Blonde Innocence

By: Garland Davis

Driving from a school in Millington, somewhere in Western North Carolina.

It was a rustic Carolina Roadhouse down the road from the motel I decided to overnight in. The desk clerk told me I could get some pretty good barbecue there as well as a couple of cold longnecks.

I walked over from my lodgings and entered. It was a large room with a small stage and dance floor directly opposite the door and a bar to the right. There were about fifteen or twenty tables surrounding the dance floor.

I walked to the bar and took the stool in the corner where I could watch the whole room. I asked for a long neck Bud and a menu. I asked the bartender who did their barbecue. He told me the place was owned by two brothers who had inherited it from their dad. One of the brother’s wives ran the kitchen and oversaw the smoking and making of the food. He said it was considered by many to be among the best they had eaten. He pointed her out to me and said, “There she is. Her, the brothers, and her daughter play music later in the evening.”

I ordered a sandwich and it was as good as any I had ever eaten. I decided to hang around, sip a few cold ones and see what the evening brought. I could always sleep late before continuing my trip. No one was expecting me anywhere.

As I was tasting my second Bud, a sweet looking young girl came from the back, blonde with her hair in a French braid and saying hello to me and the bartender with the sweetest western Carolina accent. She walked behind the bar and started washing and drying glasses. She sweetly asked if I wanted another. Now there was no way I could say no to her. I guessed her at about fifteen or sixteen and was wondering about someone that young being permitted to work in a bar. Later when I got the chance, I asked the bartender. He told me she was nineteen, but had been working in the kitchen and later in the bar since she was about twelve. Her dad and uncle own the place and her mother is the kitchen manager. He told me she also played guitar and sang with the family band.

About seven-thirty, they started setting up and tuning instruments, getting ready for the eight o’clock show. They did one show at eight and another at ten.

She played guitar and sang, her dad played the fiddle and sang, the uncle was on the steel guitar and mom had the bass guitar. They were a fair Roadhouse band, but shouldn’t waste any money on bus tickets to Nashville. I am pretty sure they knew that.

The girl was an enthusiastic singer. She did a couple of Patsy Cline numbers along with a Tammy Wynette piece. She killed with Dolly Parton’s Jolene. Her dad sang a couple of Bluegrass pieces and she came back with Tanya Tucker’s Delta Dawn. By this time, they had a good crowd who were having a good time and applauding enthusiastically. Then she did a Sylvia pop number and almost lost the crowd. She finished with Yellow Rose and they left the stage with the audience in an uproar.

By this time, I was curious about the ten o’clock show and ordered another longneck. Figured I’d hang around. The girl came to work behind the bar. Her mother told her in a strong, no-nonsense tone, “You work here, I don’t want you on the floor waiting tables. I’ll be closing down the kitchen.”

“Yes, Momma.”

Her dad and uncle skimmed the cash registers and went into the office. The girl worked the bar serving beer and washing glasses while the bartender mixed drinks. She was smiling, vivacious, a picture of apparent sixteen-year-old innocence. Male customers came to the bar trying to talk to her, but she just smiled and told the guys that she was working. The bartender moved them along as if he was protecting an untouchable treasure.

The family went on for the ten o’clock set and did a different set of songs. She did Jolene again. She was proud of the job she did with that number. After the applause, the crowd began to thin out. The only people hanging on were the hard corps. The last call was at eleven-thirty and closing at twelve.

About eleven her mom and dad came in and told her they were going home. Her mother told her, “Help clean up and verify the cash registers with your uncle. He will drop you off at home.”

She said, “Yes Momma, I’ll see you at home.”

About five minutes later her uncle came into the bar. She asked, “Have Momma and Daddy left.”

He nodded and said, “Yes.”

She reached for a shot glass, filled it with Patron and said, Damn, it’s about fucking time.” And shot the Tequila.

Vision of Diamonds

By John Petersen

For now things are quiet, aboard this warship I call home,

taps have been called, can’t sleep, need to walk, her empty passageways I’ll roam.

