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by Joseph R. McGonagle
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Hundreds of Coast Guard recruits had been disciplined to eat in silence at the training center. The seagulls screeched a sad violin accompaniment to our evening meal. The clanging of metal trays provided percussion to the birds’ chorus. An aroma of clams, haddock and chowder shrouded around us like the fog outside.
Orders shouted out by the imposing company commander competed with this cacophony. He walked around like a prison guard, observant, chin up, hands clasped at the small of his back. The cadence of his combat boots halted behind me. A finger jabbed into my shoulder like a greasy fork, and his French fry breath drifted over me. My chewing slowed down when I was ordered to report to him after the meal.
Clearing my tray I nervously approached him and saluted. To my surprise he told me that I stood out to him from clear across the chow hall. He wanted to put me in charge of a Coast Guard cutter. Imagine me, only seventeen years old and just two weeks out of high school, assuming such responsibility. I knew then that I had made the right career choice. I would rise fast in this organization.
I wondered which one would be mine as we walked past several boats at the dock. A sustained sea breeze was failing to release these vessels from their moorings, but it met with success in reducing the size of the daffodils around our ankles. As instructed, I kept my mouth shut and followed one step behind my leader.
We arrived at the parade grounds where he transferred command of a lawn mower.
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Joseph R. McGonagle is retired from forty-three years of active and reserve service in the U.S. Coast Guard. He is a resident of Manchester, New Hampshire.
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