SERVICE REFLECTIONS OFCTI1 David Dvorak
U.S. Navy (1993 - 2003)

"Thoughts of Jack Ryan Danced Through My Head"

I was 11 years old when I saw "Top Gun" in the theater in San Antonio, Texas, during the summer of 1986. That experience blew my young mind away. I dreamed of fighter jets and death-defying air battles. As an Air Force kid in a military town, seeing aircraft trainers flying overhead was a daily occurrence.

It was the era of the technothriller, and I was hooked on Tom Clancy novels such as "Red Storm Rising" and "The Sum of All Fears." Then came the catalyst, the main event. In 1990, I was 14 when "The Hunt for Red October" was released in theaters. I was mesmerized by the action, dialogue and visuals that splashed over my impressionable eyes and ears. The seed was planted.

I made an attempt at the Naval Academy, but it did not pan out. So I visited the local Navy recruiting office in November 1992. The recruiter said my ASVAB score was high enough for any rate in the Navy. He pushed hard for Nuke, but I was intimidated by math. Then he suggested Cryptologic Technician (Interpretive), and said I could learn a foreign language and spy on enemy communications. Thoughts of Tom Clancy and his character Jack Ryan danced through my head. I was sold! Finally, during Christmas break of my senior year in high school, I entered the Delayed Enlistment Program, and shipped out to recruit training at Naval Training Center Orlando, Fla., in October 1993.

Link to "Legiontown U.S.A." article:
https://www.legiontown.org/navy-250/14550/thoughts-jack-ryan-danced-through-my-head

“The American Legion,” October 2025 “Bravo Zulu: Navy Turns 250” print edition, page 26.

"The Damage Control Nazi said, 'No Gas Mask For You!'"

USS Normandy (CG 60), a Ticonderoga-class guided missile cruiser, and the Ready Strike platform and Air Defense Commander for the Persian Gulf during its deployment to the area of operations from October 1997-February 1998. Yours truly joined this battle-forged beast the day after Christmas 1997, barely surviving a brush with death at the hands of the blueshirt chock and chain crew trying to tag me with a grounding wire while attached to a helicopter winching cable. Little did I know what else this crew of knuckleheads had in store for me in the coming weeks.

All work spaces on the ship needed to be equipped with enough gas masks for each assigned crewmember in case of chemical, biological, radiological, and nuclear (CBRN) attack. This was especially true when operating in the Persian Gulf next to a twitchy Iran. So, my first order of business on the first work day onboard Normandy was to obtain a gas mask from the damage control team. Well, I soon realized there were more dickheads on this ship than I could count. The first class petty officer in the damage control locker refused to issue me a gas mask for the stupidest reason imaginable. A long time has passed, but this is a rough translation: “You’re just a rider who won’t be here that long, so you don’t need a gas mask.” Huh? I was a petty officer second class and new to the ship, so I had no authority to push back on him whatsoever. At least that’s what I thought at the time. I think I mentioned the incident to the petty officer first class in the crypto shack, but he didn’t seem to give a shit. I was beginning to see a pattern. Nothing was mentioned to the three chiefs that wandered in-and-out of the shack throughout the day. Wow, this direct support team was top shelf.

Fast forward a few weeks into January 1998. We’re going about our regular intelligence collection business when a very strange alarm starts to sound across the ship. All of us CT’s look at one another with dumbfounded expressions, because we don’t know what the hell this alarm signifies. Suddenly, the 1MC lights up with this ominous voice alert: “This is not a drill. That is the CBR alarm. Go to Condition Circle William. Repeat, go to Condition Circle William. All crew don your gas masks.” Holy fucking shit. The gas masks for the crypto shack were stored under the deck grating. Our petty officer first class immediately lifted the grating, and started handing out gas masks. Of course, we were one mask short, because the Damage Control Nazi enforced his moronic reasoning upon me and nobody backed me up. Fuckers!

Now all the CT’s have donned their gas masks, and I’m sitting there waiting to die. All they can do is stare at me helplessly. I was mortified, but I remained seated because there was absolutely nothing I could do to prevent my fate. The minutes dragged on, but I don’t remember how long. Mercifully, the 1MC piped up again with another message: “All hands listen up. The CBR alarm was a false alarm. Secure from Condition Circle William. Repeat, secure from Condition Circle William. Secure from donning gas masks.” What the fuck? I thought I was a dead man! Thank God!

After securing the crypto shack, I immediately went to the damage control locker. I don’t remember if the same petty officer was on duty, but I demanded a gas mask and the fucker gave me one. I tossed the gas mask under the crypto shack deck grating with the others, and thankfully never had to use it. By mid-February I disembarked Normandy for Naval Support Activity Bahrain, and then back home to Rota, Spain. I locked that gas mask experience up tight in a mind vault, and haven’t brought it to my frontal lobes in a meaningful way for nearly 30 years. Same for nearly being zapped to death by Normandy’s chock and chain crew. I’m starting to think these events may have negatively affected me somewhat.

Hooyah, Navy!

