Who We Are

By:  Garland Davis

During a discussion, on FaceBook, with some shipmates regarding political issues I made the following post: “Our benefits, Retirement Pensions, Cola Increases, Tri-Care, Veterans Administration medical care and disability benefits, and etc. are always top of my mind. I can waiver and compromise on other issues, but not those that we earned in some of the God Damnedest situations and conditions asked of a man. We laugh and tell the sea stories about the good times but there is nothing funny about the times between the good times.”

We spend time telling each other sea stories about the good times, about the liberties, about the drinks, about the girls, and about old shipmates.  I am going to take a while to talk about some of the bad times.

We didn’t realize the bad in recruit training.  We were numb most of the time.  Half proud of our uniforms and our newfound skills marching and learning of the Navy and, half regretting enlisting if this was what we faced for the next four years.

My first tour at NAS Lemoore was basically easy.  I don’t recall any really bad times there unless you count being a broke, seventeen-year-old Seaman living in the Barracks without any place to go even if I had the money.  The Station Library and Theatre were a godsend and got me through many idle hours in the barracks.

The day I reported to my first ship, I was stuck into a gear locker with a chipping hammer and shown how to use it.  I was to chip all the paint off the interior bulkheads while another, more fortunate, sailor was chipping on the external bulkheads.  Hearing protection?  I don’t think it existed in the “Old Navy.”  I figure I am fortunate to be able to hear myself fart.

There were things I didn’t understand.  Returning from emergency leave, I spent a couple of days at Treasure Island waiting for my ship. One night another sailor and I were issued 45 caliber pistols and assigned the duty of guarding a couple Dempster Dumpsters about two hundred yards apart.  That was the longest, coldest and loneliest night I can recall.

I remember many hours on more ships than I wish to list wearing an OBA,  carrying and dragging fire hoses, and humping a “Handy Billy” (How many of you remember those Mother Fuckers) and eductors up and down ladders.

I don’t know how many nights I spent trying to sleep when the AC was out and the ventilation seemed to be drawing from the uptakes.  The only thing you could hope was  the fartsack and mattress dried out before time to crawl back into the rack.  Then there were the fart odors from the dozens of others living in your bedroom.  All you could do was ignore the smell and add your contribution to the miasma.

Now seems to be a good time to bring up water hours.  Fucked up evaporators seemed to coincide with fucked up air conditioning.  Not only was I miserable, I was dirty, stinking miserable.  With water hours came no Laundry service, which eventually meant no clean clothes.  Everyone had almost terminal cases of crotch rot. Being a cook, I was one of the few, granted permission to take a shower every three days.  It had to be a fast shower, the Master at Arms was there with a stopwatch, ready to turn the water off.

With the Viet Nam war, the operational tempo picked up.  Ships, Carriers, Cruisers, Destroyers and the Auxiliaries routinely did ninety days or longer deployments off the coast of South Viet Nam,  providing gunfire support to the Army and Marines fighting ashore, or in the Gulf of Tonkin, escorting the Aircraft Carriers. Although I was a cook and baker, I agree with my shipmates that, often, due to sporadic availability, missed replenishments, and yes, incompetent cooks the food was, very often, extremely poor.  After a few weeks, meals became monotonous and sailors became unconscious of what was being served and just ate.

There were the all night General Quarters and moving in close ashore to engage an enemy battery or making three nightly runs into Haiphong to shoot up the shipping.  There was the sound of enemy artillery rounds exploding close aboard.  And the next day there was rearming to replace the rounds fired during the night and refueling to bring the bunkers back to one hundred percent.  And then, if the ship was fortunate, there would be the stores ship to replenish food and other consumables.  Luck might give a person a couple of hours sleep before going back on watch or preparing for the night’s General Quarters and doing it all over again.

There was the night we ran into Haiphong in company with USS Goldsborough.  They took a hit into the Chief Petty Officers Mess.  Repair three staging area was in the mess.  The locker leader, an HTC, and the phone talker were in the mess with the other members of the repair party staged in the passageway.  The Chief had taken the phones to allow the talker to go to the head.  The HTC, a drinking acquaintance, was the only casualty.  I feel bad that I cannot remember his name.

Z-Grams promulgated by Admiral Zumwalt, Chief of Naval Operations, to the Navy took a toll on the Command structure and the Chain of Command of many units.  All too often, the Z-gram detailed drastic changes to shipboard conditions, uniform and civilian clothes regulations and, personal appearance without any preparatory advice.  The lowest Seaman Recruit received the information regarding Zumwalt’s directives at the same time as the unit commanders did.  I remember a Seaman who moved his civilian wardrobe out of the locker club, stored them in his locker and left his uniforms on his bunk.  These were collected as gear adrift.  He was irate, waving the Z-gram around because it said that he could have civilian clothes aboard.  He was a pretty good Seaman up to that point but ended up with a less than honorable discharge.

The shooting ended in 1973 and the war in 1975.  The Carter administration, like the Obama administration, set out to pay for social programs at a cost to military funding.  Many ship’s names disappeared as they were decommissioned and little or no new construction was planned.  I remember unending weeks of in port time because there wasn’t money for fuel. I remember “Fast Cruises” sitting alongside with the gangway in pretending we were at sea.  I was on one ship that did half of a RefTra tied to the pier.  A tanker loaded with fuel, but none to get underway with.

During those years after Viet Nam, racial tensions in the country were high.  These tensions found their way into the fleet.  There were race riots and near race riots on a few ships.  Many good sailors of all races were lost to these problems.  The Navy turned the solution to many racial problems and a perceived abuse of alcohol over to contract psychologists and social engineers who had no conception of life in the Navy.  These “problem solvers” contributed to many failed Navy careers.

Uniforms were changing faster than one could keep track of.  I calculated at one time that with all the “new” and “grandfathered” working uniforms there was a fourteen-year period when I could not muster my whole division and require them to be in the same uniform.  I don’t know if the newer Navy has gotten any better.  From what I see on my infrequent trips to the base, they are still “churning” the seabag.

