A Dog’s Story

A Dog’s Story

By  Taro (edited by Garland Davis)

This is a traumatic story that I can only now talk about.

The guy whom I must walk every morning and three of four other times each day went shopping at a place called Walmart.  I have never been there.  They are anti-dog, except for those of us who have taken human control to its maximum, you know, the Prima Donnas who call themselves Service Dogs.    They get to go everywhere.  But I digress!

Anyway, the guy went to this Walmart place to get beer.  Boy, that stuff is nasty. I don’t see how he can drink it.  Give me a nice refreshing bowl of tap water.  But, let me tell you about this Axe Body Wash stuff.  The guy takes a lot of baths.  Every time he begins to smell appealing, he washes it off with a sweet-smelling soap and anoints his body with sickly, cloying liquids and unguents.  And then he uses this thing to take what little fur he has off his face.   Weird looking, something like a shaved Poodle.  Many times, when he goes to this Walmart place, he comes home with more sweet smelling stuff.  If he really wants to smell good, there is a dead cat on the corner that I recommend the guy roll on.  Heavenly!

He watches a lot of Television.  I looked at an interesting show once.  It was about a bitch dog named Lassie.  I stopped watching about halfway through when I noticed that Lassie was only half Bitch.  She wasn’t a fully equipped dog.  I see some like that when we are walking.  They don’t have the nuts to be a full male if you know what I mean.  It is surprisingly easy to whip their asses.  These TV shows sometimes advertise this stuff called Axe, that attracts hordes of female guys to male guys.

Back to Walmart.  The guy bought a bottle of Axe Body Wash.  When he showed me the stuff, I tried to warn him that SHE wouldn’t like it when he was mobbed by all those females.  I don’t understand it, but his breed is strange that way.

Absent minded as he is, he leaves the bottle of Axe on the washing machine and later, SHE puts it in a cabinet where they store that horrible stuff he uses to bathe me.  Brrr… It seems as if every time I begin to smell like I should, he washes me and I lose my attractive body odor.  I figure getting rained on occasionally is enough bathing for any dog.

A couple of days after his shopping trip, I was under his desk while he was trying to write one of those braggadocios stories about LBFM’s (I don’t know what they are, but I wonder if they are safe to eat) and chasing Pussy in a place called P.I. (We see Pussies ever day during our walks.  He never tried to chase them and won’t let me.) A friend of his, nice guy (Rubs my head.) asked him if SHE had read any of his stories. He said no.  Funny these human guys!  Some of that gas with the wonderful odor of turd drifted out of me.

He jumped up and said, “God Dammit, Taro.  That’s it.  You are getting a bath.”

He goes into the garage and prepares the sink.  When he went for my shampoo, he discovered the bottle was empty.  There sat the bottle of Axe.  He decided to use it to bathe me.  Thus began two weeks that were eventful, enjoyable, and terrifying all at the same time.

Bitch dogs from up and down the street started running away from home and mobbing me.  They weren’t even in heat, but the still shoved their booties in my face.  Some of them were trying to lick my junk. “Baby, I didn’t know you were like that.  You bit the hell out of me last week when I just tried to grab a quick sniff.”

All that was the enjoyable part.  That gay Labradoodle, Bruce with the pink bandana, who lived three streets down moved into the garage.  I had to whip his ass repeatedly because he kept trying to smell and lick my junk. Beating his ass was enjoyable, but he was spending so much time hanging around the garage, following me around, and making moves on my junk, that the other dogs were beginning to think I was as the guy says, “Light in the Loafers.” (I don’t understand it, I am a heavy loafer.)

Finally, all this reached a point where I could no longer tolerate the constant attention from the bitches and Bruce was becoming a metaphorical “Pain in the Ass.”  If he had his way he would become a real one. Being a celebrity was cutting into the time I devoted to my seven or eight naps a day.

