A Zero Tolerance

Back in 1992, I was a drilling reservist in a submarine repair unit attached to the local naval base. I was the Admin Officer which means I was in charge of pushing paper, and that's what I did. For brevity lets just say that I had less than a successful career on active duty. The most notable evidence of this was plainly visible on my uniform since I was lacking a warfare pin. As a general line officer, I wasn't part of any military community so that made me the perpetual outsider.

The practice of "protecting your community" was widely employed in the reserves which was just a reason to favor your friends. It ran deeper than warfare designation. It included where you got your commission, preferably from the Naval Academy. Membership on a sports team also played a big factor with the lacrosse team being a real asset. I was often passed over for more important jobs in favor of a guy who ran around with a golf ball in an athletic cup on a stick. That was okay with me. I was there for the money and the experience in that order.

One time an enlisted unit member, Tony Borgeses, a squared away electronic technician, tested positive on the urinalysis drug screening. The military has a zero tolerance policy for drug use. Pop positive during "Operation Golden Flow," and you're out of here. No questions asked. It was incongruous, illogical. Borgeses was a top notch petty officer with years of active duty, who I had known for almost a decade. We played frisbee at unit cookouts. He was athletic and a family man. How could he smoke pot? When I finally got to talking to him his response was candid and quite frankly, lacked imagination. You know, boring like reality.

"I have no idea how I tested positive,” Borgeses explained.

Occasionally, someone in the unit failed a drug test. They often had elaborate, imaginative excuses like antihistamines, poppy seeds or secondhand smoke at a concert. No one ever said that they just didn't know. Petty Officer Borgeses elected to fight the charge in a courts-martial. We had a tight unit. A lot of guys came out to testify on his behalf. As a Lieutenant, I was the only officer. On the day the court convened, I spoke to the JAG assigned to Borgeses  He interviewed all of the character witnesses. The prosecutor, a Lieutenant Commander, was an assistant attorney general as a civilian. He didn't bother to talk to any of us because he figured the zero tolerance policy in the military mandated that Petty Officer Borgeses would be thrown out. I learned later that the prosecutor was tough on drug offenders in his state.

When it came time for me to testify, I thought it would be like Aaron Sorkin's, A Few Good Men. You know, Tom Cruise cleverly grilling me on the stand. Something like that. Instead I sat in a chair in front of five captains who didn't say much. Two were women. All were lawyers. I testified that I knew the accused as a squared away sailor who never even drank alcohol at unit cookouts. There was ten character witnesses, and I was the highest rank so my credibility ran deep.

After the testimony, the board agreed to retest Petty Officer Borgeses, and if he passed, then they would go against the zero tolerance policy and let him stay. It was an unprecedented decision spurned on by the impression made by the many character witnesses. That just never happened before, that is, a group of military members supporting one of their own accused of such an ostracizing crime. Most of us were happy with the outcome, but not everyone. The unit commanding officer was openly angered by the decision.

"I got a drug addict in my unit," he emphatically exclaimed.

The CO rallied all the officers and senior enlisted against me for testifying on behalf of Borgeses. I didn't really care. I was already an outsider and used to all the negative treatment. When the results came back from Borgeses's post trial urinalysis screening, the CO was elated. Tony failed the test a second time. When I asked him what was going on, he said,

"I have no clue."

"Well, if you're not smoking it, then you're eating it," I surmised.

Borgeses was Portuguese and worked as a civilian electrician with a lot of Asians. He told me that he and his coworkers participated in a potluck lunch every Friday, exchanging ethnic foods. Borgeses said that most of his coworkers were Cambodian. One was named "Samang." He went by "Sam." The internet was a new thing for the public back in those days, and it was text based, that is, no flashy browser with ads popping up on the edges. I navigated to a bulletin board, the precursor to modern day texting, that hosted a topic entitled "Cambodian Life." I typed,

"Can anyone tell me if Cambodians cook with marijuana?"

"Yeah, we use it as a spice," a participant shot back.

