A true story of how one mother’s love changed the military supply system forever.
By: Jeff Goldfinger, LCDR USN (RET)
“Jeff, I’m really disappointed. I thought this Navy thing would be out of your system by now. You’re going to be bored after a few more years.”
This was mom’s response when I told her I signed a contract to join the Navy after graduating from college. While a freshman at Northwestern University, I had placed my ante on the Navy’s Reserve Officer Training Corps (ROTC) for the two-year blind. Now, as a junior, the Navy called my bluff and I had to either walk away or go all in. Mom was sure I would fold the same way I grew out of girlfriends in high school that they didn’t care for. As the eldest son of a second generation Jewish-American family, Mom’s dream was that I become a doctor, lawyer, or accountant like Dad. She had already settled for less when I entered an engineering program instead.
THE NAVY! That’s not the type of career for a nice Jewish boy from middle-class Jersey.
***
Fast forward a few years, after college, after flight school, and I’m now a Lieutenant Junior Grade in the U.S. Navy serving in my first squadron aboard the aircraft carrier USS CARL VINSON (CVN-70). In those days, a deployed carrier was home to 6,000 sailors with no booze or “babes” (the un-woke term before women were allowed on carriers). Whenever we weren’t flying or otherwise on duty, we watched movies, played card games, worked out, wrote letters home, listened to music or whatever we could do to pass time inside the steel cage where you were never more than 1,000 feet from your boss.
When we first left homeport in Alameda, California, in October 1984, I was surprised and grateful to discover there was a small cadre of Jewish sailors who met every Friday night, whenever we were at sea, so we could welcome Shabbat. Usually, out of the 6,000, we were lucky to get a minyan. We enjoyed being able to observe our Sabbath rituals and form the camaraderie that comes with a shared heritage. Being able to legally get buzzed from more than our fair share of sacramental wine once a week didn’t hurt either.
Months later, after finishing a port visit to Subic Bay, Republic of the Philippines, in January, we are steaming westward through the Straits of Malacca to start a 107-day “line period” (time between port visits) in the Indian Ocean, when it suddenly hits us that we’ll still be at sea when our Passover holiday arrives on April 5th. On the first and second night of Passover, we observe a seder—a combination of religious service and multi-course meal made from traditional foods. Not having any of the proper seder supplies, neither religious nor edible, immediately created some angst.
So, we well-trained warriors sprang into action and started the planning process for our new mission: Operation Gefilte Fish.
There was no rabbi onboard the “Chuckie V.” In fact, back then there were only two rabbis commissioned to serve at sea for the entire U.S. Navy. One for an East Coast carrier, the other for a West Coast carrier (not ours, in this case). Instead of a rabbi to lead our services, we had an officially designated “Lay Leader,” Ben Schneider, responsible for leading our services, and coordinating with the ship’s chaplain whenever we needed assistance. That go-to guy was Commander J. Ferraro, a Catholic priest. Our staunchest advocate, Chaplain Ferraro worked with his department onboard the carrier that served the faith needs of the ship’s crew to obtain all our normal supplies: Shabbat candles, siddurim, tallitot, and, of course, the overly generous helping of the sacramental wine—wink, wink.
When we shared our Passover planning gap, he suggested we survey the rest of the battle group for any other Jewish sailors who would like to join us for the traditional seder dinner that kicks off the eight-day holiday. Way to complicate our mission planning, Chaplain! Making simple things hard, I’ve learned, is a common practice among all religions. Out went the ship to-ship survey.
In the 1980s, a carrier battle group normally consisted of a carrier, two cruisers, two destroyers, two frigates, a refueling ship, a supply ship, and the odd submarine or two. In that configuration, there are perhaps 10,000 sailors. Among those 10,000, only 30 “came out of the closet” to join our seder. With a dozen ships, 10,000 sailors and not enough chaplains for all, every Sunday the battle group’s flight schedule included a dedicated helicopter (helo) whose mission was to fly the Christian clergy around the battlegroup so they could hold services for ships that didn’t have their own chaplain onboard. So CDR Ferraro promised he could arrange for the (so nicknamed) “Holy Helo” to airlift the participating Jewish sailors from the other ships to the carrier to share the seder meal—a Holy Helo Exodus, if you will.
