Gettin’ Some Strange Can Be Strange

By:  David ‘Mac’  McAllister

We were preparing for yet another deployment to Westpac since our sister ship in Alameda was once again unable to sail. I was standing on the main deck of this AOE watching stores being loaded on a crisp overcast Bremerton day when it came aboard. I knew that it existed but hadn’t laid an eye on it until now. With slings under the tires it was being lifted off the pier and made the distance from the pier to the ship. A haze grey 1956 Ford Fairlane four door sedan complete with a black waterline painted around its lower quarter and the designator LV-1 placed on each front fender in white highlighted black letters/numerals. It belonged to my division officer.

CWO3 had received accompanied PCS orders to SRF Subic Bay. LV-1 was going to make the trip with us while his wife and HHG would be coming in the normal fashion.

Naturally, CWO3 had been overwhelmed with glee for the past several weeks since receiving these orders. Personally, I thought unaccompanied orders would have been much better since he was married to an ex-Navy Wave that was the model from which the term buffarilla had been coined. Being no prize himself, I always thought that the mating of the two must have resembled hippo wrestling without the benefit of cooling water to conceal it. Seems they had one of those open marriages long before the term was in vogue. He had an eye for anything that moved as long as it wasn’t her and she liked the young and the tender. Many a division get together had been graced with her charm only to culminate in her cutting out the youngest of the tender FA’s present and bulldogging them into a back room to have her way with them. They would always emerge from that experience ruined for life.

We finished up our load out at Bremerton, POL’d at Manchester finally loading ordinance at Bangor. Then on a misty foggy Pacific Northwestern morning we slipped our moors, slid down the Hood Canal into Puget Sound through the straights of Juan De Fuca and out into the raging blue waters of the Pacific. With our bows pointing westward the rugged coastline of the United States dropped off into voids of the eastern horizon. On a great circle route, we sailed ever westward chasing the Earth’s curvature towards what would be our first port call – Subic Bay, RPI. Here we would top off on Avgas and leave CWO3 and LV-1 behind before setting off for unrep ops in the South China Sea and the Gulf of Tonkin.

Underway one morning as CWO3 dropped into the reefer shop for his ritualistic morning update and cup of Black Gang, he sat there in stoic silence listening as I gave him the skinny. I could tell he was ruminating and about to pontificate by the slow and measured fluttering of his eyelids. He always did that when he was about to bless us with something he thought to be profound. Squirming his little fat ass around on the work bench he came to full height and said “Mac, I been thinking, there’s allot of strange (his common reference to Pussy gotten outside the limitations of marriage) there in Subic. Believe I’m going to hire a live in maid, you know to sort of help out the wife around the house with the cooking and cleaning. I could probably find one that would be willing to put a little strange on me, if you get my drift. This way I can have my strange at home and never have to be out of sight and cast suspicion upon myself. I mean, you know how nosey neighbors can be and all”. All I could do was look at him and think to myself ‘Right!’

Upon arrival LV-1, packed with all of CWO3’s worldly possessions, was off loaded. Presently CWO3 lumbered down the brow with one of those oh so familiar manila envelopes containing his records and orders, hoisted his mushroom shaped continence into LV-1 fired it up and in a cloud of blue smoke departed down the pier. That was the last I seen of him until we returned 60 days later.

After countless unreps and conreps of bullets, beans and black oil, we returned to Subic for maintenance and to replenish our inventories. Walking into shop 38 to check on a job’s status I ran smack dab into CWO3. He had to give me the skinny on all his latest strange; but most importantly was his acquisition of a so called “Regulation Three Hole’r” from the Barrio and her subsequent employment as a live in maid in his base housing abode. Said that he was expecting Mrs. CWO3 within the week; however, already had the maid in place, cooking, cleaning and providing some strange. Needless to say, he was overjoyed with how well things were working out thus far. We parted ways at the door to shop 38, he off to who knows where and me off to the Chuck Wagon for a beer and Cheese Burger.

