In case you don’t know, Navy ships had barbershops when I went to sea. Some guys with the “storekeeper” (SK) rating manned the barber chairs with not much barber training and guidelines to make the haircut conform to regulations, regardless of the desire of the barberee.

Officers on ships could get appointments. The enlisted waited in line. The haircut normally took about five minutes. In no way did the one-chair barbershops, except for the chair, resemble THE Modern Barber Shop, Pop’s, Mr. Eddins, or Alberto’s barbershops, which i frequented when i had hair.

When I completed “destroyer school” in 1973, I reported to the USS Hollister (DD 788) and became the Chief Engineer. The Hollister was a reserve ship out of Long Beach. It was in the early 70’s and the men’s style of the day definitely did not include Navy regulation haircuts. Length was glory, apparently. The reserve units of the day were very relaxed in enforcing haircut regulations, because hair was so important to the younger set, it was assumed many reservists would simply quit rather than whack their hair.

It was also a common practice for the wardroom officers to leave early Saturday afternoon on the reserve weekend to frequent the officer club on base. This occurred one spring Saturday when I had the duty as command duty officer (CDO), the senior officer in charge while the captain and executive officer were ashore).

One of our regular officers was a brand new Naval Academy graduate. After the officers left for the club, I changed the watch bill and put the new ensign on the quarterdeck (the only egress and ingress for the ship), and directed him to make sure no one went ashore without a regulation haircut.

The ensign relieved the officer of the deck (OOD) at noon. Around 1400 (2:00 p.m.), I walked out to see how it was going. About 80 reservists were in the barbershop line, spilling out onto the onto the weather decks just forward of the after gun mount and around the fantail. Apparently, hair was not as important than liberty for most of those reservists.

After my check around 1400, the ensign called me in the wardroom. One hirsute second-class petty officer had requested to speak to the command duty officer. I agreed.

The young man was enraged. “I have an appointment with my hairstylist at 1600. If you let me go ashore, I will get a haircut.”

“Sure you can go see your hairstylist at 1600,” I said sympathetically, adding, “Right after, you get a regulation haircut.”

It took almost four hours and a tired barber, but they all finally went on liberty.

Nearly all of the officers who had gone to the club did not return for the evening. Next morning, quarters exhibited probably the most regulation haircuts seen in the reserve units of the period. It also produced more screaming and yelling than one would expect. The reserve officers were enraged we required their troops to get haircuts. Fortunately, my captain thought it was as funny as I did.

Oh yes, all who had suffered the barber’s shears that weekend remained in the reserves. Reserve pay was a good augmentation to one’s income, which suggests, hair isn’t quite as important as we often think it is.

It was a perfect moment on a golf course. The Curmudgeons were in their heyday.

My neighbors, Keith Macumber, Randy Prescott, and Spud Mumby had joined our original bunch of Navy guys met during my career and, of course, the legendary Army Artillery Major Marty Linville.

Our foursome that day consisted of Marty, Spud, Rod, and myself, were on the eighteenth tee. Spud hit a nasty duck hook that curved into the parking lot and struck the side of a white car stupidly parked where an errant tee shot could strike your car. Spud was contrite. After hitting a second tee shot, he walked over to where his errant ball had landed.

As Spud approached, an older man and his son came out of the 19th hole restaurant. The old man proceeded to read Spud the riot act, accusing him of intentionally hitting his car, demanding to see Spud’s insurance, Navy ID, license and several other things.

Spud was embarrassed but everything he said only made the old man more irate.

Marty and i had walked over to see what was happening. Marty was not known to tolerate stupid or bullies. He looked at what was going on and said to the old man:

“Fuck off and die.”

The old man stopped in his tracks, looked confused, and became contrite. We all walked away quietly…with, of course, laughing to ourselves and adding to our legend of Marty.

i wrote this in 2012. i may have posted it somewhere back then. i don’t know. For those who may not have read my previous posts about Marty, he passed on July 5 from cancers produced by his exposure during his Vietnam service. i have written several posts about his legend since then. Today, while going through and cleaning up files, i ran across this. i think it speaks volumes about the man. We spent many hours talking about the bible, our writings — he wrote a number of adventure stories for nature magazines, our beliefs in the realm of politics, and always respected each other’s opinion. In short, i miss him.

i met Marty Linville at the Naval Amphibious School, Coronado, when i arrived there for duty in 1985. Marty, an Army major in artillery, was the assistant officer in charge of Naval Gunfire and as such coordinated, directed, and pulled duty at San Clemente Island where the Navy conducted its live fire Naval Gunnery exercises and bombing runs (He was truly “purple,” the term for working with other branches of military service long before it became a career enhancing gambit. I had reported to be one of the two-man team facilitators for the one week Prospective Commanding Officer, Executive Officer Leadership, Management, Education and Training Course (whew!) or PCO/PXO LMET.