That was the first time I used the internet for useful information. The guy went on describing the amount of pot used and how it changed the flavor. Petty Officer Borgeses also called saying Sam told him that he cooked several dishes with marijuana. He gave me Sam's telephone number. Back then, you couldn't text with a cell phone so I called the guy up. He was very nervous. Although a legal immigrant, he didn't know that cooking with pot was illegal. He thought the law applied only to smoking it. As far as I could tell, this was a cultural difference, not a criminal act. Ignorance is no excuse of the law, but I never though it was civil to incarcerate people who were hard working, tax paying citizens, who just made a mistake. Better to go after drug dealers and habitual users than a Cambodian father who was an electrician and a survivor of the Killing Fields.

Another courts-martial was convened. This time only me and one other unit member supported Petty Officer Borgeses. Before I testified, my Commanding Officer stopped me.

"You're throwing away your military career," he stated sternly.

"But he's..." I began.

The CO interrupted, "I'm from the Midwest. I can look a man in the eye, and tell if he's lying. This guy is a druggy."

"Well, I'm not from the Midwest," I explained, "I have to listen to the facts."

The CO shook his head and waved me off as he said something with the word "stupid" in it. At the trial, the prosecutor wasn't taking any chances. He grilled me in a closed room in front of a master chief, the highest enlisted rank. The prosecutor was short, balding, with a cheesy mustache. He looked like he took a lot of abuse in high school. His assistant was intimating, big and brawny with rows and rows of ribbons on his chest. He wore his dress blues which sported seven gold stripes on the sleeve, each representing four years of good service. This guy had served honorably in the navy when I was picking my nose and watching cartoons. The prosecutor asked me what I was going to testify. I told him that Cambodians cooked with marijuana. He asked,

"Why don't you have a warfare pin?"

There was no hiding it so I answered.

"I washed out of nuke training."

“You get into trouble or something?"

The truth is when I was in Naval Nuclear Propulsion School, I studied just like I did when I got high honors in a tough university engineering program. The same system of academic effort worked two more time in graduate school, but not in the navy. Back then my advisor recommended that if I didn't know an answer, I should "write anything down just to get through." I would like to attest that I understood what he was trying to tell me, and I nobly refused to fake it, but that was not the case. What I didn't know at the time was that military education commands are on the hook to push out graduates so they actively encourage cheating. I didn't grasp what my advisor was telling me to do. If I did, I would have done it. I drew down a lot of flack for unwittingly not going along with the system, one that I didn't fully understand until decades later when I read all the news reports about cheating aboard submarines.

"No," I answered.

The prosecutor grilled me for what seemed like an eternity, taking a lot notes on anything he could use to discredit me. When he finished, I stood to leave. The Master Chief jumped to his feet, reached his arm out to shake my hand while saying,

"It was very good to meet you, sir."

Now, some explanation is required for you nonmilitary types. A master chief never refers to a junior officer as "sir." They almost always use their rank as in "Lieutenant," which is a proper reference, devoid of the respect associated with more formal term. To have a master chief address me in that manner took me off guard. I wasn't sure why this guy with such a stellar military career would pay any respect to a person defending another sailor on a drug charge. I shook his hand then got ready to testify. I met Sam in the waiting room. He told me that he was a refugee from Cambodia. He was very nervous. He felt he should testify on behalf of his coworker. Sam said,

"I didn't mean to get Tony in trouble."

Then he asked, "Can I use your phone? I told my wife, if I didn't speak to her by 2 o' clock, I probably would never see her again."

"Why? What do you think is gonna happen?"

"I'll go to a work camp," Sam answered.

This guy came in to testify when he thought he was dealing with Pol Pot and the Khmer Rouge. I pulled out my cell phone and gave it to him.

"Call your wife. Nothing's going to happen to you."

That guy was brave. When I was called to testify, the JAG assigned to Borgeses asked me about how I knew Cambodians cooked with pot. When I was cross-examined, the prosecutor asked,

"So it was your idea that the defendant was consuming marijuana, right?"

"Yes sir. I figured if he wasn't smoking it, he must be eating it," I answered.

"How did you come to that conclusion? You a dietitian?"

"No, I didn’t think you’d pop positive for sitting on it.”

