Category: NAVOCS

Back from Christmas break in January 1969, we were then among the “veteran” officer candidates at NAVOCS. Indeed, we were only about a week short of becoming the “senior class” and five weeks short of commissioning. The end was almost in sight.

Our “routine” continued as routine . . . interrupted by the unusual. (We’ll post later about such activities as firefighting, abandoning ship drills, inoculations, etc.)

We arose, or we might say were rudely awakened, at 0530, which in January was zero-dark-thirty. My roommate, Lenny Borg, says he remembers steam coming into the heating system 15 minutes before reveille. “The darned pipes clanged so loudly they always awakened me.”

Then, as Lenny recalls, upperclassmen would bang on already opened doors to our rooms and gently exhort us. “FALL OUT! All out for ooh-ahs! On the gouge! ON THE GOUGE!” Morning calisthenics — pushups, situps, ooh-ahs (maybe something like a crunch?) — commenced in the passageway. (We had been taught that the physical elements of our “dorm” were to be called what that would be called on board a ship. Hallway=passageway, wall=bulkhead, ceiling=overhead, floor=deck, stairway=ladder, etc.)

Chores, get into uniform, muster in formation at the chow hall, breakfast, class, drill, muster in formation at the chow hall, lunch, PT, class, drill, muster in formation at the chow hall, dinner, “free time,” study, taps. Over and over, except for the occasional variation (e.g., standing inspection), weekly event (athletic competition, pass in review, etc.), or periodic event (standing Officer of the Deck watch in/on the lobby=quarterdeck of our building).

We had the hang of it about now. Refreshed by some time spent with families and friends in the civilian world, it seemed, to me at least, that we felt ready to assume our position as leaders of Alfa Company and almost ready to be Naval Officers.

December 21 in 1968 was a Saturday. It may have been our last day at NAVOCS until the new year of 1969. Hope everyone had the chance to get back home then for family, friends, etc.

To get a flavor of the times, here is a video of the Dean Martin Christmas show of 1968. You got Dean, Dom, Bob . . . and more! 🙂 Back when they wore tuxes.

Speaking of uniforms . . . . Technically, we were supposed to wear our uniforms when “out in public,” even on liberty. I was wearing mine when I met two friends — Connie and Bob, soon to be married — for drinks during the holiday break. And I think my uniform helped me out later that night, when I drove home.

I was in Western Massachusetts and it was late on a cold night. Duh, December. It was also a night for black ice. For whatever reason, I was not driving my car, but my family’s car — a 1965 Plymouth convertible, I believe.

I remember coming down a long hill toward an intersection, with traffic lights. The lights turned yellow and I pressed on the brakes. That begat a long slide. I remember looking and hoping no cars were approaching the intersection from left or right, and I saw there were none.

Went through the intersection and ran into the traffic divider on the other side. Car had turned around. I remember sitting there, engine off, very quiet. No seeming damage. But when I grabbed the wheel, it just turned loosely. No connection to the wheels.

Of course, this is pre-cell phones. Who to contact? How?

Don’t remember how long it took, but a police officer showed up. I think I explained what happened, best I could. Might have been slurring a bit.  Maybe a lot. Ultimately, I remember sitting in the police station. I, or they, had called my father and he showed up to bring me home. No charges, no nothing. I know times were different then about DUI, but I also think being in uniform, in those times, with police officers then as now often being veterans, gave me a bit of a holiday gift.

Anyone else have stories from that Christmas break?

UPDATE: We were on leave for Christmas . . . enlisted leave. Below is my leave chit from that time. (I know, it’s probably weird that I have it.) We were due back on Friday, January 3, no later than 0730. I showed up at 0137 that morning, perhaps disturbing the quiet repose of YNSA Jennings. My repose, I’m pretty sure, was disturbed only about four hours later, at reveille. 

UPDATE: Don Cockrill had a feverish holiday. “In 1968 there was a global ‘Hong Kong flu’ pandemic that struck the USA in early December — including OCS. Onset of the flu was rapid and debilitating. I caught it and spent 90 percent of the next two-three weeks in my bed, but did manage to return home to northern Va./D.C. for the break.

“I lost at least 15-20 pounds and my parents, especially my Mom, were horrified. I was 6’6”, 220 lbs., before the flu, but even so the Navy topcoat issued me was already too long and way too big — with the sudden weight loss it made me look like a cadaver.”