Tired of this celebrity lifestyle, I rolled on the Dead Cat and a couple of dried turds, finally overwhelming and negating the Axe aroma.  Now I smelled like a dog again. Within a couple of hours, the Bitches were back to growling and barking at Bruce and me

SHE gave the partial bottle of Axe to Bruce’s guy.  He used it to bathe Bruce.  Bruce fell in love with himself and now spends and now spends his time licking his junk while ignoring the attentions of all the adoring Bitches.

I’ve got to go.  It’s time for a protracted afternoon nap.  The guy bought another bottle of Axe.  He said he is going to shower and go for a walk up at the University because the Cheerleaders are practicing.  It’s all noise to me.  The only things he says that I listen to are “Cheese” and “Ride in the Car.”


Wiser or Just Older


Today is a fellow Asia Sailor’s birthday.  He kinda challenged me to expound on age and wisdom.

Wiser or Just Older
By: Garland Davis

“Youth is wasted on the young.” — George Bernard Shaw

The philosophers tell us that as we age we gain wisdom from watching others and from our own successes and failures. I have given this much thought. About five minutes since a Shipmate asked me to expound on age versus wisdom.

• If you can sit in the CPO Mess and diagnose a problem with a feed pump and give instructions to correct it based on information from the LPO, without seeing the equipment, you are wise beyond your years, Grasshopper.
• If you can stand a Bridge Watch and know the location of all contacts by instinct, even when the ship is maneuvering you are possessed with “Spatial Awareness,” a special kind of wisdom.
• If you can find your ship and your rack and wake up the next morning with your last remembrance being ordering another ladies drink for a rather chunky, no downright fat LBFM, then your survival wisdom is great, your wisdom for selecting LBFM’s needs some tweaking.
• If at age fifty-five, sixty-four, or- seventy-two you still think you can handle the young hotties that hold the spotlight on the Oriental Beauties Facebook Group, you ain’t learned a damn thing, you’re old and delusional.
• If you think you can still drink till four in the morning, pass out for two hours and then function the next day, you ain’t wised up a bit, and your memory is going. Think back to the last hangover.
• If you think you can cure a hangover with alcohol, you are partially right. You can postpone it for a later attempt at a cure. You have gained a little wisdom from experience.

That’s as far as I am going with this. Let’s face it! You are an Asia Sailor! You are old! When it comes to your rating and profession, you are the wise one that others seek out for your knowledge and expertise. You have become wiser as you grew older.

When it comes to liberty, you ain’t got a fucking lick of sense. You still have all the wisdom of a seventeen-year-old Seaman Deuce.




By: HT1
Of all the recurring silliness on board, USS REDACTED my favorite is P.O. “Clueless “coming to borrow a drill. It’s such a ridiculous recurring event everyone here looks forward to it like reruns of Monty Python. The absolute predictability of the entire event makes it seem like a spoof, but I assure you it has happened hundreds of times with only the slightest of variations. So for everyone’s amusement and as training for all those clueless personnel wandering the passageways. How Not To borrow a drill.

It always starts with a knock on the door. This is new and rather odd. Knocking on a door on a ship that doesn’t have an officer on the other side, I can’t decide if it’s because of the big shiny brass shamrock I put on the door, or it’s just the apprehension of having to enter the HT shop. I have tried my best to scare people away. But most keep coming back. I take pity on the ones that really look scared. But I digress.

In walk’s P.O. “Clueless,” P.O. “Clueless” used to be known as “Ricky Recruit” but in the “kinder gentler Navy” Ricky gets a $2000 enlistment bonus and accelerated advancement right out of A School, thus P.O. Clueless.