My job quickly evolved into becoming the Director of LMET and Command Equal Opportunity for the West Coast and Pacific Rim and lead facilitator for a two-day seminar on leadership for Navy senior officers.

We both played on the school’s sports teams, and we began to play golf on weekends with Rod Stark, the Director of Amphibious Training, and later the executive officer.

All three of us retired from the command. Marty went to work for a military contractor using his skills and experience in human/computer interface in weapons systems. Rod became a golf pro at the North Golf Course in Sun City, CA, and i became Mister Mom while flip-flopping around on making a career of writing, until i gave it up for organization development and business development consulting, a more lucrative post-military officer pursuit. i later returned to writing.

In 1991, Marty and i agreed to begin playing golf on Friday mornings at the three Navy courses in San Diego at the time: Sea ‘n Air at the North Island Naval Air Station, Admiral Baker, and Miramar Memorial at Miramar Naval Air Station. We had vowed to not play on the military courses on the weekend because we had been frustrated many times finding retired old farts taking up tee times on the weekend when it was the only time active duty personnel could play.

We have been playing Friday morning golf ever since. Rod has returned and joined us and our group, occasionally numbering as many as sixteen, is now down to a pretty steady seven. The group has two Navy SEAL captains, three Navy commanders, and two civilians, one of whom is a veteran. Four of us saw service in Vietnam.

We rib each other a lot, are known for being a little uncouth, tell raunchy and politically incorrect jokes, and our wives accuse us of drinking too much beer at the nineteenth hole. We call ourselves “The Curmudgeons” and last year anointed Marty as the “Grand Whiner.”

In addition to our Friday morning golf, we play together on other occasions frequently. We share a love of sports and of literature.

Marty is a devout Catholic, gruff to a fault, adores his grandchildren and supports his children in their pursuits. His wife Linda is an understanding, patient, and loving woman. She has to be.

He also is a faultless friend.

Marty was awarded the Silver Star for his action in Vietnam.

In the past, we have shared several pieces of each other’s writing. Today, i received the below in my email. I was moved to tears.

I asked Marty to allow me to share it with others because i believe it paints picture of what it was back then when our country’s appreciation of our military veteran’s sacrifices did not exist.

Jim;

Over the years I have written a lot of (poor) poetry… thought you might be interested in something that I wrote in the late Spring/ Early Summer of 1969. I was in Vietnam and we had just moved into the ashau valley with only 63 men (really boys); I was all of 22. We were about 30% understrength. In the first 48 hours 16 of us were killed and 7 wounded, including me. This is what I wrote while I was on the hospital ship….

Ashau

The deep dark canopies are hung with dew 
The darkness resounds of voices 
Out of this tangled web of life 
Comes the chilling call of death

We have felt the scorpion’s sting and 
Peered into the viper’s fangs 
Our images have been reflected in the eye of the tiger 
And we have met death face to face in the valley.

Bless you, Marty, and thank you for our time together.

One Saturday morning in late September 1967, i, as a fourth class officer candidate (OC) at the Navy’s Officer Candidate School (OCS) in Newport, Rhode Island. We had just completed our Saturday morning inspection and march on the parade grounds concluding with a pass in review. i wondered about the value of such regimen. That afternoon, i sat down and wrote this poem:

Magnificent Men Marching

magnificent men marching, marching
cadence bams the air;
regimen the compass point;
warfare learning fare.
magnificent men standing, standing
fit and pompous in your ranks;
green and growing
boys to military men,
a new dimension to your arsenal.
magnificent men tall and stately,
uniformed so proud;
don’t know where you’ll be going
yet ready for the call.

magnificent men commissioned,
saluting all the men
mother and father proudly nodding;
now you are now and they are then.
magnificent men departed
the parade ground desolate, cold and bare,
don’t look into the mirror:
you’re just you,
not magnificent at all.

This past Thursday, i was playing golf on the North Island Naval Air Station’s Sea ‘n Air course. The back nine winds around the south facing beach along the Pacific Ocean. The fourteenth and fifteenth holes looks directly at Point Loma across the channel into San Diego Bay. On the ridge of Point Loma is the Fort Rosecrans National Cemetery. From my view, i could see the rows of basic headstones on the green grass sparkling in the Southwest corner sunlight.

The initial words of the following poem came into my head. i thought about how, over near sixty years, twenty-two plus years of Navy service, ten ships, and incredible time at sea, had changed my perspective:

Magnificent Men at Parade Rest

magnificent men at parade rest,
all in perfect rows in formation
on the ridge of green
looking down upon the channel
to the pacific;
they lie beneath that green
and alabaster tombstones
just like their brothers next to them
parade rest,
quiet,
at peace;
these truly magnificent men.