The Hong Kong pandemic killed between one and four million people worldwide, 1968-70, and was the third pandemic of the century, following the Asian flu of 1957 and the pandemic of 1918-19. The Hong Kong variety was considered highly contagious and its spread to the US was facilitated by the number of American servicemen returning with it from Vietnam.

Wishing all a merry Christmas, happy holidays, and happy new year!

It’s Officer Candidate School, so you figure there are classes. While we had activities such as firefighting, PT, and drilling in formation, most of our time was spent in classrooms and, after dinner, studying in our rooms. As ordered!

Seachest reports that we had class from 0800 until 1100 or noon and then, following lunch and a little PT, classes again 1300-1600. Then came drill, dinner, and “an opportunity to take care of personal requirements such as writing letters and maintaining his uniforms.” (Those “opportunities” were fun times.) At 1900, we sat down at our desks for three hours of study, with two specified 10-minute breaks, and then a half-hour to get ready for taps at 2230.

I know we all made best use of that study time. I remember trying to figure out a way I could nap with my head up. Doors had to remain open, I believe, and some NAVOCS staff had the duty to wander the halls. I’m sure I, and many others, managed on occasion to hold our head up with our hands and still catch a few winks.

According to Seachest, we spent 390 hours total in the classroom during NAVOCS, “studying tactics, leadership, engineering and navigation, and naval management.” And, Seachest claims, that amount of classroom instruction was close to what a normal college year would entail.

One of the toughest courses, for me at least, was “organization,” the Navy’s bureaucracy and its administrative procedures. By toughest, I mean it was the most difficult in which to stay awake. Navy regs, directives and instructions, reports, record-keeping, correspondence . . . life according to the NAVINST. All very important, but sometimes too difficult to process when you were tired or worn out.

There are two instructors I remember especially. One was BTC Holzer, who was in the Technology division and taught us, I believe, about boilers. Chief Holzer just seemed to be what I expected a chief boiler technician to be like, and that was a very positive thing. The other was LT Gordon, in Tactics (photo at top). For some reason, I just thought he looked squared away. I looked at the two gold stripes on the sleeve and the service ribbons and thought I might look like that some day. (I did, somewhat, but my time as a Lieutenant was not until the Reserves and for only a couple of years.)

I also remember Victory at Sea. I had watched some of it when I was a kid, but seeing it at NAVOCS was extra special. Yes, it was a majestic tribute to the Navy and Marine Corps in WWII, but, at NAVOCS, when instructors would choose to show us an episode, it meant the lights went going to go down and, thus, so did our heads. Maybe 20 minutes of rest.

One episode of Victory at Sea we watched shows a Navy pilot crash landing his plane on a carrier and later assisting in the burial at sea of a crew mate from that flight. Recently Don Cosgrove, fellow member of A6903, told me something I had not known — that pilot was Don’s father. Don recalls pointing it out to some at the time and Dennis Greenspon confirms that account.

At some point, those of us who had attained a certain grade point average became eligible for a white name tag. As much of what we were tested on required repetition of information we had read or been told, and that was in my intellectual wheelhouse, I qualified for said white name tag. While it was not regarded as any particular academic achievement, such name tag enabled its bearer to have extra liberty. White name tag bearers were able to return from weekend liberty somewhat later than others on Sundays, and could go on liberty one night during the week. Extra liberty was worth something.

 

Thanksgiving in 1968 was almost a week later than this year’s holiday. The fourth Thursday in November fell on the 28th 50 years ago.
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UPDATE: Lenny Borg recalls a special Thanksgiving liberty, which was, apparently, a long weekend. His report: “I was invited to spend Thanksgiving at the home of Gini Solomon and her parents near Groton, Conn., where Mr. Solomon was in charge of research for Pfizer. Gini was the amazingly cute squeeze of Tom Matter, a friend of mine from Vanderbilt who had quite a way with the ladies. Joining Gini and me would be Barham Ray and my long-time girlfriend from Dallas. Barham, another close friend from Vanderbilt, was also in Alpha Company but a class or two ahead of us. As we hadn’t seen an attractive girl since reporting to OCS two months before, the thought of being around those two beauties all weekend sounded like paradise.

