Balls Deep
1974
VF-194
NAS Miramar Acey-Ducey Club
By: Robert “Okie Bob” Layton

It was a rope yarn Payday Friday we were given the rest of the weekend off with a pocket full of cash. An old-fashioned 72-hour Liberty.

We were all single hardcore first class liberty hounds, ADJ1 “Sleepy” Sam Wright, AMH1 William “Red” Jordan, and myself ADJ1 Robert “Okie Bob” Layton.

We were hanging out at the Miramar Acey-Ducey Club watching the Topless Go Go Girls!! Yes, you heard me right. Back in the “Good Old Navy” Before PC, real sailors like to watch naked women WOOO HOOO!!! Hell the clubs on base were all called “Enlisted men’s clubs” Let me repeat that “MEN’S CLUBS”.

The manager of the Acey-Ducey was a First Class Petty Officer RM1, this was his shore duty. He only had one right nut; he had given the left one to get this duty assignment.

Beer cost 50 cents a bottle, 25 cents a draft, cigarettes 30 cents a pack, Happy hour drinks were half price. The club had food, drinks, live entertainment, pool, pinball and shuffleboard.

Yes, sir, it was a single “Man Cave” deeeeeluxe!!, just chock-full of hard dicks——-hardly any women.

The drinking of cheap booze and watching Puppies play was a precursor warm up for better liberty down Mexico way where the “buy me drink, I love you no shit” kind of ladies we fleet sailors were used to subsided.

As we were enjoying the show, a first class at the table next to us was trying to sell his car to another shipmate. Overhearing his asking price [200 dollars] I leaned back and asked: “Where is the car located?”

He said “The parking lot”

We walk outside where he had a 1959 Ford Galaxie 2 door hardtop with brand new tires and mag wheels. I bought it right-on-the-spot put the keys in my pocket went back inside.

About that time the “Mammary Matinee” was wrapping up and it was time to pull chocks.

Sam spoke up “Hey Okie let’s go down south and see some Senoritas”

“What you got in mind,” I ask

“Well I know of a little bar in Puerto Santo Tomas Just South of Ensenada,” Sam said

Red added “Yeah come on Okie let’s go to Saint Thomas”

“Ok let’s go” I said and with that, and one more picture of beer we were on our way!

Sitting next to us was a shore duty boot second class with a football jersey on “Number 82.” He asked if he could go and we said sure no problem. We didn’t even know his name; Sam just started calling him Number 82.

So out the door, we four went. Red had ridden in with me in my TR3, Sam owned a ‘57 Chevy station wagon on its last leg and Number 82 didn’t own a vehicle at all. Having just purchased the ‘59 Ford and not knowing a frigging thing about it, I thought what better time to take it for an inebriated test drive.

We all piled in my two tone Green and white Ford. Red and Sam never questioned my driving proficiency or my ability to repair any broken Auto-Mo-Bill. What they usually did was fight for that grand “Shotgun Position”, which Sam won this time by being the self-appointed Navigator for this trip. The old Ford fired right up, we stopped at the navy gas station, filled her up, checked the oil and headed out for Mexico. Number 82 had fallen in with “Bad Company.”

There always was that sense of “wild party” on entering the Republic of Mexico. However, this time in my ‘59 Green Tank it felt more like invasion/liberation as I passed through the back streets of Tijuana. We pulled up to an old familiar bar: The Chicago Club. Sam and Red were gone before I could lock up the Tank, Inside, awaited the alluring Senoritas that Sam loved to romance about.

After a quick “Buy me drink protocol” the rental price for sex was negotiated and off to the rooms the liberty party went. Thirty minutes later we were loading up again headed for Ensenada.

Comparing notes on our latest escapade it was revealed that Number 82 had failed to get serviced!

Red pipes up “Hey 82 if you’re going to be a hanging out with us you need to get with the program”

82 replied, “Well fellows I have never been to Mexico before…”

We all kind of sat there in silence looking at one another thinking “Have we got a cherry boy on board?”

Sam spoke first “you like girls don’t ya?”

82 “yes, yes I do”

Sam “You got money don’t ya?”

82 “Yes I just got paid”

Sam “Well dive on in and get your feet wet”

82 “What do I say?”

And with that question Number 82 was properly schooled by the fleets finest during the 107 mile drive down to

Ensenada.

On arrival in Ensenada, I park the Tank, pay a Mexican Kid to watch it, and away we wandered, drawn to the Mariachi Music and high-pitched laughter of Senoritas. We were pulled toward the festivity like a mosquito to a bug zapper. We enter the first Cantina.

Our primary mission at this first stop was to get Number 82 “Balls Deep in Bugger.” The Cantina had a small stage made for some kind of show. We were seated at a square table next to the stage with 82’s back to the stage and the lights turned down really low. The saloon had a few locals but mostly Gringos.

The Juke box started–the curtains parted–and out stepped “Consuela the veiled princess of Baja”. As she went into her belly dance gyrations it was apparent to us three Westpac sailors Consuela was packing too much gear for our taste in women. Old 82 being the boot that he was, just ate it up.

Having come out of his shell after our pep talk and braced with shots of Tequila and Tecate he was in with both feet interacting with Consuela. Sometimes you just have to let something fail for people to learn, and for 82 this was one of those times. After the dance, Consuela slipped behind the curtains leaving 82 alone.

Red turns to 82 “Hey 82 what do you think about the dancer?”

82 “She’s pretty neat”

Red “She’s a dude man”

82 “What?”

Sam “Benny Boy”

82 “What’s a Benny boy”

Red “Boy you’re about a boot camp mother fucker”

Sam “Consuela is a man”

It took a few minutes to sink in before 82 got the arrangement! We were drinking our beer when Consuela comes out of the curtains and heads straight for 82. Consuela had changed into a long nightgown she pulls up a chair and sits next to 82. Old 82 sits frozen stiff, has a beer in his hand and with pleading eyes, he is looking straight ahead at Sam.

Sam bails him out

Sam “Consuela go on now our boy’s not interested”

Consuela “He no buy me drink?”

Sam “No he is broke.  Nooo Money”

We drink up and head for the next saloon, 82 is getting the education of a lifetime.

The next place was a straight up “buy me drink, I love you long time” clip joint. Time for lesson two for the “Green Gringo 82” We sat down and were waylaid by a bevy of over the hill seasoned lady hostesses. 82 immediately bought his Bar girl a ladies’ drink [a 5 dollar watered down tea] that she slammed down then pressed herself against him and cooed “Buy me another” In record time he had broken all hardcore liberty hounds code of conduct by buying 2 watered down ladies drinks in a matter of just a few minutes.

We three had turned down all offers of buy me drink and the Bar girls still remained. It was a game played out worldwide in all ports of call, “you buy me drink?” or I’ll stay here until you do, bugging you, which they would. Until you told them to leave, you were not going to buy drinks. We finished our drinks and departed for greener pastures.

Outside Number 82 got a good drilling about don’t buy drink after Bar drinks for the Girls. The next Bar was a lot better it had younger girls that had not yet exceeded their expiration date. But this time, our lesson was taken to the extreme as he failed to buy a very good looking gal a drink resulting in her departure. 82 possessed not an ounce of cool. His failure to negotiate a Mexican bar hooker put him in the Hayseed bin. Sam and Red once again came to his rescue.

Sam “Hey 82 what’s with the girl”

82 “Well you said not to buy em any drinks!”

Red “Yes but she’s a keeper”

82 “Yes she was pretty”

Red “So what’s the deal?”

82 in his best Gomer Pile mode “She was a lot better looking than the last ones just like Consuela was, I just didn’t want any Surprise Surprise”

Sam “She’ll do–she is a good girl–I know her sister”

Sam locates the girl from across the room and waves her back over to our table. She sits down, 82 buys a drink for her, and phase two of “Operation Balls Deep” commences.

There is an old saying in the military “You grab-em by the balls and their hearts and minds will follow.” That night in Ensenada Mexico Number 82 experienced the old saying literally when his bar girl took the situation in hand and led him up the stairway to heaven. 10 minutes later 82 was sitting before us fleet sailors a duly initiated world sailor!

