All I Want for Christmas is an Open Parking Spot

The holidays are often a time filled with hustle and bustle (all wrapped up with a bow and festive, multi-colored lights). There are places to go, things to buy and everyone is often going to the same place (seemingly all at the same exact time) to buy the exact same thing.

When I was around 10 years old, my family set out on a similar journey one weekend leading up to the holidays. With my father driving and my mother seated up front, my brother and I each claimed our favorite spots in the back seat of our car. Our destination was a large and, at the time, relatively new shopping center located in Northeast Philadelphia at the intersection of Roosevelt Boulevard and Haldeman Avenue, about a 20 minute drive from our home.

In addition to a number of small, specialty stores it had a large ShopRite grocery store, a Crazy Eddie appliance store (always a good time) and Caldor, a run-of-the-mill department store chain which has now long since gone out of business. On this particular trip, we were specifically heading to Caldor for some amazing deal my mother had run across in their most recent newspaper circular ad.

The parking lot was, in a word, insane. Trying to find an available parking spot was like unsuccessfully playing a vehicular version of Whac-A-Mole. Even with my brother Steven and me acting as spotters, my father would pull around an aisle of cars just in time to see someone else claim the recently open spot.

This went on for a good 20 minutes when our luck finally changed. After a great deal of pedestrian stalking, we saw someone about to back their car out. My father put on his turn signal indicator and gave the departing vehicle enough space to easily back out and be on their way.

As soon my father placed his foot on the accelerator, a silver Chevrolet Corvette immediately zipped into the spot, with the driver smirking – as if he had just gotten one over on the family that was foolish enough to actually be considerate and wait their turn. My father instantly put on his four-way hazard lights, threw the car into “park” and bounded out of the driver’s seat to have a word with our Corvette driving friend.   

My father was never one to anger or rile easily. He was and still is, unquestionably, one of the most patient and even-keeled people I will have ever known. While at 5’ 10” and 250 lbs. he could be somewhat imposing, he was the pinnacle of playing it cool and using logic and rational thinking to solve any problem or issue. But, like anyone he could also have a temper when sufficiently provoked.

From our vantage point in the backseat, Steven and I could see our father arguing with the Corvette driver but the guy refused to move his car. His girlfriend who was now out of the passenger seat and standing beside the car just waited impatiently. He seemed to actually be laughing, thinking it was all some sort of joke. Knowing that his family was watching the entire scene unfold, my father returned to our car and immediately took us to look for another open spot, seething in anger.

My father was the type of person that when he was angry he didn’t get loud – instead he became silent. And the car became very silent, very fast. Knowing this, our mother did her best to calm him.

Soon enough, we found another available spot and parked. As we entered Caldor, my mother and brother split off to head to the boy’s clothing section. Not having anything specific we needed, my father and I headed off to the sporting goods section to see what Caldor had to offer.

We were perusing camping and outdoor gear when we heard a voice from behind us. The Corvette guy was walking down the aisle toward my father with his hand extended saying, “Hey, no hard feelings, man.” He actually wanted to shake my father’s hand.

I saw my father begin to slowly shake his head as if to say, “No” and, without saying a word, he punched the Corvette guy square in the jaw, easily knocking him backward and onto the ground. The guy stayed on the linoleum floor, obviously stunned by the pain he was now feeling and rubbing his jaw. My father stepped over him and quietly said, “You just shouldn’t have taken the spot… you shouldn’t have taken it.”

Looking back, he gestured for me to take his hand, “Come on, son” and we just walked away. As we made it a little further toward the front of the store, we stopped. “I would prefer it if you didn’t mention this to your mother,” my father intoned.

A few moments later, we met up with my mother and brother. And I simply couldn’t contain what I had just witnessed, “Mom! Steve! That guy in the Corvette who took our parking spot?! Dad laid him out with one punch over in the sporting goods section! Like knocked out, on the floor over there in aisle nine,” I said excitedly.

My mother turned to my father, “You didn’t? Did you?” My father only repeated, “He just shouldn’t have taken the spot.”

For years after that day, which we came to know in our family as “The Caldor Incident” we would often ask if we could take a ride to Caldor whenever we felt the need to add a little excitement to our weekend. Here’s hoping that all future Kaminski holiday seasons are eventful, but maybe not THAT eventful.    

- Scott Kaminski

Ship Chasing 101: Make Sure the Ship is There When You Arrive

In August 1996, I left the island of Diego Garcia in the middle of the Indian Ocean on an Air Force KC-10 bound for Okinawa, Japan. Emptied of all its cargo, the KC-10 was cavernous and quite prone to echo. In addition to myself and the three pilots who were assigned to operate the plane, the only other passengers on board were a Marine who had obviously done something very, very naughty (he was in handcuffs for the duration of our time together) and two agents from the Naval Criminal Investigative Service (NCIS) who were escorting him off of the island.

My next duty station was the USS Belleau Wood, an amphibious assault ship (roughly the size of a World War II aircraft carrier) which was forward deployed (the fancy name for U.S. Navy ships which were permanently housed in locations which were not the United States) out of Sasebo, Japan. As luck would have it, I was scheduled to arrive at the base in Sasebo approximately two hours after the Belleau Wood’s departure from port.

The public affairs officer who I would be reporting to on the Belleau Wood, said that as a staff journalist I would be needed for the port visit the Belleau Wood would soon be making to Vladivostok, Russia. He made me promise that when I arrived in Sasebo I would kick, scream and curse if needed to ensure the base personnel department sent me chasing after the ship. (Other sailors who were not specifically needed for the trip would instead be set up with a room on base and given temporary duty until the ship arrived back in port.) Additionally, he assured me that he would call the base personnel department and make clear to them that I was to be sent along to meet the USS Belleau Wood no matter what.

The KC-10 landed safely at Kadena Air Force base in Okinawa. I was directed to one of the terminal buildings but told not to get too comfortable as my next flight would be leaving relatively soon. Within the hour I was back in the air, this time in an Air Force C-130 turboprop headed for Fukuoka, Japan. On the KC-10, I wasn’t in first class (as that’s not exactly an option on military aircraft) but I was at least in a regular airline-style passenger seat. Seating on the C-130 was a little more rugged – specifically cargo netting hung from the wall of the plane with a seat belt attached. I was handed a boxed lunch and a set of ear plugs. In addition to all the pallets of cargo the plane was packed with, a woman was also traveling with her two small children.

Thankfully, the flight from Okinawa to Fukuoka was brief and uneventful. From Fukuoka, we took a ride two hours south by van to the base affectionately known as Commander, Fleet Activities Sasebo. The van pulled through the gates at around 10:30 that morning. The USS Belleau Wood had departed just two hours earlier at 8:30 a.m. I was dropped off at the base personnel office to show them my orders.

The young girl working at the front desk briefly looked over my orders. “Okay, so you’re here to go aboard the USS Belleau Wood. She just left and isn’t due back for about two weeks. We’ll set you up in a room until then.” I stopped her. “I’m sorry. I was told by the public affairs officer on the Belleau Wood that I would need to be sent out to meet the ship. They need me there for an upcoming port visit,” I said. As I spoke, her bright smile turned to a bit of a scowl. “Oh,” she said derisively, “You’re the one they were talking about. Let me get our lead personnelman to talk to you.”

I waited at the desk for a few moments. A Personnelman First Class came up to greet me, “Petty Officer Kaminski. I understand we need to send you out to meet the Belleau Wood. Feel free to leave your bags here and head down the street to grab a bite to eat if you’d like. We should have a better idea of how we can help you in about an hour and a half,” he said. I thanked him, deposited my sea bags behind the counter and went off to grab a sandwich.

Sasebo was a relatively small and sleepy base. Most of the American military activity in Japan was either to the north just outside of Tokyo or to the south on the island of Okinawa. Besides the ships based in Sasebo’s port, the only other distinguishing characteristic may have been its armory. It was big. Very big. Like, if a Wile E. Coyote style explosion occurred, half of Japan would sink into the ocean big.

I made my way to a small strip of indoor restaurants, ordered myself some lunch and just hung out people watching for a bit. Soon enough, I made my way back to the personnel office to see what they had come up with.

