Safe and Secure

By:  Garland Davis

Sidney walked slowly into the post office building and searched the directory of offices.  The military recruiting offices were all on the second floor. He found the number of the Navy office and decided to take the stairs instead of waiting for the elevator.  As he topped the stairs to the second floor hallway, he saw that he would have to pass the Army, Air Force and Marine offices to reach the Navy office.  As he passed each office, he saw each recruiter watching hopefully as he passed.  He paused just before reaching the Navy door.  His uncle Dale had promised to meet him here.

Dale had enlisted in the Navy 1949 and had served as a Machinist Mate until 1960 when he was medically retired because of an ulcer.  Uncle Dale told him to join the Navy.  He had spent the Korean War on a carrier.  He said that while the Marines and soldiers ashore were fighting the North Koreans and suffering terrible winter conditions, the sailors were safe, warm, and comfortable aboard the ships.  He told him it was the same for the Navy fighting in the Viet Nam war.

He didn’t really want to be here.  His Uncle Thomas, a political appointee, who served on the local draft board had told him his name had come up for induction because he had lost his student deferment by dropping out of the University.  His mother was beside herself and didn’t understand that the only reason he had wanted to go to college was the chance to play baseball.  When he had been cut from the team, he stopped going to class and a few days later moved back home.

Two cousins had been drafted into the Army.  One was killed during the Viet Nam Tet Offensive and the other was injured in a motor pool fire at Fort Benning.  His mother was afraid of him going to Viet Nam and begged him to go to Canada or Sweden.  But uncle Dale had talked with his mother and convinced her that the safest option was for Sid to enlist in the Navy. He had promised to meet him at the recruiting office and help him over the hurdles.

As he was waiting in the hallway, wondering where Uncle Dale was, he heard his uncle’s laugh from the recruiting office. Evidently Dale was already here. Sidney straightened his shoulders and walked through the door.

“Here’s the boy I’ve been telling you about.  Come over here Sid and meet Aviation Machinist Mate First Class Hanson and Chief Boatswain’s Mate Jones. They will help you get signed in.” Dale said to Sidney.

Chief Jones offered his hand and said, “Welcome aboard.  Hanson here will get your information and give you a short test to establish your eligibility.  But first, I have to ask, have you ever been in trouble with the law? Dale here says you haven’t and we will check with the police, but I have to hear it from you.”

“No Sir, I’ve never had any problems with the police.” Sid replied.

“Don’t call me sir son.  You can call me Chief.  Hanson, while you’re getting the testing and paperwork started, I think Dale and I will step around the corner to Tony’s for a little refreshment.  Hanson you and young Sidney come on down after you finish up.  We’ll see you there.” The Chief was saying while getting a pack of cigars from his desk drawer and his hat from a rack in the corner.

The next hour and a half were taken up with Sidney filling out a myriad of forms after taking a fifty question multiple choice test on mimeograph paper.  Petty Officer Hanson told him the test was just used to determine if he was capable of passing the official tests that would be administered at the Armed Forces induction center.  He seemed very pleased with Sidney’s test score and proceeded with completing everything.

Finally, after finishing typing the information Sid had provided onto the proper forms, the sailor said, “Well, it looks as if you are good to go.  All I have left to do is call the Induction in Raleigh and make arrangements for you to take the tests, get a physical examination, and get you sworn in.  Right now, I can offer you a choice of going to the Great Lakes Naval Training Center or the San Diego Training Center for Boot Camp.  If you pass everything in Raleigh, which one would you choose?”

Sidney thought for a moment and thinking of the movies and the beach scenes of Southern California said, “San Diego.”

“Let me make this call and we will go down to meet Chief and Dale.  Today is Friday.  How does Tuesday sound for going to Raleigh?  I’ll pick you up at your house and drive you down.  All you’ll need to bring with you is a change of clothes and underwear.  When you get to San Diego, you will be issued uniforms and everything else you need.”

Sid agreed that Tuesday would be okay.  Hanson was on the phone for about five minutes.  Finally hanging up and reaching for his hat, he said, “Okay we are good to go.  Let’ go find those two and have a beer.”

Sidney followed Hanson down the stairs, out of the building, and around the corner into Tony’s Tap Room.  Since the age to buy beer in North Carolina was eighteen Sid was old enough but had never been here before.    They joined the other two at a table.  Hanson gave them the information that the paperwork was done and everything was scheduled for Tuesday.  There was a round of handshakes and “Welcome aboard Shipmate” from the Chief and Dale.

After a couple of beers Dale and Sidney left the bar and Dale offered him a ride home.  They arrived just after Sid’s mother returned from work. After going into the kitchen, they informed her that he would be leaving for San Diego Tuesday morning.  She said, “that is so far away.” As a tear rolled down her cheek.

Dale said, “Now Edna, we agreed that Sid will be a lot safer and removed from the war by joining the Navy instead of waiting to be drafted into the Army as cannon fodder.”

Now that he was committed, Sidney felt an exhilaration about his choice and was looking forward to San Diego and his Navy training.  Of course his mother made for an unpleasant weekend between bouts of crying and recrimination for his quitting college.

Finally, Tuesday came.  He was waiting on the porch with a threadbare bag that Dale had brought him Sunday.  He had called it an AWOL bag and it contained his change of clothes and underwear.  Just before eight o’clock, he saw the gray Navy station wagon turn into his street.  As the car pulled into the drive, Sidney called into the house, “Ma, he is here, I’ve got to go.”

