The Return

By:  David ‘Mac’ McAllister

The bar was at the end of a dirt road around the corner from the Marmont Hotel. The monsoon’s were in full force and the streets of the Barrio ran resplendent with red mud; that horrible staining clay that would never wash out of a set of whites. It was dismal, dreary and depressing, the last Navy ship had sailed four weeks ago and aside from the occasional station sailor business was terrible. People were hungry

She sat in front of the Sansui fan that had just started circulating the wet heavy air after the latest power outage. Fanning the perspiration with a banana leaf fan, nursing a rum and coke and silently cursing the Chinese son of a bitch that owned the place, she watched as Mama-san sat sympathetically across from her tracing the water pooled from her drink on the bar into obscene suggestive hieroglyphics.

In the past, when business was slow, everyone had an opportunity to take the time to visit their province. A chance to be with family, see old friends, commensurate, rest and forget about the rigorous chaotic life of a bar girl. But not this time, the Koreans were starting to build a shipyard across the bay and the greed of the owner overruled past precedence.

Oh, the Koreans made occasional visits to the bars; however, there weren’t enough of the tight wadded, short peckered, and ill-tempered little fucks to go around. If it wasn’t for mamma san feeding the girls, they would have starved. She missed her US sailors with their deep pockets, pleasant banter and willingness to pay a bar fine for a night out. She especially missed her Tom Selleek. Oh she didn’t know his name, that’s just what she called him. He always showed up in nice shorts, a polo shirt, dark shades, moustache, and a body that would make a girl stick to her seat – he was sought after by all the girls. He liked her, though, and when he was in port they were as steady an item as you would find in this place.

She had just rolled off the bar stool, placed a Peso in the Juke box and was about to play “I am a Women in Love” for the umpteenth time as they bounced in. Two drunk, slobbering, groping pains in her beautiful heart shaped ass. Korean sand crabs never bought girls drinks, they just harassed them unmercifully and as long as they were patronizing the bar, the commie bastard owner could care less. She and her fellow hostesses just endured this piss poor treatment until the Garlic breaths either got bored and left or passed out. In the latter case, they would always boost them for what cash they had before rolling them to the street. So there was some profit in the pestilence.

By now the sun had reappeared and as the rain water vaporized and filled the air with humidity the afternoon turned muggy. The Koreans moods changed as odious and sultry as the air and the cold beer could not keep their tempers in check. Seems everything set them off, there was no consoling or placating the sorry little shits. In an effort to distract this bad behavior she reached down in an effort to fondle one of them only to have her hand grabbed and arm twisted up behind her back.

That is probably the last thing he ever remembered, for just as quickly, Mama-san came up from behind the bar with a shore patrol baton and laid him out colder than a Yukon turd. His amazed running mate was dispatched as he stood gap-mouthed and wide-eyed. Mama-san was on a roll; I guess the climate got to her as well, for she took direct aim on the little Chinaman in the corner and let that head knocker fly. On the run now, she picked up a chair and ran his ass out of his own bar.

While Mama-san was chasing Charlie Chan down the muddy street, she and the other girls relieved the Kim chi gourmets of what cash remained on their persons. As the unconscious interlopers were being unkindly deposited outside in the muck, she looked up to see a jeepney stop by the Marmont Hotel. An oh so familiar polo shirt short pant clad figure climbed out into the blazing sunshine, adjusted those shades and walked her way. It was her Tom Selleek.

Although the notoriously reliable bamboo telegraph had failed to tell her of his return ahead of time, she was happy beyond her surprise to see him. Having reached into that freezer in the back room and pulled out one of those famous ice covered Sam Miguel’s that he liked so well, she watched as he eased up to the Juke box, dropped a Peso in and selected “I am a Women in Love”. Turning he leaned up against the ancient record machine, drank deeply and grinned that pearly white smile of his. Walking towards him she was thinking, “I may just be only a Barrio Barretto whore, but its times like this that I love my fucking job”.

