Snipe’s Lament

Author:  Unknown
Now each of us from time to time has gazed upon the sea.                                                          And watched the warships pulling out, to keep this country free.
And most of us have read a book or heard a lusty tale.
About the men who sail these ships, through lightning, wind, and hail.
But there’s a place within each ship that legend fails to reach.
It’s down below the waterline and takes a living toil-
A hot metal, living hell, which sailors call the “HOLE.”
It houses engines run by steam, that make the shafts go ’round.
A place of fire and noise and heat that beats your spirits down.
Where boilers like a hellish heart, with blood of angry steam
Are of molded gods without remorse are nightmares in a dream.
Whose threat that from the first roar, is life living doubt,
That any minute would with scorn, escape and crush you out.
Where turbines scream like tortured souls, alone and lost in hell,
As ordered from above somewhere, they answer every bell.
The men who keep the fires lit, and make the engine run.
Are strangers to the world of night and rarely see the sun.
They have no time for man or God, no tolerance for fear,
Their aspect pays no living thing, the tribute of a tear.
For there’s not much that men can do, that these men haven’t done.
Beneath the decks, deep in the holes, to make the engines run.
And every hour of every day, they keep their watch in hell,
For if the fires ever fail, their ship’s a useless shell.
When ships converge to have a war, upon an angry sea,
The men below just grimly smile, at what their fate might be.
They’re locked in below like men foredoomed, who hear no battle cry,
It’s well assumed that if they’re hit, the men below will die.
For every day’s a war down there when the gauges all read red,
Twelve hundred pounds of superheated steam can kill you mighty dead.
So if you ever write their sons, or try to tell their tale,
the very words would make you hear, a fired furnace’s wail.
These men of steel the Public never gets to know
So little’s heard about the Place, that sailors call the hole.
But I can sing about the place, and try to make you see
The hardened life of men down there, cause one of them is me.
I’ve seen these sweat-soaked heroes fight, in superheated air.
To keep their ship alive and right, though no one knows they’re there.
And thus they’ll fight for ages on, til steamships sail no more,
Amid the boiler’s mighty heat and turbines hellish roar.
So when you see a ship pull out to meet a warship foe.
Remember faintly, if you can, the men who sail below.
author unknown

Is Change Always Good?

By:  Garland Davis

Someday, probably sooner than later, some progressive son-of-a-bitch looking to change something for change sake will take a look at the impractical white hat and throw it in the lucky bag along with the flat hat, the blue working hat, and the knit watch cap, if that is still a thing.  Someone will probably call a maven of high fashion and Haute Couture who will inform them that the white hat is not in line with the fashionable naval forces of the world.

American sailors will probably end up with a European inspired piece of shit instead of the versatile white hat.  Progressives seem to like substituting overseas loser crap like berets and camo uniforms with bloused trousers over combat boots for sensible and comfortable dungaree uniforms with a white hat or a blue working cap.  I’ll bet there is an asshole somewhere in the Navy department who just loves those French pouf hats with the red pompoms.

Take a look at the legends of World War II, Nimitz, Halsey, Spruance, Cutter, Lockwood and others.  These giants wore over their left breast a handful of ribbons that meant something, accompanied by Gold Wings or Dolphins.  Now look at the, literally, hundreds of no combat Flag Officers of today.  They are wearing so many ribbons, qualification pins and other meaningless crap that they walk with a port list.

The practice of awarding everyone for everything has proliferated down to the lowest levels.  Seamen graduating from boot camp can receive a ribbon just for accomplishing something that millions before them have done and under more stringent conditions.  I was at a Denny’s for breakfast a few weeks ago.  A group of shore duty sailors came.  Yeah, the shore duty stations have a shoulder patch identifying the command these days.  A non-designated female Seaman was with the group.  She was wearing four ribbons, including the Navy Achievement Ribbon as well as the ESWS pin.  I had eight years in the Navy before I had any ribbon other than the Good Conduct and I only had one of those.  (How the fuck does an E-3 qualify for ESWS on shore duty?)

Our Navy held our own and contributed to winning the cold war at the same time fighting a hot war in Vietnam and responding to incidents such as the SS Mayaguez incident. Yeah, we not only won the cold war, but it also looks as if our leaders are hell bent on winning the World Wide Naval Silly Shit Awards Race.  Looking around, we must be ahead.

