By Kevin Schmitt
I thought I’d share with you some of the
things my dad told me about his Navy days. It all began in Idaho, believe it or
not. That’s where boot camp was, near Lake Coeur D Alene. (That’s about thirty miles
east of Spokane Washington, in case you’ve never been there.) For Dad, it was a
great experience. The lake is long and narrow, like Loch Ness, and so clean,
they even had a rule against pissing in it.
Dad was seventeen years old and had been
brought up with wood chopping and winter outhouses. So the rigors of a Rocky
Mountain boot camp didn’t ruffle his feathers one little bit. In fact, there
was just one thing that came into his life that was totally new to him, and
that was a young man who was half black, and half Cherokee Indian. His name was
Jamie Jameson, and he hailed from the state of Georgia.
I suppose you could say that Jamie was a
social trail blazer. In order to gain acceptance, he had to be twice as good as
everyone else, but real modest about it. Dad didn’t take to him right off
because Jamie could run like the wind, whereas Dad was built for weight
lifting. Running is a very important part of boot camp training, so if you’re a
bit slow at it, you just might resent those who are not. Maybe Jamie sensed
that---maybe not. But one chilly night when Dad was standing guard duty, Jamie
showed up with a cup of coffee. Dad didn’t stop being a racially ignorant
person that night, but it was a beginning.
After boot camp, Dad’s platoon got on a train
and headed towards the ocean. (Which seemed like a very fitting and proper
place for future sailors to be.) Idaho hadn’t taught them a thing about the
South Pacific, but what the hell, everything would work out just fine. Palm
trees, naked native girls, and a few near sighted Japs they’d have to bump off.
They could hardly wait.
They had to change trains in this little
mountain town and it was winter so they all headed for the only restaurant to
be had. Trouble was, no colored folks were allowed. Well, the kids in that
platoon were more redneck than not. But Jamie had won them over at least to a
point. Anyway, a platoon is like a gang. You mess with one member, you mess
with all. So the platoon formed up in front of that café and no one was allowed
in. A deputy sheriff was called in, but that man was no fool. He took one look
at all those uniforms and realized that his handcuffs would be staying in their
little case.
In the end, everyone was allowed in, and just
to pour salt onto the wound of the proprietor, Jamie was told to take a healthy
dump in the bathroom so he wouldn’t need to go on the train.
Kevin Schmitt
lives in Minnesota and has been a factory worker for thirty-five years.
His hobbies are camping, cross country hiking, kayaking, and playing
the Boehm type flute (Irish folk music and marches.) When the weather is
too God awful for anything else, he writes and practices a bit of
Karate kata. He is not a cool person, and he is aging rather quickly.
No comments:
Post a Comment