Why I joined the Navy

By:  Garland Davis

Fifty-five years ago today, at the Armed Forces Induction Center in Raleigh, North Carolina, I raised my right hand and was sworn into the United States Navy.  Why did I do this, you ask?

When I began the third grade, the class made a weekly trip to the school library.  The first couple of weeks were spent learning about the library and how books were cataloged.  By the third week, students were expected to check out a book and read it.  Most of my classmates were searching for books with lots of pictures, large words and a low number of pages.  I was looking through the shelves for a book that interested me.  I found a book with an engraved picture of a sailing ship on the front.  I decided to check it out.  It missed all of my contemporaries’ criteria.  There were no pictures, the words were small and there were over a hundred pages.

The teacher was examining each student’s selection.  She took the book I had selected and told me that it was too advanced for a beginning reader.  I told her I wanted to try to read it.  She relented and permitted me to check it out.  She told me that she wanted a book report.

The name of the book was “John Paul Jones.”  It was a biography written for, I suspect, teenagers.  Almost from the beginning, I was transfixed by the story of Jones and the beginnings of the Navy.

I knew from the moment I finished that book the Navy was going to be my life.  During the ensuing years of waiting for age seventeen, I read, literally, hundreds of books about the Navy and about the sea.  I sailed with Horatio Hornblower, and Captain Aubrey.  I was at Jutland with Admiral Sir John Jellicoe. I was with our Navy at the Coral Sea; I was on the flag bridge with Admiral Spruance at Midway; I was with the Australians and Americans during the defeat at Savo Sound; I watched all the Victory at Sea and Silent Service television documentaries; I begged to stay up late when there was a Navy movie on the Late Movie. I engrossed myself in the many books I read of Naval operations in various wars.  I learned knots, semaphore and Morse code in the Boy Scouts.  I made it known to my family and friends that the Navy was for me.

A month before my seventeenth birthday, I went to see the recruiter.  I was tested and taken for a physical. The paperwork was prepared and my mother signed permission.  I was offered the choice of Great Lakes or San Diego for recruit training.  I chose San Diego.  Since reading of the Navy’s war in the Pacific, I wanted to go as far west as possible.

I left Winston-Salem for Raleigh the morning of my seventeenth birthday and was sworn in the next morning at the Armed Forces Induction Center. That evening I took my first airplane ride to Chicago and then on to Albuquerque and then San Diego.  The next morning, 20 July 1961, I arrived at the Recruit Training Center, San Diego and began a thirty-year adventure that ended much too soon.

Goals and Milestones
July 18, 2016
By: Garland Davis

“How swift are the feet of the days of the years of youth”— Mark Twain

We each strive to achieve many goals as we move along life’s highway.  The Navy and Chief Petty Officer come to mind.  When the girl you have fallen in love with accepts your proposal. Earning a Bachelor’s Degree as a member of the Dean’s List.  Being chosen as class Valedictorian although I would be at sea off the coast of Viet Nam when graduation was held. Being instrumental in winning the Edward F. Ney Award, not once but twice.  Retiring from the Navy.  There are many more that make up the entire list.

I achieved a new milestone this morning. A new personal best. I have lived longer than ever before. I completed another year of life. Tomorrow, July 19, is also another important anniversary. I enlisted in the Navy fifty-five years ago in 1961.

Today is my seventy-second birthday. Many people have lived longer and many others died much younger. I always thought I would be among the latter. I have ancestors that lived well into their nineties and, as it turned out, I may have lived that long under different circumstances. Hell, I may still make it but, the Parkinson’s disease will probably take me before I reach my nineties. I leave no progeny to carry on this line of the Davis clan. I am one of those branches of the tree that ceases to grow and drops off.

I cannot say that it has been an exceptional seventy-two years when compared with the lives and accomplishments of others. Some may think that I squandered opportunities or misused the potential to do much more. But as Sinatra said it in his song, “I Did It My Way.” I consider one of my great achievements something that is given to a very few when measured against the entirety of the population. I served for thirty years and became a Chief Petty Officer in the United States Navy. Life in the Navy and as a Chief Petty Officer showed me that two of the paramount achievements of humanity are the twin concepts of “loyalty” and “duty.”

The psychologists say that humans tend to remember successes, happiness, and pleasure. They conveniently forget or repress failures, sadness, and discomfort. Probably a good thing. It would, no doubt, drive me crazy if I only dwelt on the negatives of my life. Am I proud of all that I did during the past seventy-two years? No, I am not! Am I ashamed of some things that I did? Probably should be, but I just can’t find it. I’ve learned to not worry myself when I make a mistake. Just correct it as best I can and learn from it. Don’t lose any sleep over it.  Never blame Garland Davis on anyone but Garland Davis!

