Guest Sea Story #2
by David Besch, USNA Class of 1974 (3rd Co.)
photos and captions added by David Treppendahl
Approx date: Jun 1970
Sweat, sweat, then sweat so’more. Annapolis, Maryland – nestled on the banks of the Severn River at the mouth of Chesapeake Bay – could be hellishly hot and humid. This particular tale transpires on a typical sweltering summer day in June of 1970.
The Plebes of 29th Company were newly minted Navy midshipmen, recently inducted into the U.S. Naval Academy along with thirteen hundred classmates. It had only been days, but our civilian lives were a distant memory: shaved heads replaced golden locks, uniforms called white works replaced civilian clothes, and individual personalities overnight were white-washed into a company of 30 strangers.
Military discipline and precision were the watchwords of those days. Each of the thirty-six companies of the Brigade of Midshipman was organized exactly the same – a place for everyone and everyone in their place. Assigned to one of three squads, we were arranged in order of cascading height – shortest to tallest. Everything we did was done in company formation: the first squad in front, third squad in back, second squad sandwiched between.
Pay particular attention to the good order and discipline here, the Navy’s version of feng shui if you will. That good order provides a front-row seat to this sequence of events.
Among other indoctrinations scheduled, it was inoculation day. We formed and marched as a company to the Medical Clinic – three squads, in step and line abreast, the shortest of us in the lead, the taller guys bringing up the rear as our squad leader sang cadence.
Upon arrival, our company queued behind several other companies, clueless as we awaited our immunization fate. Our squad leader reminded us to remain at attention and keep our “eyes in the boat,” – that is, locked on a point on the back of the guy’s head next in formation. Military precision, good order and discipline – even to get vaccinated!
At the entrance to the Clinic each company in turn entered in squads: first, then second, then third squad formed one long, continuous line.
I need to digress briefly to provide the context for our finale.
First, I was one of the midsized guys in the Company so was at the head of the third squad. Kenny Pisel – company mate and now one of my 30 plus new best friends – was one of the tallest guys in the Company so was the last man in second squad. This meant Ken ended up in the inoculation queue right in front of me. I recall that it was in that queue that I realized that Ken was a really big guy; he was a good head taller, and with my eyes in the boat, I was locked onto a point exactly between his shoulder blades.
The next thing you need to know is how the Navy – in its infinite wisdom – administered inoculations to an entire USNA class of new inductees in just a couple of days. I guess getting 1300+ of us all vaccinated was a priority and so was done soon after we reported. To call this operation an assembly line would be an understatement.
As our turn approached to receive shots, we were instructed to remove our sodden white works blouse and roll up the sleeves of our sweat-soaked white T-shirts, exposing both upper arms. The queue was moving one step at a time – one step, pause, one step, pause. The sight as we approached the room where the inoculations were being delivered was, to say the least, a jolt.
Turns out everyone was to receive seven inoculations – three in each arm plus a TB test on your forearm. The real kicker – the shots were being given by… pneumatic guns!
Six Navy corpsmen, each with an inoculation gun in hand, formed a three-by-three vaccination tunnel; the seventh was stationed at the end of the tunnel to administer the TB test.
Here is how this played out. Recall I’m queued behind Ken, eyes still in the boat but now open wide as my peripheral vision picks up what is in store. Ken is up next. Some corpsman was intoning, “One step forward.” Pause. “One step forward.” Pause. “One step forward.” Pause. That explained our one-step cadence up to that point.
Ken and I hear, “One step forward.” He steps between the first two corpsmen. “Che-cheee. Che-cheee!” I watch as he gets two shots, one in each arm. Yikes!
“One step forward.” Ken steps between the second two corpsmen and I step between the first two. “Che-cheee. Che-cheee!” “Che-cheee. Che-cheee!” Ken gets hit with his second set of shots, me with my first. “One step forward.” Jeez.
We both step forward. Again… “Che-checheee. Che-checheee!”
“One step forward.” Ken steps forward to get his TB test as I get my last two hits from the shot guns. “Che-cheee. Che-cheee!”
Another “One step forward” command and we each take a step.
Then it happened. As I was getting my TB test, eyes still glued on his back, Kenny does a faceplant that would make a felled tree proud. One moment he was there, then… gone!
This is where my memory fades (see The Rest of the Tale below). I can only speculate as to what happened in the next few moments.
First, the “One step forward” guy got interrupted. Ha!
Then, with a room full of Navy corpsmen, I assume a couple of them got to Ken quickly as I maneuvered around him as the “One step forward” cadence resumed.
The good news, Ken was just a little woozy from all the shooting, was not injured or worse for wear, and I believe once he had his cup of juice – “One step forward. Drink this! One step forward.” – he rejoined the Company as we reformed and marched off to our next event.
How ironic that Ken, who bravely fought prostate cancer for so many years, has been poked and prodded way more than his share since that day. I can only admire his courage and tenacity to make it to the end of that shot line, perhaps shades of things to come.
Forged and tempered by shared experiences, our friendship endures here and into the hereafter, and I will forever cherish the bonds of Class, Company, and the oversized friendship of my oversized friend Ken.
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The Rest of the Story
After reading the above, Company Mate Jim Boyer provided the following postscript to this tale.
Jim was queued behind Ken and me. He recounted that after he had run the inoculation gamut and was exiting the Clinic to rejoin the company, he passed Ken Pisel sitting in a chair with a sweet drink on an adjacent table. With his eyes in the boat, Jim was not sure if it was an apple or orange juice but was certain Ken had a chocolate chip cookie in each hand.
This may be a bit of historical fiction, but my guess is that the brief respite, sweet drink, and double fistful of cookies included a Cheshire Pisel grin as the rest of the company filed by. Ha!
Jim’s recollection continues with this apropos conclusion.
Later that day, our company was scheduled for another shooting session at the pistol and rifle range, located on the Navy Communications Base across the Severen River from the Academy. We were marched to a launching point on the Academy side then herded into a landing craft – think Marines storming a Pacific island – to be ferried across the river.
Being semi-amphibious, our ferry across the river was flat-bottomed with a shallow draft so tended to wallow and corkscrew in any kind of sea. This nausea-inducing motion is a clue to the final chapter of this typical plebe day and Ken Pisel saga.
There must have been enough chop on the river to get our craft and Ken’s stomach bobbing like a cork because, as Jim recalls, Pisel proceeds to literally chuck his cookies from earlier that day onto the deck. I’ll leave the rest of the mess to your imagination.
We recount these bonding memories many years later as we grieve and celebrate Ken’s “crossing over the river” for the last time. Time, tide, and formation wait for no sailor (doesn’t have the right ring but how’s that for PC?). We’ll all see you soon enough, Ken. Meantime, have another heavenly chocolate chip cookie on us.