After another five weeks out we found ourselves once again in Subic for a little R&R, maintenance and replenishment. Ashore one afternoon, I walked into the Hole in the Wall, a little go down joint just across the bridge over Shit River, and ordered a beer. Climbing onto a rickety bar stool, when the frosty beer arrived I checked the bottle, wiped the neck and popped the top with my finger. After a long pull of the near freezing contents, I looked around surveyed the place. To my surprise in the back at a table talkin’ shit to one of the girls was CWO3. Catching his eye, he motioned me over. Knowing then that nothing serious was going on, I eased on over for a chat. Naturally, I had to be updated on all his latest strange. When I asked how the maid deal was working out for him his only reply was “Bitches”. A couple more beers were ordered and after a couple of pulls on them through misty eyes he tells me the sad tale.

Seems Mrs. CWO3, after settling into her new home complete with live in maid, got her ear to the ground regarding the hot and cold version of the maid’s extracurricular activities, bringing it to a halt. Now then in retrospect, Mrs. CWO3 begins to take a shine to the maid and the maid to her and a sort of trusting bond forms. So, CWO3, thinking this isn’t necessarily a bad thing, sets out to renew his former relationship with the maid. On tiptoes late one night he steals into the maid’s darkened room to resume his clandestine nocturnal activities. He lifts the sheets and slides into her bed only to find his wife already there in the arms of the maid making mad passionate lesbian love. Not necessarily miffed by all this going on, old CWO3 decides to join in the festivities. Neither the maid nor Mrs.CWO3 were willing to share any of their new found fondness for each other with him and proceeded to inflict bodily injury upon his person to the tune of both eyes being blackened on either side of a severely disjointed nose. Said he had to practically run for his life out of his own house as the enraged lovers commenced to throw anything that wasn’t nailed down at him.

Well, I sat there bewildered and yet amused at the tale while trying my best to pretend to be both sympathetic and shocked through tears of suppressed laughter. CWO3 in a most sincere and depressed tone looks at me and says “Goddammit Mac, I do all the leg work, pay a permanent bar fine, get the mother fucker registered on the base, provide her a salary and now the fuckin’ old lady is getting my strange! But that ain’t what really pisses me off, what really chaps my ass is that when they aren’t diddlin’ one another their ridin’ all over the base in my LV-1 and I’m a foot!” To that I said “Well you still got the Barrio shipmate; let the pigs eat slop there are steak dinners waiting out there.” To this he smiled, bought another round of beer to go and we caught a jeepney for Subic City with Marilyn’s on our minds.

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

PCS Syndrome

BY:  Garland Davis

Long ago, during the seventies, I read a paper written by a Navy Psychologist.  The subject of the paper was Navy enlisted members’ lives after retiring from active duty.  The doctor chose one hundred names of personnel who had been retired for at least twenty years from the retired list.  The list consisted prominently of Chief and First Class Petty Officers with a few Second Class Petty Officers.

Twelve of the one hundred were deceased, leaving her with a population of eighty-eight persons. She contacted each of them and asked them to provide a detailed list of jobs held after retirement and locations in which they had lived.  Nineteen declined to participate leaving a study population of sixty-nine.

I don’t remember the percentages of her results.  I have searched the internet for the paper.  I am not sure it was ever published.  She was at Balboa in San Diego when she did the study.  I read it in a waiting room at the hospital while waiting to see a dermatologist.

As closely as I remember, the majority of responders reported changing jobs a number of times after retiring.  Many also changed residences periodically.  One individual retired in the South, after two years he moved to the Midwest, then a few years later to Alaska, then on to the Panama Canal Zone, and finally back to the Midwest. Those who retired and stayed in one area tended to change jobs or residences periodically.

I was thinking about this the other day as a subject for my Blog.  After I retired, I worked as a Manager and District Manager for a fast food chain for a couple of years.  I then moved to another fast food chain as Area Manager for a year. I worked as a consultant and Adjunct Faculty for a university for another year.  I drove a taxi for a couple of years.  I then started a taxi leasing company which I operated for over twenty years while continuing to drive.