Clueless starts it all out with “They sent me down here to borrow a drill” I let the Ambiguous “They” slide … For now. I ask the first question. Remember in the Navy there are no dumb questions, but some of the answers are a real hoot. “What type of drill you want?” Everyone in the rooms faces lights up with anticipation, we got a live one here! Clueless’s face goes blank, his eyeball flutter from side to side,

He doesn’t know there are different types of drills, In a slow apprehensive voice he tentatively asks “cordless?” I let him off easy; he will be back, so I tell him. “Across the P-way The Electricians have all the power tools,”

Now comes intermission, everyone sits eagerly waiting for Clueless to return. They always do. Sure enough, that same quiet knock at the door and in comes our victim, err customer.

While holding the drill in his left hand, I don’t know why the left hand but they always have the drill in their left hand and make the twisty gesture with their right. Clueless in an excited voice like his life depends on it says. “The Electricians said you have the chuck” the whole time making a twisty gesture with his right. With a straight face, I give him the next line “ There’s a chuck on that drill. What do you need another chuck for?”

Clueless is completely baffled. Hell, he probably thinks I’m the dumb one. Still making the twisty gesture, he corrects me. “No the thingy to tighten the drill.” With a perplexed look on my face, I ask. “Thingy, what thingy?” Now Clueless gets really frantic with his twisty gesture and brings the drill up to eye level so I can clearly see him gesturing. Since Clueless has made everything so much clearer by frantically gesturing at eye level, I let him off the hook and turn to the nearest person, who is smiling ear to ear; we have all seen this before, and in a questioning, tone say “I think he wants a chuck key.” Clueless jumps right in now “Yeah a chuck key, that what I need!”

So I take clueless into the back of the shop to find him a chuck key. It’s amazing that they never catch on as everyone follows us to the back to see the next act of our show.

I hand Clueless the chuck key with an admonishment not to lose it and to return it when he is done. Clueless right on cue says, “ I need a drill.” I have to do it, I point out the obvious. “You already have a drill. How many holes are you drilling?”

Clueless gets that flustered look again like he is so tired of dealing with idiots. “No, the thingy to make the hole!” Once again I look to the nearest person in the room as if Clueless isn’t there and say, “I think he wants a drill bit.” Obligingly Clueless speaks up, “Yah I need a drill bit.” Now to the heart of the matter, I ask Clueless the million-dollar question. ”What size?” This where Clueless either realizes he has been making an ass of himself and politely excuses himself to go get some more information or continues trying to roller-skate through the buffalo herd. But again I digress.

If Clueless insists on crashing forward, I milk him for information, “just what are you trying to do?” “I have to drill a hole in the Bulkhead to mount a ________.” Now I’m scared this knucklehead that doesn’t even know what tools he needs is going to drill a hole in the ship. So I voice my concerns. “You do know you can’t just drill holes in the ship? It’s watertight, holes are bad for watertight integrity.” Now, most people are just trying to get through a false bulkhead. But I did actually have one fellow tell me “Don’t worry it’s on the 01 level.” I confiscated his drill. But our average hero is just putting something up on the wall, so I ask him “What are you using to mount that.” This makes it all worthwhile when he says, “I don’t know they just sent me to get the drill.”

I told you I’d get back to the ambiguous “They” and here we are. “They told you! There are 340 people all within 593 feet of me, and I know for a fact not a single one of them is named They. Who sent you down here?” Still not getting the hint I almost always get the same answer. I guess they learned this at 3M training because the default answer is “My Work Center Supervisor (WCS).”

Now by this point, I’m about sick of dealing with Clueless, so I send him off to find his WCS with orders to find out some specifics on this mounting evolution. Honestly, I’m praying they will just give up on the whole idea, or at least send down P.O. Salty Sailor to wrap things. But that would be way too easy.

About half an hour later Clueless shows back up this time he brought help he’s got P.O.2 No-sea-time with him. Because everyone knows No-sea-time did three years of arduous shore duty at Key West so he can handle anything. But even more important they have specific instructions from their WCS on exactly how the mounting evolution is supposed to go.