You can have a dumbshit commanding a pisser and shitter rehabilitation depot in East Bumfuck who looks like one of Bonaparte’s Field Marshalls.  I wonder if the bastards wearing all that hokey garbage fool themselves into thinking it makes them relevant in the competency game while deep down they know they are posers and losers.  Do the medals make the man?  Are subordinates impressed with all the colored ribbons and shiny doo-dads?

“Hey Chief, is Ensign Stumbles getting another medal at quarters today?  What did he do for this one?”

“Hell, I don’t know.  Got up at reveille or wiped his own ass.  Who cares, the damned things don’t mean shit.”

You know, it is a damned shame.  Medals and ribbons once meant a lot.  These awards were worn by men who earned them in Harm’s Way.  They were more than souvenirs that say, “I have been there and done that.”

We have diminished the standard for so much that was once so meaningful to Americans. The political and Naval leadership has become complacent and have stood by uncaringly while many of our important traditions are cheapened or discarded like so many leaves in the wind.

I guess if you accept shit, the world will hand you all you can handle.  One morning you wake to find a draft dodging, worthless, asshole in the White House getting hummers in the oval office and, overnight, it becomes “No Big Deal.”

Boy, talk about getting sidetracked, I started this about the white hat and ended up talking about “Blow Jobs.”

There is a memorial in Washington for the sailors of the United States Navy. There is a lone sailor, wearing a white hat, peacoat collar turned up and his hands in his pockets. A typical American Bluejacket, standing there with his seabag. I sometimes worry about him. He is so out of step with the newer, gentler, modern navy. Someone should go down some moonless night and award him eight rows of reflector tape ribbons, bolt on a G.E. refrigerator emblem and a Harley ornament to make him conform to the present day Navy.

The last time I saw him, he had three inches of snow on his white hat and shoulders.  If you are in DC and heading to San Diego, you might consider giving the poor bastard a ride to a warmer climate before he freezes to death.

The Gun Line and Subic Bay

By: Garland Davis

There came the point after the snipes had been on port and starboard six on six off watches for two or three weeks when they turned the lights on in hole snipes berthing to shovel the place out.  The place looked like the dump.  Magazines, overflowing butt kits, sour towels and a collection of dirty underwear that had started growing a new life form of green stuff.

It was at a point like this, where the ship had been on the gun line long enough to miss a couple of stores on loads, the evaporators were acting up, and the boilers were demanding an inordinate amount of feed water and of course water hours was mandated.  Water hours meant infrequent or no showers, no fresh laundry (as if anything other than the CO’s and XO’s clothes could ever come out of the laundry categorized as fresh).

It began with an itch in the crotch and a funky smell from the armpits.  Once you were down to your last clean shirt, you outright stunk.  Or most of those of us who worked up in the world did.  Miraculously those mangy, greasy hole snipes exited their little slice of hell each watch clean and smelling of Dial soap and Right Guard Defunk.  Their clothes were even reasonably clean.  Could it be that the very people responsible for making and storing water for the comfort of their betters, i.e. us, were hoarding said liquid for their own nefarious purposes?

I am in a position to answer that question.  Having been one of the few people with a commodity that hole snipes were willing to trade for, fresh bread and cinnamon rolls, I became privy to their clandestine shower and the steam hose used to clean their clothing.  Only their shirts and pants.  If there was a snipe who wore skivvies, I doubt if I ever met him.  Which raises the question, are the female snipes in our squeaky clean new Navy wearing skivvies?

After two months of this life of deprivation and hardship with daily rearming and refueling and the infrequent stores on loads, sometimes, you even got ice cream, you learn that the ship has been extended on the gun line for an additional month.  It is at this point that your best friend Thompkins’ face starts to look so stupid that you just want to knock it off his head.  And what’s with BM2 Patterson? All you said was, “Good morning, Pat.”  That didn’t rate his reply of, “Fuck you, Davis, just fuck you.”

So you gritted your teeth, took a deep breath and endured it for another month.  And finally, the day came when the ship was detached for transit to Subic Bay.  The short transit of the South China Sea took almost as long as the ninety-day gun line period.

The morning of entering port, miraculously the Sea Detail fell out in clean, neat dungaree uniforms that had been hoarded for the event.  The evening before, white uniforms and civilian clothing had been removed from the deepest reaches of lockers and inspected in preparation for liberty.  The previous morning the Disbursing Officer had held a special payday so crewmembers could draw off all the monies they had “left on the books” for this special port call.