I have spent my life reading. Fictions, biographies, histories, religious texts, comics, and comments on head bulkheads, the writings of storytellers, scientists, philosophers, clerics, funny page cartoonists, and disgruntled shit house humorists, I have found as much truth in “Calvin and Hobbes” as I did in Plato and Nietzsche. I believe that sin lies only in hurting another person unnecessarily. Other “sins” are invented bovine excrement. Hurting yourself isn’t sinful. It is stupid. In all my reading and discussions with others, I haven’t found any conclusive evidence of life after death, nor have I found evidence of any sort against it. I figure I will know soon enough. I can wait!

Having devoted a large part of the past seventy-two years to an avid interest in history, I have reached the conclusion that any generation which ignores history has no past. Nor does it have a future. College graduates today know less of history than I did as a third-grade student in a 1950’s rural North Carolina country school. It doesn’t bode well for this generation or the country. For some reason, the educational beauracracy equates government directed public schooling and large amounts of tax money lining their pockets as the be all and end all of learning. How’s that working out for the students?

When one reaches my age, that person is considered a wise senior whose advice and insights are valuable. Isn’t it amazing how closely “mature wisdom” resembles tired and lazy? I didn’t pay a lot of attention to the “Old Farts” when I was younger and I doubt today’s younger generation will listen to what I have to say. But, what follows is some advice, some insights, and a few things I have learned.

I tell you, it is a great world because there are girls in it! Sex should be loving, warm and friendly. Otherwise, do it yourself. Masturbation is cheap, clean, convenient, and free of any possibility of wrongdoing–and you don’t have to go home in the cold and dark. But it is lonely as hell. I have found that it is better to copulate than not. Flowers sometimes work well as an aphrodisiac, but experience shows that money always works better. “I came, I saw, she conquered.” (The original Latin was garbled and misinterpreted). I have also learned that all men are not created equal.

Marry above yourself! It will motivate you to become a better man. Marry for love and strive to become the best friend of the girl/woman you take as a bride. For without friendship, love can easily become hate and you may reach my point in life as a bitter old man. The other great accomplishment of my life was marrying the woman I did fifty years ago (fifty-one next month). She is a good woman, my best friend—And I love her very much.

Get a dog or two! They will love you and in times of loss they can heal your heart and you will never be lonely. You can learn a lot from how dogs interact with people and other dogs. If you have children, remember the quote from Mr. Peabody, “Every dog should have a boy.” And I add “or a girl.” The time will come when the dog’s life must end. Be a man, hold it in your arms and tell it how great a dog it was when the time comes to send it onward. I have had seven dogs in my life and I am a better person for knowing them.

Watch as little TV as possible! It will rot your brain. The television networks spent a large part of the 1950’s developing the TV industry; pioneering programming ideas and techniques. The effluviant they offer today shows that they learned nothing and have actually regressed. “The Howdy Doody Show” was a better program than much of the crap they pass off as inspired television programming today. Television has replaced books and the art of reading and has contributed to the dumbing down of humanity. I treasure the years spent in the South China Sea and Asia away from the inane, brain numbing offerings of the American television industry.

Never say no to beer! Cold beer is always appropriate! The fastest method of chilling a case of beer is four gallons of water, fourteen pounds of ice and about five pounds of salt. Cover the beer with water and ice, stir in the salt and within six minutes you have some perfectly chilled beer. I spent many years as a cook and baker and, believe it or not, this is one of my favorite recipes!

Laugh whenever possible! Look for humor and embrace it. You feel better after a good laugh. The doctors say that laughter is healthy and Reader’s Digest claims that it is the best medicine. Who knows? You too may live to see seventy-two!

Do everything in excess! Take big bites. Drink from the large mug. Enjoy life. Moderation is for clerics, monks, nuns, and the faint of heart. Yield to temptations, you may not get the chance again. Avoid important decisions while tired or hungry. You may regret it.

And you know, in retrospect, my life is, and was, fun. If I had it to live over, I don’t think I would change one thing. Changing it would change me, making me a different person. A person I might not like as well as I do this one.

The Bible says in Psalm 90:10 “The days of our years are threescore years and ten.” Seventy years are all that is promised. I guess that puts the next seventy on me!

I’ll end this diatribe with a quote from another “wise senior” who is no longer with us. “Life is not measured by the number of breaths we take, but by the moments that take our breath away.” —George Carlin

Chiefs

by Bob ‘Dex’ Armstrong

Remember those old raggedy-ass Chiefs? One of those fellows who bunked in the goat locker, forward of the alley… One of those guys who ‘butt polished’ the mess deck benches and drank coffee during an ‘All hands, turn to…’ And from time to time, moved about to check on the after battery slaves to make sure:

(A) They were not parked on an after battery head, reading a dog-eared Playboy.