I had a neighbor, a bubblehead, living across the street from me, who after retiring, worked for a Navy contractor for a few years.  He then sold out and moved to Texas, where he drove a truck, did estimating and sold roofing, sold air conditioning, and now does estimates for Home Depot.

The Psychologist found that over fifty percent of the subjects in her study continued to the live out their lives adhering to the PCS system they had become accustomed to in the Navy.  Some relocated long distances, some just across town, and many lived in one location but tended to change jobs every two or three years.  A few retired back to their hometowns settled into stable jobs.

The doctor called this phenomenon of periodic change the “PCS Syndrome.”  I don’t recall the psychological reasoning she attributed this propensity to that caused many of us to PCS ourselves periodically, a system that we had lived under for at least twenty years.

The only place I have a desire to relocate to these days is Branson, MO for about a week every May to attend the Asia Sailor Westpac’rs Reunion.

The most fun you’ll ever have with your clothes on!

To follow Tales of an Asia Sailor and get e-mail notifications of new posts, click on the three white lines in the red rectangle above, then click on the follow button.  To see a menu of previously published articles, click on the three white lines in the red rectangle above.

A native of North Carolina, Garland Davis has lived in Hawaii since 1987. He always had a penchant for writing but did not seriously pursue it until recently. He is a graduate of Hawaii Pacific University, where he majored in Business Management. Garland is a thirty-year Navy retiree and service-connected Disabled Veteran.

Tu Do Street,Saigon

By: David Wright

AFTERWARDS I SMOKE A CIGARETTE,
AND WATCH HER DRESS.
SHE DOES SO METICULOUSLY.
EACH MOVE IS DELIBERATE AND PRECISE.
KNOWING THAT I AM WATCHING,
SHE TURNS AND SMILES.
“YOU MAKE ME SHY”. SHE GIGGLES.
“I DON’T THINK SO”. I REPLY.
SHE SITS IN FRONT OF THE MIRROR,
HER SMALL FIRM BREASTS BOUNCE GENTLY,
AND BEGINS TO COMB HER HAIR.
HAIR THAT IS SOFT AS DOWN.
AND FALLS BENEATH HER WAIST.
SHE SITS STRAIGHT,
HER BACK ARCHED.
IT’S A GAME SHE PLAYS.
“HOW CAN SHE DO IT”? I MARVEL
TO CONTINUE LIKE THIS,
A FEW HOURS OR DAYS WITH ONE,
THEN ANOTHER,
AS IF NOTHING HAD CHANGED,
FROM HER SCHOOLGIRL DAYS.
OR DID SHE REALIZE TOO SOON,
LIKE I,
IN A CORNER OF THE EARTH GONE MAD,
WHERE TWENTY-FIVE IS OLD,
THAT NOTHING IS FOREVER,
AND NO ONE WAS EVER REALLY YOUNG.

Continental Hotel, Tu Do Street, Saigon, Republic of Vietnam

USS Chopper

Story was sent to me by Jim Kikis

Sometimes when a submarine goes wildly out of control, it sinks to the bottom. Sometimes when a sub goes wildly out of control, it goes straight to the surface. When the USS Chopper lost control, it did both. At tremendous speed. Terrifyingly.

You’d be forgiven if you hadn’t heard of the Chopper. It was one of 122 Balao–class diesel-electric submarines, which were a significant fighting component of United States naval power during World War II. Unfortunately for the Chopper, however, it was completed too late to actually see any action and was quickly outclassed in the post-war era by nuclear-powered subs with new, innovative teardrop-shaped hulls.

For much of its life, the boat served as a simulated target for other ships before finally being struck from the Naval Register in 1971.

A notable, popular, and public submarine is also a submarine that isn’t very good at its job, so information about much of the Chopper’s Cold War operations is scarce. It engaged in a few patrols in the Mediterranean, the Philippines, off the coast of China, and in the Caribbean, but mostly thanks to the fact that the Cold War never really turned hot, there are no unusual stories of unusual happenings.

