later

By:  Garland Davis

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Mid-Morning Moon

By:  Garland Davis

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Ugly Contest

By: David ‘Mac’ McAllister

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh!” say’s I.

Now what the hell do you say to that?

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

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

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

An Ode to Midrats

By: John Petersen

Six in the eve, I’m just getting off watch.

In another six I’ll be back, bleary-eyed but still in touch.

Yeah, I’ll look like shit, hair and coveralls all rumpled and askew,

and yet thanks to the God saving Mid Rats, I’m fresh as mountain dew!

The pit is theirs for the next six hours, they can have it,

for me it’s time for a shower, a shave, and a gratifying….

A quick scrounge through my collection of yellow earplugs, finding the best two,

I can only hope for a few hours down time, don’t deny it. Wouldn’t you?

‘Roused from a deep slumber, the messenger calling your name,

he dares not reach into your rack, that act a formidable shame.

It’s only eleven and you still have an hour,

It’s the middle of the night and your stomach holds power.

It growls, it grunts, it tells you who’s in charge, therefore I pray…

Before I once again give another six hours to the job to which I gave my life away.

“May you, Lord, be blessed, and the Gods be thanked,

for that of which I am about to receive, my shipmates of which I am flanked.

You have seen the need, as well as the heartfelt hunger and need,

that this thing called Mid Rats is the one item wanted with unforgiving greed.

A lukewarm slider, ketchup-soaked gummy fries,

A watered down Coke or bug juice, still brings tears to the eyes,

Might be a lucky night, depending on what was for dinner,

Surf and turf, maybe Elephant scabs, overall that’d be a winner!

The all renowned Chili Mac, maybe some scrambled egg soup,

Meatballs! YUM! Drowning in some strange cheesy gloop.

I’ll scarf it down no matter what there is to choose from, for you see,

It’s gonna be a long six hours and I’ve no time for you to cook for me.

Gotta keep the Ol’ girl going, straight and forward as the orders go,

I’ll eat what you have on hand to nourish my tired yet determined soul.

This old girl can’t survive without either you or me,

and if it weren’t for the Mid Rats, today she would not be.

Amen.”

A native of Nebraska, John has lived in Southern California since 1970. He graduated high school in ’81 and went straight into the Navy as a Machinist Mate. He served in the Pacific Fleet and operated in the Pacific theater of operations. After 12 years active and 22 years’ inactive reserve, John now manages a dry ice plant for Airgas.

My Bubblehead buddies asked me to write something about their Navy and their life. I am working on something.  Ran across this on the internet.  I’ve seen it around. Petty Officer Wayne tells their story better than I can.

Garland

Ever A Submariner

By: Jody Wayne Durham, MM2/SS

I liked popping the hatch at the top of the sail (submarine’s bridge) at sunrise and being the first to savor the scent of fresh air for the first time in 8 weeks… watching dolphins race in the bow wave on the way back home to Pearl… the tear-drop hull of the boat beneath me silently slicing through the sea.

I liked the sounds of the submarine service (sounds that we alone could hear, as we were the Silent Service where others were concerned) – the ascending whine of the dive alarm sounding, and the haunting echos of “Cayooogah, cayooogah… Dive! Dive!” from the boats yesteryear, the gruff voice of a Chief headed aft… “Down ladder; Make a Hole!”, the indescribable creaking sound of hull steel compressing at depths that remain classified to this day.

I was impressed with Navy vessels – bracketed in the aperture of Periscope #2, the crosshairs gently rising and falling across their silhouette on the horizon, while obtaining range, bearing and angle off the bow.

I liked the names of proud boats of every class, from the “pig boats” of WWI to the sea creatures of WWII, like Barbel, Dorado, Shark and Seawolf, and the Cold War boats that bore with honor the names of these and 48 others that are “Still on Patrol.” Boats honoring national heroes, statesmen and presidents: Washington, Madison, Franklin and more. Whole classes of boats honoring cities and states: Los Angeles, Ohio and Virginia.

I liked the tempo of opposed piston diesels and the “pop” in your ears when equalizing to atmospheric when the head valve first opens to ventilate and snorkel. I miss the “thrill” of riding an emergency blow from test depth to the top at a nice steep bubble.

