End of an Era

Apparently, some shipmates have had trouble reading "End of an Era" at AgingHipsters.com, where it is published. I'm reprinting it here, for those with quirky browsers.

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End of an Era
by
Frank Mullen III

The subject of my military service comes up occasionally over at Dora's Kwik-Kup. Only when it's relevant, of course.

You'll ask Dora for some sugar, she'll set it on the counter, and I'll slide my stool next to yours. "We enlisted men learned to do without sugar back during Vietnam," I'll say, thereby establishing relevance.

You'll probably miss the subtle but significant difference between the phrases "during Vietnam" and "in Vietnam." You'll likely ask, "Were you in the Army? The Marines?"

"Navy," I'll say, "and I could tell you some stories." Then, with a faraway look, I'll add, "But I don’t like to talk about it."

The fluid grace with which I have flashed my warrior credentials and then slipped them back in my vest pocket leaves you with the impression that the memories of my time in the service are painful.

They’re not painful; they're boring. I was a stateside Navy Musician during the 70s and 80s. What war stories do I have to offer?

"There I was, trapped in the middle of the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade; trombones ahead of me, alto saxophones behind, the spectators pelting us with a hellish rain of cheers and ticker tape. Suddenly, the drum major raised two fingers, the signal for 'I'd Like To Teach The World To Sing.' I put my lips to the mouthpiece of the tuba . . ."

Please understand that I have never claimed the status of 'Vietnam War veteran.' That is a title of honor, reserved for those who were there.

But what about we who answered our nation's call closer to home: the drill instructor pushing his recruits to their limits on overnight march, the mess cooks working eighteen-hour-shifts to feed the departing troops, the musician moonlighting as banjo player with Danny Stroud's Dixieland Strutters during happy hour at the officer’s club five nights a week, cash under the table and drinks on the house--did we not also serve?

Indeed we did. Like them, I am a veteran, not of the Vietnam War, but of the Vietnam Era.

At least that's what I thought until last Tuesday night, when I was cleaning the basement and came across a box of my old medals and ribbons.

My Good Conduct award. They gave me three of them; that’s how good I was.

My Navy Achievement medal, one of the highest awards you can earn without being shot at.

An 'E' ribbon with a star, representing two awards. Empathy? Esperanto? I don't remember what I did to earn them, but I must have done it twice.

As I reflected on the history represented by these bits of tarnished tin and faded satin, a forgotten memory surfaced: the Navy never gave me my National Defense medal.

The National Defense Service Medal was the award that identified the wearer as a Vietnam Era veteran. It signified military service anywhere, at any time between 1961 and 1974. From Saigon to San Francisco, National Defense medals were like crew cuts, dog tags and hangovers: nobody bragged about them because everybody had one.

Everybody but me. Although I enlisted in 1974, neither the medal nor its ribbon version were never awarded to me. For years, I waited for the captain to call me to his office for a belated ceremony. And every morning, I showed up for uniform inspection without a single decoration on my chest.

My Leading Petty Officer, Doug Blovall, would look me over and growl, "Where's your National Defense ribbon?"

"I don't have one."

"Then go get one."

"Can I just go 'get' an award? Doesn’t it have to be, shall we say, 'awarded?'”

"I'm sick of your mouth, Mullen. Haul your butt over to the uniform shop and don't come back without a National Defense medal."

"But--"

"And if they don't have them in stock, order one."

"I can 'order' a medal, like a taco or a Budweiser? In that case, I’ll take two Purple Hearts and a Bronze Star, to go."

After four years of this gay repartee, I received my first Good Conduct award. At last I had a medal to make Blovall happy. He got off my case, and eventually I forgot that my Vietnam Era service was never officially recognized.

Recognized or not, I have always offered my military experience for the public good. In troubling times, the nation relies on its veterans to evaluate military strategy and tactics. Believe me, by the time I finish one of my morning briefings at the Quik-Kup, everyone knows what the generals are doing wrong.

Okay, so I wasn't a member of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. But I'm a Vietnam Era veteran and, boy, I could tell you some stories.

After dusting off my medals and reminiscing about my Navy days, I decided it was time to find out about the decoration I never received. I visited the Navy’s website, clicked on "medals and ribbons" and learned an astounding fact: the phrases "National Defense" and "Frank Mullen" cannot be used in the same sentence.

The mass giveaway of the National Defense Service Medal ended, along with the Vietnam Era, on August 14, 1974. I, however, didn’t enlist until the following November.

