MY LIFE AS A US NAVY PHOTOGRAPHER
by Dick Kraus

So, here it was. Spring, 1951. I was out of High School for about a year. I had spent six months at a photo school in Manhattan. After that I had hired on as a Photographer's Assistant on the SS Brazil, one of Moore McCormack's three cruise ships, from NYC to Buenos Aires and back. And, loving the life at sea, I had enlisted in the Navy.

Actually, I really knew that life aboard a Navy vessel was going to be a lot different from serving aboard a cruise ship. But, I liked the idea of going to sea and visiting strange and exotic places. Plus, I was eighteen and eminently draftable. The Korean War was in full bloom. While I was ready to defend democracy and fight for my country, I would have preferred to do it from a ship with three square meals a day and a dry, comfortable bunk, rather than squatting in some frozen foxhole eating cold K Rations while people I didn't know shot at me. I'm no fool. I had seen those fantastic war photos by David Douglas Duncan that ran in Life Magazine showing shivering, frightened young Marines huddled under ponchos in the snow and ice as mortar shells rained down on them, along with sleet and snow. So, in May, 1961, I found myself, along with a few hundred other young, pimply faced kids getting poked and prodded by medical people at the Navy Recruitment Center on Church Street in downtown NYC.

When it came to the urine test, we were each given a plastic jar and told to go to the Men's Room, and pee into it. Several of the young men complained that they had "bashful bladders" and couldn't squeeze out even a few drops for the test. I never had that problem. My Mommy had always insisted that I pee before we did anything; like go for a drive, go to school, come to dinner. I grew up knowing that I always had to pee or I wouldn't get to go anywhere or even have dinner. I offered to fill their cups. I always had more than I needed. This theme will arise again in my story.

The last person I saw before we raised our right hands and swore to defend our country to the last drop of our blood, was a Personnel Officer who asked a ton of questions regarding what we expected to do in the Navy. I told the man that I wanted to be a Navy Photographer. I had already had some technical schooling in that regard and had even served as a photographer on a cruise ship. He smiled. I thought that was nice. "Why, I even have my own 4 X 5 Speed Graphic. And, I would like to go to one of the renown Navy Photo Schools in Pensacola, FL." I had heard a lot of good things about them.

The man jotted down some notes on his clip board and said, "Well, son. They aren't taking anybody in those schools until after you finish Boot Camp and get assigned to a ship or station. Until then, we don't promise nothing." And, as it turned out, "nothing" is what I got, as far as schools went.

I did get six months of vigorous training in boot camp, though. I learned to salute and call everyone that moved "sir." I learned how to tie knots. I learned how to arise every morning at six AM and go to bed at Nine PM. I learned how to stand at attention for hours on end and march my feet into blisters in my new, stiff Navy high tops. I learned how to look like I was awake during the interminably long and boring lectures on The Uniform Code of Military Justice. Which, by the way, had nothing to do with military uniforms. There was some mention of "justice," though. Rather it was the code of justice under which we would be held accountable during our four year enlistments. It was supposed to be similar to civilian law... almost. There were numerous articles explaining our rights as military personnel. But, there was one codicil that pointed out that if they couldn't hang you on any of the other articles, this one was a Catch 22 that superseded all the others and they could hang you on that. Robert Heller wrote a best selling novel by that name.

I managed to get through my six weeks of Boot Camp training without too much trauma. The first day in camp, they lined us up in four rows according to height. The four tallest men on the end of each line was made a Squad Leader. I was one of the four. You got to sew a miniature petty officer's patch on your arm. All it meant was extra work, because I had to roust my squad out every spare minute and get them to practice close order drill.

"Attention!" Shoulder arms. Right Face" Forwaaaard H'arch" Hup two three four, To the Reeeeaaar H'arch. Halt! Order arms!"

We drilled with World War I Springfield Rifles. We never fired a shot with them. The barrels were plugged with lead. If the Newport, RI Naval Training Center was ever attacked by Commies, we could awe them into submission with our exemplary marching and close order drill.

Just before we graduated from Boot Camp, we were herded before another Personnel Officer.

"Well, Kraus. What Navy specialty do you think you're suited for?" he asked.

The Navy had tons of specialties to offer. You could train to become a Bos'n's Mate. They were the guys who really made the ships go. They were the deck hands who really knew how to tie knots. You could train to be an Machinist Mate. They were the guys who really made the ships go. They were the greasy guys below decks who made the engines go, which turned the screws (propellers to you land lubbers) which made the ships go. Or you could become a Cook, or a Medic, or a Quartermaster, or an Electrician, or a Plumber, or a Radarman, Radioman, Signalman, or a Photographer's Mate. Then there were the skills required if you wanted to be a part of the Navy's Air Arm. I like the idea of becoming an Aviation Photographer's Mate.

I told this to the man. I also told him that I wanted to go to one of wonderful Photo Schools that the Navy had in Pensicola, FL.

The man said, "You should have said so when you enlisted. They aren't sending anyone to that school out of Boot Camp, unless you specified that desire when you enlisted.

Hoo Ha. Did I mention "Nothing?" That's what I was promised and that's what I got. I was really beginning to understand what my Naval Career held in store.

But, he did say that he would recommend me to "strike" for a Graphic Rating. He told me that the term "to Strike" for a rating meant that you had some skills in that field and that every attempt to fit you into a slot in that field would be made, BUT, this WAS NOT to be considered a promise. Hoo Ha. Here we go again. He said if they needed more cooks than photographers at my next ship or station, POOF, I would be a cook. Anyway, he further explained, A Graphic Rating also included Printers (as in printing on a printing press), Radarman (how looking at a blip on a cathode ray tube had anything to do with Graphics is beyond me) and a number of equally non photo-related jobs. More nothing. My chances of being a photographer were pretty much non-existent.

I was sent home for two weeks leave sporting two small green stripes. I was now an Airman Apprentice (recommended to strike for a graphic rating). Green stripes meant air service. White meant deck force and red meant you worked below deck in the engineering spaces. Now you know. I cut a dashing figure in my dress blues. I was tall, slim and toned, thanks to six weeks of Boot Camp basic food and rigorous daily calisthenics. I could have been a recruiting poster.