"Lucked Out Again"

Gunner Mintz

"Lucked Out Again"


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From time to time we meet someone who marks our memory with the indelible impression that only some extraordinary feat of mind can leave behind. Gunner Mintz left such a mark on my memory.

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The first time I met Gunner Mintz was in 1955 at the Service School Command (SSC), part of the Naval Training Center (NTC) at Great Lakes, Illinois.I was newly out of boot camp there and was attending FT “A” school where I was receiving the basic training given to Navy Fire Control Technicians (FTs).

My first of two meetings with Gunner Mintz arose from the circumstances surrounding my promotion to Seaman.

As was the policy at that time, upon graduation from boot camp I was automatically promoted from Seaman Recruit (SR) to Seaman Apprentice (SA). My next promotion, to Seaman (SN), required me to take and pass a competitive examination, as would all promotions thereafter. The Seaman examina­tions were administered every six months. But, to be eligible, I first had to spend six months in grade as a Seaman Apprentice.

When the time approached for the administration of the Seaman examinations in the fall of 1955, a list of those eligible to take the examination was posted outside the office of the Chief Master‑at‑Arms of the FT school. My name wasn’t on the list but I didn’t expect to see it because I wasn’t eligible. I did not have the required six months in grade. Then, a couple of weeks later, the date and time of the test were posted, along with the names of the people who were supposed to take it. Much to my surprise my name was on this list of test takers. I had nothing to lose, so, at the appointed time and place, I went in with those who were eligible and took the test. The following week, the names of those who passed the test were posted. My name was not on the list. I had failed the test. The week after that, a list of those who would be promoted to Seaman on November 16th was posted. My name was on it.

On the 16th of November, 1955, I sewed on the three white diagonal stripes identifying me as a Seaman First Class. I also started shooting off my mouth about how screwed up the Navy was. I wasn’t eligible but I took the test; I didn’t pass it but I was promoted.

One day, shortly after my mouth got out of control, I was directed to report to Gunner Mintz in the school’s administrative offices. Gunner Mintz was a commissioned warrant officer, a chief warrant officer (W‑4), a species of seagoing life that even admirals are said to approach with caution. Gunner Mintz had risen from the ranks of the enlisted ordnance ratings, hence the title “Gunner.” He was also the living embodiment of “lean and mean.” Salt‑and‑pepper hair worn in a close­ly‑cropped crew‑cut framed a leathery face holding two ice‑blue eyes rumored to be capa­ble of piercing 16‑inch armor plate. I knew for a fact he could see right through me.

I stood at attention in front of Gunner Mintz’ desk, barely 18 years old and scared half out of my wits. I had no idea what he wanted but, whatever he wanted, I knew it wasn’t going to be good news for me.

“Nickols,” he said, “we all know you got promoted by accident. Things like that sometimes happen in a system this big. If you were smart, you’d keep your mouth shut and be thankful you lucked out. If you don’t keep your mouth shut you’re not going to leave the rest of us any choice except to remedy that mistake. Understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

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Eight years later, in 1963, I once again found myself at Great Lakes. This time I was attending FT “B” School where I was receiving advanced training for FTs. I wandered up to the administrative offices and surveyed the photographs on the staff roster board outside the offices. Much to my surprise and delight, Gunner Mintz’ picture was there but he was no longer “Gunner” Mintz; in the intervening eight years he had been promoted to Lieutenant Commander (LCDR) and he was now the officer in charge (OIC) of the FT school. I had a promotion in the offing, too, and thought to impress Gunner (now Lieutenant Commander) Mintz with my good fortune.

I had just arrived at “the Lakes” from a tour of duty at the White Sands Missile Range (WSMR) in New Mexico. About a month before leaving the missile range, I’d taken the service‑wide competitive examination for promotion to pay grade E-6 or first‑class petty officer (FTG1). The examination center where the competitive advancement examinations were scored was located at Great Lakes and I was hoping to find someone who could tell me if I had passed and would be promoted. Sure enough, I came across a friend with whom I’d served on my first ship. As luck would have it, my friend had a friend at the examination center and, two weeks before the results were officially announced, I learned that I would be promoted to E‑6.

