Out of Uniform

In Which I Meet Up with Steve Canyon

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Some of the things that happen in the Navy – and other large organizations – are downright laughable. Unfortunately, some of them tie to a couple of the sad facts of life in hierarchical systems of authority. First, some people seem incapable of leading by example. These people also seem oblivious to the example they set. Second, some people take advantage of their rank or position in the hierarchy to step outside the rules and regulations that supposedly govern all members of the system. They abuse their authority and thereby promote resentment against authority in general. This little story illustrates just how ludicrous things can get.

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After a little more than four years on board the USS Waddell, arguably the best tour of duty I ever had, I was transferred to the USS Truxtun.

The Truxtun was a nuclear‑powered, guided‑missile frigate – a real showboat. I caught up with her in the naval shipyard at Bremerton, Washington. It was wintertime and the slush in the shipyard was ankle‑deep. So I went over to the Navy exchange and bought myself a pair of ankle-high, waterproof, brown work boots.

One morning, I had just left the Chief’s mess on my way to the shipyard and was headed up the starboard side toward the brow when I met up with the X.O. It was our first encounter.

He stopped me, looked down at my feet, and said, "Those are non‑regulation shoes, Chief. We don't allow that sort of thing on the Truxtun."

Now let me tell you about this guy and how he was dressed and let's start at the top – with what was on his head.

He had on an olive‑green fatigue hat, the stiff, starched-and-blocked kind that Fidel Castro used to wear. Smack in the middle of it, centered over the visor, was a great big silver oak leaf, the kind worn by Army and Air Force officers, which is much bigger than the silver oak leaves worn by Navy officers. Right below the visor was a pair of those damned mirrored sunglasses. Right away I knew I was dealing with a guy who doesn't want anyone looking him in the eye.

His jacket was one of those dark blue satin numbers with a dark blue fur collar; the kind you see on police officers in the wintertime. On its shoulder straps were two more of those great big silver oak leaves. He was a full commander and apparently he wanted to ensure that no one would overlook that fact.

His shirt and trousers were navy-blue wool and, as near as I could tell, they were regulation. The collar devices on his shirt, small silver oak leaves, also ap­peared to be regulation, but his shirt collar was open and in place of a tie he was wearing a white silk scarf tied to give the appearance of a cravat.

His trousers were tucked into a pair of spit‑shined paratrooper's boots. From the way his trousers bloused down and over the tops of those boots, I would have wagered he was using chains to weigh them down, just like the real paratrooper he would never be.

I concluded the X.O. was slightly batty and that he probably thought he was Steve Canyon.

I looked him up and down three or four times so he'd get my message, then I chuckled and said with a grin, "You gotta be kiddin’ me, Commander."

I stepped around him, still chuckling and shaking my head, and went on up to the brow where I crossed over into the shipyard. I never heard another word about my non‑regulation shoes.

I contacted my detailer in Washington, D.C. and took steps to get off the Truxtun, pronto.