His mother came out the door, a handkerchief clutched in one hand, hugged him for a brief moment, and said to him, “I am going to miss you.  Now be good, do what they tell you, and write to me.”

He promised he would and walked to the station wagon.  There was one other boy in the car as well as a Marine in uniform.  Hanson introduced them as the Marine recruiter and a Marine recruit.  Since the Marine Corps was a part of the Navy department, they shared the Navy vehicle.

Sid climbed into the back seat with the Marine recruit and Hanson backed the car into the street and headed for the Capitol.

Arriving at the Induction Center in Raleigh shortly before noon, Petty Officer Hanson directed Sidney to a desk with members of all branches working.  He handed Sid’s paperwork over to another sailor there, said, “They will take care of you from here.”  Shook his hand and said, “Good Luck, Shipmate.  Maybe I’ll see you in the fleet.”

The sailor behind the desk issued him documents he called ‘chits’ which he could exchange for meals at a nearby café and for a room at a hotel one street over.  The rest of the afternoon and the next morning were taken up with a number of tests and a physical examination.  At three o’clock Wednesday he was directed to fall into line with others who were enlisting in the various services.

An Army Captain came from an office, directed them to raise their right hands and administered the Oath of Enlistment.  He then said, “From this moment until you complete your contract you are members of the U.S. Armed forces and are subject to the provisions of the Uniform Code of Military Justice.  Failure to report to your next duty station as ordered will result in you being declared AWOL or possibly a deserter.”

The sailor from the desk gave him an envelope and told him that it contained all his records.  He was also given a plane ticket to Chicago where he would change planes for a flight to Albuquerque and on to San Diego.  He was directed to report to the Shore Patrol booth in the San Diego airport and they would arrange for transportation to the Recruit Depot. He was also give a paper with a seven-digit number.  It was his service number.  He was told that if he didn’t have it memorized by San Diego he would be in a lot of trouble with his company commander.

Sidney arrived in San Diego after flying all night from Chicago in what must have been one of the last of the propeller driven airliners in the Delta Fleet.  The next eleven weeks were filled with marching, swimming lessons, class room studies, marching, physical training and even more marching.  Uniforms were issued and altered.  Sid and his shipmates learned to clean, fold and store the uniforms between the periods of marching.

About two weeks before boot training ended, came the day when each of them would receive orders to their first duty station or school. Sid had asked for Machinery Repairman School, but because of no vacancies in the next class he was ordered to a destroyer stationed in Hawaii as an undesignated engineering striker.

After two weeks leave in North Carolina, Sid reported to Travis Air Force base in California for a flight to Clark Air Force base in the Philippine Islands for further transfer to his ship somewhere in the South Pacific.

Upon arrival at Clark, the Navy desk told him that a group of sailors and Marines would fly to Da Nang South Vietnam and from there a helicopter from the fleet off the coast would collect the sailors and transport them to the ships.

When they arrived at the air field at Da Nang, Sidney was stricken and amazed by the heat, humidity and the amount of activity.  There were countless jet and propeller driven air craft as well as helicopters landing and departing the base.  A truck with a Marine Corporal picked up the Marines and their gear to take them to the Marine encampment.  An Air Force Sergeant told them that a helicopter from the carrier would arrive in approximately four hours to carry them out to the fleet.  In the meantime, they would form a working party to help move some leaking drums.

He showed them to an area with about four hundred fifty-five gallon drums.  He pointed out about five of the drums setting off to the side and said, “These are leaking.  I need you to move them onto the lift gate of the deuce and a half truck and then move them from the lift gate into the truck so I can drive them over where they can be used first.”

The drums were difficult to move and were leaking pretty badly.  By the time they were eventually loaded into the truck, the sailors and a couple of airmen had been liberally splashed by the contents.  Sid was going to ask the Sergeant where he could wash his hands when another airman came in and said, “Hey sailors, your helicopter is inbound.  You got five minutes, get your gear and standby.”

Right on time, a gray helicopter settled outside.  As they walked toward the bird, he could read USS Oriskany stenciled on the bird.  After climbing into the aircraft, they were handed life jackets and helmets and given directions how to exit the aircraft in the event it went into the water.  A few minutes later it lifted off for a forty-five-minute ride to the ships.  Sidney and two others would be dropped on the USS White Plains, a stores ship, for later transfer to the destroyers.

After arriving on the stores ship, they were shown to some empty bunks and went to supper.  The Chief BM told them they would be helo’d to their ships the next morning.  After chow, they got a shower and were sitting on the mess decks waiting for a movie.  Sid was feeling good about experiencing Viet Nam and escaping without harm.  Uncle Dale was right.  The Navy was the place to be, safe and secure while the war was miles away.  He was in no danger from the war now.

Sidney said, “I sure was glad to get that stuff from those drums washed off.  It smelled pretty bad.  I wonder what kind of stuff was inside those barrels, I spilled that crap all over my arms and clothes.”

The other sailor said, “I don’t know.  I asked the Air Force guy.  He said it was something they sprayed on the jungle.  He called it Orange something.  Did stink didn’t it?”

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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.

Bob

by:  George Davis

The girl paused in front of the chicken cage, retrieved some tidbits she had saved from the restaurant, and fed them to the dog inside.  The sailor watched, but said nothing, at first.

