In the U.S. Naval Fleet non-judicial punishment is referred to as a Captain's Mast. So called, because in sailing days the Captain handed out punishment to individual crew-members "before the mast." In this way, the crew could observe the punishment, and perhaps learn to not do the same offense...there are few object lessons more powerful than watching the flesh being lashed off of your crew mate’s back; my guess is that would help you want to behave. In any case: At a Captain's Mast the commander of a U.S. Navy vessel has a fair amount of authority to hand out punishment on board his ship, thus avoiding a court martial, and thereby retaining his crew-member for duty during the period of punishment. In my four-years plus active-duty, I had the dubious distinction of starring in two Captain's Masts, and several Executive Officer's Masts. It was the second such Captain's Mast that convinced me I didn't want a third, though no sailors were injured during the punishment phase of that Mast.
Like all uniformed services, the Navy takes in young men and women at various stages of intellectual, psychological, and emotional (if not criminal) development, and, then expends a fair amount of time and effort to mold the new recruit into a sailor, with discipline, craft, and military training. The hopes are that at the end of this investment period the Navy will have a member who behaves in a predictable fashion under known and unknown conditions; the trainers tease out the predisposition or skills of these young people, relate those traits to needed crafts, then school the individual to perform the skills as needed by the Navy, performed under what may be less than ideal conditions. The point of all this molding is to increase the probability that an individual, once processed into a trained and developed sailor, will more or less "color between the lines" and even become a "known value." And, if the first enlistment sailor has trouble staying within acceptable parameters, the Navy places a fair amount of authority at the hands of its Commanding Officers which can be used to help adjust the young sailor's personal course. Among these persuasive techniques were: peer pressure, non-judicial punishment, judicial punishment (Courts Martial) and even death for treasonous or cowardly "wartime" offenses. If the punishment rendered was judicial, a Courts Martial, it could result in the sailor being left behind in a port which had a Marine administered "brig" while awaiting trial, though on occasion a Courts Martial level offense might be initiated and heard on board, with the punishment phase to be determined by some local tribunal. If the offense was serious enough to warrant imprisonment, the sailor might likely be left in some port, transferred off his ship to the brig, awaiting trial and sentence. In each case, Captain’s Mast or Courts Martial the legal standard one’s behavior was compared to was a thick document known as the UCMJ, the Uniform Code of Military Justice.
Most fleet officers are wary of losing an asset, such as a fully trained crew member, unnecessarily. The XO's (Executive Officers) and Captains were hesitant to give up technical, and other hard to replace resources to the brig and judicial punishment, because the resource might have to be left behind in a port awaiting trial, and a replacement resource might not be available, on board, and trained for many months. This vacancy might have a ripple effect which, depending on which skills were missing, could affect the entire crew; for instance Cooks and Medical Corpsmen were more highly prized than deck-hands. These more "valuable" human assets were sometimes treated more favorably, though in my experience, never favored to the point of someone looking the other way; it's just that “possibly” their punishment would allow them to remain on the ship performing their usual duties, until they received their firm slap on the wrist, and suspended punishment, such as, a reduction in rank and pay.
The first time I got in trouble on the USS Ashtabula, an "oiler", was because I reported to my "watch" unfit for duty. The lack of fitness had to do with the amount of "partying" I had performed the night before in Hong Kong. In that case, I was simply remanded to the Operations Officer, who dressed me down verbally, then passed me over for recommendation to take the Petty Officer 3rd Class exam, though I had the time-in-rank required. In my 19-year-old brain, this was not even close to being punishment. After all, you can't lose what you don't have. No harm, no foul, no impression. Forgotten, so what's next?