On the first day I could officially wear my first‑class “crow” (the nickname for a petty officer’s badge of rank), I headed straight for the school administrative offices with the unabashed­ly prideful intent of demonstrating to Gunner Mintz that I, too, had advanced a fair bit in my career since last we had seen one another. I strode confidently past two open‑mouthed secretaries, both of whom were too astonished by my breach of protocol to stop me, and went directly to the open door of Gunner Mintz’ office where I knocked firmly on the wall next to it. I was making it perfectly clear that my days of shivering in front of authority figures were behind me.

Gunner Mintz, now LCDR Mintz, a man who hadn’t seen me in eight years and then had seen me only once, looked up from his desk, glanced at the upper portion of the left sleeve of my undress blue jumper, which I had turned toward him so he could see the emblem of my new rank (just one short of Chief Petty Officer) and, with a face completely devoid of expression, fixed those ice-blue eyes of his on me and said, “Well, Nickols, I see you lucked out again.”

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More than 45 years have passed since the day Gunner Mintz knocked the wind out of my sails and I haven’t seen him since. I don’t even know if he’s still alive. But to this day I envy that man his memory for names, faces and events. In that regard, I’ve never met a better man than Chief Warrant Officer (CWO-4) “Gunner” Mintz.

Aye, Aye Sir - The Limits of Authority

This is one of my favorite sea stories. It is about an event I witnessed early in my Navy career, one that made clear to me the limits of authority. Tommy Lee Crabtree, the central figure in this story is as true to life as I can make him. However, I have changed our division officer’s name so as to spare him any embarrassment beyond that which he suffered at the time of the event. From time to time, I have told this story to illustrate the difficulties inherent in supervising knowledge workers – people who work with their heads instead of their hands. FORTUNE magazine once published a shorter version of this Sea Story in the form of a letter to the editor I wrote to Walter Kiechel, then an editor at FORTUNE.

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The year was 1957. The ship was the USS Gregory (DD-802), an old WW II Fletcher-class, 2100-ton destroyer. We were in Subic Bay in the Philippines, taking a break from our assignment of patrolling the Formosa Straits.

Tommy Lee Crabtree, a Gunner’s Mate second class (GM2), was working on Mount 53, one of the ship’s five, five-inch gun mounts, trying to repair an as yet unidentified malfunction. I was new on board and I was working on Tommy Lee, trying to persuade him to invite me to join the armory coffee mess. The armory coffee mess was, in my mind, the most prestigious coffee mess on board the Gregory and I badly wanted an invitation to join. The invitation had to come from Tommy Lee; he was the Gunner’s Mate in charge of the armory. Short-term, my hopes weren’t high but I was prepared to hang in there for the long haul.

Tommy Lee and I were taking a break, hunkered down on our haunches next to the gun mount, sipping coffee and chatting in a way calculated to help him take my measure, when we spotted our division officer approaching.

Our division officer was a Lieutenant Junior Grade (Ltjg) whose last name was Wilson. A bit of a martinet, he had been nicknamed “Whip,” an appellation borrowed from a star of western movies of the 1940s.

“What are you two doing?” he demanded.

“Drinkin’ coffee and shootin’ the breeze,” replied Tommy Lee.

“What are you doing here?” Whip asked of me.

As a Fire Control Technician (FT), my work required close coordination with the Gunners Mates so I had a convenient and true cover story. Standing up, I said, “I came down to find out when Tommy Lee thinks we’ll be able to include the gun mount in the daily workouts and if he thinks we’ll have to realign it with the rest of the gun battery.”

“Well,” demanded Mr. Wilson, turning to Tommy Lee who was still squatting, “when will it be fixed?”

“I dunno. I’m workin’ on it. Probably some time today.”

“That's not good enough! Get off your ass and get back to work! I want that gun mount back in working order A.S.A.P.!”