Then he asked, “What’s the dog’s name?”

“Bob,” she answered.  Bob was not a large dog.  He had short, white hair.

They went inside the house.

The sailor produced a liter bottle of Dewar’s White Label and said, “This is for your father. Is there something you would like before the ship leaves?”, he asked the girl.

“Could you bring me some Sangria?”, she replied.

“Sangria???  Wine?  Sure.”, the sailor said.

Three months later…

The ship had gone and returned.  The sailor and the girl walked hand in hand to the house. While she paused, fumbled for her key and unlocked the door, the sailor stared for a moment at the empty cage.

As they entered the house together, the sailor noticed that on the table was an empty half gallon Sangria bottle with a stub of candle stuck in it.  There was an unopened bottle of Dewar’s on top of the cupboard.  The sailor opened the whisky and poured a little into two jelly glasses.  There was no ice…

He handed her a glass and picked up the other for himself.  He asked, “Where is Bob, did something happen to him?”

“Bob?  Oh, we ate Bob!”

George the Sailor

George Davis was raised on a small farm in the breaks of the Republican River in Nebraska.  He graduated from an electronics technical school in Denver, Colorado, then worked for a year in an electronics assembly factory in Dallas, Texas.  He was laid off when the company lost a government contract.  He joined the Navy and spent 19 years of a 24-year career forwardly deployed to the western Pacific.  He is now retired on a hobby farm on the dissected plain of the Buffalo Commons, driving a school bus to cover the expenses of farming.

The Dependent’s Cruise
By: Steve Golla

After being assigned to a destroyer Forward deployed out of Yokosuka Japan for a couple years, life became a little mundane, well to be more accurate the underway time became mundane, work, watch, shower ( if the evaporators  were working), sleep, repeat. Throw in a couple UNREP’s, a couple VERT REP’s and the ever present General Quarters drills. Here’s where the story breaks the monotony of underway life

General quarters for a hole snipe usually consisted of being part of Repair Five either as a fire hose-team member, number one or number two nozzlemen or the firefighting team leader. I was assigned as Team Leader. I was the guy who had the Naval Firefighters Thermal Imager (NIFTI) and directed the two hose teams in fighting the fire.  It’s not the easiest job but it beats lugging a charged salt water hose around an engine room.

Navy life consists of inspections and the mother of all inspections for a hole snipe is the Operational Propulsion Plant Examination (OPPE). This is an all-out inspection of everything in the Engineering Department from the propulsion plant operations, the electrical plant operations, auxiliary plant operations, firefighting and damage control as well as the paperwork and records keeping, in other words, every facet of the Engineering Department.

There is usually a two to three month preparation period for the inspection.  During the period leading up to the inspection, the entire department is usually involved in daily drills repeatedly throughout the day, in port and at sea.  This is in addition to other required shipboard evolutions.

The Engineering Department passed the OPPE in record time, less than 48 hours, which became a Seventh Fleet record.  The command, to celebrate a successful OPPE decided to conduct a dependents cruise.  Wives, girlfriends, children, parents and other guests were invited to embark and enjoy a cruise of a few hours to display the ship’s capabilities and to experience what their sailors did at sea.

This is the point where things got interesting.  I didn’t have a guest aboard and not having an assigned watch, I decided to catch up on some much-needed sleep. Apparently in the depths of exhaustion and deep asleep somewhere in my dreams I heard the General Quarters alarm.  I immediately reacted as any experienced sailor does, I went into automatic mode, up out of the rack coveralls in one hand, boots in the other and in my skivvies I started for Repair Five at a dead run.  I charged into the Mess decks amid women and children yelling, “Make a Hole, Get the Fuck Out of the Way.” As I made this mad dash, I was wondering why I was the only one.  I made my way to the door of the locker.  It dawned on me that there was no main space fire as I struggled to dress my naked ass with every dependent wife and child in the chow line staring at me.  I finished dressing and returned to Engineering Berthing.  In true snipe fashion, I returned to the compartment to a standing ovation from my mentally warped shipmates.

I asked, “Why did you let me go, why didn’t you stop me?”

The reply I received was, “Hey dude, we thought you were streaking the dependents cruise.

I would never dream of changing anything I did as a snipe, not even streaking the dependents cruise.

Steve is a Native of Pennsylvania, he served six years in the Navy as a Gas Turbine Systems Tech, followed by two years as a US Army Military Police officer, Steve currently resides in Northwest Pennsylvania where he spends his time in his gun shop. He also evaluates search and rescue teams  Top of Form

Peso Bill the Pig Farmer from Kentucky

By: Jerry Collins

Ok Hole Snipes, story time. And this is a genuine No Shitter from the start. Some of the following was told to me by our young hero himself, some of it was directly observed by yours truly. Hell…the whole thing has become Legend for those that knew him.

Young Billy Swafford grew up on a pig farm in rural Kentucky. His childhood was comprised of feeding pigs, mucking out the hog pens and spreading manure on a subsistence sized family hog farm. As Bill approached the age of seventeen, I believe, he began searching for a way out of a life filled with hog shit, swill and the stench that permeated his soul.  Something that one has to experience firsthand to understand.