The next time I got in trouble was the day I was to be transferred off the Ashtabula onto a month's shore-leave, at the end of which I was to report to the USS Abnaki in Pearl Harbor Hawaii; the morning of the day I was to leave the Ashtabula, I was brought back to the ship under arrest due to "public intoxication." In fact, I was not overly intoxicated, but I was sleep deprived (having partied non-stop for the prior 48-hours) and had chosen the hood of a Long Beach, California Police cruiser as a place to catch a quick nap. The officers assigned to the police car did not see the efficacy of my sleeping on a police car out of safety and security concerns, “Of course I was sleeping on a cop car...I didn’t want to get robbed!” and because I was not carrying a picture ID, they arrested me and provided me with a piece of concrete floor in their jail as an equally safe place to spend the night. The next day, after the police confirmed that a William L Karns, #3905335, fitting my description belonged on the Ashtabula, I was brought back to the ship by the Shore Patrol. After some discussion, and negotiation, the Operation's Officer let me transfer off per my already cut orders, and become someone else's problem instead of writing me up for a Captain's Mast, and keeping me on board. I had just turned 20-years old, and I didn't consider this a problem, or even a "near miss." After all, a miss is as good as a mile, right? Once again, I moved on having learned little or nothing from the event, except that maybe I was just impervious, and Officers were pushovers.
I left the ship and hitch-hiked to Tucson...an eventful 24-hours which I've chronicled in another post. This was to be the week that John F. Kennedy, then President of the United States, would be assassinated in Dallas, Texas. What was supposed to be a month's leave, starting in Tucson and ending in Oregon, ended abruptly following the assassination, with a radio and TV call for all Active military to return to their current duty stations, or report to their next ordered duty station; my high school buddy, Jim Brogdon took me out to Davis Monthan AFB where I received emergency pay and flight vouchers from Tucson International Airport to LAX, then LA to Honolulu International, so I could get to Pearl Harbor and catch my next ship...in fact, the entire process was to take more than 3 weeks. I spent what seemed like years waiting for hops, just about to board, being bumped, sleeping on the floor of waiting room, shaving and washing up in a concourse bathroom, and trying to weasel on to the next available hop. I lived in LAX in Los Angeles almost long enough to become a voting resident of California.
By the time I caught a stand-by flight out of Tucson, then stand-by out of L.A. to Honolulu it was late-ish December 1963. Honolulu and Pearl Harbor were sunny and warm, as I stopped to assess the Abnaki in my wool dress-blues, sweating already at shortly after 8 a.m., carrying my 50-pound canvas sea-bag. This ship appeared even sleepier, more utilitarian, and less "gung ho" than the Ashtabula had been. It appeared it would be fairly easy duty...and for awhile it was, until Captain James R. Williams was "piped" aboard, took over and took command from a "Mustang"* Captain who was immensely impressed with himself, though imminently forgettable. Williams, by comparison, turned out to be memorable and impressive. He was an Annapolis Man, and his command reputation was not going to be undercut by immature, under-construction, rebellious young sailors.
Captain Williams was a quiet, confident, Naval Academy graduate, as I remember a citizen of Virginia. His demeanor almost entirely lacked emotional reactivity, drama, or bravado, though he was friendly, articulate, and very definitely in charge. During the entire time I served under him, I heard his voice sharpen a few times, but never heard it raised...never heard a curse, a threat, or disrespect to any crew member or officer, even though I witnessed him during some stressful events. Being the shrewd judge of character that I was, I took the absence of loud, overbearing, forcefulness as probable personal weakness...like I said, I was 20-years old. I never claimed I was bright.
My job as one of several Radiomen, who also couriered messages, brought me in contact with Captain Williams and other officers multiple times per duty-day...sometimes on the bridge, sometimes in the Officers Dining area, and often in the middle of the night after awakening them. The Captain was the only officer with an actual door to his cabin. The XO’s stateroom was literally right next door to the radio shack on the 01 Level, and had a heavy drape as a “door.” After knocking at his, the Captain’s, compartment door in order to give him a priority radio message, even at 2 or 3 a.m., awakened out of a dead-sleep he never seemed dazed or groggy; rather, he was immediately vigilant, alert, cognizant and ready to deal with whatever it was I handed him. I would stand waiting until he said, "That is all!" or until he scratched out a response message for me to send by Morse-Code, or voice if it was available. My point is not that we were buddies, because he wasn't "buddies" with anyone, not even officers. My point is I witnessed him at all times, under all conditions, and because I didn't see "bravado" I failed to detect his strength.
