Sex and the Single Sailor

A Deal I Was Stupid Enough to Refuse

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I’ve never been much of what you’d call a “ladies man.”  This little story will make that abundantly clear. It also illustrates how opportunities can pass us by never to return.

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It was the spring of 1958.  I had turned 20 the previous October.  I had taken 30 days leave and was headed home to Iowa.  I was long on time and short on cash so I was hitch-hiking.

I'd gotten as far as Riverside, California when my luck turned bad.  I'd been there about two hours, trying to catch a ride east.  No luck.  Even worse luck: it was raining and it was dark, about 8 o’clock at night.

I'm drenched, wondering if I'm ever going to get out of there, when this baby-blue 1957 Chevy Bel Air goes screaming by. 

Zoom!  Whoosh!  Splash!  Screech!  The driver slams on the brakes and starts backing up.  I grab my bag and start running for the car.

I hop in, throw my bag in the back seat and take a gander at who just picked me up.  It's a young woman in her mid-twenties, a good-looking brunette with a hint of plumpness but far from being overweight.

 

We engage in some idle conversation – you know, who I am, who she is, where I'm head­ed, where she's headed – that that sort of thing.  It turns out she's an English teacher, on her way up to Portland and then on to Seattle for her spring break.

I'm struck by a change in her use of language during the course of our conversation.  At first, she's all prim and proper.  Pretty soon, she says, "Damn."  Then it's "goddamn."  Next, in quick succession, it's "hell," "s--t" and then the “F” word.

Darned if she doesn't proposition me.

"Look," she says, "would you like to come along to Seattle with me?"

"That's nice of you,” I replied, “but I don't have any civilian clothes, just the uniform I'm wearing and a spare one in my bag."

"I'll buy you all the clothes you need.  I've got close to $4,000 in travelers checks."

"I couldn't let you do that,” I said.  “Besides, I really do want to get home to Iowa."

"That's no problem,” she declared.  “I've only got 10 days and you've got 30.  You come along with me for those 10 days and I'll buy you a round-trip train ticket home and back out to San Diego."

I was too young to know that “Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned” and I said, "Naw, I really do wanna get home and see my mother."

She pulls over, stops and tells me to get out.  I grab my bag and get out.

The tires on that baby-blue Bel Air screech again; this time from digging out instead of stopping.

I manage to get home in a couple of days, spend my leave and then get back to the ship.  I go down to the mess decks at lunchtime, grab a tray full of chow and sit down at a table with some guys I hung around with.  One of them was Tommy Lee Crabtree.

I told them about the English teacher.  Tommy Lee looks at me, stands up, picks up his tray, looks down at me and says, "You have got to be the dumbest son-of-a-bitch alive."

Now, a little more than 50 years later, I'm inclined to agree with him.  I wish somebody would invent a time machine so I could go back and try that one over again.

"When I Say Shoot . . . "

In Which I Cut My First Deal

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My first “deal” took me by surprise.  I wasn’t used to negotiation and quid pro quo was a term not yet in my vocabulary.  But it turned out to be an excellent win-win deal and its making illustrates the essence of the deal. It also illustrates nicely what is known as the Barnard-Simon theory of organization equilibrium, which has to do with the equitable exchange of contributions for inducements – but  that’s another story for another time.

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When I checked in at the USS Waddell’s pre-commissioning office in at Todd Shipyard in Seattle in March of 1964, I was greeted by the weapons officer, Lieutenant Harvey Lasko.  I was a first-class petty officer at the time, wearing dress blues and he could tell from my rating badge that I was a fire control techni­cian (FT).  He guessed that I was the one he was look­ing for.

"You must be Nickols," he said, extending his hand, "my new gunnery fire control technician."

"Yes, sir," I said, shaking the hand that had been offered me.

We chatted for a while and I learned that Lasko is an ex-enlisted man, an FT of all things, a guy from my own rating.  But he assured me that he had no intention of messing with matters techni­cal.  He had a different arrangement in mind.