With the tactical planning for Operation Gefilte Fish now complete, it was time to focus on the logistics.
This was 1985. No email, no social media, not even satellite phones (at least not for personal business). So, I wrote Mom a letter suggesting a great project for our congregation.
Dear Mom,
I have a nice little project for you. Even though Passover is still more than two months away, we need to prepare well ahead of time. We’re expecting to have a Seder for 30 of us on the first night. Why don’t you work with your congregation to have 30 families each “adopt a sailor” and send an individual Seder kit.
Love,
Jeff
Before I tell you her response, let me put the soon-to-be-famous Thelma Goldfinger in context. As with many culturally rich families, a mother’s love is often most passionately expressed with food, sometimes to the point of almost using feeding tubes to make sure bellies are full. But that was just the tip of the iceberg.
The other thing about my mother was her out-of-the-box style of guardianship. I would not be surprised if Dr. Haim Ginott’s 1969 parenting book Between Parent & Teenager, which first mentioned the term “helicopter mom,” wasn’t referring to mine. So after a dozen too many, incredibly embarrassing incidents in childhood, I felt it necessary to attend the furthest university of the four that accepted me, just so I could experience life beyond her overbearing reach.
Returning to our story, three weeks after I sent the letter, Mom responded. “Now hear this… Mail Call.” Older readers will recognize this siren call which was realistically depicted in war movies and M.A.S.H. episodes. For those too young to have penned a handwritten letter to a loved one out of phone reach, this is the moment every homesick serviceman craves. You think a ding on your phone is beckoning? Before texting existed, we all lived for those occasional letters.
I head down to the Ready Room and retrieve my batch of letters, which included the following response from Mom:
Dear Jeff,
Don’t worry. I took care of everything. I went down to the store and bought you 120 lbs worth of food— enough to feed all thirty of you for the full eight-day holiday. A case of matzah, a case of gefilte fish, horseradish sauce, macaroons, all the trimmings. I put it all in three 40 lb boxes and dropped it off at the post office. Let me know when you get it.
Love, Mom
“120 pounds!” I screamed in my head. Here’s why that sounded crazy— and typical of Mom:
Picture us literally in the middle of the Indian Ocean. Our mission was to drive around in large circles so that the Soviet Union’s satellites and long-range surveillance aircraft couldn’t precisely find us on any given day, even though they knew we were there. This was the military, high-tech equivalent of a cat and mouse game. Not unlike the cartoon foibles of Tom & Jerry.
Timely mail delivery to ships at sea is an extremely complex endeavor with a lot of mail getting misrouted to the wrong ship, or worse, the wrong ocean. When you’re that far away from land—nearly 1,000 miles—there are only two options: A supply ship, which could take days, or a specially configured cargo plane—a US-3A Viking—which takes a few hours. (For those Navy vets who know about the C-2 Greyhound cargo plane, we were even out of her reach.)
The Viking had a total cargo capacity of 4,600 pounds. So, let’s do some simple math. Remember I said there were about 6,000 sailors on the ship? If we assume for the moment that the entire cargo of the Viking was letter mail and packages designated solely for the sailors (and it never was, of course, because a warship at sea is always in need of parts and other supplies), that translates to about 12 ounces per sailor, on average.
My mom sent me 120 pounds, or 160 times the fair share. Small packages often found their way, but there was just no way that Mom’s packages would arrive by air. For anything larger, the common delivery method was staging the packages at our next port visit. Besides the ability to get off the ship for a few days, the other main benefit of port visits was the number of “care packages” queued up waiting to be delivered complete with favorite non-perishable foods, cassette tapes (remember those?) with recorded messages from family, and other such items.
So, I responded to Mom’s letter:
Dear Mom,
Thank you. Really. However, upon reflection, you might agree with me that it was a little over the top. Even for you. I don’t think the packages will arrive on time. In fact, they probably won’t arrive at all while we’re at sea. But it’s the thought that counts.
