Posts Tagged ‘shore stories’

Well, my days in Charleston are numbered. I’m being transferred up to Ballston Spa, NY next week. I figured I would share one more tale (or tales, depending on how you look at it) about my time here.

–We get guys fresh out of Boot Camp on a weekly basis. Probably the most entertaining thing to do is, naturally, screw with them. Doing so becomes that much easier on the tail end of the pipleline down here because your uniform says that you’ve made it. You can get them to do all kinds of stupid crap.

For instance, we have a strict code against hazing, which is promptly ignored. Because Naval Weapons Station Charleston (excuse me, Joint Base Charleston) is also a federal nature preserve, we get a lot of wildlife here, mostly as squirrels. One common joke is to tell the new guys, known as Indockers, to salute the squirrels.
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Believe it or not, the story still isn’t done. This is a continuation of the story Scott told me about the shoplifting airman from my previous two posts, “Shoplifters Are Bad” and “Especially From Navy Guys.” Now you can find out the rest. Trust me, the wait is worth it.

I left off on the old post with the foolish young USAF airman being “escorted” to the Air Force base nearby from the game store Scott runs.  Scott swore up and down to me that what happened after he brought the kid back to his base rarely happens.

The police officer returned within an hour. In Charleston, it’s hard enough getting a cop to return a call within a few days, let alone physically in an hour. He comes up, ducks to get in, and then told Scott what the skinny was. “I just dropped the airman off at the base, and the impression I got was that they were just going to slap him on the wrists and let him go.”

“Well, that’s not acceptable.” was Scott’s reply.

The cop then responds, “You know, since all of this happened here, and technically the Air base is inside my patrol route, I could get the kid back.”

Scott told him that that was OK, he would just make some phone calls. And he did just that, once the cop gave his partings. He called up the First Sergeants on both sides of the runway at the air base, both of whom were good friends of Scott. One was a Chief Master Sergeant, and the other a Master Sergeant, E-9 and E-7, respectively. To say that they had some pull is like saying I am a nerd. Trust me on this one.

Anyhow Scott told them what the situation was, and they both assured him it would be taken care of. And it was. The airman got nothing but flak and crappy jobs.

On both sides of the runway.

“Got a backed up latrine? We have someone to take care of that.”

Then on the Air Traffic Control side, “Airplane’s porto needs emptying? We got someone for that.” Yeah, misery.

Anyhow, the officers eventually get wind of this, and they decide to step in. They noticed that the airman was getting crappy jobs left and right, and knew he pissed someone off, but not who. Either way, they decided to step in and have the kid transferred out for his physical and psychological well-being.

Who’s desk does a transfer order go across when it’s put in? That’s right, the first sergeant’s desk. The Chief knew what was going on, and figured he should let the transfer go through.

To Maxwell AFB, in Alaska.

Then he waited a week, called up Scott, and told him what happened. Scott said that the kid must have learned his lesson, to which the chief replied, “Oh, I’m not through, yet. I’ll call you back once I’m done.”

He then calls up the base in Alaska, and tells them who he is, asking to speak with his equivalent there. The transfer is put through, and he tells the First Sergeant in Alaska who he is, then proceeded to tell him about the airman.

“You should be getting a transfer from here in South Carolina. The reason why he was transferred is because he got caught stealing from a local game shop down here in Charleston, the Green Dragon –”

And he is cut off by these shocked words, “Wait a minute, he stole from Scott?” To say that the airman’s life was hell from then on out is an understatement.

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I said in my last post, “Shoplifters Are Bad,” that the airman got exactly what he deserved. What I didn’t say was exactly what that was. I deliberately left the punishment ambiguous, as it was running a bit long. Regardless, Scott had more to tell about that fateful day.

Here’s the scene: Scott called the police after being recommended to do so by a shipyard bubba for something that an Air Force airman did, which was stealing from the local game shop, and is now sitting in a corner with a few bruises given to him by a couple of marines. The two marines are now standing three feet away from the airman, waiting for him to do something dumb.

Twenty minutes after Scott made the phone call, a police officer comes up to the store entrance. His build is tall, lanky, and black as night. In fact, the cop is so tall he has to duck to get into the store. He walked over to Scott and asked him, “Are you the owner or manager of this establishment?”

In most business situations, like unsolicited sales visits, Scott uses the term, manager. When it’s a legal matter, he is the owner. In the South, property ownership is first, color is second. Scott firmly told the cop, “Yes, I am the owner of this store.”

