As I reflect on these events that happened a long time ago, some have mercifully grown dim, but others remain vivid, fond memories. Perhaps the passage of the years blurs the painful and brings forth what was beautiful to color the truth, and it is that beauty that brings smiles to an old man’s face.
Life for me as a man of color at the beginning of the last half of the 20th century was not always easy. The world was different then, less aware, yet in some ways more innocent. Memories kindle nostalgia for those who were there, but the warm sentiments are, however, often mixed with relief that the less enlightened aspects of those days are over. Fifty years in the white foaming wake of our passage are forever gone.
A half-century ago, naval officers were very class- and tradition-conscious. They still are, but were far more so then. You can imagine the tensions arising in that homogenous, white, Anglo-Saxon world when a newly commissioned black officer reported on board and tried to settle into life in a major ship-of-the-line. In 1951, our country and military were struggling with difficult racial and cultural issues that taxed the leadership of politicians and senior military officers as well as the tolerance, patience, and fairness of us all. Like it or not, we were being challenged to accept and to be an important part of change that was not merely a modification of the way things were. It was a tectonic shift.
In 1951, the year I was commissioned, only six black officers were on active duty in the U.S. Navy. As a brand-new ensign, I was preoccupied with learning to be a good naval officer and being the best I could be. I knew I would not be warmly accepted by all; however, I could not let that interfere with my performance of duty. I told myself to keep a friendly, positive attitude toward my fellow officers and shipmates; I had no intention of being confrontational. That attitude would have not only been counterproductive, it would have been disastrous. I knew I would have to earn acceptance and respect without being obsequious. I vowed to ignore slights with dignity and an even temper.
Our New Home
I was raised in the small village of Elmsford, New York, about 25 miles north of New York City. Life there was tranquil, with very little overt racial discrimination. My little town sent me into the world with the expectations that life would be much the same as it was in the small world in which I grew up. There, people accepted me for myself, and I had many friends. They either liked me or disliked me for who I was, not what I was. I was, however, destined for a rude awakening. With the bad, though, came much good, and from the good I grew.
One of the most enduring, powerful, and positive experiences in my life was sharing a bunkroom with seven other ensigns in the USS Wisconsin (BB-64) during the Korean War. The “Wiskey,” as we affectionately called her, was an Iowa (BB-61)-class battleship displacing 63,000 tons, with a main battery of 9 16-inch guns, 20 5-inch/38-caliber guns in her secondary battery, and 40 40-mm guns as an antiaircraft battery. She was an awesome ship. With a complement of almost 3,000 men, she was run with a tight hand. This was the old Navy, with the customs and traditions passed down from the Royal Navy. We even had “Roast Beef for Jolly Old England” played on a fife and drum over the 1MC to announce call to evening meal.
After reporting on board, I was assigned to quarters in the junior officers’ bunkroom, called “Boys’ Town” by the ship’s officers. My new roommates greeted me as they would any other newly commissioned officer, and we soon became friends. There is no formula for developing friendships. I was low key and tried to keep race as far in the background as possible. I wanted race to be just another physical characteristic, like hair color, height, physical shape, or any other feature you notice about a person when you first meet. Those initial external impressions fade into the background as you get to know someone, and friendships grow. I had hoped that my shipmates would regard my race in that way.
As we introduced ourselves, I found that my roommates all had nicknames: Sam, Bill, Buzz, Smedley, Jim, Fitz, and Ray. I had always been called Alan, but I now answered to Al. Fifty-five years later, the names and faces of those 21-year-old ensigns are still clear and bring me a warm glow. These were my first new friends in the Navy.
As a member of the first Officer Candidate School class in Newport, Rhode Island, that graduated in June 1951, I was too busy with studies and daily quizzes in professional subjects to spend time getting acquainted with my classmates. It was not in the least bit strange that I made no lasting friendships at OCS. In fact I cannot remember most of their names or faces. OCS clearly was not meant to be a place for bonding.
