A yellowing manuscript I had long ago given up for lost came incredibly to light during a recent spring housecleaning. Faded but still legible, it was the diary of my rite of passage in 1959 through Naval Officer Candidate School (Women) [OCS (W)] in Newport, Rhode Island.
With a shiver of nostalgia, I began to read the story I had laboriously pecked out 47 years earlier on a rickety manual typewriter. Instantly, I was back in the old wooden WAVES (Women Accepted for Volunteer Emergency Service) barracks, starching and ironing a blouse as stiff as a board and spit-shining my clunky lace-up shoes with a pair of old panty hose, doggedly rubbing until my index finger was black and bone-weary.
My decision to join the Navy was pure red-white-and-blue patriotism, strongly fortified, I admit, by the recruiting poster of a trim WAVE in a hip-hugging uniform, laughing from under her perky hat up at the rugged features of a gold-bedecked male naval officer. Without question, the Navy was for me.
Once the decision was made, everything happened quickly. Suddenly, I was on the train to Newport, sitting rigidly next to a priest, my self-assurance fading rapidly as I peered into the man’s open Bible, seeking solace. Next thing I knew, I was facing the flag, hand upraised, swearing to be honorable and dutiful and vowing to defend my country to the best of my ability.
Over the following weeks, I kept a journal in the form of letters to my parents, written during occasional, precious free minutes on late-night watches or on Saturday mornings following the trauma of personnel and barracks inspection.
March 7
Hi . . . Just time for a short note. We are an exceptionally small class of nine women, eager but very nervous. Funny how close you can feel to people who were total strangers twelve hours before.
Nautically speaking, I am “on watch” (the midnight watch!) which means that I sit in a little office in full uniform “guarding” the barracks. Every hour I tiptoe through the corridors (very rapidly because it’s dark) and then telephone my report to a sailor at the Security Office. I get the distinct feeling that he could not care less that “The WAVE barracks are secure, sir.”
Pause
It’s now Saturday afternoon. We are free until midnight—free to wash blouses, starch, iron, sew name tapes, polish shoes, wash windows and dust bedsprings. (Yes, we dust bedsprings!)
We had our first Commanding Officer’s inspection this morning. Terrifying! While we stood at ramrod stiff attention, the Inspecting Officer poked her nose and white-gloved hand into everything, even searching for dust on the light bulbs! All clothes in the closet must face left; all buttons buttoned, with precise spacing between the hangers. In the drawers all items must be folded “outboard” (the folds facing to the front).
Today, Ann, my roommate and I were reprimanded for a thumb print on the mirror and a book that was one-eighth of an inch out of line on the shelf. Morale totally demolished.
But leave it to the Navy. What psychologists! There we were, sloppy, tired, and dejected—and they scheduled a fitting of our officer uniforms! It’s eight weeks before we can wear them. But, oh, were we regal for a rejuvenating five minutes!
March 11
Hi . . . It’s three in the morning. I’ve got the 2 to 4 AM watch. You’ll be glad to know that “all is secure.”
Classes are interesting, but rough. Leadership. Military Justice. Navigation. Naval Communications. Personnel Management. Even the Identification of Ships, Aircraft and Weapons, affectionately known as SAW. Seven hours of class every day. Seven hours of homework every night. I’m scared to death I won’t make it. Today my mind went totally blank, and I failed a test.
We’re on the run nearly every single minute. Yesterday I had eight minutes of free time between 5:02 and 5:10 PM. I used it to have a cigarette and stare blankly into space.
One great thing is the food. I’ve eaten everything in sight, but, thanks to constant marching, I’ve lost three pounds, but you can’t really tell that I’m down to a size 10 because we are encased in droopy, faded blue serge uniforms. On our second day here we literally pulled them out of huge barrels and had to keep what we got, regardless of size or fit. I pulled out a cavernous size 16. I call it The Big Blue.
I must study now. I’ll get through this course or collapse in the attempt—which is what I’m afraid of.
March 14
Hi . . . Had a big event this week. Ann and I went to the cafeteria for coffee and a cigarette. Sound trivial? Well, it was the first thing we have done of our own accord! Not in compliance with an order—and not en masse! Did I mention that we have to jump to attention and identify ourselves by shouting “Officer Candidate Smith, or Jones,” before every utterance? I feel like a fool yelling like that. Or at least I did. I’m actually getting used to it!
Another chewing out at inspection this morning because of poorly aligned stripes on our bedspreads. These damned spreads have an uneven stripe pattern—two wide blue stripes, one narrow white stripe, three narrow blue stripes, etc. On the hospital corners the stripes must match perfectly and form exact right angles! Mine were a quarter of an inch off, Ann’s only an eighth of an inch off.
We redid the spreads, then safety pinned them into place from underneath and will sleep on top of the spreads from now on. Also, using our newly developed naval initiative, we folded our towels into the prescribed thirds on the towel rack and sewed them into position. They are our special “inspection towels.” We’ve stowed our everyday towels in the little cupboards above the closet that are ours to use as we wish, never to be inspected. They are the size of a breadbox, but they are ours! Sacrosanct! We’ve jammed all our junk up there.