(B) They had not found a dark upper bunk in the forward room and sacked out.

(C) Had not hidden in the pump room, sonar shack or dry stores room.

They were one of the old ‘Dick Tracys’, who knew that the great unwashed animal pack was prone to hide bottles of illegal consumables in the maneuvering room cubicle, outboard engines one and two, behind the Navol monitor, and in the pit log well.

Being a Chief is a form of cannibalism… You return to make meals out of your own kind. After battery rats hear stories like,

“Hell, you should ‘a known ol’ Dutch back in ’52… We rode the USS Charley Tuna out of San Diego… Back then, the sonuvabitch was half nuts. One night, we were tossing off shots of Tequila and some fellow called ol’ Dutch a sewer pipe sailor and Dutch bounced him off a cinderblock wall and put him through a plate glass window…”

Dutch? The Dutch we knew drank a lot of coffee… Was the guy the exec sent to talk to you after you and two other members of the deck force had gone on liberty, ran out of money, climbed palm trees and peed on the Key West cop when invited to return to Earth.

The Dutch we knew could not have been related to the fellow who in 1955, rode down the main street of a village in Venezuela, buck naked on the back of a dairy cow, singing “I’m back in the saddle again…” They may have looked a lot alike but there was no way they could have been kin.

No sir, they remove all the hell raising genes from you before they make you a Master Chief.

But they are good folks to know when the local constabulary delivers you to the quarterdeck in a straw hat, your skivvies and flip flops, and you can’t remember which house of horizontal refreshment you left your whites hanging up in… And you need an advocate to translate your gibberish into some kind of believable bullshit the exec will buy.

Chief Petty Officers… Make that submarine qualified Chief Petty Officers, can turn bullshit into gold at a rate that would even amaze Bill Clinton. That’s basically what they do.

One of the questions on the Chief’s exam reads:

“You are in Guam… You are called to a local whorehouse where you find five non rated members of your crew holding off twenty members of the Air Force police with a high pressure fire hose. How do you convince the Air Force major that what these lads are engaged in, is in the best interest of the security of the United States?”

You have two minutes. You cannot use mind altering drugs or hand puppets.

When you’re out, you look back and remember the times you were dead ass broke and some raggedy-assed Chief slipped you enough for a couple of pitchers at Bells. Times when the cab driver dumped you next to a salvage air connection forward of the conning tower fairwater and the Chief paid him… Told you what an idiot you were… Walked you aft and dumped you down the after battery hatch.

If God had not created CPOs, the guys in Hogan’s Alley would have been forced to invent them. Many times, the only thing between you and ‘Walking the Plank’ was a Chief who had taken a buck naked ride on a bovine creature long ago in the South Atlantic.

Ice Machine

By:  Garland Davis

Those of you who served in ships that plied the Western Pacific and the South China Sea off Viet Nam remember the heat and discomfort of the climate.  The best thing for momentary relief, other than an icy cold San Miguel was a cup of JP5 flavored red bug juice in a cup packed with ice cubes.  I sometimes believe we should have made the stuff in 55-gallon drums instead of 5-gallon milk cans.  When the ice machine broke down a miserable situation became much worse.  The cooks and the poor Machinist’s Mate trying to repair the machine caught the hell of the crew’s wrath.

I was the leading CS, often the only CS, in USS Mahopac, an Ocean Going Tug out of Yokosuka during the mid to late sixties.  The ship had a crew of four officers and about forty enlisted.  The entire three-year period I was aboard there was only one CPO aboard and that only for a short period.  Of the crew, sixteen of us were PO1’s.

We towed targets out of Yokosuka and Subic, as well as towing assets into and out of South Vietnamese ports.  We went everywhere at about eight knots or less.  Our top speed was about twelve knots if memory serves.  Those ATA’s were round bottomed and rolled even in calm weather.  When it got rough, she really rolled.  I once saw an electrician stand on the bulkhead in the messdecks when the ship took a large roll.

We had an ice maker that hated rough weather.  We could sit tied to the pier and that baby would crank out the ice.  As soon as the word was passed to “single up all lines,” it stopped making ice.  The two EN1’s spent hours with gauges hanging off the machine trying to coax it to make a few cubes.  Mostly to no avail.

