My Birthday Present

By: Lee Thayer

This Happened 13 years ago (before I met my current wife!), it was confirmed my first wife was cheating on me. I went to my boss at work and showed him the chain of emails on how I solved the problem (I am a Chief, I solve problems, not bitch about them).

He looked at me and said, “Chief, you need 2 weeks leave to go whoring?” I said, “that would be perfect, sir.” Boss said ok, I will give you basket leave, you show me a flight schedule and it is done.” I said, “Roger that.”

Next day I handed the boss my flight itinerary and leave chit, and he said approved. I was on my way.

I was headed to Phuket to stay at a Shipmate’s house in a village, I told him what happened, and he had a lady lined up for me. This friend was a bar owner, but his establishment was being remodeled so we could not spend time there. And the powers to be delayed his place opening on what happened on my birthday.

My friend said fuck it, he will have a BBQ at his house in the village for his bar girl staff, him and his girlfriend, and me and my new friend, who was one of his bar girls. Yes, my friend had a gogo bar, his girls, I called them ladies, knew what they were doing.

I had been with the new lady friend for a few days, and everything was good. On the day of the BBQ, the lady that was with me, gets up to get a drink or something, and another girl sits down next to me, my lady comes over and says “she is your birthday present from me.” Ok, don’t have to ask me twice. And I knew these two got along well together! I will call the new girl the young one (about 20-21 years old) and the girl I had been with the old one (about 30 years old, had a child, experienced).

The party is winding down, I take the girls to the house, and we head for the shower together, they knew where the towels were. We finish up in the shower and head for the bedroom. A fabulous time was had by all.

Sometime between midnight and 0300, I got up and told the girls I have to go outside and smoke, the girls follow, we are all dressed in only towels. This on the front patio of my friend’s house.

Well, I am sitting on the steps to the patio about a step below them, I lift open the towel of the young one, and you can think of that yourself, then the old one scoots her chair over, same treatment. And back and forth and so on with. Well, I am near rock hard solid, so I stand up, holding my towel and adjust but they can see. The young one goes over to the seating area on the patio and bends over. I do a quick left and right peek, no one out at 0300, and next thing you know, I drop my towel, and I am banging that like a screen door in a thunderstorm. The older girl says she will wait for us in bed. We finish shower together, and back in the bed. We all fall asleep.

In the morning, it is sunrise, and I see the older girl head to the shower, so I cuddled up with the young girl, and you get the picture, 10 minutes later, in walks, the older girl, I and the younger girl continued on. We showered together afterward, Then the older girl told me no more see her as I gave too much attention to her friend, I said I was just having fun with my birthday gift.

I had plenty after that.

The Backseat of a ’58 De Soto

By:  Garland Davis

A shipmate put a post on FaceBook this morning that reminded me of an incident that happened when I was a young newly minted Second Class Petty Officer.  This is his story:

“Bos’n gonna Bark a true memory. So, this is no shit. Met a way pretty girl in San Diego. Picked her up at her home. Did the HI MOM N DADDY thing. Got in the vehicle and started out. Her Mom must have given lots of advice knowing her daughter was going out with a Sailor. About half a block from her house she gave me a serious look. I said, ‘what?’ She said, ‘if you think you are gonna get any tonight, it’s not gonna happen.’ I turned right at the next block, not saying a word. Turned right again she asks, ‘what are you doing??’ I said, ‘taking you home.’ She says, ‘why?’ I said, ‘well if I’m not gonna get any why waste time.’ She says, ‘what’s my Mom gonna say?’ I said, ‘tell her I tried to get some but since you aren’t gonna put out I took you home. She will be so proud of you.’ Slams the door, pissed, she got out of my vehicle. A month later she calls me on the ship. Sailor Boy still smiling! Bos’n.”