“Kaminski, I think we’ve got everything figured out for you here,” said the personnelman first class. “What’s going to happen is this: You’ll stay here overnight in the Transient Personnel Department. A van will be by to pick you up there at 5 a.m. tomorrow morning to drive you back to Fukuoka airport. From there, you’ll take a civilian aircraft to Naha International airport in Okinawa. We’re trying to reach someone from the Belleau Wood now, but we’ll ensure that someone from the ship is there to meet you at the airport. From there, they’ll take you to White Beach where they’ll be taking on Marines and their supplies and you’ll be on your way. Any questions?” he asked.

“You’re absolutely sure that someone will be there from the Belleau Wood to meet me at Naha? I only ask because I’m not exactly familiar with this country, oh, at all.” He smiled, “We will make sure someone from the ship is there. No worries. If you head outside, I’ll have one of our people drop you off at TPD for the night.” I thanked him and gathered all of my stuff to meet the van outside.

The Transient Personnel Department (TPD) was just a five minute drive on the other side of the base. I checked in at the front desk and was given a wool blanket and linens and then directed to a room with four beds, one of which was already occupied. I put the bedding down, put my sea bags in a locker and went outside for a walk. I ended up walking around the bay, past the personnel office which I had been to earlier that afternoon and to the section of the base where the U.S. ships were berthed. The empty area where I imagined the Belleau Wood docked was huge. All of the other ships were currently in port, including the USS Fort McHenry, USS Dubuque and two small minesweepers, the USS Patriot and USS Guardian.

On my way back to TPD, I grabbed a quick bite for dinner and slowly meandered back to my room. There I showered, made up the bed, set an alarm and promptly went to sleep. I woke up at 4 a.m. and gathered my things. I dressed in civilian clothes as I would be flying on commercial airlines this time around. The van showed up right at 5 a.m. and I was on my way back to Fukuoka. I slept almost the entire bus ride there.

This time, instead of taking me to commercial hangars where business and military planes landed and took off, I was taken to the regular departure gate and politely pointed toward the ticket counter by my driver. I thanked him profusely as I grabbed my sea bags and headed into the terminal.

Taking a quick look around, I realized that I was pretty much screwed if I had any questions or issues. I couldn’t read anything but the most basic sign or pictograph. I cautiously handed my ticket and military ID to the agent at the ANA (All Nippon Airways) desk. She politely checked in my bags, lugged them onto the conveyor belt, handed me my boarding pass and pointed toward the terminal I was departing from. I smiled and bowed a little bit toward her, having no idea what was either customary or downright insulting here in Japan.

I found the proper gate and waited with my carry on bag. About 30 minutes later, they called for boarding. I found my seat and settled in. Just prior to departure, an airline attendant came around and gave everyone a warm, wet hand towel. Not familiar with the practice, I attempted to sneak glances at those around me to see just what they were doing with this thing. Of course, they were washing their hands with it. Duh. I ran the towel over my hands and then handed it back to the airline attendant once she came back through the cabin.

Within an hour, my flight from Fukuoka to Naha in Okinawa touched down on the runway. I went inside the terminal, gathered my sea bags from the baggage claim and waited. And waited. And waited.

It may sound like an awful stereotype, but at the time, not having any familiarity with the Japanese language, I was simply desperate to find even one person who appeared like they might speak English.

After an hour, no one had arrived yet from the USS Belleau Wood to collect me. Nervously, I lugged all of my belongings up to the desk which, in addition to many other languages, said “Information” in English. I smiled at the young Japanese woman working behind the counter.

“Do you speak English?” I asked, as any other tourist would most likely inquire. “Yes, how may I help you?” she responded in a slow, breathy tone. “I’m supposed to meet someone here from a U.S. Navy ship called the USS Belleau Wood. Do you know of anywhere they could be?” I asked.

She pondered the question for a moment and then began to shake her head a bit at the request. “I am sorry, I do not have any information to assist you,” she kindly responded. I thanked her and stepped aside.

And with that, I was on my own and feeling pretty much doomed. Foreigner in a strange land, doesn’t know the language and no one there to help them. The first thought I had was a simple and direct, “Well, what the hell am I supposed to do now?” Also, this was in the age before cell phones were popular – at least for people like me. (They were all over Japan already by that time.) I had no numbers of anyone to call and really no idea what I should be doing next. So, I did what any other person would do: I went outside for some air and a place to think.

I plopped my bags on the curb, stood and waited. For what, I had no earthly idea. Either way, I must have looked absolutely pathetic. About 30 minutes had passed when I heard a voice off in the distance, in English and calling to me from down the block. “Yo! Where are you headed?” he asked me. I turned to see a tall U.S. Marine Master Sergeant in battle dress uniform (camouflage, for you civilians) walking toward me.

“I’m a sailor being assigned to the USS Belleau Wood. Someone from the ship is supposed to be here to pick me up,” I responded. “Well shipmate, you’re shit out of luck. There was a typhoon last night. She’s still out to sea,” he said.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I said. “Nope. That’s what happens with you Navy boys,” he said, grabbing one of my sea bags. “My truck is parked just down the block. I’ll give you a lift to Kadena Air [Force] base and you can check in there. They’ll be able to find out if the ship was able to dock and when you might be able to head out to White Beach to go on board,” he said, already walking with my sea bag at a brisk pace toward his truck. I quickly threw the other bag over my shoulder and jumped up to follow him.

Within 30 minutes, we were being waved through the security gate at Kadena and he pulled up to the personnel office to drop me off. Words can probably not express the level to which I thanked the master sergeant that day. I offered to pay for his gas, pay him money for his time and trouble (and possibly even offered to donate a vital organ should he need it at some point in the future). He declined all forms of compensation, said he was just doing his job and was on his way back to his base. Meaning he didn’t even work at Kadena Air Force base!

The folks at the personnel department set me up with a room for the night and told me to check back with them in the morning as they would most likely have more information then. I made the bed, ordered some food from a place on base that did delivery and settled in for the night.

The next morning, I put on a working uniform (powder blue shirt and denim bell bottom dungarees – sexy, I know) and went down to the personnel office. They told me that they had been able to make contact with the Belleau Wood and I was free to check out of their room and head to the dock in White Beach to go aboard as soon as I could gather my things.

I went back to the room, changed into a summer white “ice cream man” uniform and packed up all of my things. I handed the keys in to the personnel department and they directed me to the base taxi stand.

As I approached the lead car, the rear passenger side door opened to greet me and the driver, wearing a formal uniform including a cap and white gloves, stepped out of the car to greet me and put my bags in the trunk. “And where are you heading today, sir?” he asked me in impeccable English. “The dock at White Beach,” I said. He looked at me oddly for a moment, as if he was searching a map in his head. “Yes, White Beach. Absolutely. Please get in,” he said, gesturing toward the open rear door. He stowed my sea bags in the trunk and we were off.

The journey took us through a number of cities and towns. Just over an hour later, the cab pulled up to the gate at White Beach. From the back seat of the cab, I could see the Belleau Wood docked at the end of a long pier. The activity to and from the ship appeared like ants coming and going from a colony. After being waved through, the driver made his way to the beginning of the pier and pulled up to drop me off. I apologized for not having Japanese Yen on hand. He was more than happy to accept American dollars in payment (Okinawa is the only place in Japan I’ve ever known where they nearly always insist upon it).

I lugged my gear down the long pier toward the ship. As I got closer, I realized something pretty obvious: the Belleau Wood was freaking huge. Not only that, the ship was in the process of taking on tons and tons of gear and personnel – specifically around 1,900 U.S. Marines and all of their weapons of destruction. It became quickly apparent to me that this ship was truly made to start and end a war almost entirely on its own.

I climbed multiple flights of stairs with all of my bags (would someone please remind me to pack lighter next time?) to make it to the gangway. While going across, I turned briefly to salute the American flag on the fantail and asked the petty officer on watch permission to come aboard. Permission was granted and I handed him my orders. And with that I was on my way to becoming a seafarer – at least for a little while.

- Scott Kaminski

* - All names have been changed.

You’re Being Stationed Where?

The story of my time living on Diego Garcia, a place few have ever heard of and even fewer will ever live. 

An aerial view of Diego Garcia.

Upon completing my military journalism training at the Defense Information School (DINFOS) in Indianapolis, IN, I took leave with my family in Philadelphia before departing to my next duty station – Diego Garcia.

