An American in Gaeta E-Book

Hollis E. Forbus

• Herausgeber: Ali Ribelli Edizioni
• Kategorie: Sachliteratur, Reportagen, Biografien
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2020

Beschreibung

An American in Gaeta is the autobiography of a US Navy sailor and his human and professional career; it is the portrait of Gaeta between the end of the ‘70s of the last century and the beginning of the 2000s: nightlife, mixed marriages, social tensions and surviving artifacts in the urban fabric of the city; it is, above all else, the story of two communities that lived in close contact during an era in which globalization was not so obvious and ubiquitous.

Leseprobe

An American in Gaeta

by Hollis E. Forbus

edited by Jason R. Forbus

Publisher director: Jason R. Forbus

Graphic design and layout: Sara Calmosi

ISBN 9788833466804

Published by Ali Ribelli Edizioni, Gaeta 2020©

Fiction – Memoirs

www.aliribelli.com – [email protected]

Any reproduction of this book is strictly forbidden, even partially, with means of any kind, without the clear authorization of the Publisher.

An American in Gaeta

Hollis E. Forbus

AliRibelli

Contents

I – Boot Camp

II – Stamp Lickers School

III – Gaeta: first impressions

IV – Elena of Gaeta

V – Ostia e Fiumicino

VI – Man (almost) Overboard!

VII – Gulf War

VIII – Odyssey

IX – Gaeta Vice City

X – Conclusions

Log Book

List of businesses

Editor’s note

In 1967, De Gaulle’s France made the decision to leave NATO. Among the various consequences of this choice was the transfer to Gaeta of the flagship of the United States VI Fleet, the USS Little Rock CLG 4 / CG 41.

The arrival of the Americans ushered in a new season for the city, influencing (and inflating) at least in part its and the area’s economic and social future for the next 30 years.

At least until the beginning of this century, two communities – the autochthonous and the American – coexisted closely, meeting and sometimes colliding. On the one hand, the prosperity brought by the dollar which benefited owners of properties and businesses of all kinds, from night clubs to neighborhood tailoring; on the other, the arrival of petty crime linked to drugs and prostitution.

Excluding the official publications issued by the American Navy and the Municipality of Gaeta and the excellent SHORE PATROL, storia e cronaca degli americani a Gaeta e nel Sud Pontino (1966 – 1988) by Aldo Lisetti and Lidia Scuderi, the latter an authentic encyclopedia on the American military presence in the Gulf, I felt the lack of a book that offered the American point of view; this perspective was not meant to sift through any propaganda or be contaminated by the uniform globalism of our times.

As a navy brat2 son of a former American military and a local woman, I didn’t have to work hard to find inspiration. In fact, I grew up hovering between two cultures and ways of living, avidly listening to the stories that my father recounted on his return, casually, talking about this and that.

An American in Gaeta is therefore the story of my father, told in first person during interviews followed by lavish Sunday lunches. It is the autobiography of an individual and his human experience and professional career, but it is also the portrait of the Gaeta of those years: the nightlife, mixed marriages, social tensions and the surviving artifacts in the city’s urban fabric.

As I write this note, there is a lot of talk about the possible return of Americans to the city. Let’s be clear, they never left: the flagship of the VI Fleet still stands out among the monuments of Old Gaeta. It is a tangible but silent presence; the eye of the resident is so accustomed to seeing it that it no longer attracts their attention.

The return alluded to concerns the arrival of new American families and the implications that this would entail in terms of employment and housing. Still according to some, a possible return of the Americans would be limited to Gaeta Vecchia, with a new base, a new school, and so on. It would therefore be a return to the role of fortress city that the medieval quarter has played for long centuries.

Whether the news is founded or not, I believe the experience of the 20th century has ended. The difference between the two societies is no longer so marked. From Tokyo to Paris, the internet and the global village are now part of our daily lives.

We leave the judgment to posterity and to you, dear reader. Wherever you are, somewhere in Kentucky or in Gaeta, I hope you will find the story told here interesting, appreciating the particularities and suggestions of a unique and unrepeatable era.

Jason R. Forbus

1 The USS Little Rock (CL-92 / CLG-4 / CG-4) is one of the 27 US Navy Cleveland class cruisers completed during or shortly after World War II, one of six converted to guided missile cruisers. Little Rock was the first US Navy ship to pay homage to the city by the same name in Arkansas. Out of service since 1976, it currently serves as a museum ship in the Buffalo Naval and Military Park in Erie County (New York State).

2 The English term brat means scamp or urchin. When associated with the Navy or Military, the term loses its negative connotation. According to the National Defense University Libraries, the use of brat to indicate the children of soldiers stationed abroad may be derived from the British Regiment Attached Traveler – a family member or other travelers attached to a British regiment – that survived in the form of an acronym in post-colonial America.

To my Grand Children

I – Boot Camp

In 1978 I was twenty years old and worked in a construction company as a manual laborer. A grueling job with little prospect of professional growth. Unfortunately, the economic possibilities of going to college were not there: university fees in the United States are very expensive, to study means taking on a mortgage and if you don’t have the right motivation you risk starting out on the wrong foot. So, like so many young Americans of yesterday and today, I came to the conclusion that by enlisting in the military I would learn a trade and at the same time travel the world.

Not that I was dying to cut my hair and shout “Sir, yes sir!” ... I was long-haired, I listened to Led Zeppelin and I lived in Key West, Florida, a small Caribbean island made famous by Hemingway in his “The old man and the sea”. ButI thought, a man’s got to do what a man’s got to do.

One morning I went to the recruitment center in Key West with the idea of joining the US Army, because in those days there was a real possibility of going into armor as tank drivers and at that time the Army was giving $2,500 enlistment bonuses, a lot of money in those days.

