During the ten years since I first swore to uphold the Constitution of the United States and accepted Navy Regulations as an unfailing, if at times exacting, counselor and guide, I have laughed long and loud at landlubbers. I have been as impatiently amused at the fears of landlubbers as any apprentice seaman in his first month at training school. I have been bored by answering, politely, I hope, the most foolish question of a school girl on her maiden visit to one of the “grim grey floating fortresses.” I have been cynically entertained at the fascination of the public when it sees a close-up cross-section of that complex bustle of bugle calls, boats, and bells which makes a living hell for an officer-of- the-deck. I have excused those dinner guests of my shipmates, who some evening during a month when the wardroom mess bill was unusually high, have remarked enviously: “Doesn’t the government furnish wonderful food for you Navy people!” But I admit that I was once forced to deal firmly with a visitor who observed the new uniform of her dinner partner, a uniform which might cost half his next month’s pay, and effused, admirably: “My, the government certainly does pick out lovely cloth for your uniforms.” And in my pride I continued to laugh at the landlubbers as I translated for their wondering ears the inscription on the Naval Academy seal: “Ex Scientia Tridens.” Little did I dream that the tables would ever be turned, that instead of my laughing at landlubbers, from an isolated and protected position, I should find myself in a strange world, buffeted by those very beings I had scorned; find myself unable to understand their ways and customs, a fish out of water, literally as well as figuratively.
After four years of relative confinement at the Naval Academy, begun at ages between sixteen and twenty, the graduate proceeds to sea for a period which is guaranteed by Navy Regulations to be at least five years.
During this time he is concerned with the details of an organization whose traditions rest upon the defeat of tyranny and the suppression of piracy. So exclusively is he engaged in maintaining and increasing the efficiency of the ship whose forebears brought terror to the hearts of Barbary pirates that he gains no familiarity with the methods of the modern-day buccaneers on the beach, and when his first tour of shore duty at last arrives he finds himself helpless to outwit the tactics of the predatory shoregoing raiders. Thus he is suddenly launched, in his maturity, into the midst of a deplorable state of affairs which his brother ashore has been trained through years of bitter experience to make the best of. But even in his ignorance the naval officer would be blind indeed who had not observed and absorbed, despite his life at sea, the first principle of business that affects him. He generally realizes that if you go in uniform they charge you more, but any deeper insight concerning economic life is a rarity possessed only by studious members of the Supply Corps.
The naval officer’s financial inexperience is frequently offset by the ability of his wife, if he has one and if she has ability, for during his years at sea she has had to deal first hand with those nefarious schemers who are personally responsible for the difficulties of living in the style to which one hopes to become accustomed. The naval officer in a home environment may be able to look at the clouds and forecast the day, but this information is of little value in connection with the current price of butter and eggs, and besides has been obtained daily by his wife, during his absence, at the nominal sum of two cents a forecast, not to mention the inclusion of reams of exaggerated incidents, magnified accidents, intensified scandals, and erroneous information concerning the movements of her husband’s ship.
After years of training at sea to deal with emergencies, threatened disasters, and a possible enemy fleet, the shoregoing naval officer finds himself totally unprepared to take a reasonably helpful hand in the management and routine of a necessarily modest home. When I first went ashore after six years in the Scouting Fleet, I knew that I was entering upon a mode of life with which I was quite unfamiliar. My anticipations were not incorrect and my first efforts were so futile that at last I was forced to coin and accept a descriptive name for myself and others who may be, not in this case in the same boat, but on the same beach. “Sealubbers” is the only term that correctly portrays our plight. For years we have laughed at landlubbers who ask foolish questions aboard ship, who understand little or nothing of the routine and customs, who could not tell the difference between a square knot and a granny, but it is a high-priced laugh that might be stifled to an ungentlemanly smirk if we realized that we ourselves would one day be sealubbers, ridiculously out of our element.
Our sea habits do not fit life ashore. A watch officer on the bridge or in the engine room must keep his every faculty constantly alert, he must make provision in his mind for every possible accident or emergency. At no time must his attention relax while he is on watch, but afterward he automatically forgets the tension which is then being experienced by his relief, and his mind and body are free to regain their energy, unless his part of the ship was unsatisfactory at the last captain’s inspection, or he has had a letter from his wife telling him that little Teresa has whooping cough, measles, flat feet, or rabies, and that the lawn mower is broken down again. Subconsciously, after years of the habit of dismissing nervous tension when he comes “off watch,” he carries it ashore. He performs his shore job conscientiously during the day and when he comes home at night he automatically dismisses all cares from his mind. He is “off watch” or such is his subconscious impression. He has long known that, although the Army works from sun to sun, a woman’s and a naval officer’s work is never done, but one of the discoveries he makes ashore is the difference between a home and a ship. Aboard the former there is no relief and no coming off watch.
