Originally published in
Outserve Magazine on Nov. 11th, 2012,
in
different format
February 9th, 1968;
Miami, Florida: My day began
long before dawn. By 7 AM,
right hand raised, I was sworn
in to the United States Navy
alongside several thousand
others that morning. Then,
4,000 young men were ordered to
strip down to their underwear
for the induction process. How
many other volunteers were gay,
I wondered. Suddenly, a Petty
Officer jumped up on a table and
shouted, “All right, mother
f----rs, line up! Nuts to
butts. I want you so close that
the man in front of you starts
to smile; if he laughs, back off
a little.” Everyone laughed, so
I did too. “Oh my God,” I
thought, “What have I done? How
am I ever going to survive
this!” If I’d shrieked,
everyone would have known, and
my day would have been over.
That was the idea, I suppose, to
smoke out the queers as soon as
possible. “Breathe,” I told
myself, “you’re doing this
because you want to.”
A month before, on my university
campus, fellow students were
protesting the war in Vietnam;
and some of them burned the
American flag. As a first
generation American, child of
WWII Holocaust refugees, that
pushed my button. “Its time to
pay my country back for my
family’s freedom,” I thought.
My gay friends told me, “You
can’t do that; you’re a little
faggot!” “Watch me!” I told
them. I served ten years in two
services and left honorably as a
Sergeant First Class, USAR.
Nearly forty five years later, I
don’t regret my youthful
patriotic impulse. I’m proud of
my service and I’d do it again.
But, it wasn’t easy.
Later that first morning, we
were examined in a factory
production line process, moving
from the eye exam, to the
“cough” exam, and to the
psychologist sitting at a little
table rubber stamping forms.
“Any problem with
homosexuality?” He asked. This
was it! “No,” I said firmly.
After all, I had no problem
being gay; but I knew I was
lying. “Next!” He muttered
without looking up. And that
was that, that was all there was
to it. I was ‘in.’ I was an
active duty sailor in the United
States Navy.
The next big shock came at 12:30
AM after a very long day, after
a four hour bumpy ride in a steel
grey Navy school bus from
Chicago’s O’Hara Airport to
Great Lakes Naval Training
Station. The bus pulled inside
the gate and stopped; the Arctic
wind howled off Lake Michigan;
it was about 40 below outside.
The door opened, a Petty Officer
got on the steps and shouted,
“All right mother f----rs, Off
the bus; you’re in a world of
shit!” “Oh my God,” I thought,
“what have I done!”
Any old vet will tell you that
the abuse of boot camp “builds
character.” But they don’t do
that anymore. Anyway, I made it
through and was assigned directly
to the USS Forrestal, the
aircraft carrier, to replace one
of the 134 sailors killed in the
fire a year before, off the
coast of Vietnam. My rack was
two feet below the flight deck,
in a newly rebuilt compartment
for 200 young men, directly
below the spot where burning jet
fuel had burned my predecessor
to death.
Back then, and now;
frightening isn't it |
|
On the first morning aboard
ship, there was a mock
inspection, a hazing of newbies,
by midlevel Petty Officers who
had better things to do at 6:30
AM. As we came naked out of the
shower room, we had to walk the
gauntlet between them, as they
made lewd comments. Today, that
would be called homoerotic
sexual harassment. I knew what
to do; I laughed it off.
For the next ten years, I
laughed off all the regular
constant homophobic comments.
It really pissed me off; but I
loved the military, I loved
serving my country; so I stayed
and reenlisted over and over.
But, finally, after a decade,
after having moved up the ranks
into leadership, I had enough of
being insulted every single
day. By 1978, gay rights were
emerging just outside the base
gates. I was proud of my
service; but I also wanted to be
proud of who I was. I had a
long term companion that I
didn’t want to have to hide
anymore. I simply didn’t
reenlist yet again. I regretted
leaving almost as much as I
regretted joining on that first
day of service.
Back then, for those who served
from WWII through the early
1990s, we called what we did,
“Serving in Silence.” This was
before DADT, when being gay was
totally forbidden and simply
made you “unfit to serve.” If
you were found out, you could be
killed, shot in the back or
thrown overboard in the middle
of the night at sea, or you’d be
dishonorably discharged and
disgraced for life. There were
“witch hunts” where anyone who
was suspected would be
interrogated for weeks or
months, threatened with life in
prison, and terrorized into
giving up the names of anyone
else they knew who was
homosexual. So, to be secure,
it was very lonely. There was
no help, no SLDN, no one to tell
you your rights and look out for
you; nothing. That was another
reason I left, before it was too
late.
Aboard ship, I avoided the usual
normal horseplay of young
sailors at sea, terrified that
I’d be found out. So,
inadvertently, I was considered
to be the straightest guy
around. During a witch hunt,
the officers called me in and
said, “Meyer, you’re the only
one we can be sure of; will you
help us find these queers.” I
didn’t know whether to laugh or
cry. As always, I knew what to
do and muttered, “I dunno nothin’
‘bout dat, Sir.” Its funny now,
it wasn’t then. It was
terrifying!
The news media today talk about
those who served, and were
discharged, under Don’t Ask
Don’t tell. This story has been
so that we do not forget the
many thousands of patriots who
served in silence long before,
so that we may remember their
courage and sacrifice.
Denny Meyer, USN, SFC USAR