Getting down to business, he said, "I'll make you a deal.”

"What kind of a deal?" I asked.

"When I say 'shoot,' I want the guns to go bang and I want the bullets to hit the target."

"That's easy enough," I replied.  “That’s my job.”

"Now what do you want?" he asked.

I was taken aback because it was the first time in my life anyone had ever offered anything in return for what they were asking from me.  The best I could do was to stammer, “Uh...uh...what do you mean?"

LT Lasko leaned back in his chair and said, "When I say 'shoot,' the guns go bang and the bullets hit the target, right?"

"Right," said I.

"Okay.  That's what I want from you.  Now what do you want from me?"

My mind in gear, now, I replied, "I want the plotting room off limits.  No one comes in without my permission."

Lasko laughed and said, "I can't keep the old man or the X.O. out, but other than them I’m the senior line officer aboard so I can keep everyone else out.  Is that okay?"

"Yes, sir, that's fine by me."

You've got a deal."

We shook hands for the second time in 15 minutes.

LT Harvey J. Lasko was true to his word.  For all the time we served together, the plotting room was off-limits to everyone except him, the skipper and the X.O. 

Most important, when Lasko said, “Shoot,” the guns went bang and the bullets hit the target.

Some Conflict Resolution "Magic"

Getting the Cards on the Table

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I am of the opinion that true conflict in a working group is actually pretty rare.  More often than not, what seems to be conflict is actually a lack of information and imagined conflict.  This little incident will illustrate that point.

 

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A group of about a dozen senior naval officers (Commanders and Captains) from various departments in a very large Navy program had been assembled to prepare a joint position statement about future directions and emphases of the program.  They were meeting at the Human Resource Management Center where I was stationed.  The group had been allotted three days to prepare the paper and, by the middle of day two, had made absolutely no progress.  They acknowledged their lack of progress to one another and asked the commanding officer of my center to make available to them one of the organization development (OD) consultants on staff at the center, someone who could help them resolve what they saw as hidden conflict.  The task fell to me.

I went to the large meeting room where the group was assembled and engaged them in a discussion of purposes.  My initial aim was to take the group back to the reason for their being there.  After hearing them out, I then asserted it was my guess that they had each been charged by the head of their respective departments to make certain that their piece of the program, or its agenda, or its priority, or its budget or some such issue, survived the meeting.  They were all charged with protecting something – they were to bring it back safely – or else. 

I was guessing, of course, but it was a good guess.  Nods and laughter confirmed my hunch.  At this point, I suggested it would be a good idea if the group members wrote down what it was they had been charged with “bringing home,” as it were – just to be clear. 

When all were finished, I went to an easel sheet and indicated I would like all present to share their charges and that I was going to write them down in plain view.  A couple of the officers protested, saying they did not know they were going to be asked to expose their charges to view.  Other officers quickly squelched the dissent, saying that if they didn’t get it all the cards out on the table, they would never be able to resolve the logjam and move forward, in which case they would all be in very deep trouble. 

The items, about two dozen in all, were quickly listed.  I stepped back, reviewed the list, and announced to the group, “I don’t see a single item up there that conflicts with any other, do you?”  The group members agreed and one of them said, “Thanks, Chief, I think we can take it from here.” 

The entire intervention had taken less than an hour. The report was ready by the end of that day and the group went home a day ahead of schedule.

 Shortly after the group left the center where they were meeting, my commanding officer called me into his office and said, “Nick, what kind of magic did you work up there?”

“No magic, Skipper,” I said, “I just got ‘em to put their cards on the table.”

Getting people to put their cards on the table is an essential step in resolving what appears to be conflict, especially of the win-lose variety and, as I said at the outset, I am very much of the opinion that true conflict is rare; most of the time it owes to a lack of information. 