By this reckoning, I wasn't in the Navy during what we loosely refer to as "Vietnam"; I was in what we loosely refer to as "college." Apparently, they didn't give medals to guys who spent the war riding stolen cafeteria trays down the hill in the snow behind the science building while waving jugs of Gallo and screaming, “I'm druuuunk!”

For days after this revelation, I didn't dare show my face at the Kwik-Kup. I felt like I was walking around in a tee-shirt that says, “What if they ended a war, and then Frank showed up--would he notice?”

But I've stopped punishing myself. The nation's need for my service outweighs any feelings of doubt. If you think I'm going to back off from offering my expertise, let me tell you this, loud and clear:

We Grenada Era veterans aren't quitters.

You don’t remember the Grenada Invasion? 1983? Maybe the campaign in that Caribbean hell-hole didn't drag out as long as Vietnam, but it was a weekend I'll never forget.

Did I see action? Not with the first assault wave–I was needed elsewhere. And believe me, I could tell you some stories.

But I don't like to talk about it.

---

Copyright 2003 Frank Mullen III
"End of an Era" was originally published by Suite101.com

Merry Christmas, Shipmates

Christmas, Navy Band Newport, 1984

For a number of Christmases in the early 80s, I was the St. Nick of Navy Band Newport. (Anyone who has trouble picturing me as a saint should try imagining John Farquhar as an elf. Now there's a stretch).

After delivering candy canes to the children of band members and caroling along the streets of Newport, Santa and his elves traditionally retired to Jeremiah's Pub. For the purpose of this discussion, the term "retiring to Jeremiah's Pub" may be defined as "crawling into the nearest bar and slamming down whiskey sours until 'last call' is announced."

Pictured here are Santa and a contingent of elves that may include Steve Rawson, Dave Czohara, Steve Parent, Steve Dimond, his wife Melissa and his mother, John Farquhar and his wife, as well as Paula Czohara the Red-nosed Reindeer. Granted, that's more people than appear in this picture. Keep in mind that one elf had to take the photograph while a few more were strewn about the deck in varying states of unconsciousness.

Here's a Memory For You

Click on the play button, and you'll be whisked back to a distant time when you stood in the hot sun on a crowded pier playing shitty ditties while nobody listened.

It's a ship arrival. I didn't say it was a good memory, did I?

Navy Tradition # 173: "Hurry Up and Wait"

"Hurry up and wait" is often thought of as the result of poor planning. Any MU, however, will tell you the truth: "Hurry up and wait" is the consequence of over-planning. This can best be understood by observing the intricacies involved in getting a Navy band to a gig on time.

Ensign Dipstick puts the ball in play. He's on the phone with the band's operations petty officer, booking entertainment for a dance at the officers' club at his naval base. It's in a neighboring state, and the band has never played there, so the OPs PO asks for an estimate of travel-time.

The ensign received top grades in his navigation class. His expertise, combined with common sense and an Exxon roadmap, tells him the band can make the trip in three hours. But he's an ensign, and needs to be absolutely, positively, definitely sure the band won't be late. So Mr. Dipstick tells the OPs PO it's a four-hour trip and, in a last-minute frenzy of paranoia, adds that, depending on traffic, it could take the band up to five hours to make the trip.

It takes a lot of teamwork to create an effective "Hurry up and wait" situation, so your OPs PO pitches in. Because he hates being chewed out by the band's chief for cutting corners on travel time, he's developed the habit of tacking on an extra hour. He gives the chief a job-sheet indicating a six-hour trip.

This chief didn't get his khakis by showing up late for the prom. He knows his seventeen-piece band needs at least an hour before a gig to unload the gear, set it up and run a sound check. And with the time needed for cleaning up and changing into uniforms, he wants his band on-site two hours before the performance. Add this to six hours of travel time--it looks as though the vans will have to pull out of the parking lot by noon.

Now one of the drivers lends a helping hand, reminding the chief that a six-hour trip will require refueling along the way. And it would be wise to top off the tanks again close to the destination, to ensure fuel for the return trip. The chief nods and factors in two quick pit stops.

Nothing slows down a Navy band more than a "quick pit stop." Typically, before the vans have come to a halt at the pumps, the lead trumpet and bari sax players will explode out the sliding doors screaming, "Head call!" The rest of the straggling MUs will invade the Quik-Mart, methodically stripping the shelves clean of Slim Jims and Yoo-hoo, eventually forming an unruly line that snakes from the cash register to the restrooms.

