Veteran's Day

One of the distinct advantages of coming from a naval family is the privilege of having not one but three generations of sea stories to draw from. As it is Veteran's Day, I figured it would be a good opportunity to put down in writing two of my favorites. I certainly have my own sea stories, but some of my family's stories are so good they will live for generations. So here by way of salute to veterans everywhere are two tales from my family sea chest.

My maternal grandfather, Frank Waldemar Arthur Paulson, joined the U.S. Navy in 1917. He started his career as a radioman, but he decided this whole radio thing was just a passing fad and he had better get into a more secure line of work. So he became a yeoman, which is the U.S. Navy's term for a clerk. As he advanced through the ranks he held many jobs that today are separate rates in the Navy; for example, when my mother was born he was a reporter for the Stars and Stripes in Panama, a job that today would be done by the Journalist rate. By the late 30's he was in Intelligence; in today's Navy he would be an Intelligence Specialist but in those days he was just a Chief Yeoman working for the Office of Naval Intelligence (ONI). In the early 40's he was dispatched to Singapore. As the Japanese invaded Singapore and the situation became more and more desperate, the Writer's Bar at the Raffles Hotel was hosting drinks on the house, preferring that the booze be drunk by the regular patrons rather than the Japanese. My grandfather and another ONI Chief were at the bar with a crowd of journalists. It should be no surprise he hung out with the reporters; they were in the same business, after all--intelligence is just news with a different slant. They packed down the drinks until it became painfully evident that it was time to go--they could actually hear gunfire. But where to go? My grandpa and his shipmate herded all the drunken reporters out of the hotel, across the Padang, over the Singapore River on the Fullerton Road Bridge, to Collyer Quay. At Clifford Pier, somehow my grandfather used his Naval Intelligence credentials to commandeer an Admiral's barge, loaded the journalists, himself and his colleague aboard, and took off after the Allied vessels that were evacuating Singapore and were rapidly going hull-down over the horizon. They caught up, and Chief Paulson proceeded to Surabaya, Indonesia where he worked until the Japanese invaded Java, at which point he evacuated overland across Java to catch a ship to Australia. On the way to Australia word finally caught up to him of his promotion to Warrant Officer.

In the mid 50's, long about the time I was born, my dad was assigned as the senior NCO for the Marine Corps Institute Company at the Marine Barracks, Washington D.C. (8th & “I”). While he was in the billet, the Sergeant Major slot was gapped, so for a while as a Staff Sergeant, my dad was Acting Sergeant Major of the Post at 8th & “I”. Around this time, the Army adopted their current Dress Blue uniform, and shortly thereafter my dad was part of a joint-service parade along with the U.S. Army's Old Guard, the 3d United States Infantry Regiment. After the parade, all of the Staff NCOs (Non-Commissioned Officers) retired to the Staff NCO Club to debrief the event. One of the Army NCOs asked my dad what he thought of their new uniforms. My dad proceeded to tell him all of the great things about the uniform: the color, the yellow piping, and so on--he went on effusively for a while--and then he wrapped it up by saying “They only did one thing wrong.” The Army NCO replied “What's that?” and my dad came back with “They put the yellow strip in the wrong place!” The doggie then punched my dad and a classic inter-service bar fight ensued, but things were resolved with no one going to the brig or stockade. The next work day, my dad was directed to report to a General (don't know if it was the C.G. of the Post or the Commandant). The General asked him what happened; my dad explained. The General then asked if my dad threw the first punch. “No, Sir!” he replied. “Dismissed!”, the General shot back.

See, the stories that get passed down are not the blood and guts stories. Sure, they saw their share of that; heck, my Dad was in the retreat from Chosin Reservoir. But they're just not the kind of thing that Scandinavian-American men talk about. They focus on the anecdote, the interesting and (probably in both these cases) sort-of-dumb things you do sometimes that work out fine in the end. My grandpa Paulson and my dad were both very proud to have served our nation, just as I am, and I want to thank all those folks out their laying their butts on the line for all of us every day. Happy Veteran's Day, and remember that we are thinking of you, and our prayers are with you.

Posted by trygstad | Category: Family | 11:45 PM