Epilogue

As it happens, a few years later I encountered a similar situation with a VP and his department heads at what used to be New York Telephone.  Cards were being held close to the vest, so to speak and, once again, when they were put on the table the logjam was broken.

"Friends in High Places"

In Which I Luck Out Once Again

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The old saying that “It’s not what you know but who you know that counts” has a big grain of truth in it. Having friends in high places is indeed an important asset. However, it can happen that your ability to draw on such friends involves a certain degree of dumb luck.  In this case, I lucked out once again - and I learned something about leadership.

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After returning from my first tour in WestPac I managed to wangle myself a temporary transfer to the Service School Com­mand at the Naval Training Center out on Rose­crans Avenue in San Diego.  I was working on a fire control system for which I had never been trained and, after repeated requests, I was finally allowed to attend the six-week training course for that system.

I’m about four weeks into the training and enjoying my temporary shore duty.  Too much as it turns out.  I’m downtown in the Panama Bar, a place that has long since disappeared, when the Shore Patrol comes in and starts checking ID cards.  I’m only 20, but I’ve got an ID card that says I’m 21 (and I'll explain how that happened in a bit).

The Shore Patrol checks my ID card, which says I'm of age, then decides to haul me in anyway because  they think I’ve had too much to drink.  Into the paddy wagon I go and down to Shore Patrol headquarters.  After about five hours in the tank, they load me into the paddy wagon again and haul me out to the training center.  My ID card and my liberty card, along with the Shore Patrol report are turned over to the base duty officer and I’m told I’m restricted to the base until disposition of my case.  I wasn’t worried about being restricted because I had my real ID card safely stowed in my locker, along with a spare liberty card or two. 

About three days later, I’m called down to the office at the FT school I’m attending.  I walk up to this guy in a white shirt and black tie and say, “Sir, my name’s Nickols.  I was told to report to the office.”

“Don’t call me ‘sir,’ Nickols!   My name is Chief Thompson.”  I felt like telling him he ought to get his rank tattooed on his forehead because there’s no telling an officer from a chief when they’re wearing blues and they’ve got their blouses off.  But, instead I said, “Right, Chief.”

“Nickols,” the chief says, "do you have your ID card on you?”

Without thinking, I said, “Yep.  Right here in my wallet.”

“Lemme see it.”

I took out my wallet, extracted my ID card, and handed it to the chief.

“Well, well, looky here,” says the chief.  “What have we here?   Two ID cards!  My, my.”

The chief had the Shore Patrol report and my other ID card.

“I was all set to give you back your ID and liberty card,” grins the chief, “but now that I see you have two of ‘em, I guess we’ll just have to send you up to Captain’s Mast.  And I’ll hang on to this,” indicating my second ID card.

This chief was a man who really liked his job.  I had been promoted to third-class petty officer not too long before and I had visions of that crow flying off my arm and being replaced by a set of seaman’s stripes.  At any rate, I’m now a piece of meat caught up in the Navy's legal machinery.

The following week, I go to X.O.’s Mast.  The executive officer screens all disciplinary cases to determine if he should handle them or forward them to the C.O. for a full-fledged Captain’s Mast or, at the C.O.’s discretion, a courts-martial.

Apparently, I'm the only one in trouble at the time because I’m the only one at the X.O.’s office.  I’m sitting in the X.O.’s reception area with the base legal officer, a full lieutenant, who is busily reading me the riot act.  He’s telling me that he’s going to personally see to it that the X.O. sends me to see the Captain; that possessing two ID cards is a big crime; that, all things considered, I must be a worthless piece of dog shit; and, finally, that I can kiss my crow good-bye.  Here, too, was another fellow who enjoyed his work.  I never saw so many highly motivated people in all my life.

After a half-hour wait beyond the ap­pointed time, the lieutenant picks up my service record and the disciplinary paperwork, says, “Let's go, sailor,” gets up from his desk and opens the door to the X.O.'s office.

