Ernie:. Ernest Borgnine
have to worry about were the bruises I got when I would hit the “knee knockers,” the edge of the hatches leading to the living quarters. Sometimes the sea would swell and the old girl would pitch, or you’d come around the hatch too fast and pow, you’d hit one. You wanted to stop and punch something to help you forget the pain, but you had to keep going because there were people behind you. I’ve still got marks on my legs from where I whapped the hard metal.
Because of the long hours of hard labor, when we needed a break we’d go to the john. Our toilet consisted of a room that had water running through a trough along the side. One half of the trough was for urinals, the other had partitions where you would sit in small booths over the trough.
At any given time there’d be a bunch of guys sitting there, some actually using the john and some just reading a comic book. We had a bosun’s mate named Claude Andrew Babcock. When his cigar was pointing down from his mouth, everything was fine. When it was standing up straight, watch out.
One day he comes into the john, without notice. We had no way of knowing his cigar was up…way up. He stood on the long side, set fire to a large wad of toilet paper, and when the water came sweeping through the trough to clean away the waste, he dropped the pile of burning paper. That fire hit us in the ass and, boy, we came bouncing out of there fast.
He said, “Now, get the hell back to work.”
You talk about people moving in a hurry. Some of us who were there for legitimate reasons didn’t even take time to wipe ourselves.
Most of the time, though, Babcock was a good guy. Unfortunately, things didn’t end well for him. One day after I had been on board the ship a few days, I asked about the bunk next to mine. For some reason, no one had touched it. I asked one of the veteran sailors whose it was.
“Oh, you’ll find out,” he said.
Well, one morning I woke up and the bunk was occupied. I said, “Oh, my God.”
The man who was lying in it had an erection so huge it actually lifted the blankets off his body.
Overall, it was a wonderful ship with the kind of camaraderie I’ve always enjoyed. The men would work together, take shore leave together, shop for the folks back home together, eat Chinese food and visit whorehouses together, usually in that order.
I felt good about my life and experiences, but in one respect I wasn’t getting anywhere. In those days ranks were practically frozen. They had all the higher ranking men they could possibly handle. I made seaman second class, and took the test for seaman first. I passed that. So I was making a fat $63.00 a month, $2.00 a day. That’s not to be sneezed at. But I had ambition and I wanted to get off the deck force, if I possibly could.
One day the new bosun’s mate—who was aware of my dissatisfaction—came over to me and said, “We’ve got an opening in the galley. You want to be a cook?”
I said, “Hell, yes,” so I went to the galley and learned new skills. I cooked everything on the menu—except for spaghetti. I could have made the greatest spaghetti for them, but, I swear, I never landed that assignment. I always got fried oysters or baked beans or hamburgers or potatoes, mashed or hashed or French fried. I even learned to make my own corn bread. But never pasta. Go figure.
Cooking was fun for me, but it was hard in one way. The galley would make you perspire, so much so that you’d have to step outside with just a T-shirt to get a little fresh air. Now, it can get pretty cold and windy on deck, and I started to cough.
Pretty soon they noticed that I was really hacking.
I was sent to see the doc, who told me I had bronchitis. Rather than have me cough all over the food, they put me back on deck—though they gave me relatively easy details since I wasn’t in great shape. Then one day an officer came over and said, “Hey we’ve got an opening for you. How’d you like to become a gunner’s mate?”
I said, “That’ll suit me fine.” So I started studying all about the guns on the ship—firing, cleaning, painting, assembling, and disassembling. I even studied the blueprints. I became a third-class gunner’s mate, then a second-class gunner’s mate, and finally a first-class gunner’s mate. By that time I’d been aboard for four years and I reenlisted for two more.
No sooner had I learned a new set of skills than somebody up top got an idea that we should become a high-speed minesweeper. That meant charging ahead with this mine apparatus that we had, a big par-avane that went down into the water and stretched before us. If it ran up against any mine without the ship hitting it first, you were in good shape. If not, you were sunk. Literally. Upon snagging a mine, a sharp wire would cut the chain automatically and bring the explosive to the surface. There, we were supposed to detonate it by shooting it.
Well, we never did see a mine. I later learned that during World War II the Lamberton ran up against a lot of mines around Alaska. I sort of wish I’d been there for that. You form a bond with your ship. You really do. If she’s in danger, you want to be there looking out for her.
Aside from nearly getting blown up by one of our own aircraft, the second worst day of my military career came when I was put in charge of the captain’s gig, a long, light boat reserved for his use. I was the skipper. That was the epitome, let me tell you, to be chauffeuring the top brass to shore. I polished that sucker until it shined. I couldn’t wait for the skipper to come down for the first time so I could take him ashore.
They finally called for the gig to take the skipper ashore. I was dressed to the nines. I had my hat on perfect and I brought the gig alongside. The engineer clicked the bell to signal that we were in position. The skipper came down the gangway and he looked at me and said, “128th Street, New York City.”
I said, “Yes, sir.”
Well, I had polished that boat so beautifully that as I pushed away from the gangplank my foot slipped. I went into the drink between the gangway and the boat with a huge splash.
I came back up again, sputtering under my hat. The captain looked down at me and he said, “No, no, son. I said, ‘128th Street.’”
I’m sure he must have been laughing, because the engineer sure was, I’ll tell you, I scurried back to where I belonged and then steered away. But I’ll never forget that day as long as I live. Neither did he. When he left the ship for good, I took him ashore and he turned and said to me, “I’ll never forget you, Borgnine, checking the bottom of the boat for me.”
I said, “Thank you, sir. Thank you for remembering.”
He was a good skipper, too.
The Lamberton was a radio-controlled vessel. That meant in case of war, they could sail her without a crew. The plan was to fill it with explosives and explode it in some port they wanted to disable. There were two RCVs: the Lamberton and the Boggs. Years later, in Hollywood, the famous show business columnist Army Archerd came up to me and said, “You were in the navy?”
I said “Yes, sir. I was onboard a ship called the USS Lamberton.”
He looked rather strangely at me and said, “Did you ever hear of the USS Boggs?”
I said, “Sure. That was the ship right next to us in the nest.”
He said, “I was aboard the Boggs.”
It is indeed a small world.
In our newest configuration as an RCV, we were sent to Honolulu. However, before leaving San Diego I did manage to get my heart broken a little.
I had this buddy, Vincent Lang. We went ashore and met a couple of girls, a rather tall one and a one a little bit shorter but still taller than either of us. We got to talking to them and started seeing them every time we went ashore. One day we got a car and took the girls up to see the stars at the San Diego planetarium. We had a wonderful day and became kind of chummy and one thing led to another.
No, not that. I mean, we fell in love.
Her name was Millie and I met her father, who thought I was quite a guy. When I shipped