When I was aboard ship I never failed to lock the safe containing confidential publications, but for weeks, at home, I invariably neglected to lock one or more of the doors at night. On watch I always asked what boilers were in use but how many times at home have I failed to set the furnace thermostat. Every day of my life at sea on which I had the forenoon watch I reported to the captain, “Twelve o’clock and chronometers wound,” yet at home the fact that clocks ever need winding completely escaped my attention. I even failed to turn off electric lights, although every room on my last ship carried a printed admonition to turn them off when not in use. On the other hand I brought home a totally useless habit which was false economy when transplanted from sea to shore. After years of conserving that priceless seagoing commodity, fresh water, I turned it off at home between every application of the tooth brush, a waste of energy, a care that could profitably have been expended in other directions, for the tax is a flat rate annually, and aside from flooding the house, it would make no difference if I overran the bath tub twice daily. The magazine doors of a ship must, of course, be kept closed and I experienced no difficulty in realizing the fact when I was at sea, but how different was the case of the Frigidaire at home, whereas the qualified amphibious naval officer knows that negligence in closing either one is equally apt to cause a violent “explosion.” Aboard ship I never failed to make provision for man overboard, or fire, yet at home I continually overlooked certain precautions which must be taken in the daily routine of an infant around the house.
Another obstacle to the progress of the seagoing polywog about to sprout shore legs is the absence, ashore, of any of the spirit or meaning of that fine old seafaring expression “Aye, aye, sir” which every midshipman learns during his first day at Annapolis. In my humble opinion the correct use of that phrase throughout the United States would do more to promote the general welfare than the best five-cent cigar ever sold for a dime. It has not been long since the windows of my home, having been originally very sketchily puttied by a certain firm (name on request), required considerable attention before another long hard winter set in. After several phone calls, an extremely robust workman appeared, and I stated what I wished him to do. He was not only loath to commence the job, but suggested numerous different remedies which would have to be done by a member of some other profession than his own, this in spite of the fact that he was out of work and had a very populous family, all too young to be of any assistance. Toward the middle of the second day, through the aid of numerous entertaining demonstrations employing the garden hose, and during which I ruined a treasured piece of my wife’s needle-point in the living room, I convinced him that the putty leaked and needed replacing. The next day he complained that the work made him tired. Unable to exert my usual self-restraint, I burst out in seagoing equivalents and asked him what kind of work there is that anyone can do without getting tired, and that I often got extremely tired of going to sea. “Well,” he drawled, as he puffed at his pipe, while I paid for his time, “I wish I was at sea right now. I always loved the sea.” I believe I may be pardoned for wishing that the object of his love had suddenly engulfed him at that moment.
Judging from the difficulties of getting any work done on a house, it is a wonder that the citizens are continually taking themselves to smaller and more expensive apartments, and I am not surprised that a classmate of mine proposes buying a yacht to live on instead of a house. I look forward to the time when a home will consist of a hollow asbestos cube ten feet on a side, or a little less, and if we can believe the advertisements, Valsparred to resist the elements forever. Such a house would be of more comfort to the average family than all the magenta, cerise, topaz, cerulean, and emerald bath tubs and gas ranges ever designed.