Once shortly after returning to Yokosuka, EN1 Richard Ade (Rest in Peace Shipmate) had the duty and was working on the machine.  He told me, “Dave, I think I’ve got it,” and went next door to our sister ship, USS Tillamook and returned with a bucket of ice.  He dumped it into the ice hamper and told the machine, “See that is what you are supposed to do.”

Another time after returning to port, he was working on the machine when the Captain came into the mess decks and asked, “Ade, did you figure out what is wrong with this piece of crap machine?”

Ade pointed to the logo on the machine and said, “Captain all I can figure is it’s a God Damned Carrier ice machine and this is a fucking tug boat!”

“The Great Palm Tree Caper”

by David W. Asche

It was August 1974, and Hector was moored to a pier, bow facing shore, starboard side to the pier, at Todd Shipyards in San Pedro, California having some work done on her mess decks and some matters dealt with in her engine rooms.

I was due to go on leave in two days, and my parents were making the drive down to pick me up.

As I came down the ladder to the upper foundry one evening, I overheard some of my fellow molders and some of the divers from the Dive Locker discussing a bold plan, so I sat in on it and listened.

There happened to be, over at the next pier, moored just as Hector was, about two hundred yards away, another US navy warship. ( It was the USS Badger DE/FF1071 )  It was a Fast Frigate and the skipper of that ship had a small palm tree up on the Signal Bridge.   The bold plans I was privy to were to steal that palm tree.

Later that night, Darrel Inskeep BM-2 (DV) and Frank Longville FN slipped quietly down into the water under the pier next to Hector.  They had with them a long piece of rope and they found a wooden pallet floating there.  They began the swim across the harbor to the side of the sleeping Badger and scaled the side of the ship.   Then they made their way to the Signal Bridge.  Once there, using the rope, they lowered the palm tree to the main deck then on down onto the floating pallet.

They swam back across the harbor, pushing the palm tree/pallet along and secured it under the pier where Hector was moored and left it there the remainder of that night and the next day.  The following night, they hoisted the tree up to the 01 deck forward of the forward brow where they could not be seen, then up to the 02 deck and then up on top of gun mount 52, where they secured the tree with a long length of chain and a combination padlock.  Then, after earning a bit of rest, they hit their bunks.

As I was going down the pier the next morning to meet my parents at the shipyard gate, I heard the following word passed over the 1MC, ” Would the person who has the combination to the padlock on the palm tree on top of mount 52, PLEASE LAY TO THE QUARTER DECK!”

I looked back over my shoulder and saw the palm tree, in all its glory, a gentle breeze fluttering through its fronds, majestically chained to the top of mount 52.  I smiled and just kept on walking.

When I returned, I found there was a lot of turmoil surrounding the great palm tree caper.  How swabbies from a lowly Repair ship could outsmart the security on a genuine warship caused some serious changes to the watch bills on both ships.

God rest you Mister Roberts.

The First Talos RGM-8HAnti Radiation Missile Combat Firing
Phillip R. Hays PhD, LT USNR-R

I was Nuclear/Special Weapons Officer on the USS Oklahoma City (CLG-5) from January 1970 to April 1972. I was assigned to GM Division which maintained and operated the Talos missiles and launching system. I served as the Weapons Control Officer and was on duty in Weapons Control when the first combat surface-to-surface anti-radiation (radar) missile shot was fired. It was the first surface-to-surface combat missile shot in US Navy history, and personnel directly involved with the mission received the Navy Achievement Medal for this action.

North Vietnam was trying to set up mobile air traffic control radars to allow them to vector fighters and SAMs (Surface to Air Missiles) to intercept our bombers. Without air coordination, their air force was not very effective. The US Navy, Marines, and Air Force had pretty much blown away every fixed radar installation. The NVN had some Russian mobile radar vans and cleared flat spots on mountain tops so they could park the mobile radars at a number of places. When they detected our aircraft headed their way they shut down and hid under camouflaged cover. The Pentagon wanted a long range fast strike capability to attack these mobile units. The Talos RGM-8H ARM (Anti Radiation Missile) missile was developed for this purpose in the late 1960s. The Oklahoma City conducted some of the development shots off California in 1968 before returning to WESTPAC.

In the spring of 1971, the Oklahoma City executed an underway replenishment to take aboard the new, highly classified, RGM-8H anti-radiation version of the Talos. We conducted a test firing off Okinawa in March 1971, to train the crew with the ARM missiles. Then we waited for an opportunity to use them.