Love, Jeff
Insert the theme song for Final Jeopardy here and loop it for three weeks.
Dear Jeff,
Well, that makes me mad because the Post Office said I shipped it with plenty of lead time. But okay, keep me posted.
Love, Mom
So, I did. Every few days, whenever outgoing mail was picked up by the S-3, I would give her an update on my Navy adventures along with a one line status at the end regarding “The Matzah Caper.”
Now, with Passover mere days away, Mom received my latest letter: “Not here yet!” This is when Mom took action that resulted in her sudden rise to fame.
OPERATION MOTHER’S FURY
Phase 1: Attack the Messenger
Mom calls the Post Office. Postmaster: “Sorry, Mrs. Goldfinger. You need to call the Navy. We have proof here showing it was delivered to the Military Postal Activity in San Francisco. It’s out of our hands.”
Her first call to the Navy wasn’t particularly satisfying—in her mind, there was no sense of urgency. Her expectation being, of course, that matzah comes before missiles in military shipping priority. So, she takes it up a notch and calls the Commander-in-Chief. Yes, that Commander-in-Chief. At the White House. President Ronald Reagan himself.
White House Staffer: “Sorry, Ma’am. There’s nothing we can do. Perhaps you should call your Congressman.”
Phase 2: Redirect Forces to the Flanks.
Our neighbor in West Orange, New Jersey, was U.S. Congressman Joseph Minish. When I was commissioned as an ensign in the Navy, much to Mom’s displeasure and anxiety, she at least knew that if there was ever an issue, Joe Minish would be there to help. Unfortunately, he had lost his re-election bid earlier that year.
So, Mom calls the rookie congressman’s office and is assigned Molly Newall as her caseworker who then, according to her sworn testimony (okay, maybe that’s a little hyperbolic), called the Secretary of the Navy’s office daily for status updates. After another day or two of bubbling frustration, Mom took it upon herself to also call the Secretary of the Navy. Yes, that Secretary. John Lehman. The architect of President Reagan’s 600-ship Navy.
It just so happened he was out of the office that day (lucky guy), so accordingly the call was routed to the Assistant Secretary of the Navy for Manpower and Reserve Affairs. ASN M&RA: “I don’t know what happened, Mrs. Goldfinger. But trust me, I’m on it!”
Phase 3: Shock and Awe
It’s now late March, about ninety days since our last port visit and we’re just steaming around in circles, demonstrating our worldwide presence. This is the height of the “Cold War.” No actual or expected hostilities. Just days, weeks, and months of exercising freedom of navigation and “turning jet fuel into noise,” as we flyboys used to say.
After a four-and-a-half hour flight in one of our trusty E-2C Hawkeye radar surveillance planes, I head from the flight deck down into the Ready Room. The first words out of the Squadron Duty Officer’s mouth are, “Goldy, go see the Skipper.” My heart stopped.
This is my first squadron tour. There are three layers in the chain of-command between me and the C.O. As a young Lieutenant Junior Grade, I was the equivalent of Dwight Schrute, Assistant to Michael Scott. To leapfrog the chain-of-command and go directly to the Dunder Mifflin head honcho, without having any other superior in attendance, can mean only one thing. Somebody close to me—my wife, a parent, a brother—had died. That’s what was on my mind as I walked sullenly down the passageway towards the Skipper’s stateroom. With my head hung low, I knock.
The Skipper’s door flies open while he simultaneously shoves a piece of paper in my face. “Goldy, what the hell is this all about?” So nobody in my family died after all! …But it appears that I’m about to.
The piece of paper I take from him is a naval message. The only way military leadership can communicate with ships deployed at sea is through SATCOM teletype messages, a very expensive proposition given the bandwidth limitations, encryption, nuclear hardening, and time delays. Every word, letter, and punctuation mark counts. So, the Navy devised some shorthand rules to manage the problem.
ZNR UUUUU
O 042155Z APR 85
FM COMNAVMILPERSON WASHINGTON DC
TO CARAEWRON ONE ONE FOUR
INFO USS CARL VINSON
OLA WASHINGTON DC
BT
UNCLAS //N05730//
SUBJ: CONGRINT/SECNAVINT
ICO LTJG JEFFREY GOLDFINGER USN (NMPC 0311H) 1.