“On Wednesday or Thursday of that week I committed the unpardonable sin of compromising my piece. That consisted of failing to lock a flimsy metallic locker, thereby exposing a disabled WWII-vintage rifle to the first eager spy who could scale the fences and bypass the armed sentries long enough to steal it and spirit it back to the Soviet Union.

“The question was whether gigs would be issued soon enough to condemn me to marching on the grinder for all of Thanksgiving weekend.  Chief Sheppard probably slowed down the processing of my infraction intentionally so that I could slip away for the holiday. He tried not to show it, but he seemed to have a heart of gold.

“The Solomons did not disappoint! Our first feast was served by Mrs. Solomon. When I raved about the meat dish – and everything else on the table – Mrs. Solomon admitted that she had to beg the town’s leading butcher to obtain that special cut. At another meal, we dined on lobster in the historic Lighthouse Inn Restaurant in New London, while viewing waves as they lapped against the rocks below. The food didn’t taste remotely like the fare in dining hall at OCS. And we didn’t have to line up in formation outside in the cold until everyone in the company arrived.

“After being continually berated for gig lines that weren’t straight, beds that failed to bounce a quarter, and shoes whose toes didn’t sparkle, it was heaven to be treated so kindly at every turn by Mr. and Mrs. Solomon and two lovely young girls.”
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Bob Hamilton suggests we did not have a holiday break at OCS, which sounds right. At least nothing extensive, as we would later have for Christmas. We likely had “the day off,” meaning it was holiday routine (and I expect that was principally so that NAVOCS staff could be home with families). We also likely had turkey and all the fixin’s for dinner. In my experience, the Navy generally did all right with holiday meals.

As was the case with many others, it was the first of three Thanksgivings in a row I did not spend with family at home. The following year, 1969, I was deployed in WESTPAC and I was in Coronado, Calif., in 1970.

Best wishes to all our classmates and shipmates for a wonderful Thanksgiving this year with families and friends.

In 1968, Veterans Day, November 11, fell on a Monday. Today, we “observe” Veterans Day because the holiday fell on a Sunday. Veterans Day is one of only four federal holidays that occur on a fixed date, the others being New Year’s Day, Independence Day, and Christmas.

Following adoption of the federal Uniform Monday Holiday Act in 1968, other holidays became “floaters,” allowing for more long weekends. That process became effective in 1971.

Originally, the Uniform Monday Holiday Act called for Veterans Day to be observed on the fourth Monday in October. There was so much resistance to this change from the traditional (46 states continued to observe the holiday on November 11) that Congress changed it back to November 11 in 1975, becoming effective in 1978.

I don’t remember if Veterans Day was a “holiday” for us at OCS. I also don’t believe we, as “officer candidates under instruction,” about six weeks into active duty, qualified as veterans at the time.

Nonetheless, we do now. I extend best wishes on this day to all the members of A6903, and to all other NAVOCS grads viewing this blog.

With the “hazing” over after a few days, A6903 settled into what constituted “regular” OCS. It was still military and, for most of us, very unfamiliar, but it was more ordered/less chaotic, more routine/less stressful.

OCS was described as an 18-week course that, according to the Seachest, our “yearbook,” “is concerned with imparting the knowledge, dedication to duty, and self-confidence necessary to mold a college graduate into a competent Naval Officer.”

We still had to get up at zero dark thirty (0530), do some calisthenics under the direction of “upperclassmen,” and then some “chores” involving cleaning, before getting into uniform and gathering in formation for breakfast. Boy, there were some cold mornings on Coddington Point.

We’ll have posts about various elements of our days, including classes, athletic competition, firefighting, standing OOD watches, etc., but we were settling into the routine.

“Farewell to college joys . . . .”
Anchors Aweigh

There were 14 of us in A6903.

As in many of the old World War II movies, we came from all corners of the US: Georgia, Indiana, Louisiana, Illinois, Tennessee, Florida, New Jersey, New York, Nevada, Massachusetts, and Oregon.

In an odd precursor to what was to happen to me when I reported on board my ship the following spring, my OCS group also included another Boston College graduate. I had been acquainted with Greg McClure at BC, but I don’t believe we had any sense beforehand that we would be in this group together.