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

“A Breath of Fresh Air”

By:  Garland Davis

There were two Warrant Officers in an oiler out of Pearl Harbor.  Bud Jackson was a W-3 and the ship’s Bosun and Chris Clark was a W-3 Machinist, serving as the MPA.  These two officers shared a portside stateroom in the after deck house across the passage way from the Executive Officers office and stateroom and adjacent to a water tight door leading onto the 01 weather deck.

The new XO was a trade school graduate.  He was a brand new Commander and bitter because he was coming from an XO billet on a DE and instead of CO of a Destroyer, he was assigned to another XO tour of a tanker. He didn’t understand that officers with excellent ship handling abilities were assigned as tanker XO’s because of the limited experience of the Airdale officers often assigned to gain ship handling experience of large hulls. The XO had little regard for Warrant Officers and took an immediate dislike to Bosun Jackson.  Bud did very little to change the XO’s opinion of Warrants and himself in particular.

The XO loved planning meetings and he especially loved Officer and Chief meetings in the Wardroom.  Many afternoons were wasted crowded into the Wardroom while the XO harangued us regarding upcoming inspections, evolutions, and etc.  The XO loved POAM’s (Plan of Actions and Milestones). When we weren’t in a planning meeting, we were creating detailed POAM’s for his consumption.

Bud never missed an opportunity to irritate the XO.  The ship had anchored in Lahaina, Maui.  The morning we were departing; Bud was involved in bringing the forty-foot utility boats aboard.  It was a complicated evolution which meant using the booms to lift the boats, swing them inboard, turn them athwart ships and cradle them aft of the forward deckhouse.

As the Boatswains Mates were performing the evolution, the XO comes from the forward deckhouse, headed aft.  He stopped and started issuing orders to the winch operator and the men on deck.  When he arrived in the Wardroom, Bud was there having breakfast.  The XO says, “Mister Jackson, what are you doing here? I thought you were securing the boats.”  Jackson says, “You were doing such a good job XO since you had taken charge of the evolution, I decided to have breakfast. I was hungry.”

Another time, the XO asks Bud, “When are you going to get the port bulkhead painted, Mr. Jackson?”  Bud replies, “I’ll have to get back to you on that XO, I left my fuckin’ POAM in my other shirt.”

We were crowded into the wardroom for another interminable meeting.  I was sitting on the deck beside Bud, who was perusing a Playboy magazine.  Bud holds the centerfold up to me and said, “Chief would you eat this?”  The XO stops his diatribe, glares at Bud and exclaims, “Mr. Jackson, do you have something pertinent to add to the discussion?”  Bud says, “No XO”, holding up the magazine, “I was just checking with the Chief Cook to find out if this is edible.”

Another time, Bud came to me and asked if he could take his meals in the CPO Mess for a couple of weeks.  The other Chiefs were agreeable.  Many of us had known him before he became a Warrant. When I asked him why, he told me that he was barred from going into the Wardroom.  He had farted in the Wardroom in the XO’s presence and was summarily evicted for two weeks.

The ship had gotten underway from Subic after an extra-long weekend in port.  Everyone was a little under the weather.  Bud tells the story this way: “My gut wasn’t feeling good, probably ate some bad pussy or monkey in the barrio, so I decided to hit the rack early.  Chris (the Warrant Machinist) was already in the bottom bunk.  I stripped down to my skivvy shirt and boxers, grabbed the pipes to swing into the top bunk and shit all the way to my heels. Chris was covered in shit and it was running down my legs.  I grabbed my towel, went into the passageway and through the water tight door onto the 01 level, took off my skivvy’s, threw them over the side, wiped my ass with the t-shirt threw it over the side, cleaned the shit off my legs with the towel and threw it and my shower shoes over the side.  I came back through the WTD into the passageway, bare ass naked, just as the XO exited his stateroom.  He looked at me and says, ‘Mr. Jackson, I hope you have an explanation for this.’ I said yes sir, my stateroom smells like shit and I just stepped out for a breath of fresh air.”