My first difficulty aboard the Abnaki involved "crew's justice" during which several of us collaborated to modify the behavior of a fellow crew member who was not bathing regularly, or perhaps not at all. Our sleeping compartment, or berth as it was called, was very close quarters. We slept inches from each other, including head to foot, since sailers were not allowed to sleep head to head in order to reduce the spread of respiratory illnesses, and in those close quarters, "scrounges" were simply not to be tolerated, particularly in the heat of that uncooled compartment which was more than 80 degrees even when crossing the Pacific in Winter. In the tropics or even Hawaii, it was approaching 100 degrees on occasion.
Our "scrounge" had ignored all hints, however heavy-handed, that he needed to shower daily and wear clean clothes daily. Consequently, one night after lights-out we picked him out of his rack in a dead-sleep, wrapped him in a wool blanket, carried him kicking and screaming up to the enlisted head, where a large garbage can full of hot soapy water was waiting, then scrubbed him with bristled deck brushes until his skin, and the bathwater, was a very pleasing, rosy pink. He reported the "assault" and because he was snatched out of the Operations and Deck compartment where I sometimes slept, the XO assumed I might be involved, or at least have knowledge of the event. An "XO's mast" is really not nonjudicial punishment, being more of a preliminary hearing, followed by a recommendation to the Captain who will usually sign off on the XO's recommendation; if there was enough evidence, for instance eye-witnesses, the XO might recommend a Captain's Mast, particularly where violence, drinking, theft, or dereliction of duty was concerned. All six of us involved in the "behavior modification" incident held fast to our stories that he must have been mistaken about the voices he thought he recognized; and, I said, because "...I wasn't involved, I couldn't possibly know who else might have been involved..." and besides he might have just been dreaming...which didn't explain his abraded skin of course, but the statement was made with enough wide-eyed innocence to properly irritate the XO; the event ended with no action by the XO or Captain, and, again, I was naive enough to believe that because I was not caught, there was no issue, no fault, and no carry-forward to the future.
Unfortunately, after not too long, my next offense was failure to report for duty; quite simply if you failed to report for Quarters dressed and ready for your day, it constituted "failure to report." I was very sick and fatigued from a night out on "Shit Street" also listed on the Honolulu city map as "Hotel Street." I missed Reveille and when Chief Delorme woke me up, after Quarters had already commenced I figured I was screwed. I asked Delorme if I was on report already for sleeping in...he said yes. My response was, “Screw it! Then I’m going back to sleep.” That earned me my first Captain's Mast, and my first up close and personal experience of Captain Williams' skill at helping young men grow up.
The lectern and other trappings were placed on the starboard, 01 Level weather-deck, where I stood at attention in front the lectern, awaiting the Captain. Chief Delorme was there in two capacities: as a witness to my offense and my attitude during the offense, and as the Master at Arms, or the "bailiff" for the Mast. The XO was there "representing" me. It was a short, and sweet event. I was found guilty as charged, but my punishments were suspended pending 6-months of good behavior, with an admonition that if I had another offense within the 6-months, my suspended punishments would be re-enforced, and even added to, which was reduction in rank and forfeiture of pay, plus anything else the Captain might add on for the ensuing offense.
Amazing as it may seem, none of this got my attention. I considered it a win...Hell! I was walking away untouched again...it was just paper! Besides, I could do six-months of good time standing on my head, I thought, because we were scheduled to be at sea and I never drank at sea or got in trouble when we were under way. Unfortunately, our deployment was delayed for reasons known only to the Commodore of the Pacific Service Fleet Pacific, of which we were a part...so we stayed in Pearl Harbor...working on ships maintenance, dragging the occasional gunnery target off Diamond Head, and spending three out of four nights on the beach...and the time was not spent in the Christian Serviceman's Reading Room writing letters home to Mom and Dad.
