Limousines & Bagpipes 

I am violently patriotic. By that, I mean that I fully support a person's right to burn the flag, but God help anybody I catch trying to do so. I will fight them. Without hesitation.

I've always been that way, for just about as long as I can remember. Always knew I was destined for military servitude. Most kids dream of being a firefighter or ballerina or some such thing. Not so for me. Those are examples of dreams. What I had was knowledge. I knew the best way to die, and the only honorable way, was to die for my country. All that Nathan Hale jazz.

All of this in and of itself is not the least bit remarkable; the remarkable bit is coming up. When I was 19, I tried to join the Air Force, but found out that I didn't meet the qualifications to die for my country. I have Psoriasis, a relatively mild skin condition. There was no lying about the issue. I was a military brat, and they had my whole life's history laid out in the medical records in front of them.

One day, those records managed to get themselves lost, and I tried my luck with the United States Navy. I lied my ass off and got in. The day I got in was the happiest day of my life. Leaving the recruiter's office on a beautiful sunny day in April. Tulsa. The Stones' "Start Me Up" blasting on the radio, and my favorite aunt in the seat next to me. Us belting out the lyrics like we were happy, windows all the way down. Freedom.

Got on that plane in mid-May, on my way to Great Lakes in Chicago for my training. Basic training was a snap, loved every minute of it. Push-ups, and saluting the water fountain. Commie tags, and ninja wake-ups. The time of my life. Until...

One day in the shower one of the girls saw one of the pink spots on my back and started freaking out. We had just seen the videos about STDs, and she assumed the worst; started pointing at me and yelling "HERPES!!!." You have never been embarrassed until you've stood naked in a shower while 50 people glare at you, one of them screaming "HERPES!!!" while pointing at you.

It was one of those rare defining moments in life where you know things will never be the same again. I felt the world shift. At that point, I had completed about half my training. One of the Petty Officers told me I'd have to go to the medic to clear up the issue. He was nice enough about it, but I wasn't going to go willingly. It was to be the only time that I deliberately disobeyed my superiors. I lasted maybe 3 more days before anybody noticed that I hadn't gone, and that time they made me go. The doctor knew instantly that it wasn't herpes, but it was a short-lived relief. He sent me to the dermatologist, and by then I was just going through the motions; I knew what was coming.

He told me what it was while I pretended to be surprised, and he explained it all while I played dumb, him pretending not to notice while I pretended not to lie. His pretense ended the moment I asked him about a waiver. My only hope of staying in was to get a waiver. Just one piece of paper, signed by a doctor, saying "We know you're fucked up, and we don't care." A get out of jail free card brought to life. That one word—waiver—let him know the truth of my situation, and for a silent moment we sized each other up: adversaries plotting our next move.

He tossed his ace on the table and collected all the chips when he said: "Well, I'm in charge of waivers around here, and I'm not giving YOU one." It was all over. Fat lady was singing. When I left that building to return to the barracks, it was raining harder than I've ever seen. I walked slower than I've ever walked. Got soaked to the bone; too shocked to care. I was completely numb; shell-shocked. When I got to the barracks, it was deserted except for the Petty Officers in their office, radio on, playing a Scottish funeral march. Bagpipes. Mournful sound that matched my mood perfectly. It was then that I realized that it had been almost three and a half weeks since I had heard music. Not even one single note carried by a passing breeze. It was then that the tears came, and I knew they would never stop.

The irony of the situation overwhelmed me: music for my own funeral. I blubbered out the story to Petty Officer Bryant, with P.O. Baca listening in. They were angry for me, and I realized that they were human, and I cried even harder. It would have been easier for me to accept if they had been their usual hardass selves.

The sole purpose of a drill instructor is to break you down, then build you up again. I had gotten through the breaking down process, now it was time to be built up again, but that right was being ripped from me. Being returned home an empty soul.

A couple of days later someone came to separate me from my division, and send me to the 9th division- a sort of foster home for wayward sailors. First, I was taken to an office building for a debriefing. I was read my rights. I had the right to an attorney, the right to remain silent, the right to a copy of everything in my file, etc. I wasn't being arrested, but they certainly had a way of making you feel like a criminal.

They wanted me to sign a paper that said that I was giving up those rights as explained to me, but that just wasn't gonna be good for me, so I refused to sign that particular piece of paper. With raised eyebrows, they stamped the word "Objector" on my file in giant red letters.

I was assigned a Navy lawyer who I never even got to meet, and was told to write out my case (sob story) for the judge's consideration. The case was denied, and I later saw in my records how the Dermatologist had written that my psoriasis was 'chronic,' which was as much a death sentence for my case as it was an outright lie.