Satisfied with the outcome of “Operation Balls Deep” Sam, Red, and Myself commenced to enjoy our own individual undertakings. I wound up in a room upstairs down the street, Red was in the same Hotel somewhere, Sam left with a Senorita in tow someplace and Number 82 was sitting at the table with his new found love. It was all agreed upon to muster at the bar in the morning.

I awake, roosters crowing, car horns beeping. I go on down to the last bar we were at, no one there. I sat and have a Tomato beer. Red arrives he drinks part of my red beer and orders us a bloody Mary–now that hit the spot! We leave and go looking for Sam and 82. We check in the bars, pass by a hotel and holler in the street for Sam or 82—

Nothing! A few streets down as we were walking next to a café with a big picture window when we hear Sam yell out “Look at the Gringos” we slip inside meet up with Sam and have a Mexican breakfast “Menudo with hominy” the cure for a hangover that didn’t work! After our meal, we three split up to canvass the town looking for 82. We all meet back up no one had seen 82. Having walked about 5 miles and partly dehydrated we started back on our liquids. Afternoon time we call off the search and rescue put 82 in the MIA list and make preparations to get underway.

We stop at a roadside store on the south of town to get some beer for the supposed short trip to Puerto Santo Tomas. Now this was back in the day when roads south of Ensenada were fairly rough and the road signs were scarce. Our turn off should have been about 42 miles south of Ensenada, I had never been there, Red had never been there, Sam claimed he had been there and knew the way, we possessed no map and GPS had not come about in 1974.

I ask Sam “Hey where is the turnoff”

Sam replied as we left the outskirts of Ensenada “It’s just around the corner”

20 miles later I ask again “Where is the Turnoff”

Sam “Don’t worry Okie It’s just right around the next Bend”

At the 30-mile mark “Where is the Turnoff”

Sam “It’s just right around the Bend”

Sam had given me the false impression that it was just right out the city limits of Ensenada when in reality it was 42 miles south and 25 west of Ensenada. I just kept trucking and drinking that Tecate.

I continued asking Sam for the turn-off and he just kept on saying “Oh it’s just right around this next bend”
Sam was getting sleepy and was living up to his nickname.

Sam relinquished his navigational duties and retired to the back seat for an afternoon Siesta. About the 80 mile mark we pull into San Vicente, we stopped at a gas station for a fill-up. It was there Red and I felt we had gone too far for the locals wanted Pecos instead of American greenbacks. We exchanged some American money with a local, Iced up the beer and headed on south still looking for Sam’s mythical Puerto Santo Tomas just “Balls deep” lost in Mexico!

Another 100 miles later we pulled into San Quinton it was getting near dusk, time for us to “Bar up” again. We find a small local Cantina that served food and beer and made an evening of it just relaxing and soaking up the colloquial ambiance. We spent the night sleeping in the Ford, awoke early and started driving back. 250 miles into Mexico! By the time we backtracked to the USA it will become a Baja 500!

It was a long hung over drive back we would stop now and then at a roadside bar and consume some liquor. 42 miles south of Ensenada Sam spots the turnoff to Puerto Santo Tomas having gone about 300 miles out of the way we take the turnoff, it was 25 miles of “Bad Road” no payment just a ungraded trail across the rocks and dirt. The whole 25-mile trip took about an hour and a half. At the end of the road, there really was a Puerto Santo Tomas. A sleepy little fishing village with grass hut cottages, an open grass hut bar and a boat rental for deep sea fishing the villagers still remembered Sam! We spent the rest of the day until late afternoon and departed several hours before dark.

We get on federal highway 1 and head north. We stop by the bars in Ensenada once more looking for Number 82, no luck. In Tijuana Sam wakes up and wants to be let out, Red and I once again in-chop the USA and retire to our old watering hole “The Jet Center” for a wine cooler!

The next week Red and I are at the Acey-Ducey Club for a noon beer… in walks 82.

Red jumps up and hollers “Hey 82!”

The guy pays no attention to him—he must have forgotten his name! “82”

Red goes over and grabs the guy by the arm pulls him back to our table

Red quizzes “Hey Mother fucker where did you go last week?”

82 “After Y’all left I went upstairs again with the girl”

Red “Yes but you were supposed to meet us back at the bar in the morning”

82 “I didn’t have enough money on me to keep going up and down the rest of the night”

Red “You dumb fuck! you were supposed to arrange a long time not keep paying for a short time over and over, Jesus H Christ”

82 “I didn’t know that, so I hopped on a bus back to Tijuana”

Red “Really”

82 “Then I walked across the border and got a bus back to Miramar”

Red ‘We spent a Day looking for ya”

82 “I’m sorry”

Red hands him our meal ticket “Here take care of this”

And we get up and walk out— back to work— for we were “Balls Deep in broke-dick planes” —-another story!!
Okie Bob

The Nasty City Snake Ranch

By:  Garland Davis

Most sailors understand the term “Snake Ranch.”  Many of us were involved as either renter, co-renter, shareholder, or tolerated as a visitor at a “Snake Ranch” one or more times during our Naval career.  They were usually located within a reasonable distance of the base with a NEX Beverage Store or a liquor store located on the direct route between the base and the Ranch.  Most were located in areas that were prime cross-pollination areas. If you couldn’t hook up and get laid out there you were one ugly son of a bitch or had major halitosis or hygiene problems.

I am reminded of an especially memorable Snake Ranch in National City.  Now “Nasty City” was the chosen hunting ground for Navy wives whose husbands had the duty, WestPac widows, ex-Navy wives, and every girl hoping to become a Navy wife, often known as National City Purty Girls.  Many homely girls, and some downright ugly ones, not to mention the heavyweights, with a tube of lipstick, two pairs of clean cotton skivvies, and a bus ticket eventually found their way to the environs of National City. Mecca of the First Fleet.  Right outside the main gate of 32^nd Street Naval Station, a bastion of the largest per capita population of totally irresponsible sons of bitches with resources of disposable income, and a monumental appreciation of sexual commingling.

The National City Snake Ranch was, to put it mildly, a dump. Not an ordinary dump, but a spectacular dump, with a record-breaking backyard collection of empty beer bottles and cans, as well as, a co-ed bathtub used more often for hanky-panky than actual bathing.

The house was furnished in a hit and miss fashion. What passed for the dining room had a wire spool for a table surrounded by three or four three-legged stools.   The table was usually cluttered with the Colonel’s buckets full of gnawed bones and sacks from the Jack in the Box on the corner.  The kitchen had a stove and a frying pan.  There were no plates of utensils.  I don’t recall anyone ever trying to cook anything.  The kitchen sink was used to give the dog a bath. The living room consisted of a couple of sofas and some stuffed chairs with sprung springs.  There was a big God Damned anvil where a coffee table would normally be situated.  No one had any idea where it came from, why it was there, or who thought it would enhance the ambiance of the room.  I guess it stayed there because it was too damned heavy to move.  Oh yeah, the beer reefer was along one wall of the living room.

The house mascot was a mutt dog who answered to the name Son of a Bitch. He drank beer, ate Fritos and farted.  He tolerated cats.  He was so lazy, he just let them wander in and out.  All he did was lay around, lick his nuts and ass, and fart.  He seemed to just fit in with the occupants of the Ranch.

The rules were pretty straight forward.

1. You had to be single.
2. You had to be a Petty Officer. No non-rated and No Chiefs.
3. No parking your cars in the yard.
4. When you contributed beer or booze, log it in. The log was checked to see who wasn’t contributing.
5. When the rent was due, pony up your share or you are out.
6. Don’t throw beer bottles into the backyard from the second-floor windows.
7. No goddamn phone. (We knew if there was a phone, the number would get out.)

No Chief or Officer could ever know about the Ranch.  If your mother was being tortured by the Commies and your sister was raped by Marines, you were dead if someone showed up to tell you.  The Ranch was a serious Monastic Brotherhood dedicated to fermented beverages and porking ugly damsels.

The house had three bedrooms.  Someone had rescued about fifteen mattresses from Navy Salvage and they were distributed between the bedrooms.  There was always someplace to crash when, after drinking beer for twelve or sixteen hours Old Morpheus hit you over the head with his sack of sand.