SNO PARENTS SENT THREE PACKAGES VIA PARCEL POST CONTAINING MATERIAL FOR OBSERVANCE OF PASSOVER. ADMSG IF SNO HAS RCVD THE SHIPMENT. 2. USE SAME SUBJ LINE IN RESPONSE.
BT
Although that text may not look disastrous, to my Skipper it was a career killer. Bear with me while I decode the salient points. SUBJ: “CONGRINT / SECNAVINT” is Navy-ese for Congressional Interest, Secretary of the Navy Interest. It’s an unwritten rule that a CONGRINT is a sign of poor leadership for reasons not worth explaining here. Trust me when I say you want to go an entire career without seeing one, and the CONGRINT is about me!
Paragraph 1, second word: PARENTS. I should make it clear that this was a singular act. My father, bless him, had the patience of the Pope (yes, I’m mixing faiths but that’s the only person I’ve seen with such restraint). This whole idea was Mom’s. She deserves both the blame, and, as you’ll see by the end of the story, 100% of the credit for forever changing the military’s supply system.
See that letter “O” just under the ZNR at the start of the second line? It signifies the priority of a “message relating to situations gravely affecting the security of the nation.” Mom knew that, both alphabetically and logistically, matzah comes before missiles!
Side note: During my 20 years in the Navy, I saw only one message with higher priority—the kickoff for combat operations in Desert Storm. Yes, finding the missing matzah was just slightly less imperative than going to war.
I looked up after reading the message, almost disappointed it’s not an AMCROSS death notification because this is much, much worse. Skipper: “Goldy, what the hell is this all about?” Me: “My apologies, Sir. I think this might have something to do with a request I made of my mother a couple of months ago.”
Skipper: “Why is Congress involved? Did you [expletive] write your Congressman before telling me?!” Skipper Broadhurst, an even-keeled guy, had veins bulging in his forehead. Me: “No, Sir. I have no idea why Congress is involved. But you know my mother…”
Before I tell you what he said next, allow me to explain how the Skipper met my mom and, therefore, knew firsthand what she could do without any fear of retribution or embarrassment.
In September 1984, just one month before we departed the U.S. at the start of this story, the Skipper, three other squadron-mates and I flew one of our Hawkeye aircraft all the way across the country from Naval Air Station Miramar in San Diego, California, to Long Island, New York, to visit the Grumman Aircraft Corporation factory in Bethpage, where they used to manufacture our airplanes. Departing on Thursday morning, we were to arrive Thursday night, tour the plant on Friday morning, and head back to San Diego on Friday afternoon.
We were supposed to depart Bethpage immediately following the tour, but our aircraft had a maintenance issue that couldn’t be resolved until Monday, so we wound up stranded on the East Coast over the weekend.
Knowing that my mom and my aunt would love to meet and host my colleagues, I invited them all down to the Jersey Shore to stay at my aunt’s beach house in Belmar—a sleepy little summer haven that earned its 15 minutes of fame in the early 90s, from drunken riots associated with MTV-sponsored festivals.
In retrospect, the decision to expose my colleagues to my mom was a brilliant strategic move. Remember how this story started with an explanation of Mom’s penchant for nearly force-feeding both family and guests? Well, she and my aunt over-achieved on this particular weekend. But that’s not the half of it. With her typically outrageous and loquacious outbursts, suitable for episodes of either Candid Camera or Impractical Jokers, the hook was set. In less than 48 hours, my fellow naval officers got a mere morsel of what it meant to grow up under the tutelage of a typical, all-knowing, all powerful, Skipper-like, overbearing, East Coast Jewish mother who was never asleep at the controls.
Now, back to our story.
The veins in the Skipper’s head are about to pop and I just alibied by saying, “But you know my mother.” Skipper: “Oh, right. Well. Goldy, have the packages arrived yet?” “No, Sir.” “Then draft the response and send it out.”
