One morning in Newport I was sitting at the admin desk, thinking about my future in the Navy and testing out various forms of address. I liked "Good morning, Warrant Officer Mullen," although "I'll get right on it, Lieutenant" had a reassuring ring. I was about to try out "Lieutenant Commander" when the phone rang.
I began the standard greeting: "Northeastern Navy Band, Petty Officer Mullen speaking. This is an unsecure--"
"Give me Chief Warrant Officer Waldron," a voice growled. "Now."
"May I ask who's calling, sir?"
It was the base captain.
I saw a blinking light on the intercom. "Mr. Waldron is on the other line, sir; would you like me to--"
"Do you understand what 'now' means? Give me Waldron. Now."
I jogged to the bandmaster's office, interrupted Mr. Waldron's call and explained the situation. He pressed a button and said into the phone, "Good morning, captain."
That was pretty much the last complete sentence I heard for a while.
"Yes, sir ... no, sir ... I--yes, sir ... right away, sir."
He hung up and said, "It's Smith again," referring to the most undependable sailor ever to wear a lyre on his shoulder. "The captain says he was drinking on the bandstand again at the 'O' Club last night."
Mr. Waldron grabbed his cover and stormed out the door.
I went back to the admin desk and resumed thinking about my future. I wasn't sure how much Lieutenant Mullen would enjoy taking the heat for every trombone player who forgot to pay for his skivvies at the Navy Exchange, every drummer whose urine contained too much of the wrong chemical, every pianist who eyed the skipper's wife a little too long at a reception.
In other words, my career as an officer would rise or fall on the behavior of people like me.
A pleasant form of address occurred to me:
"Aye, aye, Chief."
Frank Mullen's very unofficial source of poop, skinny and bitching for present and former U.S. Navy Musicians.