Having had 30 minutes to get my head together, I’m ready with a whole new set highly intelligent questions. So I jump right in. “You fellows get some adult leadership? Know how you’re going to mount that________?” No-sea-time isn’t having any foolishness he pipes right up in his best ‘I issued basket balls for three years tone of voice’ “Our WCS said to borrow some nuts and bolts from the HT’s.” From the look of satisfaction on No-sea-time’s face apparently, I’m supposed to be impressed.

So I scratch my chin, think about it for a second and quietly ask, “Any chance he told you what size?”


HT1 prefers to remain anonymous.  He is a talented metal worker.  Examples of his Navy related work can be seen here https://www.facebook.com/HT1-Metal-Works-253860417966938/?__mref=message_bubble


Paradise Awaits

Paradise Awaits

By:  Garland Davis


The inbound stretch

Of Grande Island to starboard,

Paradise awaits.

Across the bridge and downtown,

Base rules and bar district,

Are connected, yet separated,

By the expanse

Of the bridge over Shit River.


Of course, an outlying neighborhood.

Of Barrio Barretto

As well as Subic City beckon,

Both are in reach by,

The garishly decorated Jeepneys,

With stops along the way

For refreshment.


What does this road

And its history

Say about us –

Our hopes and desires –

Is, perhaps, the work

Of the storytellers and poets

Who’ll tell our story in words and prose



For storytellers and poets

Can only tell the truth

Of events and images created by words-

That are elusive and shifting

Like the shadow of the day and night before

Of the songs and the drinks and the girl

Who made it special

The sound of the Jeepney


At dawn’s half-light.



Razor Blades and Ivory Soap

Razor Blades and Ivory Soap

by Bob ‘Dex’ Armstrong


There was a point in time… All you lads who rode submersible iron will recognize the point… A point where you could tell exactly how long you had been out by the diameter of the salt stain in the armpits of your last clean dungaree shirt. The point where all your fellow inmates smelled like the inside of Olga Korbut’s gym shorts.

At this point in the interest of human preservation and fear that his ship was taking on the internal atmosphere of the monkey house at the Chicago zoo… The Old Man would lift water restriction and allow ‘white light’ in the berthing compartments.

Men, who had lived and interacted in the dim glow of night-vision-preserving red light, got a good look at each other for the first time in weeks. It wasn’t a pretty sight…

“Jeezus, have I been living with these animals?”

The after battery looked like a garbage dump. Shredded ration boxes, stray socks… Magazines loaded butt kits… Sour towels and a collection of dirty laundry that had matured to the point it was turning into Limburger cheese.

It was a point far past the day we had wrapped ourselves around the last of the potatoes stored in the showers. The only visual evidence of their previous existence was the wadded up gunny sacks carpeting the deck of the after battery head and whatever GDU-delivered peels the fish off Nova Scotia were dining on… The ‘Idaho’s Best’ rug in the sonar shack was the residual product of some previous deployment.

For those of you who never rode Uncle Sam’s under seas technological treats, a smoke boat shower was an aluminum box the size of a coffin designed for Mickey Rooney. It had a shower head that delivered semi-hot water at the rate of five peeing hummingbirds and a shelf for soap that could leave a very distinctive purple mark on your upper biceps if the boat took a roll during occupancy… And a deck drain… A hole through which amazing things could appear if anyone put pressure in number two sanitary tank without shutting the required gate valve and quick throw.

Even though you had to Crisco your ass to turn around in the damn thing, it was the closest thing to heaven a diesel boat sailor came in contact with at sea.

Everyone shucked his dungarees down to his skivvies… Grabbed a towel and his ‘douche bag’ (sub sailor for shaving kit) and got in line. While guys rooted through side lockers for their shower gear, towel fights broke out… Not Cub Scout towel flipping, serious heavy-duty towel popping. The kind that can take little chunks of hiney if you couldn’t move and fend off the shot. Grown men laughing and popping each other with towels… Underseas recreation at its finest.

After a two-minute soap down, scrub and a rinse, men would lather up and scrape off weeks of beard accumulation. Lifers who never shelled out for razor blades would say,

“Hey, kid… How about seconds on that blade?”

