Sorry to interrupt, but could anyone figure out what happened to Sidekick Phil in Perth? Did he ever come back? Is he dead?? The show’s website doesn’t list him as one of the 18 people they concentrated on during filming.
I’m going to phrase this in terms of submarines, because that’s what I’m familiar with, but you can extend most of this to the surface fleet as well.
Submarines are set up for a three section watch rotation. This means that 1/3 of the crew, on average, is actually operating the boat. This means they are manning the control planes and the rudder, sitting on the sonar scopes looking for contacts, tracking contacts with the fire control systems, manning the periscope, navigating, manning the throttle back aft, monitoring the reactor, and dozens of other “watches” that are required to run the boat.
These watches can be exhausting. It’s analogous to driving a car. Can you drive a car for 12 hours straight, followed by 12 hours off? Six hours is about the limit–beyond this, things start to go wrong.
And with few exceptions, the guys on watch are not doing any of the maintenance or admin duties that also have to be done, nor are they participating in training. None of these additional duties are trivial. All of that has to be done by the other watch rotations during their “off” period. They also have to sleep, eat, and bathe during their off time.
The Initiation (Day Two)
We were awakened at 0530 by the most scurrilous of groups. The Royal Sheriff and his deputies ordered us from our rack. They were attired in pirate costumes… some of them quite elaborate (In future deployments I, too, looked forward to crossing the line and laid in quite the costume before we deployed). They were each arned with a shillelagh – a 14 to 16 inch length of four-inch fire hose. Tightly wrapped tape or twine formed the handle. The “working” end was usually fringed with verticle slices. These were used to “herd” the wogs, apply “correction,” and give direction… most often to our posteriors.
We were ordered to wear our oldest uniforms, shirt and pants worn backwards. We taped rags or shower shoes to our knees and wore a white hat “Gilligan” style. We were told that we were to remain on all fours for the entire day. We were not to look directly into the eyes of any Shellback… we were, of course, not worthy.
Those that did not wish to participate were escorted to the crew’s lounge. They were kept there all day, guarded by a few of the deputies. In our crew of about 800, I can recall 4 folks who did not participate. In the early afternoon, these four were given one last chance to be initiated. Two agreed. Two remained in the lounge for the remainder of the day – they were not Shellbacks so they would not be attending the Steel Beach picnic planned for that afternoon.
We were herded to the mess decks by division/department. The mess deck had been cleared – the Shellbacks had been quite busy whilst we dreamed our Wog dreams!
We had a tray laced into our mouths, and our breakfast was piled on. Raw eggs, mixed with used coffee grounds and leftover pasta with just a hint of diesel fuel. We could eat as much as we wanted, but we had to do it on the floor… with no utensils or hands. We, of course turned up our noses at the glop. The Shellbacks took this as an insult claiming they’d prepared it special for us. How could we be so ungrateful? Before we left the mess decks we were wearing our breakfasts… under our hats, in our shirts, down our pants. For some, the vomiting began.
We then crawled up the ladder to the starboard side main deck.
First stop was the Royal Doctor. The Doctor was in fact the ship’s Safety Officer. We were given one last chance to back down. Eggs were placed down the back of our pants, nestled where the sun doesn’t shine. We were told if we allowed the eggs to break, we’d be sent to the back of the line again.
Next stop as we crawled forward was the Royal Butcher. He proceded to wack us on our asses with his shillelagh, exploding the egg into placed best off not discussed here. A few female sailors afterwards told me this was the worst part of their day as when they crawled the eggs gradually worked themselves south…
On to the fo’c’s’le where the Royal Jester detirmined that we were indeed slimy wogs because only slimy wogs would attempt to enter King Neptune’s presence with garbage smeared all over themselves. A shower was called for! The shower was a firehose… not on sprinkle, mind you, but on clothes-ripping, wind-taking solid stream.
Once “cleaned” we began to crawl aft on the port side. We encountered the Royal Baker who determined we were too clean! He liberally applied vegetable oil and flour to us. We encountered more eggs. “Special cases” had begun to be identified.
A “Special Case” is a wog who stands, confronts, offends or otherwise stands out to the Shellbacks. An “S” is spray painted on his/her back and they are escorted back to the beginning of the line to go through it all again. Any Shellback can identify a “special case.” Higher ranking officers (we had one commander who was a wog) went to the back of the line more times than could be counted!
We then encountered the Royal Devil as we headed aft. Dressed all in red, complete with horns and pitchfork, he informed us that he was to verify that we were indeed slimy wogs. He would poke us with his pitchfork and if we didn’t feel it we must be Shellbacks and wouldn’t have to present ourselves to King Neptune.
