A Sailor's Heritage
By
Lieutenant Commander Thomas J. Cutler, U.S. Navy (Retired)
Navy History,
February 2005
There is something special about being a Sailor—as Gunner's Mate Second Class Charles J. Hansen knew when he personalized a memorial on his arms to shipmates lost in the USS Vincennes (CA-44) near the Solomon Islands in World War II. In this excerpt from A Sailor's History of the U.S. Navy (Annapolis: Naval Institute Press, 2004), the author explains why Sailors' stories are worth knowing.
More than half a century ago, Theodore Roscoe wrote This Is Your Navy, an informal history of the U.S. Navy written specifically for Sailors. On the first page he asked, "What's the good of going back to the old days, or even yesterday, when you've got your hands full with affairs in the present? You're kept jumping by what's going on around you here and now. You're busy with what you're doing here today." His comments are still true today.
Roscoe's answer to his own question was, "What you do today depends largely on what was done yesterday . . . the things you're doing now result from, and are a continuation of, things done in the past." He quoted American patriot Patrick Henry (best known for his stirring words, "Give me liberty or give me death"): "I have but one lamp by which my feet are guided, and that is the lamp of experience. I know no way of judging the future but by the past."
This is a good answer. But for me, there has always been an even better reason. Perhaps it's a little selfish in its origin, but it has served me well. In my many years of service in the Navy, I sometimes felt like quitting. Although I loved many things about the Navy, it was a tough life in a lot of ways, making demands on me that other people my age, who had chosen an easier life in the civilian world, did not face. Sometimes the hardships of life at sea, the separation from my family and friends back home, or the multitude of dangers that were never very far away would cause me to long for a quieter life, a more "normal" life, a less demanding life. But then I would stand before a mirror getting ready to shave, and look at the face staring back at me and say, "You work for the Acme Soap Company." And I did not like what I saw. I would try again. "You work for Smith & Johnson, Inc." And I still did not like what I saw. Then I would say, "You are a Sailor in the United States Navy." And I very much liked what I saw.
The reason the last statement worked when the others did not was because I knew I was part of something special. And what made it special were the great things that had been done in the past by Sailors like me. The uniform I wore with such pride—that made me instantly identifiable as someone special—meant little without the knowledge that other people wore that same uniform, or some form of it, when they fought the Barbary States of North Africa; when they charged into hostile Confederate fire at Mobile Bay, Alabama; and when they destroyed Nazi submarines and Japanese aircraft carriers when evil men were hell-bent on dominating the world.
Another thing that made being a Sailor special for me was using terms like "galley" and "starboard" and "scuttlebutt," a language that connected me with "iron men who sailed wooden ships," that made me part of a "club" that has been around for a very long time and whose initiation requirements—"honor, courage, and commitment"—were my own.
The lather-covered face I saw each morning was not unusual in any particular way. Yet it was was special because it had felt the sting of salt spray and had seen the wonders of a starry night at sea, just as sailors had done for many centuries before. It had been darkened by the sun while patrolling the waters of Vietnam, and weathered by heavy gales in the Mediterranean during the Yom Kippur War. It had known the bitter cold of patrols in the North Atlantic during the Cold War, and been streaked with tears of pride the first time I heard "Anchors Aweigh" played at the Navy Memorial in Washington, D.C.
No doubt, I would have been proud of my service even if I had never known any of the history that had preceded me. But the more I learned about those Sailors who had gone before me the more special I felt, the more determined I became to measure up to the standards they had set. I could have served the Navy without knowing its history, but I sure wouldn't want to.
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