Except for one incident, off the coast of Cuba, in 1969, which led to its eventual decommissioning. Mostly because no one would ever want to get in it again, I imagine.

At 1:40 in the afternoon on February 11th of 1969, Chopper was participating in a training exercise with the destroyer USS Hopkins off the coast of Cuba. Everything seemed relatively normal, for a submarine. It was traveling at about eight knots, almost horizontal in the water with a one-degree down angle, and was cruising below the surface at 150 feet.

Like I said, fairly standard stuff for a submarine.

Two minutes later, everything went haywire. For reasons that were immediately unknown to the crew, the sub lost electrical power.

Completely.

And for some reason, the dive planes at the rear of the sub immediately reverted a full-dive configuration. The sub was headed towards the bottom, and the crew was deaf, blind, and powerless to stop it.

The crew attempted to regain control within the first five seconds, according to this US Navy report into the incident. Unfortunately for them, their wild ride was just beginning.

Within 15 seconds of the loss of power, the Chopper was pointed downwards at a 15-degree angle. The helmsman in the conning tower desperately tried to call for help from the maneuvering room in the forward section of the submarine, but couldn’t get through on the sound-powered phone.

The commanding officer immediately leapt to his feet in the Officer’s Mess, and tried his best to make it to the control room. That simple task was becoming increasingly difficult, as the boat continued to pitch downwards like a drunken college student falling over a slight curb.

By 15 seconds after the loss of power in the USS Chopper, the submarine was stuck at a 45-degree down angle, making it easier to walk on the walls than it is to walk on the floors.

The officer on deck ordered a full emergency blow of the submarine’s ballast tanks, desperate to get to the surface. And still, nothing happened. The Chopper was operating as if it had a mind of its own, and all it wanted to do was head straight for the bottom like a rocket.

30 seconds after that, the submarine sat, suspended in the water, nearly vertical. Anyone trying to move from one place to another was thrown from their feet. It became impossible to walk normally. Anything not strapped down or bolted to the floor went flying down the corridors. Chaos reigned.

To make matters worse, the Balao-class submarines were only rated to dive to a maximum of 400 feet. The Chopper sat in the water with its stern at 720 feet below the surface. The front of the boat was at over 1,000 feet below the surface.

About a minute after first losing electrical power, the sub stopped. It sat there, still at a horrifically vertical angle and pointed downwards, but it was no longer plunging towards the bottom and the inevitable crushing depths of the ocean.

And just as suddenly as everything all went to hell and seemed to fix itself, everything went to hell again.

Instead of being pointed straight down towards the bottom, the Chopper was now pointed nearly straight up, at an 83-degree angle. Everything that had happened a minute ago was now happening again, except in reverse. Everything that had gone flying through the corridors as now flying again, smacking people on the head, until it finally came to a rest at the back of the submarine.

The submarine wasn’t so much as a submarine, as it was a rocket headed for the sky. Filled with cork.

It broke through the surface of the water and came crashing down, propelled with so much momentum that it actually fell 200 feet below the surface again, before finally bobbing up to the surface one last time where it came to rest.

Various parts of the sub were flooded and otherwise destroyed, but the crew managed to get the Chopper back to port under its own power.

And that was the last time the USS Chopper ever saw service. It had suffered so much structural damage that the Navy immediately decommissioned her.

The Navy later learned that the loss of power was caused by battery voltage fluctuations induced by different propulsion orders, but the damage was done.

No submariner has since gone for a wild ride like that one.

Water in the Fuel

By Tony Och

March 30th, 1988 was a typical cold, gray, moisture laden, yet rainless depressing day, off the coast of South Korea steaming in the Sea of Japan. Topside at the starboard refueling station hooking up my sound powered phones, I was pissed off. BTCM assigned me phone talker for the upcoming UNREP, I always stood Lower level man during UNREP or GQ, keeping an eye on them ever so important boiler main feed pumps. The hole was nice and warm, I’d be sitting up against the spring bearing of the starboard shaft on the lower level in Bravo 2.

