On July 1st, 1914, Secretary of the Navy Josephus
Daniels published General Order No. 99, to
wit:
"The use or
introduction for drinking purposes of alcoholic liquors on board any naval
vessel, or within any navy yard or station, is strictly prohibited, and
commanding officers will be held directly responsible for the enforcement of
this order."
The law would go into effect
on the 1st of July, 1914.
In doing so, Secretary Daniels finally put an
official quietus on the Navy's history with alcohol , a history that went back
to the grog rations and wine messes of the revolutionary
Navy.
I'm pretty sure he also
guaranteed that the evening of 30 June, 1914, saw more than it's share of
intoxicated naval officers in the fleet, desperately trying to drink their way
to the bottom of the mess investment before heaving the remainders into an
indifferent and ungrateful
sea.
"Medicinal" alcohol was still
preserved, and over the years the definition of medicinal, as well as a rather
informal process for selecting who had control over that definition, evolved.
And as Humpty Dumpty told Alice, control over the
meaning of words makes all the
difference:
`When I use a
word,' Humpty Dumpty said in rather a scornful tone, `it means just what I
choose it to mean -- neither more nor
less.'
`The question is,'
said Alice, `whether you can make words mean so many different
things.'
`The question is,'
said Humpty Dumpty, `which is to be master - - that's
all'
So I guess it's fair to say that by
the time I had first sailed the sea in ships, carrying the president's
commission in my breast pocket (ed. he
said breast!
Shush!)
there were of the assembled several hundred officers aboard the USS
CONSTELLATION, perhaps a few who had sufficient mastery of the mother tongue to
declare that their own private stores of alcohol were for medicinal purposes.
This would have been again, a rather informal process, from a strict "Uniform
Code of Military Justice / Naval Regulations" standpoint.
That's what I heard, anyway. No personal
knowledge. Senator.
And because this
mastery over words and their meanings would not receive the universal
approbation of the many and various stern authority figures aboard that great
flagship (all of whom had, unbelievably, once been young), there were probably
measures to ensure operational security. First, I expect that there was to be no
drinking unless the next day was a no-fly day. It simply wouldn't do to degrade
one's performance in such a difficult and dangerous environment by bathing the
synapses in depressants. Also, something as simple as a blown tire on landing
could result in a pilot being asked to part with some bodily fluids for the
investigation, if any damage had been done. Difficult questions would be asked
of him if he was found to have alcohol traces in his system. There would be
frowns, and professional
ramifications.
Second, it is very likely
that gin and vodka were the poisons of choice, since they are odorless. Sailors
have a nose for beer, and a ship is in many ways a very small viliage. Which
might have led to many strange personal requests for the Carrier Onboard
Delivery, or COD transport crews: "Get you anything from the beach?" they might
ask.
"How about some tonic water, and
some limes?" might come the answer.
"Got
it."
Third, there were probably many and
sundry smuggling schemes - golf bags were no doubt a favorite technique, some
might use the mails (risky!) and others perhaps flew their stores aboard inside
their airplanes at the beginning of deployment. Personal bags from ashore were
probably
not used,
by and large, since those were subject to search. It is even possible that one
fellow I heard about had a hollowed out pair of stereo speakers that could have
come back aboard from port visits somewhat heavier than they had gone ashore.
Finally, it is almost certain that
alcohol containers were to be promptly disposed of when they had been fully
relieved of their contents - it would be one thing to get busted for having
booze on the ship, another thing entirely to get busted for having
empties.
I heard a story one day
concerning three fellows of my acquaintance. It is a sea story of course, so
there is no absolute way to vouch for its accuracy. The whole thing could be a
work of fiction, a product of fevered imaginations and too much time at sea. No
way to know.
I'll relate this story as
though it had actually happened, with all the previous caveats in place.