On Friday nights we hold Field Day. Not the Field Day of merriment and sport we knew in college, but preparing for Commanding Officer’s Inspection. Seams straight. Collar stiff as a board. Ties square-knotted without a bump or wrinkle. No lint. God forbid, no lint! Hair neat, not touching collar. Spit-shined, sparkling shoes. Total despair.
Speaking of despair, we have tests constantly. Surprise! I do well in my favorite class, good old Ships, Aircraft and Weapons! Would you believe we actually have a class that teaches us “to engage in scintillating conversation without monopolizing the talk at an official dinner.” Wow. This is Naval Leadership? Sometimes I wonder about this Mickey Mouse. Which reminds me of our hygiene class where we watch movies of glamour girls indulging in half-hour facials and hour-long bubble baths. We’re supposed to achieve the same result in our allotted seven minutes after 6 AM reveille.
Tensions. Tensions. However, the Navy understands those tensions and has decreed that Physical Education class shall relieve them. And so, we bowl and exhaustively set pins or swim twenty laps! If we had a vote—a heresy!—we’d opt for a nap. (It doesn’t ease my tensions that we have to publicly post our weight on a chart in the gym. Is nothing sacred?)
Lest you think that life here is nothing but misery, I must tell you about something that I love. Marching drill! Except for yesterday when, at the command, “By the right flank, march!” I stepped out smartly to the left and marched rapidly away from the Company. I wanted to drop off the earth—but I must admit to a guilty tingle of pleasure at being an individual for one brief moment.
I thought I’d been tired in the past, but this course tops everything. However, I am determined to get through it. If only I could rest, totally, for just a few hours. One hour? Yesterday, as we marched to the drill field, I found myself looking at the curbstone and longing to just plop down on it—and rest. And all this for $66.00 a month. I should demand a raise.
Only 40 more days to commissioning.
March 17
A weary hello. . . . Today in hygiene class my hair-do was singled out. Needs help. In fact, I was told to report to the beauty salon for a perm. I had nothing to say about it! I’ve been getting frequent gigs for loose hairs on my collar. I’ve racked up two demerits and four gigs. Five gigs equal one demerit. Demerits lead to Extra Assignments. Does it all sound like nitpicking? Maybe so. But, in spite of, or maybe because of it, our class is building an esprit, a feeling of belonging to something really special.
Have I mentioned that it’s beautiful here, surrounded by water? During class an instructor will say, “Some destroyers have only one stack, as you can see if you look out the window.” And sure enough, a little destroyer is tooting past.
Except that it’s not “a little destroyer tooting along.” It’s big. And it’s real. And part of a military machine. As I am part of that machine—voluntarily. I—and several others—sometimes have trouble adjusting to that reality. When we do, we look for assurance in the oft-repeated words of our instructors that “Peace Is Our Profession.” Every day we’re reminded of “the lessons of Korea,” and we’re drilled in the fighting man’s Code of Conduct. That’s when, looking thoughtfully at the young sailors on base, I’m struck, “My God, what if we have another war?”
Far different thoughts from when I eyed that glamorous recruiting poster.
March 21
An actually cheerful “Hi!” . . . A milestone! Yesterday, in unseasonable 75 degree weather, we took off our overcoats. To appreciate the significance, visualize the coat. It is big. It is Navy blue. It swathes the ankles, clumps around the waist, bundles under the chin and droops over our fingers. It itches. As we marched across the base without the coats—unveiled, so to speak—every male head turned, as if a secret weapon had been rolled out.
Another Red Letter event. During “liberty” Ann and I went to town and ate in a restaurant with real china plates and teaspoons! You could dig ditches with the gigantic spoons in the Mess Hall.
A word about our instructors. One is a female Captain Queeg [the erratic commanding officer in Herman Wouk’s 1951 novel and subsequent 1954 film, The Caine Mutiny] who insists that we roar “Aye, Aye, Ma’m” all the time (though I suspect her tough guy facade is just that—a facade). Another is a charmer who sports a giant diamond ring and wears her uniform skirt above her knees! Another, who lives at the rear of our barracks, is our Inspecting Officer and Den Mother rolled into one. She has to inspire us with crisp military manner all day and be available, if necessary, for late night pep talks, as a mother confessor and a shoulder to cry on. I have used that shoulder more than once.
Our male instructor blushes a lot. Yesterday when I visited his office to find out why battleships carry fuel in their outer compartments—imagine my caring about that!—he was painting the heads of thumb tacks with red nail polish to use on a chart.
“You see this?” he sighed. “This is what happens when a sea loving man gets shore duty teaching women.” However, I think I brought a measure of happiness to his day by guessing that battleships’ fuel oil acts as a cushion against depth charges.
March 25
Outside world, are you there?
Things are getting rougher. Miserable weather is back. Fog. Dampness. We’re re-encased in our overcoats. We keep warm by constant marching. We marched to music for the first time. I stunned myself; I loved it! I took over the squad and discovered the heady power of having eight people pivot to my commands.