Two in A6903 were attorneys. Don Cockrill had received his law degree from University of Virginia and Bill Peeters was a graduate of Northwestern’s School of Law. Two others had graduate degrees. David Jones had received an MFA from Princeton and Harvey Katz was the holder of an MBA from Harvard Business School. They were obviously a few years older than the rest of us.

Besides the two BC grads, Lenny Borg and Cockrill were both graduates of Vanderbilt. Otherwise, the other undergraduate alma maters were University of Virginia, Coe College, Middle Tennessee State, Princeton, Penn, Florida State, University of Nevada, Notre Dame, Oregon State, and Amherst.

Among the entire 6903 contingent of about 220, the Ivy League was well represented, with about 10 percent of the group. A somewhat cursory scan of the colleges represented, however, found that that largest single group came from Williams.

Our first few days at OCS began the same way. We were awakened “crisply” at 5:30 am by fellow officer candidates (those in the class next to graduate) and told to muster in the hallway. There, we were put through a series of “calisthenics” — situps, pushups, running in place (physical training, or “PT”). It seemed the intent was to get us to the point of puking. Those leading the different exercises rotated, but, of course, we didn’t. Some of us were in excellent shape. My roommate, Lenny Borg, had the upper body of a gymnast. I, on the other hand, though somewhat “lean,” was limited in musculature. Most of us, I believe, were unsuccessful in doing all that had been ordered to the full degree.

Then it was back to the room to make your bed . . . the Navy way. Precise number of inches for the turned down top sheet. Crisp “hospital” corners at the bottom. Top sheet and blanket tight enough to allow a coin to bounce on it. Whether the bed was properly made or not, it was often mussed up by an inspector, maybe more than once, so you had to do it again. The time for that meant you had less time for other things, so you began to feel constantly behind.

Next, it was head call. You had maybe a couple of minutes to do your business, brush teeth, etc. Then, having gotten into uniform, muster for our first morning formation. Form into groups, march to the chow hall. First few times, we were given only several minutes to go through the lines and eat.

The first full day was a Sunday, so it was holiday routine . . . for others. Our Sunday was spent studying org charts and lists, all the while polishing our “boondockers,” also “boonies,” the black shoes in the style of chukka boots issued to us, or shining the brass of our belt buckles. The boonies were all leather, not corfam or other shiny material. While the rest of the boot had to be somewhat polished, the focus was on the toe. You needed to get that to shine.

Our overseers would frequently enter our rooms, which required us to stand at attention. They would then ask questions about the information we had been ordered to learn and, if your answer was incorrect, you would be “gigged,” given one or more demerits.

We were told that weekend liberty, the freedom to leave the base, was dependent on not having too many “gigs.” At the rate I remember being gigged, I calculated that, by the third day, I had easily exceeded the allowed number and would not likely see liberty for many weeks. And I had reached that level in just the first couple of days!

Among the information we needed to know was the NATO phonetic alphabet, i.e., alfa, bravo, charlie . . . . We also had to switch to 24-hour time. We no longer got up at 5:30 a.m., but 0530. We didn’t go to bed at 10:30 p.m., but 2230. (My kids and several of my friends still bridle a little as I often use, even now, the NATO alphabet and 24-hour time. It stuck.)

There were frequent inspections, of rooms and of uniform. Room inspections were often unannounced, except by the presence of a couple of overseers, who did the “white glove” thing, finding “dust,” noting improper storage of items in closets, etc. More gigs. Uniform inspections emphasized things like the “gig line.” You had a proper gig line when the zipper line of your trousers, the edge of the belt buckle, and the seam of your buttoned “blouse” lined up exactly. (It irks me somewhat, but I still make a correct gig line.)

It was not that any one thing was terribly difficult, though morning PT was often taxing, eating was sporadic, and bathroom access was sometimes “uncomfortable.” It was more that you couldn’t anticipate what was going to happen and, even if you had learned your “homework,” no success was acknowledged.

On one evening, maybe Tuesday night of the first week, maybe a day or so later, overseers ran into our area and announced an immediate uniform inspection. I remember lining up with the rest of A6903 along the wall in our corridor. I think it was our company commander, the officer candidate selected from that top class, who did the inspection. He stood in front of each of us, looked us up and down, and itemized the various things wrong with our appearance. Among the many gigs he gave me was one for “stuckle on my buckle.”