The board laughed as did the Master Chief. I didn't break a smile. Truth is, I was scared.

"You think this is funny, Lieutenant?"

"I’m not laughing," I answered.

This got the prosecutor visible angry.

"It doesn't bother you, Lieutenant, that the defendant failed two drug test?"

"No, it doesn't."

"Why not? Please elaborate for the board. I'm sure they would love to hear your opinion given your stellar career in the navy."

The Master Chief stirred in his chair. It was clear he didn't like the prosecutor's remark.

"I expected it," I answered.

"You expected it? Why cause you know about drug use?"

“We’ll, it’s just common sense."

"Please enlighten us."

"When I heard that there would be another screening, I immediately thought that if Borgeses was telling the truth, he would pop positive again."

"Because he's a drug addict."

"No, because if he was lying and deliberately introducing marijuana into his system, he would have stopped whatever he was doing to clear the test. If he was telling the truth, and didn't know how it was happening, he wouldn't have changed anything, and whatever he was doing, he would continue to do, and fail the test again."

One captain, scribbling notes, suddenly stopped writing in her notebook and abruptly looked up. The Master Chief was grinning. The penetrating gaze from all that high ranking military law was unnerving. The prosecutor's bald head turned crimson as he looked at me with contempt.

"No more questions!" he blurted.

I got up and exited. Sam went in next. I heard voices being raised. As the persecutor's case began slipping away, he decided to charge Sam with possession. The captains were having no part of that. They decreed that this "was a navy matter that would go no further than the courtroom." I had some papers to push so I found an empty desk in which I could work. Later, when I left the building, the Master Chief was in the parking lot. He walked up to me and saluted, then declared,

"The board recommended that Borgeses be retained." 

"Really," I said as I retuned his salute.

"In all my time in the navy, I never saw an officer go out on a limb like that," Master Chief offered.

Chiefs in the navy are historically the proponents of the sailors. Officers are the enforcers of rules. The Master Chief saw me assuming his role, but with obvious repercussions. 

"Well, I'll have a good story for my kids someday," I surmised.

“I don’t think so. They put a gag order on the proceedings for twenty-five years. They don't want to give sailors a way out of the zero tolerance policy."

"Well, then it will be a good story for my grandkids."

"Not many officers would've testified. They're too worried about making rank."

"Yeah well. I don't have to worry about that," I said while glancing to my left shirt pocket.

Master Chief put out his arm. We shook hands. He smiled broadly, let out a laugh, then off he went. Unfortunately, the CO of our unit, citing the gag order, never allowed Petty Officer Borgeses to tell the unit his side of the story. He made life tough for Borgeses, telling him that as far as he was concerned he was just a druggy. Borgeses moved to California and retired from the military a few years later. The CO also dinged me on my fitness report, but he eventually left, and I continued on. I made rank twice and retired as a full commander.

Maybe a few times in your life, you'll be asked to do something, defend a principle, state a case in opposition to what everyone else believes. When the time comes, the true measure will not be in distinguishing right from wrong, but rather right over prudence.

It is sometimes said that military medals are worn on the left so they're closest to your heart. That may be true, but true leadership comes from a place far below the uniform.

Editor's Note: Originally posted on May 4, 2017.

Coup d'épon

A few days ago, I went to the Exchange on the nearby military base to buy a Xbox. Ours was getting a bit slow due to software developers dropping snippets of code to ensure that ancient hardware performs at the speed of a tree sloth's digestion, guaranteeing an upgrade. We play a lot of first person shooter survival games on Xbox, and the other day the graphics load was so lethargic that I was able to run through a wall of a building that hadn't quite rendered yet. I thought it was funny until my avatar ended up stuck inside a refrigerator.

Items bought at the Exchange are usually a few dollars cheaper plus devoid of any state tax because military bases are federal property. A purchase earlier in the week got me the added bonus of a $15 dollar off coupon which in retrospect should have been perused for the fine print. When I bought the Xbox, the sales person pointed out that my coupon was good between May 10 and May 12, and today was the 9th.

"You'll have to come back tomorrow to redeem this coupon," she cheerfully explained.

