Following Morning Quarters, Mike Silliman patting the new rating badge on his left arm boosted, “I am the meanest, toughest, son-of-a-bitching Second Class in this here friggin’ Navy!” At five feet-ten, he was muscular, weighing about two hundred pounds and hard as nails, a self-centered knows it all…
The rapid build up of personnel to meet the Korean War needs had loosened fleet-wide promotions that had been flat-lined since the end of the Second World War. Mike a Stew-burner was among the new selectees, having just been re-promoted after loosing a stripe a couple of years before for being drunk and disorderly. At twenty-six, he was well into his second hitch. A self-centered bachelor, he had absolutely no interest in women, caring only about basic human comforts and feeding his enormous ego. With a crude edged personality and a demeanor that drifted somewhere between a rattlesnake and a raging bull…Mike, was a genuine bad ass.
With his crushed chef’s hat resting on his wiry eyebrows; he would swagger about the galley flaunting his re-instated authority. His pompous movements and exaggerated arched arm posture brought the mockery that he must be afflicted with boils in his armpits. To that end, he was tagged “The Flying Asshole” a moniker Mike was never aware of, or he would have probably killed the individual who coined it.
When his seniors were not present, he would stand behind the serving line spewing verbal abuses upon individuals he knew he could intimidate. He loved to stir-up trouble. For example, he would grab a serving spoon from a mess cook, take his place on the line and deliberately slam food on a victim’s tray just to watch it splatter. Then with a devilish smirk, apologize profusely...
With the unit deployed to a remote isolated area there was little recreation. During off-duty hours, many spent their time at a cove about a mile below camp. Over time they built thatch-covered picnic tables and grill-pits among the Sea-grapes that dotted the cove’s rocky shoreline. It was a pleasant area, the only drawback was swimming was banned because of the jagged rock outcroppings and numerous schools of large sharks that regularly frequented the coastline.
The sharks were drawn to the area by perishable garbage and galley waste being routinely dumped over the cliffs a half-mile away. A questionable practice that could have been easily corrected but for whatever reason was overlooked…therefore, the daily chumming of the denizen of the deep continued unabated.
Officers and Chiefs respected the unofficial designation that the cove was “White hat territory,” so seldom ventured there unless invited. With no oversight from topside it was an anything goes type atmosphere. On a typical afternoon a combination of the tropical sun and the intake of malt beverages could transform timid tadpoles into fearless ten-foot-tall chest-thumping gorillas.
At some point, even with the extreme danger, some shit-faced idiot responding to a drunken dare staggered through the rocks and jump into the dark water beyond. It was through this idiocy the exclusive “SHARKS” were established. In accordance with the official rules a participant must: [1] Proceed past the rock barrier. [2] Splash about to churn-up the water. [3] Remove and wave their trunks or skivvies in the air. [4] “Moon” those on shore three times. [5] Scamper like hell back to the beach!
Accomplishing this death-defying feat would bring on whistles, cheers, free beer and a ride about the cove on the shoulders of shipmates. Such acts immediately elevated the individuals to SHARK status and unit-wide acclaim. Mike, deathly afraid of water, secretly envied those few that pulled off such a daring act. If only he could find the courage it would enhance his tough-man persona. He longed to gain such notoriety…to fearlessly frolic among the sharks would be the ultimate display of his prowess, recognition he so desperately sought. However, he was nobody’s fool and was petrified at the thought…
Mike used occasional cookouts to retain his popularity. Having access to galley stores, he would pilfer hotdogs or hamburger and grill for his small circle of followers who tolerated his domineering tactics for the chow, plus knowing they could count on the excitement of a scuffle or two.
“Herman the German has lost his Messersmitt and only [pointing to a player] knows where to find it!” was the favorite beer chugging game. Participants sitting in a circle on the sand must state the phrases exactly or as penalty, guzzle a beer and be punched on the upper arm. Mike would insist certain players on his “hit-list” had miss-cued and took joy in issuing the blows. In the latter part of the deployment, his senseless viciousness caused serious injury to a shipmate. This brutality brought swift retaliation from those witnessing the incident. They overpowered him, and in the mob mayhem that followed decided he would pay the ultimate penalty for the dastardly deed… be thrown to the sharks!
With Mike spread-eagle in their grasps the avengers moved across the rocks toward the dark waters beyond. Sensing his impending fate, Mike became insane! Wild eyed and emanating weird guttural sounds his adrenaline powered contortions continued in a futile effort to break free. An effort that went in vain, as on reaching the edge of the outcroppings; they heaved his now limp inert hulk into the sea!
Had Mighty Mike Silliman succumbed to the sharks? Hell no! Indescribable fear had him walking on water…when the frivolity cleared; he had beaten everyone back to the beach! Vague memories of the incident still linger…as I recall, ole Mikey apparently had a moving revelation as he turned into a real compassionate pussycat after that swim with the sharks…