As soon as the ship was tied up and word passed through the ship that fresh water was coming from the pier an orgy of ‘Hollywood and Hotel” showers began.

“Hurry up in that shower, you been in there half the morning. No jacking off, I’m next, and I don’t want to be slipping and sliding.  It’s hard enough walking without this mother fucker rocking and rolling.”

“Fuck You!”

“Hey does somebody have a razor blade that I can borrow?”

“Let me use your Rat Guard man; I don’t think this Lifebuoy can cut through the stink I built up after three months of water hours.”

“Jones D. L.?  Whose skivvy shirt is that man?”

“I don’t know, got it out of the Lucky Bag.  What, you writing a fucking book?”

“Maybe someday.  Who knows?”

Nah, who’d give a shit about reading a book about a bunch of idiots?  Besides, no one would believe it.  Once upon a time I lived among people who volunteered to live like enslaved primates in metal boxes, with lousy shared sleeping conditions, crappy food, oil flavored drinking water.  Then the whole thing rolled and pitched around like a warped agitator in a washing machine.  And they did all this for less money than it cost to buy a couple of Happy Meals.  Nobody would read crap like that.

When the Goddesses of Hygiene, Payday, and Liberty in Subic looked down and blessed the residents of an old Forrest Sherman tin can all was right with the world.

It was also good to live amongst men who were right where they wanted to be. No one kidnapped and drug them off to San Diego or Great Lakes.  They weren’t victims of the Selective Service Board.  They were volunteers.  Most of the world didn’t know they were there, out on the far rim of the Pacific, willing to do whatever necessary to keep nasty people with strange political ideas from your hometown.

They were my Shipmates, some of the finest Goddamned men who ever lived.  It is an honor and a privilege to have known and served with such men.

Thereby Grows a Sea Story

By:  Garland Davis

A popular country song begins with the following stanza.  It pretty much describes every liberty I pulled in Subic Bay.  You remember, back in the day

“I’ve woke up in places I couldn’t remember

Who’s lying next to me

Or how the hell I got there

It’s hard to believe that’s the way I used to roll”

It was Friday, your ship was tied up to Alava Pier at the Naval Station Subic Bay, Republic of the Philippines.  If you were lucky, the XO was happy, your Department Head and Division Officers had an early tee time, the Chief was thirsty, and the planets were in the right houses, they put down liberty at 1300.

For a non-rated North American Bluejacket, there was only one way to see the lovely ladies of Olongapo in the bright light of day.  That was through the contents of numerous brown bottles labeled San Miguel Pale Pilsner. It was never more true any other place in the world, the girls did get prettier as the day and night wore on.  By curfew, at midnight, they were downright beautiful.

There was a short walk to the gate and the bridge to a paradise that one finds only once in a lifetime.  But, lo and behold, there was a watering hole on the way known as the Sampaguita, where one could slake the thirst of the journey.  A stop to prime the pump with a few and then on to the gate.

One had to get past the hurdle of the Marine sentry.  Square your white hat, show that you weren’t going to corrupt the local economy with American cigarettes and you were past that hurdle.  Next came an assault on your olfactory organs, in other words, the delicate aroma of Shit River.

Somewhere between 1300 and sunset on Friday half the vessels of the Seventh Fleet dumped their liberty sections on the beach.  I would bet that an aerial view of Magsaysay Street and all the white hats moving up and down the street would resemble maggots crawling around a rotting carcass. As a matter of fact, the carcass would have smelled better than some areas of the town.

By the time you hit the first three shit kicking or rock bars, you had probably been in love at least twice and had already started negotiating short time fees.

By 2000 you were desperately searching for one of the guys from the ship who ran a slush fund.  You had enough money for two more beers and then you would have to go back to the ship.  All you needed to do was borrow enough for another short time and a few more beers.

Finally, about 2200 you drag your sorry ass back through the gate and stop by the Sampaguita in hopes of cadging a couple of beers from a shipmate.  A few beers there and you and your new friend stagger back to the ship.

The next morning, you and your shipmates tell each other what a great liberty it had been.  The story grows with each retelling.  You spent the evening with the most beautiful girl on the street.  She bought you many beers and you were such a great lover that she didn’t even charge you for all night and paid your jeepney fare to the gate the next morning.

By the last retelling fifty years later, she and her twin sister had become your steady girls and liberty in Subic never cost you a thing after that night.