I enjoyed seeing places I’d only dreamed of, and some of which I’d heard from my grandfather who had seen them under very different circumstances and conditions… places like Pearl Harbor, Guam, Truk Island and Subic and Tokyo Bays.

I admired the teamwork of loading ships stores, the “brow-brigade” from pier to boat, and lowering them vertically through a 24” hatch to the galley below. I relished the competition of seeing who could correctly guess how many days underway before the fresh eggs and milk ran out and powder prevailed upon us henceforth.

I loved my “brothers,” each and everyone, whether their dolphins were gold or silver and regardless of rate or rank. We shared experiences that bonded us evermore, and knew each other’s joys, pains, strengths, and weaknesses. We listened to and looked out for each other. We shared precious little space in which to live and move and work, and we breathed, quite literally, the same recycled air.

After weeks in cramped quarters, my heart leapt at the command, “Close All Main Vents; Commence Low-Pressure Blow; Prepare to Surface; Set the Maneuvering Watch.” When safely secured along the pier, the scent of my sweetheart’s hair evaporated the staleness emanating from my dungarees.

Exhausting though it was, I even liked the adrenaline rush of endless drills, and the comfort in the knowledge that any dolphin-wearing brother had cross-trained just like I had… not only on basic damage control, but to the point of having a basic working knowledge of every system on the boat, such that when real emergencies inevitably arose, the response was so automatic and efficient they were almost anti-climactic.

I liked the eerie sounds of “biologics” through the sonar headphones, the strange songs of the sea in the eternal night below the surface of the deep blue seas.

I liked the darkness – control room rigged for red or black, the only illumination that of the back-lights compass and gauges of the helm and myriad of buttons and indicator lights across the BCP. I liked the gentle green glow of the station screens in the Sonar Shack and Fire Control. I grew to like coffee, the only way to stay awake in the numbing darkness of the Control Room with the constant rocking of the boat during countless hours at periscope depth.

I liked “sliders” and “lumpia” and pizza at “Mid-rats” at the relieving of the watch. I liked the secure and cozy feeling of my rack, my humble little “den,” even when it was still warm from the body-heat of the guy who just relieved me of the watch.

I liked the controlled chaos of the Control Room, with the Officer of the Deck, Diving Officer and Chief of the Watch receiving and repeating orders; the sound of Sonar reporting: “Con-Sonar: New Contact, submerged, designated: Sierra 1, bearing: 0-1-0, range: 1-0-0-0 yards, heading 3-5-0, speed: 1-5 knots, depth: 4-0-0’.”

I liked the rush of “Man Battle Stations; Rig for Quiet” announced over the 1MC, and the “outside of my rate” role I played as CEP plotter during war games, and later… SpecOps – the window to another world that I was allowed to peer through… the tactics, stealth and tenacity of our Captain making prompt and purposeful decisions to see us safely and successfully through the mission.

I appreciated the fact that I was a 19-year-old kid, entrusted with operating some of the most sophisticated equipment in the entire world, and the challenge of doing those tasks in a 33’ x 360’ steel tube, several hundred feet below the surface, in potentially hostile waters.

I admired the traditions of the Silent Service, of Men of Iron in Boats of Steel, where you were just a NUB until you were “Qualified” and had EARNED the respect of the Officers and crew. I revered past heroes like inventor John Philip Holland and innovator Hyman G. Rickover. Such men and those that followed, both Officer and Enlisted, set precedents to follow, standards to uphold, and examples of bravery and self-sacrifice like the world has seldom seen. We were taught to honor these traditions. Somewhere far below the ocean’s surface, I became a man… and not just any man. I became… a Submariner.

Decades now have come and gone since last I went to sea. The years have a way of dimming things, like looking at the past through a smoky mirror. I went, as many others, my separate way… raised a family, and moved on… but a part of me, my Sailor’s Soul, will always be underway… somewhere… in the darkness, in the deep, making turns for twenty knots and a pushing a hole through the water.

