They
By Garland Davis

They tell me, “Welcome Home,” forty years late
They say, “Thank you for your service,” when it no longer matters,
They spat upon me and called me “Murderer,”
They blamed me for the war that I fought for their freedoms.
They expect forgiveness of their actions when I came home,

They don’t understand my pride in my service and my uniform.
They don’t understand why I didn’t desert to Canada,
They don’t understand why I won’t talk of the war,
They don’t understand me or my friends from the war,
They don’t understand,  they can never understand.

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A native of North Carolina, Garland Davis has lived in Hawaii since 1987. He always had a penchant for writing but did not seriously pursue it until recently. He is a graduate of Hawaii Pacific University, where he majored in Business Management. Garland is a thirty-year Navy retiree and service-connected Disabled Veteran.

The Challenge

By:  Garland Davis

All the Chief could say was that shore duty in Hawaii sucked the big one.  It was only his second tour of shore duty.  He had enlisted during the wind down of the Korean War and spent most of the next twenty-three years at sea, mostly in the Orient.  His only previous shore tour had been as a station ditto at Subic Bay, Republic of the Philippines.  He had tried to stay in the Far East, even volunteering for a tour on the carrier in Yokosuka.  His detailer told him that because of another anti-homesteading push his only choice was to go stateside for duty.  The closest to Asia that he could get was Pearl Harbor.

After reporting to Pearl, he was assigned to the Special Services Department, where they placed him in charge of the Base Theater.  He complained to the Chain of Command, stating that he had spent over twenty-three years as a pipe fitter and welder.  Surely there was a billet at the shipyard where he could use his skills.  He didn’t know anything about running a theater or managing civilian personnel.  He was adamant on insisting that he be placed some place other than Special Services. This evoked the ire of the Special Services Officer, a bitter, passed over Commander.  The Commander called him into his office and told him that the subject was closed, he was assigned to Special Services and that was final.  He told him that he would be assigned to the Auto Hobby Shop where he could possibly use his mechanical skills advising the patrons of the shop.  It was either that or the theater.

The Chief figured that it was time to shut up and carry on.  He decided to transfer to the Fleet Reserve.  He figured that he could get a civilian position at SRF Yokosuka or back in Subic Bay.  Loaning crescent wrenches and explaining “righty tighty and lefty loosey” to neophyte mechanics was not his idea of good duty.  He ran a chit to retire to the Fleet Reserve, which was disapproved.  It seems he had to complete a three-year area tour in Hawaii before he could retire.  It was going to be a long two and a half years.

He reluctantly settled into the Hobby Shop.  He had an MM2 and an MM3 to work for him and Special Service personnel stood the duty in the evening until the Hobby Shop closed at 2100.  The MM2 had been there about a year and had a handle on the operation. He told him the previous Chief had been waiting to retire and spent most every afternoon at the Chief’s Club.  The Chief could understand this.  There wasn’t a challenge in the job, but following his nature, he started looking for a challenge.

Looking the place over, he noted that the field behind the shop was covered by numerous junked and rusting cars.  Taking a walk through the field, he saw car hulks dating from the mid-forties.  There were, at least, three hundred complete and partial car bodies, engines and chassis covering almost every inch of the field.  After doing some research, he found that there was a metal recycling company in Honolulu at the piers where they chipped metal into small bits and loaded it on ships for Taiwan.

The Chief went to the Assistant Special Services Officer and proposed clearing the field out.  The LT agreed that it was an eyesore and should be cleaned out.  He arranged to make a stake bed truck and a three-man working party available to the Chief to clear the cars and metal out.

Over the next two years, with Chief operating a cutting rig and the working party loading and transporting the scrap to the recycling yard, the field was cleared of all scrap.  Each load of scrap was weighed at the recyclers and the weight slips returned to the Chief.

Final cleaning of the field and carrying vegetation and other organic refuse to the dump coincided with the Chiefs retirement.  He was presented with a Navy Achievement Medal for his efforts in cleaning up the eyesore by the Hobby Shop. After a retirement ceremony and a reception at the CPO Club.  The Chief planned a visit to relatives on the mainland and then a return to the Far East.

The field the Chief cleared is where the present day Arizona Memorial Visitor Center and parking lot are located.

The Chief made one more stop before leaving Hawaii. He went by the offices of Dillingham Recycling and Scrap Metal to pick up a check for over $8,000.  The value of all the scrap delivered during the two and a half years.