Over the years a number of different sound systems had been installed in the Ranch. There was often a battle between Rock and Roll and Shitkicking music being waged between different rooms of the house.  There was no problem from the neighbors as they were drunks and derelicts of whom the female members were often in attendance at the Ranch.  After all ,it was a “Snake” ranch and we tried to be good neighbors.

You would think that a First Class Electrician and a Second Class ET would know the danger of running six or seven cheap extension cords in a daisy chain to power the stereo.  Luckily with our Damage Control training, we were able to put the fire out with a couple cans of beer and one asshole pissing on it without having to call the Fire Department.

Somebody had drug home a glass fronted refrigerator that was emblazoned with the Coca-Cola logo.  It didn’t work, but the AC&R MM from the ship brought his gear and Freon tank and got the bitch working.  He tweaked it until the temp was between 33° and 36°.  Cold beer!  It would hold a hell of a lot of beer.  Seven or eight cases.

We did have a TV for a while, but there were too many arguments about what to watch.  Guys would get pissed off when they were watching something and everyone would vote to switch to “I Dream of Jeannie.”  A Boatswain’s Mate got pissed one night and threw the TV through the back window into the backyard where it rested among the beer bottles.  It was still there when I transferred and relinquished my share of the Ranch.

For all, I know the Nasty City Snake Ranch is still going strong.  When I returned to San Diego with a wife, I never went to check.  I knew I wouldn’t be welcome. I had violated the first rule.

The only other Snake Ranch I know of that was more depraved and debauched than the Nasty City one was located in the Barrio, but that is a story for another time.

The Non-Rated Mess

By:  Garland Davis

Remember the days when you were fresh out of boot camp, a Seaman Apprentice or maybe even a Seaman.  It seemed as if everyone with a crow on their arm was convinced that you were the dumbest son of a bitch ever born on the continent of North America.  They used you like a tool, abused you, and everyone told you that things got better once you “learned the ropes.”

There was a place where you could meet with your counterparts from other divisions and other ships.  It was a place that belonged exclusively to non-rates. It was a place where you could, whine and bitch about the Petty Officers, the Old Bastards, the lifers, the Chiefs and other assholes whose sole entertainment in life seemed to be making your lives hell.

The dumpster area on the pier was the place where we congregated to dump shit cans, smoke cigarettes and compare notes on who worked for the biggest asshole.

“Christ man, what’s it like on your ship.  Do you have a bunch of gut heavy old farts who sit around all day drinking coffee and talking about old decommissioned rusty assed Fletcher class tin cans that they used to ride? Old brain dead bastards.”

“Yeah dude, we got ‘em.  And a bunch of brown baggers who just try to get you qualified for watches so they can get you to standby for them on duty days so they can go home and poke the Old Lady.  They show you pictures of their kids and the cheap bastards only want to pay five bucks for a standby.”

“When you joined the Navy and got orders to a can, did you think it would be like this?”

“Hell no, I was looking for adventure. I expected to be in a gun mount instead I get to drag a fuckin’ 2 ½ fire hose up and down ladders during the day and then I have to stay up all night baking bread, sweet rolls, and cookies.  I hate baking fuckin’ cookies.  Soon as I get ready to hit my rack, we go to G.Q. and I got that fire hose again.  Maybe they’ll let me sleep in one of these days.”

“You ever see a recruiting poster with a smiling sailor holding a chipping hammer and a wire brush?  A dirty apron? Hauling heavy-ass shitcans a half mile down the pier to the dumpsters?  I don’t think it would hurt them to space the dumpsters out, like one for every couple of berths.”

“Those things always show some First Class Gunner’s Mate buying flowers for some good looking virgin in some exotic port or guys in whites riding Rickshaws in Hong Kong grinning like Cheshire cats.”

“Life on these old cans suck.  The AC and ventilation suck.  The chow is worse than my step mothers and she couldn’t boil fucking water.  No offense Davy.  Man, I think they stuck us in the bottom of the barrel.”

“Yeah! When you’re aboard on a non-duty day because you are broke, the Jackasses find shit for you to do.  Davis, Johnson, Bennington, and Sparks, the can behind us is getting underway and you got line handlers.  Muster on the Quarterdeck at 1615.”

“Fuck man! We’ll miss chow.”

“I’ll tell the cooks to save something for you.”

“Shit, that means Ham and Cheese or Horsecock sandwiches and leftover Brussels Sprouts.”

“Sounds like you been reading my diary.”

“See that new DLG over there?  I hear that it is air conditioned, has modern Galley equipment, plenty of storage space.  They even have little blue privacy curtains on the racks and a built-in reading light.  That way you can read a fuck book and beat off in privacy.”

“You’re shittin’ me?”

“No shit. They are cool and clean.  I hear they smell like a high school cheerleader’s skivvy drawer.  Everything is bright and new.”

“Anybody going to L.A. Friday? I’m looking for a gas sharing ride.”

“Anybody got a smoke?”

“Damn man, you quit buying them and took up bumming?”

“I’ll pass on the sermon, Davy.  I notice you don’t have a problem helping drain beer pitchers when you are short of coin.”

“Screw you!”

“Gimme a cigarette.  Man, you need to smoke something besides these strong ass Chesterfields.  Got a match?”

“Beggars can’t bitch. What are you a pussy?  Can’t handle a man’s cigarette?”

“Good evening gentlemen.”

Good evening sir.”

“What’s going on?”

“Just dumping trash sir, smoking cigarettes, cussing our Petty Officers and swapping Bible stories.”

“Well then, carry on,” the Lieutenant says as he moves on down the pier.

“Aye, Aye sir.”

“You know that guy?”

“Nope, probably off that DLG. I think they are SOPA.  Probably inspecting the pier.  There’ll more than likely be some shit come down tomorrow about hanging out at the dumpsters.”

***********************************************************************

A year or two later we were all sitting around our respective work centers, drinking coffee and ragging on the non-rated men.

“Hey, tool! Yeah, you kid! I wish you would hurry up and get signed off on Sounding and Security watch.  I need a standby.  I give you five bucks. I think that new barmaid at the P.O. Club is ready to give me some pussy and I’d like to be there when it happens.

We had become everything that we had bitched about.

An End to Innocence

By:  John Petersen

Ahh…those were the days…
Freedom at last! You’re North of the ‘Gate’.
The evening is early, your night in the hands of fate.
Made your first stop for a few primers and grub,
After politely excusing your lap warmer, it’s off to the next pub.
As you look down this avenue, full of people, traffic signs, and lights,
things seem overwhelming, overbearing, your brain cells in constant fights.
“Which way do I go? Which door do I enter”?
Seems every establishment is slightly off center.
Chief laid the order, to my LPO in charge of my first night,
“Bring him back in one piece, free of the clap and without a fight.
For if this young booter, who’s life you are entrusted,
Comes back spoiled or soiled, your ass is busted”!
Let him sweat bullets, you think, as this is your night to explore.
‘Omaha ain’t nothing like this, oh God gimme more’!
One after another gotta try each dimly lit and noisy place,
If you could put them all in alphabetical order, it would only slow your pace.
Olongapo, the Barrio, amazingly the choices are endless, yet so many treats,
But cross the line into Subic City young and wise Cherry Boy,
And you’ll find an adult Disneyland, for before your eyes a deviated feast!
The debauchery, the deviousness, the seemingly endless show of skin,
The more San MaGoo’s you plow down, the more of the Peso’s in that stack you put in!
The night goes on, everything happens so fast, time flies like the wind,
And somehow, some way, you’ve made your way back to where it all seemed to begin.
You’ve tried just about everything from Mojo to Bullfrog both red and green,
And the bet is on that no one back home will believe anything you’ve seen.
Heading unsteadily back to the gate, it’s very dark, LPO got lost, but wait, hold up!
Food! Oh God, how you need it, something to fill the gut is required, Ayup!
Your prayers are answered, river queens replaced by BBQ carts, the smell is commanding,
You haven’t had a thing to eat in hours, the body is demanding.
Sustenance is needed and no question to that fact,
You’ve still got a pocket full of coin, and now is the time to act.
Absolutely no idea as to the origin of this meat,
All you know is it hits the spot, fills the void that the night has demanded to defeat.
Made it through the gate, no strip searches this time around,
You’ve made it back to the ship oh heroic one, your rack you actually found!
As you pour yourself into your private place of slumber, oh inebriated one,
Don’t forget the alarm clock as quarters are soon to come!