Jody Wayne Dunham

USS Los Angeles (SSN-688), ’85 – ‘88

,

By Garland Davis

Larry left the gangway with his seabag and an AWOL bag after the crowds welcoming the ship back to Pearl Harbor had cleared off. He was leaving the ship after three years and three months.  He would be leaving the Navy with over four years’ service.  He had voluntarily extended for three months to complete this last Westpac cruise. The Chief PN told him that he could arrange for orders to a WestPac forward deployed ship if Larry would re-enlist.  Larry thanked him but told the Chief that he was going home to marry his childhood sweetheart.

Larry walked a few yards down the pier and stopped and turned for one last look.  His running mate and best friend, Roger was watching him from the fantail.  They both lifted their hands in a final farewell.  They had promised to keep in touch with each other and get together when Roger finished his four years. Roger’s home was only three hundred miles from Larry’s.  Larry knew that his fiancée, Marie, thought poorly of Roger because of their antics when they got together on their last leave.

Larry was on the way to the Naval Station Personnel Support Detachment.  Within the next few days, he would be processed out of the Navy.  It had been four long years; even longer with the extension.  He decided to make a stop at the Bloch Arena telephone exchange and place a long distance call to Marie letting her know that he would be home in a few days and they could carry out their plans to get married and make the life that they had dreamed of.

Larry and Marie had been a couple since First Grade.  Everyone always said that they were the perfect couple and destined to spend a lifetime together.  There had been plans to marry after graduation from High School since neither of their families could afford college.  Larry had insisted that they wait until he had a good job.  There was the crux, good long lasting jobs were hard to come by in their town.  Within the last three years a factory that assembled lawn mowers and another that made boots, belts and holsters for the military had shut down.  These closing and with the closing of businesses that had supported them raised the unemployment rate dramatically.  There were few jobs for highly trained craftsmen, much less, untrained, high school graduates.  The best option was to move someplace where jobs were available.

Marie was extremely close to her family and didn’t want to move away. After discussing it, they both decided it was best for him to take his father’s advice and enlist in the Navy to learn a trade.  After all, his father had learned the rudiments of his profession as a tool and die maker in the Navy.  So through the tears and promises to write every day, Larry left their small Midwestern city for the Naval Training Center, San Diego, California.  After recruit training and a machinist’s school, Larry was ordered to a destroyer out of Pearl Harbor as a Machinery Repairman Fireman.

During the next three years, he made two cruises to the Western Pacific, had been promoted twice and was now a Second Class Petty Officer. Larry had gotten leave home three times.  Things were looking up for Larry and Marie and their life together and they planned their wedding.  Larry’s father felt that with his Navy training he could make a decent living. Larry dusted off their plans to resume their life together after his discharge.  Marie did get upset when he told her about the extension.  She didn’t understand why he agreed to extend.  The Captain made a good case that the ship and his shipmates needed him.  He didn’t want to let them down.

Larry stacked his bags in a corner of the phone exchange and made his way to the counter where he told the pretty young Filipina clerk that he would like to place a long distance call.  After Larry completed the call information and she had collected the fee, the young girl directed him to one of a dozen phones booths along the wall and told him to answer when the phone rang.

Almost immediately there was a ring.  Often he had waited as long as a half hour for calls to go through. He said, Hello,” and heard Marie’s mother on the other end.  He said, “Hello Mrs. Marks, this is Larry.  Can I please speak to Marie?”

“Just a minute Larry.  I’ll get her.”

Faintly over the phone in the background, he heard Mrs. Marks say, “If you don’t tell him, I will.”

“Hello”, Marie said

“Hi Honey, it’s me.  I will be getting discharged in a few days and then I’ll be on my way home.”

Larry could tell that she was on the verge crying as Marie said, “About that, Larry I have started dozens of letters but couldn’t finish them.  I just don’t know how to say it, how to tell you, but I have fallen in love with another and,” in almost a whisper, “I am pregnant.”  Then Larry heard the tears start.  Marie continued, “He is from the next town over, his family has a large dairy farm.  Larry, we are getting married next week. I meant to write and tell you, but after all the planning and saving your money, I just couldn’t bring myself to do it.  I am so sorry,” sobbing uncontrollably.

Larry sat silently, thinking, “If this is a broken heart, it doesn’t feel so bad.” Instead of sadness and a heavy heart, he felt a lightness as if a heavy weight had been lifted off his shoulders.  He suddenly knew what he really wanted to do.