With 1979 and the Iran hostage crisis came endless Indian Ocean cruises.  There were few liberty ports near the operating areas, so most of the time was spent staying on station and running drills.  There were refueling and replenishments, but not the night long GQ’s of the Viet Nam war. The big exception to this was the flight deck on the carriers.  They launched and recovered aircraft night and day. The “Roof Rats” earned their Flight Deck Pay.

For the four, twenty, or thirty years of our Navy life, we stood duty.  Every third day, every fourth if we were lucky, we stayed aboard and stood watches maintaining the ship and standing ready for whatever was asked of us.  My Army and Air Force acquaintances have a hard time wrapping their heads around the concept of spending every third or fourth day working and then having to work a normal day.

Throughout the whole period, there was the monotony of being at sea or the extreme discomfort of rough weather or losing time with loved ones because of typhoon evasion.  And endless days of rolling and pitching.  I was never prone to seasickness, so I dodged that bullet.  I am sure those of you who did suffer were much more miserable than I was.

Then there were the separations from our families. I married when I had barely four years in the Navy.  During the next twenty-six years of Navy life, my wife and I were often separated due to deployments and the operating tempo of the Yokosuka-based forward deployed ships.  My wife kept track of the deployments and once told me that she calculated that we were apart for eleven of those twenty-six years, and she didn’t count duty days. “Absence makes the heart grow fonder” was first published in Francis Davison’s Poetical Rhapsody in 1602, where the words appear as the first phrase of a poem in the edition.  Something made us work for more than fifty years.

Thirty years of a life that those who lived and worked ashore have no conception of nor ability to comprehend.  I was always told that a retired sailor didn’t live a long time.  I have concluded that a short life after retiring is a falsehood.  We are tough because we had to be and the old ships, the turbulent times, and some pretty bad conditions made us Mean Mother Fuckers who don’t quit.

With all this being said, I would willingly do it all over again if for nothing more than the companionship of the hundreds of shipmates who contributed to and shared the hard times and made the fun times.  My brief thirty years in the Navy was an adventurous and fulfilling time in my life.

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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.

Dead Broke

By: Garland Davis

I was sitting on the front porch with my uncle.  This was in the rural community of Western North Carolina where I grew up.  I don’t remember what job he had at the time.  He sharecropped or worked for other farmers.  He was a decent farrier and sometimes went over to Kentucky to work at the racehorse stables shoeing horses. Sitting there on the porch as evening approached, he said,” Here it is Saturday night.  I would shore like to go to town, but I’m dead broke!”

I was just a little boy and had no idea what being dead broke meant.  I knew that broke meant that something was damaged or didn’t work and I knew what dead meant.  I had seen dead animals when we killed the hogs every year. But I didn’t know what dead broke meant. So I asked, “What’s dead broke?”

“It means you ain’t got no money and no chance of getting any anytime soon,”  He replied.  “If’n a feller come down that road right there a sellin’ bonded whiskey for ten cents a bottle’ all’st I could do is holler, ‘Damn, that shore is cheap!’ I tell you boy, you can’t get any broker than that. That’s the bottom of the bucket busted.”

A few years later, I came to realize exactly what my uncle was talking about.  In my early years in the Navy, I was more often “Dead Broke” than not.

At around $96 a month base pay and sea pay, a red-blooded American Seaman can reach ‘dead broke’ status with little effort. Beer at the EM Club slop chute, Beer Nuts, and Slim Jims for supper, regularly, could wreck your personal finances rather quickly. One also had to fool money away buying soap, toothpaste and deodorant and stuff like that. Essentials like cigarettes and cigars had to be carefully budgeted for. I remember many nights when it was coffee and cigarettes or a cigar on the fantail staring at the lights of San Francisco because I was dead broke.

The fellows back home, the one’s I went to school with, were flipping burgers for two bucks an hour or loading freight cars at the tobacco company and hosiery mill for pretty good pay. I’ll bet they never missed out on a six pack of Schlitz or a bottle of whiskey and a wrestling match with their high school sweetheart in the back seat of their car down by the river on Friday night because all they could find in their pockets was lint.

But, as a young sailor, I learned to innovate. A Seaman learned ‘between paydays survival skills’… It was either become creative or become a self-abusing, tee-totaling berthing space hermit. I recall few of these in Vesuvius. Once the ship was in WestPac and I became aware of the delights ashore, I became a master of creative thinking and finagling the where-with-all to finance a liberty.  Especially in the newly discovered paradise known as Subic Bay.

I remember one weekend my Snipe Fireman running mate and I were shifting pocket lint back and forth when we hatched a great master plan. We scraped together more than twenty bucks, a veritable fortune to those of our lowly status. We hit up both the snipe and deck ape slush funds, the asshole Log Room Yeoman, who had gotten himself restricted, and the old fat Chief Yeoman who was sitting around waiting for someone to invent Viagra.  We had enough money for three or four cheap beers each at the club and ten bucks each to buy pesos with when we crossed the bridge.  We were quickly into our whites and caught a liberty boat shortly before noon on a Saturday morning. It was a short walk from the Fleet Landing to the EM Club and the start to a memorable liberty.

After a few beers at the club, we changed the twenty into Pesos at the first money changer outside the gate and were off to find female companionship and beer for the weekend.  Subic City and the Barrio were out of bounds in those days, but that was a problem that could be worked around. The prices there were much lower than Olangapo.  We boarded a jeepney for the Barrio where for a Peso you could hire a kid lookout to watch for the Shore Patrol and warn you if they were in town.

After arriving at a bar, we hired a lookout and then hooked up with a pair of young lovelies who had their own rooms. We struck a bargain with them for the weekend and laid in a stock of San Miguel at their place. This was all in the days before some innovative mama-san dreamed up the “bar fine” as a way to separate a sailor from his money.  All we had to do was pay the girls.

