This is the twentieth century, where things move fast and then are streamlined to move still faster. This is an age where tradition bows to efficiency, where conveyances carrying implements of warfare move forty times faster than in the days of the Duchess of Bedford, whose riding habit set the color for our uniforms of Navy blue.
It appears that the naval service has been reluctant to keep its uniforms in step with the requirements of our rapidly changing profession. For years, the general service officer has felt the need for a better working uniform, something more fitting for an officer than dungarees and yet as serviceable. Finally, led by the aviation and submarine branches of our Navy, all officers were recently authorized to wear the khaki working uniform. Now a battery officer can be distinguished readily from the members of his gun crew and the officers with below decks stations can go at once to their part of the ship whenever necessary without changing clothes. There is no need to shift into dungarees first to avoid damaging a suit of blues or ruining a white uniform. An officer is now outfitted for work of any kind during his working hours.
Streamlining means the elimination of excess gear, the retention only of those parts of an officer’s wardrobe which have utility. Style, grace, and beauty are not sacrificed, but fussy parts and useless decorations are thrown into the discard. That this is applicable to our present naval uniform cannot be denied, for some parts of our required equipment have been practically, but not officially as yet, relegated to disuse. To streamline our naval uniforms to the requirements of a streamlined age in periods of both war and peace we must eliminate unnecessary equipment and modernize the styles of our illustrious predecessors.
Cocked hats and epaulets should be the first articles to be eliminated. I hear loud cheers of agreement from the many officers who for years have been lugging this gear around from one part of the world to another and audibly cussing every time they pack or unpack or when, on rare occasions, they are ordered to wear this hold-over garb from a 10-knot era.
Space is always at a premium on board any ship, particularly a man-of-war. During construction, the guns, engines, and hundreds of cubic feet of auxiliary gear are installed first, and any remaining space is fitted out for living quarters. Today, because of the requirements for an increased number of officers in the lower ranks, many staterooms designed for one occupant now accommodate two. About all that is usually done to fit out a single occupant stateroom for two officers is to install another bunk. This results in a reduction of SO per cent in the designed stowage space for officers’ effects. Unfortunately, a cocked hat and epaulets do not lend themselves to compression packing. An officers’ cap is wearable even if somewhat squashed, but cocked hat and epaulets must be stowed in a rigid container, usually a tin box. That this container has a habit of rattling around or crashing down from a locker top in a seaway, unless well secured, does not endear it to most officers, who feel, furthermore, like something they are not on those rare occasions when they must wear the contents of that tin box. The fact that this dress combination is so conducive to complete unnaturalness should be a bar to wearing it any time anywhere,
Not so long ago, a retiring admiral wanted individual pictures of the members of his staff—in full dress. His chief of staff had his picture taken by an aspiring college district photographer who placed one of the photographs in his display window. Many people stopped to look at this photographer’s advertisements—some of them, to tell the truth, because the display was at a bus transfer stop. One day a little girl, waiting on the street corner, drew her mother to the window and calling out “Momie, Momie, see that funny man,” asked, “What is he?” The child pointed to a picture of a captain, U. S. Navy, in cocked hat and epaulets. This officer is considered to be a fine looking man but unfortunately he was photographed in far from flattering dress regalia.
To attend a dance rigged out in epaulets is an experience. An officer feels as though he had two old-fashioned flat irons secured by store string on either shoulder, which were causing acute pain to keep in balance. And should the wearer move both shoulders forward quickly, he is likely to be misshapen for some time.
Some officers with a thought for what the well-dressed Navy man should wear will certainly say, “Why, that would leave us without a dress hat.” What a calamity! Isn’t our blue and white cap suitable for dress occasions? Certainly it is far more appropriate at social functions than as worn now—in engine-room or forward hold. Our all-purpose cap should be used for deck, shore leave, and social wear. For shipboard use, general service would be glad to adopt the garrison cap except perhaps for the officer-of-the-deck, inspections, or for dress occasions. Aviation is enthusiastic about this cap. It is a neat, light, inexpensive, readily stowed piece of gear which looks well even on the plain and ugly.
No one could raise an objection to discarding cocked hat and epaulets on the ground that eliminating them would deprive a group of highly specialized American workmen of a livelihood. Examine your cocked hat—note where it is made. And you will find no “Made in U.S.A.” label on your epaulets either.
It might be argued that for reasons of ceremony and tradition, our dressiest uniform should not be discarded. This is based probably on the premise that it is good for discipline to have the crew see their officers occasionally in full dress. But it must not be forgotten that we are nearing the middle of the twentieth century, a period in which enlisted men are far more impressed with the technical ability of their officers than with any traditional gold decorated uniform the regulations may prescribe. Besides, our full dress is worn so seldom, even in times of peace, that many a below decks rating would not recognize his division officer adorned with all the dressy gear the uniform regulations require. We can still have our traditional ceremonies, but far more comfortably, without the scalp-crushing cocked hat and the avoirdupois of the epaulets.
Who prescribes the various types of uniforms for our naval service? If this question were asked, most officers would say “Why, the Bureau, I suppose.” Well, that is substantially correct, the recommending authority being a “uniform board” composed of officers on duty in the Bureau. But there must be no confusion about who “the Bureau” really is. If we stop to consider, we realize that this often but vaguely referred to body is nothing more than a group of officers like you and me. They are, in many respects, our representatives on matters in which we cannot all voice an opinion. And if “the Bureau” is truly representative of the majority of the officers in the fleet, epaulets will be knocked into a cocked hat, and together joyfully tossed overboard.
Why should the question about cocked hat and epaulets be raised at this time? It might, of course, be a suggestion for lighter wardroom discussion, but in addition it should be realized this is a propitious time to eliminate a part of our ancestral uniform because the majority of officers now on active duty do not have this equipment. Reserve officers are not required to purchase dress outfits when called to active duty, and as all dress uniforms have been dispensed with for the duration of the present war, young officers entering the regular Navy will not, in all probability, have invested in such impedimenta. And older officers, who have this gear, should be glad to turn it in for possible conversion to useful fighting equipment. There must be plenty of tin in such hardware.
The last war got us out of a neck-choking blue service uniform. Perhaps this war will relieve us, permanently, of those unbecoming, uncomfortable, unnecessary pieces of sailing era gear—cocked hat and epaulets.