So… Billy chose the Navy as a means of escape. His recruiter promised him adventures in faraway lands and training as an ENGINEER! There would be no more pigs, just nice, clean machines to work on. This was right up Bill’s alley…although he was about as mechanically inclined as his former charges on the farm. What he lacked in intelligence he more than made up for in enthusiasm, zest, and determination to NEVER return to that foul smelling place called home.

Billy Swafford was ordered into USS Cape Cod, a Destroyer Tender, in 1982 or possibly 1983. He was astounded by his luck in getting orders to a fine Naval vessel with …WOMEN! Unfortunately for Billy, his family heritage leans towards the banjo playing type of breeding featured in the movie Deliverance and is often found in families that operate hog farms in rural Kentucky, Tennessee and other southern states as well as a few northern ones.

Billy was barely five feet two inches tall. His countenance would be called roundish. He resembled a snowman made with balls of snow, that is to say…he was kinda lumpy. A body and a large over-sized head that sported a white hat, sized at least, 8¾. Actually, he kind of resembled those hogs he hated so much. The poor bastard. Billy was in a ship with hot running cooch and he had as much chance of getting laid as an ice cube did in hell.

Billy did not despair, all was not lost. Cape Cod was beginning its maiden WestPac cruise and the first port of call was Hawaii! Of course, Bill struck out with every woman in Hawaii as well.  Billy really enjoyed a quasi-division party, in a Waikiki hotel suite, where everyone got shitfaced and watched the Cheng hold the Dental Officer, who had little pretty man hands, over a balcony screaming, “If you can fuck you can fly.” But that’s a story for another time.

After the Hawaii visit Cape Cod headed West South West and crossed the line with the appropriate ceremony established by centuries of seafarers.  All were duly initiated into the mysteries of the deep. Bill really didn’t understand and was confused at all the ass whoopin’ but felt strangely at home with the garbage and smells.  Billy enjoyed and appreciated many a titty revealed through the wet t-shirts of the female sailors, as did we all.

Our next port was, you guessed it, Subic bay and glorious Olongapo City. We had all been gathering paychecks and hearing the stories about San Miguel, bar girls, and bar fines from the old salts aboard.

MMFA William Swafford took in the stories and formulated a plan. He had accumulated over six months’ pay and no matter the cost, the trials, the tribulations, the weather, his roly-poly body, or his gourd-sized noggin; William Swafford was getting LAID!

Bill first decided that he needed a suit. We tried to tell him, “Bill…it’s monsoon season, everything is so muddy that you can ruin a pair of pants by just taking them out of your locker. ” He wasn’t listening.  “Billy it’s over 100° with 100% humidity.” He didn’t care. “Bill! There’s mud everywhere and you can get laid for practically nothing!” To no effect, Billy was going to have a suit made to order.

The fateful day arrives and as we moor to the pier, Bill is chompin’ at the bit like a stallion downwind of a herd of mares in heat.  Shore power was not an option but Bill had planned for this eventuality by getting a request chit for three days leave well in advance of everyone else. He was very possibly the first hole snipe to clear the brow that day.

The next day…

As a group of hole snipes I were strolling along Magsaysay, heading towards the traffic circle and yet another round of San Magoo, I saw one of the damndest and funniest sights I ever hope to see.  There he stood, a pasty-faced redneck in a BRIGHT yellow double breasted, three-piece suit. He was wearing a pair of Western boots sporting brass spurs and cowhide with the hair still on them dyed to match the suit. This was topped off with a ten-gallon BRIGHT yellow cowboy hat. Billy got his suit.

He approached MMFN Harmon, BTFN Daloisio and, probably, BT3 Kompara, a few others and me. He was sporting a girl on each arm.  I asked…”Billy…where the fuck did you get that damn suit?” He replied “Collins…they make them right here while you wait! And you can get a beer and BJ while you’re waiting!” We all slapped Billy on the back and took a good look at the two Honey-ko’s with him. Yep…true to form…Billy found the two ugliest PI bargirls you had ever seen. Both had crossed eyes and the biggest heads you have ever seen on a Filipina. A pair of real water heads.  Really oversized noggins! They actually made Bill’s head appear smaller.

We wrap Billy up and press him to take us to where he had been holing up. So he takes us to the Marmont. Bill had spared no expense. We all raided the fridge for Magoo’s and he tells us his story.

“I wanted the best hotel so I asked the Cheng for advice and he set me up here. I told’em I needed a glass-topped coffee table. I always wanted to see how girl’s things worked but I didn’t want to get any on me or my suit.”

Yeah, Billy had never left the farm. Back in the shit, but with a new suit! Since Billy was flush with cash, the fridge was stocked with food and beer and the girls, homely as they were, treated him like royalty. They treated us fine as well and after we had gotten our morning drunk started, Bill asked if any of us wanted to see the show and pulled out the coffee table. That was enough for us and we beat a hasty retreat to our new favorite watering hole. Old West One probably, I forget.

About seven or ten San Miguels and a couple of pitchers of Mojo later, Bill came swaggering in like a bright yellow, midget John Wayne, sans his herd of homely girlfriends We welcomed him and passed around the Mojo, the Bullfrog, and San Miguel as we all settled down for the early evening’s entertainment of the evening. PESO SHOWS!