Marie asked, “Larry, please don’t come home and cause problems for Rodney and me.”

A smile came across his face as he said, “Don’t worry. It’s all okay Marie, I understand.”

“What will you do?” She asked.

“It’s really okay honey, my Detailer offered me a forward deployed ship in Asia if I ship over. Don’t worry about my coming home, I’ll be heading West to Japan.  Congratulations, I wish you the best.  I hope you are happy and have a pretty baby. Bye Honey.”  He could hear her crying as he hung up the phone.

Larry sat for a minute staring at the phone, then shook himself and went to the counter for his change.  As the pretty young Filipino girl counted his change, he asked, “Do you have a phone I could use to make a call on base?”

She pointed to a single booth set apart from the others.  Larry walked to the booth, searching through his change for a dime. He knew the PNC had duty today. Larry dialed the ship’s Quarterdeck number and asked to talk to him.  After a few minutes, the Chief answered. Larry identified himself and said, “Chief, I’ve decided I want to ship over for a ship out of Yoko or Subic.  What do I do, come back to the ship or go to PSD?”

PNC asked, ‘Did you report to PSD yet”

“No, not yet, I stopped to make a long distance call.” Larry replied.

“Then, come on back to the ship and I will take care of you.  We can use your separation physical and have you ready by tomorrow morning. Is it okay if the Captain ships you over?”

“Fine with me, I’ll be there as soon as I call my Mom and Dad to tell them I have decided to make the Navy a career,” said Larry.  His dad had often said he wished he’d stayed in after Korea.

As he started for his bags, Larry detoured to the counter and said to the girl at the counter, “I need to make another call.” He gave her the information for the call, then said, “There is a possibility that I will get orders to the Philippines.  Maybe you can tell me about life there. I don’t see a ring on your finger.  Would you like to go to dinner after work?

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

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

had

By: Garland Davis

“Well, I woke up Sunday morning
With no way to hold my head that didn’t hurt.
And the beer I had for breakfast wasn’t bad,
So I had one more for dessert.
Then I fumbled in my closet through my clothes
And found my cleanest dirty shirt.
Then I washed my face and combed my hair
And stumbled down the stairs to meet the day”—Kris Kristofferson

I woke to the thunderous roar of sunlight streaming through the window.  On the other hand, maybe it was an un-muffled jeepney passing outside.  I knew that I wasn’t dead.  I hurt too fucking much. A dead man would not feel this bad.  Where the hell am I?  I squinted at the room through aching eyes.  I think it is my brother’s house at Baloy Beach.  I vaguely remember stumbling in here with a girl sometime in the night.  He told me to stay, just lock up when I leave and drop the key with Hanson at the Rose.  He had to leave early; told me he had duty Saturday.  He isn’t here. Must be Saturday.  The girl isn’t here either.  Was she a figment of my alcohol riddled brain?

I fell off the Futon onto the cement floor fumbling around for my glasses.  It never ceases to amaze me that no matter how drunk I get, I always know where I leave my glasses. Of course, I was bare ass naked.  My crank was stuck to my leg with dried saliva and other body fluids. I hadn’t been wearing skivvy shorts.  I had thrown them away when a group of Airdale assholes, somewhere in Subic City, started doing skivvy checks.  I saw my denim shorts in the corner. I stumbled to my feet and slipped into them.

Somehow remembering that had I placed my wallet under the futon, I snaked my hand under and retrieved it.  I hesitated to look inside.  How much money had I spent or did the girl I was with rip me off before she left?  I was afraid that I had shot all the ammunition in my peso gun last night. Wow, I was pleasantly surprised. I hadn’t spent a lot at all. I checked the secret pocket sewn into the denim shorts to ensure that the three one hundred dollar bills were still there.

My mouth was as dry as the street outside. I stumbled into the kitchen, looking for something to drink. There was nothing in the reefer. A cooler sat by itself in the corner.  Looking inside the cooler, I found a single San Miguel beer submerged in tepid water.  The thought of warm beer made my gut turn over.  Nevertheless, I was so thirsty; my mouth was so dry that I would probably consider drinking a gallon of Shit River if it was served over ice.  I grabbed the opener off the floor and popped the top on that hot beer.  I drank about half the bottle, gagged and fought to keep it from coming back up.  If it did, at least, there was something in my stomach to puke up.  I held onto the table to prevent falling, weaving back and forth for a moment, and then forced down the rest of the beer.