He stepped behind a sheet spanning the passage and we proceded one at a time beneath the sheet to be tested. When I presented myself to him, he pressed the pitchfork onto my soaking wet left side. POW!! My entire left side went numb, I saw stars and collapsed! I was a wog, unfortunately. I later learned that the pitchfork was wired up to some forklift batteries or some such thing.
We continued aft and met the Royal Dentist. Using an oilcan, he squirted some nasty stuff down our throuts and told us to crawl through a canvas tunnel onto the helo pad. It turns out, that the liquid was syrup of ipecac and tunnel was filled with mess decks garbage that had been held for at least a week. We got into the tunnel and uncontrollable began vomiting. Though I was one of the first through, I did feel sorry for those who passed through the tunnel later in the morning…
One though the tunnel, we crawled onto the helo deck.
To be continued…
I am a Shellback. I crossed the line on the USS Moosbrugger (The Moose is Loose) in August of 1996.
By this time, things had changed somewhat in the Navy - you could no longer actually legally hurt someone. Humiliating them was okay, though, since this is a voluntary rite of passage. We had women aboard, too, so anything overly sexual was right out.
Eating an olive out of a fat chief’s belly button (said hairy gut smeared with lard and peanut butter) can’t be considered sexual, just disgusting. So it was in.
We also had to swim and crawl through garbage, but in deference to crew health said garbage was only a day old.
I’m sure ChiefScott is not impressed by this at all, but to be fair WWII sailors would have looked at his ceremony and called that group a bunch of pussies too - especially if nobody ended up in sick bay afterward. That’s the way things tend to go.
When I joined the Navy, you could still “pin” crows on petty officers making rate (when they put their new eagle-and-chevrons on their sleeve, guys at that same rank or higher would hit their arm to “pin” on the crow and make it stick.) When I left, that was a real no-no, considered hazing, and you almost couldn’t joke about the practice without getting dirty looks. And while I think that was an overreaction, I can’t deny that it was because this practice got way out of hand and caused injuries, some of them serious.
We still can so long as nobody gets hurt. We also pin wings on, which does tend to hurt a bit given the location of the wings on the uniform. The guy who pinned my wings on was a bit shorter than I was but he was 200 pounds of muscle and he hit me like a heavy bag. Needless to say, I was more than a bit sore for a while after that.
Some of the more “dedicated” (read:stupid) people go whole hog and do “Bloodwings”, which is pinning them on without the backings. That one is a big no-no, but what you do on your own time is nobody’s business if you know what I mean. Just don’t show up in the infirmary because of it, because them you’re in deep shit.
Into the King’s Presence for Judgement
Once out of the tunnel, we were given fresh water and checked over by a real safety observer. We were then lined up to meet the Royal Baby.
The Royal Baby was always the fattest Shellback aboard. Sitting on a folding chair, dressed only in a diaper he had containers of “peanut butter grease” sitting on the deck beside him. This grease is used for heavy equiment, wires, crane pulleys, oversized gears… heavy, dense undustrial grease. A deputy flanks the wog and leads him to the Baby’s feet. We were ordered to look up and saw that the Baby has his entire stomach smeared a 1/2 inch thick with the grease. We were ordered to kiss the Baby’s belly. The Baby would grab our heads and rub our faces on his stomach, forcing the grease into our eyes and nose. He used his hands to rub more grease into our hair.
We were then escorted into the presence of Neptunus Rex. Resplendant in robes and sitting upon his throne, he had his Queen on his right and his loyal Wog Dog on his left. We begged his forgiveness for attempting to enter his realm and begged him to recognize us as Shellbacks. He could certainly do that, his Highness said. But first he must here of your other crimes…
Shellbacks prepare a crime sheet for every wog aboard. Usually these are extremely humorous. For example, I was charged with doing unauthorized and bad impressions of the Skipper. The King demanded that I do my impression. The Skipper, standing behind the King, was very curious about my impression too. I did a spot on impression. Cracked everyone up! So I thought I might get away with no punishment at all. That is, until the Skipper leaned down and whispered something in the King’s ear. Neptunus Rex sentenced me to the Coffin.
There were four or five penalties arranged on the helo deck. There was the coffin – a watertight box filled with liquid garbage. A wog sentenced to the coffin would climb into it and lay down face up. The wog was told that when the lid was opened, he needed to be laying on his stomach with his face beneath the water/garbage. If, when the coffin was opened, his face was out of the muck, he would have to do it again or be labelled a “special case” and SENT TO THE BACK OF THE LINE ON THE MESS DECKS!!!