My story:

I was on leave in North Carolina in early 1964.  My mother told me that an elderly aunt in the next county wanted me to come visit her.  She was living in a nursing home.  She asked that I wear my uniform.  So, I broke out the dress blues and took my mother’s car, a ‘58 De Soto, (hated that big bus of a car then, but would give my left nut to have it now) and drove over to see her.  She had been a school teacher and was an intelligent and engaging lady, I spent a pleasant two hours talking with her.

After leaving the nursing home, I stopped at a restaurant I had once worked at.  I had a sandwich and was sitting at the counter drinking coffee and talking with the owner, telling him stories of Westpac and liberty in the Asian ports.  I could tell by the look on his face that he thought I was bullshitting him.

It was around eight or nine when three girls came in and went to a booth.  They were probably my age, nineteen or twenty.  I recognized one of them.  I raised my hand to her and said, “Hi, Sandy.”

The waitress took their order, and the owner went to the griddle to prepare their food. I walked behind the counter and refilled my coffee cup and resumed my seat.  The girl I had spoken to suddenly sat down on the stool beside me and asked, “Do I know you?”

I told her my name, and said, “We were both in Mrs. Langley’s Latin class for two years.”

She said, “I remember you now.  You graduated early.  I sometimes wondered what happened to you.”

I spread my arms and indicated my uniform, “Not hard to figure now.”

The restaurant owner asked her if she would like to eat at the counter.  She nodded yes and stayed with me.  We had talked for about a half hour when one of her friends came over and said, “Sandy we have to go.”

Sandy replied to her, “Go ahead.” And then asked me, “You can give a ride, can’t you?”

“Of course, I answered.”

We left the restaurant.  When we reached the car, I queried, “You don’t really want to go home do you?”

She said, “Not really. Let’s go someplace and talk.”

I told her, “I think I’ll stop someplace and get something to drink.”

She excitedly asked, “Liquor?”

“No, I am not old enough to buy hard stuff, only beer, and wine. But, if you would like some liquor, I know where I can get a bottle.”

“No,” she said, “I don’t like the taste of beer or liquor, but I had a drink of some strawberry wine once that I liked.

Being a connoisseur of cheap wines, I was off in a flash to find some Strawberry Hill.  I found a store that sold beer and wine and grabbed three or four bottles of the strawberry nectar and some Dixie cups.  Away we went to a park by the river. We had a few drinks of the wine and were going at it hot and heavy.  She was willing but very inexperienced.  This was going to be a teaching experience.  After the first time in the back seat of that old De Soto, I told her that I was going to take us to a hotel and get a room.   She agreed.  As we were leaving the riverside park, a sheriff’s deputy was pulling in to harass the people parked there.  Sandy waved at him.  We both laughed as she tried to climb into my lap.

We didn’t sleep that night in the hotel. We spent it exploring each other’s bodies and new sensations.  I taught her the meaning of a couple of Latin words that Mrs. Langley hadn’t bothered to bring to our attention.

When I took Sandy home at eight the next morning, her mother came onto the porch as the car pulled into the drive.  As I stepped from the car, Sandy came around to my side and to kiss me goodbye. We made a date for the evening, she was a sophomore at Wake Forest and had a nine o’clock class. Otherwise, we would probably have stayed at the hotel.

I laughed on the way home at the look of horror on her mother’s face when she saw the blue uniform.

For the next two weeks of my leave, I spent the days Sandy was in school with my mom. Sandy and I spent the nights and weekends fucking each other’s brains out.  But all good things must come to an end.  I had orders to Japan and had to catch a flight to Atlanta and on to San Francisco and then from Travis to Yokota AFB in Japan.

Sandy came to the airport to see me off. She kissed me, looked me in the eyes and said, “I’ll never see you again, will I?”

“Probably not,” I answered.

She smiled, waved and walked away.  I often wonder, who was using who.  If she is still living, she will be in her seventies now. Does she still think upon that two-week interlude as I do?  One of the great experiences of becoming an adult.