Commonly known as “DG” or “The Rock," Diego Garcia is a British territory and living coral atoll, located 7 degrees south of the equator in the middle of the Indian Ocean. Ever heard the phrase “middle of nowhere?" Well, it’s just beyond that. Depending on the map, it may show up only as part of the Chagos Archipelago. 

As my leave was ending, my parents drove me to the Philadelphia International Airport with my two sea bags worth of uniforms and personal effects as well as a carry on bag packed with a CD player, CDs and lots of extra batteries. As this was prior to 9/11, my parents were actually able to wait with me in the USO lounge until I made my way to the gate for my flight. Soon enough, we said our goodbyes and I was off to DG.

The trip from Philadelphia to Diego Garcia was a grueling bit of travel. Including flights, layovers and refueling this trip generally took over 40 hours to complete. My plane flew from Philadelphia to Lajes Air Base in the Portuguese islands of Azores. From Azores, we flew to Sigonella, Italy. From Italy we flew to Bahrain, Saudi Arabia. And from Saudi Arabia we flew directly to Diego Garcia.

Descending into Diego Garcia by plane for the first time is awe inspiring. I quickly realized that this was probably the most beautiful place I would ever live. Nothing else has even remotely come close. And then getting off of the plane, you’re hit with a Mack truck sized wall of heat and humidity.

Exhausted, all of us were led into the tiny flight terminal where British customs agents proceeded to line up all of our bags and counsel us on the dangers of bringing any sort of contraband onto the island (drugs, weapons, chinchilla in your pants, etc.). And then, to prove how serious they were, they brought out a drug dog for a demo. Prior to every flight arrival they would hide a marrow bone impregnated with heroin somewhere in the terminal just so they could let their dog lose to find it in front of groups of weary travelers who would want to think twice about the naughty stuff they’ve attempted to smuggle onto the island. The customs process took about an hour – really the absolute last thing you would want to do after traveling for that long.

After the demonstration, we were free to go. Just outside of the terminal, I met Rick Vane, my sponsor. He was supposed to write me while I was at DINFOS to let me know a bit more about life on Diego Garcia. Apparently, he forgot. I guess I should have just been happy that he remembered to pick me up at the airport that day. We hopped into a tiny white van and drove off toward the populated end of the island.

We briefly stopped at what would be my place of employment for the duration of my tour – Naval Broadcasting Service (NBS) which, a few months later was rebranded as Naval Media Center Broadcasting Detachment. I would just come to know it as “The Det." I was introduced to a few of my coworkers (some of whom I had already known from my days at DINFOS) before handing in my orders and being assigned a barracks room.

One of my former DINFOS classmates, Laila, recommended that we catch up later that evening for dinner. With everyone knowing how arduous the trip to Diego Garcia could be, I was allowed to head to my room, settle in and sleep for the rest of that day. In my daze, I set an alarm and passed out for a few hours.

Laila knocked on my door at 6:15 p.m. As we walked to the Peacekeeper Inn, the nicest restaurant on the island (well, perhaps outside of the Officer’s Club… but I was enlisted and they didn’t allow my type there), Laila talked about working at the detachment and a little bit more about life was on the island.

Diego Garcia had its fair share of quirks and interesting policies. First, there was no indigenous population on Diego Garcia. Well, there was many years earlier but sadly they had been forcibly removed by the government to make way for the military build up. In addition to the U.S. military, a small contingent of British Royal Marines and other personnel, there was large Filipino and Mauritian population living on the island. These folks worked at and maintained many of the island services – from working at the base retail stores to operating restaurants, the island barber shop, running the sewage and fresh water treatment plants, pier operations, etc.

So why would you need a military base on Diego Garcia? I’m glad you asked. DG is strategically important to the military for a variety of reasons. First, it serves as a base for antisubmarine warfare squadrons who patrol the Indian Ocean. Second, the island hosts a naval communications station which refers messages throughout the fleet. Third, the Air Force operates the Ground-based Electro-Optical Deep Space Surveillance or GEODDS facility which helps to track all man-made objects in space. Fourth, sitting in Diego Garcia’s harbor and lagoon at any one time are around 15-20 maritime prepositioning ships operated by the merchant marines. These carry all sorts of military supplies and hardware – everything from tanks and Humvees to meals ready to eat (MREs) and tactical gear. And lastly, at 2.27 miles long, the runway on Diego Garcia is not only capable of supporting large bombers, but also served as an alternate landing site for NASA’s space shuttle.

The weather on DG, while beautiful like any tropical locale, could also be oppressive and turbulent at times. For the entire duration of my time there (14 months total) the temperature never dropped below 74 degrees. Never. Most days it was over 90 degrees and extremely humid. And then there was the day when I walked to work in six inches of water. Then again, it was a tropical island so was I about to complain? Absolutely not.

With Diego Garcia being as isolated as it was one of the things the base command focused on (and put a lot of money behind) was what the military refers to as Morale, Welfare & Recreation (MWR). On Diego Garcia, you could find and practically do anything the island locale allowed for – deep sea fishing, speed boat and sailboat rentals, golf (they had a nine hole course), watch movies in the open air movie theater, swim in their Olympic sized pool, skeet shooting, softball, basketball, racquetball, volleyball, etc. They also supported a ton of island wide events – from BBQs to running and biking competitions and much more.

There was no drinking age on DG which meant that everyone – from the 18 year-old sailor fresh out of boot camp to anyone else who happened to step off the plane – was able to imbibe. And they did. In some cases with reckless abandon.   

A coconut crab on Diego Garcia.

One thing that was plentiful on DG was wildlife. There was a standing rule that you could be fined $5,000 per incident for “molesting” any of the wildlife. Wildlife was everywhere on DG. There were feral chickens and cats roaming the island, a herd of donkeys, all sorts of tropical fish, sharks and turtles in the waters. And then there were coconut crabs which were pretty damn scary. The pincers on these things were created to tear coconuts in half. They were downright prehistoric looking.  

Next, there were no families on the island. If a married person received orders to Diego Garcia, their spouse and other family members would remain living at their previous duty station until their return. This made wedding and engagement rings sort of a novelty item. For some people, they simply didn’t matter. And let’s be honest, even though this was the military, it was still a tropical locale where the humidity was high, summer clothing and beachwear left less to the imagination and people were generally thumping like bunnies all over the place.

If you did happen to meet the person you wanted to spend the rest of your life with on Diego Garcia (and it did happen, believe me), the couple were permitted to get married and have one night in the finest room island accommodations could offer. The next morning, one of them was immediately put on the first departing flight – whether it was going to Thailand, Japan or elsewhere as they were not permitted to stay on DG as a married couple.

Lastly, the ratio of women to men on Diego Garcia was well in favor of the women. If a girl ever wanted to have her pick of any man in her geographical area, she should get stationed on DG. Even the ugliest of girls could expect to have a bevy of potential suitors at her disposal.

And, speaking honestly, my friend Laila was not the most attractive of girls – not by a long shot. Beyond that, she had an especially coarse and spiteful personality. A common reply of Laila’s to practically anyone she ever interacted with, regardless of military rank or station, was a sarcastically tinged, “Thanks. I’ll blow you later.” With that being said, prior to us heading to the restaurant, we stopped at the Enlisted Man’s Club so she could grab Tommy, her merchant mariner boyfriend who was going to join us for dinner.

The Det where I worked operated two television stations (for entertainment and informational purposes) as well as one radio station. All of the television shows we aired were relatively current (within a few weeks) and sent to us on broadcast quality Betacam tapes from the Armed Forces Radio & Television Service (AFRTS). As far as radio programming, the station was manned by our on air staff from 6 a.m. until the early evening. After that, we would simply simulcast a satellite feed available to us from AFRTS headquarters in Washington D.C.

The next morning, I reported for work at The Det. All incoming personnel were immediately assigned to the most boring and mundane task the exciting world of broadcasting had to offer – running boards. In order to keep all of those fancy television shows on the air, someone had to be there physically inserting the tapes and playing public service announcements (in the Navy, these took the place of regular commercial spots). This was literally a 24-hour a day operation where someone like me was seated at a control board with a bank of video players making sure that everything was played properly and on time. After all, people tend to get kind of pissed off when you play Guiding Light in the time slot where General Hospital should be.