I’ll pass the occasional watchstander, tired eyes looking back at mine,

I’ll stay to the right of the tape on the deck, as the other side is waxed to a shine.

I’ll swing by the mess decks, it’s time for midrats, you know,

have some of whatever was left from dinner, some bug juice, or a cup o’ joe.

Doors and hatches normally open, bleeding fluorescent light,

are all closed now, their occupants functions wrapped up and done for the night.

The word was passed over the 1MC, at taps it’s Darken Ship, lights out,

The smoking lamp is out you’ve been told, yet the desire shows its clout.

The seas are calm, hardly any roll or pitch to be felt, not one swell,

as this mighty vessel steams along at a stately two-thirds bell.

As quietly as I can, I make my way to the fantail, knowing the chance I take,

any noise made at this time of night resounds to others who may awake.

I’ll finally get my smoke, yet as my eyes adjust, I’m taken aback, I fear,

‘Tis a moonless night, no clouds, with the sea as smooth as a mirror.

It’s truly breathtaking, enveloping, gives one a feeling of peace and inner glow,

no glare of city lights to block out the beauty of this eternal show.

An innumerable number of diamonds dotting the pitch black sky,

Absolutely no end to them no matter how hard you look and try.

There is no horizon, the sea as calm as she is, like glass,

millions of diamonds reflected, truly doubled en mass.

As I gaze upon this sight, a work of art only one can bring to light,

I bow my head in short prayer, to give thanks for this beautiful night.

Forgetting the smoke, I quietly sneak back inside,

passing that tired watchstander, he knows yet doesn’t care, the secret he’ll hide.

I’ll crawl into my rack, pull the curtain and drift off to sleep,

with the vision of diamonds, each one priceless and forever I’ll keep.

Thoughts on Texas

By Garland Davis

I have a friend and shipmate who lives near Dallas. He thinks it is about the best place to live. I can’t really argue the point. I once spent a weekend there. There is a lot to like about Texas. In Dallas, they sell barbeque just about everywhere. Right downtown. I spent some time in San Francisco. The closest they come to pork pig barbecue is when a truckload of hogs gets caught in a traffic jam on the Bay Bridge. Barbecue is always good. Pulled pork Barbecue, Carolina chopped barbecue or sliced pig barbecue. They do a pretty good job with pork barbecue in Texas. It has been said that the state bird of Texas is the smoked beef brisket. Whether pork or beef Texans have perfected the art.

Regardless of whether pork or beef barbecue is eaten, it’s flavor and enjoyment are always enhanced by something cold to drink – preferably beer. There was a time when you couldn’t get Coors beer east of the Mississippi. Coors, also known as Colorado Kool-Aid was available in Texas and paired well with barbecue. Of course, there was always Budweiser and Lone Star.

I was caught in Dallas for a weekend a long time ago. Texas had suddenly become popular with the up-north crowd. New York was even admitting that Texas existed. I went to a hot spot in town and spent an evening imbibing long-necked Lone Star Beer and talking with the local patrons. You could tell the non-locals. They were the ones wearing the fancy cowboy boots and big hats while trying to learn the correct pronunciation of “sumbitch.”

Texas is considered West and South. Their list of cultural gifts to the country is staggering. Texas gave us Chicken Fried Steak and Smoked Brisket. Dan Jenkins, the marvelous author of the book Semi-Tough. Don Meredith is a Texas Boy. Buddy Holly was a Texan. Probably most of the heart-stopping Dallas Cowboys cheerleaders are Texans. I try to watch them each week but they are interrupted by a bunch of sweaty dudes playing football. These days there is a one-hour show on CMT that shows the selection process for the cheerleaders if you are craving a glimpse of pretty women. Almost as good as watching Michelle Wie reading a green. But then I do prefer oriental women.

And you know Willie and Waylon are from Texas. Waylon once said, “Everyone in Austin thinks when they die, they go to Willie’s house.”

