Militaria Collectibles Original Period Items

Enlisted Man

Enlisted Man

My Dad was the Biggest Man in the World

He was a Giant. Figuratively, if not literally. My old man probably stood about 5-9 in his stocking feet. But even when he was dying of cancer, when his voice boomed — you listened.

I don't know how he did it, managing to keep a roof over the heads of his wife and seven active and hungry kids (born in the span of 12 years). He was a maintenance worker at Alcoa in Bettendorf, Iowa when I first recall knowing him. He also worked a couple overnights a week at the Sweetheart Bakery in Clinton, where we lived. The benefit from that being there would usually be a bag of donuts and sweet rolls on the kitchen table when we got up on Saturday morning.

He was a tough guy. He was from the wrong side of the tracks. My mother's parents were horrified when this hoodlum with the t-shirt with the pack of Chesterfields rolled up in the sleeves and his tight, hip-hugger jeans with the cuffs rolled up came down to the nice part of town to ask their daughter out. He spoke not a word, except to ask, "Marl here?" My grandfather and uncle Herb once decided not to answer him until he spoke a complete sentence to them. I'm not sure if he ever did.

They met in 1949. It was love at first sight that Dad almost ruined by his location for a first date. He took her to the Lyons Theater to watch a Three Stooges festival. OK. Even by today's standards, that's pretty dumb. Nobody likes the Stooges more than I do — but a first date? With a girl? Girls hate the Stooges!

But, surprisingly, there was a second date, then a third and so on. And on June 17, 1950, John Schmalfeldt and Marilynn Hanger became man and wife.

Oddly enough, the first kid didn't come along until 1952. That was my sister, Cindi. Then in 1953, Jack popped in. In early 1955, it was me and Bob — two for the price of one. Joe joined us in 1957, Becki in 1962 and I think I have a sister who was born in 1964, but she wants nothing to do with this family anymore so to hell with her.

Oh yeah. He was a tough guy. When I got beat up by a gang of kids in my early teens and lost my glasses, Dad said, "Let's go find your glasses." He grabbed a baseball bat and we walked back to where I was beaten up. I don't think Dad was going to use the bat to organize an impromptu baseball game with the thugs. We didn't have a ball.

He liked pretending to be the tough guy with us, too. Mom was the actual enforcer. There was none of this, "Wait 'til your father gets home" crap at our house. If you had a spanking coming, Mom wasn't shy.

Dad was more the fear of punishment. If you were loudly misbehaving, he'd make you lay down on the floor by his feet while he read his book or watched the TV until he decided you had learned your lesson. Oh, he'd often threaten to chop off our heads and spit down our windpipes, but to the best of my recollection, he never actually did that.

One Christmas morning, Dad was acting like a real jerk. As Cindi, Jack, Bob and I were older, it seemed most of the presents were being handed out to the littler kids. When all was said and done, the four of us felt gypped. Dad called us into the bathroom for a private ass-chewing.

"Now look," he said. "I want you four to march into my bedroom. I have a stereo in there for your mother. I want you to bring it out and give it to her and with bright, smiling faces, say, 'Merry Christmas, Mom'. And if you drop it, or screw this up, you will rue the day I conceived you."

Fine. So not only did we get screwed, present-wise, but the old man was being a jerk.

So, as ordered, we marched into the bedroom. On the bed was a stereo. But the label said it was for Cindi. Next to the bed, three shiny new, green sting ray bikes with banana seats!!! We turned around and the old man was standing in the doorway with his cup of coffee and that half-grin that we all, happily, inherited from him. "Now, let's see which of you will be the first to break something," he said as he walked back down the hallway. We heard the "crunch" as he stepped on one of the younger kids' toys that was hiding under wrapping paper. No one said a thing.

The last time I saw him was when he was in the hospital in 1982. He was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer in 1981 and had most of it removed. But he was terminal. He sure didn't act like it.

Bob, Joe and I stood at the foot of his bed. Dad told us he loved us. Then he said, "Now, be a help to your mother and don't mess up the house. If you do, when I get home — and I will come home — I... will... beat... your... little... butts!"