My training commenced immediately. From the time I could run the boards on my own, following the precisely designed schedules timed out to the minute, I was assigned to work 12-hour shifts. While it was tremendously tedious work, I still gleaned a lot about how the station operated. The television boards were located right next to the television news master control room and just down the hall from the radio studios.

Within a few weeks, running boards became a duty assignment as opposed to a full-time job. Some people on military duty are tasked with walking a perimeter with a machine gun. Me? I got to make sure that The Simpsons played on time. After exclusively working at running boards for a few weeks, I was put to work writing, voicing and producing radio announcements. And not long after that, I was given my first shot to work as a radio DJ – playing Top 40 and other popular music from 6 to 10 a.m. every week day.

Me standing in Diego Garcia's radio Studio A.

Working as a DJ was fun – even when I made really stupid mistakes such as mispronouncing words like Tagalog (a dialect spoken in the Philippines) or playing the wrong CD. Eventually, it got easier and I became a little more relaxed behind the microphone. I was even doing well enough that I received a unique piece of fan mail – a postcard from a listener in South Africa. Apparently our AM signal reached that far and he used to tune in each day to hear me.

With the constant cycling of personnel coming to and leaving DG, The Det held what they referred to as “Hail and Farewell” parties each month. These were BBQs where we as a group would take some time celebrate those who were leaving DG and also to welcome new people to the detachment. Also, it was a great excuse to leave work early and go have a party on the beach.

One of the new people we welcomed during one of my first Hail and Farewells was Dave Winters who had just come to us from the naval air base in Jacksonville, Florida. Dave had become a journalist by “striking” into the field through on the job training in the fleet. While he had no formal broadcast training, he had perhaps the most natural radio voice of anyone I’ve ever known. Dave and I hit it off immediately and he is still one of my closest personal friends to this day.

I had recently been moved to another room on the opposite side of our barracks and given a different roommate – Petty Officer Second Class Brandon Hamilton – who also happened to be in charge of the television news division. Brandon, a proud native of Omaha, Nebraska was a nice enough guy. I was just generally disgusted by his habit of dipping (using chewing tobacco) and leaving his spit cups at random places in the room.

One Friday evening I had gone to bed early. I had to be up very early the next morning to run boards. Brandon knew I was attempting to sleep but chose to hang out on the balcony just outside of our door drinking – straight Jack Daniels, I might add – with another of our coworkers. A few hours had passed when Brandon opened the door and drunkenly walked into our dark room toward our bathroom.

From my bed, I saw the bathroom light flick on and then I heard it. A retching. Then a delay. Then a tremendous splash of regurgitated Jack Daniels. I jumped out of bed to investigate. “Holy shit! You puked all over EVERYTHING!” I said, seeing my formerly white bath towel now half brown and sticky. Brandon, still loopy from just having exorcised the contents of his stomach, responded to me sincerely, “Well, not anything above three feet.”

“You’re cleaning this up. Right now. I have to be at work in two hours and I’m planning on getting a shower before I go in,” I responded angrily. I went back to bed, leaving Brandon to clean up the mess on his own. A few days later, I was allowed to move into a room with my friend Dave.

A few days after that came a drinking incident of my very own. I was 19 years old when I arrived on DG and had never really drank alcohol before. As there was no drinking age, I generally took the path of least resistance – a few wine coolers here and there. One of my coworkers (and not one that I knew very well socially) named John was due to leave the island soon. We were all gathered at The Det and he was asked if there was any last thing he wanted to see before he departed. For some inexplicable reason, he pointed at me, “I want to see him drunk.”

Half-startled, I pointed to myself, “Me? Why?” His response was simple and to the point, “Just because I think it would be fun.” I kind of shrugged my shoulders, “Okay, but you’re buying. Where do you want to go?”

Where we ended up was a particular establishment that not everyone frequented on DG – the FilMau Club. The Filipino and Mauritian population of DG had their own section of the island. It was kind of a shanty town of bungalows and other structures. Their club, although nice, was kind of the dive bar of DG. The group of us grabbed a bunch of tables and they started feeding me drinks – in this case, wine cooler bottles of which 2/3 had been poured out and replaced with vodka.

Lacking in tolerance, I began to feel the effects of these weighted wine coolers almost instantly. But I was also intent on keeping in the conversation and enjoying hanging out with my coworkers. Suddenly feeling hungry and lacking any sense of taste or other sort of inhibitions, I began grabbing at the bowl of pork rinds the table had ordered. And then, getting bolder with each drink, I began dipping them into the screwdriver of my coworker Stan whenever he wasn’t looking. The rest of the group could see what I was doing and when Stan finally noticed he went ballistic.

After he was calmed down, someone suggested we hit the dance floor. I really, very rarely, dance. It’s just not something I’ve ever felt I was designed to do. Apparently, vodka changes things – a lot. Not only was I dancing that night. I was actually asked to leave the FilMau Club (okay, I was kicked out) for dancing on the tables. Thankfully, after my headache subsided the next day, things went back to normal.              

Keeping in contact with family from DG in those days was tough outside of letters and packages. Mail sometimes took up to two weeks to reach the U.S. The Internet was in its infancy and not widely available in any way. I was able to purchase calling cards to reach home but the time difference was always an obstacle. And the cost, at $20 for each 10 minutes, wasn’t easy to deal with either.

In addition to work, there was a lot to keep me busy. My coworkers formed a softball team and, possibly out of pity, allowed me to play with them. Sometimes a few of us would head out to the Brit Club, a favorite haunt of most people on DG, and then put together a catching and batting practice around 2 or 3 a.m. The fun part was that after we turned on the lights to the field, we would have to chase away frogs which had come onto the sand along the baselines to keep cool during the night.   

The Det was soon assigned a new officer in charge – Senior Chief Petty Officer Michael Dunbar. We were lined up at attention to be inspected and addressed (something which was practically unheard of under the previous officer in charge).

Mostly bald and wearing Teddy Roosevelt style glasses, Dunbar spoke with an English accent. “I am not here to be your friend. I have my own friends. I am here to make you work. And I plan to squeeze all of you. Some of you may pop, but others will flourish under my command here. Does anyone have any questions?” he asked. Silence. He continued, “We are going to make the productions which come out of this detachment some of the best in all of the military. I will guarantee you that. If anyone has a problem with that, don’t cross me because I will kick your ass. Do you understand?” We all responded with a loud, “Yes, senior chief!” and were dismissed.    

One of Dunbar’s first actions seemed almost entirely at odds with his speech – he instituted a casual Friday policy. We were all so happy we almost didn’t know what do with ourselves. It was a simple gesture but one that we all admired. And in that moment we all knew that life under Dunbar’s tenure was going to be a good thing for everyone.

By this time, I working as a radio DJ on the midday shift, playing alternative and rock music during a show called Choice Cutz (don’t blame me for the name – it came with the time slot). Also, Dave Winters and I had taken over hosting duties (we traded off) for the island’s hour long music video show called FMTV.

FMTV gave us an opportunity (and a good reason) to visit all sorts of interesting places all over the island. And, have some fun while doing it. That’s how I found out one of the best views of the island is from the top of the air traffic control tower. Or that Marines, unless properly trained, generally have absolutely no idea how to talk on camera or show a decent sense of humor. In addition to on camera interviews of everyone we could find, we also wrote and filmed comedy bits or other segments for air.

During one particular heavy metal themed show, my friends Barry, Mike and I took over DG’s musical instrument practice room so we could perform a song as “Roadkill,” a heavy metal band that demonstrated and personified every rock stereotype known to mankind. We lip synched to Cinderella’s “Gypsy Road” like no other band before. I would share the video, but someone could blackmail me with it.

Christmas was approaching. A few of my coworkers had decided to make the trip home. In most cases, people who took leave from DG chose to take their entire yearly allotment of military leave – 30 days – all at one time. With the amount of travel involved to and from, there was just no sense trying to do it any other way.

Instead of traveling, I picked up a few calling cards and reached out to family for the holiday. I had to thank them for the box of gifts they had generously sent along to make me feel at home. They were kind of jealous because in Pennsylvania it was cold and snowing. On DG, the weather was pretty much the exact opposite and I intended to spend Christmas celebrating with my coworkers at the Plantation recreational site on the other side of the island.