My pride was hurt, now a lowly topside phone talker, freezing my ass off. BTC showed up with two cups of coffee, unbelievable, I thought silently laughing to myself, Chief you are one good messenger.

This refueling operation was going to be the first since the Korean war, in which a U.S. Naval vessel dumped a South Korean man of war some F-76, so I was told? Gazing at the fishing boats on the distant horizon, BMC Cloonan kept my spirits up as he was barking at his BM’s. The ROKS Chung Buk DD-915 made her approach. A Gearing class Fram II, former United States ship, USS Chevalier DD-805(LCDR Chevalier made the first trap on USS Langley on 26OCT22). Just a little history lesson for you all. Well anyway, ROKS Chung Buk looked mighty sexy pulling alongside for the hookup. Riding low in the water, you could see the heat coming out of her twin stacks. Two General Electric geared main turbines, 60,000 shaft horsepower, four Babcock & Wilcox M type boilers, I assume? Rated at 34 knots, this little bitch could get up and go! A real sweet looking vessel.

The Gunner mates shot over the monkey fist and the BM’s hooked up and sent over the probe like they always did without a flinch. The ROK sailors directed the hose into a flush main deck tank top, cover removed and tied it down. LPD-8 commenced to pumping fuel. The beautiful white smoke streaming into the grey sky exiting the ROKS DD after stack, caught my eye. Her ass end dipped inboard towards us, she must be losing RPM’S on her port shaft, aft boilers going down, OOD adjusting rudders to maintain a true course, her superstructure dipped in maybe 15 degrees towards us. I was fixated on five or six little men in blue jumpsuits looking quite comical swinging axes, trying to free up the refueling hose. Onboard LPD-8…emergency breakaway…BTC vacates the refueling station…I froze. “Och, get your ass out of there,” yells BTC. I ran up the ladder towards the flight deck, the fucking sound powered phones around my neck stopped me and down I went. Releasing the hook at the breastplate, I regained my footing and was out of there. Once up on the flight deck, I watched as the BM’s retrieved the hose and probe back into the refueling station. Then the guide wire snapped and we headed to port, out of there!

The 4th of April we pulled into Pusan, it did not look good as black military staff cars lined the pier, awaiting our arrival. The CO and CHENG may be in some deep kimchi? Come to find out later after an unofficial board of inquiry, the ROK sailors must have thought our F-76 was golden as it was being dumped into a boiler service tank. LPD-8 shot them some water in the fuel oil. Just plain bad engineering practices on both Navies part. LPD-8 should have stripped and sampled them storage tanks a little better prior to pumping and the ROKS should have directed the F-76 to storage tanks to allow for settling and testing prior to burning it in the boilers. A good example of how you will go down fast, if one ignores common sound engineering rules/principles at sea.

Time to hit the beach for some OB and OSCAR! Don’t forget them egg, ham and cheese grilled sandwiches! A berthing compartment full of “mink” blankets while steaming back to Japan sure as hell does not meet my zone inspection standards!

Liberty Boats

By: Garland Davis

I have friends who have boats and love to go boating.  Not me.  I figure a sailor going for a boat ride when he doesn’t have to is like a postman going for a walk on his day off.  I lost the urge early in my Navy career.  The last boat I rode was in 1987 from the beach at Pattaya to the Reeves at anchor.

My first ship was an ammunition replenishment ship.  It seems everyone was afraid we might go “Boom” and relegated us to the furthest anchorage from the fleet landing in every liberty port.  In the two years I served in Vesuvius, I can count the ports we tied to a pier on one hand.  Our home port of Port Chicago, Seal Beach ammunition pier, The Bangor Ammunition Depot, West Loch ammunition pier in Pearl harbor and at Iwa Kuni in Japan to load special weapons that were stored there.

I often wonder how many hours of fruitful liberty I missed either waiting for, missing, or riding liberty boats.  I guess it is as well, in my younger days, I couldn’t pay for the hours of liberty I had.  I would never have been able to afford more.