He woulda, too!

On Feb. 15, 1983, I was assigned to the USS Towers (DDG-9) homeported in Yokosuka, Japan. I ran the ship's onboard radio and TV station. An ensign came by my compartment and said the Executive Officer wanted to see me. It's never a good thing when the XO wants to see you.

I made my way to his office, and sat outside as I heard him chewing out a chief petty officer. The CPO left, and he called me into his office.

"Bill, I'm afraid I have some sad news," he said. My first thought was, "He knows my first name?"

He handed me the telegram that told me my father had died on Feb. 13. I would be granted 30-days emergency leave to go back to the States and they would get me onto the first plane possible.

As I packed my stuff, my mind flashed back to a night when my Dad, my brother Jack, my brother Bob and I were all sitting around the kitchen table playing cards. Oh. We were also drinking. Quite heavily.

Suddenly, Dad stopped dealing.

"Boys," he said with as much seriousness as a man with a belly full of good whiskey could muster, "When I die, as someday I must, I don't want a big, fancy funeral. I want to be cremated. And I want all my boys to sit around the table with my urn right there in the middle. And I want you to raise a toast of good bourbon and say, 'Here's to John Matthew Schmalfeldt, one sweet son-of-a-bitch." And every now and then, open up the lid and drop in a shot until I get good and muddy."

Well, I was in Japan. I didn't have access to the urn. But I did have friends, and the enlisted men's club did have Jim Beam.

I gathered my friends, we sat around a table and I poured a shot for each of them... and one for my dad.

"Shipmates, here's to John Matthew Schmalfeldt. One Sweet Son-of-a-Bitch!" I said. Then I downed the shot. Everyone else downed theirs as well. Dad's sat, untouched.

Until it was time to leave, however. I drank it. Dad hated to see good bourbon go to waste.

There are so many stories about my Dad. Many of them, slightly-fictionalized (to varying degrees), are in my book "Hunky Dunk." But the man was larger than life. Even now, 27 years after his passing, I feel his presence every day.

About the Author

Bill Schmalfeldt learned three weeks after his 45th birthday in 2000 that he had the degenerative neurological condition known as Parkinson's disease. Seven years later, he volunteered for an experimental brain surgery to see if deep brain stimulation could slow or stop the disease progression. He blogs about his daily struggle with the disease at
My Parkinson's Disease Diary
, and his books are for sale at
Books-o-Billy.

What is ship life like in the Navy as an enlisted man?

Just want some basic information on living on a ship in the Navy. What's it like? Anything you guys have to offer is greatly appreciated. Thanks!
Day to day life would be great. I get the living conditions. It's small and inconvenient.

I'm not sure what you're looking for exactly. Do you mean "what is day to day life like?" or do you mean "what are the living conditions on a ship?"

If you edit our past with some specifics, I'll be glad to answer any questions.

Edit:
Day to day life while inport is not unlike working at a building in which you go work in the morning then go home in the afternoon. Generally, you'll have "quarters" in the morning where any pertinent information concerning the ship's schedule, work events, etc, etc, will be given out to the crew. Then you may either go to PT or just start work. Your work will be to do whatever job you've been trained to do. Nights and weekends are yours to do as you see fit unless you have duty (which is usually once a week) where you have to stay on the ship to stand security watches and respond to any emergencies. You just sleep on the ship in your bunk rather than go home.
Underway is similiar in all things except that you obviously can't go home in the evening. Almost everyone also stands underway watches (radar, communications, driving the ship, etc). E-mail, internet, and telephone services are all available while underway (unless you're doing something secret and the C.O. shuts it down). Also television is available and the ship has an extensive collection of first-run movies that are donated by the movie studios fairly soon after they are released in theatres. Meals are available 4 times a day- breakfast, lunch, dinner, and mid-rats which is served at around midnight (mid-rats=midnight rations) for those crewmembers who have to stand the night watch. There is a ship's barber shop, a store, a post office, and a medical facility. Space is at a premium but you sort of get used to it after a short while and just learn to deal with it.

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