It’s no secret that most people, whether they’ll admit it or not, think bigger is better. And continuing in that vein, they also think taller is better, as in “tall, dark and handsome.” Not the least ironically, you’ll almost never hear anyone extolling the virtues of “short, grey and wrinkled.” Believe me, I KNOW.

But while the odds of widespread demonstrations for Short is Beautiful are the same as you breaking the bank at Monte Carlo, I’ll tell ya something: Being one of the three shortest guys in Company 281 gave me the finest moment of my boot camp experience.

First, some vital background …

Having a lifelong discomfort with formal ceremonies, I don’t celebrate Veterans’ Day. But I do acknowledge it in my own small way, which is as 21st-century cheesy as imaginable: I post my boot camp pic on Facebook. Inevitably, it draws comments and reactions from lots of my friends, including pals from my days in This Man’s Navy. This year, I not only got comments from them, but one of them, Darrell Grubner, posted HIS boot camp picture.

I haven’t seen Darrell since boot camp, but at some point we reconnected on Facebook and we message occasionally. Still, I remember him vividly. He was about 20 when he enlisted, came from Little Falls, had an AAS in art and was without doubt the smartest and most squared away guy in my company. He was low-key and reserved, maybe even shy and while he didn’t seem to work hard at anything, he excelled at everything. He was liked by all of us and when he was named the company Honor Man, we not only expected it, but were delighted as well.

Honor Man was an award presented at the graduation ceremony to the most squared-away guy in each company and was THE highlight of that schmeer. Each Honor Man was called up to the reviewing stand, given a certificate of his achievement by the command chaplain and was beamed upon by all the brass and Bull Halsey wannabes resplendent in their blinding dress whites, fruit salad and scrambled eggs.

I’m projecting a bit about what exactly went on with the Honor Man award presentation for a very good reason: I wasn’t there.

Yep, that’s right — I and two of my fellow recruits missed the ceremony due only to our genetics: We were short.

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Elation without graduation

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It shook out like this: In formation (at least when I was in the Navy), the sailors were lined up, right to left, front to back, in order of descending height. I don’t remember how many men were lined up front-to-back, but there were five guys right-to-left. But when we fell in formation outside the barracks that fateful day, in the last row there were leftovers, as it were: There were only three of us, not the full five. No biggie, right? Wrong.

I don’t know if it was boot camp policy or if my company commander was struck by a fit of mathematical retentiveness, or what, but I do know the result: He wanted the last row to be perfectly even. So he called us three aside and told us we couldn’t go to graduation, but had to stay in the barracks instead.

If you were weaned on all the cliche military flicks and TV programs, I think I know what you’re saying to yourself right now. It’s something to the effect of, “You poor guys. After working so long and hard to become official members of The Fleet, instead of just a bunch of dumbass recruits, you must’ve been heartbroken.”

And if you believe that, I’ve got a bridge in Brooklyn with your name on it.

The truth is, we were overjoyed. To us, it was Christmas in July.

Some more vital background …

As you might expect, in boot camp, we were allowed little free time and even fewer privileges. Just about everything a civilian takes for granted was either forbidden or restricted. Hell, we couldn’t even go to the bathroom (or if you prefer, “the head”) when we wanted. Perhaps THE most restricted thing was smoking.

Today, in The New, Improved and Sissified Navy, tobacco in any form is prohibited in boot camp. But back in The Old Nav, not only was it not outlawed, it was bloody mandatory. OK, maybe not mandatory, but it was almost universal. Just about everyone there, from rawest recruits to the saltiest dogs, smoked.

Then again, it was the same in civilian life, too. It may seem unimaginable to young people today, but back then, people smoked everywhere — including in doctors’ offices, hospital rooms and, for all I know, in confession booths. But, as with everything else, there was one huge difference between us lowly recruits and the lowliest of civilians, namely, they could light up whenever they wanted. We got to smoke only when we were allowed to, which, in the case of good ole Company 281, was hardly ever.

Our Company Commander, an airdale chief named Scarlett, smoked, but he did it erratically. He might burn one in the morning, and then not smoke for the next three days. As a result, he never realized our relationship to smoking was radically different from his — that is, we were wickedly addicted. In my case, I spent all eight weeks at Great Lakes in the throes of one constant king hell of a nicotine fit. And I know I was hardly alone.

A boot camp smoke break, like everything else in boot camp, was a ritualized affair. First, the CC would announce (I’m not making this up), “The smoking lamp is lit.” At that moment, 75 shaven-headed maniacs ran to their personal lockers, grabbed their cigarettes and lighters and tore off to what was euphemistically called “The Lounge.” It was just a room between the two wings of the buildings that held a soda machine and a bucket filled with sand, which was the communal ashtray. Then one of the nonsmokers appointed himself The Guard and stood at attention by the bucket while the rest of us sucked in huge hits of smoke, as if mere minutes away from the blindfold and firing squad.

Oh yeah, if the CC was feeling really benevolent, he’d declare a Smoke and Coke and we got to speed-swill that exotic libation while speed-smoking R.J. Reynolds’ Finest.

So all this background should help you understand why us shorties being cut from the graduation was less than tragic to us — a LOT less than tragic, in fact.

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Short in the formation; tall in the saddle

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Here’s what was going on:

The rest of the company was on the parade ground of Mainside, the headquarters base. There, they strutted their stuff in formation, in step, in dress whites starched to sheet metal stiffness. Next, they stood at attention in a blazing sun for a couple of hours, hoping they wouldn’t pass out from heat stroke. And all the while, a bunch of desiccated old farts left over from the Battle of Manila Bay droned on and on about Bluejacket Glories and the joys of Haze Gray and Underway and fond memories of their time in The Great White Fleet.

Meanwhile, the three most vertically-challenged lads in Company 281 were sitting in air-conditioned splendor, smoking cigarette after cigarette and drinking soda after soda. And we did it with total impunity, since everyone else was at graduation.

Of course, doing that was beyond foolhardy. If we’d been caught, we would’ve been punished — but good. Maybe not keelhauled or flogged with a cat o’ nine tails, but for sure we would’ve been dragged to a Captain’s Mast and been made to rue the day we dared defy The Almighty Navy Regs.

But none of that dawned on us, since we were intoxicated not only on nicotine, caffeine and sugar, but on the joys of freedom and the liberation of flouting oppression. While there’s no way to compare such things, I’d say we were in the same headspace as those brave French souls who on July 14, 1789, stormed the Bastille, shouting, “Liberte’, Egalite’, Fromage, Vin Ordinaire et Brigitte Bardot!”

Certainly, 56 years later, that memory is vivid and the feelings, while obviously not as powerful as they were at the time, still bring a smug smile to my face.

By contrast, when I messaged Darrell this Vet’s Day and reminded him of his Honor Man award, he said he’d completely forgotten it, and I’m sure he was telling the truth. This shows the validity of the Latin saying, “Sic transit gloria mundi.” Loosely translated, this means “Worldly glories are soon forgotten.”

How I feel about The Great Boot Camp Smoke ‘n’ Coke proves the truth of another saying — one I just happened to make up. It is, “Stickin’ it to The Man is a joy forever.”