This was in the day when Warrants were temporary grades and each Warrant had a permanent enlisted grade.  Bud was a permanent BMCM. He received orders to the Ammunition Depot at West Loch, Pearl Harbor and decided to revert to BMCM.  He told me, “Dave with the fitness report the XO gave me, I would probably have ended up as the head pier sweeper.

I lost track of Bud.  This is all true, but, I have changed the names here to protect the guilty.

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.

navy retirement

by: Garland Davis

a quiet knowledge, an

unspoken admission, a stupid goddamn truth

all our great adventures

lie in the past

that that we were has nothing to do with

who we are

but we will never forget that that we were

perhaps our truths no longer hold pleasure

but our fucking truths none the less

that very moment where I finally stopped

growing up and just started growing old

where you wear the cloak of USN(ret)

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.

Axe Body Wash

By:  Garland Davis

I know you have all seen the commercials showing the dude being mobbed by sexy women after bathing with Axe Body Wash.  Let me tell you my experience or rather my dog’s experience with Axe.  While shopping at Wal-Mart, I saw a display of Axe and decided to try it.  I was thinking that I wouldn’t mind being mobbed by a horde of sexy cheerleaders.  I bought it and while unloading the car, sat it on the washer in the garage.   Putting away my other purchases, I noticed some oil drips on the concrete and decided to pressure wash the drive. I completely forgot the Axe.  My wife, not paying attention placed it in the cabinet with the window cleaner and dog shampoo.

Later in the week, I decided to shampoo my male dog.  I lifted him into the oversized utility sink, installed for the purpose of washing dogs. I wet him down, reached for the dog shampoo and found the bottle empty.  I saw the Axe and decided to use it since he was already wet.  I copiously applied the body wash to his fur and scrubbed him down.

Strange things began to happen.   My female dog started whining and scratching at the door acting like she does when in heat.  Very strange; she had just completed the active phase of her estrus cycle.   Other female dogs in the neighborhood were suddenly coming into heat.  Even some dogs that had been neutered were acting strangely.  Dogs were escaping their constraints and running to my house, whining and scratching at the door.  I was kept busy returning them to their homes. Even Bruce, the gay Labradoodle, who lives in the next block and wears the pink bandana, tried to move into my garage. He was a real pain in the ass, whining like a bitch dog and parading past the door shaking his ass.

Whenever we went for a walk, the girl dogs were backing up to my dog and shaking their booty under his nose. Every time he raised his leg to piss, Bruce tried to sniff his junk.  At first, he loved the attention and, especially, the frequent opportunities to beat up Bruce.  Bruce appeared to enjoy the abuse and was persistent.  In the end, being a celebrity proved nerve-wracking.  He could hardly get in the twelve daily naps that he was accustomed to because of all the barking and whining from his admirers.

Tiring of the celebrity lifestyle he took measures to return his life to normal.  He rolled on a dead cat and a dog turd to mask the odor of the Axe and to smell more like a dog.  Within hours, Bruce had moved back home and the females, either, barked, growled, tried to bite him, or just ignored him during his walks. He was catching up on his sleep. Life was back to normal. Life was good!

I gave the partial bottle of Axe to Bruce’s owner, who used it to shampoo him. Now Bruce is in love with himself and spends his time licking his private parts while ignoring the attentions of all the adoring girl dogs.

They really ought to put warning labels on that Axe stuff.

Well, I’ve got to go. Got to cut this short. I am going to shower and take a walk down by the University Sports Complex.  The girl’s cheerleading team is scheduled to practice this afternoon.

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.

Differences

By:  Garland Davis

There are differences between old ships and the newer ones of today’s Navy.  Every generation of sailors…each crew of a ship creates memories, loyalty and love of the Navy based on their experiences.  It’s probably been that way since Noah put to sea with a shipload of animals in the great flood…probably always will be.