Apart from the fact that this was a 1970's marketing campaign reminiscent of K-mart's blue light specials, I agreed to return to the store to redeem my coupon even though the last time I was involved in something like this, I was skipping to school with a lunch box. I was just glad that I wasn't getting the real royal treatment of my youth which was being told to box up the purchase, return it, then buy it again on a date delineated on the coupon. We actually did things like that before the internet.

The Blue Light District

It didn't matter all that much because I also needed to secure a few uniform items for both me and my son. I'm retired so I thought it wasn't likely that I would ever be in uniform again, but Aidan joined Sea Cadets and performs Taps on his field regulation bugle at military services. When your fourteen year old son puts on a uniform and asks his father to do the same, the next evolution involves securing pants that fit. And that's what I was doing at the uniform shop at the Exchange along with dropping off Aidan's service dress blues and summer whites for dry cleaning. Conveniently, the cleaners were located at the service desk so after offloading the clothing, I retold the story the sales clerk said to me the day before in regards to the coupon, then I presented the receipt for the Xbox.

"You made this purchase yesterday, not today," the service desk person noted.

“Yeah, but she said...”

"What you need to do is pack up the Xbox and return it, then buy it again."

"You can't be serious?" I asked.

"The coupon says that it applies to purchases between May 10 and 12," they exclaimed.

"How 'bout apply it to the dry cleaning?" I reasoned.

"It's not valid for services."

So I figured I would use it on my new summer white pants and shoes I needed to complete my post 50, fat ass, uniform. At the uniform shop, I found what I needed, then had the slacks fitted. When I went to settle up, I pushed my $15 coupon. The clerk said,

"You can't use this for uniform items."

"I suppose I can't use it for alterations either?"

"No, that's a service."

Undaunted, I finished up at the uniform shop, then went back to the electronics department. I found the woman who sold me the Xbox.

"I never said that," she explaindecd.

"Yes, you did," I retorted.

"No, I said you would have to come in and buy it again."

I know I'm getting old and occasionally forget my kid's names or call my sister by my wife's name, but I'm sure she told me, just yesterday, to come in with the receipt to redeem the coupon, but now things had all changed. The best I could come up with was that overnight a coup d'état replaced all the reasonable people who just yesterday would've pushed this paperwork through with puppets who succumb to authoritative rule mostly out of fear of being sent to the gulag. As I envisioned swinging a twenty pound sledge hammer shot put style at a mammoth screen of a bureaucrat shouting orders to the masses, I found myself in the unusual position of not needing anything. Decades of unabashed consumerism ground to a halt at this very moment. I moved on to the checkout lines in front of the store, bent on paying it forward. I spotted a dude at a register.

"Hey man, you want $15 off your purchase?"

"Excuse me?" the guy asked.

After explaining my plight in what was likely too much detail, the guy happily agreed. The sales clerk glanced at the coupon,

"It's not applicable to gift cards."

Apparently, my shopping brother was buying gift cards, but he also had a giant sack of dog food.

"What about the dog chow?" I asked.

"It's not applicable to bulk pet foods."

I scanned the fine print on the back of the coupon. "It doesn't say that!"

"Third paragraph," the cashier said.

The text on the back of the coupon was slightly larger than a pixel so I couldn't make out most of the words. I did spot the word "dog" which not surprisingly is "God" spelled backwards.

"Okay, let's try it this way. What is this coupon good for?" I asked.

"Products purchased today, tomorrow and the next day," the cashier answered.

"I also have these," my new found financial partner exclaimed. He had a Red Bull and a candy bar.

"That's not enough. It has to be over $15," they explained.

I grabbed a Snickers bar and tossed it on the counter.

"How about now?"

"Still not enough."

I grabbed a handful of Sour Patch Kids and dumped them on the counter.

"Now?"

"That should do it."

Satisfied that I stood in defiance of the machine, I turned and walk out.

"Thank you!" the guy exclaimed.

I raised my fist in the air as I shouted,

"Power to the people!"

As I made my way through the parking lot, I got a text from my wife,

Editors's Note: Originally posted on May 15, 2018.