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A native of North Carolina, Garland Davis has lived in Hawaii since 1987. He always had a penchant for writing but did not seriously pursue it until recently. He is a graduate of Hawaii Pacific University, where he majored in Business Management. Garland is a thirty-year Navy retiree and service-connected Disabled Veteran.

The Ship

By David “Mac” McAllister

There’s a ship,

out upon the sea.

A ship of dreams;

laden with memories.

I know not its name;

but she calls to me.

Yester year’s shipmates,

feats and glories

A ship residing

of Spirit and Mind.

Crewed by Shipmates

I know all so well.

Sailing on pristine waters,

the perfect kind

Sailors I’ve sailed with

through peace and hell

Gladly again

I’d man her rails.

serving through waters;

calm and gale.

For we were the best

of the best of our day

No matter on liberty or

while in harm’s way.

Proudly serving

on the razor’s edge.

Duty, honor, country

our pledge

Forward and onward,

never looking back

For we were the best of the best

out in the Westpac

Once More

By: Garland Davis

Once more on the far Pacific Rim is all I’m asking,

Just a feeling I’m again wanting to know,

It’s a time and place where my memory is walking,

It’s that world where I’m longing to go.

How I loved the old ships that plied those waters,

How they make this old heart remember with joy,

They’re the light in an ocean of darkness,

That surrounded all my years as a boy.

Now I know all the sadness of the sailor,

Who has gone far from his home on the waves,

Who regrettably knows he can never return there,

For the ships of his youth lie in their watery graves.

How I wish my spirit could ever wander,

In those ships and seas that were first and last,

In my memory of things I cherish,

Let me live with the sea and ships of my past.

To follow Tales of an Asia Sailor and get e-mail notifications of new posts, click on the three white lines in the red rectangle above, then click on the follow button.

A native of North Carolina, Garland Davis has lived in Hawaii since 1987. He always had a penchant for writing but did not seriously pursue it until recently. He is a graduate of Hawaii Pacific University, where he majored in Business Management. Garland is a thirty-year Navy retiree and service-connected Disabled Veteran.

Home-again

By: Garland Davis

In the distance sea birds fly toward the far shore,

Above the bay and beach through the mist majestic Fuji-san,

As numerous ships and fishing boats ply Tokyo Wan

From above hidden nests Cherry Blossoms drop quietly

On those that rest on limbs outstretched above the stream

This scene is real, a paradise, not a wild dream.

Go with me there, to the land of home-again,

Where we will quietly and slowly regain

Perspective for the years that yet remain

To follow Tales of an Asia Sailor and get e-mail notifications of new posts, click on the three white lines in the red rectangle above, then click on the follow button.

A native of North Carolina, Garland Davis has lived in Hawaii since 1987. He always had a penchant for writing but did not seriously pursue it until recently. He is a graduate of Hawaii Pacific University, where he majored in Business Management. Garland is a thirty-year Navy retiree and service-connected Disabled Veteran.

Old Sailors

By:  Garland Davis

A walk through the old ship before she goes to the breakers,

A single white hat hangs from a hook on a locker door,

In tribute to a sailor’s sweated brow,

And a thousand times he swabbed that deck all scuffed now,

A pair of boon dockers left behind a locker door,

As if they are ready to walk these decks once more,

Shoes that left footprints that we dared to walk on,

But now, all the old sailors are gone.

To follow Tales of an Asia Sailor and get e-mail notifications of new posts, click on the three white lines in the red rectangle above, then click on the follow button.

A native of North Carolina, Garland Davis has lived in Hawaii since 1987. He always had a penchant for writing but did not seriously pursue it until recently. He is a graduate of Hawaii Pacific University, where he majored in Business Management. Garland is a thirty-year Navy retiree and service-connected Disabled Veteran.

The Bilingual Sailor

By:  Garland Davis

The North American Bluejackets of the past developed a unique language that we all learned starting with “Boot Camp.”  There were universal terms that everyone understood and there were terms that had meaning to individual ratings.  This language evolved a little differently on each ship.  Example:  Midway did a 113 day I/O cruise from Subic to Pattaya.  During that trip everything became SERIOUS.

“Man when we get into port, I am going to drink some SERIOUS beer.”

“I am going to get me some SERIOUS pussy when we get to Pattaya.”

“Man that is some SERIOUS beer.” When the beer was VERTREPed aboard for the beer day and steel beach cookout.

One sailor to another while looking down on the flight deck, “Dude, this is a SERIOUS fucking airport.”