Long story short, I never made it to the six-months point...not even close...before I had a minor run-in with four of the Honolulu Police Department's finest plain-clothesmen. These guys were big and beefy in their trousers, and tropical shirts, and moved in that lumbering but purposeful Polynesian or Samoan fashion. They stopped their over-sized, unmarked sedan to interrogate me at a bus stop, for reasons I never understood because their use of colloguialisms was entirely unintelligible to me...they were "mo betta da kine cuz" guys, and I was a "fuckin' Haole" who didn't belong on their streets. At some point I allegedly referred to them as "Dumb fucking Kanake's" and the fun times ended abruptly. As though by miracle, at that precise moment, a Hawaiian Armed Services Police (HASP) vehicle pulled up, stopped, and two guys with armbands, helmets, and .45 caliber pistols collected me from the impending doom caused by my cultural faux pas. I didn't realize it at the time, but perhaps they saved my life or at least helped me avoid a severe beating for "resisting arrest." Still I wasn't grateful, as we headed off to their office and lock-up. To this day, I don't know the actual implication of the word "Kanake" but I understand it's use is to be avoided unless you are one. Our language has several labels like that.
A few minutes later, after a disorienting and nauseating ride in a windowless box on a vehicle, I stood in front of the booking desk. A nice, polite, clean-cut Marine asked me to put my feet in the painted squares on the floor, and directed me to lean forward with my arms extended, hands on the booking desk. This stance resulted in me leaning well forward, with my legs spread, off balance. As the nice, polite Marine "frisked" me for weapons, including up the insides of my thighs, he slapped me in the gonads quite hard with the back of his hand. My stomach, already queasy from an evening of over-indulgence and my ride in the windowless "lock-up" dumped it's contents between my feet and the booking desk. The Marine disappeared momentarily, and returned with a mop and bucket, instructing me to clean up my mess. I asked him if I was on report or under arrest. He affirmed that I was indeed under arrest, pending an escort back to the ship by an Officer; given that there was little to recover by being cooperative, I informed him he could clean up the mess himself, and, according to the booking documents, I allegedly referred to him as a "...dumb fucking Jarhead..." in the process. I will admit that I had previously used this phrase in other contexts, and it certainly was possible that the allegations were correct.
Before 7 a.m. the next morning, the nice, polite, Marine woke me up from my sleep on the concrete bench by turning a small fire hose on me. Sometime later, Mr. Hollis, the ship's Engineering Officer, showed up in the ship's vehicle, resplendent in his tropical whites, wearing his SP arm-band, the required government issued .45-caliber side-arm, hanging on his belt. He took legal possession of me by signing the custody document, and jokingly asked me if he needed to put the cuffs on me. I said "No Sir" and he then said, "OK...but don't run or I'll have to shoot you!" Then laughed at his own humor as we walked to the Navy pickup truck, and drove back to the ship. I always liked Mr. Hollis. He was a "stand-up" guy, understanding but firm about the rules, and truly concerned that "his boys," which pretty much included the whole enlisted crew.
We were in port, and destined to be in port for another two-months. As I remember we were undergoing some upgrades and maintenance, and getting ready for our Operational Readiness Inspections before heading out to WestPac again. I fully expected to get a Captain's Mast fairly quickly, and get the entire matter behind me, but Captain Williams had other plans. He restricted me to the ship, and regular duty pending Captain's Mast. This meant I could not leave the ship except for medical or dental appointments, or to shop at the PX for necessities. However, if I did leave the ship for those reasons, I was required to be accompanied by an armed guard, and wear a "Prisoner" armband. I stayed aboard, rather than endure the curiosity and presumed disdain of the public, plus the embarrassment of putting a crew member through the ordeal of having to baby-sit me. Sixty-four days later, after getting underway for WestPac, somewhere between Pearl Harbor and the French Frigate Shoals, Captain Williams decided to have a Captain's Mast.
I stood at attention about 10 feet in front of the wooden podium which had been set up on the 01 level starboard weather deck -- I'd been here before, not that long ago. Chief Delorme was standing to my left, facing outboard. The Executive Officer, Mr. Nason (now deceased) was there as well, standing beside me as I remember. In his own time Captain Williams exited his cabin, and stepped out the 01 level hatch, starting the ritual. The charges were read, including written witness' statements; apparently my choice of words with the Hawaiian citizens had caused a community level "embarrassment" for the Navy. I believe I was asked if I had anything to say on my own behalf, and of course, there was nothing to say; I had already stood before Captain Williams once before, I was under a suspended punishment, and I knew that the excuse "I had been drinking" would cut no ice with him. He busted me from Radioman 3rd Class (E-4) to Seaman (E-3), and, he reduced my pay equivalent to the rank reduction, and, he fined me 3-months pay -- Ouch! Then he asked me to step forward, and asked Mr. Nason and Chief Delorme to step away.
