soon fell on him as I reassembled the unit and located the problems within the grace period. Score 100!

The school was on weekdays. So weekends were ours unless we had the duty section. The duty I disliked the most was standing mid-watches around the warehouses near the docks. Often, a cold wind blew off the bay, and the only distraction was the view of Alcatraz, another island in the bay. When not on duty, we could explore Oakland or San Francisco.

I preferred San Francisco for the many things it offered. The bus into town was twenty-five cents. I usually asked for a transfer ticket for the cable cars and spent part of a day riding around the city.

One theatre on Market Street allowed me to watch all the movies on a single admission. The restriction was if you left, you had to pay to reenter. One time, I watched  Julie Andrews in The Sound of Music and Hawaii while snacking on popcorn, candy, and soda—for less than a dollar. (Those were the days!)

I was walking in the city one day when I encountered my first Hippies. I sought Golden Gate Park and ended up in Haight Asbury. My short hair attracted as much attention to me as their dress/undress drew my attention to them. However, I don’t remember any specific interaction with them.

Years later, in 1987, I was ordered to a conference in Skaggs Island, California. My wife joined me, and we spent a day in the city. We rode the cable cars and visited Fisherman’s Wharf—everything I had done over twenty years earlier.

I visited San Francisco one more time in the early 2000s. The city had changed from what I remembered. It was dirtier, and I did not appreciate the people accosting me as I walked, seeking my money. I prefer the memories from the earlier visits.

I was asked one day to attend a briefing. The briefer requested volunteers to change their ratings from Electronics Technician to Communications Technician Maintenance (CTM.) He offered little information except it required a high-level clearance and little likelihood one would go to sea. He also said that many officers couldn’t qualify to be a CTM, but our ASVAB scores were high enough to be an officer.

I agreed to change rates, as did several of my classmates. Eventually, the rating changed from Communications Technician to Cryptologic Technician Maintenance.

Having bought a pig-in-a-poke by agreeing to the change, I found how hard it was to learn what I had purchased. My instructors wouldn’t provide information about the rating. Instead, they told us we would know more when we received orders at the end of phase A-3. So, remain patient and curious.

My orders were to Pensacola to the CP-771/UYK-3 school. However, my classmates received orders to a different school. So, I became concerned about why only I received the computer school. Though I asked, no one suggested a reason. I finished A-3, took some leave, and found myself in Pensacola in December.

Bootcamp and schools filled my 1967. Of course, a school would start 1968, but that is fodder for another time.

Some memories remain, though, dimmed by time. Such are those of my time in the US Navy Boot Camp. Forgive me for rambling. It is what it is.

My strongest memory is of the day my father came to visit near Christmas. I was called to the Brigade office, where he waited. My father was on active duty, an EMCS, whose ship had returned from a tour in the Tokin Gulf. We spent about an hour together before I had to return to my company.

They bussed several of us from the airport to the San Diego Recruit Training Center. We arrived and lined up as directed. Our Recruit Company Commander described us and our future in words that would have burned my mother’s ears—they did mine.

Remember, it was November 1966. No one worried about our fragile psyche. After all, they were preparing us to go to war where more than words might hurt.

We met our company commander. He was a First Class, but I don’t remember his rating. However, I remember he was short, of Filipino heritage, with a loud voice.

He marched us to the barber for my first and only shearing. Then, we marched to get our new clothes and boxed our “civilian” attire to send home. I call it marching, but these attempts were more like people going in the same direction.

Part of our processing was a medical screening and a series of injections against what was never made clear. However, there was one few recruits would forget. It was a form of penicillin, given in the upper thigh. We marched for hours after that shot to work off the stiffness promised by my company commander should we not march. The medicine must have been effective since I don’t remember anyone getting sick in the thirteen weeks there.

The routine was to get up early, march to the galley, march to class, practice formation movements by marching, and march back to the barracks after evening chow. Punishment time was in the evening.

Punishment might be a strong word. Perhaps, call it behavior correction. Most of us required correcting one or more times. Failure to adequately demonstrate making a bed or properly folding clothes, improper shaving, and not shining boots or belt buckles to a good luster were all corrected by a session behind the barracks.

The sessions involved the manual of arms with the recruit’s M1 Garand rifle or physical exercises. For egregious behavior failures, one demonstrated how to carry the 9.5-pound gun over his head for some extended time. Rarely did a recruit qualify for more than one of these sessions.

Recruits spent one week on galley duty. The recruits helped the mess cooks prepare the meals and clean the galley. I remember peeling thousands of potatoes and hours loading the dishwasher after meals. But fortunately, I never made it to the serving line, where one was always under the eyes of mess cooks.

Other “good times” included fighting a fire inside a USS Recruit (TDE-1) compartment. I was the first man behind the nozzle man on the five-inch fire hose. The smoke and heat were terrible. I am blessed never to face a real fire.

Another was experiencing tear gas. We donned gas masks, entered a chamber with tear gas, and removed the mask when directed. We spent some time inside before being allowed to leave. Some of us used words learned on the first day to describe how we felt about tear gas.

One day, we marched to a large building with a swimming pool. Here we would simulate an abandon ship drill and test our ability to swim. First, we climbed to a platform high over the water. Then, we were to step off the platform, fall into the pool, swim once around the pool, and climb out. I never had swim lessons, but I dog-paddled the required distance and climbed out. Some others failed and were given remedial swim training.

I enjoyed the time at the shooting range. Sure, we only shot .22 caliber rifles, but it was hours not on the grinder marching to nowhere.

Our company commander introduced us to the competition between companies for streamers to go on the guidon. There were streamers for many things, including marching. His desire for that one kept us out for hours, repeating left turn, right turn, about-face, and more. I don’t remember how many streamers we earned, just that there were several.

We didn’t use washing machines. Instead, we scrubbed our clothes on the wash tables behind the barracks. It still gives me a warm feeling as I can visualize my grandmother’s washing machine with a scrubboard attached.

There was the time before lights out for us to study the Bluejackets Manual. Tests on its contents contributed to determining the company winning the academic streamer. We won that one with my help.

One of my fellow recruits returned from his dental visit less several teeth. They told him they couldn’t save them. Several others had wisdom teeth removed. I wasn’t one of those.

I hope you enjoyed reading some memories of my first thirteen weeks in the US Navy at the start of a twenty-five-year, three-month, and two-day career.