We were all three sheets to the wind and the conversation turned to challenges. It usually happens when a group of snipes and a lot of alcohol all come together on liberty.  Someone, probably, John Summerer, then again, it may have been another of my warped snipe brothers, challenged Billy to pick up Peso’s like the girls did. Billy wasn’t completely stupid. He just looked at a peso and reasoned that since he didn’t have a twat to stuff it in, he would just swallow it. Now if you have been there, you know the size of a Peso. With amazing control over the gag reflex, down the hatch, it went. We couldn’t believe that he had actually done it and stood there staring in amazement.

That is when he started hurting. Since he was a Machinist Mate, we left Billy in the care of the MM’s and did what any red-blooded BT does under the circumstances, ordered another beer and started shopping for a short time.

His shipmates took Billy to the Base Medical Dispensary.  Billy was admitted to the hospital where the doctors performed major abdominal surgery to extract the Peso.  There was no way for him to regurgitate it and passing it through onto the glass-topped coffee table was not physically possible.

Cape Cod departed Subic for Hong Kong for a seven-day turnaround and then return to Subic. We went to visit Bill, dropped off some magazines and said comforting words, all the while thinking, “Billy, you dumbass, you should have stayed on the farm with all the fucking pigs.

We left Subic again, this time for the Indian Ocean, where we would make calls at Mombasa, Diego Garcia, Bahrain, Muscat and finally Diego Garcia.

Billy was there waiting for us. He checked aboard and got settled in and we all welcomed him home and refreshed him on his duties as messenger. That is when he showed it to us.

The Doctors had left Bill with a lasting reminder that it’s not cool to get drunk and swallow coins, especially coins as large as a Peso. They had cut him from sternum to belly button to get the damn peso out. May have been overkill, to say the least.

Billy was proud of his scar. He scoffed at the message the doctors had sent by getting a tattoo of a zipper over the scar and the words Peso Bill tattooed under it in fancy scroll work.

I transferred from Cape Cod and headed west to White Plains in late ‘84 and never saw Billy Swafford again. I wish Peso Bill well and would love to get in touch with him to see if he has a glass topped coffee table in his home now.

Jerry is the eldest child of a Chief Quartermaster.  He is fifth in a long line Navy men.  He landed feet first in the Engineering Department.  His first Westpac cruise was classic, one for the record books.  Deciding that more Westpac was best, Jerry volunteered for the Orient Express, the forward deployed USS White Plains.  He now lives in the Midwest, the father of five who dotes on his nine grandchildren.

An Officer and A Gentleman

By: Garland Davis

I met a few bad officers and many good ones.  I recall two who were really fucked up and tried to pass off their screw-ups onto their enlisted subordinates. There was an ATF, home ported in Pearl.  The leading Commissaryman and Supply Division LPO was an MS1.  He told me that in the absence of a Supply Corps Officer, one of the other ships officers is assigned a collateral duty as the ship’s supply officer.  The Communications Officer, an Ensign, was assigned as Supply Officer. The ship was in a yard overhaul and scheduled for REFTRA afterward. 

Division officers were told to update their Watch Quarter and Station Bills.  The Ensign did so and failed to assign a cook to the Galley as a GQ station.  The CS1 went to the Ensign and told him that one of the cooks should be in the Galley for GQ.  The Ensign jumped down his throat, telling him, “I am the Supply Officer, I will decide on GQ stations, you are just a cook and have nothing to say about the manner in which I run this division.” My friend gave him an Aye Aye sir and said no more.

During REFTRA, GQ was scheduled twice a day for the first week.  The first day at sea, GQ was passed shortly after 08:00.  All the cooks left the Galley and went to their assigned stations.  GQ secured at 10:45 and “Dinner for the Crew” was passed at 11:00.  There was nothing prepared for dinner.  The Ensign storms into the Galley and confronts CS1 telling him that he is being placed on report.  The steward comes and tells CS1 that the Captain wants to see him.  He explained to the C.O. and XO what had occurred.  The Watch Quarter and Station Bill was immediately re-written by the CS1 and the Ensign was relieved of all duties and sent ashore by the CO.  I guess this was the proverbial “Last Straw.”

I am all too familiar with another incident.  It was after the CS and SD ratings became the MS rating.  As the senior MS, I had duties other than food service.  The Wardroom Mess Attendants and non-rated MS’s were required to clean stateroom and carry officer laundry to and from the laundry.  The officers made their own bunks and stowed their gear.  I had the responsibility to conduct periodic inspections of staterooms for cleanliness.  I had been tasked by the XO to report to him the officers who were not making their bunks and were leaving their gear adrift.

The ship was scheduled for an SRF Yokosuka availability after an IO deployment.  We had about two weeks to Singapore, an operation with the Aussies, and a stop in Subic before Yokosuka.  All divisions were to have work requests ready by departure from Singapore.  The CPO Mess and the mess decks were crowded with Chiefs and LPO’s writing work requests for needed work.  No one wanted to be writing work requests instead of enjoying liberty in Singapore. We completed the deployment and entered Yokosuka.  SRF came aboard with approved jobs to be completed.  There were no work requests for R-Division.  The Cheng was upset and called the Ensign R-Div Officer on the carpet.  The Ensign had taken leave in Singapore and had met the ship on arrival in Yoko.  He told the Cheng that he had instructed the HT1 to submit the work requests.  The HT1 swore that he had submitted the work requests to the Ensign prior to the ship’s arrival in Singapore.  There were a number of us that recalled the HT1 sitting in the Mess Decks writing work requests.  The Ensign charged HT1 with dereliction of duty and he was reduced to HT2 at Mast.  He swore that he had written the work requests and submitted them to the Ensign. .