Louis L’Amour Shitkickers and Skin Books

By:  Garland Davis

I know all of you will remember reading just to pass the time.  There were Louis L’Amour shitkickers, Shell Scott, and Travis McGee adventures along with semi-pornographic literature with titles like Swamp Woman, Boarding School Babes, or Dixie Darlings that set one looking for an odd sock after taps.  Those of us in the Asia Fleet were hooked on a series of “Kill Me in ______” detailing the Japanese exploits of Karate Master Burns Bannion.

I’ll tell you that no one ever ran into a John Steinbeck or Herman Melville novel that was in as much demand as Showdown at Laredo, The Running Gun, or Pink Pussycats.

The Chaplain had pocket-size New Testaments available.  Anyone could get one. You would see one or two before Easter or Christmas and on Sunday mornings when Divine Services were conducted aboard.   I’m sure some guys read them regularly, but they didn’t berth with the cooks or snipes.

Let’s face it, we read worthless “no literary merit” paperback trash.  At sea, U.S. currency had little value except as counters in the various games of chance.  Horse trading took place in a barter system involving smokes, razor blades, and fuck books.

How many of you have ever started a book and discovered the last dozen or so pages were missing?  Some guys tore books in half so they could pass on the first half to some other idiot waiting for it while they finished the second half.  I still have no idea how some books I started ended.

I remember a book that was making the rounds on one ship.  Don’t remember the title, if I ever knew it. It had been well read; some of the pages were even stuck together for some reason.  It was about a Navy pilot who was shot down by the Japanese and bailed out over an unknown South Sea island.  When he landed, a tribe of two hundred beautiful sex-starved Amazons with perfect large bust development captured and subjected him to a myriad of sexual perversions.  By the time he was rescued by some Baptist missionaries in 1948, he was down to eighty-five pounds, was blind and had been promoted to Commander with six years back pay accumulated.  We always figured that it took the plastic surgeons at least a year to get the smile off his face.

Sailors will read anything just to fill time.  I was being facetious when I said it was just shitkickers and fuck books. I served in one ship where Rise and Fall of the Roman Empire was passed around and read by many of us.

It sometimes got to the point where we found ourselves reading the printing on cereal boxes at breakfast or the labels on the catsup bottles.  You hit the high point of desperation for something to read when you resorted to reading the dry cleaning instructions sewn in your peacoat.

Ships contain miniature societies.  Little municipal jurisdictions afloat on the seas.  Libraries of books were stored under mattresses, in lockers, bunk bags, and in overhead nooks and crannies.  You didn’t need a library card.  All you had to do to scare up a trade was yell, “Anybody want to read Snow White and the Horney Dwarf or Goldilocks and the Sailor?

Heavy Rolls and Horsecock Sandwiches

By:  Garland Davis

Everyone who reads the crap I write may not have had the absolute pleasure of riding out a typhoon in the South China Sea in an Ocean Going Tug, A Forrest Sherman class destroyer, or a top heavy Fast Frigate.  This sort of paints a picture of the way it was.

There is not an amusement park ride that comes anywhere close to riding into the seas with swells breaking over the signal bridge.  If you like a pitching gyration insane motion, you get it big time riding out a typhoon.  Unlike the thrill park rides, it doesn’t cost a lot and lasts a long, long, long time.

There are foam-capped swells the size of skyscrapers that bounce a ship around like a flea on the ass of a belly dancer.  The pleasure of being damn near beat to death by bouncing from bulkhead to bulkhead trying to dodge valve wheels, valve stems and each other is one that airdales and bubbleheads seldom experience.

There is majesty to heavy seas.  It is almost impossible to witness the raw power of heavy seas and not wonder if there is a greater power controlling everything.  Only a Deity should wield and control that much power.

One minute you are climbing an enormous swell with bow pointed skyward and the next the bow is submerging and the water is smashing over the bridge.  “Ride ‘em Cowboy.  Put another quarter in Mama, I want to ride it again.” It repeats and repeats, accompanied by lateral motions, figure eight stern gyrations, and little jerks and vibrations thrown in by the Devil just for the hell of it.

Inside the ship, grown men are tossed and stagger around like drunks, forgotten booty falls out of overhead hiding places and the meals become an endless succession of fucking Horsecock sandwiches and coffee or bug juice.

The lyrics of an old song tell it well: “Oh, it’s roll and toss, And pound and pitch, And creak and groan, You rusty son of a bitch. Oh, boy, it’s a hell of a life on a destroyer.”

Your God Damn fillings get loose in your teeth, you lose your watch, your smokes go flying, guys shoot their lunch, roaches do flips out of the overhead, the cooks are cussing, and guys in their racks dying to take a piss ask themselves, “Do I really want to work my way to the head to watch some son of a bitch puke while I attempt to piss in a moving target?”

Suddenly, over the 1MC comes, “Now stand by for heavy rolls to port.”

Do we really have a fuckin’ choice?  Are heavy rolls to port different from what we have experienced for the last day and a half?  Did I miss something?  Is there still shit in the overhead that needs to hit me in the head?

Actually, all that “Heavy Rolls to port” means that all the stuff that flew by you in one direction will be coming back and putting knots on your head from the other side.

“Supper for the crew.  Watch reliefs to the head of the line.”

“Hey Bill, do you think it is Horsecock and cheese sandwiches again?”

“Does a hobbyhorse have a wooden dick?”

“Hey you guys, you ought to go back to after steering and listen to the rudder slamming.  Son of a bitch is going nuts.  Who has the helm?”

“I got it next watch.”

“Not me, I am going to strike for Mess Deck Master at Arms and sit in the Mess Deck eating Horsecock and cheese sandwiches.”

“How the fuck did I end up in the Navy?  Nobody said anything about a seagoing puke barge.”

“You know you love it Davy, where else could a hillbilly like you from North Carolina with an IQ of a cockroach get rich baking bread for horsecock and cheese sandwiches and throwing the leftovers in the Pacific Ocean for a living.

And so it went, on and on.  Stuff banging around in lockers, water sloshing around in the galley and heads, dishes and mess gear rattling around, the acrid smell of gastric juices and puked up horsecock and cheese mixed with last night’s coffee and bug juice.

Sailors stumbling around bouncing off bulkheads, stumbling over watertight doorsills.  Already eighteen years old and finding out that the guy at the recruiting office who promised a life of wonder and adventure was a lying, airdale, shore duty son of a bitch.

Thumbing Rides

By Robert “Okie Bob” Layton

There was a time, oh, 30-40 years ago when being in the Navy was fun you just had to know how to work it!
We worked hard and long hours at sea most of the time 12-18 hour days. Pulling into port one would try and maximize every hour of liberty that was available.

While on rest and recreation the professional “Liberty Hounds” were the masters of this and from them grew the legends of uninhibited escapades, Antics of drunken debauchery, close calls with the shore patrol, brushes with the local law, conquest of the opposite sex, outlandish wanton sex, minimal monetary expenditures, and endless in port parties and of course escape from punishment. This was the formula for the best sea stories the fleet could produce.

I was one of those “Liberty Hounds”, one of the pack, if there was a pecking order in our pack place me about the middle for being senior enlisted I had an image to represent [military bearing] and a reputation to uphold [Liberty Hound].

I was a well-balanced yin-yang sailor, but not the top dog! Now along about this time in 1980 I happened to have a sailor who worked for me who was the “A-number-one” party animal I had ever served with.

AMECS Joe Creapo

No one could get as much fun on liberty as Joe. He just had the knack for getting the most out of the least amount of liberty. Tuff as nails, Joe could handle himself in any bar fight, out drink all the rookies, and always managed to go home with the best-looking girl in the bar. Beer drinking, Harley riding, you could count on Joe to empty his wallet in any stripper club in record time. I would get to know Joe from the time he was a Happy 2nd class petty officer until he was a super Senior Chief petty officer.

And so it happened, on USS Coral Sea 1980, a few days out of pulling into Subic Bay Philippines, a First Class Joe approached me with this proposal.