He looked at me over the podium, calm, almost friendly, certainly benign, and said, "Now Karns I know you feature yourself to be something of a "sea lawyer" (this was not a compliment)...and, you may be tempted to tell me I can't award hard-labor because that's a Court Martial only punishment; however, I should warn you that if you prefer to have your hard-labor sentence at Courts Martial I'm willing to see to that, once we get to Guam." It might help to know that there was an infamous Marine Brig on Guam where pending Court Martial cases were "housed" and where convicted Court Martial prisoners might spend up to a year, before being dishonorably discharged. With that reality in mind, I said, "No sir! I don't need a Court Martial...I'll perform whatever duty you give me!" He smiled, almost proudly, like a teacher with a student who might have demonstrated some promise after all, and said "Two weeks hard-labor, to be assigned, plus you will stand all of your normal watches and perform all normal duties. If you appear before me ever again, and are found guilty I will remand you to a Court Martial and we'll see if that can get your attention. Dismissed!" I thanked him, and stepped back to my place.
The location of my "hard labor" had not been indicated at Mast, but once again, Captain Williams had a plan. When we were beyond French Frigate Shoals in the open Pacific, moving slowly toward the International Date Line, the sea took on the familiar "roll" of the huge, mid-ocean swells...a rhythmic up, down, with a slight yaw thrown in which messed with my middle-ear, resulting in almost constant nausea; my motion-sickness was well known, since I frequently brought a bucket to the bridge with me when doing tactical radio duties; if necessary, I would step out the hatch onto the flying bridge and puke into the bucket...not exactly the kind of hearty bridge-ritual that Captains appreciated. Captain Williams assigned me to the Shaft Alley Bilges to do "extra duty" a day, for 14-consecutive days, the day after we hit the pitch, roll and yaw of these open ocean swells.
Shaft Alley, was the farthest compartment aft on the ship, and well below the water-line; so-called because the "shaft" which was turned by the propulsion system, ran through it, and out an (almost) water-tight fitting, finally attaching to the giant propeller which moved the ship. It was a place frequented only by "Snipes" (an affectionate term for Engineering crew), and the occasional Deck Ape (a disrespectful term for the Deck force). No self-respecting Operations Puke (Radio, Radar, Signalman, Electronics Technicians) likely even knew it existed, or how to find it if they did know it existed. Shaft Alley underway, as it turned out, was smelly, hot, noisy, and humid...thoroughly unpleasant. The bilge below the removable metal deck plating was full of warm, greasy "water" with a unique stench, swirling, gurgling, rising and falling in concert with the ship's motion. My extra-duty was to remove rust and other debris from the bulk-head, starting at water's surface, and upwards to some point, using a chipping hammer and a wire-brush. Then I would coat the bare metal which my efforts exposed with Yellow Oxide...a rust-inhibitor which I believe is now outlawed for application by humans because it is a suspected carcinogen. To do this, I stood in the murky waters of the bilge, up to my thighs, or in the case of a good ship's roll to port or starboard, up to my waist. I wore plastic goggles to keep the chips, water, and oxide out of contact with my eyes; the goggles also provided a place for sweat to pool, and resulted in an allergic reaction to the rubber sealant material around my eyes, and the bridge of my nose...ultimately I ceased wearing the goggles, feeling that possibly blindness might relieve me of the remainder of my duty; however I was not to be fortunate enough to experience blindness or any other form of disabling relief.