There was the canary perch. It was a rod suspended from the aft crane. You were forced to balance yourself on the rod and sing as loud as possible the Navy Hymn. Falling off or forgetting the words was cause to be labelled a “special case.”
There was the submarine hunt. A long deep trough filled with mick and mire again. The Shellbacks would show you a medallion and throw it into the trough. Once the trough was stirred, you were required to dive in and come up with the medallion in your mouth. Lucky was the lowly wog that had the Shellbacks actually drop the medallion into the garbage and not just palm it.
There were a couple of other penalties, but those memories have faded – I hope you get the gist of it, though.
Once I came out of the Coffin, I was heartily congratulated by my now fellow Shellbacks. I proceded to the Royal Scribe’s table where I affixed my signature to a Neptunus Rex allegience document. (This document, my charge sheet and a certificate of initiation were presented to all who participated later that week.)
The women at this point were directed to the 02 level to strip down and throw their destoryed clothes over the side (the female berthing was on the 02 level and no males were allowed up there for the day. The men headed back forward on the starboard main deck, stripped and threw our clothes over the side, and headed down to berthing for a shower (We could see fresh wogs just coming up from the mess decks. We jeered for the first time these lowest of all creatures!)
Once in the showers, we saw that our brother Shellbacks had thoughtfully placed cases of degreaser in the showers so we could clean our hair.
Once everyone was through (by about noontime), we held a two hour field day to clean up the now extremely dirty ship. Once everything was “AJ and Squared Away,” we commisserated and revisited the highlights of the day at a steel beach picnic. Hamburgers, ribs, chicken and hot dogs broiled on the grill and eaten from limp paper plates were washed down with lukewarm soda straight from the can. Never have I enjoyed a meal more.
So, does that answer most of the questions about the Crossing of the Line ceremony?
I am loving this show, and I must add that should Lt. Alex Dietrich ever be in the market for a husband I am more than willing to audition for the role. She is HOT!
I’ll add one thing - I never thought that at the Equator in early August I’d be freezing to death - but getting drenched with saltwater from firehoses while facedown on a steel deck at 5 AM has that curious effect.
Good lord, that was nasty! I actually don’t blame them for “pussifying” it a bit; that one definitely was vicious. Although I do understand just getting through it since you don’t have much of a choice.
Which, in the random way my mind works (but thinking about fat Chiefs), leads to another question: I noticed quite a few truly chunky sailors aboard. Are folks really allowed to be that fat in the Navy? There were a couple of women in particular who were seriously overweight, at least by military standards. Is that unusual?
Great story, Chief!
I never Crossed the Line, but was initiated into the Order of the Blue Nose for crossing the Arctic Circle, and the Order of the Golden Dragon (for crossing the International Date Line). The latter was impressive primarily because our home port was Groton, Connecticut–we crossed the date line by going “over the top” on our way to Alaska.
The Blue Nose initiation was almost as disgusting as ChiefScott is describing for the line ceremony–for us, at least, less actual garbage seemed to be involved when I crossed back in 1993. The inductees were referred to as miserable, disgusting “warmbodies” not fit to enter the Northern Realm of the Polar Bear. The initiation was designed to chill their blood and freeze their nose until they were fit to be admitted into the Order of the Blue Nose.
Naturally, everything revolved around cold. Sailors in their skivvies and blindfolded got herded through bilges filled with ice, while being blasted with fire hoses, and ventilation fans blowing on full blast. Officers were given special treatment from the beginning–I went through the line more times than I can remember. By the end, I couldn’t feel my fingers or toes.
Our meal was ice cold blue-dyed spaghetti with canned blueberries. Our drink was blue-dyed plastic cow (reconstituted milk).
We had to retrieve and eat a blueberry out of the belly button of the Royal Baby (the fattest, hairiest guy on the boat, dressed only in a diaper and a baby bonnet) with our hands tied behind our back.
At the end, they dyed the nose of every new Bluenose with this indelible dark blue ink that took a week to wear off.
Also, I got my Dolphins (submarine warfare qualification) pinned on me. I got pounded by so many people that I had a bruise across half my chest. I changed out the backings several times because the pins were coming through. (After you get your dolphins, everybody you run into over the next day or so gets to help pin them on–that is, they get one good punch.)
The only other one I got besides Shellback was Order of the Ditch. Same cruise - it was a UNITAS, and we had to go through the Panama Canal to get back to Roosevelt Roads and Mayport.
My Shellback ceremony was in '87, and certainly does not measure up compared to ChiefScott’s experience. I did it on a carrier with a very high wog to shellback ratio, so maybe I lucked out.
I used spare “lagging” (the foam insulation used around pipes) to protect my knees and the palms of my hands. (Held in place by that miracle invention, duct tape.)
