An Officer and a Gentleman hadn’t hit the movie screens in ‘66 so the American way of Naval Basic Training came as a surprise, but in hindsight, from watching the movie there is no better way to describe the training process. Forget the bit in the film about getting in the boxing ring with a drill sergeant, dramatic rubbish. Watching the sequence about the Dilbert Dunker brings back very fond memories. The trip down a set of rails in a simulated aircraft cockpit, hitting the pool with a violent crash, tipping inverted underwater and having to get out unassisted is huge fun and we’re lining up for more rides.
At the bottom of the Dilbert Dunker experience. What a hoot!
The full clip is here: Dilbert Dunker from the movie Officer and a Gentleman
We’re already fit so we’re acing the physical training aspect and I’m recognising some skills I didn’t know I had. I can go up the 20-foot rope as quickly as anyone. The long-distance cross country through sand was a piece of cake. And sit-ups? On the test Wacka stopped holding my feet as we passed a hundred because he thought I was showing off. Maybe I needed to after only just getting through the minimum number of push-ups.
There is a major advantage to the high volume training program. If there is something you are failing at, rather than being scrubbed from the course at great cost you can be ‘back-coursed’, or slipped into the course that started a week after you if it is decided that you have it in you to finally pass and be an asset to service.
With the physical training it’s slightly different. One American guy can’t make it over the six-foot high hurdle on the obstacle course, no matter how hard he tries. He’s quite over-weight but not unfit. Just can’t do it. After spending five Saturdays doing nothing else but running into the wall, he gets over it to much celebration. None of us are sure if the instructors are rewarding his determination or just inflicting pain and humiliation. By the way, our paths crossed later and the guy who had trouble getting over the wall retired as a full Captain.
So we settle into the routine of Basic Training again. Same routine we’re used to minus the double-marching everywhere as a squad but with advantages of being able to leave the base after work.
Outside the gate
With Pensacola having some of the best steakhouses, beaches, bars anywhere in the world it’s obvious where we head to: the Gulf Follies Theatre. 1960’s Bible Belt burlesque in its prime, featuring among others, Vanessa the Undresser. It’s always a packed house and surprisingly few Navy guys, so obviously there are either other raunchier attractions that are getting the sailors in, or this is it and it’s too tame even for sailors with nowhere else to go. I suspect the latter.
No booze at the Gulf Follies. Those in the know are seen to smuggle a bottle in, but the penalty is having to sit up the back in order to sneak a drink without being caught and evicted. Almost too far away to appreciate the artistry of the strippers.
Of course, getting a drink at eighteen is a problem easily fixed. Prey is over twenty-one and has whipped up two extra copies of his Navy ID, so all OD and I have to do is stick our photos on them. True criminal masterminds would have the three of us entering a bar a few minutes apart, but we go in all together. The dumbest bouncer in Florida notices something.
“You three guys all have the same name!” Sprung.
“Yeah” says OD. “We’re twins”.
OK we’re in.
My one parachute jump.
If there were awards for doing dumb things, pride of place on my mantelpiece would be my Parachuting Trophy.
Macca was a sky-diving fanatic and instructor in Australia before he joined up so, naturally, he joined a local sky-diving club in Milton Florida, just up from Pensacola. Part of our Navy pre-flight training was how to bail out of an aeroplane without actually doing it, so of course once we had done that, we let Macca talk us into having a sport jump. Wacka, OD, Prey and I all headed out to a grass field where we got the civilian version of jump training before suiting up and climbing into a Cessna 182 with no seats, climbing to altitude terrified, and standing on the wing strut/right wheel waiting to jump but wanting to get back inside.
After what seemed to be an eternity in the slipstream, a good whack across the shoulder notified me it was time to let go and endure about 3 seconds of pure terror, waiting for the static line to release and my chute to inflate. Once it had, there followed probably the most peaceful time of my life as I drifted slowly down, looking around like a tourist and trying out the steering on the chute.
In those days teaching you how to do something was mostly comprised of telling you what NOT to do, so as I got closer to the ground the front of my mind was telling me “don’t look down!” Why? The theory we were taught was that by looking at the ground between your feet, the closer to landing you get the faster the grass rushes up at you, and you naturally lift your feet, exposing your butt to the full force of the collision. I found first hand that once again theory works: I looked, I lifted, and my ass hit the ground with a huge thump.
Of course the pain and lack of ability to easily stand and walk took second place to looking macho, so it was off to celebrate our first of many future jumps. (As far as I know none of us newbies did it again…)
Spoiler alert: after twenty five years of spinal issues a chiropractor in Sydney insisted I have an x-ray on my spine before manipulation. There it was: a broken coccyx. Damn Macca!