Career-killing moment averted. Reputation restored.
Phase 4: The “Hearts and Minds” Campaign
Meanwhile, back home.
An Associated Press reporter is somewhere around Rep Gallo’s office, hears about this Mrs. Thelma Goldfinger, and reaches out to her with every reporter’s most life-altering question. AP Reporter: “This is a great human-interest story. Would you mind if I put it out on the wire?”
In case you’re ever in this situation as the parent of a service member, the correct answer is: “No, thanks. The U.S. Navy is the most powerful sea-faring military in history. I’m sure they can figure this out without embarrassing my son with unwanted publicity.” Mom’s response: “Mind? Of course not. Whatever it takes!”
***
Meanwhile, back on the ship. I’m standing in line for the evening meal. One of the Bubbas in the air wing (i.e. coworker) is standing behind me. Bubba: “Hey Goldy, how’s Thelma doing?” Me: “Fine. Why do you ask? And how the hell do you know my mother’s name?” Bubba: “Better go check Stars and Stripes!” Yes, that Stars and Stripes! The page two headline reads: “Passover Matzah Lost in the Mail.”
Articles like this start appearing in local newspapers across the country. As local reporters made calls to their nearby Navy bases, the pressure only increased. And when their questions became more detailed, the issue morphed into something much bigger. It was no longer about why the packages hadn’t been delivered, but rather: Why wasn’t Passover food available in the Navy supply system?
By now, the pressure on the flanks is so great that the Navy must call in reinforcements. So when we replied to the first OP IMMED message (the one the Skipper had in his hand) that the packages hadn’t arrived yet, the follow-up inquiries and responses put Mom in the thick of it.
Now that you all know a bit about how to decode naval messages, I’m including one of the many follow up messages that were precipitated by Momzilla [explanatory notes in brackets].
R 110745Z APR 85
FM USS CARL VINSON
TO EXEC DIR MIL POSTAL SVC
AGCY ALEX VA [HMFIC for the entire military postal system] INFO CDR JT MIL PSTL ACTY PACIFIC SAN FRANCISCO CA [Joint Military Postal Activity] FMC SUBIC BAY RP [Fleet Materiel Command Subic Bay Philippines] NAVSUPPFAC DIEGO GARCIA [Naval Supply Facility Diego Garcia] COMNAVLOGPAC PEARL HARBOR HI [Commander Naval Logistics, Pacific Theater] CINCPACFLT PEARL HARBOR HI [Commander-in-Chief Pacific Fleet] CARAEWRON ONE ONE FOUR [Commanding Officer of VAW-114, my squadron] COMNAVMILPERSCOM WASHINGTON DC [Commander, Naval Military Personnel Command] CHINFO WASHINGTON DC [Navy Chief Information Officer only added when national press is involved] COMNAVDAC WASHINGTON DC [Commander Naval Data Automation Command]
BT
UNCLASS //N05110//
SUBJ: REQUEST FOR INFORMATION REGARDING MISSING PARCELS ICO LTJG JEFFREY GOLDFINGER
A. EXEC DIR MIL POSTAL SVC AGCY ALEX VA 091330Z APR 85 1. IRT REF A, PARA 1A TO 1C, THE FOLLOWING INFO PROVIDED:
A. NONRECEIPT OF PACKAGES CONFIRMED
B. AVERAGE TRANSIT TIME BY CLASSES OF MAIL ARE: LTR/ PRIORITY 7-10 DAYS, BAL 10-14 DAYS, SAM 14-21 DAYS.
C. NO MAIL DELIVERY PROBS EXPERIENCED WITHIN LAST 60 DAYS. 2. ORIG WILL PROVIDE ADDITIONAL INFORMATION AS REQUESTED REF A WHEN PACKAGES RECEIVED.
BT
The list of organizations addressed on this message signifies that the entire Western Pacific military logistics juggernaut was now mobilized to locate the missing matzah. The rest of the message can be translated for civilians as:
Postal System Director: “Where the hell are these packages? Find and deliver them ASAP or else you’re all fired.” Carrier Skipper [Insert voice of Hogan’s Heroes Sergeant Schultz]: “I see nothing! I know nothing!”