“My ‘Hunt For Red October’ Moment Onboard USS Normandy (CG 60)”

The day after Christmas 1997, I flew out from Naval Support Activity Bahrain in the Persian Gulf aboard an SH-3 Sea King helicopter crewed by the Desert Ducks of Helicopter Support Squadron (HC-2). As a Cryptologic Direct Support Operator, I provided Arabic linguist and signals intelligence support to fleet commanders and national intelligence agencies on surface ships. My current temporary duty orders had me going to the Ticonderoga-class guided missile cruiser USS Normandy (CG 60). Mine was the last of five hops on this Duck flight.

While refueling at the fourth hop, one of the aircrewmen informed me there was an issue. Apparently, the Ducks were known to play practical jokes. For instance, sometimes they took paddles in the shape of duck feet, dipped them in yellow paint, and smacked them on helipads just before liftoff. Hilarious to the squadron, and probably ship crews, but not so much to commanding officers.

So, the aircrewman said we did not have clearance to land on the Normandy. Negative, Ghost Rider, the pattern is full. I had to be hoisted down to the forward deck. He looked at me trying to judge my reaction. Almost instantly, my face lit up with a big smile. I finally had my “Hunt for Red October” moment! I really was Tom Clancy’s Jack Ryan!

We lifted off for the final hop to USS Normandy, and the smile never left my face. As we hovered over the ship’s forward deck, the aircrewman prepped me with the harness, then eased me out of the doorway. Remember, it’s the day after Christmas, so I’m in my civvies, and it probably looked a bit odd to the ship’s crew. We CTI’s can be a little off when it comes to rules and regulations. We are strange birds. For historical precedent, look no further than Commander Joseph Rochefort and the oddball codebreakers of Station HYPO in World War II during their quest to prove the Imperial Japanese Navy was going to attack Midway.

So, I touched down smoothly on the deck, and waited for one of the ship’s crew to unhook me from the harness. Instead, I spotted two blueshirt chock-and-chain crewmen slowly stalking towards me with a hooked cable. Immediately, the scene from “The Hunt for Red October” when Jack Ryan is dangling from the SH-3 Sea King, and the crewman from the receiving submarine USS Dallas is trying to snag the winching cable flashed across my mind. The crewman was instructed not to touch Jack Ryan, only the winching cable. In the weather-beaten chaos, Jack brushes against the crewman and the grounding wire hook sending a massive static shock through both men, nearly killing the Dallas crewman when he's thrown from the bridge tower. So, my instinct kicked into high gear, and I worked furiously to unhook myself from the helicopter’s winching cable. The blue shirts stopped in their tracks, and looked at one another trying to understand why I was spazzing out. I finally unhooked myself and scrambled away from them. Then, the Duck went on its merry way, and I ran to the nearest hatch and disappeared inside to find the crypto shack.

Later in the chow line, one of the ship’s crew told me it was a good thing that I had gotten away from the chock-and-chain crew and their hooked cable. Apparently, helicopter rotors can whip up a heavy amount of static electricity. The crew normally tags supplies received during vertical replenishment with the grounding cable to clear it. Unfortunately, they had not been trained properly for receiving human cargo. If they had tagged me with the grounding cable, then it might have zapped more than 20,000 volts of static electricity through me. The force of it could have blown me out of the harness and overboard to be food for those big, venomous Persian Gulf sea snakes. Release the Kraken!

Curiously, USS Normandy is the only ship I supported in the Gulf where the commanding officer never introduced himself to me. In my experience, most CO’s love to welcome newcomers to their ship. I figured it was either an oversight, or he was embarrassed that his crew nearly killed me.

Anyway, I got a good sea story out of it!

In the end, a scene from a Tom Clancy novel and movie saved my life.

Thank You, Normandy!

Bravo Zulu, Desert Ducks!

God Bless You, Tom Clancy!

Link to "Legiontown U.S.A." article:
https://www.legiontown.org/uniform/14564/my-%E2%80%9Chunt-red-october%E2%80%9D-moment-onboard-uss-normandy-cg-60

“The Little Rota Beater That Couldn’t”

My overseas tour at Naval Security Group Activity Rota, Spain, began in June 1996 after completing the five month Apprentice Mideast Cryptologic Linguist Specialist (Arabic) course at Goodfellow Air Force Base in San Angelo, Texas. During the prior two years, I learned Arabic at the Defense Language Institute/Foreign Language Center in Monterey, California. The Navy rate, or enlisted job specialty, for which I was now qualified was called Cryptologic Technician (Interpretive), and my rank was Petty Officer Third Class (E-4). Put all of that together in Navy enlisted parlance to form CTI3 David NMN Dvorak, reporting for duty, sir.

Rota is a small port town at the southwest Atlantic coast of Spain on the Bay of Cádiz. The nearest town of El Puerto de Santa María was where Christopher Columbus, or Cristóbal Colón, began his third voyage to the New World. The area has deep roots in Spanish history. During summer, Rota is also a popular tourist destination for inland Spaniards, central Europeans, and Scandinavians. The rental prices are much lower, and the water is just as welcoming as the Costa del Sol on the Mediterranean Sea. The town blossoms from roughly 25,000 residents to nearly 100,000 from June through August. What a fun time to be a young man in the Navy. The only thing missing was a vehicle.

That’s where the infamous “Rota Beater” comes in handy. It’s the moniker given to your typical junker sold by departing sailors to the newest arrivals at Basé Naval de Rota. My particular beater was an orange Renault that I purchased for $600. She worked great for the first two months until the head gasket cracked, and I had to get the base auto shop to fix her. That’s when I nicknamed her the Millennium Falcon, because she was just as reliable.