I should mention that any time out of the bilge during my extra duty workday had to be made up with more time. When Captain Williams accounted for time, he didn’t count a half-hour in the head vomiting or urinating...a full measure of time, as prescribed at Mast, in the bilges, for 14-consecutive days, including Saturdays and Sundays. Consequently, I learned to not waste time by leaving Shaft Alley to vomit or urinate, adding even more toxicity to the water in which I was standing. When I exited Shaft Alley each day I was coated with rust, old paint, oxide, assorted other metallic and oily grime, as well as, soaked dungarees from standing in the water. There are few things I hate more than being grimy-dirty. I don't mind sweat, but dust, grime, grease, oil and other indescribable water-borne concoctions and body fluids are not even close to tolerable; however, the Marine Brig in Guam was waiting if I refused to perform the duty as described by my sentence, so I persisted everyday, also performing my other duties on shipboard, flawlessly, because I believed it mattered.
Captain William, the astute and intuitive professional Officer had found the key to my cooperation...I hated getting dirty, and working in filth, including my own. My career as the ship's "bad boy" pretty much came into acceptable parameters after that. My "military" marks were acceptable; my "professional" marks in Radio were excellent; and, my personal demeanor was well within "acceptable" limits until I left the Abnaki in July 1966 in Subic Bay the Philippines, enroute to Treasure Island, California. Part of my improvement was for a reason I could not claim. We had to leave my "shore buddy" and drinking partner Kenny Wetzler in Yokosuka, Japan after his jaw was broken, and wired in place following a brawl at the Enlisted Men's club. With Wetzler gone, I gravitated to others who perhaps didn't magnify my own faults to the same extent. I don't mean to imply that my behavior was Wetzzler’s fault; simply put he and I did not "moderate" each other's faults, we magnified them.
In good time, with the recommendations of Mr. Nason and Captain Williams I re-earned my Petty Officer-3rd rank and finished out my time as an E-4. During my civilian career, I often remembered Captain Williams, his benevolent but absolute authority, and his willingness to use his power to bring about change, and I became better at sizing up my "boss's". Perhaps only two of them, in my next 39-years of employment understood how to use power and authority without malice or self-aggrandizement. I like to think I learned some of my management skills from Captain Williams.
Long story short, I never made it to the six-months point...not even close...before I had a minor run-in with four of the Honolulu Police Department's finest plain-clothesmen. These guys were big and beefy in their trousers, and tropical shirts, and moved in that lumbering but purposeful Polynesian or Samoan fashion. They stopped their over-sized, unmarked sedan to interrogate me at a bus stop, for reasons I never understood because their use of colloguialisms was entirely unintelligible to me...they were "mo betta da kine cuz" guys, and I was a "fuckin' Haole" who didn't belong on their streets. At some point I allegedly referred to them as "Dumb fucking Kanake's" and the fun times ended abruptly. As though by miracle, at that precise moment, a Hawaiian Armed Services Police (HASP) vehicle pulled up, stopped, and two guys with armbands, helmets, and .45 caliber pistols collected me from the impending doom caused by my cultural faux pas. I didn't realize it at the time, but perhaps they saved my life or at least helped me avoid a severe beating for "resisting arrest." Still I wasn't grateful, as we headed off to their office and lock-up. To this day, I don't know the actual implication of the word "Kanake" but I understand it's use is to be avoided unless you are one. Our language has several labels like that.
A few minutes later, after a disorienting and nauseating ride in a windowless box on a vehicle, I stood in front of the booking desk. A nice, polite, clean-cut Marine asked me to put my feet in the painted squares on the floor, and directed me to lean forward with my arms extended, hands on the booking desk. This stance resulted in me leaning well forward, with my legs spread, off balance. As the nice, polite Marine "frisked" me for weapons, including up the insides of my thighs, he slapped me in the gonads quite hard with the back of his hand. My stomach, already queasy from an evening of over-indulgence and my ride in the windowless "lock-up" dumped it's contents between my feet and the booking desk. The Marine disappeared momentarily, and returned with a mop and bucket, instructing me to clean up my mess. I asked him if I was on report or under arrest. He affirmed that I was indeed under arrest, pending an escort back to the ship by an Officer; given that there was little to recover by being cooperative, I informed him he could clean up the mess himself, and, according to the booking documents, I allegedly referred to him as a "...dumb fucking Jarhead..." in the process. I will admit that I had previously used this phrase in other contexts, and it certainly was possible that the allegations were correct.