“Senior Chief Let me go into the beach early”

“What for Joe,” I ask

“If you let me go in early I’ll set up a party for the Detachment”

Joes volunteering did have some merit for we had just completed a long at sea period and everyone was ready for some good old “PI” liberty

“Joe if you can catch a ride into Cubi Point its OK with me”

“No shit!” he exclaimed
My yes to his request somewhat shocked him!

“Joe you promise to have everything ready?” I told him

“No problem Okie I can handle it”

Joe was really excited for he had never got to fly off the ship early just for the sole reason of liberty.

“You know Okie I really appreciate getting to fly off early,” He said

“Do you know what to do to get off,” I ask

“Well kind-of” he replied

“Joe you’ll need to go up and see if you can Hitchhike you a ride in on a Mail COD [mail airplane Carrier On-board Delivery]” I informed him

“Don’t worry Okie I’ll have the beer iced down and waiting on the pier when the ship ties up” He boasted

The Mail COD’s flew out of NAS Cubi Point Philippines and were used for the purpose of shuttling people, parts, and mail to and from the ship. You needed a set of orders to fly off the ship- something Joe did not have. I assumed Joe was going to see our Administrative go to guy YN3 Manny Jasso and have him type up a set of dummy no-cost orders to the CVW-14 beach Detachment. So when my guys came down from the flight deck and told me Joe had caught a ride on a C-1 into the beach I thought everything was OK.

Things were not OK, for Joe had departed the ship without any orders which made him AWOL and to top it off he was entering a foreign country illegally without permission.

Two days later we pulled into Subic Bay and tied up to Leyte Carrier pier Cubi Point. I’m out on the cat walk gazing down on the pier looking for Joe.

No Joe!… No iced down beer!… No nothing…bummer!
I come to the conclusion something had gone wrong with Joe. I organize a liberty search party and depart the ship searching for Joe. I was in some deep shit if something had happened to Joe for I had not told my Officer in charge that I had let him leave the ship!

First stop was Gordon street “Po city” Olongapo the Marmont club after a quick check with one of his old Honeyko’s it was reviled he had been there the day before and left word he was heading out to Subic City.

Acting like true shipmates [the search party consisting of Red Lahe, Scotty Stockard, George Dahms, and myself] we go down and each rent a Trike [A two-cycle motorcycle with a sidecar] for a race out to Subic city!

We had a chilling race out to Subic City in which Scotty almost got flattened by a bus when his Trike wouldn’t go uphill fast enough. The local Bus decided to push him. For you thrill-seekers out there it was quite a rush to take a Trike ride back then. With the two cycle Ring-Ding-ding. Ring-Ding-ding under powered engine, bumpy ass sidecar and the little buzzer of a horn going full blast you could be standing still and it felt like you were riding down the road!

But, when you got that thing really moving down a heavily trafficked road, darting in and out of traffic with a race wager riding on top of it, buddy it was like an amusement ride minus the safety features—it was the real deal folks what a blast!

We arrive in Subic City and go bar hopping looking for Joe no luck. We end up at the Broadway Bar asking if any of the girls had seen him. They did not recognize his name but when we described him they all went “Oh Oh Ga Goo Americano” [Crazy American] they said he had left with Max. We all wondered who the hell Max was!

Consensus was to wait, go upstairs, settle down and to have a few cold ones.
I’m sitting between Scotty and Red inside the Bar away from the balcony when we hear a ruckus outside I get up and look over the railing in the street below.

Down the street comes Creapo beer in hand, naked, riding a 600lb Pig! Joe is just a whooping and hollering waving his cap in the air he looked like Slim Pickens riding an “A” bomb. A drunk ass girl is walking next to him topless smiling and waving. You would have thought they were in a 4th of July parade!

I holler down “Joe”

Joe looks up smiles and says, “Hey Senior how you like my ride his name is Harley”

“Joe where the hell was ya?” I ask referring to him not being on the pier

“Let me park my Bike and I’ll be right up” he replied

Scotty, Red, and George never moved. This was all normal for them- so natural, for they thought and why wouldn’t he!

Joe gets on a shirt, shorts, and flip-flops and comes upstairs.
“Joe what the hell” I exclaimed

“Hey I always wanted to ride my motorcycle into Subic City I figured this is about as close as I can get—It’s a Hog” he grinned

About that time his girlfriend walks in, still topless and commences to give everyone at the table a motorboat ride!

Joe introduces his Girl “This here is my new biker chick her name is Max short for Maxed-out”

I inquire “Ok Joe why didn’t you meet the boat at the pier”

“Well I have been hiding out?” he said

“We could tell that”

“After I left you on the boat I go upstairs and they were fixing to load up a COD to shoot to the beach. I ask one of the crew members if I could catch a ride into Cubi he said yes. I had my white flight deck jersey on, he must have thought I was part of the Transfer and receiving crew and It was OK so I go down pack a quick AWOL bag go back up and launch off to the PI”

“So?” I quizzed

“Well, when we landed at Cubi they asked me for my orders. You didn’t tell me I was supposed to have orders.” he sternly said

“I thought you knew” I shrugged

“Well let me tell you the Philippine customs officer knew!” he barked

“When we landed, he put my ass under arrest”

“How did you get out of it” we ask

“As he was waiting for a truck to pick me up and take me to jail. I managed to talk him out of a Head call”

“Once I got in the head I went out the bathroom window, flagged a sailor down driving down the street paid him to take me to the main gate changed into civvies on the way and made it out the main gate before anyone was alerted”

“Your one lucky fucker” I noted

As if to square things up he offered “Well Okie I’m sorry about not meeting you on the pier Let me buy you a beer and a motorboat ride!”

Our concern for his safety had now turned into annoyance for once again he had come thru unscathed and turned a failed liberty into a success!

AFCM Robert “Okie Bob” Layton

Cockroaches

By:  Garland Davis

Note: The photo above and this statement on FaceBook by my shipmate and an excellent photographer Dick Hanover reminded me of this one:

“AIMD berthing, starboard side aft, 3rd deck. Strips of tape were stuck to the bulkhead with the ends folded over so the strip was sticky-side-up. The roaches would run across it on their way from the bilges to the Officer’s Mess directly above on the second deck and their big rear feet would stick. Each night we’d count the day’s catch and note on the Roach Calendar. I ended up with a prime rack when the Air Wing departed but inherited the Roach Calendar in the process.”

End Note

Having been assigned as the Chief Cook in seven ships, the ship’s corpsman and I have been held responsible for cockroach infestations on four of the seven.  The XO had to lay the blame on someone; the cockroaches hung out around the Galley and mess decks; I was in charge of those spaces; Doc was responsible for pest control; ergo we must be the cause of the cockroach infestation.

The ATA that I served in didn’t have cockroaches.  The son of a bitch rolled so bad sitting alongside the pier that any cockroaches that did get aboard became seasick and immediately went ashore. The two FF’s I rode out of Yokosuka never really had a roach problem.  We figured the cockroaches hated the top-heavy mothers as much as we did.

The Forrest Sherman class can that I rode was cockroach heaven.  I think that when cockroaches were killed anywhere in the fleet, instead of going to heaven, they came to the Morton.  Either that or we had the horniest cockroaches in the fleet.  I think it was a combination of both.  We got back two for everyone we killed.   The XO made the Doc come onto the pier and spray boxes when we were loading stores to prevent getting cockroaches aboard.  It was akin to turning off the faucet to the sink when the bathtub was overflowing.  We cleaned, we sprayed and nothing seemed to help.  I found that a live steam hose was more effective than any poison.

The crew was so used to the cockroach infestation that comments like this were heard: “Fuck man, there’s a cockroach in my salad.”  “Don’t worry he won’t eat much.” or “Fuck, I didn’t get one.”

A cockroach is strolling across the deck.  A crewmember tells it, “If you walk on this tile, I am going to stomp your ass.”  And lets it live if it avoids the tile.

During GQ while on the gun line, to amuse themselves, the members of Repair II capture a half dozen roaches and paint different colors on their backs. They put them in an empty can, draw a circle on the deck, bet on the colors, dump the roaches in the center of the circle; the first one out of the circle won the bet.

