Free Rudy by Rudy Ruettiger Page B

question that looms the moment you graduate from training camp is, “Where in the world am I going?” And when they hand you that envelope with your deployment orders in it, there is nothing like that feeling. This thin, sealed, folded piece of paper is all that separates you and your fate. It’s amazing how much weight a little envelope can hold!
    I was shaking when I tore mine open. Where am I going? What will I be doing? I read as fast as I could, as my new fate emerged in black and white: I would be shipping out to Boston, where I would serve as a yeoman on the USS North Hampton (CC-1)—a communication command ship that was fully capable of serving as a command center for the president of the United States in case of a national emergency or disaster. Heady stuff. It was dry-docked at the Charlestown Navy Yard in Boston, Massachusetts.
    Holy cow! I was going to Boston! I’d never been to Boston. I’d heard about it, of course: Paul Revere. The Red Sox. The Boston Celtics. It’s hard to describe the feeling, knowing you’re about to leave on this great adventure to a brand-new city all the way on the East Coast when you’ve never traveled much farther than the forty-five-minute trip to Chicago your entire life.
    I remember hitting the airport in my navy blues; feeling good and proud to wear that uniform but scared at the same time; landing at Logan airport and trying to navigate my way around; making my way to the navy yard thinking I had some idea what I was getting into . . . until I laid eyes on that ship. It was huge! I had never seen anything so big. Towering like a skyscraper, stretching out longer than the street I grew up on. Like a floating city. A floating factory. I was nervous. I remember walking up the gangway onto that great ship thinking, Wow! This is cool! This is my real station now! No more of that yelling and screaming they did at boot camp! Knowing I would now be charged with actually carrying out everything I had been taught in boot camp, I reached the top of the ramp and fumbled in front of the officer who was there to greet me.
    â€œHello, sir. Seaman Ruettiger, sir.” I messed up! I was supposed to say, “Permission to come aboard!”
    â€œSailor, relax,” the officer said to me. “Say it again.”
    â€œPermission to come aboard, sir. Seaman Ruettiger.”
    So far, so good. He didn’t yell at me. Just as I suspected, this whole thing was going to be more about respect, teamwork, and getting the job done. Moments later they dropped me down a hatch and told me to report to the master at arms, the guy who would tell me where to go and where my quarters would be and what my role would be on the ship. Well, he and I didn’t get along right away. He was smoking a cigar when I got on board, and the stink of it made me sick. He saw that and, well, let’s just say he didn’t go out of his way to avoid blowing smoke in my face. The boot camp mentality was still there for us newbies. I quickly found that lots of the older sailors, the lifers especially, liked to pepper the new recruits that way. I tried not to let it bother me. After boot camp, I figured, this would be a piece of cake. Heck, anything would be a piece of cake!
    They took me down these little gangways and hallways, and the whole thing felt like a maze with no landmarks. I kept thinking, How am I gonna find my way back? Then it was down another hatch and I’m dropped into a room full of all kinds of bunks on top of each other and next to each other, filled with dozens of new shipmates. “This is where you sleep, this is your living quarters, and we’ll see you back up at such-and-such an hour.” That’s it! I felt like I wanted to hide out in my bunk for days; I was so scared I was gonna get lost trying to find my way back out. Of course, asking the rest of the crew won’t get you anywhere. They know you’re a new guy, and they tease you