In late 1971 the NVN army was massing equipment and personnel just north of the DMZ for a Tet offensive in February 1972 and moved missiles and aircraft south to provide cover for the buildup. They used their mobile radars to coordinate SAM and MiG operations and shot down several US aircraft. The Air Force flew “Wild Weasel” radar suppression aircraft to attack radar sites, but they had to approach to within about 30 miles to attack the radars, giving the NVN ample warning to launch missiles or shut down the radars. In December 1971 an Air Force Wild Weasel used an AGM-78 Standard ARM missile to destroy a BARLOK radar site near the Barthelemy Pass in North Vietnam. Covert personnel on the ground examined the site immediately after it was destroyed and discovered it had been manned by Russian personnel. **

In January 1972 the Oklahoma City steamed to the Gulf of Tonkin to rendezvous with the USS Chicago (CG-11) and do some “radar hunting.” We were looking for another BARLOK radar in the vicinity of the Mu Gia Pass, although few people aboard knew this. The USS Oklahoma City was 7th Fleet flagship, but we were assigned to a cruiser/destroyer squadron for this action. So, although we were carrying The Boss, we were under the command of the squadron commander who was on the USS Chicago. The Okie Boat was a single end (stern) Talos light cruiser, and the Chicago was double end (two missile batteries, bow and stern) Talos heavy cruiser.

We were sailing off the coast of North Vietnam near Vinh one night in early February 1972 with RGM-8H missiles in the Ready Service Magazine waiting for a chance to use the new missiles. It happened on my watch – the electronics warfare (EW) folks in CIC (Combat Information Center) detected emissions from a BARLOCK air traffic control radar and the fun started. The EW watch provided continuous updates to the fire control team, watching for frequency changes that might interfere with the shot. *

Of course, everyone wanted to be the first to use the new missiles. The squadron commander gave the first shot to his ship. The Chicago fired one missile and it self-destructed shortly after launch. I was told later that the data link antenna on the missile that maintained communication with the ship had not been lock wired in place, and it had fallen off in the Ready Service Magazine due to vibration before the missile was launched. The Chicago fired a second missile, and it failed. I don’t know if a cause was ever determined.

Well, we were all a bit frustrated at this point. As I recall, our Captain sent the squadron commander a message asking if he would like us to show them how it should be done. We got the OK, fired one missile, and blew a 30-foot diameter hole where the radar van was sitting. However, at the moment we didn’t know if we had hit the target. The Electronics Warfare people in CIC told us the radar signal had disappeared about the same time the missile arrived, but you can bet the BARLOK operators would have noticed if we had missed and shut down their radar! However, the EW guys did hear a change in the signal just before it went silent.* The next day our Weapons Department head CDR Foreman showed me aerial recon photos. The radar antennas were scattered all over SE Asia, and what remained of the van was lying on its side at the edge of the crater.

This was all classified Top Secret at the time, and our missile crews were told to keep quiet. Of course, everyone aboard knew something was going on (missile shots were very noisy). I overheard one sailor say we had fired a nuclear warhead and he had seen the explosion! Such is scuttlebutt!

After a few days and no more firing opportunities we sailed to Subic Bay in the Philippines for R&R. The Chicago was in port when we arrived. Imagine our surprise when we learned that the bar girls in Olongapo knew about the shot before we got there! One of our first class POs told me that as they walked into a bar one of the girls saw the ship’s name patch on his sleeve and started asking about the missile shot! So much for secrecy!

I think that is a pretty good first-hand description of what happened with the Talos anti-radar shot.

Disco Chief

By:  David McAllister

I had just returned to the orient after spending three years teaching baby Machinist Mates their rate at Great Lakes Naval Training Center. Beyond ready to return to what I considered my home, I found myself, once again and at last, back in Subic. I had fascinated over this moment ever since my detailer had given me the word that my term of Expat detention was over. The most beautiful sight I had seen in a long time, she was slender with great curves and glided with an uncommon grace in spite of her slightly swaybacked countenance. As she slid up alongside I could hardly wait to climb on and get into her. She was the Seventh Fleet Flagship and I had known her for almost as many years as I had served as a North American Bluejacket.

Once the brow was over, I stepped aboard smartly saluted the ensign, turned and saluted the Officer of the Deck, a fellow Chief, and requested permission to come aboard. After receiving his permission I stepped down off the brow; presenting him with my orders, he stuck out his hand, welcomed me aboard and said he would have the messenger show me to the Chief’s mess. “No need, I know the way,” I said, he nodded as we exchanged a knowing look that only old hands would understand.

I hoisted my gear, stepped through the door and negotiated the passageway back to the CPO mess. The sights, sounds, smells and organized confusion of a newly arrived ship stirred my awareness in an old familiar manner as I whispered below my breath, ‘Mac is Back’.