The largest infestation in Midway was in the after Bakeshop.  The lagging was ripped and torn and the bugs had worked their way in and were impossible to eradicate.  The only solution was to rip out the lagging and replace it.  Fortunately, we had two bakeshops.  We secured the aft shop, formed a tiger team of cooks and mess cooks and ripped out the lagging, preserved and repainted the bulkheads, laid down a spray of residual cockroach poison and lagged the space.  That solved our cockroach problem.  During the ’82 Ney Award inspection, the inspector from BuMed was surprised that he was unable to find any cockroaches, especially on a ship as old as Midway.  He mentioned this to Captain Owens during the de-brief.  Owens blew out a mouthful of cigar smoke and said, “You want to see cockroaches? Come on back to my pantry.”

Archeologists have found fossils of cockroaches over sixty-six million years old.  Cockroaches survived the calamity that led to the extinction of the dinosaurs, numerous ice ages, floods, volcanoes, wars, and even nuclear explosions.  A cook with a steam hose and a corpsman with a spray can did not stand a fucking chance.

But in perspective, the cockroaches aboard our ships were midgets compared to some I have seen in the tropics.  There are cockroaches in the PI large enough to stand flat-footed and fuck a Chihuahua.

Once There Were Heroes

By:  Garland Davis

During my first four or five years in the Navy, career sailors from 1941 through 1946 were completing their twenty and retiring.  Most were combat veterans of WWII and Korea.  I remember a second class Commissaryman who, when we fell in for Personnel Inspection, was wearing a medal I hadn’t seen before.  When I asked what it was, he replied, “I don’t know, just some Geedunk they give us.”  Someone later told me it was the Silver Star.  He was serving in a destroyer that was hit by a Kamikaze and he rallied the Cooks and Stewards to fight the fire when the fire party was killed and was credited with being a factor in saving the ship.

The Galley Chief at NAS Lemoore was a submarine sailor.  He wore a combat patrol pin with three stars.  When I asked him which boats he was on, he said, “I was on so many different ones, that I don’t remember.

I saw many medals for heroic acts and numerous Purple Heart ribbons and medals in those days.  Unlike today, most career sailors had four or five ribbons at the most and only wore them for inspections or official ceremonies.

I was serving in an Ammunition Ship.  There was a BM2 aboard who as a BM3 had survived the attack on Pearl harbor. He wouldn’t talk about it.  He and many other survivors had been advanced one pay grade by Act of Congress.  Which meant that it would take an act of Congress to bust him.  A good man, happy with his place in the Navy.

One Captain of Vesuvius was an aviator who had been one of three survivors from Torpedo Squadron Three at the Battle of Midway.  An impressive officer.

I was serving in an Ocean Going Tug in the mid-sixties when a W-1 Bosun reported aboard.  He was wearing the Navy Cross and Purple Heart.  As a PO1 commander of a River Patrol Boat in the Mekong Delta of South Vietnam, he had taken his boat to the aid and rescue of other boats that were caught in an ambush and saved the boats and lives of his shipmates.  He retired as a Captain.

In the mid-seventies, I was on shore duty in Pearl Harbor.  There I met a First Class Gunner’s Mate.  During a personnel inspection and awards ceremony, he was presented the Navy Cross for an incident that had happened in early seventy-two while he was serving as an advisor with a Vietnamese PBR crew.  He had gone to Viet Nam as an eighteen-year-old GMGSN and, due to numerous extensions in country Viet Nam, four years later left there as a twenty-two-year-old GMG1.

He called me one evening and asked if he could stop by my house.  He said he had something important he wanted my advice on.  I said yes and he arrived a short time late with a twelve pack.  The Warrant Officer he worked for was encouraging him to apply for the Warrant program.  He asked me what I thought. I told him that with the Navy Cross, he was a shoo-in for selection.  I told him, “You can go for it, do the job the way it is supposed to be done, knowing you did your best or you can skate along on the Navy Cross for twenty years.  It is up to you.  You are a good sailor; you’ll do the right thing.  He retired at twenty-two years as a LCDR.

I once met a Special Forces Colonel who was wearing the ribbon for the Medal of Honor.  I was the Bachelor Quarters Officer at SubBase Pearl Harbor.  The BOQ had two suites that were reserved exclusively for Flag Officers.  The Captain insisted that submarine admirals be given preference.  I met with him each Friday to go over the message requests for the suites.  Only he could decide if a suite was to be assigned.

I stopped by the base one Saturday, as was my habit.  When I went into the BOQ lobby, the MS2 desk clerk was explaining to a Colonel and his wife and daughter that no quarters were available.

I identified myself to the Colonel and asked if I could help.  He told me they were overnighting in Honolulu to catch a flight the next morning and needed a place for the night.  He said he had tried the Army, Air Force, and numerous hotels.  Everything seemed to be filled up because of a convention and a RimPac Exercise.

I told the Petty Officer to assign them Suite Bravo.  She said, “But Chief, what will the Captain say?”

I told her, “I’ll talk with the Captain. Just get them into the suite.”

I called the C.O.’s home phone number.  I told him that I was assigning an Army Colonel to the flag suite.  Before I could explain why he broke in vehemently, “Negative, Negative, get them out of there!”

I said, “Captain, he is wearing the ribbon for the Medal of Honor.”

“By all means Chief.  By all means. You did the right thing.  Pay my respects to the Colonel and ask if there is anything the SubBase can do for him or his family.”

I went and passed the Captain’s respects to the Colonel.  All he required was the room.  He thanked me, shook my hand, and that was my meeting with a holder of the Medal of Honor.

These were some of the heroes I worked with and came to know during my Navy career.  Ordinary, everyday men, who when the situation called for it, rose above themselves. I served with heroes! Where are today’s heroes?  They must all be in the Seal Teams.  Those guys rock!

Now I look at the above photo of American sailors kneeling on the deck crying while being held captive, after surrendering their boats and weapons without any resistance. They gave in to a bunch of unintelligent sand apes. I grieve for the Navy that I knew.  The only reaction to the situation that I have read is a few people were relieved and the sailors were probably sent to a therapist to ensure they have no permanent mental trauma from the experience.

According to the reports their electronic navigation equipment and some of their communications gear was inoperable, as well as personnel lacking proper training.  I believe one of the boats experienced an engineering casualty and was being towed.   What has happened to take care of your gear and equipment?  Someone probably missed maintenance training for a diversity workshop. A total cluster fuck.

I almost daily read of Officers and Senior Enlisted leaders being relieved because someone “Lost confidence in their ability to lead.”  Just what does that mean.  Let’s break it down!

With today’s kinder gentler touchy-feely Navy, shipboard leaders are no longer permitted to enforce discipline to get the job done.  Deck plate discipline, fan room counseling, XO’s “I”, and CO’s Mast have been replaced by a Chief or Officer wasting time with one-on-one counseling and Discipline Review Boards. I guess instead of handing out Achievement Medals for wearing the proper uniform they hand out frowny face stickers.

Those CO’s, XO’s, officers and Chiefs that try to enforce discipline and carry out a mandated routine are at the mercy of the crew when higher authority conducts a Command Assessment which gives the malcontents and those with a perceived personal slight a chance to wreak revenge on the command or the Chief.

Another frequent topic is the number of ships that are “Broke Dick” because of a lack of maintenance training, rate training, and operational errors on the part of the crew.  This resulted in a ship aground on a reef in the Philippine Islands and another rusting away in Singapore waiting for a replacement part.

I could continue this, but I am getting more and more depressed as I write.  I’ll just leave it here and maybe someday I will write the rest of this story.  That is if I can keep from gagging.

This is long, but worth your time. Wish I had written it. It’s a long read, but I think it’s a good one.

Garland

The Navy

Before you get all up in my face ’bout what I’m ’bout to ramble on about, lemme first say that I know the human memory tends to heavily discriminate the stuff it stores, cataloguing things the way it wants to and reserving special places for certain select events, sounds, sights, smells, and scenes.  And not only does it selectively edit things in and out, but it tends to embellish events with its individualized set of filters, ethics, morals, priorities, and tastes, magnifying some episodes and minimizing others.

O.K.  That said, I recently came across something that triggered memories of my early experiences in the Navy.  ‘Smatterafact, lotsa things do that as I get older.  My holistic retrospect on my 24 years in the USN is quite positive, and I often willingly go back to relive what were my most exciting and satisfying times .  .  .  all the way from a raw unranked boot in San Diego to the guy responsible for maintenance and repair of elex comm & crypto equipment for CincPac, SubPac, CinCPacFlt, Com7thFlt, and several other high-powered commands in Hawaii.