A few days after Mast, I was inspecting staterooms.  In the Ensign’s room there was an extra two drawer filing cabinet lashed to water lines and a wire-way.  I told the mess attendant to untie the cabinet, move it, and lash it to the foot of the bunks.  When we moved the file, a sheaf of papers bound together with a large paper clamp fell from behind it.  I looked at them and realized that they were the missing R-Div work requests.  I carried the work requests to the XO and told him where I had found them.  The XO and I went to the CO’s Cabin and explained it to him.  The CO immediately reinstated the HT1.  As for the Ensign, The captain put him on the pier. I have no idea who was on the receiving end of that transfer, but I sure felt sorry for the poor bastards.

The rest of the officers that I recall were first rate. They were professional and competent. I have been proud of the quality of individuals, officer and enlisted, with whom I rode Haze Gray Steel in the Pacific Fleet. This is not patronizing bullshit… At this stage of the game, honesty doesn’t bring special liberty or constitute ass-kissing.

There were two kinds of officers… The ‘engaged’ and the ‘disengaged’. Some officers, for very understandable reasons, maintained their distance from those of us who berthed below decks. To them, the old adage ‘familiarization breeds contempt’ or at the very least an erosion of awe and respect forced the situation.

Looking back, I find that to have been bullshit. Through the hindsight of my almost seventy-two, years, I realize that I respected ‘engaged’ officers the most. An officer who was not above dealing with subordinates on a personal level. An officer who would extend the hand of personal friendship and lead by virtue of the reciprocal respect generated by the concept of working and living as a team. The idea that someone has to ‘call the shots’ principle you learn on baseball diamonds and football fields of elementary and high school. Things you learn from Boy Scout leaders and Safety Patrol Captains your own age.

An ‘engaged’ officer is one who does not feel that having a cup of coffee in the CPO Mess or the crew’s mess or visiting a sick sailor in the berthing compartment will forever scar them with a scarlet letter or the unforgivable sin of fraternization with the untouchables. You never forget that kind of leadership.

You remember the time everyone on the ship was out of cigarettes during operations in and out of Viet Namese ports with no chance to buy smokes and the Warrant who passes his pack of cigarettes around, smiles and says, “You guys will probably get lung cancer from this.”

“Aye Bosun, we’ll try like hell. I’m buying the first one when we hit Sattahip”

“If that’s the case, Stew, I’m drinking it.  Now let me tell you about Barcelona.”

Then there was the time you are laying on your back in the Naval Hospital, Yokosuka with IV tubes in your arm a catheter stuck in the end of your dick and a drain running from your nose.  You have had one-third of your stomach removed because of peptic ulcers that came close to killing you.  You knew that the ‘Old Man” didn’t have to come visit you. That a man in his position must have things a hell of a lot more important in his life than visiting some ‘flat on his back Chief Stewburner  in a place, stinking of ether and alcohol.

There were other very fine officers who would not have done that for a variety of very valid reasons, but you do not get a great feeling when you recall their names and faces.  You just remember they were damn competent officers, good men who chose to keep their distance and maintain some kind of mystical social separation.

I am not one who cared for or resented an arms-length relationship with certain individuals who took their meals in the Wardroom. I believe that if a man is honest in his belief and conducts himself in accordance with what he feels is correct; then good men are obligated to accord him respect.

We have all seen officers’ hats on tables in exotic locations, not normally frequented by preachers (although I have bumped into a few Chaplains in some rather strange places.) We have seen coats with shoulder boards hanging on hooks in certain establishments. You know those that sold intimate companionship with the meter running. I am sure each of us has assisted an officer back to the ship when he was “under the weather.” It all came down to a shipmate helping a shipmate.

When our DD-214s turn yellow, our hair turns gray and we start scheduling yearly prostate exams, we all become family and on a first-name basis. We piss in the same head, eat at the same tables and wear the same kinds of obnoxious “old man’s clothes.” We tell lies and put our arms around each other’s shoulders and laugh.  Laugh about things nobody else will understand. We introduce the women in our lives to each other and we are family.

And, you know what? The God Damn world maintained its scheduled rotation and did not fall off its axis.

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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.

later

By:  Garland Davis

There were incidents, all them milestones that you didn’t see until many years and a hell of a lot of salt water under the keel. We were men who sailed as crewmembers in the haze gray steel of Fletcher and Forrest Sherman class destroyers and old sway-backed cruisers out on the Pacific Rim in the Far East Fleet.

By the time you finished your first WestPac, you had worn out or lost your boot camp boon dockers, your white hats were soft, supple, and no longer boot camp stiff, you guessed your pea coat was in the pea coat locker, you hadn’t seen it in a year or two. You knew from experience the sound your lighter made when you dropped it on a whorehouse floor… You had no fuckin’ idea what had become of your raincoat.   And you owned some salty, faded Seafarer dungarees.

You now had a nickname.  Someone had hung one on you. “Cookie”, “Stew”, “Big Snipe”, “Little Snipe”, “Asswipe”, “Dip Stick”, “Dick Smith, “Sparks” and many others.  You knew you had arrived and had passed some unseen test. You knew your shipmates had accepted you when one of them labeled you with a nickname.