Before 7 a.m. the next morning, the nice, polite, Marine woke me up from my sleep on the concrete bench by turning a small fire hose on me. Sometime later, Mr. Hollis, the ship's Engineering Officer, showed up in the ship's vehicle, resplendent in his tropical whites, wearing his SP arm-band, the required government issued .45-caliber side-arm, hanging on his belt. He took legal possession of me by signing the custody document, and jokingly asked me if he needed to put the cuffs on me. I said "No Sir" and he then said, "OK...but don't run or I'll have to shoot you!" Then laughed at his own humor as we walked to the Navy pickup truck, and drove back to the ship. I always liked Mr. Hollis. He was a "stand-up" guy, understanding but firm about the rules, and truly concerned that "his boys," which pretty much included the whole enlisted crew.
We were in port, and destined to be in port for another two-months. As I remember we were undergoing some upgrades and maintenance, and getting ready for our Operational Readiness Inspections before heading out to WestPac again. I fully expected to get a Captain's Mast fairly quickly, and get the entire matter behind me, but Captain Williams had other plans. He restricted me to the ship, and regular duty pending Captain's Mast. This meant I could not leave the ship except for medical or dental appointments, or to shop at the PX for necessities. However, if I did leave the ship for those reasons, I was required to be accompanied by an armed guard, and wear a "Prisoner" armband. I stayed aboard, rather than endure the curiosity and presumed disdain of the public, plus the embarrassment of putting a crew member through the ordeal of having to baby-sit me. Sixty-four days later, after getting underway for WestPac, somewhere between Pearl Harbor and the French Frigate Shoals, Captain Williams decided to have a Captain's Mast.
I stood at attention about 10 feet in front of the wooden podium which had been set up on the 01 level starboard weather deck -- I'd been here before, not that long ago. Chief Delorme was standing to my left, facing outboard. The Executive Officer, Mr. Nason (now deceased) was there as well, standing beside me as I remember. In his own time Captain Williams exited his cabin, and stepped out the 01 level hatch, starting the ritual. The charges were read, including written witness' statements; apparently my choice of words with the Hawaiian citizens had caused a community level "embarrassment" for the Navy. I believe I was asked if I had anything to say on my own behalf, and of course, there was nothing to say; I had already stood before Captain Williams once before, I was under a suspended punishment, and I knew that the excuse "I had been drinking" would cut no ice with him. He busted me from Radioman 3rd Class (E-4) to Seaman (E-3), and, he reduced my pay equivalent to the rank reduction, and, he fined me 3-months pay -- Ouch! Then he asked me to step forward, and asked Mr. Nason and Chief Delorme to step away.
He looked at me over the podium, calm, almost friendly, certainly benign, and said, "Now Karns I know you feature yourself to be something of a "sea lawyer" (this was not a compliment)...and, you may be tempted to tell me I can't award hard-labor because that's a Court Martial only punishment; however, I should warn you that if you prefer to have your hard-labor sentence at Courts Martial I'm willing to see to that, once we get to Guam." It might help to know that there was an infamous Marine Brig on Guam where pending Court Martial cases were "housed" and where convicted Court Martial prisoners might spend up to a year, before being dishonorably discharged. With that reality in mind, I said, "No sir! I don't need a Court Martial...I'll perform whatever duty you give me!" He smiled, almost proudly, like a teacher with a student who might have demonstrated some promise after all, and said "Two weeks hard-labor, to be assigned, plus you will stand all of your normal watches and perform all normal duties. If you appear before me ever again, and are found guilty I will remand you to a Court Martial and we'll see if that can get your attention. Dismissed!" I thanked him, and stepped back to my place.
The location of my "hard labor" had not been indicated at Mast, but once again, Captain Williams had a plan. When we were beyond French Frigate Shoals in the open Pacific, moving slowly toward the International Date Line, the sea took on the familiar "roll" of the huge, mid-ocean swells...a rhythmic up, down, with a slight yaw thrown in which messed with my middle-ear, resulting in almost constant nausea; my motion-sickness was well known, since I frequently brought a bucket to the bridge with me when doing tactical radio duties; if necessary, I would step out the hatch onto the flying bridge and puke into the bucket...not exactly the kind of hearty bridge-ritual that Captains appreciated. Captain Williams assigned me to the Shaft Alley Bilges to do "extra duty" a day, for 14-consecutive days, the day after we hit the pitch, roll and yaw of these open ocean swells.