In the military, you tend to gain a new appreciation for those who work hours other than 9 a.m. to 5 p.m. This is primarily because in the military, whether you like it not, you’re going to have a job, task or duty that falls outside of those hours – or on holidays. Or both. I mention this because I was lucky enough to be assigned to run boards – for a 12-hour shift – which began at 11:30 p.m. on New Year’s Eve 1995 and ran until 11:30 a.m. on New Year’s Day 1996.

A few of my friends, some drunk and others not, were kind enough to take a break from their celebrations to stop by and visit me. It was one shift I was more than happy to be over and done with.

Not soon after the start of the year, I was asked to sit down with Senior Chief Dunbar. I knocked on his door jamb and he looked up. “Kaminski. Come on in and have a seat. I really, really like what you’re doing here on the radio and FMTV,” he said.

Coming from Dunbar, that was a compliment of highest order. What many didn’t know was that prior to joining the military, Dunbar had been a civilian radio DJ – and a damn talented one at that. Dunbar had originally apprenticed under the famous disc jockey Wolfman Jack and for a few years in the late 1970’s had the number one rated radio show in the country working out of Los Angeles. He chose to step away from it because, while he was well known, he still had little money or anything else to show for it. As he later advised me, “Fame without money is worthless.”

Anyway, seated in his office, he continued, “I like what you’re doing on the radio and I really want to see you translate that as our next TV news anchor.” I looked at him kind of sideways, “Me? Wouldn’t you really like to see someone else in that seat instead of me?” I protested. Never having been a fan of anchoring the news, I also knew that many other people at The Det had been interested in the role. Our current anchor, Karen Flynn, was winding down her time on the island.

Dunbar was insistent. “I’ve made my decision. You’re going to be my next news anchor. You’ll train for a week starting Monday and then the week after that you’ll be on air. Your last radio show will be the end of next week as well.” While I was unsure of myself, Senior Chief’s words certainly helped bolster my confidence a bit.

That Monday I arrived at The Det to begin training. I did my radio show in the morning and worked with Karen that afternoon on script writing as well as inputting everything into and operating the teleprompter. So far so good.

And then, Tuesday arrived. As soon as I arrived at the Det, I was told that Brandon Hamilton needed to see me. I found him working in our camera and equipment locker. “You need to go back to you room and get a uniform ready ASAP. You’re going to be anchoring the news tonight,” he said. I looked at him dumbfounded. “What?!?! Why?!”

“You didn’t hear? Karen is in the hospital with a burst appendix. Now get out of here.” With that, I scurried back to room to 1) find a uniform suitable to wear on camera and 2) iron it so I didn’t embarrass myself.

My first attempt at anchoring the news was absolutely pitiful. I still have the tape and it’s truly cringe inducing. I look like there’s a midget terrorist pointing a gun at me off camera telling me to read a ransom note. But, like with my time on the radio, I progressively got better and more comfortable with practice.

Around the middle of March, we floated an idea to Senior Chief Dunbar – we wanted to do a special April Fool’s Day newscast. We weren’t sure of what stories we wanted to focus on or how we wanted to execute just yet, but he told us he was completely and entirely on board with whatever we came up with.

One of the ideas we ran with was that the Smoke Free Navy initiative, something which the Chief of Naval Operations had been championing and planning to institute within five years, had instead been instituted immediately. In order to sell it as our lead story, we talked with (and interviewed on camera) the manager of the island store about how all of the cigarettes on the island would be destroyed. And then we got footage of his staff removing every single carton of cigarettes from the store shelves.

To further bolster our cigarette story, we interviewed the island’s senior medical officer who talked about what a great idea the new policy was, saying that it would make for a healthier Navy and that it was simply the right thing to do for all of our sailors.

For our sports segment, we enlisted members of the merchant marine football team (who were stationed on ships anchored at DG) to participate in a rather raucous game of “tackle golf.”

All other aspects of the newscast, from upcoming island event listings to flight schedules and weather forecasts were completely bogus. We also featured a human interest story about a bowler who wasn’t quite playing with a full set of pins. The entire newscast can be seen here.

As soon as it aired, the calls started pouring in to The Det. One poor Brit who didn’t realize it was April Fool’s Day immediately went out and purchased 50 cartons of cigarettes. The base commanding officer tracked down Senior Chief Dunbar to express his displeasure with the stunt. To his credit, Dunbar not only stood up for us, but actually thought the newscast was highly entertaining.

That May, we began ramping up for a multi-day fundraiser The Det did every year to support the Navy-Marine Corps Relief Society called Radiothon. The premise of the fundraiser was simple. For a donation (and in some cases, a series of increasing bids) we would give the radio airwaves over to the populace of Diego Garcia. If someone didn’t like a song being played over the air, they could simply call in, make a donation and “bump” that song off the air with their own selection. Of course we would play a clever sound effect (fire alarm, toilet flushing, etc.) to demonstrate that a song had just been bested by another donation.

We began to brainstorm in earnest about how we should promote it. My friends Dave and Barry, put together a great deal of the spots to promote Radiothon, all of which were simply fantastic. One, shot in black and white, was themed after a European silent film and starred various feral chickens from around the island.

I helped to write and act in one of them myself which, due to some incredibly bad timing, caused a bit of controversy. In the spot I was playing the role of a slightly unhinged person who just happened to be on the roof of our building with a radio listening to my “favorite song” during Radiothon. That song being Randy Newman’s “Short People." Below were a number of my coworkers pleading with me not to jump off of the roof. The camera cuts to another person who calls into the Radiothon hotline and requests the Van Halen song “Jump." I scream like mad, run and throw myself off the roof and my coworkers clap as I land, throwing myself 30 feet down against the grass. We actually borrowed a CPR dummy from the hospital and filmed it flying off the roof dressed in my clothing. When we went to the medical clinic to ask permission to borrow it their response was, “Ummm…. you’re going to use this for what?”

The problem came on May 16, 1996, a day which, as I was still also the island’s news anchor, was pretty tough. Apparently distraught over an upcoming feature article disputing his authorization to wear certain decorations along with his military awards, the then current Chief of Naval Operations Admiral Jeremy “Mike” Boorda committed suicide by a self-inflicted shotgun wound to the chest.

All of us immediately switched from making fun Radiothon spot mode to news gathering mode. Senior Chief Dunbar, who had worked with and knew Admiral Boorda personally, took the news especially hard.

With Senior Chief’s valuable input, we put together what we felt was a very respectful and touching tribute to Admiral Boorda for the newscast that evening. As the Navy-Marine Corps Relief Society was a charity which the Admiral championed, we felt comfortable in the decision to keep our ads promoting Radiothon in full rotation leading up to the event. That was until Senior Chief Dunbar, as the officer in charge, got a call from the island’s resident psychologist.

“Senior Chief, are you aware that you are currently playing a commercial where a sailor commits suicide over a song being changed off the of the radio and that the Chief of Naval Operations recently killed himself?” she scolded. As much as Dunbar liked the spot, even he agreed it would have to be permanently shelved.

A few days later, Radiothon commenced. While I wasn’t scheduled to be on the radio during the fundraiser, I was given a very special sort of assignment. Essentially, I was to be the taunter-in-chief. In many cases this meant I spent a good part of each day on the roof of our building with a bullhorn screaming at, yelling and cajoling people into opening their wallets for this worthy cause. In addition to me working from the roof, other teams from The Det were traveling around to various parts of the island, film crews in tow, doing their best to amp up the island population and get them donating to the Navy-Marine Corps Relief Society.

As part of Radiothon, one of the large donations we received wasn’t for a song that someone wanted played over the air. Instead it came from a couple of female British Navy “Leading Wrens” (Wrens comes from WRNS, an acronym for Women’s Royal Naval Service) who temporarily wanted my job as television news anchor. For a combined donation of $1,000, Leading Wren Jessica Pauley and Leading Wren Laura Baker took over anchoring the news for one night. I got to be their coach just off camera as they spewed all sorts of British jargon I couldn’t understand.

Not soon after Radiothon wrapped up, I again sat down with Senior Chief Dunbar. Due to some extraordinary circumstances, The Det was going to be short-staffed for the coming six months. Even though I was scheduled to move on to my next duty station in a few months – as a staff journalist aboard the USS Belleau Wood, home ported in Sasebo, Japan – he asked if I would consider a short extension on the island. Without hesitation, I immediately agreed to extend my time on Diego Garcia by two months. A few days later, I made the return trip to Philadelphia to take my 30 days of leave (minus all of that fun travel time) with my family.