A few weeks later in October 1996, I left for my first six month deployment onboard USS La Salle (AGF 3), COMSIXFLT, to provide cryptologic direct support. She was home ported in Gaeta, a beautiful little town located at the midpoint of the Italian peninsula between Rome and Naples. The La Salle was an old Raleigh-class amphibious transport dock that had been retrofitted as a command ship for SIXTH Fleet. My watch partner CTT2(SW) Kelley Neal christened her the “Sleek, Gray Merchant of Death.” He was a funny, salty WestPac sailor who’d recently cross-rated from Electronic Warfare (EW) Technician to the super secret squirrel side of the house.

I left the Rota beater with my friend for safekeeping. She and her husband lived off post, so having an extra vehicle for their family would come in handy. We kept in touch via old school pen-and-paper snail mail. There wasn’t an email system like today’s Navy. Even phones were a luxury. Well, one mail call in December I received a most heinous letter. A series of heavy rains in Rota had foundered the Millennium Falcon’s engine, and she’d completely broken down. The piece of junk had actually lived up to her namesake, just like in “The Empire Strikes Back.” How’s that for karma?

I wrote back to give my friend permission to junk her. That’s when I decided to buy a bike. A ten-speed bicycle that I christened Blue Streak. This time I was going to be “Breaking Away.” Yes, I’m dating myself with these movie references. Anyway, at least I saved money on petrol.

Olé, Rota Beater!

Link to "Legiontown U.S.A." article:
https://www.legiontown.org/uniform/14568/little-rota-beater-couldn%E2%80%99t

"The CO Wants My ESWS Pin"

The day before graduation from the Intermediate Modern Standard Arabic course at DLI in August 1999 there was a Captain’s Call for graduating Navy language trainees stationed at Naval Security Group Detachment Monterey, California. As a section leader, I had guided and prepared many of the sailors waiting in the room with me for the skipper to arrive. One of my accomplishments at the detachment had been to create a tutoring program for sailors struggling to grasp their new language, just like me during my first time at DLI. I even had orders for an experimental, truncated 10-week Cryptologic Technician (Interpretive) training spot in the Special Warfare Combatant-craft Crewmen (SWCC) program at Naval Amphibious Base Coronado in San Diego with follow-on orders to Naval Amphibious Base Little Creek in Virginia Beach, Virginia, to provide linguist support to SEAL Teams. CTI2(SW) David NMN Dvorak was flying high.

The meeting began and Lieutenant Commander Hot Shit gave the typical spiel about a job well done and how we could be proud of our accomplishment. It was time to head to the fleet. I’d heard it all before, so this was more for the first timers. Once the skipper finished, he opened up the floor to questions or comments on items for improvement at the command, which was the purpose of a Captain’s Call. We’re told the spirit of these meetings was to bring up things we noticed without fear of reprisals. Hmm, in theory. I learned the hard way that the dragon loved to spit fire. Plus, in my experience, prior enlisted Navy officers could be dickheads. I normally don’t speak at these things, because most of us bluejacket sailors hope to keep them mercifully short. However, there was something that had been nagging at me throughout my tenure at NSGD Monterey this time around as a veteran petty officer.

The quarterdeck watches that the new sailors needed to stand were on four-hour rotations, which is typical for a ship's crew. That isn’t how it worked for us CTI’s. We stood 10-12 hour watches no matter where we’re stationed, and when I came through DLI the first time we stood twelve-hour quarterdeck watches. This prepared me for the long duration on-watch, and how to grind through zero dark thirty. So, with this in mind I decided to bring it up to the CO, and boy howdy he did not care for it at all.

That’s when the all mighty Sith Lord Darth Skipper delivered shock and awe upon yours truly. He immediately stopped me mid-sentence, pointed directly at the Enlisted Surface Warfare Specialist qualification badge on my chest and yelled, “You owe me that pin!” What a degenerate. I worked my ass off for that qualification during my service onboard USS Benfold (DDG 65) as a Cryptologic Direct Support Operator in the Persian Gulf. The skipper of Benfold, Commander D. Michael Abrashoff, afforded me the opportunity to earn my ESWS on his ship. He was an incredible leader and captain, and I’ll always remember him as the best and brightest. He was good to us bluejackets. I was only onboard Benfold a few months, but I learned that retention rates skyrocketed under his leadership. I even had the opportunity to take the SAT’s while onboard his ship. Captain Abrashoff would eventually write a book about this deployment titled “It's Your Ship: Management Techniques from the Best Damn Ship in the Navy.” So, getting back to a shithead skipper, I sat completely stunned after the Dark Lord’s outburst, and so did the other gathered sailors. I was a respected petty officer at the command, and to be publicly thrashed by the CO while standing up for the crew was a major blow. I went completely quiet, and he moved on in typical schizo officer fashion. I proceeded to sit on my hands and give him the darkest stare I could muster for the remainder of the meeting. As we processed out at the meeting’s conclusion, I said nothing to him and did not shake his hand.

