I ran across my old Navy finance jacket the other day as I start the painful process of preparing to move. Again. Where did all this crap come from?
I wondered if I needed to shred the old paystubs that I kept in chronological order with the two metal tangs inserted through the two holes in the top. There could be no possible interest in them, even for me, but there was personal information on them that I could not just throw in the trash.
I smiled looking at them, both for the amount that I had been compensated at the time and for the strange abbreviations The Pay Entry Base Date was in a little box to ensure that the DK- Disbursing Clerk- (we are not supposed to use those titles anymore, I think) but I have had a record of longevity pay increases, which were modest but always pleasant.
The PEBD represents the instant that the military clock started, (“It all counts on twenty,” as they say) and for the long strange trip this has all been. I noted that there are several longevity milestones happening lately- two of my cars now qualify for antique plates- and I realized that now includes me. This week I go over 40 years as an intelligence professional. Now, I realize that is no big deal- and several of the usual suspects have a half century (or more) of service to the Fleet and the Intelligence Community. But the roundness of the number, and the realization that it has been virtually my entire professional life was sobering, and made me think about fixing that regardless of the earliness of the hour.
It was a Spring that happened forty years ago. I was filled with piss and vinegar, and a pal who had been drafted into the Army for Vietnam had completed college on the GI Bill and mater-of-factly announced that he had applied for a Navy commission as a flight officer shortly after the fall of Saigon in 1975. I was between gigs in the publishing business, and had a delightful year spending my savings to see a bit of the world. The dwindling bank account made me realize that it was time to get back to work and save up enough money to quit and go traveling again.
Then it occurred to me that perhaps there was a different approach. Perhaps I could find an interesting job that included travel to all sorts of places. I talked to my pal about his experience at Aviation Officer Candidate School, and while unconventional, he said it was interesting and he hoped to be posted once more to Asia.
At about the same time, President Carter was beginning to realize that the world was a more dangerous place than he had anticipated. I understood that, too, and with the Vietnam War over, thought I ought to do something tangible to show my support. I had sweated the draft while in college, so it was sort of an unusual place to be. It was a gray day at the Military Entrance Processing Facility in Detroit. I had driven the two hours down from Grand Rapids to try something new. After the Yeoman glanced over the thick sheaf of forms, he told me to go see the Lieutenant when he was available. In the rush to get out of the old office building for lunch, he had me come into his office and walked around the front of his desk.
“Raise your right hand and repeat after me.” He cleared his throat and started when my hand was up.
“I, Victor Socotra, do solemnly swear that I will support and defend the Constitution of the United States against all enemies, foreign and domestic; that I will bear true faith and allegiance to the same; that I take this obligation freely, without any mental reservation or purpose of evasion; and that I will well and faithfully discharge the duties of the office on which I am about to enter. So help me God.”
I repeated the words back to him without stumbling much and we lowered our hands. I thanked the Lieutenant and asked what was next. He smiled and said: “Go home. We will be in touch with a reporting date to your class at Aviation Officer Candidate School in Pensacola.”
“But I signed up to be an intelligence officer,” I said. I had heard about the ways of recruiters. I did not want to wind up in some MASH-like place in the wilds of Korea (though of course I did).
“Yeah, you are definitely an AI- an Air Intelligence Officer. You made my quota for the quarter, so thanks. Did the YN show you the short movie about what having a Marine Drill Instructor is like?”
(Scene from the recruiting film “Pressure Point” as the Drill Instructor advises his newest class of ‘Poopies.”)
I nodded. “Yes Sir. I watched the training film “Pressure Point“ on the wall in the closet. AOCS looks interesting, what with the shouting and running and marching and the rifles and the obstacle course and the Dilbert Dunker.”
“Have fun,” he said, grabbing his cover, “View it as a kind of street theater with a really good cast. It will change you forever.” Then the LT turned and headed out the door for the Coney Island on the next block. I looked around. Nothing seemed much different than it had when I walked in, much less forever. So, I left the office with a wave to the YN and went down to the lot, fired up the car and drove back across the state to await further instructions.
I could never have imagined what the next four full decades would bring. Wonder, certainly. Strange and exotic places in five different wars or contingencies. Adversaries that included the Soviets, Saddam, Balkan strongmen, Caribbean dictators, assorted terrorists and Saddam’s Revolutionary Guard. Places that included Honolulu, Pyongyang, Rangoon, New Delhi, Guantanamo, Port au Prince, Tokyo and Seoul. Not to mention a ring-side seat at the never-ending and highly entertaining circus that continues in perpetual motion in our own Washington, DC.
Despite being a Naval officer, I eventually retired from the CIA with service at ONI and DIA. I then had a chance to work for the Intelligence practices at SAIC, Bell Labs, IBM, CACI and now with a great group of professionals at Syntelligent Analytic Solutions, pride of Page County, VA. I am delighted with what came after I raised my hand that gray day in Detroit, though if you had asked me about that while I was doing pushups on the Grinder under the blazing Pensacola sun under the baleful gaze of Staff Sergeant Ronald C. Mace, USMC, I did have my doubts. Not anymore.
Oh, my son is a Lieutenant now, working in the same building I did in Hawaii when he was conceived. He told me the other morning that the strings on the midnight shift still sucks.
Copyright 2017 Vic Socotra
www.vicsocotra.com
“Pressure Point” is available on YouTube at: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6mikS7qQSN0