A Veteran's Journey

Trivia Questions (Answers @ end)

1. Who said, “Everyone you will ever meet knows something you don’t.”?
2. Who said (and what movie), “Hold onto your butts.”?
3. In what song (and who sang it) do we find the following lyrics?
   You should see
   What a lovely, lovely world this’d be
   Everyone learned to live together, ah hah
   Seems to me
   Such an itty bitty thing should be
   Why can’t you and me learn to love one another?

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I’m a U.S. Navy veteran (’73-77). I spent four years (minus 1 day) in the Navy with two duty stations: NAS Agana, Guam and USS Kitty Hawk. My Navy rating (i.e., my “job”) was an ABH (Aviation Boatswain’s Mate-Handler). I actually wrote a book about my time in the Navy called, “Three Years, Eleven Months, & 29 Days—But Who’s Counting.”

For those of you not familiar with the military, once you’ve completed Boot Camp (for me, Orlando Naval RTC), your next training “stop” is a trade school, specific to your “job.” If you’re interested, I wrote an earlier blog about boot camp. Click here.

“A” school is a term used in the Navy. Marines call it “School of Infantry.” Army goes to Advanced Individual Training. I don’t have a clue what Air Force does (yes, that’s a dig at one of my two Air Force friends).

Lakehurst, New Jersey

After boot camp, I went to ABH A School in Lakehurst, NJ. Lakehurst is probably best known as the site of the famous blimp Hindenburg disaster when on May 6, 1937 the German zeppelin Hindenburg caught fire at Naval Air Station Lakehurst. The ABH A School moved to NAS Pensacola, Florida in October 1996. That’s where all ABHs now go for training. Checkout this ABH A-School Facebook page.

I arrived in Lakehurst on September 6, 1973. At the time, the ABH rating only had an A school, which lasted about six weeks. Other Navy ratings have “B” and “C” schools, which were more technical and required longer training. Since this was in the 70s, ABHs were rates, or “billets,” for men. That changed while I was still in the Navy, though we did not have women on ships at that time.

The standard Navy issue definition (1973) of an Aviation Boatswain’s Mate-Handler (ABH) was to “operate and service aircraft ground-handling equipment and machinery, operate and service aircraft crash, firefighting, and rescue equipment, handle aircraft afloat and ashore, and perform crash rescue, crash removal, and damage control duties.”

Basically, we moved aircraft around on the flight deck of an aircraft carrier; I was also a Crash firefighter, on Guam and aboard Kitty Hawk. Both were “perfect” choices for me.

What did I learn in A school?

Well, number one, I learned to “drink like a sailor.” Stay with me here…

I joined the Navy when I was 18 years old. I had a year of college (though I was “Dismissed for Academic Reasons” from Florida State University after delivering a 0.7 GPA).

I didn’t drink when I was growing up in Florida. In boot camp, there was no time. So, when I got to Lakehurst—the drinking age was 18 in New Jersey—I quickly discovered an Enlisted Men’s Club close to the barracks.

More than once, I “stacked my drinks,” which was legal back then. For the new generations, that means that you can order drinks before finishing them. It wasn’t unusual to find 4, 5, or 7 drinks in front of me. Best of all, they were only a dollar apiece, which fell within my “liquor intake budget.” My E-2 salary (1973) was $342.30 a month.

More than once, I was grateful that the barracks were located downhill from the EM Club. That way, someone could roll me down the hill after I had one too many. Which, BTW, happened “one too many” times. But that’s another story. I’m sure there were “races” downhill at one time or another. But I can’t remember.

Temporary Holding Company

When I first arrived, there weren’t enough men for a full training class. Similar to arriving at boot camp, I was assigned to a temporary outfit. There were about a dozen barracks at NAS Lakehurst, but only about half were renovated enough to live in. During the first couple of weeks, command assigned those of us in temporary companies to help renovate the barracks.

My job was to hang ceilings. There were four of us working diligently as a team on this particular complicated task. The ceilings were supposed to be level all around the room. But let’s just say that some were a little more level than others, depending upon how long I had stayed at the Enlisted Men’s Club the night before.