Sailors are linked…Each generation to the preceding and following one by uniforms we wore, the histories of battles and wars fought, and the pride in being a sailor that swells our chests.  We were members of a group that will forever set us apart…We were sailors in the United States Navy.

The way they are churning the seabag now, I doubt if an old sailor would recognize a modern sailor as a shipmate in the same Navy.

We each have our memories of the ships and stations, of shipmates and foreign shores.  Those memories, collectively, are our history… The history of the ships we rode, the friends we made, the wars we fought in service to the country we represented.

Today’s ships are wonders of modernization.  They have evolved into push button wonders that operate with a minimal crew.  There are gun mounts without crews and submarines without periscopes. With crews peopled by male and female.  Yep Shipmate, you heard that right, female sailors.  The Lesbians in the Women’ Rights organizations have finally succeeding in invading one of the last male sanctuaries; the United States Navy afloat.  With no more “Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell”, there are now Rump Rangers and Gap Lappers in the berthing compartments.

Today’s sailors live in a comfort that we couldn’t envision on the old haze gray steel that we crewed throughout endless deployments and gun line periods. They have abundant water, air conditioning, room to move around, closed circuit TV, up to date programming.  We were happy to get fresh milk, an occasional shower, and the James Bond flick with Ann Margaret for the fifteenth time during a WestPac.

We thought computers and ‘wrist radios’ were figments of the imaginations of science fiction authors and the artists of Dick Tracy. Now sailors can stroll topside if close inshore, pull a playing card sized implement from their pocket and call any place in the world.

After UNREP’s we waited impatiently for mail call hoping to get a piece of paper from someone we cared for or someone who cared for us.  Now there are no longer Postal Clerks. The modern day sailor goes to a computer, logs on and checks to see if anyone has cared enough to send an e-mail.  With FaceBook and other social sites, the modern day sailor has friends around the world.  Our closest friends usually slept in the same stack of racks.

As I sit here typing this, I wonder of what the memories of the modern sailor will consist.  Will he remember the chipping of paint…Will he remember the pride he had in his ship as it entered port squared away and ship shape?  Or will he have his mind on the Enginemangirl sleeping on the other side of the bulkhead, wondering if he has a chance of getting into her skivs?

Do Chiefs still cuss you like the demons of hell and then come by to see you in the hospital with a stack of magazines? Do they still offer to loan a broke sailor a few bucks for liberty?  Do they still ask if you have started shaving yet as a way of telling you that, you look like shit and ‘go shave?’

Do bargirls still remember a sailor’s name and ship?  Is it still impossible to get the smell of cheap perfume off a pea coat or dress canvas?  Does the neckerchief still dangle in your beer or chow?  Do sailors still wear liberty cuffs and sharkskin whites?  Do sailors still roll their white hats?

What has the world economy, inflation, the influx of the ‘gentler sex, political correctness, and sensitivity done to the price of beer and pussy in our favorite ports?

What do they use for navigation?  In our day, the Junior Officers were up taking morning sextant sights trying to figure where in hell they were.  I guess now you can do it with Google Earth and Maps.  Sleep in, no reason to get up so early.

Do the mid and four to eight watch standers still hang around the bake shop like buzzards waiting for the baker to pull the rolls or bread they have been smelling, from his ‘magic oven?’ Is giving the cooks a hard time still the best game in town?  Is that first cup of coffee and cigarette in the morning worth getting up for?  What, forget the cigarette, no fucking smoking in our modern Navy?

Are there still independent duty Corpsmen who can cure anything, fix anything, identify varieties of crotch crabs by liberty port, and make perfect stitches by the light of a battle lantern, in a state five sea, after the snipes lost the load?  And afterward, whip your ass at Acey Deucy and Cribbage?

