I looked over at the time-hack on the menu bar to the computer and decided it was about time to get organized. I pulled the two tuxedos out of the closet and checked which jacket seemed to fit better, put the other one away, and looked at the single miniature military medal I would wear on the civilian for the white pleated dress shirt with the bigger neck, and organized a square search for the four little studs that fit into the buttonholes on the placket, rummaged in the bag of bow-ties for a plain black formal model, and looked at the cummerbunds- the plain black one seemed to fit my mood better than the one with the hot chili peppers.
Once I was relatively confident that there were no show-stoppers in the wardrobe, I thought a bit about the event to come. There have been fifty of this dinners, commencing in the mid-1960s as the Office of Naval Intelligence sought to institute some new traditions that came along with integrating the Air Intelligence officers from the line aviation community to the land of the Spooks.
There was a war on, at the time, and the powers that be decided that the grand old tradition of a formal wardroom dinner of roast beef and formal toasting would be just the trick to raise morale and encourage esprit de corps. The Director of Naval Intelligence was president of the mess, and he ruled the dining room of one of the Officer’s Clubs through his dedicated master of ceremonies, Mr. Vice President, normally a junior officer dragooned for his services to keep the program rolling along. Known with crisp military efficiency as Mr. Vice, it was widely known that inept conduct from the podium could have significant impact on career viability.
I take it personally, since I was dragged into organizing the annual Dining In from my position as the JO assignment officer at the Bureau of Personnel. It was a ritual of passage in the little office, moving from the new person who knew nothing about how Washington worked to the wily veteran who could convince young officers that a tour in-country in Korea was just the right thing to do.
Along with the organizing and selection of venues came the delight of ordering the favors- in those days, wine glasses etched with the year of the Dining In- and serving as Mr. Vice.
Like many military traditions, the Dining-In grew some, with Mr. Vice being graded by his peers and seniors for his wit and ability to control the Mess to the satisfaction of the President, and of course to whomever had been convinced to share their thoughts on the state of affairs in the Navy’s intelligence corps.
My year- 1986- came off pretty well. I had picked Fort McNair’s Officer Club, conveniently located across from the tennis court where the Lincoln assassins where hanged by the necks until dead. The club had not told me they were going to be painting the facility, and the place reeked of oil-based paint. But it all came off just fine. I forget who the President was- it might have been Bill Studeman or Ted Shaefer- but the problem was that they liked the tempo and the jokes and gags from my place as Mr. Vice, and it turned into an additional duty as assigned.
They were kind enough to not make me do all the logistics- that was left with the Assignments Office, but I wound up as Mr. Vice in all the grades in which I served- including LCDR, CDR, CAPT and eventually as a retired old civilian fart. I think there were nine of them, though I can’t remember with any precision, and finally DNI Tony Cothron set me free with a little certificate that stated I was henceforth freed from that particular military duty.
Now, the only obligation is to keep a list of shipmates who had passed on since the last mess night. It was a relief, but as you can imagine, when I walked into the Fort Myer O Club last Friday, all the memories came rushing back like the wet kiss at the end of a hot fist.
When I was married, the first question that came up when I returned home (no spouses are permitted at these events) was: “Do you still have a career?”
It was a perfectly reasonable question, since the senior officers watched the juniors like hawks, and the culmination of the evening was for all the officers to travel to old town, to Murphy’s Irish Pub, and put on the dog in our mess dress jackets, gold cummerbunds, gold stripes of rank, and thickets of miniature medals.
Retired folks are entitled to wear the formal uniform, if they wish, but most of us old hard corps types dug deep and bought civilian formal rig.
Anyway, there has been a lot going on in the Navy and Naval intelligence in particular. The crowd at Langley stole the term “DNI,” making it “Director of National Intelligence.” Naturally that was an affront, but nothing like the drive to mash all the “information” communities (Communications, intelligence, Cryptology, Meterology) together into one designator called “Information Warfare.”
You can imagine that was just as exciting as the elimination of Ratings for the enlisted troops. Now we just have sailors, Petty Officers and the three flavors of Chiefs. Maybe this will all work- but there are some traditions that won’t die, and those are of the Dining In.
We start with drinks, of course, though many prefer to stick with beer or wine. After about an hour of cocktails, the mess is assembled and directed to take their places in the dining room. The head table is lined up behind the Piper, who leads them in to the strains of bagpipes. We had a distinguished older man who did most of the Dining Ins, and even Mac Shower’s funeral a Arlington, but this year a serious young woman was leading the parade. Once the head table is seated, the President makes some administrative remarks, and Mr. Vice is directed to have the beef paraded in with one of the chefs following behind the piper to have the main course of the meal approved as suitable for human consumption.
Some junior officers are directed to mix the grog, a foul and potent mixture of hard liquor, fruit juice and assorted undetermined ingredients. The point of this being to provide comic relief and punishment for infractions of mess decorum. This was optional, back in the day, since the idea of fun was anathema to some of the senior leadership, and they went out of their way to schedule the Dining In on Thursday nights to discourage staying too late at Murphy’s once the kids were free of the seniors. Eventually cooler heads prevailed, and the dinner was moved to Friday nights, and no one got in much trouble.
Well, except for the night a crusty Fleet LCDR decided to carve his own way to Route 50 from the base by driving his car through the ornamental wrought iron fence.
I am embarrassed that I did not know a couple of the Flag Officers at the head table. I presumed there was a RADM Cryppie, and Lynn Wright was there in her role as Deputy Director of Naval Intelligence. As the senior intelligence officer present, Bob Sharp was President, flanked by Brett Heimbigner. An admiral with the White House Staff ID sat next to Brett, and the Honored Guest was the new three-star DNI- VADM Jan Tighe. I was pleased that she made the effort to honor the tradition, and when she gave them, her remarks were both entertaining and approachable. It was an honor to chat with her during cocktails.
There is, of course, a lot of inside-baseball Navy stuff going on, and it is a relief to not have to concentrate on any of that any more.
Last year, I did the Jimmy Olsen Cub Reporter thing for the Naval Intelligence Professionals and documented the rituals before stealing out before the speeches and formal toasting, which range from honoring the President, Chief of Naval Operations, our ships at sea and the United States of America.
Naturally, the amount of entertainment varies. If you have ever seen a Focs’sel Follies show at the end of a line period of deployment, you get the sophisticated nautical humor I am describing.
It was light, Bob Sharp and Mr. Vice had light touches, Admiral Tighe was gracious and the kids managed not to throw too many of the dinner rolls at other offenders. Bob closed the mess, which is the official signal that everyone is off the leash to do whatever mischief that comes to mind.
It is sad commentary on my part that I had no interest whatsoever in going clubbing, and slipped out to drive home, where no one asked how my career was doing. But I want to say this: the traditions were upheld, the piper was great, the beef edible, and the skits were great fun. If pressed, I would have to say that the 50th iteration of the Naval Intelligence Dining In might just have been the best one.
It is good to see some traditions weather the storms of change. Just so long as they don’t ask me to do it again!
Copyright 2016 Vic Socotra
www.vicsocotra.com