The JO bunkroom on the Wiskey was different. Shortly after her recommissioning for the Korean War, five newly commissioned ensigns from the Naval Academy class of 1951 reported on board. They knew each other and were pretty tight from their four years at Annapolis. They quickly settled into life on board the Wiskey during a cruise to Guantanamo Bay, Cuba, before the rest of us arrived, and regarded the bunkroom as theirs. For five, it was roomy with sufficient closet space and drawers to stow gear. They were sublimely happy with their commodious accommodations befitting their status as officers and gentlemen on board a major ship-of-the-line.
After returning from Gitmo, the Wisconsin received orders for Korea and began ramping up to a full-crew complement of 3,000 officers and men. To the Academy group’s dismay, they learned that three more ensigns were to join them. That was only the beginning of the bad news. They watched with shock as shipfitters welded stanchions for a tier of three new bunks in the middle of their stateroom. Where once there had been enough room to swing a cat, there was now no free space at all. Of course there was much grumbling in the Academy group over the new arrangement, but they knew enough about the Navy to pipe down and get on with it.
"Like the Rest of Us"
Two other ensigns, graduates of the NROTC and Reserve Officer Candidate programs, and I joined the Academy group. I later learned that the executive officer, also a Naval Academy graduate, had called the Annapolis guys into a meeting before I reported to tell them that a black officer who had just graduated from OCS was coming on board. The XO asked if any of them had reservations about sharing their quarters with me. They all immediately replied: “No sir. He’s an ensign like the rest of us. He doesn’t rate special treatment. Throw him in the JO bunkroom.” I suspect the sentiment was less a feeling of broad-mindedness and more a feeling of “Why should this guy get a room all to himself?”
So, we were all packed into tight quarters. The storage area was crowded with barely enough room for essentials such as uniforms, shoes, shirts, and foul-weather gear. Eight of us shared five desks; personal photos of family and girlfriends competed for precious desktop space at the sufferance of one’s roommates. Foul-weather gear, which was usually soggy and smelled like a wet dog, hung from bunk stanchions to further the feeling of near claustrophobia. For me it was daunting being jammed in with strangers for what I knew would be at least the next two years. The Academy graduates greeted us new arrivals warmly in spite of the hardship caused by our moving into their space.
I was impressed by the Annapolis ensigns’ professionalism, intelligence, and easy acceptance of me. To my relief, they created a feeling of mutual respect. The other two ensigns who reported on board with me were both from metropolitan New York, and we had all gone to Catholic universities in the metro area. Happily, the eight of us had a feeling of immediate bonding and were able to laugh at the hardships of crowded living. I felt that my mates in the JO bunkroom were special guys. I soon found that they were indeed, and special not just to me but also to the other junior officers. We always had a roomful of visitors shooting the bull, recounting tall tales, telling jokes and laughing, and planning shore leave the next time we got into port.
Full and Demanding Duties
Our duty sections, the watches we stood, and various ship divisions sent us to widely different parts of the ship. Our schedules were full and demanding, so it was not possible for all eight of us to be in the bunkroom at the same time. We did manage to share information about seamanship, how to work maneuvering boards, rules of the road, shiphandling, navigation, and lessons in The Watch Officers’ Guide. We swapped stories about school and sports, and some of us went to the wardroom to play cribbage. They always invited me to come along, but I preferred going to daily Mass, reading, studying professional subjects, and listening to classical records. Looking back, perhaps I was not fully comfortable with my new surroundings in the wardroom.
I soon became aware of my uniqueness when the Wiskey’s executive officer assigned me to the Executive Officer’s (EX) Division as his special assistant. The other ensigns were assigned to deck and gunnery divisions and stood watches as junior officer of the watch under way and in port. To my great disappointment, I had no such assignment on the ship’s watch bill nor was I allowed to perform navigation or cryptographic duties. I was definitely different. My duties were information and education, and I was the photographic officer. For general quarters, the other junior officers had combat stations in fire control or main, secondary battery, and antiaircraft gun directors. I had no such assignment. I was excluded from the primary function and purpose of my ship: to fight and destroy the enemy.