Afterwards, I went home to my studio apartment across the street from the Naval Postgraduate School. My parents and sister Jennifer were in town for the graduation ceremony. Mom and Jennifer were there to greet me when I got home, but they were dismayed to see a pissed off sailor at the door. That’s when a joyous visit for my graduation took a dark turn. I charged into the doorway with the ESWS badge off my chest and in my hand, and I threw it across the room where it smacked against the kitchen backsplash. Chest-heaving and red-faced, I proceeded to tell them what had transpired at the hand of Darth Skipper. Shortly thereafter, my Dad came home from a walk to Del Monte Beach nearby, and I filled him in on my encounter with the Dark Lord. He was a retired Air Force officer with enlisted experience, so he understood this kind of bullshit. I don’t remember what he told me, but I was able to calm down and enjoy the remainder of my family’s visit for the graduation.

The following Monday was a normal workday at the NSGD Monterey quarterdeck and barracks since I no longer had language class. Word had gotten around about Darth Skipper’s Sith Force Choke event at Captain’s Call, and Lead Petty Officer CTI1(SW) John P. “Doc” Holloway asked me to visit him in his office to give him a rundown on what happened. He was a great guy, so I told him my bilge-sucking story. Once I finished the ghastly tale, he leaned forward conspiratorially and let me in on a secret about the Dark Lord’s background. Lieutenant Commander Hot Shit was prior enlisted, and in a previous life he had been a Cryptologic Technician (Maintenance), or CTM. The job of an M-brancher is to install, configure, maintain and repair the electronic, computer and network systems we use in the cryptologic spaces. Once the crypto shop is configured on the ship, the M-brancher just hangs out waiting for something to break. I served with M-branchers as a Direct Support Operator on surface ships in the Persian Gulf. Let me fill you in on what an M-brancher does at sea. Nothing. Unless you call playing video games, watching movies, and collecting qualifications something. After Doc gave the saucy details, I laughed and felt a lot better about it.

For my remaining month at the command, I slowly processed out and received my orders to the Special Warfare Combatant-craft Crewmen (SWCC) program at Naval Amphibious Base Coronado in San Diego. One day I remember seeing Darth Skipper walking by in the passageway while I was sitting in an office. Normal protocol is to stand up for the commanding officer. I did not stand up. I just calmly looked at him and offered a half-hearted smile.

The Dark Lord continued along his wretched path.

Bravo Zulu, CTI1(SW) John P. “Doc” Holloway!

Love You, Mom!

Love You, Dad!

Love You, Jennifer!

I'm most proud of the Navy and Marine Corps Achievement Medal and Flag Letter of Commendation that I received for my service as a Cryptologic Direct Support Operator onboard surface ships in the Mediterranean Sea and Persian Gulf while stationed at Naval Security Group Activity Rota, Spain, from June 1996 - June 1998.

Navy and Marine Corps Achievement Medal citation:

This is to certify that the Secretary of the Navy has awarded the Navy and Marine Corps Achievement Medal to Cryptologic Technician (Interpretive) Second Class (Surface Warfare) David G. Dvorak, United States Navy for professional achievement while serving as a Cryptologic Direct Support Operator at U.S. Naval Security Group Activity Rota, Spain from June 1996 to June 1998. Displaying outstanding dedication, he deployed in excess of 400 days in support of U.S. FIFTH Fleet and SIXTH Fleet and Allied Operations. Establishing himself as a well-rounded cryptologist, he quickly mastered C2W Systems and created graphic map overlays to advise battle group commanders during both Albanian NEO Operations and Gulf Maritime Interception Operations. Petty Officer Dvorak’s accomplishments were a direct result of his superb leadership, tireless efforts, and total devotion to duty. They reflected great credit upon himself and his command, and were in keeping with the highest traditions of the United States Naval Service.

Given this 20th day of July 1998

-Signed
J.H. McKinley
Rear Admiral, U.S. Naval Reserve
Deputy Commander in Chief
U.S. Naval Forces, Europe
Acting

Flag Letter of Commendation citation:

For outstanding performance of duty while serving as a Cryptologic Direct Support Element Radiotelephone Operator at U.S. Naval Security Group Activity, Rota, Spain from August 1997 to December 1997. Petty Officer Dvorak’s contributions to the cryptologic effort in the Arabian Gulf Area of Operations were superb. He accumulated 120 days while serving on board USS BENFOLD in support of Commander in Chief, U.S. Pacific Fleet and Commander, U.S FIFTH Fleet warfare requirements. His superior knowledge of the area and outstanding technical skills were key elements in the highly successful completion of operations vital to National Interest. His initiative, professionalism and high personal standards of readiness ensured that his Cryptologic Direct Support Element Team provided accurate Indications and Warning and concise time sensitive reporting to Fleet and National consumers. Petty Officer Dvorak’s exceptional leadership, superb technical skills and total devotion to duty reflected credit upon himself, the Naval Security Group and the United States Navy. “Congratulations!”

-Signed
Thomas F. Stevens
Rear Admiral
U.S. Navy

“The Recruiter Stole My Middle Name”

It was a dark and stormy evening at Navy Recruiting Station North East on Walzem Road in San Antonio, Texas. In late 1992, I was 17 years old during the Christmas break of my senior year of high school. I had arrived to sign my paperwork for the Delayed Enlistment Program to enter recruit training at Naval Training Center Orlando, Florida, in October 1993. My guaranteed follow on training was for Cryptologic Technician (Interpretive) “A” school at the Defense Language Institute/Foreign Language Center in Monterey, California.