Do Officers and Chiefs still wear steaming hats that look like they drew them from Noah’s Lucky Bag?  Do cats still try to cover up deck force foul weather jackets?

Are FNG’s still sent to find relative bearing grease, chow line, skyhooks, left-handed monkey wrenches, and fallopian tubes? Oh wait, fallopian tubes are now available aboard ship in this modern Navy. Just not in supply, unless, of course, there are female Storekeepers.  What, no more SK’s?  They are now Logistic Specialists.  Hell, I knew SK’s that couldn’t spell logistics. Are there still mail buoy watches?  Are impressionable FA’s still wondering around the bridge trying to find the main engine ignition key? Or have all these tricks played on the innocent been categorized as “hazing” and banned in our more diverse, gentler and kinder Navy.  “A Force for Good.”

Do the girls in the bars start prettying up when your ship is sighted abreast Grande Island?  Or is everyone mustering with the Chaplains Assistant preparing to go paint an orphanage?  Does the CO sometimes stick his head into a joint on Magsaysay and buy a round?  No wait, drinking is discouraged, he could get relieved for that.

Are you still a pussy if you can’t chug a picture of Mojo? Is the “Breakfast of Champions” still monkey-on-a-stick, peanuts, hard boiled eggs and pool cue dust in your beer?”

Memories… Collect them… Remember… Remember the little things. They will form the composite of your old man’s memories. They will connect you with whatever comes after you.

One day, you will be parked in your old recliner saying…

“These goddam sailors today have no idea how fuckin’ tough we had it.  We had to go all the way to town for pussy.  We didn’t bring it with us.”

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.

Throttle Board

By:  David ‘Mac’ McAllister

Should you drop down into any engine room aboard any ship of the line; the first thing you would see, more than likely, would be the throttle board. The throttle board in addition to having the ahead and astern throttle hand wheels also was a gage board whereby the parameters of the main engineering plant were monitored. The throttle board in Main Control of a multi-wheeled ship offered the dubious distinction of monitoring the parameters of all the other engineering plants as well. A myriad of gages, enunciators, tachometers, repeaters, telegraphs, voice tubes, clocks, bells, clangstons and alarms, the throttle board could be intimidating to the uninitiated and served as the nerve center of the main engineering spaces. Consequently, the throttle board with its highly polished brass, bronze, aluminum and chrome became a show piece and a direct reflection upon the crew of snipes that manned that space. So it was on board one destroyer I had the privilege to serve in.

Controlling engine speed and direction, especially during maneuvering made for a very busy and interesting watch – my favorite. In order to keep up with the actions of a good throttle man dragging steam while answering bells, it would require the full-time concentrated efforts of three BT’s; a Burner man, Check man and the BTOW. Of course, this was before the days of the marvel of Automatic Combustion Controls (ACC). So the rivalry between watch sections could become intense. But that is fodder for other sea stories. This story concerns a new guy that reported aboard that was way too intelligent to be a fleet snipe.

MM3 came to us by way of all places the nuclear power program. Don’t know nor care what he did in order to end up on a Tin Can forward deployed to Yokosuka at the height if the Vietnam war, but he surely must have pissed off one of Rickover’s many Hench men. Given the pressure, temperature and specific gravity of sea water this guy could calculate its flow rate through the main engine lube oil cooler in his head; however, he didn’t have a clue as to which way to turn the overboard discharge valve in order to regulate main engine oil temperature. In other words there was a severe common sense short circuit between his brain and his hands.

If that wasn’t enough he also had a hard time grasping the how and why of the way we did things in the hole.  Just didn’t seem to be enough Prussian blue or grease to get this guy’s head screwed on straight. Questioning authority was something that just wasn’t done in the 60’s and time-tested evolutions and traditional routines were the norm and were unquestionably abided by. I guess he was a messenger from the future. A warning to us of the turn that the Neo Navy would be making in the years ahead; it seems questioning the wisdom and authority of his superiors was one of his unwise attributes.