In those days, in the Barrio, ten pesos would buy more San Miguel in a Sari Sari store than you could drink in a couple of days. It was noon on Saturday, we were young, had cold beer, hot women, and didn’t have to be back aboard until the last liberty boat Sunday.  A little like how I imagine paradise to be.

After a weekend of San Miguel, Monkey Meat, and a lot of time in bed, we poured ourselves back across the Quarterdeck from the last liberty boat Sunday night with nothing in our pockets but lint. The ship was going to sea for a couple of weeks with a visit to Hong Kong before returning to Subic.  We had plans to save our money, stand by for other people in Hong Kong and be ready for our young lovelies when we returned to Subic.

I don’t think our plans worked out so well.  I remember liberty in Hong Kong and I remember being dead broke with payday over a week away on the subsequent visit to Subic. I do know we had promised our Honey-ko’s that we would see them on our return.  And we did.  There is no one more ingenious than a “dead broke” North American Blue Jacket trying to scrounge enough money for a liberty in Olongapo.

It was ninety-six bucks a month, sharing a non-air conditioned berthing space with one hundred fifteen other men, sagging bunks, stinking feet and clothes, worn out foul weather gear, old big gut heavy Chief Petty Officers, some real Asshole Officers, long hours and hard work and the company of your shipmates, some of the finest men that ever lived.

Oh, to be nineteen once again, twenty bucks in my pocket, and boarding a liberty boat in Subic Bay.

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.

Bangkok and Dom Perignon

By:  Garland Davis

I was talking with a friend a few days ago.  He was bitching about the price of beer. He was upset that it is almost a dollar a can retail.  I told him that I considered that cheap.  In a bar, it will cost five bucks and at the airport, you’ll have to take a second mortgage on your house to purchase a small draft in a fucking plastic cup.

That got me to thinking about the most expensive booze I ever drank.  I think it was 1979 or 1980.  Francis Hammond was following Midway around the South China Sea, screwing with the Soviets at their base at Cam Ranh Bay, Viet Nam.  The Soviets leased the old US base for a number of years after the fall of the South.

The Soviet Union requested that the Thai government permit one of their warships visit Bangkok.  The Thais were reluctant and asked the U.S. State Department to schedule a U.S. ship visit so they would have a reason to decline the Soviet request.

The Battle Group Commander had each of the escort ships make a close aboard pass by the carrier.  I guess Francis Hammond looked the best and we were given the honor of an unexpected seven-day port visit to Bangkok. We only had three days to make the ship as presentable as possible before the transit up the river to Bangkok.  The XO took advantage of every waking minute of each sailor’s day to make sure there wasn’t a corner, ladder back, urinal, or mess deck cup that wasn’t scrubbed and then scrubbed again.

The trip up river was harrowing because there were electric lines across the river and the navigators had differing measures of their height above the water.  There was concern that we couldn’t make it under one particular span.  Actually, there wasn’t anything to worry about.  We made it by a good two feet.  I think the navigator and the CO both probably had to change skivvies after that transit.

We tied up in an area of Bangkok called Klong Toey. Home to Bangkok’s major port and largest wet market.

NOTE (From Wikipedia-.Khlong Toei (also Klong Toey, Thai: คลองเตย) is a district in central Bangkok, long known for its slum). END NOTE

A slum, a place where a sailor could feel at home.   Arrival was taken up by the greeting of dignitaries, embassy reps, and the money changers.  I was busy with the victualler, getting stores ordered and deliveries scheduled.  The Chief Engineer and Supply Officer were arranging, through representatives from the U.S. Naval Attaché’s, office for water, fuel, and garbage services.  Members of the crew not involved in these evolutions were, at the behest of the XO, searching for errant unclean areas and objects.

We had been in the port couple of days.  All necessary stores were loaded and the XO’s last minute cleaning tasks completed.  The amateurs were showing the effects of Bangkok liberty and some were happy to have a duty day to recover. The only evolution left for me was serious liberty.

A group of we Chiefs booked rooms at a very nice hotel, threw our AWOL bags into the rooms changed into shorts, and repaired to the pool area for some cool, soothing libations in the form of Kloster and Singha beer while waiting for dark and Soi Cowboy and Patpong Road to come alive.  As the afternoon progressed we were joined by some other Chiefs, the A-Gang Warrant, and the Mustang Main Propulsion Assistant.  A couple of the cooler junior officers were also accepted into the group.

Now you can imagine; with the combination of sailors, beer, and a swimming pool somebody is going to get fucking wet.  That’s right! Everyone got thrown into the pool at least once.  The Chief Radioman comes strolling into the pool area wearing pants, shirt, shoes and escorting a young woman.  Now you know that boy is going swimming! We were manhandling him toward the pool and he was fighting yelling, “No, No! I can’t fucking swim.”  I remember saying, “All sailors can swim,” as we tossed him, clothes and all into the pool.

He couldn’t fucking swim! The asshole is out there drowning and we are laughing, thinking that he is clowning around.  I realized that it was for real and went in to help.  A couple of others came in and we got him to the edge of the pool.  I was telling him to breathe, “I’m not giving you mouth to mouth, I don’t want to kiss your ugly ass.” Fortunately, he was okay.

Shortly after the drowning incident, a group of bellmen and hotel employees started setting up a buffet line near us.  There was a huge ice bucket with a towel wrapped bottle in it.  One of the bellmen indicated that this was for us.  What the Fuck?

A Saudi Prince and his entourage were staying at the hotel.  There was a party of men in traditional Arab dress across the pool.  One of them rose and walked around the pool, came to us and said in a British accent straight from the playing fields of Eton, “The Prince was highly amused by your antics and offers these refreshments. Bon Appetit.”