Whatever the word or phrase of the moment, we understood it.  Some of the new words became part of the lexicon, others were forgotten.  As we transferred to different ships and stations the Language of the Sailor became pretty much standardized.  We understood each other.  Well at least us Asia Sailors did.  I cannot vouch for those LANT FLT dudes.  They were always a little out of sync.  And they have always been jealous of us because we had Subic.

When dealing with civilians we sometime have difficulty communicating.  Primarily because civilians are a little slow.  You must remember that civilians live a sheltered life and have no idea where Subic is located or the entertainment and activities offered at the Subic City amusement park. The following glossary is to help you deal more effectively with them.

Skivvies:  Civilians don’t understand this.  It will not work to go to Victoria’s Secret to buy a gift your wife or girlfriend and say, “I want some of them fancy crotch less skivvy’s for my shack job.”

Skivvy Check: This is an inspection held by shipmates to determine who buys the next round (the dude wearing skivvy’s does). It is not proper to hold a skivvy check on the patrons of the lounge at the Holiday Inn while on leave.

Shack Job:  Another term that civilians are unfamiliar with.  You would introduce your shack job to a civilian as, “My companion, or my roommate.”

Skank: Same rules as those that apply to “Shack Job”

Skag:  Same rules apply.

Bar Hog:  In the civilian world female employees and patrons of bars and clubs are not referred to as Bar Hogs.  They are genteel young ladies unless they are old and over the hill then they are Bar Hogs.

NOTE:  The Bar Hog capitol of the world is Norfolk, Virginia, if you can believe a fucking thing those LANTFLT pussies say.  In my opinion, you have to go to National City, California to meet the elite of the Bar Hog world. END NOTE

Bar Fine:  We all know that a bar fine is a scam cooked up by the Mama-sans to separate a sailor from his money.  We paid it grudgingly but willingly. In the civilian world, the proper way to meet a genteel young lady in a bar or club is to offer a seat or ask if you may buy her a libation not. An improper way to start a conversation with her is,  “Hey baby, I ain’t seen you here before.  You still cherry?  You do BJ’s? How much is your Bar Fine?”

Rug Rats, Crumb Crunchers, Curtain Climbers, Tricycle Motors, Snot Eaters, and etc.:  All terms that apply to a Shack Job’s children.  Probably not a good idea to use any of these terms to refer to your sister’s kids.

War Club:  We all know that it means the largest container of an alcoholic beverage.  Usually the cheaper the booze, the larger the bottle, in other words, War Club.  When you ask a civilian clerk for a “War Club” it is not unreasonable to think that he may a bit apprehensive.  The proper request is, “Gimme the largest bottle of the cheapest shit you got.”  He will understand, especially if you are in uniform.

Head:  Due to its use in many movies, most civilians actually know the meaning of head.  They think it is “cute” when you ask for the head.

Pisser:  We know that means urinal but civilians are perplexed when you remark, “You know your head would be a lot nicer if you put in a couple of pissers.”

Shitter:  Again a perfectly good description of a toilet stool but your host may be a little upset when you tell him, “Boy, I wouldn’t go in there for a while. That one was really a stinker.  It smelled so bad that I thought it was going to wreck your shitter.

Ass Wipe:  A self-explanatory and accurate description of its primary use.  Civilians refer to it as toilet tissue which opens it up for many other uses.

Happy Sock:  This term is understood solely by sailors and its closest equivalents in civilian life are Bounty Towels and ass wipe.  (Never ever pick up a single sock in berthing!)

Fart Sack:  A big ass sack you put your mattress in.

Shit on a shingle:  Any of a myriad variety of creamed of or other sauces served for breakfast, usually over toast.  Civilians look upon these as generally unpalatable but then they have never been hungover, starving, and need a stick to your ribs breakfast in order to make it through the day until “Liberty Call.”

Buzzard Puke over a hockey puck:  A sailor’s quaint euphemism for Creamed Tuna or Turkey Ala King over Biscuits.  Not a popular civilian dish either.  But again, it will get you through a hangover and on to “Liberty Call.”

Horsecock: Usually a term used to identify cold cuts.  Not a proper way to order a sandwich at Subway!

Set the Special Sea and Anchoring Detail:  Either a happy or a sad occasion.  It depends on whether leaving or entering port.  This is one where civilians think, “Oh don’t they look so cute in their sailor suits, standing up there on the ship?”

And let’s not forget “Fuckin’ A” or “Fuckin Aye” for emphasis on the positive or you bet your ass.  When the subject is serious sailors often use, “Fuckin’ A Ditty bag” to convey the seriousness of the moment.