For years, afterward, every time I thought of that old ‘58 De Soto, my dick got hard.

Little Eddie’s Girls

By:  Garland Davis

“You know, that boy couldn’t make out in a whore house with a pocket full of fuck chits.”  I am sure we have all heard this said about someone we know to whom it applies.  An inept individual who alienates women just by existing.

Little Eddie was just the opposite.  Eddie was just under five feet tall.  He confessed to me once that he had a growth spurt in boot camp. Eddie told me that his recruiter fed him six pounds of bananas and a half gallon of water before his physical just so he could make the minimum weight requirements.  He said he didn’t shit for a week afterward.

Eddie’s child’s body and cherubic face brought out the maternal instinct in women.  Even the most mercenary, hard-hearted whore just wanted to mother him.  Eddie was offered more pussy by accident that the rest of us could buy on purpose.  The biggest problem Eddie had was his taste in women.  If there was a woman in the group who had the body and mass of an offensive tackle that was the one he would take out for the night.  Kinda like the rest of us would settle for a less attractive woman if we couldn’t make it with a prettier one, Eddie would take a more feminine girl if he couldn’t find one with a body like Shaq’s.

I served in two different ships with Eddie.  We were both First Class Petty Officers in an old Forrest Sherman Destroyer and a couple years later CPO’s in a Tanker.  I was a cook and Eddie was a radioman.  We were both single and prowling the CPO Club and bars of Honolulu and various WestPac ports.  I partnered with Eddie because he would attract the women and I could hopefully make out by consoling the more attractive ones that he passed over for the wide bodies.

Back in the day, Honolulu had a Triple A Baseball Team.  Eddie and I were avid baseball fans and attended many of the home games.  By the third inning, we would have a gaggle of females around us.  The old Honolulu Stadium bleachers were prime recruiting grounds for available women.

It was embarrassing at times when people would mistake Little Eddie for my brother or my son when we were in civilian clothes.  I have seen bartenders and barmaids card him and still refuse to serve him, claiming that his ID had to be a fake.  We often wore our uniforms when out carousing just to avoid the confusion over his identification.

Once in Kaohsiung, Taiwan, a pretty, no she was beautiful, bar girl fell in love with Eddie.  Every time he went ashore, she stalked him.  Every time he gave her the slip, we would tell her where he was.  She once invaded the hotel room where he was being entertained by one of his “Eddie’s Pretty Girls” as we called them.   The last time I saw her she was crying, asking, “I more pretty than her, why he no like me?”

I ran into Eddie a few years after we both retired.  He introduced me to his wife.  True to form, Eddie had married a woman who looked as if she could carry him around under her arm and burp him over her shoulder after breastfeeding.  The way Eddie beamed at her, he appeared to be as happy as a pig in a mud hole.

I Win

By:  Garland Davis

In restless dreams, I walk alone,

Through P.I. streets of mud and stone,

Beneath the halo of a neon lamp,

I duck into the bar out of the wind and damp,

She takes my hand and leads me in,

She brings cold beer with a smile, I win,

Typhoon

By Garland Davis

Everyone who reads the crap I write may not have experienced the joy of riding a Forrest Sherman can through a South China Sea Typhoon.  I’m an old Bastard if I repeat myself chalk it up to senility and dementia.

There is not a roller coaster or amusement park ride anywhere that can hold a candle to riding a destroyer into heavy seas at high speed trying to maintain station on the carrier.  If you like carnival rides, then this is the place for you, it doesn’t cost anything and lasts for days.

It comes with swells that look like a three-story barricade moving toward the bow that bounce those in the ship around like a flea on Miley Cyrus’ twerking butt. The extreme pleasure of being thrown around like the peas in a baby’s rattle is something that the average person cannot even imagine.

The big assed carriers roll a little and just push through with a slight pitch and roll.

Not so the Tin Cans. It’s “roll and toss and pitch you rusty son-of-a-bitch.”