Tommy Lee looked up at Mr. Wilson, studying him much the way he might contemplate a cockroach he was thinking about crushing. Then, rising slowly to his feet, Tommy Lee grinned wickedly and asked, “Are you ordering me to fix this here gun mount, Mr. Wilson?”

“Yes, I am,” snapped Mr. Wilson.

Shifting his coffee cup to his left hand, Tommy Lee saluted smartly, and said, “Aye aye, sir. What would you like me to do first?”

The reactions played across Mr. Wilson's face like moving scenery: first puzzlement, then comprehension, followed in quick order by surprise, shock, humiliation and, finally, red-faced, apoplectic anger.

“Whip” Wilson had been heisted on his own authoritarian petard by a master of the game. Tommy Lee had done what all those who must submit to authority have been doing for thousands of years, he submitted. He went passive. He asked Mr. Wilson to tell him what to do and he would do it. The problem for Mr. Wilson was that he couldn’t issue the necessary orders. Tommy Lee knew that all along. “Whip” Wilson was just now finding that out.

Furious, Mr. Wilson glared at Tommy Lee, then turned and stomped off without a word.

Tommy Lee watched him go, then turned to me, doubtless feeling expansive as a result of besting Wilson, and said, “Nick, you can hang your cup in the mess when you're finished.”

Witness to Tommy Lee's triumph, the potential value of my testimony at future gatherings outside the armory had earned me the invitation I sought. I was in.

Epilogue

I learned recently that Tommy Lee passed away several years ago – in the Philippines, I am told. He will be missed but not, I suspect, by Ltjg “Whip” Wilson.

The Importance of Sea Stories

When sailors have free time, which is regularly under some circumstances and rarely under others, they can be heard doing what fishermen call “talk­ing about the one that got away,” what woodsmen call “telling tall tales,” what men in the barber shops of my youth called “swapping lies” and what sailors call “telling sea stories.”

Sea stories are told wherever and whenever sailors get together – in the mess decks, on the fantail, in work spaces, on the quarterdeck, during general quarters and before, during, and after working hours. They make their way into almost every conversation, some­times at the initiative of the teller and sometimes in response to a question from a listener. They are always relevant to the topic of discussion, even when they serve to redirect that discussion.

On occasion, sea stories are mostly fact; at other times, they are mostly fantasy. They are remembrances of the past – recollections of the way things were. Sometimes, they are reconstructions of the way things should have been.

Sea stories are part of the mythology of life at sea; they give meaning to an otherwise mundane existence and they sometimes bring hope to an otherwise bleak existence. But, for the most part, they serve simply to liven up what would otherwise be an unbearably dull day at sea.

For those who hear them, sea stories mirror the mind and soul; they reflect the way the storyteller’s head works and where his heart is. For those who tell them, sea stories are paint, canvas and brushes; tools with which they paint public pictures – and with which their listeners paint private ones.

For almost 20 years, telling and listening to sea stories was for me an important means of understanding the nature of men, espe­cially sailors – the men who go down to the sea in ships.

In this blog you will find a collection of sea stories from my 20 years in the United States Navy. Some are quite short, others quite long; a few are liberally laced with profanity but most are not.

If I have a regret, it is that you and I can’t sit down so I could tell you these stories face to face. Myths, after all, are made stronger when they're passed along from generation to generation by word of mouth.

Finally, I hope you enjoy reading them as much as I enjoy writing them.

Fred W. “Nick” Nickols, FTGC, USN (Ret.)

Sea Stories by "Nick"

My name is Fred Nickols and nowadays most people call me Fred. But for 20 of the most important years of my life, people called me "Nick" and then, later on, they called me "Chief." Those 20 years were spent in the United States Navy and I learned many of my life's lessons there, especially lessons about work, working, workers and organizations. On this blog I intend sharing some of the tales from my time in the Navy (1955-1974). These tales are known as "sea stories" and I've devoted a special blog entry to explaining them.