My recruiter was a Gunners Mate (Guns) First Class, and he loved his job. The wall behind his desk displayed multiple photos of Iowa-class battleship 16-inch deck guns like they were his children. Needless to say, I was a bit intimidated by the man. He wasn’t as personable as the smooth-talking, Louisiana native who started my Navy adventure at the recruiting station two months prior.

Once my paperwork was prepared, Guns placed it before me and said to sign my name. At least that’s how I understood his request. When I finished signing, he looked at my signature. Then, he asked me a curious question. He asked me why I hadn’t signed my full name. Remember, I was a 17 year old kid who didn't sign documents very often. I didn’t understand what he was getting at.

Guns proceeded to clarify his question. He asked me why I hadn’t included my middle name in my signature. I told him I’d never signed with my middle name. It never occurred to me. That’s when we entered the Twilight Zone.

He went into autopilot, and said he would need to create an alias for me. I didn’t know what to say. I just sat back and watched him fill out the alias section of the paperwork. My 17 year old self was powerless to stop him. I figured he knew what he was doing. He was a recruiter and a Petty Officer First Class, so I could trust him, right?

December 29, 1992. That’s a date which will live in infamy. I officially became Seaman Recruit David NMN Dvorak. The “NMN” stands for No Middle Name. Although, the alias section of my enlistment paperwork has my correct full name listed as David Gregory Dvorak.

Afterwards, when I went home, I didn’t tell my father about what happened. I wish I had, because he was an active duty Air Force officer who had been a recruiter. He probably could have gotten the issue resolved pretty quickly. I just had it in my mind that the recruiter knew what he was doing.

Fast forward two years, and I tried to get my middle name issue resolved at Naval Security Group Detachment Monterey, California. I was a 19 year old Seaman (E-3) learning Arabic at the Defense Language Institute/Foreign Language Center. I went to the detachment HR office to inquire about correcting my name. The Yeoman Second Class on duty took my request, and said he would look into it.

The trouble was that this particular yeoman was the command bully. For some unknown reason, he had painted a target on me over the previous months. A few days later I went back for an update. He proceeded to tell me that he could have me court-martialed for fraudulent enlistment. My heart began racing, and I immediately told him to drop the matter. I didn’t fully trust the guy. Still, I never pursued the issue again. From that point on, I always put my middle initial in my signature. I wasn’t going to let the Navy steal my middle name.

I still find the silly NMN designation when I go through old military service paperwork. I realize it’s a funny story. Not much I can do about it now except laugh.

Thank you, Guns!

Link to "Legiontown U.S.A." article:
https://www.legiontown.org/uniform/14588/recruiter-stole-my-middle-name

“Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride Through History, Logistics, Special Education, IT and Back Again”

My service obligation ended in December 2003 after 10 years in the Navy as a Cryptologic Technician (Interpretive) First Class and Arabic linguist. With a little nudge from the master chief, my commanding officer approved my request to separate three months early to start the upcoming Spring 2004 semester at college. So, with my DD-214 in hand and enough leave saved up to be home for Thanksgiving, I headed out from Fort Gordon, Georgia, in my beat-up Jeep Wrangler back to my hometown of San Antonio, Texas.

I planned to use the GI Bill to complete my bachelor’s degree in history and become a teacher. Language training at the Defense Language Institute in Monterey, California, gave me plenty of undergraduate credits to put towards a bachelor’s degree. I enrolled full time at San Antonio College where the classes were smaller and more affordable than the larger University of Texas at San Antonio campus. My favorite courses were freshman composition I and II, where I discovered a talent for writing.

After a year-and-a-half, I transferred to the University of Texas at San Antonio to complete my bachelor’s degree in history. The writing skills I gained at San Antonio College served me well. Thanks to the GI Bill I graduated in December 2006 without any student debt. Over the next twenty years, I held positions as a logistics analyst, special education teacher, and IT service desk technician. However, the highlight of my post-Navy career was to volunteer as a docent at the Alamo, the Shrine of Texas Liberty, in downtown San Antonio.

Now here we are in summer 2025, and I have decided to keep my options open for employment. One day a few weeks ago I came across a part-time job opportunity as a Guest Experience Associate at the Alamo. I immediately applied, and by the next afternoon I had a request for an interview. At the interview, I told them that I earned a bachelor’s degree in history using the GI Bill, I’m a Navy veteran, and I was an Alamo docent.

I got the job!

This happened the same week that a sneak peek special exhibit opened at the Alamo featuring the stunt bike from the hilarious classic “Pee-Wee’s Big Adventure.” I felt 10 years old again. Sorry, y’all. It’s still not in the basement.

What a ride it has been since leaving the service. I’m looking forward to finally using my history degree to guide visitors at the Alamo. It only took twenty years to get here. I hope my dad’s childhood hero, Davy Crockett, would be proud.

Remember the Alamo!

Thank you, GI Bill!