There is a majesty to heavy seas.  It is damned near impossible to witness the incredible power of heavy seas and deny the existence of a creator.  Only a God could wield that unrestrained power.

One moment, it seems the bow is pointed toward the heavens and the next moment is buried in a forty-foot swell with water streaming through the scuppers, scouring the decks of any unsecured objects, and smashing up over the pilot house.  “Put another quarter in Mama, I want to ride it again.”  Accompanied by lateral motions, figure eight stern gyrations, the slamming of the screws as they come out of the water, and the visible flexing of the expansion joints.

Inside the ship, men are tossed about, forgotten items fall out of hiding places in the overhead vent lines and wire ways.  Meals become an endless succession of soup, canned chili, cheese and horsecock sandwiches, coffee, bug juice and milk if available.  Now we know why they pay us sea pay.

If you are lucky and have bunk straps, you lash yourself into your rack to try to get a couple hours sleep, or else you hang on and hope to stay in the bunk.  Your teeth hurt from clenching your jaws. Your smokes go flying from your pocket to never be seen again.  Guys shoot their lunch.  Cockroaches are packing to go ashore as soon as you hit port.  The cooks in the galley are cussing as they try to put together a meal.  And guys safely in their racks who need to take a whiz ask themselves,

“Do I really want to struggle to get to the head to wade in vomit and water swirling across the deck and try to piss in a moving target while trying to not puke myself.”

“Stand by for heavy rolls,” means that all the shit that just flew by you from starboard will be coming back from the port side and you wonder is there anything left in the overhead that hasn’t fallen and hit you in the head.

“Now supper for the crew, watch standers head of the line.”

“Hey Dave, do you think it is horsecock sandwiches?”

“Does a hobby horse have a wooden asshole?”

“Bring me back some crackers, I’m afraid if I go to the mess deck and try to gag down another horsecock sandwich I’ll puke again?”

“Damn, who is steering this son-of-a-bitch?  Who has the helm?”

“I do, next watch.”

“How did I end up on a sea going vomit barge? Fuck it, I think I’ll strike for Corpsman and hide in Sickbay for the rest of my career.”

“Hey you know you love it, where else could a redneck like you from North Carolina with the I.Q. of a cockroach get a job throwing trash in the Pacific Ocean?”

“Hey, you assholes knock it off, grown folks are trying to sleep.”

And so, it went, for days at a time, crap banging around in lockers, shit sliding back and forth across the decks, the acrid smell of gastrically dissolved cheese and horsecock sandwiches mixed with stale coffee permeating the berthing compartments and heads.

Stumbling around, zinging off bulkheads, doors, piping and each other and being seventeen or eighteen years old and realizing that the recruiter who promised you a thrilling life of wonder, oriental girls, and adventure was a lying shore duty son-of-a-bitch.

Radio personality Paul Harvey once made a speech, “God Made a Farmer.  The idea for this came to me from that speech.  I apologize to Mr. Harvey for my impertinence in taking license with his speech.

God Made a Sailor

By:  Garland Davis

And on the 8^th day. God looked down on his planned paradise at the great stretches of ocean and said, “I need a brave person to live upon and tame these waters and make them his life.”  So, God made a sailor.

God said, “I need a person to stand watches throughout the dark of night in all manners of weathers, to tend the fires in the boilers, to steer a course straight and true, to watch all directions for danger, to read the stars and keep an accurate course, to prowl the lower levels and shaft alleys, to repair that which is broken, to keep a clean ship, to cook and feed all, and stay out past midnight drinking and carousing, and then do it all again another day.”  So, God made a sailor.

“I need a man with the strength to handle heavy metal yet gentle enough to comfort a crying child or a shipmate who has just lost his mother.  I need somebody to train and lead the young, to spend the time to know the job is being done properly.  I need someone to work through meals and eat midrats gratefully before going back to the necessary job.”  So, God made a sailor.