Other than driving across the panhandle a few times, Dallas is the only place where I ever spent time in Texas. A Dallas native told me that it is populated by people who left the farm and learned to count. But the people are friendly. A shipmate whom I consider a close friend and one of the best people I have known lives in Dallas. But please don’t tell him I said so. It might make his head larger than the Texas-size it already is.

Texans simply know themselves, what they like and what they expect from others. One fellow in the bar put it something like this: “If you don’t like Willie Nelson, longneck beer, long-legged women, rodeos, football, the Texas State Fair, and a fist fight every now then you ain’t no Texan. You just live here.”

Religion, Sex, the Navy, Sex, and Me

By: Garland Davis

My father wasn’t a religious man. He didn’t attend church although he would listen to the radio preachers while repacking a wheel bearing or patching a tire tube. My mother didn’t attend church either. She always felt that the other parishioners looked down on her because she was a “Damned Davis” a family of drunks renowned for bootlegging and distilling moonshine whiskey. She would go to the summer “tent meetings” when a traveling evangelist would pitch his tent in a field though.

Consequently, none of my siblings or I have ever had a religious bent. Shortly after my father’s death, an aunt insisted that my brothers and I attend church. For a while that fall, I looked forward to Sunday mornings at the Oak Knoll Methodist Church. No, I wasn’t getting religion. The pastor had a pair of twin daughters. Brenda and Linda would kiss you, show you their titties, and sometimes let you touch and play with them and “dry hump” you under the stairs that led from the basement classrooms up to the church. I never knew which one I was with. Couldn’t tell them apart and it really didn’t make a lot of difference.

I spent so many Sunday morning under the stairs with one, or the other, of the twins while the choir was practicing that I still sometimes get a boner when I hear Amazing Grace.

My mother asked me once why I went to the bathroom so much on Sunday afternoons.

I soon went to work in a local drive in restaurant and had to work on Sundays. That ended my Sunday mornings seeking religion. I missed Brenda and Linda but I needed the money. Many years later after I enlisted in the Navy, I learned that with money I could easily replace Brenda or Linda with Maria, Junko, or Han.

Between the twins and enlisting, I had a few incidents with girls. There was a girl named, believe it or not, Peggy Sue who was about three or four years older than me. She went to the vocational school where I was studying bakery science. One of the other students dared me to stick a wad of bread dough down the front of her blouse. I just couldn’t do it. The blouse was so full there just wasn’t room for anything else. The girl had a crush on me but I was too inexperienced, naïve, and just downright dumb to know what to do about the situation.

There was a girl named Sandy who came into the restaurant where I worked. She was so beautiful that I would get tongue tied just taking her order. I didn’t know at the time that there are certain girls whose beauty just naturally affects your tongue.

Oh, if I could relive my teens and still retain the knowledge I have of women today, there wouldn’t be a need for those numerous and prolonged trips to the bathroom.

It wasn’t until Westpac that I was introduced to commercial sex. You know, the Olongapo Wedding Night with the meter running. The concept of paying for sexual gratification, along with drinking beer and other beverages assured me that my decision to go to the Navy was the right one.

As far as religion in the Navy, it was there if you wanted it. It seems the Chaplains understood sailors and their ways and if not approving accepted the inevitable.

Baseball, the Navy, and Me

By: Garland Davis

Baseball was a part of my boyhood. I played in elementary school. I played in games with the neighborhood boys where we chose sides and used part of a cow pasture for our ball field. Yes, we used dried cow flops for bases. The cows didn’t bother us but you had to keep an eye out for the bull. He wasn’t a baseball fan.

I played for the two years I was in High School. The coach was pissed and threatened to kick my ass when I took the GED tests between my sophomore and junior years and was sent on to a vocational school until I turned sixteen. I was his best pitcher. That isn’t saying a lot. I had control of my fast ball one day out of seven. The coach prayed that the day would be Friday. I had a curve that worked sometime. And I could throw a knuckleball. The catcher hated my guts when all I had working was the knuckler. They are hard to catch. Catcher Bob Uecker, when asked what was the best way to catch a knuckleball replied, “Wait ‘til it stops rolling and go pick it up.”