Getting seventeen MUs back in a van is like trying to squeeze nine ounces of flatworms into an eight-ounce soup can. When the LPO has finally herded everyone back into their seats, he'll notice that someone is missing. Marching back into the convenience store, he'll find the fourth trombone player is still trying to decide whether he wants a Hostess Twinkie or a Li'l Debbie Kreme-filled Kake-ette. By the time the LPO drags this buffoon back to the van, the MUs will have started slipping back inside for a second round of head calls.

Forseeing this, the chief adds an hour for two pit stops. Nine hours of lead time before a 2000 dance now requires an 1100 departure.

Whoops. This means the band will be on duty during the Navy's scheduled lunch time. This creates a "missed meal." The chief talks to OPs, who calls Mr. Dipstick. The ensign agrees to fund the band's lunch at a fast-food restaurant along the way.

Unfortunately, the phrase "fast food" has no meaning to a Navy band. When seventeen sailors storm into McDonald's, the fourth trombone player always holds up the line with his inability to decide between a Big Mac or a Quarter Pounder, so the frustrated sax section sneaks out the door and strolls across the highway to Burger King. When they return, the trumpet section has just sat down to eat. This makes the saxes hungry again, so they order another round of cheeseburgers. At this point, the rhyhm section is chewing on a third box of Chicken McNuggets and the chief is chewing on the LPO.

The chief allots an hour for this circus. Muster time is now 1000--ten hours before the dance. But before the chief announces this to the band, the LPO reminds the chief of an important detail: The band has been rehearsing this week, so the equipment is set up in the rehearsal room. It will take time in the morning to load the gear into the trailer.

The chief explores alternate strategies. "Why not pack up after rehearsal the day before?" he asks.

The LPO is on top of things. "No can do," he says. "The rock band won't have the vans back in time."

The chief adds an hour, for a total of eleven hours of lead-time before the 2000 gig.

Belay that. Ensign Dipstick has been back in touch with OPs. He wants the combo to play for the cocktail hour at 1800. OPs gives the chief this update. The chief subtracts those eleven hours from the new start time. Muster must now occur at 0700.

Cause, effect; yin, yang; sunrise, sunset. The requirement to spend two hours setting up before the 1800 cocktail hour creates another missed meal. Another hour-long pit stop at a burger joint coutesty of Ensign Dipstick. Twelve hours of lead time means a 0600 muster.

But the breakfast hour begins at 0600. This atomic reaction is unstoppable. Another missed meal. Another hour-long roadside food-fest. Another half-hour at Dunkin' Donuts, waiting for the bass trombone player to choose between glazed or sprinkles.

"Hurry up and wait."

A task force is poised for victory because each ship hurried to position, then waited for the battle flag to be hoisted.

A weary sailor knows he'll be relieved of the midwatch on time because his relief hurried out of the rack and is waiting to go on duty.

And a Navy band musters at five in the morning to hurry to an officers' club and wait to play an evening gig.

There's only one thing "Hurry up and wait" doesn't explain--one teeny, itsy-bitsy thing:

Despite the operational overload and multiple layers of contingency preparation that has gone into getting the band to this gig, it's still only three hours away, dammit. The band is going to arrive while the sun is still rising over the officer's club.

But try to explain that to a nervous ensign, a cautious operations petty officer, an experienced chief and an on-the-ball LPO. They'll all shrug their shoulders and tell you the same thing:

"It's the Navy way."

But that's another topic altogether.

Now Hear This: Andy Vermiglio on Hearing Protection

Prevention Magazine's September, 2006 "Anti-aging Guide" suggests 25 things you can do to slow down the aging process.

Number 22--"When you're around loud noise, wear earplugs"--was particulary important for those us of us who played in Navy bands in the 70s and 80s, when the music started to get loud. One such MU, drummer Andy Vermiglio (7th Fleet Band, Navy Bands San Francisco and San Diego, School of Music staff), ought to know about preventing hearing loss. Andy is a research audiologist in Los Angeles. In fact, Andy's one of the expert who contributed to the Prevention Magazine article.

You can read the entire article online or skip ahead to Andy's commentary.

Andy is also an active LA performer and teacher. His personal website includes his full resume, sound clips (including the SOM faculty concert band) and photos (including the 7th Fleet Band on parade).