On my return trip to DG, we boarded the plane in Sigonella, Italy. The captain came over the loudspeaker to inform us that there was a problem with engine number three of our DC-8 aircraft. A few rows ahead of me, an older gentleman jumped out of his seat and immediately went into the cockpit (we later learned that he was a traveling flight engineer/mechanic). He exited the cockpit, went down the stairs onto the tarmac and up a ladder to inspect the engine in question. A few moments later, he began, rather violently and in full view by the entire one side of the plane, banging on the engine with a very large hammer. After a few minutes, he again boarded the plane, went into the cockpit and then took his seat.

“It looks like we’re ready to resume our flight,” said the captain over the loudspeaker. You could see a look of fear in everyone’s eyes that had seen the supposed “repairs” which were done to the engine. It was actually so bad that people began, in earnest, to request that the flight attendants begin serving alcoholic beverages BEFORE the flight departed. As we took off bound for Bahrain, Saudi Arabia, it took nearly a full hour before people realized that engine number three was probably going to get us there. Thankfully it did – and back to Diego Garcia.

As we landed at Diego Garcia, the British customs officers proceeded to line up everyone’s luggage for their hour long or more customs demonstration. One of them recognized me from my time as the island’s news anchor and pulled me aside.

“Scott, you’ve been through all of this before, right mate?” he asked. I said that I had. “And you didn’t bring anything especially fun with you back from home, right? Drugs, knives, etcetera?” I said I hadn’t. He pointed to line of bags. “You can grab your stuff and go then.” I thanked him, grabbed my bags and headed out of the terminal. As I left, I could hear a collective groan as well as a, “Hey! Why does he get to leave?!?!”

The week after I returned, all members of The Det were subjected to something which we had heretofore never experienced: a good, old-fashioned military room inspection. Dave and I were standing at attention outside of our room as our inspector, Chief Sal Guardino, arrived to review our quarters and entered. Guardino worked at The Det as well, overseeing all of the technical staff who kept the facility (and every piece of equipment) up and running.

He quickly surveyed our room and then stopped. “Kaminski! What the fuck is this?!?!” he said, pointing to the matching Mickey Mouse sheets and comforter that adorned on my bed. “That? That’s Mickey Mouse, Chief,” I responded, somewhat sarcastically. A smile came to his face. Laughing, he told us that our room had passed and to get back to work.    

My final months on Diego Garcia went by very, very quickly. While I was no longer anchoring the news (my time in front of the camera ended in late June 1996), I did continue to put together and file stories for the news as well as worked on various other projects for The Det.

In my final week, I packed up the majority of my belongings and shipped them off to my parents in Pennsylvania. Not knowing how much space I would have aboard the Belleau Wood, I figured it best if I didn’t show up with a mountain bike, electric guitar and amplifier and everything else I had accumulated while on The Rock.

My flight was scheduled to depart around 8 p.m. one August evening bound for Okinawa, Japan. Dave drove me to the terminal, we said our goodbyes and he left to start a shift running boards at The Det. My plane, an Air Force KC-10, was massive. Intended primarily as a cargo plane, this particular model had been outfitted with approximately 20 passenger seats just outside of the cockpit. 

I boarded the plane and was greeted immediately by one of our pilots (there were three total on the flight) who pointed me to a seat. Besides the pilots, the only other humans on board were a rather large Marine (approximately 6’4”, 260 lbs.) in camo fatigues (who happened to be wearing a set of handcuffs) and two Naval Criminal Investigative Service (NCIS) agents who were escorting him off of the island. Obviously this 14-hour flight was going to be a blast.

The pilots began preparing for take off and instructed us all to buckle up. And then about 15 minutes later, one of them came out of the cockpit to inform us that we weren’t going anywhere. The engines simply wouldn’t fire. I collected my two sea bags, got off the plane and called Dave at The Det to inform him that I wasn’t going anywhere just yet. He arranged for coverage on the boards and ran back to the airport to get me.

I dropped my gear off in Dave’s room (I was not technically supposed to be living there any more) and set off to the Peacekeeper Inn to grab a late bite to eat. Dave went back to The Det.

For a good portion of my time on DG, I was somewhat infatuated with a Filipina girl named Cassandra who, at various times worked as a server at the Peacekeeper Inn as well as working at the island’s package and beverage store. I was always too shy to ever confess my interest in her in any way. As I arrived at the Peacekeeper, she just happened to be there working that night. As it was so late, we were the only two people in the entire restaurant. Not having anything to lose, I finally struck up a conversation with her.

I encouraged her to sit with me and tell me her story. To my surprise, she happily obliged. I learned that she came to Diego Garcia because good paying work was relatively scarce in her hometown in the Philippines. She was single and, after a few years of working on Diego Garcia, expected to be able to return to her country with enough money to build a home of her own and hopefully go to school to become a teacher. After I finished eating, I thanked her for taking the time to hang out with me and set off to The Det to find Dave.

I borrowed Dave’s room key (I had already turned mine in) and collapsed on the bare mattress which used to be my bed. I awoke the next morning to a knock on the door from Dave, who had just finished his overnight shift running boards.

I went to The Det to figure out how I was going to make it to Japan. I was put on the next outgoing flight to Okinawa which was scheduled to depart the next day. With Senior Chief Dunbar’s assistance, we called the public affairs officer (essentially my new boss) aboard the Belleau Wood to explain the situation.

After reviewing my flight and travel times, he determined that I would actually be arriving in Sasebo, Japan approximately two hours after the Belleau Wood would be departing on a trip headed for Vladivostok, Russia. He instructed me to check in with the personnel department at the base in Sasebo and insist that they arrange for me to “chase” the ship to its next port of call because I would be needed during the Russia trip. He told me that whatever the staff at the personnel office said, no matter how much they protested, that I was to insist that they make arrangements for me to travel and meet the ship. From his end, he would also contact them to ensure they understood that no matter what, I was to be on the Belleau Wood for the Russia trip.

My last hours on Diego Garcia were bittersweet. Dave again drove me to the DG airport, but this time the plane actually took off. Fourteen or so hours later, we touched down in Okinawa, Japan.

There were many things about life on Diego Garcia I would certainly miss: my good friends and coworkers at The Det, the amazing weather and island life and even encountering those scary ass coconut crabs. While Diego Garcia was a fantastic departure from civilization for a while (make that a long while), I was antsy to see and learn different things. And, come to think of it, I had a ship to go chase.

- Scott Kaminski

* - All names have been changed.

How I Became a DINFOS Trained Killer

Prior to leaving Navy boot camp in Great Lakes, Illinois for the Defense Information School (DINFOS) in Indianapolis, IN to begin my training as military print and broadcast journalist, I was advised to get some civilian clothes and then change back into my uniform on the train. (At the time it was a rule that you had to be in uniform when you reported to your next duty station.)

Arriving at night, it was a quiet taxi ride from the train station to Fort Benjamin Harrison, a rather sleepy Army base known as the home of the second largest government building in the U.S. (I’ve seen it. If you haven’t, you’re not missing much.) The guard at the gate directed my cabbie to the DINFO barracks. I paid my fare and, dressed in my navy dress blue “Cracker Jack” uniform, carried my green sea bag with me through the door to talk to the soldier on duty.

The barracks were U-shaped with three stories on each wing of the building. As all members of the armed services attended this school, space was somewhat limited. I was directed to “take the stairs to the top and go right” to the Navy’s floor. I topped the stairs and pushed the door open. Walking down the hallway toward me was a strikingly attractive Hawaiian girl named Leilani who just happened to be clutching a full fifth of Jack Daniels.

“Hey! Welcome to the Navy deck!” she said, excitedly shaking my hand. “What are we celebrating?” she asked me. I looked at her somewhat quizzically, but could tell she had already had a few. “It’s Tuesday! We’re celebrating that it’s Tuesday!” she exclaimed, raising her hands over her head. And then she walked past me, out the door and down the stairs.

I moved down the hall a bit and was met by Renee, a short, mousy redhead. “Hi! Welcome! Do you have your orders?” I put down my sea bag and handed her the marigold envelope I had been given upon my departure from boot camp. “I apologize. We’re a little booked up here at the moment. I’ll have to give you a room in one of the Army wings until the next class graduates and then we’ll move you up here,” she said. Renee handed me another packet with student rules and other important info and then escorted me to my room on the first floor in one of the Army wings.  

