Ernie: The Autobiography by Ernest Borgnine

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