Before you sewed a Third Class Crow on your left arm, you had completed one or two tours of mess cooking, scrubbed burned shit off a million pots and pans until your skin looked like prunes.  Dumped tons of leftover shit over the fantail or lugged it to the dumpsters a half mile down the pier.  You had stood a few hundred helm and lookout watches.  If you were in the “hole”, you had stood hundreds of hours of hot, miserable lower level, messenger and burner watches. You had assisted more than a few drunks down ladders to their berthing and, on occasion, been assisted down yourself.  By this time, you had consumed enough oil flavored mid watch coffee to lift the fuckin’ ship off a dry dock’s keel blocks.  The ass of your liberty uniforms had polished bar stools in Yokosuka, Sasebo, Olongapo, Taiwan, and Hong Kong.

It became impossible to hold on to a paperback book.  You could fall asleep reading a skin book at chapter eight and wake up to find the book missing only to have it turn up two weeks later in the after crew’s head tucked in a wire way.  You really didn’t want to touch it again.

You came to realize that there was a hell of a lot about ships and the Navy that were not explained to you by your Company Commander in Boot Camp.

You learned that when a Chief started a tale with:  “Back when I was a Seaman…” You were going to get a half hour of bullshit about the days when Noah was searching for pairs of animals to pack in an old four-stack destroyer including the Seaman who went on to become a Chief Petty Officer.

You had actually seen men who were selected for their intelligence the elite of the electronics, radar, radioman, and sonar schools, use their teeth to open beer bottles and spit the cap onto a barroom floor.  You and your shipmates had dined on San Miguel beer, Mojo, Monkey Meat, and cockroaches.

And things happened as the time passed. You thought nothing of getting up at midnight to spend four hours tending a boiler or staring at the horizon searching for a light or a periscope feather of water.  It became normal to sweep everything down twice a day.  You learned to sleep anywhere.

In the meantime, your white hats softened. Your dungarees faded until they were almost white. New ones, you dragged on a line behind the ship to hurry the effect.  Your blue jacket was paint spattered and the cuffs were frayed.  You had lost an uncountable number of white trousers to the water and mud of Olongapo. You had learned to sew buttons on your dungaree shirts and your pea coat. And you hadn’t seen that watch cap since packing your seabag to leave boot camp.

You had hung around the Quarterdeck brow a number of times waiting for a departing shipmate to arrive topside hauling all his earthly goods in a canvas bag, just so you could tell him good-bye, shake his hand and tell him to stay away from the Bar Hogs in Nasty City and act as you would.  You never knew how much he meant to you at the time and the number of sea stories you would tell about him and his crazy antics in years to come.  Sometimes you wonder where he is now.  Maybe you’ll get your grandson to use his computer skills to try to locate him.

And that hot coffee with a taste of fuel oil was not half bad, as a matter of fact, it was pretty damned good.

You have arrived. You are now a blood brother in a tribe of idiots, shipmates, with whom you would be forever linked.

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 Mid-Morning Moon

By:  Garland Davis

I have always been skeptical of folks who begin the recounting of an event with, “Honest to God, this really happened.” Having dabbled in the verbal horseshit trade myself, I am suspicious of such a lead in. I have served with some of the most accomplished liars in the free world. All sea stories begin with, “No shit, this REALLY happened.”  Well guys, in the following instance, honest to God, this really happened, No shit!

A Pearl Harbor based Destroyer was ordered to the South Pacific to shadow a Soviet Cruiser and two Destroyers.  The Shipyard at Pearl had fabricated a device to scoop their garbage from the water so the intelligence detachment ship riders could paw through it.  The scoop contraption was mounted on the fantail portside.  There was a scoop that could be lowered to water level and then lifted to deck level, something like a skip loader.  The contraption was covered with a tarp during the day to prevent the Soviets from discerning its use. I do not believe any garbage was ever actually recovered during the operation.

The Soviets were extremely interested in the covered item on the fantail.  They became almost fanatic about photographing whatever was under that tarp and took every opportunity to close the U.S. ship and try to photograph the fantail.  The Captain amused himself with turning the ship to hamper their view.  Everyone assumed the Commies thought it was some new anti-submarine or weapon system.

The Soviet cruiser became very aggressive and made an approach as close as ships do during UNREP operations.  Many Soviet Officers with cameras were at different positions shooting photos of the American ship.  The CO passed the word over the internal 1MC, “Anyone wishing to photograph the Soviet Cruiser lay to the portside with cameras.”  Within five minutes there were forty or fifty cameras pointed at the Cruiser.

Two Electrician’s Mates, working on the boat deck, not having cameras, dropped their pants and mooned the Soviets.

The Soviet skipper, becoming flustered, took off like a bat out of hell.  Later there was a query from the State Department about American Naval Personnel showing their backsides to the Soviet ships while the Soviets passed to render honors.  Of course, no one knew anything about it officially.  Unofficially, it became known as the “Mid-Morning Moon.”

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 Ugly Contest

By: David ‘Mac’ McAllister

It was a hot sultry night in the Philippines. I lay in bed, skin wet and clammy with passion spent perspiration, the stale taste of beer on my breath. The oscillations of the floor fan across my body lulling me to the brink of sleep. The last thing I remember before dozing off – rats scurrying on the window sill in the moonlight.