During the early sixties the Auxiliary Fleet would rendezvous with the battle group and refuel, rearm, and replenish other stores and then move on to the next rendezvous.  We also, usually, entered port together.  The stores ships went to the piers and the ammo ships and the tankers went to the furthest anchorages because we were explosive and flammable.

In Yokosuka, Sasebo, and Subic, Port Control provided Mike Eight landing craft as liberty boats.  The boats would start from the furthest anchorage and pick up passengers from each ship, dropping them at the Fleet Landing.  The boats usually ran each hour, returning passengers to the ships outward bound and picking up passengers inward bound.

I don’t remember how many people could be loaded into the well deck of a Mike Eight, but I know the number was enough to have a hell of a fight when there was animosity between ships.  During the Westpac of sixty-three/sixty-four the crews of USS Vesuvius and USS Cacapon fought in just about every port in the Far East.  I am not sure anyone knew what started the feud.

I remember in later years when the ships boats were used in Singapore.  Water taxis were used in Hong Kong.  I remember lengthy rides to the landing there.  Those water taxis had one speed and it was abnormally slow.  On the return to the ship, this gave the overly intoxicated time to get into a deep state of passed out.  I have helped hump a number of drunks up the accommodation ladder.  Now that I think about it, I may have been “assisted” up that ladder myself.

As long as you were back to the ship on time and at quarters the next morning there was no harm no foul.  No longer in our kinder and gentler Navy.  These days, if you have to be carried aboard you are in for a shit storm of “drunk watch”, breathalyzer, psychiatric evaluation, counseling and alcohol rehab.  But that is another topic, let’s get back to liberty boats.

Pattaya, Thailand didn’t have a deep water pier.  All ships anchored.  It was necessary to catch a water taxi which would take you to shallow water where you transferred to a “long tailed boat” which would run straight in until it was aground.  It often became necessary to wade in from that point.  The best part of this experience was that your shoes and clothes dried quickly while you were having a few Singhas at the nearest outdoor bar.

I was in an FF.  We were anchored off Phuket.  The weather was bad and the seas in the anchorage were extremely rough.  The water taxi came along side. It was a real chore timing the surge of the boat to get aboard. They finally managed to load about twenty sailors, four or five of us Chiefs and six or seven Officers, including the XO.  Just after they cast off, a wave hit the craft from the starboard side.  That was all it took, the boat turned turtle.  Some of us managed to make it to the lower platform of the accommodation ladder and helped others.  Everyone finally made it back to the ladder and aboard the ship.  Since the weather forecast was shitty for the next few days, the Captain decided to get underway.

After twenty-five years’ afloat, liberty boats taught me that boating isn’t necessarily a pleasant experience. I’ll pass!

To follow Tales of an Asia Sailor and get e-mail notifications of new posts, click on the three white lines in the red rectangle above, then click on the follow button.  To see a menu of previously published articles, click on the three white lines in the red rectangle above.

A native of North Carolina, Garland Davis has lived in Hawaii since 1987. He always had a penchant for writing but did not seriously pursue it until recently. He is a graduate of Hawaii Pacific University, where he majored in Business Management. Garland is a thirty-year Navy retiree and service-connected Disabled Veteran.

Mr. Recruiter

By:  Garland Davis

I believe I should thank you

Mr. Recruiter Petty Officer in blue

I was a just a dumb kid

I didn’t know any better.

I was gone a few days’ after

Turning seventeen. Signed for four

of haze gray and midnight watch.

Ninety-six bucks a month.

My high school friends carried me to

The airport on that hot July day.  They

Dropped me off and I was quickly gone.

First time to fly taking me from home.

Open bay barracks across the country.

People yelling and pushing me to the

Navy way.  Became easier as days passed

Became my way as understanding came to me.

Marched in ranks to graduation day.

Then across the harbor to a Cruiser Heavy.

Lost at first then guided by Petty Officer.