We thanked him and told him to tell the Prince thank you.  I went to survey the buffet.  Caviar, shrimps, cold ham, cold beef, cold chicken, pate, breads, and stuff I didn’t recognize.  I folded the towel back on the bottle in the ice cooler; Dom Perignon, vintage 1976.  It was, as the champagne vintners say, a magnum.  As Asian Sailors say it was a “Fucking War Club.”  There was also a cooler of beer for anyone who didn’t like the bubbly.

There were young men and women to pour the drinks and serve the food.  I noticed as the bottle of Dom was emptied, another replaced it.  There were a total of five or six magnums, or war clubs, consumed that afternoon and well into the night.

As darkness fell the hotel concierge escorted a large group of pretty young ladies in to keep us company and the buffet and champagne were once again replenished.  (Evidently the Prince sent them.  He must have been very fucking amused!) To avoid making this story any longer, I’ll just tell you that a good time was had by all.  A great party and a hell of a liberty I will long remember.

The next day, out of curiosity, I checked the wine list.  Dom Perignon wasn’t on it.  I asked the Concierge about Dom Perignon.  He showed me a separate wine list that was reserved for “Special Guests.”  A magnum of Dom Perignon 76 was US $1,400.  I figure that between the Dom, the food, and the girls the cost of that afternoon was between US $20,000 and $25,000.

After thinking about it, I realized that amount of money to that Saudi Prince was less significant than these few coins I have in my pocket.

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.

Arms and Lights and Flags

By:  Garland Davis

I.

My grandfather could talk with his arms and lights and flags.

I asked him why.

He said it was the sailor’s way through time.

I begged him to teach me how.

I worked so hard at school to learn.

And the letters and words finally came.

Now I too can talk with my arms.

It makes him laugh, easy in himself.

That is what grandsons do.

It would be many years before I found his maps and log books.

Mildewed and stained.  Strange names and places.

Coral Sea, Midway, Guadalcanal, Tarawa, Iwo Jima, Okinawa.

The final log entry, “War over; Surrender, Tokyo bay; Going home.”

II.

I would go to the Navy, as my grandfather did,

I would talk with my arms and lights and flags.

I would be as my grandfather, visit strange places with strange names.

III

Electronic waves have made the ability to talk with one’s arms obsolete.

Now I talk with the radio and plot courses and names on an electric map.

There is no longer the need to talk with arms and lights and flags.

I imagine my grandfather’s spirit standing alone on the signal bridge.

Semaphore flags clutched in his hand.

Tears slowly running from his eyes.

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.

Jake Goes to the Doctor

By:  Garland Davis

I grew up in the hillbilly enclave of 1950’s Western North Carolina.  This is a fictional conversation but if the characters bring anyone to mind, there were and still are people like this.  It mirrors many such conversations that I heard.

There was a one-story country store located at the end of a dirt lane off an unlined two-lane blacktop road.  The store was a three room house that was converted into a one-room store.  A porch across the front ran the width of the building.  Sitting on a Coca Cola crate near the edge of the porch was a man.  He was wearing denim bib overalls, brogans and a fedora. He was whittling on a piece of two by four, chewing tobacco, and spitting into the dust near the edge of the porch.

A dusty pickup truck turned into the lane leaving a dust trail as it drove into the store yard and parked beside another equally dusty pickup already there.  A man wearing a dirty white painters cap and overalls climbed out of the pick up and walked to the end of the porch, stepped on a flat stone that had been placed there as a stoop, and then onto the porch.

“Hey Hank, how you doin’”, he said as he walked to the door. “I’ll be back, soon as Ah gits me a drank and a plug a ‘baccer.”

“Hey Jake. Ah’ll be raht here.  How ‘bout brang me that RC ya owes me.”Hank said as Jake entered the store.

A few minutes later Jake came back onto the porch carrying two RC Colas and handed Hank a bottle saying, “Ah already paid back that drank t’other day at Pete’s store, now ya owes me one.”

Hank eyes the plug of chewing tobacco and says, “How ‘bout cut me offen a piece a that plug. Ah lef’ mine in my other britches.”

Jake says in exasperation, “Dam’ an Ah ain’t even had a chainct to git it open up and ya already tryin’ ta bum my chewin’ ‘baccer.  An’ ya ain’t got but one pare a britches. Ah din’t take ya to raise.” He cut a chew off the plug and passed it over to Hank, who popped it into his mouth and took a pull on the cola.

Hank asked, “Ah din’t see ya ‘round yore ‘baccer fields and barn t’day.  What ya been doing’?”

“Ah went to tha doctor.  My Ole Woman been on me bout gittin’ a fiscal check up.  Ah done tole her that they ain’t nothing wrong wi me.  I got’s that plantar stuff on mah lef’ foot that makes mah heel hurt when Ah gits up in tha morning but after ‘while hit’s okay’.  Ah tell ya, when a woman gits her mind sot on somthin’ ain’t nothn’ fer it but ta do whats they want.” Jake replied.

“What’d tha doctor do? Did he take some a them x-ray pi’chers? Asked Hank.

“Yep, well he din’t do it.  Some other feller there took a whole bunch a them pic’hers. .  He took some a them pic’hers a mah foot too.“ Ah thank they was somthin’ wrong with that feller.  He kep’ lookin around and at me like I farted or sumpin’.

 But, ‘fore that, some gal asted me a whole bunch a fool questions.  She ast me when was tha last time Ah seen a doctor.  Ah told her that Ah seen Doctor Garret over to Walkertown Yistiddy.”  She wanted ta know why Ah seen him.  Ah told her Ah was drivin’ past his house an’ he was settin’ on tha porch, so I thowed up mah hand.  Must be sumpthin’ wrong with that girl, tha way she was shakin’ her head. Then she ast me when was the last time I was ‘zamined by a doctor.  Ah told her that a Army doctor down to Fort Bragg had poked me some when tha Army called me up fer Ko-ria.  She ast me what he said.  Ah tole her that he said a bunch a’ stuff, but I din’t unnerstand a bit of it ceptin mah feet was flat an he kep’ goin on ‘bout some pore feller’s high jeans an then he tole me tha Army din’t need me and let me come on back to Fa’syth County.  Then she ast me what doctor Ah goes ta see when I git sick.  Ah told her I goes to see Granny Ledbetter up in Yadkin County.  She makes the best potions an’ poultices an’ stuff.”