God said, “I need someone to sit up all night with a wounded Sailor or Marine, to watch him die.  Then dry his eyes and say, ‘I’ll save the next one.’   I need somebody who can make something of nothing, someone who can do much with little and is willing to try to do everything with nothing.  Who when duty calls, will finish a forty-hour week by Tuesday noon, then although in pain, will put in another seventy-two hours in the boiler room, engine room, on deck, in the offices, in the galley, or scrubbing pots and pans in the scullery.”  So, God made a sailor.

God said, “I need a young man to prowl the roofs day and night, amidst the chaos, heat, and noise, to cater to the needs and maintenance of the warbirds, to send them into the air and to safely bring them back to their home, a special man to wear wings on his chest and sleeve.”  So, God made a sailor.

God said, “I need a man to prowl the depths, to stealthily find and confront those who would do harm to his shipmates on the surface, to live for months without the wind or the sun, to strive for and proudly wear a pair of gold or silver dolphins upon his chest. So, God made a sailor.

God said, “I need a man able and willing to ride the waters in gales and storms, ready and willing to fight to maintain the freedoms of his fellow countrymen.  A man ready to race to the aid of his country’s friends in catastrophe or war.”  So, God made a sailor.

God said, “I need a man who can do all these things and more yet still take the time to give up an hour of much-needed sleep to go listen to a Chaplain say his words and then kneel down and give thanks for all that has come his way.”  So, God made a sailor.

“Someone with a love of country and family held together by his strength and soft, strong bonds of sharing and duty.  Someone who laughs and sighs with pride and shining eyes, when his son says he wants to spend his life ‘doing what dad does.’”  So, God made a sailor.

Boredom

By:  Garland Davis

Jeepneys roar by the outside,

The bar is dim in the gut of the Barrio,

Out the back, water wrinkles the moon’s reflection,

I call for more San Miguel,

She pulls her chair closer and her hand caresses me,

Then comes the litany of “Buy me drink?”

Her hand moves closer to my being,

I shrug, “Why not.” And ask, “How much bar fine?”

Come, Mister Goody Two Shoes,

Sit across the table and tell me why I don’t belong here,

Where instead should I go?

I’ve been here and did this so long,

I don’t want more, this is the life I love.

Ambassadors Without Portfolio

By:  Cort Willoughby
In November 1965 I had my oath recorded into history as being one of the youngest clean faced kids who mistakenly thought he was man enough to join our NAVY.

March of 1966 saw me in this way too hot far away foreign land. Biggest guns I’ve ever seen at the time going boom. From the jungles at night came the most incredible sounds you can imagine. Nights so thick you seemed to pull it away from your face. Sweat, damn the sweat! Slapping bugs away without making a sound. Having grown my short life in the hills I had good appreciation for night vision. Good asset at that time.

Decided the NAVY business wasn’t bad at all. Hell, they even paid me after taking care of my needs. Mostly. Liberty took care of the rest. Feed, laundry done for me, free haircuts. Where else can a kid hit a home run for this, and get paid too.???

I was learning life the hard way; it was the only way I seemed to know. I became aware of my narrow view of the world. We pulled into ports that had names that were strange to this stick raised lad. Started thinking how out of place these people would look back home. We looked all that to them, and more.

I began to have some appreciation for world affairs and my minor, very minor place in the role of life. Realized without being told that I could hurt our flag, rip on our country from within. I would never let that happen! My pride was too great; my passion to protect too strong.

Heard and remember stories from all over the world that some sailors had pulled some stuff that made me feel bad for the country in which the deed was done. Had a member of a crew on one ship murder a lady in a most gruesome fashion. He was quickly caught and is probably still refining his ability to speak Japanese in Otsu Prison. Was glad we got underway so our ships patch could not be seen.

As my total tour increased I had some great assignments. Once, the one CO sent me to Shimoda to act as point on the Black Ship Festival. Had been there before on liberty. Every time something interesting came along and it was mine to do, I was admonished to be a good AMBASSADOR without portfolio.