Cheap bastards… Same guys that ran out of sea stores smokes after two weeks… Same guys who would wander around Bells filling their glass from any available pitcher. They are probably millionaires now and live by tax loopholes.

Bottles of Vitalis, Lucky Tiger, Mennen, Old Spice, Aqua Velva, and God knows what else, appeared from side lockers. In thirty minutes, the entire boat smelled like the parlor of the best whorehouse in New Orleans.

Adrian Stukey would break into a Ray Charles song and do his aboriginal dance… He employed footwork only known to Stukey and three Congolese witch doctors. The man had moves Fred Astaire, and Gene Kelly never thought of… Sort of reminiscent of an electrocuted orangutan, mixed with the mating dance of the Australian Dingo eaters.

By some miracle, clean white skivvy shirts appeared. Some with the names of guys, who rode the boat five or six years previously, stenciled across the back.

“Who in the hell is Garabaldi, D. L.?”

“How’n the hell do I know?”

“Musta been some boat sailor.”

“Yeh, I guess… What’s it to you… You writing a gahdam book?”

“Maybe someday… Who knows?”

Nah… Who’d give a damn about reading stuff about this jacked up bunch of idiots? Who’d believe it? Once upon a time, I lived among people who volunteered to live like primates in an iron septic tank with lousy air, shared sleeping arrangements, had at least four leaks (air, oil, water, and security), made weird sounds, and agitated like a warped washing machine, for less money than you could fit into a gahdam gumball machine… Who’d read crap like that?

When the Goddess of Personal Hygiene looked down and blessed the residents of the roaming hotel SS-481… It was good.

It was also good to live among men who were right where they wanted to be… Nobody chloroformed them and hauled them off to New London. Nobody ever called their number at the Selective Service Board. They volunteered… Every gahdam one. Most of the world didn’t even know they were there… Boats… Little primitive communities of the finest men I’ve ever known that lived in metal containers and took them to sea. There must be a story in there somewhere.

The next time you see a Texaco tank truck rolling down the highway, just for a moment visualize it a couple of hundred feet underwater… Then picture thirty or forty happy-go-lucky half-naked men singing, doing silly dancing and towel fighting inside… And willing to do whatever it took to keep nasty folks with weird political agendas from crawling through your bedroom window. Those lads were my shipmates.

Author’s note: In the ensuing years, service under the sea has changed for the better. Lads today are not known as ‘pig boat sailors.’ Today’s modern submersibles are more conducive to proper personal hygiene, grooming and gentlemanly attire. After a hard day of fission monitoring, switch flipping and gauge dickering, our present day subsurface bluejacket may attend a lecture on the molecular configuration of high-density hydrocarbons emanating from the planet Mongo. He and soon to be, she, can opt for a live concert… Polo… Fencing or a little commingling in a hot tub… Mint Juleps followed by a shrimp cocktail precedes the evening meal after which those not engaged in ship’s work or on watch are free to attend a visiting Broadway stage production or enjoy a Swedish massage in the crew comfort compartment.

Before retiring, he or she fills out his or her ‘What I like about Naval Service’ questionnaire which is handed to the first or second class bedtime story petty officer… Then after a telling of the ‘Three Bears and the Call Girl’ story, they say their ‘God bless Hyman Rickover’ prayer, drink their hot cocoa and turn into their Martha Stewart approved poopy sacks to dream of super computers in accordance with currently prescribed force policy.

It’s a helluva lot better these days.



The Navy Uniform

Found this on Facebook:


The Navy Uniform

By:  Anonymous

The US Navy “Crackerjack” uniform is a historic tradition unlike any other military uniform. For the most part it dates to the early 19th century, and even the peacoat is of a style which would have been familiar during the War of 1812. The broad collar on your jumper is there to protect it from the tar you use to keep your fashionable pony tail in place, and you can easily roll up your bell bottoms to scrub the decks. If the ship heels over too far in a high wind and you fall overboard, you can easily remove those bell bottom trousers, knot the legs, and have yourself a floatation device.