Link to "Legiontown U.S.A." article:
https://www.legiontown.org/gibill/14560/mr-toads-wild-ride-through-history-logistics-special-education-it-and-back-again

“Götterdämmerung or: How a Marine Corps Chief Warrant Officer Nuked Me”

In September 1999, I was medically dropped from the Special Warfare Combatant-craft Crewmen (SWCC) training program at Naval Amphibious Base Coronado in San Diego before it even started. This happened due to documented lumbar spine strain that could have worsened by carrying boats and other heavy equipment during the truncated 10-week version of the training program that I was to attend. I’d informed my detailer about the medical condition along with a doctor’s note prior to shipping out from the Defense Language Institute where I’d just graduated from the Intermediate Modern Standard Arabic course. He chose to read the doctor’s note in a mentally deficient manner and sent me anyway, because it was an extremely hard to fill, experimental billet for my rate, Cryptologic Technician (Interpretive). I was devastated about being medically dropped, because I’d finally made it to the real, fighting Navy. My wonky back destroyed an amazing opportunity to provide linguist support to SEAL and SWCC (pronounced “swick”) teams. Sorry, sailor. No guns and ammo for CTI2(SW) David NMN Dvorak. I notified the detailer so he could start processing new orders for me. I wanted to get another direct support operator billet for submarines or surface ships. However, the Navy had other plans for my career. A new detailer informed me the only option available was to Fort Gordon in lovely Augusta, Georgia, home of The Masters golf tournament. Oh, great. I’m a sailor in the Navy, and I was going to be landlocked at an Army post along the Savannah River in the piney woods of eastern Georgia. This was not my idea of a Navy adventure. My ship had not come in.

I arrived at Naval Security Group Activity Fort Gordon, Georgia, in late September 1999 to a lackluster beginning. I started on barracks cleanup and grounds maintenance duty. In other words, I picked up the cigarette butts and garbage of lazy sailors. As an E-5 with sea time and foreign language intelligence collection experience, this was a major blow to my already low morale. Little did I know that the beast of depression was slowly stalking me. By November, I realized that something was wrong. I had finally made it to the intelligence collection facility, and one morning my jerky Navy section chief publicly chastised me for being late to formation. Afterwards, while trying to train for my new position, I continued to ruminate on the encounter for the next three hours like a hamster in a spinning wheel. It turns out that uncontrollable rumination is a symptom of depression. So, I decided to make the short drive to Eisenhower Medical Center to seek help. I was ignorant of the Army’s cumbersome health screening process, so on my own NCO initiative I sought out the location for the psychiatry department in the hospital directory. To my surprise, there was no check-in area or even an obvious secretary’s desk. It was just a hallway with several offices. After wandering up and down the hallway for a few minutes, a kind, gray-haired colonel introduced himself and asked if I needed help. I told him I’d like to speak with someone about a mental health issue, and I didn’t know where to start. He said he was surprised to see me, and he could recognize a person in distress when they wandered into the head of psychiatry’s office space. Yikes. I’d caught Moby Dick.

The colonel walked with me into his office, and we spoke for over an hour. By the end of the meeting, he had recommended a prescription for the antidepressant medication Paxil, and a diagnosis of depression, not otherwise specified. We set a schedule for future appointments to monitor my progress. Thus began a firestorm of symptoms ignited by the worst medication I’ve ever taken in my life. I was normally a subdued, easygoing person who kept my emotions locked up tight. Paxil was like a World War II dam buster bomb that had demolished its target. My mouth was now free and open for business, and this sailor was giving a fire sale. Every thought must go! Plus, in less than a year my weight ballooned from 155 to 230 pounds. In my mind I thought I looked good, but in reality I was failing the biannual physical fitness weight standards. Paxil wasn’t supposed to work that way, but it was doing something unhealthy to my mind and body.

At first, I worked in a perpetually dark, Air Force-operated mission bay at the intelligence center alongside other sailors, soldiers and airmen. After working a six midwatches on, three days off schedule (which was mostly spent in sleep recovery) for over a year, I was unceremoniously tossed out for incompetence in a position where I’d failed the initial qualification test, and barely squeaked by on the second attempt. I’d informed my trainer and the Air Force senior master sergeant in charge that I wasn’t getting the fundamentals of the job, but in standard military fashion they didn’t give a damn about my difficulties. Well, that chicken came home to roost. The senior master sergeant and my position’s senior airman in charge were looking for a reason to dump me due to my Paxil-induced bad attitude and unwillingness to accept arrogant behavior from lower-ranking, unseasoned fellow watchstanders. My new Navy section chief was his typical hour late to the final counseling session which was slated to start after the midwatch ended. Once he arrived, he sat useless and just listened, looking like Mr. Magoo. What a turd. The Air Force senior master sergeant had the temerity to put classified information in the counseling document. What an arrogant dumbass. About a year or two later, my hero Chief Tom Ayers found that document in my file and tossed it in the shred bag. He told me classified information does not belong in counseling reports. Bravo Zulu, Chief! Anyway, I was simultaneously relieved and embarrassed to be dumped/liberated from that Air Force-operated dungeon.