Shaft Alley, was the farthest compartment aft on the ship, and well below the water-line; so-called because the "shaft" which was turned by the propulsion system, ran through it, and out an (almost) water-tight fitting, finally attaching to the giant propeller which moved the ship. It was a place frequented only by "Snipes" (an affectionate term for Engineering crew), and the occasional Deck Ape (a disrespectful term for the Deck force). No self-respecting Operations Puke (Radio, Radar, Signalman, Electronics Technicians) likely even knew it existed, or how to find it if they did know it existed. Shaft Alley underway, as it turned out, was smelly, hot, noisy, and humid...thoroughly unpleasant. The bilge below the removable metal deck plating was full of warm, greasy "water" with a unique stench, swirling, gurgling, rising and falling in concert with the ship's motion. My extra-duty was to remove rust and other debris from the bulk-head, starting at water's surface, and upwards to some point, using a chipping hammer and a wire-brush. Then I would coat the bare metal which my efforts exposed with Yellow Oxide...a rust-inhibitor which I believe is now outlawed for application by humans because it is a suspected carcinogen. To do this, I stood in the murky waters of the bilge, up to my thighs, or in the case of a good ship's roll to port or starboard, up to my waist. I wore plastic goggles to keep the chips, water, and oxide out of contact with my eyes; the goggles also provided a place for sweat to pool, and resulted in an allergic reaction to the rubber sealant material around my eyes, and the bridge of my nose...ultimately I ceased wearing the goggles, feeling that possibly blindness might relieve me of the remainder of my duty; however I was not to be fortunate enough to experience blindness or any other form of disabling relief.
I should mention that any time out of the bilge during my extra duty workday had to be made up with more time. When Captain Williams accounted for time, he didn’t count a half-hour in the head vomiting or urinating...a full measure of time, as prescribed at Mast, in the bilges, for 14-consecutive days, including Saturdays and Sundays. Consequently, I learned to not waste time by leaving Shaft Alley to vomit or urinate, adding even more toxicity to the water in which I was standing. When I exited Shaft Alley each day I was coated with rust, old paint, oxide, assorted other metallic and oily grime, as well as, soaked dungarees from standing in the water. There are few things I hate more than being grimy-dirty. I don't mind sweat, but dust, grime, grease, oil and other indescribable water-borne concoctions and body fluids are not even close to tolerable; however, the Marine Brig in Guam was waiting if I refused to perform the duty as described by my sentence, so I persisted everyday, also performing my other duties on shipboard, flawlessly, because I believed it mattered.
Captain William, the astute and intuitive professional Officer had found the key to my cooperation...I hated getting dirty, and working in filth, including my own. My career as the ship's "bad boy" pretty much came into acceptable parameters after that. My "military" marks were acceptable; my "professional" marks in Radio were excellent; and, my personal demeanor was well within "acceptable" limits until I left the Abnaki in July 1966 in Subic Bay the Philippines, enroute to Treasure Island, California. Part of my improvement was for a reason I could not claim. We had to leave my "shore buddy" and drinking partner Kenny Wetzler in Yokosuka, Japan after his jaw was broken, and wired in place following a brawl at the Enlisted Men's club. With Wetzler gone, I gravitated to others who perhaps didn't magnify my own faults to the same extent. I don't mean to imply that my behavior was Wetzzler’s fault; simply put he and I did not "moderate" each other's faults, we magnified them.
In good time, with the recommendations of Mr. Nason and Captain Williams I re-earned my Petty Officer-3rd rank and finished out my time as an E-4. During my civilian career, I often remembered Captain Williams, his benevolent but absolute authority, and his willingness to use his power to bring about change, and I became better at sizing up my "boss's". Perhaps only two of them, in my next 39-years of employment understood how to use power and authority without malice or self-aggrandizement. I like to think I learned some of my management skills from Captain Williams.
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