Upon my arrival, the Army Recruiter was not in the office, however. He had hung a sign outside the door: “Back in 10 minutes.” I sat in the waiting room where I spent time leafing through some military magazines, to tell the truth with little interest. 30 minutes passed, but not even the shadow of the Recruiter. I decided to come back another day and was about to leave when the US Navy Recruiter looked out of his office.

“Waiting for someone, son?”

“The Army recruiter.”

“While you wait, why don’t you come in for a cup of coffee?”

You never say no to an offered coffee. The Navy Recruiter immediately proved very friendly and, while we enjoyed a cup of steaming coffee, he began to show me several slides of aircraft carriers, submarines, military ships of various sizes and firepower sailing in breathtaking scenarios, from the Arctic to the Pacific passing through the Mediterranean. I was struck by it.

“By joining the Navy you could become an Air Traffic Controller, it is a task of great responsibility that can lead to different professions in the civil sector.”

The prospect of bringing jets and helicopters to a safe landing appealed to me a lot. I would have sailed the seas on the most technologically advanced aircraft carriers in the world, authentic floating cities, learning foreign languages and coming into contact with different cultures. In moments like these you don’t think about the ugliness of war, discipline and everything else; you are young, you are looking for a way, and someone arrives and puts the world in your hands. How do you refuse that?

The Recruiter closed the deal by spending unflattering words on the army’s account. The bottom line was that the turtle trudges over the ground, but at sea you spread your canvas and sail.

Shortly after that I was called to the Military Entrance Processing Station (MEPS) in Miami, Florida, where I was subjected to a series of medical and psycho-aptitude tests to certify my suitability. Once I got past these, I was sworn into military service.

I spent the Christmas of ‘78 at home. I drank each glass with relish. I listened to every song as if it were for the last time. I felt like I was condemned to death, but not in a negative sense: I was about to leave my old life behind and embark on a new one, with all the uncertainties, fears and hopes that came with

I left for Miami again in January 1979, where I took the train to Orlando with other recruits. Upon our arrival waiting for us were large gray navy buses: destination Boot Camp. If all went well, I would have stayed there for at least 13 weeks. I carried only the essentials with me: a bag with a change of clothes and 20 dollars.

We arrived late at night. As soon as we got off the bus, we were told that we would be searched and that, if we didn’t want to spend the night in a cell, we would do well to leave any contraband in the Amnesty Box. This was a cardboard box where, anonymously, new recruits could abandon doses of drugs and other illegal items. I had nothing but underwear and socks, so that when my turn came I simply peeked into the box: inside there were joints, knives and pills. Then, since this was the 1970s, we were searched from head to toe for weapons and drugs. Not everyone knows that in those years if you were a first-time-offender and you had committed minor crimes such as theft or drug use, Uncle Sam offered you a choice: serve your sentence in jail or join the armed forces1. In the training unit to which I was assigned, the famous (or notorious) 077, almost half of the recruits were first-time-offenders.

After the search we were led to a dormitory, a large space with bunk beds already assigned and arranged along the walls. A few hours later, at 5 o’clock, we were woken up by a Petty Officer. After a hearty breakfast of bacon and scrambled eggs we went to the RIF (Recruits in Filing) section where civilian clothes were taken away and uniforms without belts and shoelaces (out of concern that someone may attempt to hang themselves) were issued.

That morning I said goodbye forever to my long, and thick hair. With my head freshly shaved, I was given a ditty bag2containing soap, shaving cream, razor, toothbrush and toothpaste, in short everything you need to be presentable.

The RIF limbo lasted a few days longer than the norm, 8-10 days in total, because our training unit struggled to reach the minimum number of recruits. Those days passed in a fairly monotonous way: sweeping avenues, painting walls and doing other labor, all obviously without belt and shoelaces, so if with one hand you held the broom with the other you held your pants up.

Then, one fine morning, we were awakened by a strong metallic clang: I opened my eyes just in time to see a large, aluminum garbage can, roll past my rack3 continuing down the entire corridor.

“Wake up, wake up!”

It was 4.30 in the morning.

I immediately understood that the actual Boot Camp was starting that morning. At that moment we were introduced to Company Commander, Torpedoman Mate 1st Class Passman, a concentration of meanness and insults all stuffed into 5 feet and 6 inches in height. “Get your shit together you Grade Z Hamburgers, ‘cause you won’t be coming back here”. We hit the head4 and then rushed to grab the few things we had been issued. Led by TM1 Passman, we sloppily marched out of the RIF barracks, some laughing and others cracking jokes. Passman didn’t say a word, he led us to breakfast then back through supply to get our shoelaces, belts and other uniform items.

Finally, we came to our Division where the 077 was barracked. Inside we found the senior Company Commander, a Chief Petty Officer whose name I can’t recall and who remained silent the whole time. The barracks was a spic and span clean space, furnished with rows of racks, thin mattresses rolled up on them. Passman began assigning racks and put up with our wise cracking until the last recruit was given his berth. Then, he suddenly screamed out “Where the hell do you think you are? You’re not at fucking home anymore you Grade Z Hamburgers, but I’m gonna make you wish you were”. Everyone froze, “Come to attention in front of your racks”, clumsily we tried our best to form up. That is when we received a tongue lashing from hell, and I realized then that the next 13 weeks were going to be miserable.

The next day started out at the usual 0430. We had 10 minutes to make our rack, shit, shower and shave, failing to do so meant skipping breakfast and doing extra exercises. After the grooming and incursion to the toilet, still in the throes of sleep, running through a small obstacle course with the shouts of the Company Commander hammering in our ears, inciting “Hurry up, you bunch of pussies”.