When I first reported on board, the XO called me into his office and told me quite frankly that he did not know what to do with me. He was not hostile or unfriendly in any way, just matter-of-fact. He explained that many of the ship’s officers and crew were from the South. Racial integration was new in the fleet, not easily accepted, and fraught with problems. He was sensitive to my situation but was more concerned with the harmony and efficient functioning of his ship. He had to find the best way of integrating me into the ship’s company without causing morale problems. Remember, in the early 1950s, black officers were about as common as mermaids on board Navy ships-of-the-line.
My limited assignment was a bitter pill for me to swallow, but I understood and accepted. The Navy is not a social program, and we were fitting out to deploy to the western Pacific. The Wisconsin was to join the Seventh Fleet for Task Force 77 operations and shore bombardment in support of our troops fighting the North Koreans and Chinese.
I was in limbo, and my situation remained so until Lieutenant Commander Elmo “Bud” Zumwalt, the ship’s navigator, interceded on my behalf with the XO. The lieutenant commander argued that I had been commissioned as an unrestricted line officer and should be required to fulfill the same duties as the other officers of my grade—no special treatment. If I failed to measure up, transfer me off the ship to a shore job. The XO, a fair-minded man, listened patiently and then, after some deliberation, agreed. I took my place on the watch bill and also stood crypto watches. Lieutenant Commander Zumwalt was an outstanding officer whom we could all see was destined for big things. In April 1970, President Richard M. Nixon nominated him to be Chief of Naval Operations; he was the youngest four-star admiral and youngest CNO in the history of the Navy.
Life at sea was strenuous. Operating with a fast-carrier task force is never relaxing, and the winter weather and rough seas off the coast of Korea made life even more challenging. The crowding on board ship became worse when the commander of the Seventh Fleet chose the Wisconsin as his flagship. When his staff came on board, they took the best quarters in officers’ country, and the wardroom could not handle the increased load for meals. In order to feed the 250 officers, including the Seventh Fleet staff, we had two seatings in the wardroom for noon and evening meals. The staff commandeered the first seating and always lingered over their post-repast coffee and cigarettes with little consideration for those waiting to be served. To us, the staff conveyed an imperious attitude that the primary function of the ship’s company was to serve their baronial needs. There was constant griping in the JO bunkroom, another shared hardship that drew us closer together.
Numbered Napkin Rings
In the wardroom, we were seated by seniority, and our napkin rings were numbered accordingly. The XO was number one and seated at the head table to be served first. The most junior officer had the highest numbered napkin ring and sat in a far-removed table to be served last, a place called starvation comer. By chance I noticed that the Academy grads had lower napkin ring numbers and were seated ahead of us non-Annapolis junior officers. Their date of rank was one day before ours! This of course was the source of much good-natured kidding at the JO tables, with the Academy guys reminding us that decisions have consequences. If we had picked the right school, we would have had better seats in the wardroom.
I had the last laugh, however. Even in starvation corner, the steward’s mates, who were all minorities, took care of me. They made sure I always had a full ration and dessert, even when we ran out after the first seating. My messmates noticed my preferential treatment, but took it in good humor and kidded me about it afterward. “Al, put in a good word for me so I can get some cherry pie next time.”
“Well, maybe. Care to swap napkin rings so I can have a lower number and better table?”
For movies, the screen was set up in the middle of the wardroom with chairs on either side of the screen. The senior officers and the 36 lieutenants sat on the front side. The 43 lieutenants junior grade and 20 ensigns watched the film from behind. The opposite side of the screen from the projector occasionally gave a bizarre and humorous perspective that elicited raucous comments from the JOs. Our joie de vivre in turn prompted commands of, “Silence in the peanut gallery!” and “Pipe down!” from the senior side of the screen. War is indeed hell.
Despite the new hardships, our crowded life in the bunk- room settled into a routine. We shared reading material, phonograph records, board games, cigarettes, toothpaste, and shaving cream. When mail call came, we shared tales from home as we read with delight communiques from families and girlfriends.