“She ast me iffen I had been to a doctor since tha Army doctor.  Ah told her Ah ain’t.  She tole me that Ko-ria was nine year ago.  Ah tole her I knowed that  I ain’t dum’.”

Ah tell ya Hank, Ah don’t know ‘bout that girl.  She told me to wait and was shakin’ her head and talkin’ to herself”. Jake told Hank.

Hank said, “That feller what was takin them x-ray pitches was prolly smellin’ yer ole stankin’ shoes an’ feet.”

“What ya talkin ‘bout.  Mah Ole Woman made me take a bath last night.  I tole her, Ah ain’t never heered of a body takin’ a bath on Winsdy night. Ah tells ya, Ah was smellin’ sweet as a flare.” Jake went on.

“What’d they do nex’?, asked Hank.

“Tha feller that took tha pic’hers took me in this little room and wrapped this thang like a inner tube ‘round mah arm and pumped it up.  Then he took this thang that had three thangs and put two a tha thangs in his ears and stuck tha other thang onto tha inside a my elbow and started to let tha air outten tha innertube whilst he was checkin’ tha time on this clock thang that was hooked to tha innertube.  After that, he made me git on a scale and wayed me like I was a hawg he was gonna sell.  Then he wrapped this rubber thang ‘round my arm and pulled it so tight, Ah thought it was gonna squeeze mah arm off.  He give me a ball in tha same hand that was bein’ squoze and tole me to squeeze tha ball.  Then dam’ if he din’t stick a needle inta mah arm and start dreenin’ mah  blood out inta a glass thang.  Then ta beat all Ah ever heered of, he give me a thang that looked like a dranking glass with a led an’ tole me to go in tha toilet and give him a specimen.  Ah tole him Ah don’t have no idée ‘bout this specimen thang.  Ya ain’t gonna b’lieve it, he tole me to piss in tha glass and put tha lid on it.  Ah din’t know how much he wanted, so Ah filled her all tha way ta tha top.  With all this stuff goin on, Ah haf ‘spected him ta want me to shit in sumpthin’.”

“After all that, tha feller took me into another room and tole me to take all mah cloths off but my underware.  Ah tole that feller that, women ware underware, Ah am a man Ah ware’s  draws, ‘ceptin’ it’s summertime and Ah don’t ware no draws in the summer ta keep cool.  Ah tole him Ah wares long handles in tha winter to hep keep warm.   Then he give me this white thang that looked sumpthin like my Ole Woman’s robe an’ tole me to take off my britches an shirt an ware it. Ah ast him iffen Ah ortta tak off mah shoes too.  He tole me to wait till he lef’ tha room.

Ya know Hank, that doctor got some strange people workin’ there.  People ain’t right walkin’ around talkin’ to their selfs is they?”

“Did ya ever git ta see tha docter,” Hank asked. “Mah Woman is been talking bout me goin’ ta git a check up too.”

“Ah tells ya, ya better find a differnt doctor.  Ya ain’t gonna believe what he done.  Ah took off my britches an shirt an shoes like that first feller said an put on that robe thang.  He give me one that was too little.  Iffen Ah din’t hold tha front uv it, anybody could see mah thang. 

Tha Doctor come in.  He told me ta set on a table.  He had one of them ear thangs too.  He stuck them two pieces in his ears and stuck tha other piece onto my back and tole me to breathe.  Ah tole him Ah usually did.  He moved that thang aroun’ four or five times.  Then he put it on my front and tole me not to breathe.  Din’t seem ta be able to make up his mind. After that he took a hammer and begun to hit my knees.  Not hard ‘nough ta hurt, but it made mah legs jump.  Now Hank, ya ain’t gonna b’lieve what he done next.  He said he wanted to check a prostertate or sompthin’g like that.  He tole me to turn around and bend over.  Ah done it.  An he stuck his fanger in mah butt.  Iffen Ah wadn’t so s’prised, Ah would a jumped all that way over that table. Ah ast him what fer he done that.  He said it was the way they checked the prostertate.  I ast him if hawgs had them proster thangs.  He said the boar ones do.  By George, tha nex’ time Ah kills hawgs, Ah’m gonna check tha butthole.  I wants ta see what them proster thangs looks like.”  Jake continued.

Hank, shaking his head, says, “Ya got me worried, Ah don’t want anybody sticken their fangers in mah butt.  Onliest thang that I know of in yore butt is turds. What happen’d nex’?”

Jake went on with his tale. “After that he tole me ta put mah clothes on and he would come back in a minute.  He must a farted, Ah din’t and Ah din’t smell anything.  He had that look on his face.  Ya, know tha face ya Ole Woman an dotters makes when ya looses a bean fart.”

“After Ah got my duds on, he comes back and tells me that he’s finished with mah check up.  He said he’s saprized but Ah ‘peered ta be in purty good health all thangs considered.  He tole me that I ortta stop chewin’ ‘baccer.  He said chawin’ and smokin’ and dippin’ snuff aint good fer a body.”

“I ast him if he had tha okay ta be a doctor in No’th Ca’lina.  He said he did. I asted him if they knowed he was talkin’ ‘gainst ‘baccer. Most everbody in No’th Ca’lina makes their livin’ from ‘baccer.  He laughed at me an’ said that some Surgery General feller , I guess he is prob’ly in tha Army iffen he’s a General, says that it is bad fer folks an don’t do it. I figger since Ah aint in tha Army, it’s okay.”

“I guess we’s lucky ‘cause we wear overalls stead a jeans and ain’t pore.  He went on like that Army doctor down to Fort Bragg talkin’ about some pore feller with high jeans.”