And if you want a perfect and comfortable fit with your bellbottoms, the manufacturer in his foresight has added a lace-up, called a gusset, at the back of the trousers for just such a reason.
Being a sailor, you have already mastered undoing those 13 buttons on your ‘broadfall’, which is the name of that flap covering your crotch, so you have no problem removing those trousers in an emergency . . . or any other opportune moment. The 13 buttons? They’re there because the earlier 7- button style was inadequate. They have nothing to do with the original colonies . . . I mean, who would celebrate the birth of our nation from THAT angle?
If you have put too much tar on your pony tail, you can use the black neckerchief to wipe some of it off, after all, that’s what it’s there for. Having a shipmate help you out of your tailored jumper, or asking him to hold your jumper’s collar down so you can don your peacoat, all promote good will aboard ship, whether it be a 24-gun man o’ war, or an Aegis destroyer.
The ‘dixie cup’ cap is unique to the US Navy, and is of the most durable and serviceable material available. The ‘white hat’ has been used since the late 19th century. And everyone knows at a glance exactly who those men in blue are, and a sailor from the 21st century would be recognized in the 1800s as a shipmate, and a 19th century swabbie could do the same today.
I believe that our naval traditions must be preserved, and that the “crackerjack” uniform should stay for at least another century. It’s a tradition that instills pride in an individual, and a uniform that had introduced a young nation and her flag to the world. An American sailor’s swagger is due in large part to his pride in his uniform.
And it’s a uniform that says, “I AM AN AMERICAN SAILOR, AND DAMNED PROUD OF IT!”


Inane Conversations

Inane Conversations

By:  Garland Davis


“I hear that in preparation for expected heavy weather after we get underway, the fuckin’ cooks will be serving pork chops smothered in grease for supper.”

“What are they having for dessert?”

“Probably going to get us to eat those overripe bananas I saw the cranks humping up from the reefer decks.  Either that or warm fuckin’ canned apricots.”

“They don’t keep bananas in the reefer.”

“I know, they store em in the reefer decks.  Where do you think I have been stealing them from?”

“What’s up with the baker?”

“He’s been working in the galley while a couple of the cooks were on leave.  Maybe they will serve some of those stale cakes they bought while we were in port. I’ll be glad when Davy’s back in the bakeshop.”

“I hope they got some good flicks for this trip.”  I wonder what they are showing tonight.”

“I saw they had the one where Charleton Heston is a hole snipe pulling an oar in a Roman Light Cruiser while his LBFM is screwing around with some JG named Julius.  You know the one where the Chief Snipe walks around with a whip beating the BT’s and MM’s while the CHENG pounds on a drum.”

“I’ll bet the dudes on the flagship don’t have to put up with lousy chow and ancient fuckin’ flicks.  I’ll bet they get movies with Natalie Wood and Jayne “Tits” Mansfield while we get this old trash. “

“Why don’t you try for a swap.  I’m sure they have some worthless mess crank that you could qualify to trade with.  We would probably get the better of that deal.”

“Blow it out your ass.”

“Hey, Joe.”

“Yo, what’s up?”

“You ever get that old Subaru running?”

“Yeah, Voltage regulator.”

“I’ll go in on gas if I can catch a ride to Yokohama next weekend.”

“Sure, halfers on gas and beer.”

“You got it.”

At sea, there was no change in the conversation.

“Who’s drivin’ this son-of-a-bitch? Do they have to find every fuckin’ trough in the Western Pacific?  I can’t get my beauty sleep with all this rolling around.”

“Yeah, you fuckin’ Yeomen need your sleep.  What do you do stand one watch a day up in the fresh air and sunshine?  Come down in the pit and do port and starboard before you bitch about losing sleep.”