Think of it as a highly scaled-up version of the traditional “find the Afikomen”—a practice at a Passover meal to hide a piece of matzah, the afikomen, for the children to find at the end of the seder meal. This is supposed to be a remembrance of how the Jewish people had to flee Egypt in such haste that it prompted them to say, “Now where did I put that matzah?”
Meanwhile, back home in New Jersey.
My dad, Richard Goldfinger, the quintessential, risk-averse CPA, is driving home from work, turns the corner onto our street, and there’s a roadblock with municipal police and a TV-station’s mobile transmitter van.
Officer: Sorry, Sir, you can’t go through here. Dad: But I live here. That’s my house! What’s happening? Officer: Oh, you’re gonna love this. You better go talk to your wife. Because West Orange is considered part of the “tri-state” metro area centered on New York City, our local news in those days was primarily Channel 7 Eyewitness News, New York City. They picked up on the AP story and sent reporter John David Klein to interview Mom at my childhood home.
It went like this:
CUE TAPE
SCENE: MOM’S KITCHEN. Reporter John David Klein has his hand on a cupboard door.
Klein: “In households all over our area, they are closing the cupboard doors on the everyday dishes and preparing to use the Passover dishes, and for the next eight days they will be eating only unleavened bread. (Holds up a piece of matzah.) And somewhere between here and the Indian Ocean, there’s thirty pounds of unleavened bread, matzah, looking to be delivered.”
CUT TO: MOM SITTING ON THE COUCH
Thelma: “There’s matzah, there’s gefilte fish, there’s macaroons … There’s enough to feed thirty boys.” (Men, ma. We’re men now.)
The interview with Mom, complete with pictures of me on my ship, continues for another few minutes.
This report didn’t air just once. For an entire week, WABC provided nightly updates because, as the OP IMMED said, this was “gravely affecting the security of the nation.” Anchor: “Up next, the Hagler-Hearns fight and an update on Mrs. Goldfinger’s missing matzah!”
Phase 5: Chamberlain’s Appeasement
Meanwhile, back at the ship. The matzah is found. The three packages Mom sent were sitting in a warehouse at Naval Base Subic Bay, Philippines, awaiting our return to the P.I. on our way out of theater headed stateside.
But no way were they going to just wait there now with Operation Mother’s Fury in full swing. Navy personnel put the three boxes on a truck and drove them to Clark Air Base where they were loaded into a C-141 Starlifter transport plane and flown to an island of the Arabian Peninsula that was serving as a logistics coordination base. At that base, they were transferred to a CH-46 Sea Knight cargo helicopter and flown to the USS Kansas City (AOR-3), one of the supply ships serving our carrier. A day or two later, the Kansas City pulled alongside, and using the time-honored method of underway replenishment, high lined the three boxes.
It took about a week from discovery to delivery. By then, Passover was over. As any Jew will tell you, we don’t eat this stuff if we don’t have to. So, I stored the packages in a recess in my stateroom and donated the food to a local charity on our next port visit.
Mom went to her grave not knowing that part of the story. How come? Because Operation Gefilte Fish was a huge success, courtesy of another mother from our small congregation.
When I’d first read Mom’s letter and realized the problem, I shared it with my colleagues. Remember our Lay Leader, Ben Schneider? He was the rarest of all species in the flying animal kingdom—a Jewish F-14 Tomcat pilot, assigned to the VF-51 Screaming Eagles. Upon reading Mom’s letter, “Ben Wa” (his inauspicious call sign) immediately wrote his mother a similar request but added: “Send small packages.”
Fortunately, his mother’s Plan B worked just fine. A platoon of packages arrived perfectly synchronized with the Holy Helo so that all 30 of us received enough supplies to guarantee mission success for Operation Gefilte Fish. We had a wonderful seder meal, with Commander Ferraro as our honored guest.
Phase 6: Avoiding Collateral Damage
Three weeks after Passover, the “success” of Operation Gefilte Fish has surely been long forgotten. Our first port visit following the incident was Perth, Australia, a spectacular outpost on the far Southwestern shores, as far away as you can get from West Orange. Nearly 12,000 miles. Literally halfway around the world.