Hair all shaved off.  Personal effects confiscated.  Clothes that didn’t fit.  Strangers yelling stuff at me I didn’t fully understand.  Food that tasted like stewed dirt.  Beds that spoke of the hundreds who’d slept in ’em before.  Marching in formation with guys wearing exactly the same clothes I had to wear, carrying an out-of-date rifle with which I had to master and demonstrate skills useful in no situation my fertile imagination could conceive.

My entire personality dragged out, ridiculed, abused, and tossed on a scrap heap only to be replaced by one that knee-jerked instantly to commands and single-mindedly carried out lawful orders, even though no one had ever explained to me what exactly an unlawful order might have been.  No longer was I a college boy pursuing liberal arts and intellectual growth but a cog in a 72-man machine dedicating every single waking moment to causing no demerits to the company during inspections, drills, skill training, or parades.

Home was a narrow cot in an open-bay barracks featuring gang showers and rows of sinks, urinals, and commodes with no provisions for individuality, much less privacy.  Lights out happened when the Company Commander decided we’d absorbed enough humiliation for that day, that our lockers were properly stowed, that our shoes were properly shined, our barrack was properly cleaned, and that we clearly understood that we were still useless raw meat that some unfortunate Chief Petty Officer would one day be burdened with molding into halfway decent sailors.

Reveille was 0500, even before the seagulls which swooped down to pick up the lungers off the grinder were up yet.  Formation was 20 minutes later, after shaving and dressing and fixing bunks and being reminded that the coming night would indeed be damned short if we screwed up ANYthing that day.

Breakfast was hard-boiled eggs and beans and soggy toast one day, chipped-something-or-other on soggy toast the next, greasy fried mystery stuff with soggy toast the next, hamburger with tomato sauce on soggy toast the next, and all served with something vaguely white called “reconstituted milk” and a dark, vile, burnt-smelling but otherwise tasteless fluid some would-be comedian labeled “Coffee.” One good thing, though .  .  ..  you could have as much as you could eat in the 15 minutes you were allowed inside for breakfast.  Lunch and supper were always filling and nutritious, even if often unpalatable, indefinable, and unrecognizable.

It was cold all morning out marching around toward no place in particular, and hot in the barracks at night when the giant inventory of our individual and collective miscreancies was recited to us by members of our own group temporarily endowed with positional authority over us.

And I loved it.  I’d go back and do it again if they’d let me and I thought my digestive system could survive it.  Yes, I loved it, yet I counted the days, the hours, the minutes that I had left to endure in that young-adult Boy Scout camp before I could go see the real Navy and have some fun .  .  .  AND get paid.

Once actually out IN the real Navy, I was astonished at the importance, the almost religious reverence, that people in khakis showered upon two things: control over the free time of non-rated personnel, and rust.  To me the sole purpose of Chief Petty Officers was to ensure that anybody in pay grades E-1, E-2, and E-3 get dirty as soon as possible after morning quarters and NEVER have an opportunity to go ashore and act like sailors (i.e., drink beer and bring great discredit upon their beloved United States Navy).

My first assignment after boot camp was on a tanker whose duty was to fuel ships anchored beyond the breakwater, deliver AvGas and MoGas to detachments on islands off the California Coast (San Clemente, Santa Catalina, and others), and defuel ships going into the yards for overhauls or extensive refits.

When not involved in the specific act of transferring fuel in one direction or another, my primary value was in ferreting out and annihilating pockets of rust everywhere on the ship except in the engineering spaces, where my red-striped non-rated peers busied themselves at the same thing, except that their enemy was oil, grease, steam, and water leaks.

Six months later, now a fully-fledged sailor in all respects with three white stripes on my left arm, I got orders to Electronics Technician School at Treasure Island (San Francisco), where my primary duty was to listen to fatally boring lectures on basic electricity and make absolutely certain that my shoes were spitshined at all times.

A giant conspiracy existed amongst the staff, primarily the CPOs, at the school command to do everything in their power to keep those of us who had actually been to sea from contaminating the ones who’d come to school straight from recruit training.  The strategy consisted mainly of ensuring that we fail enough quizzes and tests to require our spending all our evenings at night study, thereby keeping us from going into town or to the club to fill our bellies with beer and our eyes with the silicone boobies of Broadway.

Probably what amazed me even more than the fanatical interest that Schools Command CPOs had in ascertaining that everyone’s shoes reflected light better than polished onyx was the number of people who couldn’t take the pressure of boot camp or service schools and went to extreme lengths, such as bed wetting, to get out of the Navy and go back home to Mama.

Other than its unnatural interest in shoe shines and haircuts, tho, the Navy’s plan was beginning to make sense to me.  First you got stripped down nekkid, both inside and out, all your strengths were identified and your weaknesses exposed, you were shown how to do a job, and then you were sent out into the field to see if you could hack it.  In front of you at all times were both good examples and bad examples: you saw the carrot side reflected in the gold hashmarks on Chiefs who’d learned how to work within the system and you saw the stick side in the red ones on career E-5s who either couldn’t cut it or didn’t know how not to get caught.

Everybody smoked.  Everybody drank beer.  Everybody had a disgustingly nasty coffee cup.  Everybody cussed, except when the chaplain or some officer’s wife was around.  You did your job, and if you were good at it, you got pay increases through promotions.  You pissed people off and didn’t get the message, you stayed in the lower pay grades and got really good at handling brooms, trash cans, and scrub brushes.

The Navy I joined had the old-fashioned Chiefs, those keepers of tradition, guardians of ancient lore, solvers of problems .  .  .  those grouchy, irascible, sarcastic, but indispensable guys who’d been around longer than anybody else on the ship, except maybe the Captain.  They knew where everything was, how everything worked, what everything was for, and who was responsible for what.

Becoming a CPO was really a big deal in that Navy, involving a time-honored festival of near-orgiastic silliness designed to close out the years of irresponsible ignorance with one last naked dance through the fires of humiliation and excoriation to emerge reborn as full-grown lion guarding the gates of the repository of all useful knowledge.

Amongst the Chief’s primary duties were making sailors out of farm kids and smartalecs and goldbricks and Mama’s boys, showing them the skills and qualities required for them to fill his shoes when the time came for him to retire his coffee cup.  The Chief nominally reported to a young butterbar whom he had the awesome challenge of transforming into a leader of those other young men he was making sailors of.

Chief reported to the Ensign, but he delivered the real status to the Ensign’s boss, usually a seasoned Lieutenant or Lieutenant Commander.

Chief generally had a special relationship with both the XO and CO, both of whom sought his advice and assistance in all sorts of problems and situations.  His niche and his positional authority were well established and completely understood by every member of the crew.  Any white hat entering the Goat Locker had better have his hat in his hand and a damned good reason and Heaven help him if he forgot to knock first.

Today .  .  .  I’m not so sure I’d make it.  Chief no longer has that special relationship with CO and XO, and he rarely does business directly with his department head.  As soon as he sheds his dungarees and shifts into khakis, he enters a confusing political arena of Senior Chiefs, Master Chiefs, Warrant Officers, and LDOs all doing what the Chief used to do.  He’s simply gone from technician to supervisor, and his initiation has become as watered down as his authority.

In the Navy of the 50s and 60s, traditions aboard ship were honored, cherished, and observed.  Various initiations occurred from time to time, such as making Chief or crossing the equator, during which rookies or newbies were ritually cleansed, humiliated, and physically abused to degrees generally powers of 10 more severe than anything the Gitmo terrorists ever had to endure from their guards.

Such episodes served the purpose of reminding every member of the crew that new experiences, new threats, new life-altering events could bring even the proudest and strongest to his knees.  And when the purging was over, the initiates were welcomed as brothers, tougher than before because of what they’d learned they could withstand if necessary.

But it was a good Navy, a Navy that won wars, intimidated dictators, brought relief to victims in faraway lands, had fun, and proudly carried the flag.  And I loved it.  But I’m not entirely sure that what we have today is the natural child of that generation.

