"Berthing Nazi"

Not long ago an old shipmate was asking me if I remembered berthing cleaners on board the ol’ Lucky No. 7, USS Rainier!  He asked if I remembered the Golden Broom Award each week and how we usually faired.  That was the silly award given to the best heads & beds of the week given out by the ship’s Executive Officer. 

A Second Class Petty Officer was usually put in charge of a particular week’s cleaning schedule with “positional authority” being the badge of honor. Hell, I was put in charge on several occasions. The rest of the fellas gave me the moniker "Berthing Nazi" and I took it on with pride!!!  

Heads & Beds was considered very bad business, in that egos, cushy useless collateral duties, and points of attachment between many asses and chairs well secured for sea were put endanger. Figuring out who was available to round up was like the “Running of the Bulls” in Pamplona Spain!

You guessed it, one of the biggest headaches was figuring out who was showing up to get’er done. Predictably there were special liberty types and people on leave you had to fight with divisional LPOs to substitute in their absence.

“Hey Shipmate… You got a little bit of something on your mouth… I think… it looks and sounds like bullshit!”

A Modus Vivendi often existed between LPOs when it came to berthing cleaners. And since I was a mere Second Class, they didn’t take too kindly to me telling them instead of asking them to pony up. I mean, even zoos have guys who shower the shit out of the monkey cages day to day … and believe you me, in a twenty-four hour period that berthing could become a shit show!!!

From 0800 to 1100 it was nothing but assholes and elbows ... and though I didn't usually take much seriously, heads & beds was one thing I didn't mess around with ...  Gotta scrub them heads and make them beds.  

The Berthing Compartment was its own little Pandora’s box.  There were times that getting the job done called on all the resourcefulness, ingenuity, and just plain Bull Shit you can muster.  The chorus of whiners, complainers and panty wetter’s had become a source of daily amusement.  You had to be hard on these sons-a-bitches because sailors are like officer's wives … they always think they’re special and just don't give a fuck for nothing!

And forget about that nasty mess in the head! The mess was usually the result of shipmate escapades on the previous night ashore. You got buger chunks dried to the shitter walls, used shit paper and piss sloshing around on the deck and shower babies from eighty swing’n dicks splattered throughout the showers and shower curtains.  Last man to show up got to play spick and span in the shitters and showers. As the berthing PO you had to be ruthless to them charlatans on the cleaning bill! When you pressed them sons-a-bitches to get to work, they’d act like piglets rolling around in mud while throwing you the finger!!

“Why do I have to clean the shitters… I aways have to clean the shitters!”

“Because you’re always a half an hour late gett’n here you idiot!”

 … It’s the job nobody wants.

Then of course was picking up laundry on time and resupplying the shit paper.  The best of the shit paper was always leased out! You could get a few fairly decent rolls for a pack of smokes, a freshly minted nudie magazine, some snuff or a good sized ammo box.  But laundry was essential … Nesting in smelly laundry, dirty towels, skivvies doused in fromunda cheese and weird smelling racks came with the territory … but forget to pick up laundry and that pungency can last for a long time.   

And God forbid you walked away to contact the HTs’ to unclog a shitter … Nothing worse than a shitter clogged with shit paper someone tried to use to mask the smell from last night’s beer shits …

“A shipmate who’s too damned ignorant to figure out how to aim in that gauddamned porcelain bowl oughta be flipp’n burgers … simple burgers … with no moving parts!”

But I digress … as I was saying, God forbid you should have to walk away for a moment and those knuckle heads would find that extra creamy subscription to “The Girls Next Door” or “Tattas for Wankers.”  Someone would always find the most recent issue under a pillow... 

“Man I wish I was a Breast Pump… I’d be clinging to those mammories forever!”

…and the berthing pukes would spend the first hour gawking until…

“What are you sons-a-bitches doing… are you jack’n to porn? There should be nothing but asses and elbows in the air scrubbing & cleaning… now get to work!

And turn off that damn idiot box before the XO shows up!”

By the time the XO finished heads and beds… that nudie magazine would find its way stuck together in tatters all rolled up behind the flush valve under the duty shitter!

But the Navy never claimed to be a repository for high intelligence, if any at all.  It all worked out eventually as long as we focused on the “how to” and not the “why for.”  You see, Heads & Beds was part theatrical art and part menial servitude. If you hadn’t experienced this standard operation of daily shit stewing, then you missed out on one of the great cultural experiences of being a Cracker Jack Sailor in the Ol’ Canoe Club. It wasn’t always fun and games … but it grew hair on our chests and built character … and we survived!!!