So:
The three were roomates, and one dark
and peaceful night It fell to one of them to commit the remains of an empty
vessel to the deep. The dead soldier was placed in the hollows of a parachute
bag, and the designated gent made his way through the darkened, less traveled
and somewhat unfamiliar passageways leading outboard to the port side of the
ship. High, high above the wave tops, having first glanced nervously about to
ensure that he would not be caught in the act, he held the empty bottle over the
deck edge, and somewhat reluctantly let it drop. He calculated it would take
some thee to four seconds until he heard the reassuring splash below. He was (to
say the least) somewhat nonplussed to hear, after only half the calculated
interval, the sound of a bottle breaking on a missile sponson, invisible in the
darkness and only half way to the water's edge. In his minds eye he could see
the label holding bits of glass together for identification's sake, probably
holding fingerprints as well.
Voices were
raised in alarm, and all across the flight deck, flashlights could be seen
sweeping back and forth, while bobbing slightly up and down as folks came
running to investigate the noise. Our hero briefly contemplated throwing himself
into the sea, in the hopes that he might save himself the shame of arrest by
drowning, or alternatively might divert attention from the bottle bits littering
the sponson below to a man overboard rescue.
Whichever.
But no. Cooler thinking
prevailed.
Instead he ducked back into
the passageway, and happening on his own squadron's ordnance work center, burst
through the hatch to the manifest surprise and consternation of the assembled
night check ordnancemen. These worthies were highly unaccustomed to visits from
junior officers not in their direct chain of command at the best of times, and
not one of them could recall seeing any such spectacle at 0200 in the
morning.
Closing the hatch quickly and
breathing heavily, the young officer looked into the shocked eyes of the work
center personnel, and asked, "So, how's everybody doing tonight?" while
nervously casting stabs of his eyes from their faces to the hatchway behind him.
The ordies at first merely exchanged amazed glances until one of them offered
up, "Fine, I guess. Anything we can do for you,
ell-tee?"
"Mm - yeah... do any of you
guys happen to have a broom and maybe a dustpan?" he asked. In response to their
uncomprehending expressions, "I've uh, spilled something, that is, I've knocked
over some stuff in my stateroom, and would like to clean it up before I go to
bed," the young lieutenant added
gamely.
The requested implements were
provided, and after our narrator had exchanged a few more pleasantries (stalling
for time), he left the work center and tunneled back within the ship, stopping
by his stateroom for a flashlight. His roommates' friendly greetings turned
quickly to alarm at his expression as he entered the room. Once the tale had
been related, their demeanor changed in turn to grim resignation. Several
possible avenues of approach to the missile sponson were discussed, as well as
the beginnings of an alibi to shelter the many from the wrath of the few in the
name of the greater good. This last was ultimately rejected out of hand, since
it would involve what some would call "telling a story," and what others might
call "lying," neither of which was considered officer-like behavior. Some rules
you did not break.
So all would sink or
swim together, come what may. Our man, reinforced now by his roommates,
carefully made his way to the missile sponson, after many false starts and dead
ends. The clean up work was quickly effected, and all retired to the comfort and
safety of their hooch without further ado, vowing that the evening's festivities
had changed their viewpoints on the whole enterprise. That was it, no more -
never.
Until the next
time.
Anyway, that was the story I heard.
Like I said, no way to vouch for it.
Posted @
01:24 PM
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Posted in
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Sendit
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Credo
"Sign on, young man, and sail with me. The stature of our homeland is no more than the measure of ourselves. Our job is to keep her free. Our will is to keep the torch of freedom burning for all. To this solemn purpose we call on the young, the brave, the strong, and the free. Heed my call, Come to the sea. Come Sail with me." - John Paul Jones
"Pardon him, Theodotus; he is a barbarian, and thinks that the customs of his tribe and island are the laws of nature" --George Bernard Shaw, "Ceasar and Cleopatra"
"And those who were seen dancing were thought to be insane by those who could not hear the music."--Friederich Nietzsche
