After all it IS a sailor story.
Boatsailors and Peacoats
by Bob 'Dex' Armstrong
You remember them... Those ton and a half monsters that took the
annual production of thirty-five sheep to make. Those thick black
rascals with black plastic buttons the size of poker chips. The
issue coats that drove shore duty chief petty officers stark raving
nuts if they caught you with the collar turned up or your gahdam
hands in your pockets.
"Hey, you rubber sock, get those gahdam hands outta them damn
pockets! Didn't they issue you black leather gloves?"
So, you took your hands out of your pockets and risked digital
frostbite rather than face whatever the Navy had in store for
violators of the 'No Gahdam Hands In Peacoat Pockets' policy.
There's probably a special barracks in Hell full of old E-3s caught
hitchiking in sub-zero weather with hands in peacoat pockets.
As for those leather gloves, one glove always went missing.
"Son, where in th' hell are the gloves we issued you?"
We??? I don't remember this nasty, ugly bastard being at Great
Lakes when the 'jocks and socks' petty officers were throwing my
initial issue seabag at me and yelling, "Move it!!"
As for the gloves, once you inadvertantly leave one glove on a
whorehouse night table or on the seat of a Grayhound bus, the
remaining glove is only useful if a tank rolls over the hand that
fit the lost glove.
In the days long ago, a navy spec. peacoat weighed about the same
as a flat car load of cinder blocks. When it rained, it absorbed
water until your spine warped, your shins cracked and your ankles
split. Five minutes standing in the rain waiting on a bus and you
felt like you were piggy-backing the statue of liberty.
When a peacoat got wet, it smelled a lot like sheep dip. It had
that wet wool smell , times three. It weighed three and a half tons
and smelled like 'Mary had a little lamb's' gym shorts.
You know how damn heavy a late '50s peacoat was? Well, they had
little metal chains sewn in the back of the collar to hang them up
by. Like diluted navy coffee, sexual sensitivity instruction,
comfortable air-conditioned topside security bungalows, patent
leather plastic-looking shoes and wearing raghats configured to
look like bidet bowls, the peacoat spec. has been watered down to
the point you could hang them up with dental floss. In the old
days, peacoat buttons and grocery cart wheels were interchangeable
parts. The gear issued by the U.S. Navy was tough as hell,
bluejacket-tested clothing with the durability of rino hide and
construction equipment tires.
Peacoats came with wide, heavy collars. In a cold, hard wind, you
could turn that wide collar up to cover your neck and it was like
poking your head in a tank turret.
The things were warm, but I never t hought they were long enough.
Standing out in the wind in those 'big-legged britches' (bell
bottoms), the wind whistled up your cuffs and took away body warmth
like a thief. But, they were perfect to pull over you for a blanket
when sleeping on a bus or a bus terminal bench.
Every sailor remembers stretching out on one of those oak bus
station pews with his raghat over his face, his head up against his
AWOL bag and covered with his peacoat. There was always some 'SP'
who had not fully evolved from apehood, who poked you with his
billy bat and said,
"Hey, YOU!! Get up! Waddya think yer doin? You wanna sleep, get a
gahdam room!"
Peacoats were lined with quilted satin or rayon. I never realized
it at the time, but sleeping on bus seats and station benches would
be the closest I would ever get to sleeping on satin sheets.
Early in my naval career, a career-hardened (lifer) first class
gunner's mate told me to put my ID and liberty card in the inside
pocket o f my peacoat.
"Put the sonuvabitches in that gahdam inside pocket and pin the
damn thing closed with a diaper pin. Then, take your heavy folding
money and put it in your sock. If you do that, learn to never take
your socks off in a cathouse. Them damn dockside pickpockets pat
'cha down for a lumpy wallet and they can relieve you of said
wallet so fast you'll never know you've been snookered.
Only a dumbass idiot will clam-fold his wallet and tuck it in his
thirteen button bellbottoms. Every kid above the age of six in
Italy knows how to lift a wallet an idiot pokes in his pants. Those
little bastards leard to pick sailor's pockets in kindergarten.
Rolling bluejackets is the national sport in Italy."
In Washington DC , they have a wonderful marble and granite plaza
honoring the United States Navy. Every man or woman who served this
nation in a naval uniform, owes it to himself or herself to visit
this memorial and take their families.
It honors all naval service and any red-blooded American bluejacket
or officer will feel the gentle warmth of pride his or her service
is honored within this truly magical place.
The focal point of this memorial is a bronze statue of a lone
American sailor. No crow on his sleeve tells you that he is
non-rated. And, there are further indications that suggest maybe,
once upon a time, the sculpturer himself may have once been an E-3
raghat.
The lad has his collar turned up and his hands in his pockets.
I'm sure the Goddess of the Main Induction nearly wets her panties
laughing at the old, crusty chiefs standing there with veins
popping out on their old, wrinkled necks, muttering,
"Look at that idiot sonuvabitch standing there with his collar up
and his gahdam hands in his pockets. In my day, I would have ripped
that jerk a new one!"
Ah, the satisfied glow of E-3 revenge.
Peacoats... One of God's better inventions.
For more of this good stuff from "Dex," check out his Web site
"The After Battery" at
http://www.olgoat.com/substuff/abr.htm For you old salts, and even the newer ones, its worth the read.
But the newer ones might have difficulty translating his old
Navy encrusted lingo.
----------------------------------------------------------
YNCM(SS) Charlie "Tom" L. Tompkins, USN(ret) of NCPOA contributed.
-------------------------------------------------
Contributed,
YNCS Don Harribine, USN(ret)