As I said the Throttle Board was the hallmark in pride of ownership in any engine room and reflected directly upon the sailors that manned it. Cumshaw was the machine that got most things done then; coffee being one of the lubricants that kept that machine running. Through the judicial use of pilfered coffee, we had managed to elevate the appearance of our Throttle Board to heights that reigned head and shoulders above fleet standards. Besides having everything that could be removed chromed, we had the board itself covered in sheet aluminum. As you all know, Brasso could turn Aluminum into a diamond in a goat’s ass when shined every day. Consequently, a pair of shades would have been a welcome addition to one’s uniform while standing Throttle Watch under the glaringly bright lighting of Main Control.

On most ships it was understood that standard procedure for the 4X8 watch Throttleman was to shine bright work. With us, it was, as a matter of pride, the job of all watches to constantly groom, shine and tweak the appearance of our Throttle Board. Well, except for one. You guessed it – Einstein didn’t get it. While an under instruction Throttleman he would begrudgingly to do his due diligence; however, after finally qualifying he slacked off on his titivation duties. No manner of refusal to be relieved by oncoming Throttlemen or berating by MMOW’s or MM1 himself could break this guy’s resistance to tradition.  Said he couldn’t see the sense in all this shiny stuff which would invariably send MM1 into a purple rage and through the overhead.

MM3, although not a steamer and in fact, was more of a Boy Scout ashore, still liked to go over with his camera and immerse into the local culture and considered he to be a real gastronomic gourmet of fine cuisine. So he could be gotten to with threats of deprived liberty and his performance would marginally improve as port visits loomed on the horizon. He was especially fond of Japan, Japanese culture and their festivities. MM1 would use this to advantage and spared no rod to spoil this child.

After weeks on the Gun Line we returned to Yokosuka for some much-needed upkeep and repairs. We would be in for a ten-day period that happened to coincide with the summer dance festival Bon Odori. After out chopping and during our transit back to Yokosuka, MM3 with liberty and the pending festivities paramount on his mind kept after his watch station cleaning duties all the while bemoaning the bright work and it’s very existence. Seeing as there is a God that watches over all liberty hounds and maintains just and righteousness within the world of sailors, MM3 had duty the first day in. After the plant had been shut down and cold iron watches set we all shifted colors and bagged it on liberty confident in the fact that no trouble could possibly come to MM3 in a cold plant. After all, he was only assigned some minor cleaning and painting duties of the upper level while on watch; nothing mechanical or technical. No problems right – wrong.

The next morning, after quarters, we all dropped down into main control to be greeted by the haziest grey Throttle Board you have ever seen. Seems MM3 had taken it upon himself to expand his painting project to include that demon Throttle Board and all its exquisitely gleaming bright work that he despised. As we all stood there mouths open thinking WTF, MM1 slid down the ladder and was stopped cold in his tracks in front of our now greyer than grey focal point of space pride. WTF turned rapidly into O’ Fuck.

MM1 was sort of like a chameleon in that his moods were expressed by the color of his face. When the world was right with regular meals and bowel movements, he glowed with a pleasant peachiness. When we were receiving counter battery his color range would change to a pale grey with tinges of green depending on the closeness of the rounds exploding around us. When pissed, a crimson tint would start low in the neck creeping at first and then spreading into his cheeks as his aggravation increased. However, this morning his face had gone from pleasant peachy to purple – this was bad. Code purple meant that nobody would be spared his wrath; best not say anything and better yet best be looking for a hideout.