Upon entering the CPO mess I was greeted by a long mess table with several Chiefs seated behind steaming coffee mugs. Some I had known from earlier days and ships, others unknown to me introduced themselves, all welcomed me aboard. The mess area had a lounge with couches and chairs at the far end and turning aft from there led you into the berthing compartment. I quickly found a suitable rack with a nearby locker far enough from the head so as not to be bothered by its odiferous sights, sounds, smells and humidity. So, tossing my gear upon the rack, I set off to check out the main spaces. Then I met him, the other Chief Machinist Mate.

He was obviously heading ashore and stopped to introduce himself, which evolved into an odd encounter on many levels. First, I was sure that the engineering plant had not yet set up in port auxiliary steaming, and this guy was breasting out on liberty? Second, he was in company with a Filipino chief that turned out to be the MSCS in charge of the flag mess. In my mind, I found this to be a rather odd pairing. Finally, he was dressed as if he had just stepped out of the movie “Saturday Night Fever”- only not as well.

Brilliant cobalt blue slacks were mismatched with a pink floral print shirt, complete with long collars, unbuttoned to the naval. Four or five gold chains adorned an underdeveloped hairy chest atop a beer gut, while a white belt and white Cuban heeled fruit boots completed the outfit. The total look reminded me of an overripe pear in a dinner napkin. I found this to be totally bazaar, allowing that the polyester fabric of his pants and shirt couldn’t be conducive to comfort in the high heat and humidity of the Philippine Islands; not to mention all that gold going ashore in a country where just one of those chains would support an average poverty stricken local for months. To say the least his sartorial splendor and wisdom both left me underwhelmed and shaking my head in disbelief as I walked out of the mess towards the Log Room. I was trying to swallow this bad taste I always got in my mouth whenever I met someone I didn’t like. Recalling his invitation to drop by for a beer out in town, I made a mental note to follow up and check out this idiot later.

After a very brief peek into the Log Room, not exactly my domain of choice, I dropped down into Main Control. Here I found the MPA, an LDO ex-electrician type clearly out of his element, trying to secure the after plant and shift the load forward into an auxiliary steaming configuration. In addition to being an inherent know it all, he was further handicapped by the fact that he didn’t have a clue as to how clueless he actually was. Consequently, he was getting more resistance than cooperation from the seasoned watch standers that were only tolerating his presence. Hmmm! Disco Chief really needed to be here instead of where he was; I quickly made another mental note. Well, I hung out in Main Control until it appeared that the MPA was no longer in harm’s way of himself and then after a check of the after engine room and crew I was confident that “M” division, although having some  solid hands, lacked leadership. This wasn’t going to get fixed today, so I eased back to the mess to get settled in and stow my gear.

1700 found me over in the Chiefs Club with an old shipmate having a much anticipated cold San Magoo and swapping sea stories while checking out the local talent that plied their trade there as so called legit hostesses. After a few libations, we found ourselves stroking across the bridge into PoTown with the Barrio on our minds. Just then my mental tickler went off and I asked where it was that Disco Chief hung out. Having imbibed just enough to be ornery, I wanted to see this fool in action.

Pearlas Super Club was about half way down Rizal Ave going towards the Victory Liner Station. It was a good sized cabaret style joint and upon entering we were immediately accosted with the ever present Peso for body exchange offerings. The large dance floor was crowded with couples dancing to the disco stylings of one of the many talented copy cat bands that frequented Olongapo in those days. Ironically, this band was heavy into renditions of the Bee Gee’s latest hits and it didn’t take long to zero in on Disco Chief. Impressing himself more than anyone else, his moves lacked anything close to rhythm and were completely out of time with the music. As is commonly seen in the PI, several little gals were mimicking him behind his back and everyone laughing at them led Disco to think he was the center of attention. As the music ended he struck his best John Travolta pose just as his dance partner stuck her hand on his crank and her other one in his pocket. Noticing us he strutted our way off the dance floor followed by his honey tucking her catch away into a bosom that, although wasn’t abundant, was adequate.

“Well, I see you finally found your way ashore, ” he said as he ordered a round of beers. As the band went on break, we grabbed a seat at his table where MSCS was engaged in a protracted private conversation in Tagalong with what I considered the best-looking hammer in the joint. I made another mental note. Apparently thinking I had just fallen off the turnip truck and joined the Navy on the mid watch, Disco Chief commenced to inform me about his prowess with the ladies and how he got along in the PI without ever having to pay for any. Despite the air-conditioned comfort of the bar, Disco Chief was soaked through. His pallid glistening skin combined with the wet polyester made for a slimy unwholesome appearance. A rancid odor hung about him; however, as long as he kept producing those Pesos, buying drinks for all the girls that had lit at the table after being beckoned by his sweetie, he was the center of attraction. Meanwhile, MSCS was steady talking shit to the same good looking gal, keeping his money pocketed and attention on her, I began to get the nature of this strange matchup of liberty buddies, Disco Chief was the trolling bait while the ever sly MSCS skimmed off the prime catch from the fishing waters. I made yet another mental note.