“Yeah, you fuckin’ Snipes got it bad.  I slave over a hot typewriter all day and then have to stare at the ocean for four hours trying to see something that the Radermen missed.  Fuck a bunch of lookout watches.  After a while, you start seeing shit that ain’t there.”

“Why did they build so many of these Fletcher Destroyers?”  What, they get a good deal on them?”

“These cans won the war.”

“What, they do it when they weren’t puking?”

“Why do they say set Condition Zebra?  Why not Condition Zulu?  Zebra went out with WWII.”

“They built the worn-out bastards in the war, probably that’s why.”

“Man, you know what’s wrong with you?  No gahdam curiosity!”

“Well if you are so concerned, why don’t you write the CNO and ask him? ‘Dear Admiral Moorer, I’m a worthless son of a bitch on an old rusty assed Fletcher can, and I am losing sleep over why we are setting Zebra instead of Zulu.  It is adversely affecting my ability to operate wire brushes and chipping hammers.  Please write and satisfy my intellectual curiosity, since I am sure you have nothing better to do.  Love Daniels, your next mess crank.’”

“Would you assholes knock it off.  I’m trying to study here.  The test is next week.  Chief told me if I don’t make Third, that I will have to go crankin’ again.  How did I get stuck on a ship full of brain dead idiots?”

“You’re just fuckin’ lucky to have us.”

“Hey Dave, does that girl you’re rolling around with up in Yokohama still have that barky little dog?”

“Naw man. It’ dead.”

“What happened?  Did somebody poison the yappy little son of a bitch?”

“It run into the street and got hit by a car.  She had his nuts snipped about a week before it happened.  I figure the poor bastard committed suicide.”

“Jack, somebody told me your old man was a cow farmer.”

“At’s right.”

“Man, that sounds like a racket. Cows stand around eating grass and pooping ‘til they are growed and then you turn ‘em into hamburger. Sweet.”

“It was a dairy farm.  We start milking at zero dark thirty.  Why I joined the Navy.  I get to sleep in ‘til six.”


“Later Dude.  Play hearts tonight?”





Old Men

Old Men

By:  Garland Davis


DeWayne Johnson AKA Achmed XX Ali pulled the raincoat around him as he approached the entrance to the VFW.  He was ready to strike a blow for Allah and Islam against the infidels who had desecrated the homeland.  DeWayne was from Detroit, but the Mullahs had told him that since he became a Muslim, his true home was in the Middle East.

The plan was to step inside the door, raise the shotgun from under the raincoat and fire the five rounds of buckshot into the room and then use the Glock and the forty-five Colt to kill as many more as possible before making his escape.

He cut in front of an old man walking with a gnarled wooden cane and went through the door.  Coming into the darkened chamber from the bright sunlight, he was momentarily blinded.  He could see some vague shapes across the room at a bar.  He bared the shotgun, yelled, “Allah Akbar.” and pulled the trigger.

Nothing happened!  As he fumbled to release the safety, something hard slammed into the right side of his head knocking him to the left.  It slammed again into his right elbow.  He felt the bone break as he screamed dropping the shotgun.  Whatever had hit him came against his head once again.  Suddenly he felt hands grabbing him.  Voices were yelling, “Gun, the mother fuckers got guns.”  There was an arm shoved against his neck as a heavy weight settled on his chest.

“Hold him, Heavy.  I called 911.  The cops are on the way.”

“Hey, he has more weapons in the pockets.  This fucker was going to kill us,”

“Hold him down Heavy, while I search him for more guns.”

DeWayne realized that the old man with the cane had hit him with it when he bared the shotgun.  The fat old man sitting on his chest with the arm against his throat was killing him.  He couldn’t breathe.  He no longer wanted to be Achmed XX Ali or a Muslim.  He just wanted to be DeWayne from Detroit.  He wanted to tell the fat man that, but he couldn’t breathe.

“Hey Heavy, you’re choking him.  Save something for the police.”