Fellow A6903er Dennis Greenspon has some memories of that night, too. “My remembrance is that the company commander, or whatever he was, and another guy were wearing their dress swords,” he said. “They faced each other and drew their swords in salute. When one of them pocked a hole in the overhead and started to crack up . . . that’s when I finally started to think that something goofy was going on.”

As I calculated in my head the number of gigs I had received and tried to imagine what the next 17 weeks would be like, I felt I was at my breaking point.

Then . . . the hallway was filled with our overseers. And they were different. They were smiling, laughing, handing us cans of soda. We learned that our first several days at OCS was a hazing ritual and that it was over. The relief and happiness at that time, I think, were palpable.

I think I understand the objective of such a ritual. I think there may be some rationale for a period of stress and shock to transition from one style of living to another. It certainly made the rest of our time at OCS seem better. I “survived” that initial ritual and it seems the rest of A6903 did, too. I am also aware that our experience was less intense than “boot camp” for Navy and other services. I also suspect, however, there were young men who faltered during that time and may not have recovered fully.

In any case, I remember it still. Completely and entirely accurately, probably not, but I remember. I’m glad to see, too, that the process of indoctrinating civilians into military life has since become based more on psychology than tradition.

More to come about “regular” OCS.

On this date, 50 years ago, I arrived at Naval Officer Candidate School (NAVOCS or OCS), Naval Base, Newport, R.I., for the first of my 1,035 days on active duty in the Navy.

There were about 225 others in the class designated 6903 (third class to enter since the beginning of federal fiscal year 1969) and we joined three classes that had entered on a monthly frequency before us.

I had driven alone from my family home in Springfield, Mass. Current directions show about a two-hour drive, but I don’t think some of the current highways were then in operation, so it was likely longer.

OCS was located on Coddington Point, just north of Newport itself. The aerial view at right was taken around this time, as it appeared in the 6903 edition of Seachest, the OCS “yearbook.”

I remember driving my 1965 Sunbeam Tiger, the first car I personally purchased, into a dirt parking area. Upon getting out of the car, I was immediately set upon by a person in uniform who demanded that I button up the sport coat I was wearing — “All the buttons!” I was then told to retrieve my belongings and follow him. I don’t remember if I had a suitcase or a duffel bag. Then again, I suspect we had been told not to bring much in the way of personal clothing.

Fellow civilian Bob Hamilton recalls his arrival thusly: “I drove to the parking lot to park and check in. I got out of the car and I saw an officer candidate in the distance walking toward me. Knowing that he was a naval officer and a gentleman, I extended my hand in fellowship. The closer I got to him, I then understood him to be screaming at me that buttons were for buttoning. That’s as friendly as it got.”

We joined other civilians on their last day as such and others in uniform and marched, less than smartly, to a building of some sort, where we began the experience of being transformed from a civilian to whatever creature a fledgling officer candidate lowlife can be. My father, who was an Army veteran of WWII, may have told me that I would get a short haircut upon arrival. To preserve some semblance of style and individuality, I had gone to a barber only a couple of days earlier and had gotten the shortest haircut I can remember. I figured they would see it and let me skip the haircut. Right. First dash of cold reality.

I was not “given a haircut.” My head was “sheared,” in a manner close to that the officer candidate in the photo enjoyed. Then it was a whirlwind. At some point, being issued clothing, with sizes often being determined by the judgment of the Navy enlisted man looking you up and down. “Keep moving. Keep moving.” “Marching” somewhat haphazardly, laden with clothing and other stuff, from building to building. At some point, we must have eaten. At another point, you ended up in your squad, a group of 12-15 officer candidates. Four cohorts of squads, having arrived a month apart, made up a company. Sixteen companies formed the regiment. I was one of 14 members of Alfa Company 6903. The companies followed the NATO phonetic alphabet, Alfa, Bravo, Charlie . . . with the 16th company named Quebec. (India was not used.) I doubt much, if any, thought went into who went into which company, or who roomed with whom in the two-man cement-block rooms.

By the time we were in our assigned rooms in Nimitz Hall, one of the two huge and relatively new residential structures at OCS, we were under the control of the A6903 “seniors,” the cohort of the company that was to graduate next. And that was not fun. More to come on the first several days at OCS.