Another confusing term for civilians is “Geedunk”.  This is a term used to describe the place where you buy “Pogey Bait.”  If you don’t know the meaning of Pogey bait, you will probably have to ask a LANT FLT sailor, I’m not going to explain it here.

“Two Blocked” or “Tube Locked” for snipes:  Meaning there ain’t no more room in this two-pound sack for another five pounds of shit.

Tell a civilian that you are going to “Hit the Rain Locker” and they will look at you with a total look of stupefaction.

Traveling around Asia, sailors have incorporated foreign words and terms into their everyday usage. Some of the following come to mind:

Itai:  Japanese for “Ouch.”  A sailor may use it, “Stop fucking around and get that deck finished or I am going to lay some “Itai’s” on your ass.

Beaucoup:  French for much or a lot.  Used by sailors of the Viet Nam area to mean “a whole fucking lot”.  For example: “When we get into port I am going to drink beaucoup fucking beer.”

Mama-san:  Slang Japanese term for Mother.  A sailor uses it to refer to the proprietor of a bar or Skivvy House.

Skivvy House:  A brothel.  I always envisioned going into competition with Victoria’s Secret by opening a chain of lingerie stores called “The Skivvy House.” I figure our clientele would consist of Shack Jobs, Skanks, and Bar Hogs.  Probably go over well in National City.

Damn, I almost forgot Honey-ko:  The proper way of addressing your Shack Job or any other Bar Hog you meet.

I could probably go on with many more.  But you get the gist.  Just be thoughtful when dealing with civilians, and LANTFLT sailors.  Remember they are pussies who have led a sheltered life.

To follow Tales of an Asia Sailor and get e-mail notifications of new posts, click on the three white lines in the red rectangle above, then click on the follow button.

A native of North Carolina, Garland Davis has lived in Hawaii since 1987. He always had a penchant for writing but did not seriously pursue it until recently. He is a graduate of Hawaii Pacific University, where he majored in Business Management. Garland is a thirty-year Navy retiree and service-connected Disabled Veteran.

Scapegoat
The story of Ass Whippin’s

By: Garland Davis

Growing up, I was the oldest in the family of three boys and one girl. The sociologists will tell you that an older sibling will take a leadership position among the other children. A male sibling will attempt to emulate the father while a female as an older sibling will try to act as a mother would. That emulating the father thing didn’t really work for me. My dad had one position when it came to child rearing. He figured that an ass whippin’ was always needed in almost every situation. I tried that tact with my brothers and, of course, they fought back which resulted in ass whippin’s all around.

Instead of being a sibling leader, I was more of a scapegoat. They learned early on, that if my dad became upset with something we did or something they did, they could lessen the severity or possibly remove the threat of an ass whippin’ by blaming it all on me.

I remember once, they were hitting a baseball toward the house and broke a window. I didn’t know about it. I arrived home just before Dad came home from work. They asked me if I wanted to play. Having dreams of making the baseball team when I started high school, I jumped at the chance. They offered to let me bat. There I was with the bat in my hand as dad pulled into the driveway. As soon as they saw him they ran leaving the ball by the broken window. Result: ass whippin’ for the guy with the bat in his hand.

Even when I had been up to no good and gotten away with it, they would jump at the chance to shine the light of truth on my shortcomings. There was the incident of the Billy goat. The doctor had prescribed goat’s milk for my grandmother so my dad came home one Saturday morning with three or four nanny goats and a Billy. Look up worthless in the dictionary and you will see a picture of a Billy goat. I can tell you, they really get pissed if you cut their beards off. Ass whippin’ for that one. But that isn’t the story I am trying to tell.

I had seen a TV show where the hero roped a wild bull and saved the damsel. I had a rope which I fashioned into a lasso. I was roping anything I could. My brothers went along for a while. They would run and I would chase them swinging my loop and try to rope them. Finally, one of them said, “Why don’t you try to catch the Billy goat.”

Now this seemed like a good idea to me. I chased after the goat trying to swing the loop. He would either outrun me or turn and chase me. I came up with a brilliant plan. I would tie the rope to a fence post and my brothers could chase ole Billy past me and I would rope him. Fantastic plan! They got ole Billy up to a dead run and as he approached I swung the loop and floated it out toward his head. Now I tell you, neither Roy Rogers, Gene Autry, nor Hopalong Cassidy ever threw a more perfect loop. Right over ole Billy’s head. He hit the end of that rope at a dead run; his feet flew out from under him; bam he hit the ground and didn’t move. Stone cold dead.