In that Southern drawl that is now rarely seen in South Carolina, the police officer then leans in close and asked Scott, “So what do you want me to do to him?” Not with, to. At this , the airman seems to have soiled himself.

Scott’s response? “Just go ahead and take him to the air force base. They should know what to do with him.” No problems. The airman is loaded up into the cruiser and the police officer drives him to the air force base for punishment.

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As any sailor will tell you, a thieving shipmate is a dead shipmate. You’re on a boat, in the water, with nowhere to go but the physically defined walls that you signed up to be contained within while you work and live. If you steal, you can bet someone will find out. When they do, and they find who it is, whoever committed the crime better hope that someone of a command level gets to them first, and that includes senior enlisted. Otherwise, you’re looking at a world of hurt.

We, as sailors, get this ingrained to us as early as Boot Camp, and it is made especially poignant for those on a submarine. If you can’t guess, it’s because you’re in an underwater tube, and any kind of physical escape gets you a one-way ticket to Hell, along with the rest of your boat, i.e. drowning.

This isn’t to say that a particular branch is bad, but merely pints out that some people still don’t get the message.

That stated, we would assume that other service members get the same training. Not so much. What follows is a story from a local game shop here in Charleston of one such occasion, told to me by the owner.

A few years ago, Scott, the game shop owner, was running the register and assisting numerous customers. He had quite the line. He also had another half of the store used by gamers to play whatever they had brought in, with the exception of digital entertainment. His wife, Adrianna, was in that part of the store, keeping general order. Not much to do, because there were lots of servicemen there enjoying themselves. They usually policed themselves well, as we do today.

Inside the store, though, is an Air Force Airman. Something to bear in mind about Charleston, is we have every branch of the armed forces represented here, as well as the Department of Homeland Security on our base.

Back to the Airman, he was in the comic books section of the store. He would glance about, grab a comic from the shelf, and ram it under his sweater. This would go on for some time. That is, until Adrianna began making her rounds.

She stopped at the doorway between the sales and gaming floors, and just stands there, putting her hands on her hips. One of the gamers, a marine I’ll call Mike, looks up and asks, “What’s going on, ma’am?”

She says over her shoulder, indicating the Airman, “That man is stealing.”

All of the gaming groups stop what they’re doing, get up, and take positions, some at the exits (there are two or three per) with Mike and another marine taking point. Something like this alerts the customers at the register, and Scott as well, who properly deduces a shoplifter he couldn’t see before.

Mike walked up to the Airman and asked what he had under his shirt.

“Nothing.” Panic is in the airman’s voice, apparently. (Notice what I did with the word, “airman?”)

Mike, not buying it, open-palm strikes the kid, sending him back a few feet, and anything up his shirt onto the floor with a whoosh of breath. He said to the airman, “Nothing huh?” Then in a louder voice, “Looks like about $500 worth. Hey Scott, that’s grand larceny, right?”

Scott, a little surprised, said, “Yeah, it is.” Uh, oh.

The airman is now in trouble at this point, and knows it. He panicked, and in his panic punched Mike.

I should let you know that Mike is an interesting individual. Scott told me that he is a sadomasochist. Also said that Mike’s marriages were very interesting affairs.

Regardless, he took the punch, smiled, and (likely wondering why he wasn’t hit harder) wallops the kid a clean one. Then the other marine who was with him grabs the airman, along with Mike, and they drag him out to the parking lot where another shipmate is waiting with a car like an old Hemi Cuda, and they begin ramming the kid into the backseat.

Those of you who know that most muscle coupes don’t HAVE a backseat would see the torture for what it is. Scott, meanwhile, does nothing. What I’ve neglected to mention until this point is that he’s former U.S. Navy, and as such as zero remorse for what’s being done.

At this point, a man dressed in jeans, a flannel, and a trucker’s cap is bringing his son up to the store. Scott figures him for a shipyard “bubba,” one of the workers at Charleston Shipyard back when they were still doing business. He took one look at the car and asked what was going on. Scott told him it was a shoplifter. The bubba then asked, “Shouldn’t the cops be called on this?”

Scott is taken aback. Apparently, the thought had not crossed his mind. He stepped out of the store and called to the marines at the car, “Hey guys, we got a witness!”

The marines are also surprised, and they both stop for a moment while this new development sinks in. Then when rational thought took over for instinct, they drag the airman out of the car and back into the store, plopping him in a corner while Scott called the police.

Needless to say, the kid got everything coming his way when the police showed up.

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