In 1960 if you got drunk on liberty, your shipmates got you back to your rack and woke you up in time for you to make morning quarters.  If you found yourself in jail, the Chief or your DivOff would bail you out and work with the local cops to fix whatever you broke, or stole, or lost, or insulted, or forgot to pay for.

Today you get drunk and you wind up in a rehab facility with entries in your service jacket that’ll haunt you for years.

Same thing for behavior on the ship.  In 1960, you mouth off to the Chief or get caught goldbricking one too many times and you got a blanket party, or extra duty, or both until you got your act together.  You also didn’t see much of the quarterdeck or the brow, and you could forget that recommendation to take the next rating exam.

Today you act like a jerk and you wind up in a seminar, or a counseling center, or a psych ward and they load you up with a ton of paper that follows you until you abandon ship and go to work for IBM or AT&T or the local sanitation service.

In 1960 you came out with four-letter words and some heat in your voice toward what you saw as petty rules or regs or some would-be politician, and people either agreed with you or stayed away from you ’til you calmed down.

Today you say “Hell” or “Damn” and you’d better be talking about either the Revelation or furry little aquatic animals with big teeth and flat tails.

In 1960, when they were in schools or on shore duty, sailors lived in barracks and ate in chow halls.

Students in today’s Navy or sailors on shore duty live in hotels like the dormitories rich college kids used to have in the 60s.  They’re called “Unaccompanied Enlisted Personnel Housing Facilities” and look like Ramada Inns.  And sailors today eat in “Dining Facilities” like debutantes, and there aren’t any grouchy old Navy cooks in the back stirring the pots or grumbling mess cooks scrubbing pans and swabbing decks.

In 1960, sailors leaving the ship or station on liberty wore the uniform of the day, either Dress Blues or Whites.  Officers and senior enlisted were often privileged to wear civilian clothes ashore, but not always.

Today’s sailors wear cammies most of the time, and it’s hard to find a sailor in dress uniform any more.

In 1960, the Navy Exchange was there to provide low-cost uniform and toiletry items for sailors and their families.  Selections were limited, but quality was good and savings were considerable on things such as booze, cigarettes, candy, and trinkets.

Today the typical Navy Exchange is a poorly managed, badly stocked, miserably staffed business failure that sees more merchandise go out the back door in a lunch bag than out the front with a sales receipt on it.

You want selection and a good price, go to Wal-Mart.  Commissaries aren’t much better except for meat and cosmetics.

In 1960 many officers had at least some experience in enlisted ranks or engines or management and were patriotic military men who commanded respect by understanding the jobs their personnel did and staying out of their way while they did them, then sending them on liberty when they got the job done.

Many of today’s officers are politicians who are afraid to say what’s actually on their minds for fear of offending someone’s delicate racial, ethnic, cultural, or religious sensitivities.  They’re generally much better at leaping to premature cover-my-six conclusions than making well-researched but tough decisions.

In 1960 sailors went to night clubs and titty bars and kept pin-up pictures of girlfriends or movie stars in their lockers.

Today the girls go to sea with the guys and hope they bought the right brand of condom.  Any sailor looking at a picture of a girl today is doing it either on his blackberry via e-mail or on a porn site with his laptop.

In 1960 you got medals for doing something extraordinary, such as saving lives or preventing disasters or killing and capturing enemies in battle.

Today many sailors get medals for not being late for work for more than 6 months at a stretch and never coming up positive on a random drug test.

In 1960 many sailors were involved in collecting human and signals intelligence and analyzing it.

Today the MAAs collect urine and civilian contractor labs analyze it.

In 1960 we had clear-cut rules of engagement and unambiguous descriptive names for our enemies.  The basic rule of engagement was to wipe out the enemy by whatever means available, and we called them “Red Bastards” or “Commie Sonsabitches” or words our grandmothers wouldn’t like to know we used.

Today we call people who want to destroy us, cut our heads off, enslave our women, end our way of life, “Aggressors” or “Combatants” or “Opposing Forces” or “Islamic Warriors” to avoid offending them.  Our sailors are no longer allowed to kick ass and take names, only to Mirandize and make comfortable

In 1960, victory meant that the enemy was either completely dead or no longer had the ability to resist, that all his machines and networks were captured or out of commission, that he had surrendered or been locked up, that the fight was over and he accepted defeat.

Today we declare victory when the opposing forces call time out, insist that it was all a big mistake, and that they’ll stop resisting if we rebuild their cities, their refineries, their factories, their infrastructure.

The Navy I joined was easy to understand.  It was organized and straightforward.  The hard workers got the bennies and the shirkers got the brooms, and everybody in between was anonymous and safe so long as his shoes stayed shined and his hair never touched his ears or his collar.  Chiefs ran the place and officers did the paperwork until required to put on their zebra shirts and referee bouts between CPOs engaged in pissing contests.

Anything a sailor needed to know, the Navy taught him, from tying knots to operating fire-control computers on 16-inch guns.  A sailor never had to worry about what he was going to wear; that decision was made for him and published in the Plan of the Day, which was read every morning at quarters, usually by the Chief, the source of continuity, stability, and purpose for everyone in the division.

Today a kid can’t even get in the Navy unless he finished high school and has a clean record with law enforcement.  He’s expected to be keyboard literate from day 1, and he speaks a completely different language from what his Korean- or VietNam-War grandfather spoke, no matter if that was English or what.  He doesn’t play baseball, or football, or hockey; he plays golf, and tennis .  .  .  more often on a Wii than on a course or court.  The modern Navy doesn’t keep people around to dump trashcans and scrub galleys and clean heads; that’s done by civilian contractors..  And the majority of CPOs today are expected to either HAVE a degree of some kind or be working toward getting one soon.

Today’s successful Navy non-com is a paper-chasing button pusher, not a sweat-stained commie killer.

Today’s sailor is in touch with his “significant others” by e-mail or cell fone almost anywhere he’s sent.  The idea of a 6-month deployment to Southeast Asia with no contact other than snail mail seems cruel and unusual torture to him.

No, it’s doubtful I could succeed in today’s Navy as I did in yesterday’s.  I prefer my triggers to be on pistols and rifles, not on joysticks controlling surveillance drones and other bots.  My policy as a division officer was never to tell a tech to do something that I couldn’t do myself, much less that I didn’t understand.  Today I’d have to learn a completely new vernacular and become familiar with a strange culture before even TALKing to my troops.

And though it dates me and cements me into a mindset that’s fallen out of fashion, I think I liked the Navy that I joined better than the one we have today.  Yes, of course the capabilities we have now are wider, more sophisticated, more potentially effective.  But they’re more fragile, too, and techs can’t even FIND the discreet components in a printed circuit board any more, much less actually isolate a bad one and replace it.

I’ve let technology pass me by, willingly and completely.  My skill set is anchored in tubes and resistors and 18-guage wire and cathode-ray tubes and hand-held multi-meters and bench-mounted o-scopes that weighed 120 lbs.  But still, I LIKE those old Chiefs with the pot bellies and the filthy coffee cups and the scarred knuckles and the can-do attitude backed up by years of hands-on experience, both on the job and in the bars all over the world.

I LIKED guys like Harry Truman who weren’t afraid to make hard choices and fire egomaniacs and take personal responsibility for their own decisions.  It was GOOD to see people standing on a beach or a pier waving when the ship pulled in, knowing there’d be dancing and singing and fistfighting and dangerous liaisons, not snipers with Russian-made rifles and lunatics planting IEDs along the streets.

Yes, we lived with the omnipresent fear of instant nuclear annihilation, mutually assured destruction, uncertainty about tomorrow, and all that.

But it seemed that the government was on our side, that our country did good things throughout the world, that the US was the best place to live on the planet and our presidents didn’t feel they had to apologize for a goddam thing to anygoddambody.

It’s not so much that I want a do-over; I just want teachers, and senators, and taxi-drivers, and clerks, and college professors, and congressmen, and judges, and doctors, and kids growing up to see my country the way we all saw it in 1960 .  .  .  as a strong, charitable, fun-loving, loyal, don’t-piss-me-off place with no patience for petty tyrants and loonies.

I wonder what my British counterpart might feel about the direction HIS country’s taken in the last 60 years or so.  Probably much the same as what the native-born Roman Legionnaire of the 4th century felt when he saw what had become of his beloved SPQR.