At the time, when ships pulled into overseas ports, we nearly always offered to give escorted tours of the ship to the locals.
So, there I was, a tour guide on day two of our port visit. I’m escorting the first batch of blokes and sheilas around the flight deck when one of the sheilas glances at the nametag on my uniform and reacts with a shocked look.
Sheila: “Are you Matzah Man?” Me: “Yes, Ma’am. How did you know?” Sheila: “They published that story in the local paper just before you guys pulled in. What a great story! You must really love your mother.” Me: “Uh… Yes, Ma’am.”
Fast forward a few days. My brother Jim is living in Atlanta, Georgia. He’s a raging single. Quite handsome. Almost as handsome as his brother Jeff. He meets a fine young woman at a local pub. His shtick at the time was to find a way to weave the matzah caper into casual conversation as an icebreaker. He launches into the prologue.
Jim: “Oh, you’re Jewish! I have to tell you a story about my brother in the Navy during Passover.” The Target of his Interest: “I know all about it! My roommate is one of the nighttime producers at CNN. When this story came across the wires, she came home and said ‘Mara, you think you have a Jewish mother, wait until you hear the story of this woman from West Orange, New Jersey!’”
Can you imagine the fear that struck into her mind? The Young Lady’s Inner Voice: “If that’s what she did just so her son could eat a decent meal at sea, what is she going to do for our wedding day? No point in tempting fate—this guy’s off my list of eligible bachelors…”
Fast forward one month. We’re headed home after our seven-and-a half month deployment. Just one more port visit—Hawaii. The Navy has this tradition of a “Tiger Cruise” whereby family and close friends are invited by sailors and marines to spend some time aboard the ship observing and experiencing daily life at sea.
In our case, the Tiger Cruise would start with an embarkation in Hawaii and last the week-long transit from Pearl Harbor until the ship pulled into port in Alameda, California. Naturally, I invite my dad and brothers to join me. Jim couldn’t make it, so my youngest brother Joel and Dad fly out from Jersey.
The Commander of the Pacific Fleet is alerted that Thelma’s husband Richard is coming out to the Carl Vinson. In the interest of avoiding more guerilla warfare attacks from Operation Mother’s Fury, the most senior rabbi in the Pacific Fleet volunteers (or perhaps is “voluntold”) to act as a chaperone. At the appointed time, he picks up my dad and brother from the airport and safely escorts them to the pier at Naval Station Pearl Harbor where the carrier is tied up, whereupon custody of said father is transferred to the ship’s Command Duty Officer.
Rabbi to Pacific Fleet: “Prisoner exchange at the DMZ completed without incident. Rabbi, out.”
Two days into the Tiger Cruise, it’s movie night in our squadron ready room and we had scored something classic—Citizen Kane. Or perhaps it was Animal House. I can’t remember. Anyway, when the rest of the officers and their guests join us, Dad whips out a VHS recording from the WABC-TV coverage of “The Matzah Caper.”
At this point, I had only known about the newspaper articles. So now, for the first time, I’m going to watch one of the TV reports, along with both my peers and superiors. Thanks, Dad. So much for keeping a low profile in my first Navy job!
Popular media often shares examples of how fast, furious, and brutally biting can be the verbal jabs in any “Band of Brothers” such as rookie athletes, mafia underlings, and substitute teachers. They have nothing on Navy servicemen. My squadron mates never let me forget it. As it turns out, some of them never forgot it either. Fast forward nine years.
It’s 1994, and I’m now a lieutenant commander. Yes, even with the CONGRINT I managed to get promoted. Twice!
I’m in Monterey, California, at the Naval Postgraduate School, going through the Aviation Safety Officer course. This is an academically rigorous, six-week program designed to help our squadrons prevent aircraft mishaps and, in the rare case where one happens, how to fully investigate and report on the causes. This is the military version of the National Transportation Safety Board (NTSB) aircraft accident investigations. Serious stuff.
