Ties That Bind
CWO4 Carl Fusco, USN-Ret., lives in Virginia Beach, Va., with his wife of 34 years, Ann. The “Black-Ink Badge of Courage” Award is forthcoming.

For the last three years before retiring from the Navy, I was head of the Physical Exam/Aviation Medicine Department at the Oceana Medical Clinic in Virginia Beach, Va. We had a nucleus crew of naval station corpsmen billeted to the clinic and were augmented by the corpsmen attached to the various air wings and detachments from tenant commands and sea/shore rotations from carriers. These crews worked hard and got along well together.
 
I always liked our unit cohesiveness and frequently joined the men and women of our department for lunch. We were a sizable lot, often accompanied by the other departments on these excursions.

One afternoon we decided to go to the enlisted/CPOclub for steamship round and roast beef. As the leading petty officer (LPO) and I were rounding up everyone, we ran into a hospitalman (HN) shredding documents for one of his squadron officers. The temporary additional duty corpsmen invariably were tasked with doing little extra jobs for their squadron officers using our resources (of course). I never minded, as long as everything else was finished first.

The HN’s shirtsleeves were rolled up, but his regulation tie was dangling in close proximity to the shredder’s feeder port. This was one of the early 1980s models with a motor like a Jeb Stuart tank, capable of making short work of even a Herman Melville novel.

I lightly warned him that his tie should be secured or removed before it caught in the shredder, but seconds later it was too late — his tie was caught. At first, the befuddled HN laughed and tugged hard, trying to extricate his tie and disengage from a seemingly grisly end. But it wouldn’t budge. He then started to sweat, and his skin turned ghostly pale. Furiously tearing at his neck, the HN began to shriek for help as the tie continued into the shredder’s feeder at a slow and steady pace.

The LPO pulled the machine’s plug out of the wall, and I turned its switch off with a loud snap. A pair of scissors was brought forth, and with a single snip the HN was freed from his tormentor.

Panting heavily, he thanked us profusely and pledged the LPO and I to secrecy. But once he headed toward the barracks (probably to get a new tie), I retrieved some tie fragments from the shredder and quickly typed up an award before proceeding to the luncheon.

It was a record turnout at the club—most of the base was there—and when it was most crowded, I tapped on a glass to get everyone’s attention. Calling the HN to my side, I began my toast: “Very rarely are heroic events noted and recognized. Standing before you is a man who has stared death in the face and laughed at it. In fact, he was so caught up in his work, he would rather die than stop what he was doing.”

Every eye was on the HN and me. “Today I observed this honest, hardworking sailor shredding documents. Caught suddenly by his tie, he was locked in deadly combat with the machine, fighting for his life. He is with us here, today, and I would like to dedicate to him the Order of the Shredded Tie.”

Uproarious laughter and applause broke out as the red-faced HN good-naturedly accepted his certificate. After dinner, he thanked me for being discreet about the whole affair.