I found my shirt in another corner, pulled it on and stumbled around looking for the athletic shoes that I usually wore out here.  I don’t have to worry about combing hair or grooming.  I keep it in a buzz cut.  I discovered long ago that a man’s wallet carried more weight than his hair when it came to female companionship in Olongapo.

I remembered that there was an outdoor bar thing just down the beach.  I would seriously consider performing a perverted sexual act for a cold soda right now.  I locked the house as the bright sunlight almost knocked me to the ground and stumbled toward salvation for my dehydrated condition.  The pretty young teenaged girl behind the counter showed no surprise as my sick drunk ass approached the bar.  I asked for a cold Coke or Pepsi.  Then I told her to make it two. She set the first one on the bar.  It was streaming water and ice chips.  I think I mumbled grace to some sailor’s deity as I clutched it with both hands and drank it down in an almost single gulp.  Nectar!  The cold and wet began the healing process.  I sat the empty onto the bar as she replaced it with the second one.  I threw some peso coins onto the bar and told her to keep them coming.

As I sat there drinking cold Pepsi in an attempt to repair the damage, I thought back over the previous day and the events that had led to my waking up wishing for death to help me feel better.

Midway had moored at Cubi Point, yesterday; Friday morning.  As usual, when entering port, I had been occupied getting stores aboard, the underway watches secured, and the inport watch set.  Finally, everything was done; a three-day weekend awaited, nothing between Tuesday morning and me but seventy-two hours of liberty.

I left the ship about fourteen hundred Friday afternoon.  I grabbed a cab with a couple of airdale Chiefs.  They were heading to the CPO Club.  I figured “Why not,” I would have a couple of San Miguels there and then head for my stomping grounds in the Barrio. We walked into the main room of the club; the two airdales spotted some of their friends and moved that way.  I told them to have a good liberty and made my usual way to the stag bar.  San Miguel was calling!

I saw the beginning of my downfall at the bar as I walked through the door.  A Senior Chief Aviation Boatswains Mate who we called “Smokey” (he smoked four packs of Camels a day) was at the bar.  Smokey drank beer with a shooter of rum on the side and he had the proverbial “Hollow Leg.”  No one could recall ever seeing him drunk.  He always insisted on buying shooters for anyone he knew.  He knew that I drink Crown and immediately ordered a shooter for me.  I asked for a beer; deciding that one and I would be out of there.  If I tried to drink with Smokey, I would be “knee walking drunk” by sixteen hundred.

I managed to get out of the club after drinking only one beer and two of Smokey’s shooters.  I headed through the gate, across Shit River, to the moneychanger and stocked up on ammunition for my “Peso Gun.”  I intended to take a taxi to the Barrio.  There wasn’t one around, so decided to walk down to a shit kicking joint on the right and have a Pepsi.  The beer and two shots were heavy in my stomach.  I didn’t want to get fucked up before dark.  Going in that joint was a mistake.  A half dozen of my cooks was there and called to me as I entered.  By the time, I made it to the table a frosty cold San Miguel was sitting before an empty chair.  I thought, “You can’t fight fate, fuck, it must be my karma.”  I sat down and took a pull on the bottle.  I finished the beer and bought a round of Magoos.  After that one, I left.  Outside, I stopped a taxi and negotiated the fare to the Barrio.  I told the driver to drop me at the Irish Rose.

Things went downhill from that point.  There were about a dozen people that I knew in the Rose.  The beer was flowing freely, the jukebox was playing, the overhead fans were exercising the flies, and I was negotiating with one of the girls for a blowjob when I suddenly realized that it was dark.  Where the hell had the day gone?  It seemed as if I had just left the ship.  The rest of the night became a kaleidoscope of bars, beer, and girls.  I remembered jeepney rides, a girl stroking my leg, drinking Mojo, another girl, more beer and going into my brother’s house with another girl.

