WATCHMAN, WHAT OF THE NIGHT?
This story is told with quite a number of variations, but they all end up with a trainee writing home to the folks that he was "writing this while standing watch,' and receiving in answer the query, "Watching what?" The correspondence on the subject generally ends at this point, with the beached seafarer in a state of mild chagrin over the family's refusal to be impressed by what sounds like a dangerous and romantic occupation. Since most men do write letters while on watch, most families conceive of it as a glorified study period and can't quite see any parlous element at all.
What happens is that the trainee tries the thing out on his girl, who probably understands the true nature of "the watch," but is a woman above all. So she answers with a letter full of tender feminine concern about the tribulations of the Navy life. The trainee smiles, forgets his blase parents, and the obliging young lady back home may very well expect to receive in an early post a stuffed green animal with a "D" on its rump, a charm bracelet with I LOVE YOU spelled out in code flags, a touchingly embroidered pillow cover to be filled with eiderdown ("everlasting reminder of happy days in the V-12 Unit at Dartmouth College, Hanover, N. H."), or any one or another of the numerous items on sale for such purposes in the local emporia.
And the trainee, having wasted his money on a woman, is able to return to his watch duties with the high happy heart characteristic of a man in that situation. So our sailor is satisfied, but we still have the original question unanswered. What is watch anyway?
At a V-13 Unit like ours, trainees "stand" (more properly "sit") two kinds of watches: daytime and security. The daytime watches are taken by a group selected weekly by the Chief Petty Officer in charge of each dormitory on the basis of alphabet, size, complexion, or some other mystical classification, which although incomprehensible to any trainee is fully understood by all their Chiefs who manage' to get all of us on watch pretty regularly every two or three weeks, depending upon the number of men in the dormitory.
The daytime shift consists of about four men who adjust their schedules so that they won't have to miss any classes. They stand from 6:30 in the morning until 10:30 at night. Duties of the daytime watch are considered to offer a challenge to both intellect and alertness.
The principal job is answering the telephone. The thing we have to remember is always to say "Sir" right off. It never hurts anyone to be addressed as "Sir," and if it happens to be an Officer, you're covered from the beginning. The man on daytime watch is mail clerk, Western Union boy, and general major-domo for the day. He assembles all the chow lines and makes announcements over the loudspeaker system. During certain restricted hours in the morning he plays loud, tinny, jazz records. Sinatra, Crosby, or Dorsey generally are going at full blast by 5:50 to remind the men about hauling themselves out of the sack, going to calisthenics, etc. Nobody can doze off with these artists sounding off, and the whole thing gives a sound eurythmic basis to morning exercises.
The loudspeaker announcements range from a prosy "Telegram in the duty office for C. D. Paterson," to a more lyrical, "Hey Fellas, we're getting another blanket issue today, yippee!"
The watch office loudspeaker consists of a neat chromium microphone and a very technical appearing grey box with lights, dials, and important looking switches and knobs. This permits men on watch to indulge their thwarted ambitions concerning places on Air Force bomber crews. The effect of certain Hollywood productions is visible in some men on watch who turn the outfit off and growl into it with a John Garfield voice such phrases as "Nearing objective, sir!", or "Sychronize your watches." The group interested in this sort of thing is limited, but fervent.
As long as there is no Chief around the dormitory, the man on watch is the senior officer present aboard and his main duties are to preserve the security of Navy and College property in the dorms. He bars the entrance of unauthorized visitors, breaks up snowball fights, and keeps headquarters informed of extraordinary events (which are rare indeed). He takes care of our liberty cards, chides latecomers, greets and renders the proper courtesies to visitors, and performs similar other tasks incidental to the proper functioning of the establishment.
One trainee who had the day watch in Massachusetts Hall last semester reports that in a single fifteen-minute period he had a chance to use practically everything he remembered from his Naval Organization classes in the way o£ military courtesy. It seems that there was an inspection party aboard consisting of a Captain, a Commander, a Lieutenant Commander, and several Lieutenants. There were salutes, door openings, information and intelligence rendered, "Aye, aye, Sirs," telephone calls to Headquarters, in short.... a test. The trainee recalls that he was quivering with excitement as he opened the last door when the party went ashore, although the Officers, he reports, seemed completely at ease. He thought that it might have been because there were five of them to one of him, but his listeners were inclined to think that it was because they were more used to that sort of thing.
But the average day watch is very seldom as colorful as that one. It generally involves just holding down a seat, keeping your eyes open, with at least one of them on the clock so that everyone will eat on time.
On the day watch, anything can happen, but it hardly ever does. On the night, or security watch, practically nothing can happen, and it runs true to form. The security watch runs from 10:30 at night to 6:30 the next morning, in two hour shifts. Some of these shifts come at horrible hours.
On this watch, the man on before you harks you out of bed at the aforementioned ghastly time of night, you grope for your clothes (complete uniform is required on watch at all times), grab some reading material, preferably the kind with large print and plenty of pictures, such as a comic magazine, and stumble down to the office.
When the frost and the fluorescent lamp have awakened you thoroughly, the vigil begins. Nothing happens. You can stroll around the building looking for suspicious characters, but any individual, suspicious, or otherwise, who is fool enough to trot around Hanover at 2 or 4 o'clock in the morning is probably too violent to be handled by a lone trainee anyway. At any rate no one is ever encountered. The dogs which lurk around Occom Pond howl all night, and at about 4, a nearby rooster begins to call for its mate or whatever it is that roosters call for at that hour. As the blood begins to solidify, the wise trainee returns to the somewhat warmer atmosphere of the dormitory office to resume his literary endeavors.
The telephone doesn't ring, the lamp functions perfectly, no prowlers creep in dark corners, and the microphone and record player are off duty until six. So there's nothing to do but think about going back to bed, which you finally do with shoes and pants generally unremoved.
Those of a contemplative or philosophical nature may pause for a moment or two before turning in to compare their lot with that of a man at sea doing four hours on and four off standing (actually standing) on a cold bridge with spray and ice flying in his face, and no fluorescent lamps or letters to the lady friend to cheer the lonely hours. It's more than mildly disturbing.
That's the watch story, and there isn't very much that anyone can do with it. The face-saving trainee, when asked the name of his ship might snap back "Corvette li-225!," or if questioned as to the location of his base might lower his eyes significantly and mumble something about military secrets, but there's no such effect to be obtained from tales of the V-12 watches. It's just one of those things you do and don't talk about.
A COMFORTABLE SPOT IN STUDENT SOCIAL HEADQUARTERS IN ROBINSON HALL.
