At least that’s the theory.
On the other hand, if enlisted crewmen mostly come from the smaller towns and farms, they’re drafted for a three-year term, and except for about twenty-two weeks of shoreside basic training they learn all their skills aboard ship at sea, where just about every minute of their time is rigidly planned. If they aren’t in their cubricks tending to their uniforms or sleeping, they are supposed to be in training, working, or listening to political lectures. Stuff like hanging out for a smoke and a chat with friends, maybe playing a game of cards or lingering over a cup of tea, is strongly discouraged, though these boys are sometimes pretty inventive and every now and then they do find the time for a diversion, the main purpose of which is to get out of work.
Most of them are eighteen or nineteen when they come out to the fleet and are country bumpkins or unsophisticated rustics, what are called muzhiks. And most of them are ignorant, because they’ve grown up in households with no access to television. They know nothing about life in their own country, let alone the outside world. They are naive kids, prostofiljas, and that includes an almost total lack of knowledge about sex. There is no such thing as sex education in Russian schools, nor is the subject ever discussed by parents. Such a thing is simply too embarrassing.
One day a senior sailor from BCH-3 hands a bucket to one of the younger kids and tells him that he has to climb the ladder to the top of the crow’s nest, what is called the observation bridge, remove the uterus up there, put it in the bucket, and bring it back. The kid doesn’t have a clue what the hell a uterus might be, it’s enough that a senior sailor has given him a job to do, and he’ll be damned if he’ll admit he doesn’t know.
“Do you understand your assignment?” he’s asked.
He nods. Of course he understands. But the moment the senior sailor goes away, the kid runs back to his cubrick to find out what he’s supposed to do. By the time he’s finally told exactly what a uterus is and what it does, just about every senior sailor aboard ship is falling on the deck with laughter, while all the other junior sailors are wondering when it’ll be their turn.
Like when one of the senior sailors from Gindin’s section hands one of the new kids a cloth bag.
“Are you aware that there’ll be a major disinfection for medical purposes throughout the entire ship first thing tomorrow morning?” the senior asks.
Of course the muzhik knows nothing about any medical drill, but he nods. After all the sailors aboard ship have gone to bed for the night, the kid is supposed to collect their toothbrushes in the bag and leave it at Dr. Sadakov’s door. The boy does what he’s told. In the morning all the sailors aboard ship get out of their bunks to clean up before exercises, but no one can find his toothbrush. What’s going on? Dr. Sadakov arrives at his dispensary, where he finds a big bag of toothbrushes with no note, and he has to wonder what the hell is going on.
After all is said and done, the young sailor’s boss gives him a very good piece of advice: “Be smarter next time. Try to actually use your brain instead of merely carrying it around.” On the other hand, Russians carry their souls just under their skin. It’s a common heritage, as an old Russian proverb provides: We are all related; the same sun dries our rags.
Mischa Mihailov was one of the typical sailors aboard the Storozhevoy in that he was average in just about everything he did. Gindin recalls that Mischa never showed any passion for his work, though he did have some fairly good basic knowledge of the machinery. If he could get out of a job, he would do it without a moment’s hesitation.
But Mischa could play the guitar and sing Russian songs until there wasn’t a dry eye in his cubrick. Whenever he had time off, usually just before bed, the other sailors would beg him to sing. Especially one particular song that back on base was played all the time on the radio:
The song had been approved by the Kremlin just for sailors like those aboard the Storozhevoy, and whenever it was played everyone, sailors and officers alike, couldn’t help but get a little misty-eyed.
“It was glorifying and praising us for the tough job we did far from home,” Gindin says. “It represented the value and the morality of our Soviet system, and what was important and what deserved to be honored.
“It uplifted our spirits, made us proud of what we did far from our homes and families. It gave us an incredible sense of accomplishment that our people and our government knew and appreciated how difficult our mission was.”
A warship’s mission and the morale of his crew are bound together tighter than anyone who never served in a navy can understand. And both elements come from the top down. Although Potulniy wasn’t as close to his sailors as was Sablin, everyone knew that the captain was a first-class officer who understood the ship and his systems better than anyone else aboard.
Potulniy was in his late thirties when he was assigned to the Storozhevoy, and he was very proud of his position. He spent most of his time either on the bridge or wandering around his ship to make sure that everything was working the way it should be and that his crew was doing their jobs. His personality and style of command was actually a perfect balance between Sablin’s friendliness and Novozilov’s strictness.
Captain Lieutenant Nikolay Novozilov was the Storozhevoy’s executive officer, starpom, and if ever there was a no-nonsense officer it was the exec. He was a perfectionist. Everything needed to be done accurately and on time, with no excuses. There wasn’t an ounce of pity in the man’s body, as Gindin remembers, and he simply didn’t want to hear the circumstances behind any lapse in duty. If Novozilov thought his orders weren’t being carried out to the letter, he’d come down like a ton of bricks on the hapless sailor or officer. Your rank didn’t matter; he was equally tough on everyone aboard.
“He was the kind of officer you never took personal problems to,” Gindin recalls. “He didn’t care. He was beyond that sort of thing. For him the only priority was the ship.”
Heading down the corridor to the midshipmen’s corridor this chilly Riga evening, Gindin is somewhat relieved that at least for the moment they don’t have to worry about Novozilov showing up and finding fault with something his officers had done yesterday or today. Their starpom went home on leave to his wife and kid. His presence aboard isn’t really needed for the short cruise down to the shipyard and the refit. He’ll be back when they get to the base at Baltiysk and will once again put them through the wringer before their next rotation.
Or at least that’s what Gindin and the others believe at this moment in time.
12. THE SHIPBOARD SCHEDULE