In the Navy, three times each day for ten years, I ate what was set before me. Needless to say, those who planned the meals paid little attention to my particular tastes and I frequently found before me dishes which I disliked to such an extent that I went hungry, sustained by a false hope that the next meal might appeal to me. In practically every wardroom in the Navy two factions are constantly at war, the rice-and-curry faction versus the baked-bean faction. One half of the members of the mess object vociferously when either of these dishes is served, while the other half as loudly proclaim its succulence. Personally, I side with those who adjudge rice and curry to be fit only for jaded British colonials, but on an average of once a week I had to accept this despised concoction and in addition, pay for it. During the winter months in Cuba, alligator pears are very cheap, and are served almost daily. Although to me they are nearly as appetizing as soft soap, my mess bill was never reduced because I failed to enjoy the general orgy. Instead, I continued to pay, while my messmates poured on oil and vinegar, and chortled: “This would cost you a dollar in New York.” I understand that in South America alligator pears are fed to the goats, but in the United States it appears that the same fruit is sold to them. However, this knowledge persistently failed to buoy me up. In my thoughtlessness I imagined that if a naval officer at sea must accept without protest any article of food set before him, and pay for it as well, it would not be unreasonable to expect a similar acquiescence on the part of a paid domestic at home, but I discovered the error of my ways soon after I was established ashore. My Naval Academy roommate, who had resigned, called me up. He was spending a few days in the city. After four years of sharing a room with him I was more familiar with his tastes than I was with those of my wife, some of which I had discovered through her letters. In high glee I insisted that he have dinner with us the next evening and I held out the glowing inducement that I had not forgotten his overpowering appetite for shrimps. The order for double-decked shrimp cocktails was duly placed where it would do the most good, and the next evening just before dinner my wife made a final check-up on the preparations. As she looked about the kitchen she saw immediately that there was something wrong. “Why, Snowdrop,” she began anxiously, “where are the shrimps?” Snowdrop shrugged her shoulders, as she drawled: “ ’Deed, Miss, I nevah did care about them snail-shaped fish so I jes didn’t trouble mah- self to fix ’em.”
One of the difficult things for a naval officer ashore to understand is the antique racket. From a life where everything must be the essence of shiny newness, I suddenly found that this very quality is the object of scorn and contempt on the part of women. Never will I forget one of my first errors. I noticed a chair which seemed too marred and scarred to have a prominent place in a civilized home. Aha, I thought, without a doubt Eve is the most thoughful wife in the world. Knowing how hard I am on the furniture she has gotten this old chair which I can use for my own, lay burning cigarette butts on it, put my feet on it, use it for a stepladder or even for a work bench, and in order to please me she has deliberately sacrificed herself and permitted it to intrude upon the general scheme, even if it does look more or less like a worn-out piece of junk. Just as I sat down to try out its comfort she entered the room. Never have I heard such a piercing shriek. But, what was she screaming? I simply couldn’t believe my ears. “Get right up out that chair—don’t ever touch it—it’s my best antique.” Then she sobbingly told me she had spent actually months of searching for this priceless gem, (I suppose it had no price until the old farmer learned that she wanted it), and then to have me come home, and of all the chairs in the whole house, deliberately throw myself into it and go slipping down the ladder-back, rung by rung. “Yes,” I agreed feebly, “but do you mean this old chair is not to be sat upon?” “Not unless you want to be,” was her hasty retort. Right then I first suspected that there is more to this antique business than meets the eye and my subsequent errors proved the fact definitely.
The next thing I noticed was a clock built in a rectangular case, with a slanted roof. Beneath the face was a circle partially decorated with what had once been, I imagined, a flock of gilt canary birds. Where had I ever seen such a clock? I thought, desperately. At last I had it. When I was a boy there had been one in my grandmother’s kitchen. Anxious to restore a general calm after the chair incident, I remarked brightly: “Where did you get the kitchen clock?” I shall not elaborate on the events that followed but the next Sunday I attempted to wind this heirloom of horology. As soon as I had finished, it began to strike. Bong-bong-bong. Ominously at first and then fiendishly. Bong-bong-bong. Monotonously it went on with no sign of stopping. In distress, I called to my wife, but she was already on her way. “Oh, I forgot to tell you” she began, “that the striking side is broken and if you wind it, it just keeps striking until it runs down.” It did. I counted the strokes, nine hundred and thirty-six before the last “bong” died away. I was still stunned when Eve said, beaming: “I wish you’d try to regulate it, it doesn’t keep very good time—but it is a perfectly darling antique, isn’t it?”
However, my errors of antiquity were by no means exhausted. Several nights later we were having a few of my former shipmates and their wives at dinner. As we sat down and I noticed the flowers and candles and salted nuts, I was stirred by a profound pride in the graceful art which Eve makes of living. Here was a picture which deserved to appear in the next advertisement of Maxwell House coffee. I reached for a spoon to attack the fruit cocktail—but what a spoon. Absolutely plain. A kitchen spoon if I ever saw one. Maybe there weren’t enough good ones to go around and I had been given a makeshift. I glanced about the table and was horrified to see that everyone had the same cheap sort of spoon. Why, aboard ship, the wardroom spoons were a riot of anchors, chains, stars, cannon balls, and swords. The crew’s mess gear wasn’t as plain as this spoon which I held in my now trembling hand. “I say,” I blurted out, “haven’t we any better spoons than this?” and I held mine up. In the confusion that followed I thought I overheard something about ignorance, unappreciativeness, silver coins which had been brought from England by ancestors and made into these spoons just coaxed from Eve’s reluctant mother. I was naturally penitent at having spoiled the whole evening quite unwittingly, but it was one more example of a sealubber ashore.
