How to disobey a direct order...and get away with it

 

 

 

How to disobey a direct order...and get away with it

Late Summer 1966

Seattle Sea Fair Stadium

Grand Parade closing ceremony

The West Coast U. S. Coast Guard Band and Honor Guard formed up just outside the tunnel that led from the parking area into the stadium; the parade that had just finished on the last day of Sea Fair ended here, with a passing in review to “King Neptune” and his Court. I was the Assistant Company Commander for the band unit, which was made up of a half-dozen “holdover” recruits whose talent got them 18 months of full-time duty in Special Services. I was one of the “holdovers” in the beginning, but within the year had advanced to E3; my “real” job, however, was working for the Training Office commander for Combat Squadron One. I had been asked to choose to stay unrated during my time with the squadron, as no one else with my skill set was available, and headquarters would not authorize a permanent “E3 and up” billet for the office. I was “T.A.D.” (temporary additional duty) at the squadron the entire 3 years.

On the books, I was the Assistant Company Commander for Oscar Company, the Special Services unit on base...and the band and honor guard at Alameda were highly esteemed by the service as well as the civilian parade culture.

Tonight, we were the “cleanup” unit...the last, given the position as one of honor.

The Coast Guard was held in very high regard by the folks who executed Sea Fair. A majority of the business in that area was connected to the sea. My boss, Chief Hastings, approached me and told me to not stop, that the marshals were obsessing on keeping moving. I acknowledged him.

Not two minutes later, an older man in a Coast Guard officer’s uniform (no name tag, lieutenant’s bars) came up and simply said, “King Neptune wishes to say thank you for taking care of his nephew, [name].”

It was a bit unnerving, as obviously, someone outside of our RONONE unit knew who we were as individuals, and what we did, in addition to Special Services. It was only the uniform that “got” me and caused me to engage. The name he gave was a young man on one of the gunboat crews we happened to be training at that time.

“Tell him he’s welcome, please,” I replied, as I attempted a salute while trying to loosen up my right arm holding the 60-inch ceremonial mace; by the time I turned around, he was gone.

Units in front of us were moving. We were staged. When I gave the order to begin the drum cadence, the massive sound of it filled the tunnel, the area under the grandstands, and projecting out into the field area. Someone told me later people could feel the cadence in their feet and butts. The cadence was an original, complex, perfectly executed, exceptionally deep and loud experience that folks on the parade circuit recognized at a distance.

We timed it so that we segued into The St. Julien, a classic, high-energy yet musically challenging march, the beginning of which was akin to a fanfare. That was what folks heard as we entered the track, the colors following five rows of band, and the fifteen-man honor guard/drill team behind them. The honor guard got into the rhythm of the march with their performance, the polished chrome of their M1 bayonets twirling in unison in the spotlights.

Keep in mind that I was 17; I had a birthday coming soon.

We moved out to the march, into the darkness of a stadium filled beyond capacity. Spotlights scanned about, lending a surreal atmosphere.

This was the moment I got the gawdawful feeling that King Neptune knew about the Point Welcome. Very few people outside of the service, or high-ranking journalists based in Southeast Asia, knew anything about it. What it meant to me at this moment was that the nephew was, given the experience of that incident, at risk from day one.

It was up to my office, and me, to see that something akin to the incident did not happen ever again...to the nephew, or anyone.

As the band finished the first stanzas of the march and we were just approaching the reviewing stand, I gave the signal to halt. I then gave the command to left face. At this point the crowd had become totally silent, no knowing what to expect. King Neptune had stood from his throne.

I then, quite slowly, perfectly, and with determination, did what was then called a “Queen Anne Salute” consisting of a right-hand twirl of the mace at attention, and then me going down to one knee, left arm horizontal across my chest and grasping the mace; my right hand (and arm) were vertical, “pointing” down, and “married” to the mace shaft.

King Neptune walked down the aisle to me on the track, and I was still at salute. At that moment, the honor guard executed a Present Arms. The band was at attention, and folks were readying their instruments to move out again, most likely in a way they had no clue of at the moment.

“I know who you are, son,” Neptune (a portly, darker-skinned man with a generous asset of white hair and whiskers, yet a partially exposed body that looked like he was a 70-yr old surfer) said quietly but clearly, “and I want to say that you’ve done good. Nothing to apologize for.”

That phrase triggered me. He’s not supposed to know about Squadron One, let alone our operational profile or record. I did relax, though. He then helped me stand, shook my hand, and walked back toward the throne...after executing a perfect, military parade grade about face in front of me. The crowd suddenly burst into cheers and applause, at a level I don’t think I ever heard again; I called everyone to attention forward (I had to use the whistle, as they could not hear my voice), and gave the mace signal to move to Semper Paratus. As we began to move, I did the “signature” toss with the mace, the move invented by DC3 Lynn Crisler, my predecessor drum major. We would launch the mace (60 inches and 2+lbs, black ironwood shaft with a silver chain wrapping the shaft up to the head of carved silver, and wrapped in silver chain) into the air around 30 feet, catching it on the retrieve with that same hand, in coordination with the march beat, and then moving into a unique, one-off style of leading the anthem while moving out. Spotlights caught it and tracked it all the way, and then moved to the Colors; the crowd noise became even greater.

When we secured, Chief (of course) wanted to know WTF I thought I was doing. I told him exactly what had happened, and my reason(s). He then said he had seen the officer talking to me; and I was in the clear. Chief would not say who that officer was. Despite my position, clearance, and wide scope of comms, the guy was unknown to me, and still is. Probably best.

I won’t, of course, ever forget that evening.

More importantly, perhaps, is that I promised myself (and the God I love and serve) that I would make every attempt to learn something of value every day of my remaining life. I made that promise at age eight. I meant it.

I think I learned this night that pomp, circumstance, and general revelry, while leftovers from feudal times, can be used productively in managing public attitude, foresight, and even participation. I’ll admit I had a huge amount of personal “fun” as a drum major/asst company commander. It wasn’t the control aspect. It was the ability to, after having "marched" (read as "street dance") in a community parade, go to my knee at the side of the street, so that a 3-yr old little girl could “hug” the mace (?!#), and then realize in a moment that this sort of experience is crucial to a kid’s development, to establish a baseline to learn more from. It's also been crucial to my own healing.

So there. Lesson over.

The next installment will be fairly soon. It’s sort of a toss up between reliving the Rev. Virgil Scott homicide case (Stockton) from ~1980, against another similar case, the murder of Rev. XXX of Sacramento, the district bishop at that time for Metropolitan Community Churches, by a young man he had befriended and allowed in his home.

So there...again...and be safe.