I heard conversations like this around country stores, gas stations, tobacco barns and pack houses during my formative years.  If you had a hard time reading that, I understand.

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.

Beer and Decisions

By:  Garland Davis

Most people use certain procedures and receive help from outside sources to make decisions, both large and small, that affect them and their lifestyle.  While growing up, the primary influence is from the parents, family members, teachers, and, as one moves into the teen years, their peers become the primary source motivating decisions.  No one wants to differ from the crowd and the great efforts a person makes to emulate others becomes a driving influence on most life decisions from the brand of soft drink, the style of undergarments one chooses, or the haircut you sport.

As you move into adulthood, experience, accumulated knowledge, societal morals, and other influences motivate decision making.  Once I entered the Navy, many of these decisions were already made for me.  All I had to do was conform to the regulations. Looking back on my late teens and advancing into my twenties and my early, and exciting years as a sailor in the Asia Fleet, I now realize that one of the biggest factors influencing my decision making was beer.

I grew up in the hillbilly enclave of Western North Carolina where, more often than not, moonshine was the drink of choice.  Actually, it was often the only thing available as most of the state was “dry.”  Moonshine did the trick, but when the county authorized its sale, I learned to love beer.

Arriving at NAS Lemoore, California is 1961, after boot camp, I learned the sophisticated sailor’s choice of libation was Olympia beer.  Not wanting to be different, I became a connoisseur of Oly.  It prompted and assisted me in making many decisions.  And they weren’t always good decisions.

Olympia’s influences were not always the best. For instance, Oly decided that I should enter the bull riding event in an amateur rodeo.  Being easy going I went along and signed.  I didn’t realize the stupidity of that decision until they pulled the gate and I ended up on my ass, with a broken arm.  By the way, I was still in the chute.  The bull left without me!

Another time, after imbibing a quantity of this sterling product of Tumwater, Washington, another fool and I decided to go from Fresno to Los Angeles.  We only had enough money for one-way bus tickets.  We thought we would hitch hike back.  We barely made it back to the base, hungover, sick, and sleepless, after hitchhiking and walking all night.  That was one of the longest, most miserable days I have ever spent working in a Navy galley.

A year later, finally in the fleet and in WestPac, I was introduced to the quality fermented beverages of Kirin, Sapporo, Asahi, and that real detriment to sound decision making, San Miguel Beer.  Not only did one make foolish decisions, the actions were often repeated.  For example, I was a pretty good poker player, and, more often than not, was a winner in the nickel and dime games played on the mess decks.  After a few beers, I decided that I was good enough to play in the higher stakes games played at CS1’s house on weekends.  Lost my ass a few times, always after the beer of the moment convinced me that playing in that game was a sound decision.

In Yokosuka, a bluejacket could check a case of American beer, or bottle of whiskey, into a Japanese bar for a fee.  The sailor was given a ticket and a number was marked off each time one of the beers was ordered.  The tickets were usually good for three days and then unless another fee was paid, the beer became the property of the bar.  It was common practice to check cases in three or four bars so one could bar-hop and have cheap beer available.  The night before the ship sailed became a marathon of trying to drink all the beer checked into the various bars.  Not always the best decision!

But all the decisions prompted by beer were not bad.  In 1964, I received orders to the Commissary Store, Yokohama, Japan.  The only thing I can say is that, in 1964, duty in Yokohama was akin to going to heaven.  The single enlisted men lived in an old Army BOQ.  We had private rooms and there was maid service available for a pittance.  The maids did laundry, shined shoes, made beds, and cleaned the rooms.  Most of the maids were older women who spoke little or no English.  When a sailor wanted to communicate with his maid, he would go to the Billet Office and have the young girl that worked there translate for him.

We were drinking beer and someone asked if I was bringing a date to the Navy Day Ball. That was when the beer kicked in.  I told them that I was going to ask the girl from the Billet Office.  They laughed and told me that she didn’t date sailors.  Many had tried and failed.  After a couple of more beers, I decided that now was a good a time as any to ask her.  So off to the Billet Office I went. To make a long story short, ten months later, she became my wife.  We have now been together for over fifty years.  If it wasn’t for the beer, I may have believed my shipmates and not have mustered the courage to ask her.

Another decision that began as a poor choice actually worked out well.  I was in China Town drinking with some shipmates. We decided to go to the club and walked out to find a taxi. I saw a puppy in the window of the pet store next door to the bar.  The puppy was cute, I was tanked up on beer and decided to buy him.  I carried the puppy home and gave him to my wife. In the taxi on the ride home, I was worried that she would be upset that, I had spent money on a dog.  That cute little puppy, Taro, grew up to be a beautiful Akita and became her companion through many deployments.  He was with us for fourteen years.

I was probably thirteen or fourteen when I drank my first beer.  That means beer has been assisting me with my decision making for the last fifty-six or fifty-seven years.   I have lived a good and eventful life.  I choose to believe beer contributed more positively than negatively to the decisions that led to the present.

I do know that it has been a helluva of a ride and without the beer, it would not have been as near as much fun.

If you attend the Asia Sailor reunion in Branson this year, look for me in the chair nearest the cooler!

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 Dreaded Veteran’s Administration

By:  Garland Davis

The question arose during a conversation, this morning,  with a couple of shipmates on FaceBook about where one should go for advice when dealing with the Social Security Administration, Tricare, Tricare for Life, and the Veterans Administration.  This is my story of a four-year ordeal with the VA endeavoring to gain a presumption of exposure to Agent Orange as a cause for my Parkinson’s disease.

In 2008 and 2009, I was still running three to six miles per day. I began to notice some changes in my motion as I ran.  My right arm seemed to want to hang and not move naturally, my right leg seemed heavier and took more of an effort to move forward. I just figured these were caused by age and muscle weakness and increased the intensity of my workouts at the fitness center.  From time to time, I would notice a slight trembling in the fingers of my right hand.  I didn’t know why but it was easy to control.