I learned my new life till one day realized

I was once again at home.

To follow Tales of an Asia Sailor and get e-mail notifications of new posts, click on the three white lines in the red rectangle above, then click on the follow button.  To see a menu of previously published articles, click on the three white lines in the red rectangle above.

A native of North Carolina, Garland Davis has lived in Hawaii since 1987. He always had a penchant for writing but did not seriously pursue it until recently. He is a graduate of Hawaii Pacific University, where he majored in Business Management. Garland is a thirty-year Navy retiree and service-connected Disabled Veteran.

Silent Service
by John Wallace

In January 1955, when USS Nautilus signaled “underway on nuclear power,” the ability of the U.S. Navy to conduct covert submerged operations improved dramatically.

The nuclear submarine of today’s navy is able to generate its own oxygen supply and no longer needs to surface periodically to charge batteries. It can remain submerged for months, limited only by the durability of its crew and the infrequent need to expose an antenna to communicate. There are, of course, a number of unexpected and usually unpleasant events that can force even this self-sustaining triumph of technology to the surface — fire, loss of propulsion, or mechanical malfunctions leading to loss of depth control. Depending on the circumstances, the consequences of such an event can be severe.

My own experience with covert submarine operations left me with nothing but the greatest respect for the dedication and technical skills of the men in the silent service. This respect is renewed each morning as I cross the Pearl Harbor Submarine Base on my way to work and observe the menacing lineup of fast attack submarines of the Pacific Fleet at their moorings. Very little of a Los Angeles class submarine is visible as it sits at rest in port — a sail, a rudder, and a few feet of freeboard; but beneath the water, in the other 90% of this lethal leviathan, are a potent array of modern weapons, cramped but livable space for a 100-man crew, and the nuclear reactor that makes the submarine such a versatile and effective weapon in both war and peace.

My morning route also takes me past the Submarine Memorial Park, where plaques bearing the names of Pacific Fleet submarines and their valiant crews lost to enemy action or peacetime accident, are a reminder that those who serve in this elite branch of the navy do so at great personal risk.

I was privileged to be associated with the submarine force at times during my career and learned firsthand that submariners, like aviators, earn their hazardous duty pay. My duties required that I lead teams of specially trained men who embarked on submarines for periods of time to conduct covert missions. None of us were trained submariners, but we had other special training and skills required for these special operations. and like the ship’s crew, we were all volunteers. Some of our specialists weren’t sure what they were getting into until actually faced with the prospect of disappearing down the hatch into the unfamiliar confined space of the submarine’s interior. On more than one occasion, I saw men unable to make that descent. If you’ve ever tried to put a cat in a wash tub you can picture that moment of truth. The prospect of many weeks in a confined space; breathing manufactured air; forsaking sunlight for artificial light, living with the constant awareness that a mistake, mechanical malfunction or, in some cases an adversary, could earn you a place on the memorial wall, sometimes didn’t sink in until faced with that open hatch.

One crisp autumn morning in an unnamed port somewhere in the world, my team and I made that descent through the hatch, embarking on a mission that came close to being a one-way trip. The aviators have a saying — a midair collision can ruin your whole day. In the nuclear submarine navy, the corollary might be — a reactor scram in the midst of thine enemy is not a good way to meet new people.

Entered the Naval Air Reserve out of high school in 1955, serving with VF-782 as an AT striker at Los Alamitos NAS, CA.
After graduation from college, attended OCS and was commissioned in March 1961. His duty assignments included USS Polk County (LST 1084)as Deck and Gunnery Officer; Navy Language School in Anacostia, MD, studying the Russian language; ACNSG Fort Meade, MD. as a submarine rider; NSGA Bremerhaven, Germany as Communications Officer; Vietnam as OIC of Special Support Group to MACV SOG; NSG HQ in Washington, DC; Naval Postgraduate School in Monterey, CA; NCS Rota, Spain as Operations Officer; NSG HQ; ACNSG at Fort Meade; CINCUSNAVEUR London, UK as Deputy DNSGEur; NSGA Puerto Rico as Commanding Officer; NSA Fort Meade; NCPAC Hawaii as Deputy NCPAC.
Retired in January 1989 and remains in Hawaii.

