Lori and I left Iceland on a military flight with our dog, Sandy.  As I mentioned in the Iceland post, getting Sandy cleared to leave Iceland after she bit my thumb took some effort.

My parents picked us up at the airport.  They were on a mini-vacation themselves, and we became part of it.

Dad and Mom wanted to visit her brother, Uncle Hugh, and his family in Kentucky.  On the way, we stopped at a park dedicated to Daniel Boone.  After some pictures, we moved on to Uncle Hugh’s.

Hugh didn’t have a functioning bathroom; instead had an outhouse.  Lori had never encountered one before, though I had told her I use one when visiting my grandparents and Uncle Albert’s family.  We stayed for a few hours before driving to my parent’s house.

While we were at my parents, Lori learned she was pregnant.  Of course, it caused much excitement and a bit of anxiety.  How would the long flight to Rome, Italy, affect Lori?  What medical services would she have access to in Italy, etc?

We finally arrived at the command, Naval Security Group Activity, San Vito, Italy.  Sandy was placed in quarantine at the local shelter while we checked into temporary quarters.

I was one of several Petty Officer First Class in the electronics maintenance shop and one of four UYK-3 computer technicians.  Six months after I arrived, the Department Head pulled me from the shop and assigned me as assistant to the department’s senior chief.

I wrote correspondence that turned into messages for transmission to Naval Security Group Command.  Some were in response to questions from headquarters, and others were scheduled reports.  I admit I wasn’t impressed with my responsibilities in this position, but I was being shortsighted.

As an assistant, I learned the behind-the-scenes operations of a command department.  I became privy to discussions between my superiors, decision processes, operating instructions, and routine reports that kept a Maintenance Department functioning.  This experience paid dividends as I became a Chief Petty Officer, Course Manager, and, in time, field command department head.

After we checked into guest housing, my Department Senior Chief allowed me a few days to settle and find a permanent place for us.  We learned the housing office required two things of a property for placement on the available list.  They were running water and screens on the bathroom and kitchen windows.

One listing struck a nerve with us.  The Italian owners had an apartment on the second floor of their home in San Vito dei Normanni (San Vito).  We spoke with the owners and reached a rental agreement.  As it turned out, the rent in lira (Italian currency) was less than my housing allowance.

The kitchen had no appliances, so we bought a bombola del gas (propane gas tank) stove and a refrigerator that ran on 240v.  Later, as the weather cooled, we bought kerosene heaters.  With them and our goods from Iceland, we set up housekeeping above Tina, Cosimo, and their two children.

Tina and Cosimo were not only our landlords but also became friends.  Lori learned some Italian from Tina, using Spanish as a common language.  It was enough to permit us to visit, share food, and vino locale (wine from the grapes Cosimo grew) or amaretto.

We allowed Tina and Cosimo access to the house’s third floor (roof).  We were not required to do so, but we did.  They used it to dry clothes and store a few items.  Tina would do her laundry while we were on base, so they never intruded on our privacy.  Our allowing them to use the roof paid off in ways we never considered until later.

Our door had a bamboo curtain covering it.  More than once, we left the door open when we left to go to the base or to sightsee.  The curtain hid the door was open.  We did this more often as Lori’s pregnancy progressed and more times after the baby was born.  An open door with the owners/renters gone was an invitation for robbery.

Many of my coworkers paid protection money, hoping not to have their off-base home robbed.  I learned from a couple that paying did not prevent robbery.  Lori and I never considered buying protection.

Our interaction with Tina and Cosimo, Lori’s learning Italian, allowing them access to the roof, and Lori’s pregnancy bought us free protection.  When we returned after leaving the door open, we found one of Tina’s children or her friends guarding the door.  They would laugh at us for forgetting to close the door, but we never lost anything to robbery.

The maintenance department allowed day workers to play golf one afternoon a week as a form of physical fitness.  I bought some clubs and played most weeks and some weekends. \

Lori’s pregnancy progressed well.  The command had only a dispensary, no hospital.  Expectant mothers could have the baby in Ramstein, Germany, or use the local hospital in Brindisi.  We decided on the local hospital.

We were surprised, probably shouldn’t have been, but were, when my mother notified us that she was coming to help Lori after the baby came.

I was on the golf course, finishing the third hole, when a man came running, calling my name.  He said I needed to reach the bowling alley and drive Lori to the hospital in Brindisi since no ambulance was available.  Lori’s water broke while bowling in a women’s league.  Lori told me later she was on lane one and winning against her opponent.

My mother, Lori, and I piled into our Gold VW and headed for the hospital.  We were at a stop sign by the hospital when an Italian rear-ended us.  The driver was also taking his wife to the hospital.  As I remember, she was pregnant, too.  They were in a hurry as we were, and since no one was hurt and VW wasn’t damaged, we agreed to ignore the accident.