In the 9th division, there were three areas. The first was Medical. Me. That's where all the medical misfits got sent. One girl was allergic to peaches, another asthma, the stutterer, the girl with lupus. The second area was all those who had been caught with drugs or alcohol in their system upon arrival, and judging from this group, I didn't understand why any one of them thought they'd enjoy the military. The last group were mental cases. I truly felt sorry for this group; most of them perfectly normal until they got to basic, and that was what pushed them over the edge. There was always somebody on suicide watch for that group.

There was no exercising or reading allowed, and they confiscated any sort of reading materials. I was not willing to surrender my bluejacket's manual, and found a way around that. Their reasoning was that your training had ended. No need for either exercising or reading. No marching or saluting. Sleep late and take long showers. Take your time eating, relax. In other words, Hell.

You needed a job in the 9th division, or you'd lose your mind after 2 days. Those who had no job had to strip and wax the same floor over and over again till late afternoon. This was repeated three to four times a day (I stress: the same floor...). In the evenings, they had to paint the walls of one room in particular over and over again till bedtime. I did this for two days before I got a job. I've often wondered how many coats of paint that room had, since I never saw anybody stripping paint off; and it got painted at least three times a night. I wonder if they are still painting that room.

It was insulting to be lumped in with a bunch of deadbeats like that, but things got a little better when I got the job. I was in an office, and it was my job to process the paperwork for people getting out. In other words; I kicked people out of the Navy. It was OK work, and we got to play the radio. It was better than waxing floors and painting walls. And there were about four times as many people as it took to do the job, so we got to act human again.

They made us muster in the courtyard every 3 hours or so to keep on top of deserters and suicides. Nobody had any respect for their superiors anymore. There was nothing that they could do to us anyway; we were no longer in the military.

One day about a dozen of us were standing around waiting to go to lunch when we saw a division of smurfs across the square. Smurfs were recruits that had only been there for a few days and had not yet received their military uniforms. They wore sweatpants and sweatshirts, smurfsuits. So we're standing there, and the drill instructor for these smurfs motions to us and yells out that they should take a real good look at these deadbeats: "Those people are exactly who you do NOT want to be! They are the losers who couldn't HACK it in the Navy!" he screamed. All the smurfs gaping and snickering.

I believe in temporary insanity. I believe it is possible to take leave of your senses in moments of extreme emotional taxation. I believe this because it's happened to me. It happened right then, in fact. I clearly remember the events that transpired, but I remember them as something that I witnessed rather than a person remembering something they themselves did. Like watching a scene in a movie, just as helpless to stop it.

When he said the word "HACK," I felt a switch flip in my brain; I had no more control over it than I did the weather. I lunged at that man with murder in my eyes, screaming "FUUUUUUUCCCK YOOOOUUUUU!!!" from the very recesses of my guts. The four people closest to me grabbed me; frantically trying to restrain me, and I saw his eyes. For a moment; terror. That's the only time in my life that I've seen somebody look at me with absolute terror. The satisfaction was supreme. The moment was over, I was restrained. The drill instructor cleared his throat, changed the subject, and moved on. Nothing else was ever mentioned about 'the incident,' even though it was witnessed by three or four of the Petty Officers in charge of me.

It was only a few days later that my own file came across my desk, and I had to unwillingly kick myself out of the Navy. I sat there staring at it for a long time. I had saved it for last and was contemplating the irony of my life. Someone asked me if I wanted them to process it. I shook my head no and said it was something that I needed to do. Seeing my file reminded me that I still didn't have a copy of it for my records. I went to the next office over because they had a copier, and I asked the lady in that office if I could use their machine.

She said yes, but once I started, she saw what I was doing and freaked out. She kept saying that what I was doing was illegal and I could NOT copy those records. I said that I did have a right to those, and I showed her the order that had my rights spelled out. It was clear that she had never heard of such a thing, and she kicked me out of her office. When I got back to my office, I was livid. The Petty Officer in charge of my office asked me what was wrong, and when I told him, he got really angry. He was a pretty friendly easygoing guy, and I had never seen him mad before. He was a huge pothead and came in late every morning, bloodshot eyes, and one of us would toss him the Visine.

He snatched my file out of my hands and marched next door and made a copy of every single page in my file; even the stuff I didn't need. He already didn't like that woman and was just looking for an excuse to spite her. I was happy to provide it.

The next day, I packed my stuff to go. They walked about nine of us over to the pick up spot, and I couldn't believe my fucking eyes. There before me sat a stretch limousine. Everybody else was excited and laughing. Not me. Weren't limousines supposed to be for weddings, proms, and funerals? This was sure as shit no wedding or prom, so it must have been a funeral. Mine. That's how I felt, anyway.

I realized then that I had been there for 40 days and 40 nights, almost to the hour. Biblical.

I was a dead person walking upright. No dreams. No want. Six and a half years later, and I still can't talk about it easily. There's still so much more to the story that will remain untold; perhaps forever...

I have discovered a loophole, and on my 26th birthday, I will be joining the Navy Reserves. Only a couple of months away... I have some unfinished business to take care of.

© Melissa Davis2001