“Fuck the cops, the courts will just turn him loose.”

The last thought DeWayne had was, “Mama.”

Don’t fuck with old men when they are drinking beer!




By: Brion Boyles


Back in the late ’70’s when I was in the US Navy overseas, there was a tiny, kimono’d, silver-bearded old man who sold hot, steaming soup and grilled, spiced octopus on a stick from a little cart at the mouth of an alleyway, near the platform steps of the Shiori train station in Yokosuka, Japan….

All thru the frozen winter rain or snow, as each train would empty of its throngs of Japanese commuters to swirl around and past him like a stone in a fast-running river, he would deeply bow a dozen times and quietly chant in soft Japanese, “Oh, honorable traveler—sample my humble offerings, my meager gifts…Oh, gentle customer, allow me to tempt you with my simple, savory offerings,….oh…..” and so on…until the seething crowd gradually ebbed away….


…and then the next train would pull in…”Oh, kind-hearted stranger, look upon my meager treasures, my poor gifts…. oh…”



Amateur Working Girls

Amateur Working Girls

By:  Garland Davis


The mothers of young girls within a large radius of any stateside Navy base knew that pool shooting, beer swilling, line handling, paint chipping, butterflying sonuvabitches were not hot prospects for marriage. The fair damsels of Navy towns were more inclined to bright young lads who could use a slide rule for something other than stirring a picture of Mojo.

So, if you were stuck in CONUS and couldn’t wrangle a way back to WestPac, you had to accept a life of self-imposed celibacy and self-abuse or dabble in the world of commercial relationships.  It was either that or go queer which was frowned upon, back in the day.  In today’s modern, more diverse Navy, you could probably be awarded a Navy Achievement Medal for “coming out.”

Now the mothers of many of the oriental girls working in Asian ports were happy their daughters had found a sailor boyfriend.  Often time these relationships meant the family could eat more often.  But we are talking stateside here.  The girls on the far side of the Pacific are for another story.

By commercial lovemaking, I am not talking the pimp sponsored whores, or the, “My husband is at sea this week” hobby whores. I am speaking about the barmaid or the country girl in from the Central Valley or from Nebraska looking for something she couldn’t find on the farm.  The girl who would drop her drawers when she needed a few bucks to make the rent payment.  The girl who would sometimes give you a “freebie” just because she liked you.

“Hey Dave, I have a special tonight.  Fifteen bucks just for you. Can we go to your place, that Snake Ranch you call it?  My roommate’s boyfriend is in for the weekend, and I gotta find some place to stay.  The fifteen is good for the weekend.

They weren’t sophisticated or ladylike, but any history of the Navy that didn’t include their contribution to the Cold War victory would be seriously flawed.   Anyone compiling such a history missed a beautiful part of the service or is a despicable hypocrite.

They dressed in the J.C. Penny’s or Sear’s sale fashions with black bra and panties and would sometimes give you a quick tantalizing peek as part of their sales pitch.

Their names were “Peggy,” “Penny,” “Helen,” or “Dixie.”  We bought them beer, gave them jukebox coins, and danced with them.  We told them our tales, necked a little, and fondled them a bit.  They took us in like stray cats.

They weren’t old mercenary whores who had become cynical and heartless.  They were full of life, bouncy kids who really liked the idiots they encountered in the “Sailor Bars.”  They would hang around a short while, un-laundry until they accumulated enough money for their dream and then move on to a normal life.

They knocked the edge off being a single WestPac sailor in a stateside port.  They provided warmth and taught you the value of female companionship.  Sometimes, right before you fall asleep, you will recall one of them and wonder.  You may not remember their names, but you remember what it felt like for a young sailor to shrug off the loneliness for a while.

Girls, I sincerely hope you found that which you were looking for and that your life was as good as you made it for us.  You are a part of our screwball history.

Amateur Professional Girls, a crucial part of a young sailor’s history.  An excellent part.