I truly understood that. Without putting the same name to it, the speech was forever the same. I figured I had a portfolio, the representative of our NAVY, and OUR COUNTRY. My actions at those times were in keeping in the best traditions of the US NAVY.

Looking back at some of the drunks and true Sailor Stuff even my hell raising was done in the best of our NAVY’S ORDER. Did not need that posted in my portfolio.

Bos’n

Christmas in Singapore 1972
(18 years old and two months)

By:  Mike Kane

It was nearing Christmas of 1972, and USS Jouett DLG 29 (Radio Handle: LOVELAND on the gunline) was cut loose from the Tonkin Gulf Yacht Club to steam to the liberty port of our choice.

Capt gave us a vote.

I voted for Olongapo.

Singapore won.

We cruised thru Yankee Station and headed southward to Singapore.

Before we entered Singapore, we crossed the equator.

Got my ass kicked, greased, beat and had to eat garbage and kiss the Royal Baby’s belly. My knees were bleeding from crawling in my skivvy’s on the main deck non-skid.

But, I survived and surfaced out of the garbage pool on the fantail a shellback.

The next day we set special sea and anchor detail to enter port, we finally tied up at Singapore Royal Navy Base at 0900. We shifted colors and were eventually moored after 45 days on the gunline. Our score was 1 SAM site and rescued 2 of our pilots off the USS Bon Homme Richard on SAR and an assist for 1 MIG.

Jouett was a BAD girl.

I was a BT, and we got the word to go cold iron. The Royal Navy Base was a protected base, so we were allowed to go cold iron.

It feels like Christmas when we did that.

By 11.00, I watched all the Twidgets go ashore. B+M Div still had to secure ship’s power, and shift to shore power.

Twidgets took their electrons for granted.

13.00 had dinner on the empty Twidget less mess deck and then shifted power.

I asked Chief can I hit the beach.

He said no. Hang loose because we have to pump bilges. Plus we have to rig the donut which he had just ordered.

Sad and unloved: Aye Aye, Chief.

15.00 Hooked up the donut by myself. Got tired of waiting for the Bos’ns, so I climbed over the side without gear and did it.

17.00 Finished pumping the bilges and asked Chief if it’s time.

Chief said we have to refuel, hang loose.

I wanted to say aye aye, but the words were stuck in my brain.

18.00 we started refueling. Which under normal conditions takes two hours, but this time we only had gravity flow. I almost got into a fistfight with one of the English Marines guarding our ship on the pier.

I was watching drunk Twidgets coming back laughing and talking like little school girls to get more money and go back.

21.00 tired, pissed off, smelling like jp5, Chief said the magic words: Hit the beach, Killer.

My nickname was Killer. Even Capt called me Killer. A fellow BT started it and the name stuck.

B and M Div were free to hit the beach.

We got a taxi at the base gate. Earl, Roger, Dave and I.

I didn’t know where we were going.

The cab stopped in front of the brand new Shangri-La Hotel.

We got out, and I booked a room. I had a lot of money too.

I showered dressed and went down to the bar near the pool.

I saw my mates at a table and joined them. Mai Tais were the big hit. I drank beer.

The table layout was weird.

They had four tables in a lump separated by beautiful tropical flowers. You could look through the flowers and see the tables and people behind you so close you could touch them.

I was looking through the flowers and looking back at me was a gorgeous, beautiful long haired, blond girl tanned just right. She would have qualified as a TEN in Florida, my home state.

I looked away but then looked back. She was with her mom and dad and little brother. She smiled at me. I couldn’t hear her, but it looked as if she was saying come here.

Finally, I got up and went over to her and asked her if she’d like a drink and can we talk.

She answered in an Australian accent: What might I have?

I swam all night in that pool with her in her bikini.

I almost went UA and got married.

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.