They pull out all the stops for the graduation ceremony. For this one, we have a two-star admiral as both our guest speaker and the designated certificate hander-outer. Each one of us is called up to receive our diploma individually, similar to a high school graduation.
Master of Ceremonies: Lieutenant Commander Goldfinger , front and center. I start walking up to the podium to receive my certificate from the two star, head held high, chest out, externally humble while internally smiling.
The two-star looks up at me, glances down at the certificate, looks up at me again. “You’re Matzah Man, aren’t you?” Me: “Yessir.” The two-star was Rear Admiral Thomas A. Mercer. Back in 1985, he was Captain Mercer, then-Commanding Officer of the USS Carl Vinson. Nine years had passed, and he still remembered the story.
Fortunately, he too overcame the CONGRINT from Operation Mother’s Fury and, like me, was twice promoted.
Phase 7: A Farewell to Arms
After 20 years of faithful, fruitful, and food-full service, I retired from the Navy. Yes, Mom, I did make a career out of it. And no, I was never bored. But what truly captures the pièce de résistance of this entire misadventure is the everlasting impact she had on the entire military:
The military supply system uses something called NSNs for ordering parts. Think of it as the UPC bar code for the military. If you want to order a pen, a chair, a can of tasteless green beans, or one of those laser-guided bombs, there’s an NSN for that. “A NATO Stock Number, or National Stock Number (NSN) as it is known in the US, is a 13-digit numeric code, identifying all the ‘standardized material items of supply’ as they have been recognized by all NATO countries including the United States Department of Defense. Pursuant to the NATO Standardization Agreements, the NSN has come to be used in all treaty countries.” (Wikipedia)
Serious stuff, these NSNs. Operation Mother’s Fury caused the military to anticipate a more inclusive future. They created a “Seder Kit” and assigned it two NSNs: one for a solo participant and a slightly different kit for the Lay Leader, which includes a set of written instructions on how to insert slot A into tab B.
Here’s an example of a typical annual announcement that’s broadcast
inside military circles:
R 131418Z FEB 02
FM COMUSNAVCENT
TO ALNAVCENT ALFIFTHFLT INFO COMUSNAVCENT COMUSNAVCENT
BT
UNCLAS //N01730//
MSGID/GENADMIN/COMUSNAVCENT N010//
SUBJ/JEWISH PASSOVER SUPPLIES//
R E F / A / D O C / O P N A V I N S T
1730.1C/08NOV1995//
AMPN/REF A IS OPNAVINST ON RELIGIOUS MINISTRIES IN THE NAVY// POC/VVILDHACK, W.A./LCDR/CUSNC-05F CHAPLAIN OFC/LOC:MANAMA, BAHRAIN RMKS/
1. PASSOVER WILL BE OBSERVED BY THE JEWISH COMMUNITY FROM SUNSET, 27 MARCH 2002 THROUGH NIGHTFALL, 4 APRIL 2002.
2. PASSOVER HAS SPECIFIC DIETARY REQUIREMENTS INCLUDING ABSTINENCE FROM LEAVENED BREAD AND LEAVENED BREAD PRODUCTS. TO ENABLE JEWISH PERSONNEL TO OBSERVE THE HOLY DAY IN AN APPROPRIATE MANNER, SOLO SEDER KITS ARE AVAILABLE FROM THE JWB JEWISH CHAPLAINS COUNCIL. EACH KIT COSTS $12.00 AND CONTAINS MATZO (UNLEAVENED BREAD), GEFILTE FISH AND A PASSOVER PRAYER BOOK (HAGGADAH). TO ENSURE TIMELY DELIVERY, THESE SHOULD BE ORDERED NOW. REF (A) PERMITS COMMANDS TO PROVIDE CONSUMABLE SUPPLIES FOR RELIGIOUS MINISTRIES FROM APPROPRIATED FUNDS.
3. FOR ORDERING INFORMATION, [CONTACT YOUR SUPPLY CLERK].
BT
Note the “R” at the top. That’s the lowest level of urgency. See how much smarter the Navy is now?
Originally published in the Passover 2024 issue of the Jewish American Warrior.