ABH “A” School Class Starts

After two weeks, we finally got enough guys in to start the class. ABH A School lasted about six weeks. Most of our class work consisted of book learning, which was pretty boring to me, and practical exercises for ABHs. I did fairly well in most of the class work, scoring high on most of the tests. But I really liked the practical exercises, especially firefighting. I don’t know why, but it seemed natural to me.

The course instructors started us out slowly on the firefighting skills for obvious reasons. It was awesome, though, when you got to fight a big one.

Initially, they would pour about fifty to a hundred gallons of gasoline on an old jet in the fire pit and light it. Our job was to put out the fire. Now and then, they would hide a 150 pound dummy, affectionately named “Oscar.” We’d have to find him and pull him out of the fire without damaging him. You can bet he’d seen better days.

Walking Through Fire

At the time, Crash firefighters wore asbestos proximity suits, silver coated with a big hood you often see in movies. I loved walking directly into a wall of flame in that suit—it made me feel invincible.

Did it get hot while in the fire? Not really; there was a liner inside the suit which helped keep the heat out. The outside coating reflected the heat. The helmet also had an asbestos hood with a face plate coated with gold flake. The gold was there to reflect the heat, so while you could walk directly through flames, the face plate would help reflect the heat from your face.

After a few minutes though, the suit would begin to heat up. But the idea is that while you could walk through direct flames, you shouldn’t stand around in them toasting your tidbits. Our job was simple—put out the fire and rescue people.

Teamwork is always the Key

It all boiled down to the teamwork of the crew. At the school, performance was graded as a team. There were five of us in the crash truck: the driver, the turret man, the hose man, and two rescue men. One of the instructors drove the fire truck-none of us had been trained. I’d learn that in Guam.

Each of us has a job to do. The driver got us close to the fire. The turret man knocked down the initial flames with a flame-retardant. The hose man blazed a trail (pun intended) through the remaining flames so the two rescue men could drag Oscar out. The hose man then put out the rest of the fire. Pretty simple, but it took teamwork.

The Infamous “Dream Sheet”

We all got our orders for our next duty station in mid-October. When I first got to A School, we filled out paperwork called a “dream sheet.” The idea is that you would tell the Navy where you wanted to go for your next assignment and then they would send you wherever they wanted you to go. I filled out the West Coast for ship duty and the Philippines for shore duty.

Not that I wanted to get that far away from home, but because I had heard the west coast had the better cruises. My orders read, “Report to Naval Air Station Agana, Guam.” I was into scuba diving so my new duty station would be a diver’s dream. Now if I could just figure out where in the hell Guam was.

I graduated from A School on Halloween, October 31, 1973, and had a few weeks leave before I left. I didn’t know how long I would be stationed on Guam, so those few weeks were extra special, spent with family and friends.

What Did I Really Learn?

I learned how to fight fires, something I would do again in civilian life. I learned how to drink and more importantly, how not to drink. But to be honest, I came away with a greater sense of self-respect, which certainly boosted my confidence—another step along in my “journey.” I also learned the importance of teamwork. You cannot do it alone, you have to rely on others to help.

Not too many people in this world dare to get close to a big fire, let alone walk through it. Most of the time when there’s a fire, people run away from it, as well they should. Firefighters and first responders run toward it. And that instinct still sticks with me today.

Stay safe, my friends and fellow shipmates.

Until we meet again,
Andy

Andy Adkins is a US Navy veteran (’73-77) and the author of several books. His newest novel, NEVER FORGET, is the story of A Vietnam Veteran’s Journey for Redemption & Forgiveness. NEVER FORGET is FREE (eBook, PDF) for all veterans. Download your FREE copy HERE.

Previous blogs mentioned in this post:

• #4 – From Civilian to Navy

Answers:

1. Bill Nye.
2. Jurassic Park (1993). Mr. Arnold (Samuel L. Jackson).
3. People Got to Be Free (1968), The Rascals; written by Edward Brigati & Felix Cavaliere.