Now here I am sitting on Baloy Beach drinking Pepsi trying to sort out the events of the night before to decide whether I had had a good liberty.  I concluded that had a hell of a time; it was all good.  I was hung over, sick, my dick was sore and I still had plenty of money.  That is all a sailor can ask of a liberty.

I finished the second Pepsi and signaled for another as a tricycle taxi came roaring down the beach road and stopped at the bar.  There were two passengers crammed into the passenger side car. I recognized one of them as Jack Coates, a Navy retiree, and ex-pat. I didn’t know the other fellow, but he and Jack were obviously about three sheets to the wind.  But then, I had never seen Jack in any other condition.

They stumbled to the bar and Jack ordered three beers.  The girl placed the beer on the bar and Jack handed one to his companion and slid the other in front of me.  I said, “Jack, I’m drinking Pepsi, it is too early for beer.”

Jack stumbled toward me, grabbed my fresh Pepsi and threw it across the road onto the beach and said, “Stewburner, When I’m drinking beer, ever fuckin’ body’s drinking beer.”

You can’t fight your fate. Karma is karma.  I thanked Jack lifted the bottle, hoping that I could keep it down, and took a pull.  After the Pepsi, it went down much easier than the warm beer I had had for breakfast.  Drinking the beer and laughing at one of Jack’s stories, I was thinking that I still had three days’ liberty to go.

Fuck, still three more days liberty.  I love it; a sailor’s life is good.

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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.

A Seventh Fleet Legend –The Red Haired Chief

By: Steve Hayes

It was May, 1984, USS Sterett, homeported in Subic Bay, was finishing a four-month deployment to the Persian Gulf with a Stateside carrier battle group. Our final port call before returning home to Subic was Pattaya Beach, Thailand.

I took leave while there and booked a room at the Royal Gardens, as was my usual practice when in Pattaya. There was another CG in port and, while visiting a few bars on the main drag, I bumped into a sailor from that ship, who had once worked for me in USS Worden a few years before. He quickly pointed out that my hair was considerably grayer than the last time he had seen me. I was somewhat insulted and in my buzzed condition, I said, “You have gotten considerably balder over the years, at least I have something to work with.”  After this exchange, we parted company and went our separate ways as I continued to test my capacity for Singha beer.  I actually spent the rest of the day and part of the night at this endeavor.

The following day, I again met the same sailor while running a verification test on my Singha capacity. Almost an identical conversation about my hair took place. This time I became somewhat indignant and reminded him that, unlike him, I still had hair to work with. With each beer, I drank, my thought processes began to eat away at me and I was determined to show him.

Now, to appreciate the remainder of this story you should know that I, a Senior Chief at the time, was the Sterett’s Senior Enlisted Advisor. No Command Master Chief had yet been assigned.  Another important fact is, that prior to arrival, The CO, Captain Sullivan, had announced that anyone getting into trouble on the beach would have their liberty suspended for the remainder of the trip. A sound policy, with which I agreed.

After the second meeting with my balding, former shipmate and taste testing about ten more Singha beers, I determined that I couldn’t let this hair thing pass without some resolution. I began a stumble through the side streets of Pattaya, way off the main drag, searching for a shop to rectify my gray hair situation.  I would show that baldheaded dude and prove my point that I still had hair to work with.

It wasn’t long until I found a beauty salon that would seem to satisfy my need to abolish the gray in my hair.  It quickly became apparent that there was a failure to communicate.  No one there could speak English and I couldn’t speak Thai.  Actually, after all the Singha, I had doubts about my ability to speak English.

The Sterett slogan of Dauntless encouraged me to press on. I searched through the various products on the shelves until I found a package of hair dye that to my bloodshot eyes and Singha addled brain to be a perfect match to my once dark brown hair.  By pointing to the box of dye and my hair and making many other hand gestures, I successfully conveyed to the beautician that I wanted my hair dyed.

Having quaffed a considerable number of Singhas earlier, I soon drifted off to sleep as the lady began washing my hair and preparing me for the dyeing procedure.

Quite a while later, I was nudged to consciousness. As I awakened and realized where I was and remembering, I lifted my head and looked in the mirror to see the new, younger looking me with no gray hair. There in the mirror was this American dude looking back at me with a head full of bright red hair. I realized it was me and screamed, “RED!” Oh my God, I thought, what the hell have I done. We were a few days from Subic. My new wife and 7-month old daughter would be waiting for me.  How would I ever explain this red hair.  Everyone would think I was nuts!