Thereby grows a Sea Story.

I wrote the first version of this one about five years ago.  It has been published on FaceBook and some other sites, sometimes giving me credit, sometimes not.  All the furor about this past week’s changes to the personnel and rating system brought it to mind.

Where in Hell Did They Go?

By:  Garland Davis

They were famous throughout the Navy.  The Gut in Barcelona; East Main Street in Norfolk; Flatbush Ave in Brooklyn; The Combat Zone in Boston; The Pike in Long Beach; Market Street in San Francisco; Broadway Street in San Diego; Hotel (Shit Street) in Honolulu; The Honcho in Yokosuka, China Town and Sakuragi-cho in Yokohama; Wanchai in Hong Kong; Buggis Street in Singapore; Magsaysay in Olongapo; and all the other places where fleet sailors congregated.  People ask, “Where did they go?”  Well, shipmate, they didn’t go anywhere.  You are asking the wrong question.  You should ask, “Where did all the fleet sailors go?”

Long ago, on a payday night and in the nights following, these streets were a paradise to the North American Blue Jacket.  A person could look down the street and see neon signs advertising beer and bars and a sea of white hats bobbing up and down as sailors made their way from bar to bar.  At liberty call, these became a shopping center for intoxicating beverages and sex.  And in some places a PO2 could get that new First Class crow sewn on or that old Third Class crow sewn back on.  No need for crows these days.  It is all collar and hat devices.   Hell, I don’t see much need for dress canvas these days.  The only time I see it worn is when a ship is leaving or returning from a deployment. With all the straight sailors and females, the gays and lesbians and “don’t knows” aboard these days, I figure sailors are shopping for sex closer to home.

The smoking lamp is cold and probably over the side or being saved for recycling or Mary Soo (forget her, CumShaw is Fraud, Waste, Abuse and misappropriation of government property. I’ll tell a story about the consequences of CumShaw some time.) Instead of trading useless gear to Mary Soo for painting the ship, the Navy now recycles and lets a multi-thousand dollar contract to get the job done.  Smoking is now frowned upon.  Surface ships limit smoking to a tiny, uncomfortable topside space.  My shipmates in the Bubble Head world can no longer smoke anyplace aboard the boat.  Municipalities and states have jumped on the bandwagon and banned smoking in bars and restaurants.  Drive past any bar or lounge, and you will see a group standing on the corner smoking and no, they cannot bring their drinks outside. It is against the law to drink in public.

Drinkers are now pariahs in our modern Navy.  The clubs are closed.  They no longer exist or have been converted to MWR game rooms where the strongest drink available is a fucking Red Bull.  Quarterdecks of ships, in addition to a podium, log books, long glass, and weapon are now equipped with Breathalyzer and probably a watch stander to operate it.  Many commands are requiring that sailors refrain from drinking the day prior to a duty day.

Back in the day, a sailor ashore knew that his shipmates had his back.  Whether in a confrontation with a sailor from another ship, marines, or Limeys, he knew his shipmates would stand with him.  Too much to drink!  A shipmate would help you back aboard and even help you to your rack. You would do the same for him when necessary.  These days, you are assigned a “Liberty Buddy.”  You are to stay together and, I guess, keep each other from drinking or smoking.  With the repeal of “Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell,” I guess a dalliance with a “Rump Ranger” would be okay.  But, before you go ashore, you have to formulate a “Liberty Plan” and get it approved by your Department/Division Liberty Coordinator.  If during your liberty, you or your, Liberty Buddy change your plan, you must contact your Liberty Coordinator and get the change approved.  I surmise that, “I’ll be in the Barrio some place getting fucked up, a blow job, and laid.” Would not be an acceptable liberty plan. It always worked for me!

They were more than streets bars. First and foremost, they were the repositories of small bits and pieces of the history of America’s forces afloat. They were the unofficial clubhouses of those of us who went to sea on old gray steel under the flag of the United States. They were places where a thirsty bluejacket could go and park his ass where sailors heroes of earlier fleets theirs. They were the poor man’s Valhalla, where lads who plowed deep salt water, could go and share fellowship and sea stories with fellow sailors… A place where the well-intentioned lie and the bullshit-gilded flawed recollection were readily forgiven and accepted.

They were places where lonely strays could tie up alongside a warm and willing honey-ko on a cold night… For less than forty bucks.

Where did the streets and the bars go you ask?  Where the fuck did the sailors, go?