My next bay assignment had me working with other misfit toys manning a fairly easy, very important collection position. At least the lights were on. However, we worked the dreaded six daywatches on, two-and-a-half days off, six midwatches on, three days off (mostly sleep recovery) zombie apocalypse mode watch schedule created in an Army intelligence laboratory for us E-6 and below to suffer the consequences of our decision to join the Dark Side. We were perpetually exhausted, and we wondered whether or not the sun still existed. Remember, this is an intelligence collection facility with limited access to windows. During the following year, I was promoted to Cryptologic Technician (Interpretive) First Class (E-6), and I became the mission manager for the bay. One fine day during some downtime on watch, I was chatting with my fellow watchstanders when I suddenly fell victim to a shark attack. The officer in charge of our bay had decided to grace us with his presence. By secret squirrel chat messaging, one of the NSA civilians in the bay who rarely emerged from her enclosed cubicle had ratted me out for talking on watch. Apparently, she had informed Marine Corps Chief Warrant Officer J-Bird that we needed to be transcribing the backlog of recordings. That was news to me, and I was the mission manager. I didn’t know anything about a backlog, or even how to access it.

That’s how the NSA civilians treated us enlisted at that awful duty station. They ratted us out to an E-7 or higher, or an O, and sat back to watch the blood flow. One guy, who reminded me of the Stay-Puft Marshmallow Man, said we needed to ask for his permission to use the restroom, because the specific listening position we monitored was so important that it couldn’t be left unattended for even three minutes. We had at least two watchstanders on duty at all times to monitor that position, so his requirement was easily and effectively ignored. The dude was a GG-15, which is a federal civilian payscale grade level. Mr. NSA actually told me his civilian rank is equivalent to a general. What a putz. I wanted to ask him where his army was stationed, but I held my peace.

Anyway, Chief Warrant Officer J-Bird was a leadership by email and chat message kind of guy, if he talked with us E-6 and below at all. In my experience, that was the typical leadership style at this duty station, at least when it came to passing information from O’s and E-7 and above to us troops in the trenches. Group discussions with anyone above E-6 about mission expectations, progress or a job well done were virtually nonexistent. That state of affairs plus the dreaded zombie apocalypse mode watch schedule were big factors in the collective toilet bowl morale at the facility, but Army intelligence leadership was too dense and/or cruel to care. So, with the amazing J-Bird confronting me with a spurious allegation from the NSA troll, I continued sitting in my chair and simply shrugged my shoulders at him. Then, the gates of Hell broke loose with a fury. He ordered me out of my chair, and escorted me to the Operations office to face the Air Force major in charge. After hoppin’ mad J-Bird gave his truncated version of events, the Navy master chief in the office escorted me to our HR closet in the facility. He ordered all of the Navy chiefs in the facility to join us in this tiny room. There must have been seven or eight of them with me in a room that could barely accommodate three. The goat locker had landed on my head.

For several minutes they asked me questions trying to assess the situation. I continued looking at the floor and pleading the Fifth. I refused to say anything that might incriminate myself. I didn’t trust anyone at that point. Then came the question that broke me. One of the chiefs said I had arrived at Fort Gordon with a stellar record. What happened to bring me to this point? The dam finally burst, and through chest-heaving tears I did my best to explain my battle with depression over the preceding years. I was thoroughly demoralized and exhausted. Then, Master Chief Kevin Light kindly asked me to sit outside in the atrium while he and the other chiefs discussed their recommendations for how to handle my situation. After an interminable thirty minutes, he asked me to come back inside, so he could explain what was going to happen. Instead of a general carpet bombing campaign against J-Bird's new enemy, the chiefs were recommending that I take over as the new administrative assistant alongside Master Chief Light in the Operations office when the current assistant departed in the next few weeks. He and the other chiefs recognized how depressed and miserable I’d become, and they wanted to help build me back up. I breathed a heavy sigh of relief.

I was finally working a normal, human schedule after three years in zombie apocalypse mode. There were still a few bumps, though. The Operations sergeant-major wanted me to take over his facility cleaning detail. Master Chief Light tried to shield me from that duty, but in my eagerness to prove my worth again, I took the responsibility. What a bad idea. Dealing with the sergeant-major was an unpleasant aggravation. The guy was a tubby dunce who even tried to get me, a sailor, to give him a “Hooah” one day in a “kneel before Zod!,” kind of way. Wrong. Not happening. I just stared at him like he was a mouth-breathing moron in a zoo exhibit. We parted ways without incident.

An interesting thing happened while I was working as the Operations department administrative assistant. The NSA mothership at Fort Meade, Maryland, had caught wind of the hot garbage morale problems at our facility. They believed it was necessary to send a team of psychiatrists and psychologists to investigate the matter. I remember one of the investigators waiting in the Operations office asked me if I was a watchstander. I told her not any longer. She suddenly got a relieved expression on her face, and said that was a good thing. The team was at the facility for about two weeks. Before departing, they left a report with their findings and recommendations for the Army intelligence leadership. I wasn’t privy to it, but I’m sure the Army didn’t appreciate it very much. As to be expected, the Army took it “under advisement.” Absolutely nothing changed. What a joke. I’d been around the facility for enough years to not be surprised at all. It turned out that my assessment of Army intelligence leadership as dense and/or cruel was close to the mark.

