Guarding the Gate

All US military bases are secured by perimeter fences and guarded gates. On Navy bases those gates are guarded by Marines. Very imposing security, yes? Actually...no, or at least not at Charleston in 1977.

As stated before I was a US Navy mineman from 74-78. Between a third and half that time I was stationed in Charleston. Toward the end I lived off base. This was fairly common since the on-base housing was somewhat scarce. Lower rank military types tended also to double up, much like college students, and for the same economic incentives. But even before then I had noticed that the guards seemed to pay only cursory attention to my ID when coming on-base; and none at all when I would be leaving.

Before I had bought a motorcycle, sometimes my buddy Rick Veress and I would joke around in the back of the cab as we entered the base using mock-Russian accents.

"Eh, Boris...you got ze bomb?"

"No Igor, I bring it last time. Today she was your turn to bring ze bomb."

It had to be Boris and Igor since neither of us could pass for Natasha (as in makink beeg trouble for moose an' squirrel). But never once did any of the marines take notice. After while we gave it up as fine art wasted upon deaf ears.

Then later I got the idea for both a subtler and a more dramatic jest. Among my once-a-week regular haunts outside the base was a very convenient strip mall. Here even more conveniently yet was a drop-off laundromat right next-door to a used book store. Mostly they sold paperbacks. They also had a 2-for-1 trade in deal. So I'd buy two science fiction novels, read them and trade them back in for one. But they sold other books as well. One day I stumbled upon a book of flags and emblems of all nations. It being cheap for its binding almost coming apart, the opportunity for a finer joke yet presented itself.

I took that book back to my room in the barracks and cut out seals and emblems, very carefully, for the People's Republic of China. From these I fashioned a none too shabby fake ID for Genuine Official Communist Spy and Saboteur -- Agent double-O three and a half. This I placed into my wallet, inserting it into the plastic, flip-out picture-holder immediately across from my actual Navy ID.

The Navy ID showed some black writing and a black and white photo but was otherwise mostly pale green on white. Contrasting this, my commie spy ID was of equal size and with also black writing but had in addition bright red logos on a yellow background. Which then do you think should have been the more eye-catching? Most anyone would... But they would be wrong.

With only slight trepidation I held up my wallet, open book fashion, clearly showing both ID's stuck out from the rear window of the yellow cab. The Marine guard leaned in my direction, made a show to study my papers, and said..."Pass." And so with the next time and the next and all the next ones after that.

Months later, after I had bought the bike, gone off on deployment to Scotland and returned, I still kept that ID in my wallet, always in the same plastic picture-holder just opposite to my Navy ID. Never did any guard comment upon it. Not the Marine guards in Charleston, nor the Royal Air Force in Scotland. As a joke I'd begun to tire of it.

I decided to spice it up instead. Not always did I ride my motorcycle to work in the mornings. Should it be raining I might ride in as a passenger with my roommate MN3 Ron Terry in his Mazda RX3. I had bought a Nelson cap while in Scotland. Folks call them peasant caps, here. Hell's Angel types are shown in Hollywood movies wearing leather ones. Nowadays folks associate them as a fashion accessory of San Francisco's gay leather fringe sub-culture. So you know the style, right? Well, in Europe those caps are mostly of fabric. The low profile and narrow brim keeps it from blowing off your head on Scotland's frequently windy days. Mine was denim. And after a few trips through the washer and dryer it had started to look less like something McArthur might wear and rather more like a Chairman Mao cap.

A brief visit to the Singer Sewing store for a one-inch, red star patch went far toward completing the effect. I started wearing that hat to and from work every day. Even into and out from the COMOMAG compound while in civilian attire. The only comment it ever attracted was when CWO4 Balderrama spotted it one day and said, "Starling, you've got a lot of nerve."

But the Marines guarding the gate still never took notice. Not that they had ever been noted for being observant. One day something rather more embarrassing happened to dwarf my little stunt with the hat and fake ID.

A small crew of workers arrived one day with an official repair order for the Charleston Navy Base's main front gate. That gate, you should know, was guarded 24/7/365 and probably hadn't been closed in years. According to the paperwork which was shown to the guard, the gate itself was overdue for preventative maintenance so as to increase security on the chance that it might ever need to be closed. The guard was asked to sign here and initial there. Then the crew removed the gate from off its hinges, loaded it onto the back of a government-looking truck and drove away. Neither that gate nor the mystery maintenance crew were seen again.

There was rather a big to-do on account of that. Rumors had it figured to be US Navy type persons unknown. Such a stunt would be well in keeping with rather long established traditions of inter-service practical joking. Usually though, it is only smaller stunts: painting a heroic statue, or military lawn ornament (AA gun, tank, etc.) pink. Nothing to get one thrown in the brig. To the best of my knowledge, this was the tops. Nor was it ever solved! It almost makes me ashamed for my lesser shennanigans, for never would I have dared to compete on such a scale. What I wouldn't give to have been a fly on the wall of the guard shack when that Marine handed over to his own Captain of the Guard that official, duly noted and signed receipt for the missing gate with his own initials upon it. I expect that just such happenings as this are how they select a few, proud men to guard weather stations in Alaska.