MM1 wheeled around as we all scattered for safer environs and glared at MM3 through bloodshot eyes. With a brain still deprived of oxygen, resultant of all the booze consumed the night before, he clenched his fists. Paralyzed, I know MM3 thought he was dead because I had serious doubts for my own safety, and I hadn’t done anything (for a change). Taking hold of his senses, MM3 dived for the deck, avoiding what he thought was going to be the knockout blow; while, we all made like busy cause one couldn’t be expected to testify to what one never saw. This being one of the unwritten laws of the day and corporal punishment could be dealt out swiftly although often times unjustly, we were all surprised as MM1 relaxed his hands and as if an afterthought reached into his breast pocket. Pulling out a stack of liberty cards he calmly and silently thumbed through them. Finding MM3’s, much to our relief, he placed the rest safely back into his shirt pocket. As MM3, kneeling on hands and knees, looked up MM1 slowly and methodically tore his liberty card into confetti. Tossing it into the nearby shit can, as his color returned to its normal pleasant peachiness, he told MM3 “You may turn in a special request chit to me to replace the liberty card you just lost after that fuckin Throttle Board is the way it was when I left the ship yesterday”. Turning, he left the space, we all turned to and nothing more was said.
Meanwhile, MM3 spent his nights disassembling, cleaning, polishing

Meanwhile, MM3 spent his nights disassembling, cleaning, polishing, and in general, restoring our Throttle Board to its former pristine, knock your eyes out, begging to be shined condition. I don’t know whether appealing his plight to higher authority ever crossed his mind; rather, I think somewhere in that overly intelligent beanie of his, a primitive sense for survival held sway preventing him from doing anything so foolish. Oh, Bon Odori came and went and never missed the absence of MM3.
I think back on that event, the scene still vivid in my mind. The violator on his knees, of his own volition, was tried, found guilty and executed by a court of one.

I think back on that event, the scene still vivid in my mind. The violator on his knees, of his own volition, was tried, found guilty and executed by a court of one. Mast had been held surer, swifter and with less consequences than had a report chit been generated. That was the power and uncontested authority of an LPO back in the day, in my Navy. The power of the Wheel was never questioned, especially by an MM3.

I have no idea what eventually happened to MM3. Wouldn’t doubt that he got out, hired on as a high dollar low brain operator at Three Mile Island. I will tell you this, though; after his little come to Jesus moment with MM1, that guy couldn’t slide down into Main Control what that MM3 wasn’t beating a steady path for the can of Brasso and a rag. He may never have really come to like that beautiful, gleaming star of the forward pit – our Throttle Board; but, when MM1 was around he sure acted like he loved it.

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.

They
By Garland Davis

They tell me, “Welcome Home,” forty years late
They say, “Thank you for your service,” when it no longer matters,
They spat upon me and called me “Murderer,”
They blamed me for the war that I fought for their freedoms.
They expect forgiveness of their actions when I came home,

They don’t understand my pride in my service and my uniform.
They don’t understand why I didn’t desert to Canada,
They don’t understand why I won’t talk of the war,
They don’t understand me or my friends from the war,
They don’t understand,  they can never understand.

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 Challenge

By:  Garland Davis

All the Chief could say was that shore duty in Hawaii sucked the big one.  It was only his second tour of shore duty.  He had enlisted during the wind down of the Korean War and spent most of the next twenty-three years at sea, mostly in the Orient.  His only previous shore tour had been as a station ditto at Subic Bay, Republic of the Philippines.  He had tried to stay in the Far East, even volunteering for a tour on the carrier in Yokosuka.  His detailer told him that because of another anti-homesteading push his only choice was to go stateside for duty.  The closest to Asia that he could get was Pearl Harbor.

After reporting to Pearl, he was assigned to the Special Services Department, where they placed him in charge of the Base Theater.  He complained to the Chain of Command, stating that he had spent over twenty-three years as a pipe fitter and welder.  Surely there was a billet at the shipyard where he could use his skills.  He didn’t know anything about running a theater or managing civilian personnel.  He was adamant on insisting that he be placed some place other than Special Services. This evoked the ire of the Special Services Officer, a bitter, passed over Commander.  The Commander called him into his office and told him that the subject was closed, he was assigned to Special Services and that was final.  He told him that he would be assigned to the Auto Hobby Shop where he could possibly use his mechanical skills advising the patrons of the shop.  It was either that or the theater.