One evening in 2010, I was drinking beer with my Bubblehead friend who lives a few houses from me. This was pretty much our normal Friday evening routine.  I pointed out the tremble in my fingers and said, “Look at this shit.”  He asked if I had ever been tested for Parkinson’s disease.  He had seen it before.  His father had suffered from PD.

At the time, all I knew of the disease was that Michael J Fox and Muhammad Ali had it and that Hitler had had it.  My wife was in Japan visiting her family and  I spent most of the next day on the computer researching Parkinson’s disease.  I learned that Dr. Parkinson had originally described the disease as a rare malady of the aged in 1814.  At the time, the life expectancy was about forty-two years.  The dramatic increase in the numbers of Parkinson’s patients since stems from elevated life expectancies.  Fox has a rarer Early Onset Parkinson’s and Ali’s affliction was caused my multiple head trauma.

The more I read of the condition and the symptoms, the more convinced I became that I had the disease. I made an appointment with my doctor.  He knows that if I think there is a problem, I will do the research before I come to him.  When I told him I thought I may have PD and the reasons why, he explained that there were no definitive tests for PD.  The procedure is to perform tests to rule out other causes of the symptoms.  He scheduled me for blood tests, x-rays, an MRI, and a CT scan.  He also told me that he would prescribe a medication and if the trembling stopped when I took it, there was a ninety percent surety that it was PD.  The medicine worked.  The tests ruled out stroke, brain tumor, or palsy.  It was official, I had Parkinson’s disease.

When I retired, I was never screened by the VA for any disabilities. I was in good health and didn’t want to be classified as “Disabled.” My friend asked if I had served in Viet Nam.  He told me that PD was on the list of afflictions attributed to Agent Orange.  I told him that I had never served in-country, but had served in an Ocean Going Tug that operated in and out of the ports of Vung Tau, Da Nang, and Cam Ranh Bay.  We had always anchored and never moored to a pier.  Mooring to a pier automatically qualifies as a presumption that one was exposed to the chemical. The difference a few hundred yards can make!

He asked if I ever went ashore.  I was ashore in Da Nang and Cam Ranh a number of times to arrange for stores. He urged me to apply to the VA for Agent Orange screening and Disability benefits.  I basically told him that none of the ships I served in were on the register of ships presumed to be exposed during the periods I was aboard.  I told him I would, but procrastinated for about six months.

I was at his house one evening, and he gave me the card of a gentleman involved with advocating VA claims.  The fellow was an officer with the local VFW.  I called and made an appointment to talk with him.  The different VA advocates were all officed in the VA wing of Tripler Army Medical Center.

The VA advocate explained the VA policy of determining exposure and brought out a myriad of forms which he helped me to complete over the next couple of hours.  He told me that I should order copies of ship’s logs, and get letters from as many previous shipmates as possible to support my claim.

The ship’s Commanding Officer, at the time I was in her, was retired and lived less than three miles from me.  I called him and explained my problem. It turned out that he had kept a personal log of the ships’ movements.  He provided me dates and times that the ship was in Vietnamese ports.  Using that information, I ordered copies of ship’s logs.  He also wrote a letter, which he sent directly to the VA, stating that he was the ship’s CO and could attest that CS1 Garland Davis had been ashore in Da Nang and Cam Ranh Bay on numerous occasions on ship’s business.

The gentleman at the VA told me that it would take a considerable amount of time for my claim to be processed and to give it time.  After waiting for over three months, I stopped by the VFW office to touch base.  The fellow didn’t recognize me and had no idea of who I was or the particulars of my claim.  From that minute on, I took complete control of my claim and no longer relied on any outside source to advocate for me.  Don’t depend on someone else to represent you, do it yourself.

In due time, I was scheduled for three different doctor’s appointments. In the meantime, I had received copies of the ship’s logs.  They were written in standard Navalese and were not helpful in proving my claim. None of them stated specifically that CS1 Garland Davis went ashore in any Vietnamese port.

After almost a year, I received the VA’s determination that I was not exposed to Agent Orange and awarded me a ten percent disability because of a gastric surgery I had while on active duty. They dismissed the CO’s letter and other letters as “Lay letters of no consequence.”

I had a period of time to appeal the decision and/or to submit additional evidence to bolster my claim.  I submitted all the log copies in line with the old adage, “If you can’t dazzle them with facts, baffle them with bullshit.” I also received and submitted letters from other shipmates. I did this to keep the claim alive.  As long as the claim can be kept active, the beginning date of any subsequent benefits is the date the original claim was submitted.

I had managed to keep my claim active for over three years when, in 2014, I learned that a Destroyer I had served in was added to the list of ships presumed to have been contaminated by Agent Orange.  I went to my records and pulled copies of orders and other documents to prove that I was serving in her during the period stated and submitted them to augment my claim.  Within a couple of weeks, I was scheduled for another round of doctor’s appointments.  About a month afterward, I received notification that I was rated at eighty percent disability effective in August 2011.

A retired Air Force Chief Master Sergeant acquaintance told me that since I was no longer capable of working, to file for Individual Un-employability which would automatically raise my disability to one hundred percent.  Anyone with a VA rating of over seventy percent is eligible to file for this category.

I was awarded an eighty percent rating from August 2011 and a hundred percent from August 2012 when I was no longer able to pass the PUC physical that caused the loss of my CDL(taxi).

When dealing with the VA, DO NOT GIVE UP!

