I reported for duty aboard the USS Trippe DE1075 on a cold and windy March afternoon 1972. The Officer of the Deck welcomed me with a smile. My dress blue bell-bottoms fluttered in the wind as I shivered. The aroma, a mixture of diesel fuel, wet paint, and floor wax, filled my nostrils.
A member of the Repair Gang arrived and led me down to our berthing compartment. I hoisted my seabag on my shoulder. I was surprised how awkward I felt carrying it down the ladders. The berthing compartment seemed cramped and far too small for the 21 racks that I quickly counted. The compartment couldn’t have been much bigger than 20 feet by 15 feet.
As I walked in, I could smell Kiwi shoe polish and burning metal from the welding equipment in the adjacent repair shop. My shoes clanked on the green vinyl tiled deck that had recently been waxed and buffed. The bulkheads were painted bright white.
My shipmate told me I had the rack above his, the top rack of three. It didn’t have storage underneath it, like the two lower racks did. I asked my shipmate where I could put my clothes. He pointed to the bottom locker on the bulkhead that, at first glance, appeared to be half the size of my sea bag. I stared at my sea bag and wondered how I was supposed to fit it and its contents into that tiny locker. Somehow, I managed.
We had been taught how to fold our uniforms so that they could fit in tight spaces. I still fold my t-shirts the same way.
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