It was close to dawn as my internal alarm clock faithfully started to rouse me from my slumber. As I lay in that glorious twilight between sleep and consciousness my mind drifted back to the night before. Prolonging the inevitable as long as possible I remembered the Hole in the Wall and the terms of the Ugly Contest. As the reality of deeds done set in, my senses raced to wakeful horror. Fully awake now, I was afraid to open my eyes for fear of what I may find next to me; besides, there was something nibbling on my feet – RATS.

As my eyelids snapped open like window shades, there she was at the foot of the bed; that fucking baby duck, the one I bought and didn’t have the heart to feed to the crocodile at Pauline’s, in her hands allowing it to peck at the soles of my feet. Reflexes brought my legs and torso upright, knees meeting at my chin. As my vision cleared and the San Miguel haze abated in the dimly lit room, I noted all she was wearing was a pair of golden hoop earrings. Jesus, I wasn’t even going to be in the running for the Ugly Contest, what a movie star! I think I was probably going to be late for morning muster at the Hole in the Wall.

Walking out onto Rizal Ave I was greeted by the already hot tropical Sun searing through my bloodshot eyes, two or three dozen roosters crowing and some nitwit singing out “BAAALOOOT!” Hopping in a jeepney. I bounced along in the dusty heat towards the main gate, and my destination.

Now the Hole in the Wall was a little one step go down joint that served as a starting off and finish up hangout for us hole snipes. Depending on how you looked at it, it was either the first den of inequity encountered or the last outpost of passion before crossing the bridge that separated Olongapo from the Naval Station.

Ugly Contests, for the uninitiated, were a cross between and animal act and charity with a little machismo thrown in for good measure. Usually occurring after a day or so in port, the basics are as follows: All participants put twenty or thirty pesos into the pot, then scour the night for the ugliest girl they could find, take her home and meet up the next morning with her in tow. The lucky sailor with the winner, as judged by his peers, got bragging rights plus a small portion of the pot; while the majority of the winnings were given to the girl.

Stepping out of the jeepney, I was greeted by the aromatic stench of Shit River which was met on its way down by last night’s beer trying to come up. Swallowing hard, I negotiating the returning crowd of sailors, stepped down into the Hole in the Wall and quickly ordered beers for the crew awaiting my late arrival. Picking mine up, I inspected the label ensuring it said Philippines and not Manila, wiped the neck on my shirt tail and finger popped the bottle opening. Little trick’s, learned the hard way, to avoid the horrid San Magoo’s. A long pull on the cold sweet beer settled my rebelling stomach and washed the bad taste of the river smell away. Not having a horse in the race, I was relinquished to spectator status this morning. So leaning against the bar, sipping on the beer, I settled in to watch the festivities.

From bad past experiences, the Ugly Contest was always referred to as a beauty pageant while the contestants were present. You know ugly girls can get really ugly when their feelings get hurt. A great spectacle was always made and many of the contestants were paraded about by their sponsor’s so as to show off their most despicable qualities.

MM3 was one of those individuals that could shit, shower and shave, put on deodorant and foo foo, then don a brand new tuxedo and still look like crap. His standards of excellence regarding the fairer sex were well below those of an inbred red neck snorkeling after his sister. Consequently, he was hard to beat at these affairs and his notoriety was legendary.

That being said, our newly reported aboard BT1 stepped down into the Hole in the Wall hand in hand with what I would classify as a poster child for revulsion. There wasn’t really one defining trait that set her over and above the rest. It was just that, as they so frequently say on “American Idol”, she had the total package. Thin stringy hair, a few beetle nut stained teeth and eyes that creepy pale color associated with cataracts, she was beyond homely. Her body shape was that of a timepiece alright; rather than an hourglass, that of a clock – round.

Totally surprised by this unusual turn of events, BT1 was beside himself to be unanimously, although inconspicuously, without contention judged to be the hands down winner without so much as having to do anything but walk in with this lovely.

Well, after the awarding of the grand prize BT1’s honey jumped for joy and hopped around the joint, as well as her chubby little legs would permit, singing “I be d’weenner, I be d’weenner” over and over. Picking up her winnings she placed an unforgettable nauseating lip lock on old BT1 and up and out she went, disappearing into the humanity of the morning rush. As everyone else was left to distance themselves from the specimens that they had drug in, I clapped BT1 on the back and said “Let’s head out shipmate”. Across the bridge we went, tossing Pesos to the Bonka boat girls, thru the main gate and into a taxi, off for Alava pier. Busily jabbering away congratulating my new shipmate on his victory in unseating MM3, I finally noticed his lack of enthusiasm, response or reflection upon his good fortune. So I poked him in the shoulder and said, “What’s up with you? Aren’t you proud of that shit?” as we jumped out of the cab and started up the brow. He gazed at me through watery eyes and said “I don’t mind winning, it’s just that that was my wife”.

“Oh!” say’s I.

Now what the hell do you say to that?

I thought to myself ‘Beauty is only skin deep, but ugly goes clear to the bone’, but instead, said “Well shipmate, beauty is in the eye if the beholder” and left it at that.

He and I became regular shipmates; however, I never did see him in the Hole in the Wall again.

David “Mac” McAllister a native of California, now resides in the Ozark Mountains of Southwest Mo. Having served in Asia for the majority of his 24-year Navy career, he now divides his time as an over the road trucker, volunteer for local veteran repatriation events and as an Asia Sailor Westpac’rs Association board member and reunion coordinator. In his spare time, he enjoys writing about his experiences in Westpac and sharing them online with his Shipmates.