I could not see exactly what my roommates saw, or know how they felt. We had traveled such different paths to reach this place and moment in time. Our journeys had started long ago, before we were born really, yet in spite of the different roads traveled, we shared a harmony and wonderful camaraderie produced by open minds, free wills, and a strong belief in fair play. Unfortunately, this was not what I always experienced with the rest of my shipmates and messmates. We are all products of our times and life experiences. Most of those brought up in the deep South found it difficult to accept me. I shall never forget these examples.
A Wardroom Education
In the wardroom, shortly after I reported on board, an ensign recently commissioned from the NROTC program at a Southern university said: “I don’t want to have anything to do with you. I don’t like you. Stay away from me.” Naturally I steered clear of him, as I had nothing to gain from confrontation. Yet despite the inauspicious beginning, this tale has a surprising twist. During the next two years, we saw much of each other in the wardroom and through our duty assignments. We became such good friends that two years after our first encounter, he asked me to be the best man at his wedding. I told him that while I was deeply honored by his request, I had to respectfully decline. I feared that his bride’s family would call off the wedding and that the two of us would be tarred, feathered, and run out of town on a rail.
What is so remarkable is that he ceased to view me with hostility because of my race and came to see me as a shipmate and friend. I was no longer strange, threatening, or something to be reviled. I had not worked any magic to change his mind; he had done it himself. We worked and endured hardships together. We became comrades and shipmates who admired and respected each other, he enough to want me to stand up with him on the most important day of his life.
I suffered other slights that were hurtful because they were unfair judgments by people who did not know me and saw me as only something different. I recall three of my messmates planning a golf outing at a wonderful course in Honolulu. Back then I played a decent game of golf with a low handicap and offered to join them as a fourth. They were not interested and did not refuse me kindly. On another occasion, when I offered to join a group of three looking for an after-dinner bridge game in the wardroom, the others elected not to play rather than to include me.
In another incident that is almost humorous, I was washing up in the officers’ head, which was right across the passageway from the bunkroom. I was dressed in a T-shirt and khaki trousers with shaving lather all over my face when an officer I did not know came in. He looked at me and told me to go to the chiefs’ head, which was further aft on the next deck below. When I explained I was an officer and lived across the passageway in the JO bunkroom, he glared at me and stalked out. A month later, we went on liberty together, had a great time, and remembered the incident as a learning experience we would never forget.
My Fortress of Solitude
When not on duty and when time permitted, I often went for a solitary moment of introspection on the ship’s fantail. Growing up in my small village helped me feel comfortable with solitude. On the fantail I could shut out everything around me and focus on a beautiful sunset or a cloud formation. Sometimes I could see sailing ships afloat on a multicolored sea gliding on a red, purple, blue, and orange sheet of clouds. Here I sorted through my challenges and frustrations. I came to see life as it is, not as I wanted it to be. Things that I could change, I would work on; things that I could not, I had to accept.
I often return to my days on the Wiskey. I no longer can sit on the fantail building schooners in the sky, but I do have my place for private ruminations. My wife and I have a small retreat at the beach where I can take solitary walks by the ocean, sit on the fishing pier over the bay, and conjure up images in the clouds as I did on the Wisconsin's fantail. I often think about my old shipmates and wonder how, or if, they have mellowed over the years.
I no longer feel the choking hurt, resentment, and anger that I felt when some messmates refused to accept me. I am older and hopefully wiser. I understand we are all, to a great extent, products of our backgrounds and life experiences. We all bring emotional baggage with us that colors how we react to others, to new situations, and ultimately to become the people we are to be. For some, that emotional baggage is too much to shed. They cannot and will not adapt to change. They simply cannot judge people solely on the content of their character.
Today my JO bunkroom mates are retired admirals, captains, successful businessmen, a university professor, an author, and a politician. We were each different in our own way. We came from different social strata and life experiences, yet we were all the same in our ability to confront the new with open minds, a deeply held sense of fairness, and a commitment to do what is right. We were all able to rise above our biases—yes, I had mine too—to accept change. Our Navy asked us to meet a challenge, and we did.