Anyway, I never was able to get my weight under control, and I continued to fail the biannual physical fitness weight standards. My annual evaluations continued to suffer because of it. Two chiefs looked out for me as best as they could during that last year-and-a-half in the Navy. I have to thank Master Chief Kevin Light and Chief Tom Ayers for their ability to see the real sailor through the fog of my personal battle. By this time, I’d been with a different Army psychiatrist for a few years, and he never suspected that Paxil may be the trigger in my struggle with sudden mood swings, dramatic weight gain, and alcoholism. Thankfully, with help from an Army program at Eisenhower Medical Center, I no longer drank alcohol. I gave a presentation at the base theater to the entire Navy command regarding the dangers of alcohol addiction. It was like the sacrament of Confession without a priest. At the end of the presentation, the full theater shocked the hell out of me with a standing ovation that nearly brought me to tears. Apparently, there’s a video recording of the presentation the Navy command incorporated into indoctrination for new arrivals. However, my mood swings and weight gain weren’t improving. Maybe the psychiatrist just didn’t have a good before-and-after picture of me to realize the extreme negative difference Paxil was making in my life. My friends and family sure noticed.

In December 2003, I separated from military service after 10 years with an honorable discharge. I didn’t receive an award or medal for my service at Fort Gordon, though. The sergeant-major made sure of that by shutting down Master Chief Light’s recommendation. With that mean-spirited, tubby dunce’s decision, there is no official record of my cryptologic linguist efforts in support of Operation ENDURING FREEDOM or any other Post 9/11 operations. My service time at Fort Gordon officially does not exist, except as a personal hellscape in my past that continues to haunt me. I guess it’s for the best, anyway, since I’d rather not have a piece of paper and ribbon that reminds me of that horror. I departed Fort Gordon, Georgia, both relieved to be leaving and disgruntled that my Navy career had been destroyed by depression and inter-service culture clash. Who wants to fight a two-front war against your own mind and rival military/federal services? To my everlasting regret, in my depression-fueled, disgruntled fog I tossed all of my uniforms in my apartment complex dumpster the day before I left for home. I would love to have those uniforms resting in my closet now.

So, I returned home to San Antonio, Texas, to start a new life as a civilian. The first order of business was to get my bachelor’s degree using the GI Bill. My parents helped me out by letting me stay in my childhood room while I attended classes full time and worked part time as a bank teller. However, the twin beasts of depression and Paxil were still with me. As my dad says, I came back from military service a different person. In his words, I became fat and sassy. A little mean, but true nonetheless. I don’t think he knew how to handle this “Invasion of the Body Snatchers” pod person that had arrived at his home. I think he expected the sweet, gentle son that left for boot camp 10 years prior. Unfortunately, too much had happened, and was still happening, for that person to return whole again.

The VA took over my health care in December 2003. In short order, the VA psychiatrist had learned my history and asked enough questions to make a major change to my diagnosis. Four years with Army psychiatry had me diagnosed with depression, not otherwise specified, but four months at the VA mental health clinic had me diagnosed with major depressive disorder. Shortly thereafter, in July 2004 my diagnosis was updated again. This time the diagnosis was a doozy: bipolar II disorder. That’s one hell of a difference from depression, not otherwise specified. What a sad demerit against Army psychiatry, which I visited monthly and sometimes biweekly for four years. I remember the new Army psychiatrist making fun of me at one session when I asked about Paxil and my weight, and then barking at me for some other issue that I’ve forgotten. What a bastard. He was a captain, so I learned to tread lightly. In my experience, Army officers and upper enlisted are not very personable. I was generally standoffish during the following sessions, and he asked me why I was being so quiet. I knew I had to be careful and very diplomatic, because Army officers and upper enlisted can lose their shit quickly. I proceeded to forthrightly yet calmly tell him I was not comfortable expressing myself after his reactions to my previous questions and statements. Surprisingly, he got out of his chair, which scared me at first, and he shook my hand. Our clinical relationship improved, but it turned out I was still not getting the help I needed.

So, the VA psychiatrist put me on a mood stabilizing medication called Lamictal. I didn’t really notice much of anything. My mood was still uneven, and I didn’t seem to be getting anywhere. I felt free to try somewhere else with my bank medical insurance, so I visited a civilian psychiatrist. He immediately took me off Paxil, and prescribed a replacement medication in a slightly different class of antidepressant. The replacement medication was Effexor. He also switched the mood stabilizer to Trileptal. I quickly started losing weight and my anxiety level went down. I could sense that things were improving. After about a year, I went back to the VA psychiatrist, and I’ve remained there ever since.

It’s been over twenty years, and I’m 50 years old at the time of this writing. I still continue to work with the VA mental health clinic team to make adjustments to medications as issues arise. Recently, I was diagnosed with delayed onset PTSD, and I've started several therapy and whole health programs with the VA and outside agencies. I'm getting out more with my wife through sponsored Vet Tix events, which keeps me from isolating myself and doing the same few activities again and again. I'm even back within height/weight standards at 195 pounds for a 6' 1" male. Happy days!

The VA has taken good care of me. God bless the VA, warts and all. I’m now considered 100% disabled, so I receive free healthcare and tax free disability pay courtesy of Uncle Sam. That took twenty years to get, too. I’m blessed that the VA was there to pick up the pieces of a broken man. The hardworking VA doctors and nurses continue to do what the military couldn’t or wouldn’t.

Bravo Zulu, CTRCM(SS) Kevin Light and CTIC(SW/AW) Tom Ayers!

Thank you, VA!