The Chief figured that it was time to shut up and carry on.  He decided to transfer to the Fleet Reserve.  He figured that he could get a civilian position at SRF Yokosuka or back in Subic Bay.  Loaning crescent wrenches and explaining “righty tighty and lefty loosey” to neophyte mechanics was not his idea of good duty.  He ran a chit to retire to the Fleet Reserve, which was disapproved.  It seems he had to complete a three-year area tour in Hawaii before he could retire.  It was going to be a long two and a half years.

He reluctantly settled into the Hobby Shop.  He had an MM2 and an MM3 to work for him and Special Service personnel stood the duty in the evening until the Hobby Shop closed at 2100.  The MM2 had been there about a year and had a handle on the operation. He told him the previous Chief had been waiting to retire and spent most every afternoon at the Chief’s Club.  The Chief could understand this.  There wasn’t a challenge in the job, but following his nature, he started looking for a challenge.

Looking the place over, he noted that the field behind the shop was covered by numerous junked and rusting cars.  Taking a walk through the field, he saw car hulks dating from the mid-forties.  There were, at least, three hundred complete and partial car bodies, engines and chassis covering almost every inch of the field.  After doing some research, he found that there was a metal recycling company in Honolulu at the piers where they chipped metal into small bits and loaded it on ships for Taiwan.

The Chief went to the Assistant Special Services Officer and proposed clearing the field out.  The LT agreed that it was an eyesore and should be cleaned out.  He arranged to make a stake bed truck and a three-man working party available to the Chief to clear the cars and metal out.

Over the next two years, with Chief operating a cutting rig and the working party loading and transporting the scrap to the recycling yard, the field was cleared of all scrap.  Each load of scrap was weighed at the recyclers and the weight slips returned to the Chief.

Final cleaning of the field and carrying vegetation and other organic refuse to the dump coincided with the Chiefs retirement.  He was presented with a Navy Achievement Medal for his efforts in cleaning up the eyesore by the Hobby Shop. After a retirement ceremony and a reception at the CPO Club.  The Chief planned a visit to relatives on the mainland and then a return to the Far East.

The field the Chief cleared is where the present day Arizona Memorial Visitor Center and parking lot are located.

The Chief made one more stop before leaving Hawaii. He went by the offices of Dillingham Recycling and Scrap Metal to pick up a check for over $8,000.  The value of all the scrap delivered during the two and a half years.

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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.

The Ship

By David “Mac” McAllister

There’s a ship,

out upon the sea.

A ship of dreams;

laden with memories.

I know not its name;

but she calls to me.

Yester year’s shipmates,

feats and glories

A ship residing

of Spirit and Mind.

Crewed by Shipmates

I know all so well.

Sailing on pristine waters,

the perfect kind

Sailors I’ve sailed with

through peace and hell

Gladly again

I’d man her rails.

serving through waters;

calm and gale.

For we were the best

of the best of our day

No matter on liberty or

while in harm’s way.

Proudly serving

on the razor’s edge.

Duty, honor, country

our pledge

Forward and onward,

never looking back

For we were the best of the best

out in the Westpac

Once More

By: Garland Davis

Once more on the far Pacific Rim is all I’m asking,

Just a feeling I’m again wanting to know,

It’s a time and place where my memory is walking,

It’s that world where I’m longing to go.

How I loved the old ships that plied those waters,

How they make this old heart remember with joy,

They’re the light in an ocean of darkness,

That surrounded all my years as a boy.

Now I know all the sadness of the sailor,

Who has gone far from his home on the waves,

Who regrettably knows he can never return there,

For the ships of his youth lie in their watery graves.

How I wish my spirit could ever wander,

In those ships and seas that were first and last,

In my memory of things I cherish,

Let me live with the sea and ships of my past.

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.