They admitted Lori, and the wait began.  Hours passed without Lori going into labor.  So, the next morning, they induced labor.  Hours later, they did a C-section, and we had a beautiful baby boy.

Isn’t that a sterile description of a blessed event?  It doesn’t convey the concern and worry as we waited for labor to begin, but it didn’t.  Then, the discussion about inducing labor.  Once induced, hour after hour of hard labor without Lori dilating.

Through her hard labor, I held her hand and coached her as she suffered hard contractions hour after hour.  I watched my love grow tired while I worried for her and the baby.  Lori tried to sleep between contractions, but they came too often to allow her to rest.  When she was awake, Lori felt she was patting my face, but actually, she was slapping me and turning my cheeks red.

Finally, they wheeled Lori into the operating room.  The duty doctor was a plastic surgeon who performed the surgery, but an English-speaking midwife birthed Dwane Junior.

The hospital adventure continued as Lori and Dwane Jr remained in the hospital.  One feeding time, the nurse brought a baby to Lori who took the baby and immediately recognized it was not Dwane.  The baby didn’t have his birthmark.  Suddenly, the nurse came hurrying into the room with Dwane, saying, “Scusa. Scusa” (sorry, sorry.) The rest of the stay was uneventful.

Mom stayed for a time, enjoying visiting the markets with Lori and Dwane (DJ).  She found several souvenirs to bring home and some for us to send her.  However, her favorite thing was to sit on the balcony and watch our neighbors.  Armed with a cup of coffee and her cigarettes, she watched the happenings on the street. One of her favorite scenes was of the family across the street who took a horse into their house.  The first floor was a stable.

It was time to have DJ baptized.  Lori coordinated the event to be in the local San Vito Catholic Church.  Lori, Mom, DJ, and I left the house and joined Tina, Cosimo, and their family outside.  Lori let Tina carry DJ when asked, and we walked to the church.  We hadn’t reached the end of the street before we noticed that the neighbors had joined us in the procession.  When we arrived at the church, the procession had grown almost large enough to fill the church to watch our son’s baptism.  We learned Tina bragged about her American tenants wanting their son baptized in the local church and invited all to attend.

When it became time for Mom to leave, we drove her to Rome.  We stayed over to visit the Colosseum and the Vatican.  We attended Catholic Mass conducted by Pope Saint Paul VI, and he blessed us upon completion of the Mass.

Bowling, then as now, was our preferred entertainment.  I was on the local bowling association board, and she and I bowled in several leagues and base tournaments.

One year,  Lori joined several women who wanted to bowl in a tournament in Germany.  We drove to Ramstein while the other women flew on a military plane.  Our route took us through Innsbruck, Austria, and into Germany.  Our military identifications served as passports as we crossed borders.

We drove for hours after crossing the German border.  We neared Remscheid and began looking for the military base.  Unable to find it, we stopped and asked for directions.  It was then that we learned the base was at Ramstein.  We had taken directions from Tina and Cosimo on how to get there, and they had confused Ramstein with Remscheid.  After hours of driving, we finally arrived at our destination.

Lori bowled well in the qualifier and earned a spot in the stepladder phase.  It meant staying several extra days, which we used to visit a ski lodge and her cousin stationed nearby.

It came time to go home.  As it happened, two of Lori’s teammates had stayed to watch her in the stepladder.  They planned to fly home on the following military flight, but the flight would be several days later.  So, we let them ride with us when they asked.

So, I strapped the luggage to the roof and filled the car’s trunk.  The women rode in the back with DJ and his car seat in the middle.  It was an uncomfortable trip, but we safely returned to the San Vito base.  The exclamation point on the trip was we had dropped everyone at their homes, and I parked in front of ours.  Later, I needed to go to the shoppette (similar to a 7-11) and found the VW with a flat tire.  Thankfully, it didn’t happen while on the trip.

I mentioned I bowled.  We were a Navy activity hosted by the Air Force as a tenant command.

The Air Force had an annual tournament to determine who from European commands would participate in the All-Air Force Bowling Tournament in the States.  Tenant members could vie for a position on the base team.

Three times, I won a position on the base team.  Twice, I went with the team to Aviano but failed to qualify for the All-Italy Air Force team.  I qualified for the All-Italy team on the third try and went to Athens, Greece.  I qualified there for the All-Europe Air Force event at Ramstein.  I was one of two Navy bowlers in the competition.

The event management said that as Navy members, we could bowl but weren’t eligible to go to the All-Air Force tournament in the United States.  As it turned out, my partner and I won the doubles competition, though I couldn’t go to the States.