Today was “matinee” day in SAW class—an interesting film about how the carrier Forrestal was built. Last week’s film, Crashes on Aircraft Carriers, illustrated every possible way to be killed including decapitation by propellers. I shut my eyes and risked being caught and demerited.
March 29
Another cheerful “Hi!” . . . Great news! On Saturday we met some male officer candidates. They’re the only men we’re allowed to date except civilians. Enlisted men are out because we’ll soon be officers. And officers are out because we’re still enlisted. Utterly ridiculous. Well, we’re only free every second Saturday night until midnight anyway. Nonetheless, we handed out every telephone number in the barracks including the official phone, plus a sales pitch on the barracks’ ping-pong table, pool table, TV, and piano. Now we wait for the phone to ring. Yesterday, Easter, I wore civilian stockings, and felt absolutely nude because my flesh showed through the weave.
Speaking of clothes, I’ve finally mastered the art of blouse starching and ironing the Navy way. I knew it when I had to “break” my collar to bend it down. I’m now sporting a very military rash around my neck—and damned proud of it!
April 3
A dispirited “Hi.” . . . It’s 1:25 AM. I have just put in a 20-hour day with three tests, three hours of barracks cleaning and four hours on watch. Plus marching, marching, marching. The whole week has been like this. One girl developed athlete’s foot. So, the command came down: buy rubber shower clogs. In marching formation we trooped to the Navy Exchange to buy nine little pair of clogs. We do everything by nines.
Twenty-eight more days to commissioning.
April 11
Dear Mother and Dad . . . It’s one of those bleak, depressing days when I suddenly miss family and New York and a long soak in a tub with a cigarette, a martini and a trashy magazine. And then a party, a party dress, and a man to admire it.
Which reminds me of my blind date last Saturday with a civilian. Poor guy. He didn’t expect that I’d be swathed in The Big Blue. Nor had he reckoned with the Navy’s early curfew. The cocktail lounge we went to was jammed with girls in chiffon, so he never noticed that my black tie was knotted without a single wrinkle. He didn’t notice my waistline, either. (I’ve discovered that if I safety-pin the inside of my jacket to the waistband of my skirt, I can create the illusion of a waistline in front. Of course, the jacket sticks out eight inches in the rear.)
There’s one pleasant thought I cling to: our officer uniforms are at the tailor shop being striped with gold. Question is, will I pass these courses and earn the right to wear it? Even if I do, Captain Queeg has repeatedly warned us that Chiefs are the backbone of the Navy, and we must not let our little gold Ensign stripe go to our heads.
Celestial Navigation is driving me insane. We’re all bogged down by it. Totally incomprehensible. Today, our male instructor finally beat his brow and, through clenched teeth, snarled, “All you have to know is that you take a damned bearing on a stationary object to get one stinking little line of position on a lousy ship. And with that parting advice, I’m heading to the ‘O’ Club for a stiff drink.”
At least I think that’s what he said as I frantically jotted down the definition. I hope I got it right because it remains my total knowledge of celestial navigation.
At the risk of getting sloppy, I’ve decided that even if I flunk out of here tomorrow, I’ll always be glad of what I’ve learned—self-discipline, working under tremendous stress with other women for a common goal, finding out you can always go one more step if you really have to, and if you really care. I’m particularly impressed with the skills that the enlisted men and women must master. Our own focus is on leadership and supervisory abilities. God, I hope I am up to it when the time comes.
Enough of the sentimental, rah-rah Navy for one day. Time to go spit-shine shoes.
April 28
Hi! Hi! Hi! . . . A Red Letter day! This morning we signed the paper accepting our commissions. It took several moments before my hand stopped trembling enough to write. The actual ceremony will be on Friday morning. Think of us then. Now I want to go and gaze once more at my new, gold-striped uniform. It’s in the closet. Facing left. All buttons buttoned. What else?
My journal ends on that high note. Three days later, on Friday, 1 May 1959, as we nine raised our right hands to take the oath, pledging to serve and protect our country, any doubts vanished with the awesome realization of our new role as leaders, responsible and fair ones, we hoped.
The second eight weeks of training, in company with Navy nurses, were almost as rigorous as our first go-round. However, we discovered the Officers’ Club and reveled in a riotously late 11 PM weekday curfew and no obligatory Field Day. Social life took precedence over letters to my parents.
Eight weeks later, after a solemn graduation ceremony in which I had the honor of being class speaker, we nine proud, new line officers scattered to our duty stations across the country. As a born and bred New York City girl, on my “dream sheet” I had requested “any northern city.” The Navy, however, thought I needed to broaden my horizons. My orders arrived: Naval Air Station, Key West, Florida. Key West? Who ever heard of it?
Barely holding back tears, I traced my finger down the map—down, down, past the Carolinas, past Georgia, down farther past the tip of Florida, finally stopping at a tiny dot in the ocean!
Key West seemed the end of the world. But in fact, it was a bright beginning—the start of a new learning experience (guided in large part by Navy chiefs) and of a memorable first tour of duty.