I had a week or so until another class formed up for the print journalism portion of my training. I spent this time doing admin tasks on the Navy deck, learning more about my classes from current students and seeing what life was like for students at various points in their training.

On my third night living in the Army wing, I ran into a small dilemma. I needed to do some laundry. My room was located at the far end of the hallway and peeking out my door I could see my Army neighbors were being subjected to a full dress uniform inspection by a very unhappy drill sergeant. She was literally walking from soldier to soldier with a ruler measuring the distance between their pockets and the ribbons on their chests.

Clad in my Navy jogging suit (dark blue with a big, white “N” on it), I grabbed all of my laundry items and headed down the hall toward the common area which housed the laundry facilities. I got past three confused soldiers when their drill sergeant wheeled around to address me, “And just what in the hell do you think you’re doing?” I mockingly looked around at the items I was carrying. “I have a bag of laundry and a box of laundry detergent. I was thinking about going sightseeing downtown,” I responded sarcastically. She glared at me, practically burning a hole through the “N” on my chest… just long enough for me to realize I should immediately proceed to the laundry room.

The next day I earned a roommate in the Army wing – Michael Murray. Michael, as I would soon find out, was a devout follower of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, more commonly known as the Mormons. We exchanged pleasantries and talked about our experiences so far in the Navy. Within a few days, he was openly referring to me as “The Antichrist.” Luckily for both of us, rooms became available on the Navy deck and we simply became future classmates instead of just religious adversaries.

My training was due to begin that Monday. For us in the Navy (as well as those in the Marine Corps), we were trained in both print and broadcast journalism. For members of the Air Force and Army, those roles were split up into individual disciplines and they had to choose one or the other. Members of the Coast Guard were only trained as print journalists as they had no need to be overseas, where most military broadcasters practice their craft. Either way, ahead of me was six full months of intensive training. In some classes only half of the people who began either program successfully made it to graduation.

The first three months of training consisted of print journalism writing, photography, print layout and public affairs training. They were actually training me to be the guy who would stand at a podium after a plane crashed who says something like, “We can neither confirm nor deny the existence of nuclear weapons at this time.”

The last three months of my training would focus on broadcast journalism including learning how to be a radio announcer, newsreader and disc jockey. I would also learn how to write, edit and record broadcast radio spots. For television, I would be trained on how to write, shoot and edit a news story for air on television as well as how to anchor a newscast. We also learned how to perform all of the roles associated with a newscast: running a teleprompter, operating a camera, running audio controls on a board, switching video and directing a newscast.

At roll call that Monday morning one of our more senior shipmates spoke directly to all those starting classes that day. “Look, you were all intelligent enough to get into this school which means you’re smart enough to make it class on time and on your own. Make sure to set your alarm clocks and don’t be late.”

The building we lived in was directly across the street from the school building. The sad part was that members of the Army were made to form up in ranks and were marched across the street as a unit. Soldiers glared at my classmates and me as we walked past them on our own to class. For those in the Army, this school was essentially a continuation of boot camp for them meaning that if someone told them to “drop and give them 20” they were required to do it. The Navy was still the military, but much, much more lax.

My print journalism instructor, Air Force Senior Master Sergeant Marvin Reynolds, was quite possibly the whitest black man that I’ve ever met. I’m not saying that to be critical. I’m saying that because it was true. Also true was this: He was a hell of a writing instructor. At one point I received an article of mine which he had graded. The red ink on it started to overtake the printed black text. “Really, Senior Master Sergeant Reynolds?!?!” I asked incredulously. “Did you run out of ink here or something?” He half-smiled, “That’s not funny, Kaminski. Especially because I did run out of ink grading your paper.”

We had been warned about a very specific form of torture that all DINFOS print journalism students are required to go through: Features Writing. For this, every student would go to class in the morning and determine with their instructor a topic for a long form features article (this would be akin to an in-depth article you might find in a magazine or other publication). From there, the student had to have a 10 page, single spaced article composed, edited and submitted to their instructor by 6 a.m. the following morning – less than 24 hours from when they received the assignment.

When it was a Features Night, you could tell. The Navy deck was bustling right up until the 6 a.m. deadline. Caffeine and adrenaline (primarily found in the forms of Mountain Dew… I would buy it three 2 liter bottles at a time and No Dozz awake pills) kept the lights on and the Brother word processor keyboards clicking.

Every morning after we had handed in a feature article, we were subjected to public affairs training or photography classes (presumably so our instructors could have the day to themselves grading our stories). Public affairs (or public relations as it’s called in the civilian world) can be an incredibly dynamic and engaging profession. Sadly, the woman that DINFOS had teaching it to us could cure practically anyone of insomnia. Luckily, our photography classes always kept us active and moving – even if we were left sleepily working in a dark room surrounded by caustic photo processing chemicals.

The cast of characters inhibiting the Defense Information School was so unique I selected one of them as a subject for a features writing assignment. Older than many of my other shipmates, Steve Phillips had previously served as a construction worker and builder in the Army and went on to gain his Masters degree (summa cum laude) in Engineering from M.I.T. After a successful yet unfulfilling stint as an engineer, he gave that up to join the Navy and become a print and broadcast journalist at DINFOS. Sounds like a pretty interesting guy, right? I thought so too.

Well, I wrote up my feature article, handed it in and got called out because my instructors didn’t believe me. One of the tenets DINFOS stressed, as all good journalists should strive to do at all times, is check your facts. Our class even had a somewhat tongue-in-cheek motto: “If your mother says she loves you, check it out.” I was brought before Harry Summers, one of our civilian journalism instructors to explain myself.

“There is no possible way that someone could be in the Army, graduate from M.I.T. with honors, start a lucrative engineering job and then give it up to be here. Did you check your facts?” Summers asked me. I said that I had. He told me to do it again. I found Steve back on the Navy deck later that day. “You’re not going to believe this but the feature article I did on you – they don’t believe it,” I said to him, pointing my thumb in the direction of the school building. I asked him again pointedly, “So I have to you ask you again: Did you serve in the Army, graduate from M.I.T. and work as an engineer like you told me?” He began shaking his head, “Yes. All of it.”

I thanked Steve and went back to find Professor Summers, telling him that I had indeed double-checked my facts. Summers responded that he would look into it himself and let me know within a day or two. Until then, he was holding my article (and my grade).

A day passed and Summers sought me out in class. “So I called M.I.T. and spoke to their dean of admissions. As soon as I mentioned the name Steve Phillips, he perked up on the other end of the phone saying, ‘Steve Phillips! He was one of our best students. How’s he doing these days?’” Summers handed me my graded article back with large, red “A” at the top of it. “Good job on this,” and then directed me back to class.

Within the next few days my print journalism class would be graduating. During our graduation ceremony, the commandant of DINFOS, an Army colonel spoke to the Army, Air Force and Coast Guard graduates saying, “Write and file the stories you would want to read and you’ll do just fine out there.” And then he spoke directly to me and my Navy and Marine classmates who were continuing on to broadcast journalism training, “Make sure you don’t bump into each other in the hallways on the way to broadcast announcing class.” We took our diplomas and headed back to the barracks for a well deserved weekend free from homework.

My Mormon classmate Michael Murray had been set up to room with another member of our class, Ed Burke. Over the course of our print journalism classes, all of us had become a little closer but I’ll say it: Burke was a weird dude. I’m not quite sure if he had one too many acid trips or what, but he was slightly off kilter. Murray, one of the few of us who had a car at DINFOS, had decided to go out that Friday night with some friends downtown. Burke, as odd as it may sound, specifically asked that he not leave him alone in their room. Upon returning to their room in the wee hours of Saturday morning, Murray was surprised to find the majority of his and Burke’s possessions on the floor – all assembled into multiple, neatly drawn and intersecting lines covering the entire floor (this was all reminiscent of a scene out of Pink Floyd’s The Wall). To prove that he wasn’t making it up Murray did two things: 1) Show me and 2) leave everything exactly as he found it for when Burke woke up. The next morning Burke awoke, took one look at the floor and said to Murray, “See? I told you. You shouldn’t have left me alone.”