We knew we were dead too when daddy found out. I gathered the rope and hid it in the barn. We ran off and volunteered to hoe mama’s garden, trying to build up as much good will as possible before the storm hit.

Right on time daddy came home from work. We had a routine, as soon as he got home we would go to the barn, milk the cow and goats, clean the stalls and feed them and the pigs. We dreaded going to the barn. Dad was in a hurry as usual and rushed us toward our doom. As we turned the corner of the barn, we saw ole Billy standing out there eating grass. I was suddenly convinced that prayers were answered and vowed to be more attentive in Sunday School. And of course, one of my brothers had to say, “Ole Billy don’t look too bad, I really thought Buster (my nickname) had killed him with that lasso.” Then the story came out how I had threatened to beat them with the rope if they didn’t run him by me so I could lasso him. They told how I had threatened them if they told on me. You guessed it, I got the ass whippin’.

When my brothers knew they were in for an ass whippin’, they attempted to lessen the severity by including me in whatever they had been up to. The tobacco Hornworm is the larval stage of the Carolina sphinx moth. It is a large green worm that can grow as large as two and a half to three inches long with a girth of an inch. It plays in the story of how an innocent act on my part ended up with me included in the nefarious deed and the punishment.

Most farm boys in my area hated ‘Show and Tell’ in school. We didn’t have anything to show or tell about. We all lived on farms and had seen all the farm stuff. So we had to be inventive. I remember one spring a classmate brought a set of pig testicles. They were castrating pigs that morning and he was desperate for something for show and tell. Needless to say, he probably got the ass whippin’ that time.

I was working after school and on weekends for one of the tobacco farmers in our area for nickels and dimes. Kept me in the latest Superman and Bat-Man comics. One brother asked me to bring him a couple of tobacco worms (known colloquially as “Backer Worms”) for show and tell. I caught three or four and put them in a bag with part of a tobacco leaf and gave them to him.

The next morning at school my two brothers and a couple of other idiots were chasing girls around the playground threatening to put the worms in their hair. The principle gave all four of them an ass whippin’ and sent a note home to Mama by way of the school bus driver. By the time daddy got home from work, the story had morphed into how I had brought them all these Backer Worms and told them it was fun to put them in the girls’ hair. Result, you guessed it, ass whippin’.

They never missed an opportunity and would tell on me at the most public and embarrassing times. In a couple of other stories, I have mentioned the Rising girls. They were four sisters who lived about a quarter of a mile down the road. Two were older than me the third was the same age and one younger.

It was a Saturday morning. My dad and uncle had went hunting early and arrived back home about eight. Mama and my aunt had breakfast ready as they came home and we all sat down to eat. That’s when the younger brother says, “Me and Johnny was playin’ in the hayloft yesterday evening (evening in the part of the country I grew up in is any time between noon and dark) and Buster and Sylvie come in. They was kissin’ and huggin’ and he stuck his hand in her britches.” Well, by this time, I am probably redder than a pickled beet. Mama gets all upset and tells daddy, “I want you to whip that dirty boy.”

I heard my dad say to my uncle, sotto voce, “I ain’t gonna whup the boy for that.”

To follow Tales of an Asia Sailor and get e-mail notifications of new posts, click on the three white lines in the red rectangle above, then click on the follow button.

A native of North Carolina, Garland Davis has lived in Hawaii since 1987. He always had a penchant for writing but did not seriously pursue it until recently. He is a graduate of Hawaii Pacific University, where he majored in Business Management. Garland is a thirty-year Navy retiree and service-connected Disabled Veteran.

Danger

By:  Garland Davis

He’s afraid yet not afraid

of the force he knows is coming.

His butt and liberty are the issues here-

He protects it at all costs with

an impenetrable wall of

competence that wraps around him.

No biting bullets, no clamoring excuses

of fear meant only for other ears.

But he does know, and there is no reason to fear

Yet still he perceives danger,

The Chief, this way, comes.

To follow Tales of an Asia Sailor and get e-mail notifications of new posts, click on the three white lines in the red rectangle above, then click on the follow button.

A native of North Carolina, Garland Davis has lived in Hawaii since 1987. He always had a penchant for writing but did not seriously pursue it until recently. He is a graduate of Hawaii Pacific University, where he majored in Business Management. Garland is a thirty-year Navy retiree and service-connected Disabled Veteran.