Longevity

By:  George C. Wailes

The horse and cow live thirty years,

And nothing know of wines and beers,

The goat and sheep at twenty die,

And never taste of Scotch or Rye,

The sow drinks water by the ton,

And at eighteen is nearly done,

The dog at fifteen cashes in,

Without the aid of rum or gin,

The cat in milk and water soaks,

And then at twelve short years it croaks,

The modest, sober bone dry hen,

Lays eggs for years then dies at ten.

All animals are strictly dry;

They sinless live and quickly die.

But sinful, ginful, rum-soaked men

Survive for three score years and ten;

And some of us, the mighty few,

Stay pickled till we’re ninety-two!

Shipmate

By:  Garland Davis

There is an old joke that says, “A friend will bail you out of jail when necessary, a Shipmate will be sitting right there beside you saying, ‘That was fucking awesome Shipmate.’”

What is a shipmate you ask?  The obvious answer is someone that you served in the same ship with.  But there is more to it than that.  There are the men you met in the clubs and bars of the Honcho, Magsaysay, and the other infamous streets of the WestPac ports where we congregated.  We didn’t serve in the same ships but we were there in the same fleet, the same Navy, enduring the same hardships.  We could sometimes see and wave at each other during UNREPS.

Some shipmates were invisible and unseen.  There was always a U.S. Fast Attack Submarine shadowing the Carrier group.  We couldn’t see them but they were there. Don’t doubt that we are shipmates.

Someone once wrote, “When you hear a Sailor call someone shipmate, know it is a compliment. He is saying,” We are friends.”  Now that is not necessarily true.  We all dislike some people that we served with and wouldn’t care to have them as friends, but, they are still our shipmates and we will accord them the respect and honor of that position. I’ll often call you Shipmate because, as age descends upon me, I can’t remember your fucking name.

The term “Shipmate” sometimes has unpleasant ramifications.  A fellow once told me that when his Chief said, “Shipmate, I think we need to have a talk,” meant that he had fucked up and the Chief was preparing to shit all over his day. He told me that the Chief usually called him Seaman and later Petty Officer, but when the Chief voiced “Shipmate” it was time for a come to Jesus moment.

I have heard and have been called “Shippy” by certain people.  I guess it is a shortened form of the word Shipmate.  I dislike it and find it derogatory and disrespectful. I think “Shippy” is more of a LANTFLT thing. I don’t ever recall hearing it used by a PACFLT sailor. Please don’t use it.

I guess with all the PC nonsense permeating Washington and the Department of the Navy and with more and more females in the fleet, all male gender specific terms like SeaMAN, Damage ControlMAN, and SignalMAN, are being studied to make them gender neutral. I suspect the term shipMATE may also be in jeopardy because the word MATE connotes a marital and sexual relationship.

SIDEBAR:  You notice I didn’t use Yeoman as an example.  The term Yeoman has always had a female connotation.  END SIDEBAR

I have attended one High School reunion.  Most everyone spent the evening talking about their life after High School and their accomplishments, divorces, successes, and etc.  At Navy reunions, the talk goes to what happened in the Navy.  No one really talks about life before or after the Navy.  I have seen and had it happen to me where two old shipmates meeting for the first time in twenty years picks up and carries on the last conversation from two decades ago as if no time at all had passed.

Shipmate is more than a term used to identify fellow members of the greatest seagoing organization ever known.  It is a term of endearment and respect between seagoing men, and, I guess, women. It is a title and position that one treasures and bears proudly.

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A native of North Carolina, Garland Davis has lived in Hawaii since 1987. He always had a penchant for writing but did not seriously pursue it until recently. He is a graduate of Hawaii Pacific University, where he majored in Business Management. Garland is a thirty-year Navy retiree and service-connected Disabled Veteran.