A Navy selection board identified me for promotion to Chief Petty Officer in 1978.  I underwent chief’s initiation with another maintenance First Class. One day, I may reveal what I experienced at the initiation.  Chiefs, Senior and Master Chiefs from ships in port at Taranto, Italy, added festivities only seagoing sailors could bring.

I might remember many other things to write about if I sat and thought for a time.  But, perhaps they can become another entry.

I neared the date for transfer when the Red Cross notified the command of my father’s hospitalization.  He suffered collapsed lungs and was in critical condition.  The command human relations coordinator spoke with my detailer and arranged for me to transfer early.

My orders were to Middleton, Tennessee, to attend instructor school.  Upon successful completion, I would proceed to Naval Technical Training Center, Corry Station, Pensacola, Florida, to be course manager of the same course I had graduated from in 1967.

The quick processing of my transfer created unexpected problems.  I would board home to be with my father, leaving Lori and DJ behind.  Someone needed to arrange the shipment of our household goods and car.  Lori was saddled with this and suffered a long flight home with a toddler.  She did a stellar job, as I knew she would.

So, I ended my tour at Naval Security Group Activity, San Vito, Italy.

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.

My uncle, Donald Ray Harris, died on 10 September 2019. Saying it sounds so clinical and in no way reflects my sorrow.

Some favorite memories of my uncle.

Memories

The first was of him visiting my family after we moved to Beverly Manor, a subdivision of Washington, Illinois.  He was moving to a job at Caterpillar Tractor Company and would work with his brothers, James and Robert.

I found it interesting, funny to a preteen, he married my best friend’s sister, Helen Jeanette Emhoff. They lived in Beverly Manor a couple blocks from us. That is until they built a house in a new subdivision of Washington.

I think I laughed when he told me they were moving to live in a basement. Who lived in a basement? They did while he and his brothers built the house and garage. I am not sure but I suspect his older sons provided help with the construction.

I had left Illinois when he retired from “CAT” and sold the house. Uncle Don and Aunt Jeanette moved to Texas where he lived for several years before moving back to Washington, Illinois. He bought a property close to where my parents now lived and built another house.

Illinois couldn’t keep him or my Aunt Jeanette. Soon, he sold their house, and they settled in Alba, Texas. It was home until both of them passed, my aunt in November 2017 and he this month.

None of this tells how soft spoken and kind he was. I don’t remember hearing him yell, not even in frustration, or curse. He had a distinctive chuckle and was quick to laugh during our last times together.

There are many more memories, but the most recent was this summer. We were returning home in our RV and stopped for a few hours to visit. As we had for the past two years, I pulled our 32-foot RV into his driveway. When it was time to leave, he told me to back into his yard and then pull out.

He warned not to back into a tree he had planted. Two years ago, he stood by it and guided me. This year, my wife stood by it. Uncle Don stood in front of me while I backed into the yard. He stopped me once because I was not turning quickly enough. Finally, I had the RV where I could pull out.

Last Memory

He was standing waving goodbye as I pulled out of his driveway. A memory I will always have.

The comment form is for your use to tell me anything you want me to know. I look forward to hearing from you.

The refrain most often heard by me today has been, “Where were you on that day?” The day being September 11. 2001. What are your memories of that day?

Will you remember September 11?

I worked for a government contractor on 9.11 and scheduled to fly to Dallas and on to San Antonio in the afternoon. My wife and I had arrived at the FT Meade bowling alley when the music channel we were listening to interrupted for a news break. They announced a plane had flown into the north tower of the World Trade Center. I left her at the center where she later told me they watched the rest of the happenings on large screen monitors.

Television coverage uninterrupted

I went home and tuned into a live broadcast. I vividly remember thinking the first plane was an accident as I listened to an announcer suggest the same. That the pilot lost track of where he was, causing the crash into the north tower.

A few moments later, I watched the second plane enter the picture on my television. I watched as it flew into the south tower at 9:03. There was no longer doubt this was an orchestrated attack on the United States.

I remained glued to the television as the day’s events unfolded. I listened to the frantic voices of the announcers as they announced a plane violated its flight plan. It headed into Washington, D.C. Some feared destined for the White House, but it hit the Pentagon at 9:37.

I watched as the north tower collapsed and it was announced a fourth plane hijacked. Passengers on that plane attacked the terrorists who, then, crashed the plane in a Pennsylvania field at 10:03 rather than return control to the passengers. Shortly after, the south tower collapsed.

Staying home

I decided not fly to Dallas before President Bush grounded all planes.

“Where were you on that day?” What are your memories? I hope you will share them with me using the provided comment form.