A couple of the highlights of my youth revolved around baseball. I watched the 1955 Brooklyn Dodgers beat the New York Yankees in seven games on a seventeen-inch black and white TV. Finally, the Dodgers had defeated the Yankees behind Duke Snyder’s bat and four home runs during the series.

A friend and I helped a drunk stranger pull his car out of a ditch before the Highway Patrol or Sheriff’s Deputies discovered him. In appreciation, he gave us two tickets to a World Series game. I was in the left field bleachers when Bill Mazeroski hit the ninth inning home run in the seventh game of the 1960 World Series and stole the game and series from the Yankees.

Shortly afterward, I was off to San Diego for recruit training and then on to NAS Lemoore for duty. I played on the Supply Department team and was chosen for the station team. I still had problems with the fastball and curve, but my knuckle ball kept me on the mound. I was chosen as an alternate for the Fourteenth Naval District All Star team but wasn’t needed.

Leaving Lemoore, I was off to the fleet. There was little time for baseball. Also about this time, the Navy stopped playing baseball. I think someone was injured by a pitched ball. Softball became the game that was played. I was actually a better softball pitcher than I had been in baseball. I managed to play a few games. During a yard period in San Francisco, I attended many Giants games at Candlestick. The motivations were a chance to watch baseball, fifty cents admission in uniform, and the beer vendors didn’t check ID. A highlight of my time in San Francisco, I watched the great Willie Mays play some spectacular baseball.

A couple of years at sea, I was back in San Diego for a school and then on to Japan. I got to play baseball in a few games with the Housing Activity Japanese employees in Yokohama. The Japanese girl I married is an avid Yomiuri Giants fan. (The only woman I ever met who understands and can explain the suicide squeeze.) Almost every evening we would go up the tracks to Tokyo to watch the Giants play baseball. I watched the Japanese greats Oh and Nagashima hit many home runs.

After leaving Japan, I went to shore duty in San Diego. The mess hall I was working in was selected to test the feasibility of serving carbonated beverages at the noon and evening meal and draft beer at the Friday evening meals. The Pepsi Cola and Budweiser companies had a stake in a successful test. The sales representatives were in the galley almost daily. They handed out free tickets to Padre’s games. It was like having season tickets to every Padres home game. I don’t recall playing any softball or baseball while in San Diego.

After that I was off to a Forrest-Sherman can out of Pearl and then on to Vietnam and the gunline. Not much time or inclination for playing ball. When in Subic, I was more interested in some young lady playing with my balls.

Shortly after return to Pearl, I transferred to a tanker going to Westpac. After the cruise, we were into a yard overhaul. I played quite a bit of soft ball while the ship was in the yards and afterward. It was the Carter years. There was no money for fuel or paint. We sat in port and rusted. There was not a lot to do but drink or play ball. The CPO mess lost to the officers and most of the division teams often.

During this period, major league games were televised on a delay in Hawaii. TV had improved in the twenty some years since the ’55 World Series. With color, larger screens and better cameras and equipment, the viewer really got a close look at the players and their actions.

Now spitting is looked down upon in our society. It just isn’t done. In the New York City Subways, a person can be fined for spitting. Getting drunk and puking is free. However, after watching Thurman Munson spit at least a gallon every game would leave one to believe that societal mores did not apply on the baseball diamond.

Baseball players are cautioned about the television audience and scratching their ass and adjusting their cup. Thurman and some of his teammates scratched and adjusted, along with spitting, as if no one was watching.

In the old days, cameras weren’t permitted in the dugout. The players could do crossword puzzles, work on their stock portfolios, read Hustler magazines and scratch and adjust to their heart’s content. Now they have to pretend that they are mesmerized by the game on the field.

