I joined the U.S. Navy while I was still in high school. My brother had joined just three years before and, even though his tour had been pretty much a walk through the book of Revelations (the extreme cold of a Chicago winter, the Los Angeles riots and a Japanese tsunami), I decided to take my chances.
My mother drove me to our local Navy recruiter’s office. I spoke to them about what I wanted to do. Always having more than a passing interest in English and writing, I told the recruiters that I wanted to be a military journalist. They instead told me that I should become a nuclear propulsion technician because I would receive a sizable signing bonus. No matter what, I had to take the Armed Services Vocational Aptitude Battery or ASVAB test in order to see what I might be qualified to do. Regardless of whether you're swabbing the decks or steering the ship, taking the ASVAB is the price of admission.
The ASVAB measures everything from mathematical knowledge to mechanical ability to code breaking aptitude and more. A recruiter picked me up from my house early in the morning on the appointed Saturday. He also had with him one other potential recruit.
I had always done okay on standardized tests. I was never at the top of the class, but certainly not scraping the bottom of the barrel either. After finishing the test, I felt I had done my best. All three of us went back to the recruiter's office to discuss our individual results.
The recruiter addressed the other potential recruit first, "Anthony, you've got to work on your math skills. The minimum score to make it into the Navy is 31 out of 100. You scored a 29." Apparently, Anthony had taken the ASVAB on multiple occasions only to fail each time, regardless of how much studying he had done.
With that, he turned to me. "What do you want to do in the Navy? You scored an 82 which means any job is open to you." I again repeated that I wanted to be a military journalist. And they again pushed for me to become a nuclear propulsion technician. They said I could work on submarines, as if that was supposed to appeal to me. Again, I refused.
Next, if I agreed to join the Navy, they would take me to the recruit processing center on Cherry St. in Philadelphia to fill out some paperwork (with my parents’ approval, as I was still a minor at the time) and see if they had an opening available so I could become a military journalist. If a slot was available, I would have to pass a typing test.
Yet a different recruiter took me to Cherry St. on another Saturday. Since I was entering what they called the Delayed Enlistment Program (DEP), it was really just a bunch of paperwork to be filed out and to see if a journalism school slot was available. Of course, one wasn't available.
Instead, they offered that I sign up under the Seaman Apprenticeship program. This would allow me to join the Navy and work on board ship, but in my free time I could work with the journalists on board and eventually petition to go to military journalism school or take a test to show that I had received enough on-the-job training to be recognized and work as a full-fledged military journalist. It wasn't ideal, but after talking with Bruce, the recruiter of the day, I decided to sign up and join the Navy anyway. I asked them to keep an eye out for a journalism slot, should one become available.
A few weeks later, A.J., one of the recruiters in the office called me with good news. He had taken a potential recruit to sign up and he had been offered a slot in journalism school. The potential recruit’s response, to quote A.J. was, "Journalism? Why the hell would I want to do that?" If I remember correctly, he opted for the nuclear propulsion program (and the signing bonus). A.J. asked if they could hold the slot open as he had someone interested in it – me. He told me to practice typing as the following Saturday I would need to type at least 20 words per minute to earn my spot.
By this time, it was summer between my junior and senior years of high school and I was accompanying my parents each day to hang out and help out with our family business. It was also the only place I knew that had a typewriter besides my grandparents' house. So I practiced typing as much as I could.
When it came time to take the test, we again went to Cherry St. A very nice woman, an Army sergeant, took me to a room with a computer, instructed me on how to proceed. Nervously, I put my fingers in the predetermined spots on the QWERTY keyboard, took a deep breath and started.
The test itself took me only 5-10 minutes to complete. Afterward, I opened the door to indicate that I was done. The nice Army sergeant came in to review my test results.
"Well, it looks like you managed to type 19.5 words per minute." I looked at her like someone had just murdered my puppy right in front of me. With that, her look softened. "Do you promise me that you'll practice typing over the summer?" I smiled, "Yes. Absolutely. I promise." She smiled back, "Okay then, you've got your spot."
And with that, I was on my way to becoming a sailor...
- Scott Kaminski
* - All names have been changed.