How well do I remember my introduction to the wicked business I have been describing. The ship was in New York and Eve was anxious to visit some of the furniture and decorating shops which, I learned at that time, adorn upper Madison Avenue. I believe the object of her quest was a certain type of scrap basket decorated with a faded picture of smirking ladies in tremendous bustles, a picture which in any reasonably sensible person’s hand would be thrown into the scrap basket and not applied to it as an ornament. I have forgotten the number of stores in which a young man, clad in a green smock, lightly fingered a microscopic, pale yellow mustache, and twittered: “Why yes, we can make them up with an absolutely authentic print.” One young man did go farther. Not only could he make them up, but he showed us some he had already made up. There was no doubt in my mind but what he spoke the truth. Unmistakably, he had made them up, all by himself, without training or assistance. Pointing to a very smudgy one, he glowed, as he furnished me with an excellent reply to the captain when next he remarks about the dinginess of the ship. I blush as I quote the words: “Just notice the delightful, charming, subdued tones—the real mellowness of quaint old age.”
The requirements of seagoing and shore-staying life aim at results from two diametrically opposed viewpoints. In what I fear are the immortal words of Koko, the clown, “The show’s got to go on” applies not only to the five-ring circus, but to the eighteen- battleship Navy. Consequently when repairs to a faltering machine are required, the sole idea of those involved is to make it run properly without regard to the number of men who may have to stay on the job all night so that the ship will be able to steam down the range at target practice early the next morning. No excuses for failure can be offered to the captain. The job must be done. The cost in labor is secondary. If a running light goes out at night it must be repaired even though the bos’n wakes every man aboard ship by his salty, gutteral search for an electrician. It is a different story when a stumbling husband, replacing a fuse, wakes a colicky baby. The means of accomplishing a result becomes equally and often more important than the result itself. “The show’s got to go on” becomes altered in such a way that I feel certain no clown guided by his ideal, so corrupted, would be able to produce those side-splitting laughs which we have been trained by song and story to believe are only a forced falsity covering an aching, if not actually broken, heart.
The naval officer first ashore has become so accustomed to considering the desired result instead of the means of accomplishing it that it is difficult for him to reverse the process, a reversal which is essential to his own self-protection. When his car breaks down, the necessary repair is so instinctively all-important in his mind that he fails to inquire as to the probable expense, which staggers him when he receives official notification and seems to include a dozen unasked-for minor repairs at major prices. The difficulties are not limited to garage mechanics alone. In a moment of weakness I once called a plumber to repair the oil-burning furnace, which after running beautifully throughout a moderate fall season had stopped with apparently deliberate forethought on the coldest day in January. After twenty minutes the fire blazed merrily and the plumber’s soul must have been similarly warmed, for when I received the bill it amounted to my pay for a whole day. I took up the telephone. “Look here, my good man,” I did not begin with these words, “You scratched around my furnace for just twenty minutes and I fail to understand how twenty minutes’ time of every man in a whole ship’s company could be worth the amount of this bill. At sea I take a four-hour watch on the bridge in a howling gale, am responsible for the safety of the ship and lives of the crew, including mascots, and I don’t get that much all day. Furthermore you forgot to bring your tools and I had to loan you my silver bottle opener which you ruined. Your twenty minutes’ service is listed in an imposing array of words such as cleaning, inspecting, adjusting, regulating, and lubricating, below which appears a preposterous figure to compensate for a slight dirtying of your hands. On that basis every fireman aboard the old Navy coal burning ships should have received about $675.00 a day.” But it was hopeless. I was talking Greek to him, or rather, talking Navy to a landsman.
Upon some inquiry I find that I am not the only naval officer who is experiencing difficulties with shore life. A very good friend of mine started out as equally negligent as I in the matter of estimates before he contracted for any work. In spite of his wife’s entreaties he continually overlooked this important point. When she asked him if he had gotten an estimate, the answer was invariably, no. Each time he was staggered when the bill came in, and each time she insisted that it was twice too much. After months of intensive training, however, he became thoroughly proficient in the estimate business. His wife had not been feeling well and he had urged her, repeatedly, to consult a physician, until at last she yielded to his demands. When she returned, his first anxious question was: “Did you get an estimate?” “Of course I did,” she replied, “Although the doctor is not certain, he believes it will be twins.”