Back in the day, baseball players were clean cut, moral young men. They wore suits, had decent haircuts, didn’t grow beards and said please, thank you, Mamm, and Sir. That pipe dream was blown away by Jim Bouton’s book Ball Four which described a side of baseball that was previously unseen. He wrote about the obscene jokes and the drunken tomcatting of the players and about the routine drug use, including by Bouton himself. Bouton wrote with candor about the anxiety he felt over his pitching and his role on the team. Bouton detailed his unsatisfactory relationships with teammates and management alike as well as the lies and minor cheating that has gone on in sports seemingly from time immemorial.

I don’t really watch baseball games these days. I check from time to time to see how the Angels are doing during a game. My ADHD just won’t permit me to watch. Games go something like this: the pitcher rubs down the ball down and unsatisfied with it returns it for another ball, getting a new ball, he rubs it down, picks up the rosin bag, manicures the mound, leans forward for the sign, shakes it off, nods for the next one, goes into the stretch and throws to first base. Then he starts all over again. Meanwhile the batter, after a half dozen practice swings, knocks his cleats with the bat, adjusts his batting gloves and steps into the batter’s box, about the time the pitcher is ready he raises his hand and steps out of the box, hits his shoes and adjusts his gloves again and steps into the box. The pitcher throws to first and the routine starts all over.

I have concluded that the Little Leaguers in Williamsport, PA play ball the way it should be played. I enjoy the hell out of watching those kids play.

The sport I can get behind these days is Ladies Professional Golf. I’m especially behind Michelle Wi when she bends to mark a ball or squats to read a green.

Sea Stories

By Garland Davis

Now this ain’t no shit…

Story Number One:

We had been on the Gunline off the coast of Vietnam or chasing the carriers in the Tonkin Gulf for a ninety-day period that seemed like a year. Spirits rose and we began to believe we would once again taste a cold beer and feel a warm woman as the ship proceeded to the Naval Station at Subic Bay in the Republic of the Philippines.

The first night in port. I was a PO1 at the time. Many of the First Class PO’s were in Jolo’s drinking San Miguel at a pace that would make you believe we were trying to catch up for the ninety dry days. Well, they weren’t exactly dry, but that is a story for another time.

The BM1 came in, sat down and chugged a San Miguel and then started looking at the talent. He gestured to a girl to sit with him. He ordered her a lady’s drink.

He pulled her close and asked, “Sweetheart, do you do manicures? You know, trim fingernails and toe nails.”

“Of course,” the girl replied.

Boats said, “Good, we been at sea for over three months. I been jacking off in an old sock so much that my dick grew a toenail. Can you trim that mother fucker for me?”

Story Number Two:

The same Boatswain’s mate takes the young lady to a hotel across the street. A couple of hours later… or maybe it was the next day, he comes into the bar, chugs a San Miguel and says, “I took that girl up to the room. I paid a thirty P bar fine, I paid her thirty P’s for an all nighter and I put a stack of twenty P notes on the nightstand and told her that every time I got a nut she could take one.”

“What happened. How many P’s did the girl make?”

“Fuck if I know, but I finally gave the bitch fifty pesos to leave my dick the fuck alone.”

Story Number Three:

Many of my shipmates know Jack Coates. Jack was a retiree living in Olongapo. If I ever knew what his rate and rating were, I have forgotten them. I knew jack for many years before I ever saw him sober.   That’s also a story for another time.

I was sitting at an outdoor bar at Baloy Beach about nine o’clock on a Saturday morning nursing a hangover and drinking ice cold Pepsi Cola when Jack and another reprobate rode up in a tricycle taxi. Jack ordered three San Miguel beers from the young lady. He and his companion took one and he slid the third one in front of me.

I said, “Hey Jack, I’m drinking Pepsi here.”

Jack grabbed my Pepsi bottle and flung it across the street onto the beach and said, “Stewburner, when I’m drinking beer every body’s drinking beer.”

You can’t argue with logic like that.

After that beer was finished another was ordered and Jack told his friend to pay for it. He later ordered the third one and pointed to me and said. “Stewburner, you pay for this one. When I’m paying for the beer every body’s paying for beer.”

Story Number Four:

Jack Coates again. I walked into a bar in the Barrio and found Jack standing bare assed with his shorts down around his ankles.