The X.O. looks up, his eyes get wide, and he says, “Nick!  What the hell are you doin’ here?”  My eyes are just as wide, because the X.O. of the Service School Command is – or was – the commanding officer of my ship when I was trans­ferred to the training center for the course I was attending.  I blurt out, “Skipper!  What are you doin’ here?” 

The lieutenant is freaking out.  Eyes dart­ing back and forth between me and the X.O., the lieutenant can’t stand the pressure of his own curiosity, so he asks both of us, “You two know one another?”

The executive officer of the Service School Command, the full commander I thought was out at the 32^nd Street Naval Station and in command of my ship, replies, “Yes, we do, lieuten­ant.  That’ll be all.  I'll handle this.”

Dismissed, the lieutenant drops my papers on the X.O.’s desk and leaves the room, closing the door behind him.

Now I’ve got a pretty good relationship with this commander, the man who was my Captain and was now the X.O. of the Service School Command.  I’m a curious sort and I spent many of my off-duty hours on board ship hanging around other work areas to see what I could learn.  I talked a Radioman into teaching me Morse code and I spent a lot of time hanging around the Sig­nalmen up on the bridge, badgering them to let me apply my knowledge of Morse code via the flashing lights on the bridge.  I got pretty good at sending but I never mastered receiving.

Being on the bridge a lot brought me into contact with the Captain.  This particular Captain had once told me – in front of all the signalmen back by the flag bags – that I was so skinny that a double-barrelled shotgun would make me a good pair of Levis.

With the lieutenant out of the room, I ask again, “What are you doin’ here, skipper?”

“Humanitarian shore duty,” came the reply.  “My wife is extremely ill, so the Commo­dore (the four-striper who commanded our squad­ron of destroyers) arranged for me to be trans­ferred here temporarily.”

“I’m sorry to hear that, skipper.  Is she gonna be all right?”

“I think so.”

“Will you be going back?”

“Yes, probably in about a month.  In the meantime, Lieutenant Commander Lake will be the acting C.O.  Now, what about you?  How the hell did you get two ID cards?”

“Well, just before I came over here to school, I lost my ID card.  I put in a special request chit for a new one and when I filled it out I was wishin’ that I had been born in 1936 instead of 1937 so I’d be 21.  I guess I put down 1936 for my date of birth ‘cause when I got my new ID card, that’s what it said.  So, there I was, with a nice, new official ID card that said I was 21 instead of 20.  Then I found my old ID card down in the plotting room.”

What I didn’t tell him was that I knew the ship’s office was swamped and I didn’t think they’d take the time to verify the date on my request against the date of birth in my service record.  And apparently they hadn’t.

“When are you scheduled to go back to the ship?” asked the skipper.

“Next week.”

“Well, I can’t very well send you back to the ship as a seaman, now, can I?  It wouldn’t look very good to the crew if I came over here for a month and while I was here I had you busted, would it?”

“No, sir,” said I, anxious to confirm the decision in his question.

“I’m gonna give you a warning, Nick.”  Looking at the two ID cards clipped to my service record, he asked, “Which of these ID cards do you want?”

“The right one, sir.”

He smiled, said, “Good answer,” then handed me one of the ID cards which I promptly tucked in my jumper pocket.  He then cut up the other one and threw it in his wastebasket.

Buzzing the lieutenant on his intercom, the X.O. looked up when the lieutenant entered and said, “X.O.’s warning.

“But, sir,” began the lieutenant.

“X.O.s warning,” repeated my skipper.

“Yes, sir.”

On the way out, the lieutenant muttered, “You’re a lucky little bastard, aren’t you?”  I said nothing.

Once outside, I pulled the ID card from my jumper pocket, looked at it and began laugh­ing.  The skipper had given me the ID card saying I was 21 years old.  “Damn,” I thought to myself, “I’d follow that man anywhere.”  And for another year, that’s exactly what I did.