Crewmen that work on the weatherdeck areas will be provided “float coats”, which are inflatable vests.
There is a little cannister of compressed air, activated by pulling on a lanyard, to inflate the vest.
There is a water activated strobe light attached.
There is also a whistle attached to the vest by a lanyard.
That’s it. No flare gun.
As to the other issue, we used to joke that the only muscles that were consistently well developed on sailors were their legs - from climbing so many ladders and walking all day.
The Navy does have body fat standards. You are tested for body fat every six months, as part of the semiannual Physical Readiness Test (PRT). Generally, once you fail body fat, you are given two more tries to get within standards, before you get put out of the Navy.
After the first failure, you get counseled and are required to attend mandatory morning PT (if in port), and cannot be promoted or advanced until you get within standards. After the second, you may be sent to a “fat farm.” After the third, you are usually involuntarily separated via an admin discharge.
We had two reactor operators who were both separated at the same time for body fat. We were short handed in that division, and they both apparently thought that they wouldn’t actually be separated, but they were wrong. (Everyone called them Tweedle-Dee and Tweedle-Dum.) They were so fat that they actually broke the steel Reactor Control Panel chair. After they left, we had to replace the chair–cost over $1,500! Anyway, there was only one qualified Reactor Operator (RO) after they were abruptly separated–we quickly qualified another relatively new guy, and those two guys stood port and starboard watch (6 hours on, 6 hours off) for over two months until we could get a third guy qualified as RO.
I also knew a Navy Nurse Corps officer who got put out for body fat. She got sent to a fat farm twice, but couldn’t get within standards.
Personally, I always struggled with my weight, but was able to remain within standards the whole time I was in. Toward the end of my time in, I had to go on crash diet and exercise regimens at times when PRT was approaching, but I always managed to get within standards.
This was my experience as well. I wasn’t exactly a great physical specimen, but I kept within standards relatively easily.
“Tacking On” various stuff is probably a tradition that spans all the services.
Submariners have their dolphins “tacked on”, Marines get their jump badges “tacked on”, and even a promotion can mean that equal or higher ranked folks “tack on” your new set of stripes.
When these new badges are presented to the individual who earned them, in usually a short ceremony (unless there is a ton of folks all getting the award at once), folks line up to punch you on the new award/rank/badge.
If you work in a highly populated command (or have several beefy guys), you can end up with a black and blue, or worse.
For example: When I was promoted from E-4 to E-5 in the navy (Petty Officer 3rd Class to 2nd Class), my new rank insignia (“the crow” on my left bicep) would be a target for everyone E-5 and above who knew I just got it. Some guys did a little token tap and congratulated me, others launched themselves from across the compartment.
My arm was stiff and sore for a couple days.
If you get the prestigious dolphins, or pilots wings, for example, they are presented as a metal device attached to the upper left chest, above any ribbon bars, if worn in that uniform. These metal devices have a pair of pins that point towards the chest, with clasp pins that poke through the shirt material to hold the device in place. This gets struck (I imagine not on the women) in the “tacking on” tradition, and can leave painful marks.
It is a “rite of passage” kinda thing, and usually the recipient is more proud of their professional accomplishment than they are upset about the bruising, although, as with anything, extreme cases have occured.
I never had a problem with my weight until I became a Computer Programmer and suddenly wasn’t doing physical work as an EM or later an HVAC mechanic as a civilian. I was even occasionally fit at various times before becoming a desk jockey.
I seem to recall that Chiefs had a more relaxed standard for weight than lower ranks and officers. Is this fact or am I misremembering?
My arm was black and blue from the tacking on of my crow. I didn’t actually return the favor to others though. It always seemed silly. The polite tapping thing was about it for me.
The Wog ceremony on the Ranger for the '87 cruise was only about 7 hours long as I recall. I was quite happy to stand watch through the entire hazing process. I was down on switchboard 7. So to this day, I am still a wog.
Jim
Correction: Slimy wog. 
Brava, Mr. Moto!
As to more relaxed weight standards for chiefs… not really. We have the same physical standards as any other enlisted man. When it comes to passing PT though, your assumption may hold water. The requirements to pass PT are lessened as you age. So an 18-year-old deck seaman will have to run a faster mile and a half, do more pushups and situps than his 40-year-old chief to achieve the same final score.
Ah yes, but at least I was honestly on duty keeping the ship lit and powered, pre-arranged with my Command Master Chief who did not like my decision, but respected my being honest about it and volunteering for a very long watch. They even let me have a boxed lunch for the watch.
What do you call the guys that just decided to hide out?