by Don Wayman

The only memories of my Navy career that I do not cherish were the first twelve weeks, that period of time known as Boot Camp.

It was at the US Naval Training Center, Great Lakes, Illinois, that I often asked myself why I ever enlisted. The source of my discomfort during Basic Training in March, April, and May of 1949 could be traced to one individual: E.R. Johnson, QMC, if I remember correctly the ‘E’ stood for Everett. Chief Johnson was Company Commander, Co. 97.

On Day One we recruits were instructed on the proper way to answer Roll call. Our new mentor required a loud and clear ‘Here, Sir’, upon hearing your name announced.
By the time the chief got down to the ‘W’s, I had forgotten all about the rules that chief Johnson had set forth. When I heard ‘WAYMAN, Donald A.’, I answered with a loud and clear ‘YO!” which was quite common and acceptable during my short stint in the National Guard, Co. L, 181st Inf. Div. With each subsequent calling of my name I bellowed a louder and clearer ‘YO”, believing that my new leader had perhaps suffered some hearing loss as a result of a great Naval battle of WW11.

Mercifully, someone in the ranks, near to me, suggested that I answer ‘Here, Sir!’, although somewhat puzzled I complied, thus bringing to a close my exchanges with Chief Johnson. Roll Call continued thru the X’s, Y’s and Z’s, but the damage had been done. The Chief would never forget my name. My mentor would become my tormentor and from that day on he would never miss an opportunity to belittle me.

At our first ‘short arm inspection’ I noticed our Company Commander whispering to the Corpsman as I waited my turn in line. Needless to say, I did not meet the Navy criteria and received a gob of a thick gooey purple substance at a location that can only be described as private…and extremely sore and irritated after the scrubbing that it took to remove the violet hue and ultimately, pass inspection.

Seabag Inspection was another occasion that the Chief selected to punish me for my Roll Call bungle. All of my belongings had been rolled and lined up meticulously and met with the Inspecting Officer’s approval, a Lieutenant, as I recall. The Lt. gave me a 4.0 and exempted me from all further Seabag Inspections. Chief Johnson, who was now known as ‘Hose Nose’, offered his assessment of my efforts and convinced his superior, the young and competent Lieutenant, that he (the Chief) could see what appeared to be one (1) dirty Clothes Stop, and therefore, I would not be freed from any future checks of my clothes-rolling skills.

Inspections in the barracks or out on the parade grounds were terrifying. I knew that I could not please this pitiful creature. He would find fault with my shoes or boots, my bunk or my