Our beers ran low as the band retook the stage. Disco Chief jumped up and with Sweetie in tow strutted towards the dance floor mimicking John Travolta as best he could. I was totally unimpressed and as the band began with a decent imitation of “Stayin Alive”, Disco Chief began a rhythmically challenged, nauseating gyration, totally out of time into what he thought to be a sexy dance step. Laying down some Pesos I bought them a round of beers, and we headed towards the door. I waved so long to the lecherous leering lunatic out on the dance floor, thinking “Stayin Alive” my ass it’s more like “Runnin on Empty”. This was going to be so easy.

Instead of the Barrio our next stop was the 1622, a beer joint just up the street. Now the Sixteen Delawa Delawa had the well-founded reputation of having the coldest beer and ugliest women in town; however, they had, at one time, a knockdown drop dead good looker that happened to be a boy. To my amazement, he was still there and my shipmate thought I was adrift when I bought him a couple of beers. I told him of this new shipmate I met today that was a real sharp dresser, fine dancer and best of all he liked boys that dressed as girls. Since this new shipmate was just up the street, I offered to pay this guys bar fine so that I may introduce them. The light had come on for my shipmate and Momma sans mouth is probably still hanging open to this day as we left the 1622 heading for Pearlas.

Now when I say this boy was good looking I mean he was the type that if you didn’t know what he was even a seasoned veteran could get into deep trouble. He was pretty. As we seated ourselves at Disco Chief’s table his mouth was open and speaking came in fits and spurts. I introduced them and bought some beers. My little boy took an immediate liking to Disco and quickly moved in for some action. Disco got this smug look on his face as he looked my way. I just gave him that ‘You the Man’ look and eased back for the show. Several dances later Disco was becoming very familiar with my little boy and couldn’t keep his hands to himself. By the flush of his cheeks, knew my little friend was having some containment problems of his own. Catching my shipmate’s eye, I nodded toward the door. We just about made it all the way out before the fight broke out at Disco’s table. I can’t even begin to guess who grabbed who by the dick first but the end result was the same. Over the shoulder, I caught Disco Chiefs eye as he was going down for the second time. Man, I had no idea that little girlie boy was such a tough customer but he was doing a fine job whipping Disco’s ass with his high heeled shoes.

As we made our way to the Barrio I was thinking, Quarters tomorrow morning was going to be interesting at best for this guy didn’t know it yet but Mac was in the enginehouse.

THE FINAL INSPECTION

~Author Unknown~

This was written for a soldier.  I took license and rewrote it for a sailor.

Garland

The Sailor stood and faced God,

Which must always come to pass.

He hoped his shoes were shining,

Just as brightly as his brass.

‘Step forward now, Sailor,

How shall I deal with you?

Have you always turned the other cheek?

To My Church have you been true?’

The soldier squared his shoulders and said,

‘No, Lord, I guess I ain’t.

Because those of us who crew warships,

Can’t always be a saint.

I’ve had to work most Sundays,

And at times my talk was tough.

And sometimes I’ve been violent,

Because the world is awfully rough.

But I never took a penny

That wasn’t mine to keep.

Though I worked a lot of overtime,

When the bills just got too steep.
And I never passed a cry for help,

Though at times I shook with fear.

And sometimes, God, forgive me,

I’ve wept unmanly tears.

I know I don’t deserve a place,

Among the people here.

They never wanted me around,

Except to calm their fears.

If you’ve a place for me here, Lord,

It needn’t be so grand. 

I never expected or had too much,

But if you don’t, I’ll understand.

There was a silence all around the throne,

Where the saints had often trod.

As the Sailor waited quietly,

For the judgment of his God.

‘Step forward now, you Sailor,

You’ve borne your burdens well.

Walk peacefully on Heaven’s streets,

You’ve done your time in Hell.’

The Silver Plated Coffee Pot

by Bob ‘Dex’ Armstrong
Officers ate forward… The animals chowed down aft… It was always like that.

The wardroom was a picture of decorum… Civility… Cloth napkins… China with little blue anchors on the rim… Nice silver and a silver plated coffee service. Nobody put their elbows on the table… Conversation was low-key, polite and intellectual on multiple levels. Emily Post would have felt right at home.

It wasn’t like that aft.