Effin’ Nukes

By: Garland Davis

Remember the Science and Mathematics Geeks and Nerds from high school??  The Navy actively recruits these individuals.  They are the people who can learn, understand and operate the nuclear reactors and propulsion systems used in our Submarines and Aircraft Carriers.  They are subjected to boot camp and must get past the rigorous training there.  While there, they are tested extensively.  If selected for training  in the nuclear field, they must extend their enlistments by agreeing to serve for eight years.  In return, they are sent for up to six months training as Machinist’s Mates, Electronics Technicians, or Electrician’s Mates.   After completing this training, they are sent to Nuclear Power School for a period of two years.  They study advanced Mathematics, Physics, and Nuclear Physics.  They go to classes forty-five hours a week and are expected to study up to 25 hours a week outside the classroom.  They attend classes six days per week.  They are also required to perform military functions and duties.  It has been said that a newly graduated Nuclear School Alumnus has the equivalent scientific training of a PHD.

They are not, however,  taught Art, Economics, Literature, Poetry, Law, Ethics, Composition, English or any of the other liberal arts subjects considered the building blocks of an advanced education.  They come into the fleet lacking a complete and well-rounded education. They also lack the one element that always serves the seafaring man (and woman in our Politically Correct Navy) well.  COMMON SENSE!  They have a well-earned reputation for being devoid of that particular trait

They are known by their fellow sailors as “Nukes”, or to be more exact, “Fucking Nukes”.  The stories abound about them and the situations they can get themselves into.  I was teaching an on base, evening course in Personnel Management for one of the local universities.  I had a First Class ET Nuke in the class.  We were discussing human behavior in the workplace.  He could not understand that there were no ‘hard and fast’ rules that applied to humans in the same way in every situation and eventually dropped the course.  Nukes see the world as “black and white”.  There are no gray areas.  But then, that is as it should be, for they are tending the atom farm and science and physics do not recognize gray areas.

The other evening a group of us were sheltering from the rain in my neighbor’s garage (that’s where the cooler was located) when the conversation turned to the Submarine Base at Pearl Harbor.  Each of us had been stationed there at one time or another during the 80’s.  Diesel Dave was talking about a night shift with the Base Police Force.  He said that they observed two sailors crossing the street and every now and then, one of them would bend over and pat the street.  They went to see what was happening.  The sailors were herding a pair of Cane Toads across the street because they didn’t want them to get flattened by a car.

The four of us listening said, “Fuckin’ Nuke” simultaneously.

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 Lesser of Two Weevils” or A Decision to Bake or Not

By: Garland Davis

Two weevils crept from the crumbs. “You see those weevils, Stephen?” said Jack solemnly.

“I do.”

“Which would you choose?”

“There is not a scrap of difference. Arcades ambo. They are the same species of curculio, and there is nothing to choose between them.”

“But suppose you had to choose?”

“Then I should choose the right-hand weevil; it has a perceptible advantage in both length and breadth.”

“There I have you,” cried Jack. “You are bit — you are completely dished. Don’t you know that in the Navy you must always choose the lesser of two weevils? Oh ha, ha, ha, ha!”

For those unfamiliar with “the Canon” as Patrick O’Brian fans are prone to call the Jack Aubrey novels, the above exchange comes from The Fortune of War.

What were these weevils, lesser or greater?

This is a story of more than two weevils.  I won’t name the ship or the year.  There may be someone out there reading this with whom I served.  They may be able to figure it out.  I am pretty sure the mess cooks spread the word.  It didn’t seem to lessen the demand for the items that I baked.

The ship was at sea and I was preparing to start the night’s work in the bake shop.  The Jack of the Dust had left my breakout in the shop.  I put the items away except the flour.  There was a flour bin built under the work counter.  I opened the bags of flour and emptied them into the bin when it was empty.  There was enough flour in the bin for the night’s products.  Then I would clean and refill the bin.  As I was moving the bags of flour I noticed something that looked like a worm on the bags.

I thought, “Oh no, weevils.” I grabbed a pan and opened the bag into it.  I closely inspected the flour and saw many of the worms.  The worms that we call weevils are actually the larval stage of the Flour Beetle.

The female beetle deposits eggs into food or into crevices in food packages. The larvae hatch and make their way into the product to eat. Many people find these larvae in the flour and call them “weevils.” Hence, the name “flour weevils.”

As larvae, all flour beetles are light brown, six-legged, wormlike creatures. Within as little time as one month, beetles are capable of developing into adults. The average life span is one year, although some specimens can survive for up to three years in warm, humid conditions.

I went to the First Class lounge and asked for the CS1 and told him about the problem.  He ran off to the CPO Mess to tell the Chief.  A few minutes later they came bursting into the Bake Shop to verify what I told them.  We ascertained that the flour in the bin wasn’t infested only the new breakout from the storeroom.  They sent me for the Jack of the Dust.

He came up from the movie and told them that today’s breakout was the first from the batch received from the last unrep.  He also said that was all the flour we had on board.  Off they went to the storeroom.  They came back looking depressed.  They were envisaging answering to the command and the crew why there would be no baked products for the next couple of weeks.

I told them that I knew a way to get rid of the weevil worms and beetles. I recommended that we move all the flour into the freezer.  The worms would all move to the center away from the cold and freeze.  The beetles would die.  Cut the bags open, throw away the ball of frozen worms.  Sift out the weevils and remaining worms. Use the flour.

The Chief said, “I’ve got to tell the Supply Officer.”  We ended up with the CS1, the Chief, the two Pork Chops, the XO, the CO and me all in the Bakeshop.  I again explained my solution to the problem.  I was asked how I knew this.  I told them that I had read it in a book during my vocational school studies in baking and bakery science.  I couldn’t name the book.

The Captain thought about it for a moment and then put me on the spot.  “Petty Officer Davis, if I approve your solution and you can sift out the weevils, would you be willing to eat bread baked from the flour.”  The only answer I could give was, “Yes Sir.” Although, the idea made me a little queasy. Just a little, after all, I once ate a cockroach on a dare.

I have since talked with other bakers who told me they just sifted the flour and used it without letting anyone know.  Evidently it happens more often than we realize.

When I was the Leading MS in Midway, we had an entire  storeroom infested.  We put six tons of flour over the side.

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.