After thinking about it and realizing that we still had two days in port, I determined to find another beauty salon and get it re-dyed to brown the next day. The girl who had done this to me wasn’t at fault, so I paid her and went on my way. Knowing I would have a lot of explaining to do once I got back to the main drag and my shipmates, I found a nice straw hat that covered my bright red hair and went back to the beach road. Of course, after a couple of ice cold brews and feeling pretty mellow, I began to show everyone my new head of red hair. I got a lot of laughs. I wasn’t worried though, it would all be fixed the next day.

Continuing drinking Singha and other tropical concoctions, I became considerably more intoxicated as the evening wore on into the night. Of course, I had lost the straw hat, by this time, and had become rather proud of my bright red hair. Just as my Irish ancestors would have been. Then disaster struck.

I had begun a conversation with a young woman in one drinking establishment. And in my alcohol confused mind, I became convinced she was a spy or something otherwise devious. There had been a recent terrorist bombing in the news and, in my alcohol infused brain, I just knew she was part of the group and had the evidence to prove it in her purse. Being a proud defender of America, I grabbed her purse and headed down the street with her following closely and loudly behind.

After about half a block, I was abruptly accosted by the Shore Patrol. And they, apparently weren’t buying into my story about how I saved the liberty party from this dangerous terrorist following me. Despite my pleas, they returned the purse to the girl and escorted me to Shore Patrol headquarters.  As it happens, the Shore Patrol Officer was a LTJG from the carrier. I have always thought that had the Shore Patrol Officer been a WestPac veteran, we would have resolved this pretty quickly and I could have just gone to my hotel room. Unfortunately, he had little sympathy for me and ordered me back to the Sterett.

It was a courtesy ride, no charges other than securing my liberty for the night (that’s what he thought). Of course, being in Pattaya, a courtesy ride meant waiting for the liberty launch to come get me.

Well, that was not a good thing. Shore Patrol returning a sailor to the ship would likely be considered a liberty incident and I was looking at remaining on the ship for the next two days and having no way to resolve the problem of my red hair. I wasn’t feeling especially proud of myself at this point. It was too late to do anything right then so I just headed to my rack and passed out.

Early the next morning, after dodging multiple snickers and questions from my fellow Chiefs and crewmen, I went to the CDO, Lt. Ted Dill, and pleaded my case to return ashore. I promised not to drink, just to go get my hair fixed and come back to the ship. It took a while but fortunately, being a good and fair officer, he agreed to let me off the ship.

True to my word, I went ashore and immediately located another beauty salon. This one was operated by a woman who had lived in Los Angeles and spoke decent English. She re-dyed my red hair to a passable dark brown.  Although there were some red streaks and highlights, it was much better than the red.

Despite my promise to the CDO, being a WestPac steamer, I decided to have a few Singhas on the strip and show off my new hair color.  Of course, I remained ashore until we departed Pattaya for Subic and, other than a lot of jokes, the red hair faded into the background and was mentioned less and less.

And as things happen, when I lifted my daughter to say hello, she reached up and grabbed my cover exposing my odd looking hair color to my wife. She took one look and said, “why you put that paint in your hair”. I later explained the entire story to her while judiciously editing parts of it as a matter of self-preservation.

That should have been the end of the story but evidently, like so many of us who sailed in the Asia fleet, I was to become a 7th Fleet legend.  Two and a half years later, I returned to Sterett in Subic while attached to FCDSSA, Dam Neck. I was there to conduct a System Integration Test on the new SM-2 NTU Tactical Data Systems upgrade.

Most of the Sterett crew had turned over since my tour aboard, except for a few who were still there.

I was now an OSCM. I was sitting in the Chief’s Mess having coffee when a Chief, whom I didn’t know, sat down nearby. Exchanging pleasantries, he noticed my name tag and asked, “Master Chief, were you the Hayes who was stationed on here before?”.

“Yes, that was me”, I replied.

He said, “Were you the one with the red hair”?

My face must have gotten the same shade as my hair had been as I sheepishly admitted I was the guilty party.