We ate off Pyrex plates, using stainless utensils that had been bent all to hell opening crates, boxes and varnish cans. We sat on padded potato lockers and didn’t give a damn where you put your elbows. As long as you didn’t park your boots in the mashed potatoes, you were okay. Nothing was off-limits when it came to table conversation… It was usually informative, disgusting and would have shut down a Sunday school picnic. Farmers talked about lancing bovine boils… Guys coming off liberty would expound on car wreck carnage… Old veterans would go into great detail about stuff they had picked up from wayward damsels in faraway places. Ghengis Khan and Ivan the Terrible would have been right at home. Emily Post would have had a heart attack.

Nobody understood the concept of civility.

“Hey Mike, toss me a couple of gahdam biscuits.”

“You want butter?”

“Yeah, slide it down.”

“Jeezus Christ Dex, how many pork chops you think you can get on that plate? You forget you have shipmates?”

“Look who’s talkin’. I seem to remember last night, you took enough meatloaf to fill the forward hold on Mother Onion.”

“Hey Jack, you gonna hog the spuds all night?”

“Pass the damn beans.”

And so it went. Red-blooded American bluejackets miles from the civilizing influence of the gentle sex. Who, when left on their own, reverted to the primitive ways of their Viking ancestors.

One thing smoke boat boys never forgot. We had the best mashed potatoes anyone ever turned out. The Army and Marines might put up with spuds out of a box… Powdered crap… But not the smoke boat service. We always had real live, peel ’em spuds.  The mess cooks peeled ’em during movies… It was the only way a non-qual ever got to watch a movie…  And if the lads were in a good mood, you could pass out peelers and have a mass peeling session along with your shoot ’em up.

They served mountains of them…  Butter and great mashed potatoes.

We didn’t have a magic, Aladdin’s lamp silver plated coffee pot.  We had a contraption called a coffee urn…  Something akin to a pigmy water heater with a glass sight gauge that told you the closer you got to the bottom, the closer you got to roofing tar…  From roofing tar, you went directly to ‘bottom of the pot asphalt’.  You could stand a spoon up in after battery coffee.

The urn had a gravity drain that connected it directly to #2 sanitary tank wherein resided crew poop and rapidly decomposing head paper.  The line had a small gate valve and a couple of kick throws…  Failure to secure these little rascals before opening 225 lb. discharge air, allowed the charming contents of #2 to back up into the urn.  Maxwell House and percolated doo doo make for one helluva cup of coffee…  One of those fringe benefits of diesel boat submarining that Tom Clancy never shared with the lads he writes about.

Submarines carry folks called quartermasters…  Guys who dabble in occult sciences remotely related to establishing a ship’s position as related to God knows what.  These are men who worship at the altar of the LORAN god and who couldn’t find their ass with both hands and a flashlight.  Guys whose entire vocabulary consists of,

“Anyone got a clean white hat?  Me and the skipper are going up on the tender.”

But they had one thing on the rest of the animals…  They got to drink coffee poured from the silver plated coffee pot forward…  The marvelous device not connected to anything from which it could receive surprise gifts.

Quartermasters were sometimes invited to officer pow-wows and secret handshake meetings…  I was an E-3 and had no idea what they did other than drink coffee and spend a lot of time trying to figure out where we were.  We had a piece of equipment called a LORAN…  A device that was about as reliable as a cinder block when it came to determining our position.  The only difference between our LORAN and a Hindu tea leaf reader was that the LORAN didn’t steal oxygen.

The quartermasters and the officers used to study the charts…  Drink chicken blood…  Throw bones in the air and communicate with unseen spirits and something called the Naval Almanac…  The stars…  Wind direction…  Earth rotation…  Aunt Jemima…  Jeezus…   and use words like,

“We should be somewhere right about here…”

Hell, we should have been drinkin’ at Bells.

It had to be something that came out of that silver plated coffee pot because we always managed to find the international buoy…  The Chesapeake Lightship and the light on top of the Cavalier Hotel at Virginia Beach…  And once you could see that you knew you were only a couple of hours until you would be seeing that world-wide universal navigation beacon…  A neon sign that read,

‘BELLS BAR and NAVAL TAILORS’

And the old faded cardboard sign in the window…

‘Let BELLS put you in a new set of blues – Only $29.95 – Credit available – Just ask’

How many of you still had your ass mortgaged to Bells two years after you tossed those Bells ‘nut-huggin’ blues in the lucky bag?

On the old 481, navigation was less of a science and more of a community crap shoot, but somehow or another, we managed to find our way there and back…  Had to be that damn silver plated coffee pot.

If someone ever gives you a choice between a quartermaster and a seeing eye dog, do yourself a favor…  Stock up on dog biscuits and learn rudimentary bark.