We filed into our broadcast announcing class early and were introduced to our instructors: Air Force Technical Sergeant Steve Mulligan, civilian instructor Jack Linden and Navy Petty Officer First Class Daisy Dalton. If you tried, you couldn’t find three more different people. Mulligan was amiable enough, but could be bitingly sarcastic. Linden was an older, retired military broadcaster. He had the type of booming voice which could fill a room (no microphone required). And then, there was Daisy. I have never met another woman more physically imposing in my life. It’s not that she was big or stocky. Instead she was muscular and incredibly well-built – she looked like the bodybuilder version of Condoleezza Rice. The buttons on her uniform shirts just barely held in her ab muscles as she inhaled and exhaled. And also, as befitting an instructor of broadcast announcing, her enunciation was dead-on perfect.

The purpose of broadcast announcing class was to train us all to speak clearly, minimize any sort of pronounced, local accents or lisps and allow us to be able to get in front of a microphone to expertly deliver news and/or entertain the masses. In the far corner of the classroom was a pile of hockey sticks. Every day that a student messed up in broadcast announcing, they were made to pick out and carry one a hockey stick with them everywhere they went that day as some kind of half-assed scarlet letter. I got quite familiar with the best stick to grab for all occasions – especially for taking with me to the restroom.

We had all sorts of vocal exercises which we went through constantly. Some of us required more attention than others. For instance, one my Navy shipmates, Carolyn Bert, hailed from Little Rock, Arkansas and had a very intense southern accent which our teachers were seeking to rid her of.

And then there were classmates who had other problems. An Army private in our class, Tom Barry, was incredibly cocky and annoying. He claimed to have been a civilian broadcaster and said that he didn’t need the training. Clearly the instructors disagreed as he carried a hockey stick with him way more days than me. Things came to a point one day when he got into an argument with Daisy. He made the vital mistake of attempting to end said argument by saying to her, “You know, you’re pretty cute when you’re angry.” And that is when Daisy simply put threw him up against one wall of the classroom, got her hand around his throat and, with one hand, lifted him off his feet until 1) he requested air by pointing toward his windpipe and 2) ran off out of class, never for us to see him again.

Later that week, another incident occurred. This time it was between Daisy and my wacky little friend Ed Burke. During a one-on-one instruction session, Burke kept insisting that Daisy’s voice reminded him of someone. Daisy, in her perfect intonation said, “Well, who do I remind you of?” Burke encouraged her to keep talking until it dawned on him. “Wait!” he pointed at her. “You’re Jocelyn Elders!” (For those of you who may not remember, Jocelyn Elders was Surgeon General during the Clinton administration and was considered highly controversial for her stances on legalizing drugs and distributing contraceptives to school aged children.)

Daisy glared at Burke as he continued in a mock southern drawl, “Do you want to legalize drugs?” And then he paused for effect, “Do you want to hand out condoms to elementary school children?” With that, all of Daisy’s perfect inflection went out the window, “Fuck you, you conservative pig!” she said as she grabbed Burke by the collar of this shirt, forcibly dragged him from the classroom and slammed the door behind them. Our civilian teacher Linden broke up the silence, “Back to work everyone. Now!”

From broadcast announcing we moved onto radio news reading and disc jockey training. Our instructor, Marine Staff Sergeant Rick Sands was a hard ass with a great sense of humor – as many Marines I’ve known over the years are prone to be.

As part of our DJ training, we had to put together radio shows including gathering content to share during breaks between songs, picking out music and then putting it all together into a finished product for air. We had to do this across formats, meaning you had to do a country music show as well as a rock show, pop music show, etc. In order to grade us, we would each be placed into student DJ booths equipped with a radio board, cart machine (similar to 8-track tapes, these are what commercials were recorded onto), CD players, a record player, headphones and, of course, a microphone. Each studio was monitored by Staff Sergeant Sands via a video monitor and audio feed. He could give us directions via a one way intercom. To make it especially fun, all student radio shows were recorded so we could review them that evening.

Staff Sergeant Sands laid out his rules for us very succinctly: 1) If any student were to curse at any time while the microphone is live, they would automatically fail class for the day. 2) We were warned that if we ever forgot and left our microphones on during a broadcast, he would make us regret it and 3) If you faded out the Queen song Bohemian Rhapsody before the actual, true end of the song, you would automatically fail class for the day.

It was stressed to us that if any sound fell below a certain threshold on our Volume Unit (VU) meter, that we should immediately fade it out and move on to the next portion of our show. Bohemiam Rhapsody is tricky because it does this late in the song intentionally. Thankfully, no one took the bait and placed that song in their rotation.

Putting these “shows” on and knowing that you were being monitored by Staff Sergeant Sands was nerve-wracking at best. You had a ton of stuff to keep track of and on top of that, your job was to be entertaining. During a country music show which I had put together, I decided to lighten the mood a little bit, specifically by “sending out a special request to one Staff Sergeant Rick Sands.” The song? Jose Cuervo by Shelly West. As the record played and I turned off my microphone, Staff Sergeant Sands came over the one way intercom with a one word reply, “Nice.”

Some of my other classmates were not as lucky. My Mormon friend Michael Murray at one point got mixed up and messed up his show so badly that he, in full on exasperation, said “Fuck” on his live microphone and auto-failed for the day. Another one of my classmates was doing well enough but left his microphone on. Staff Sergeant Sands made him regret it by coming over the in studio intercom and reading that day’s weather forecast – thus ruining his show.

After getting the hang of it, I found the idea of working as a radio DJ invigorating. I wasn’t very good at it, but why should a little thing like having no talent stop me? Either way, we were mostly through with our radio training and it was on to television news reporting, anchoring and directing.

I have what is commonly referred to as “a face for radio” which is one of the many reasons why I simply didn’t feel comfortable in the television anchor chair during my time at DINFOS. Luckily for me, we cycled through all of the support roles as well including broadcast camera operator, floor director (the person who gives time cues and other messages to on air talent), teleprompter operator (a really easy way to mess up someone’s day is by toying with the order of their copy), mixing board operator, audio controller and overall news director.

My time as news director was marred by the fact that my mixing board operator, a female Marine private first class named Sara Haney, didn’t agree with one of my directions to her and threatened to kill me instead of following through with my request. Eventually, we all made it through each broadcast news role at least once and felt like we may actually be learning something.

Toward the end of our time at DINFOS, all of us in the Navy were required to speak with a shadowy figure known simply as “the detailer.” This is the person empowered by the Bureau of Naval Personnel to assign you to your next duty station. Generally, a group of sailors would get together and all speak with them on the phone in quick succession as to most efficiently use the detailer’s time. The detailer I spoke with recommended for my next duty assigntment that I take a spot on the amphibious assault ship the USS Kearsarge.

As funny as it sounds, you know with this being the Navy and all, I actually wasn’t too excited about the prospect of serving on and living aboard a naval vessel. In a way, I was quite terrified. I consulted with my favorite M.I.T. graduate Steve Phillips to see if he had any advice. In a supportive tone he kept repeating to me, “Well, at least I’m not you.”

I had another call scheduled with the detailer where I needed to either agree to the assignment or request some other option. During my call, I inquired about other options. I was told that the only other slot open to me was a one year rotation as a broadcast journalist on a little known “remote duty station” called Diego Garcia. All I knew (and all I needed to know at the time) was that it land of some sort and not a ship. I decided to take a shot and say yes. Seafaring would have to wait.

Soon after choosing my assignment on Diego Garcia, I joined my fellow classmates at our broadcast journalism graduation ceremony. From that moment forward, we were all informally known as DINFOS Trained Killers, which is pretty much a joke because we don’t kill anything but computer printer ink cartridges.

I had set up to take leave (the military’s version of vacation) with my family in Philadelphia for a few weeks following my time at DINFOS. My flight from Indianapolis was scheduled to depart just three hours after our graduation ceremony. I corralled one of my classmates who had a vehicle (in this case a purple Mazda pick up truck) to take me and my fellow graduate Ed Burke to the airport – I ended up riding in the truck bed with our familiar green sea bags. I had little idea what was in store for me next. Heck, I hadn’t even found Diego Garcia on a map yet by this point. Either way, I was heading out “to the fleet” as a trained journalist and broadcaster. And I couldn’t wait to get to work.

- Scott Kaminski

* - All names have been changed.