I asked, “Jack, what the hell are you doing?”

“Hey Stewburner, I’m just familiarizing this young lady with the gear she is going to be working with.” Get yourself a beer, I’ll bet she has a cousin, sister, or Mama for you.”

Filling In For Davy (Garland)

By Marlin Spike Jones

I got a call from Davy (he calls himself Garland these days). He asked me to fill in for him and write his Blog post today. He says he needs a break but I think he is just lazy. I think laziness runs in his blood. He was supposedly night baker on the ship, so I am not sure if he worked or not. Most of the time I saw him during the day, he was sleeping. He would get up and watch the movie and then lock himself in the bakeshop He said locking the doors was to keep Deck Apes and Boiler Monkeys from stealing his pies and stuff.

Now I take offense being a fine upstanding Deck Ape. I never stole from the bakeshop. I merely captured cinnamon rolls that had escaped when he wasn’t looking. Being a humanitarian, I gave them a comfortable home. Now them damn Boiler Monkeys would steal their sister in law’s skivvies to use for rags.

I don’t know what Davy did at night. Sometimes I heard laughter coming from the bake shop. I know he was in there with a CS3 named Ike and a DC2 named Rendleman, whom (isn’t it amazing that a Deck Ape knows the proper use of that word) everyone called Renny like the dog Rin Tin Tin. Ike was renowned for manufacturing some quality beverages from fruit peelings, apple juice, and raisins mixed with a little yeast and Davy, the baker, had the yeast. Renny was known for drinking or smoking anything he could get his hands on.

I am still disappointed that he didn’t choose to invite me.

Davy tells you guys stories about his glories as a Chief and winning a Ney award on a carrier. I tell you, boy, that ain’t the Davy I knew. He was eighteen and would try to drink Olongapo dry. I hauled his young ass back to the boat landing a number of times. And ugly women, that boy was an ugly magnet. His hand is the only thing he ever fucked more than ugly women.

He frequented those second story wooden bars, you remember the one’s in Olongapo before the town burned down. As drunk as the boy would get, he would have been safer in the ground floor joints. You can only fall off a bar stool there instead of a fucking balcony.

The boy was a good poker player and usually had money to support his twin habits of San Miguel and UBFM’s (Ugly Brown Fucking Machines). I have met his wife. I always figure that he was drunk and didn’t notice that she wasn’t ugly. By the time he sobered up, it was too late. He was already married.

Actually, me and Davy only became friends just a few years ago. Probably because he can’t find any Snipes to pal around with. He was on good terms with the Deck Apes and the Twidgets but he ran with the Machinist Mates and the Boiler Monkeys. Hit a bar in Olongapo and find a bunch of snipes there, you could almost bet that Davy would be around someplace nearby hugged up with the ugliest, oldest woman in the bar.

Davy could have ended up on the Signal Bridge. He could read flashing light! Me, Davy, and a CS2 were sitting on the fantail having a smoke waiting for the 1900 liberty boat. One of the Oilers at anchor was sending a message. Davy was reading the letters and telling us what the tanker was saying. CS2 said, “If they find out you can read that shit, you’ll have the fucking midwatch on the Signal Bridge. I could have ratted him out, but he did fuck up ever now and then and make some pretty good bread and stuff. And maybe he was a bit more generous than I have made him out to be.

Well, this oughta be enough for a blog post. I gotta start reading the stuff that he is writing to see if he has said anything disparaging about me.

Holidays and Steel Beach Cookouts

By Garland Davis

I read in many of the ship and Navy groups where I lurk that one of the highlights of holidays and holiday routine were the special meals served and the steel beach cookouts. I will admit that I wasn’t that crazy about the steel beach cookouts. You know I was a cook. One or two during a ninety day Indian Ocean cruise wasn’t bad but doing a steel beach every Sunday or other holidays or stand down day was overkill.

I was in one ship where the XO was convinced the key to good crew morale was the number of Steel Beach cookouts we did. After the first couple, he noticed that everyone would go through the line and then return to the mess decks, the CPO Mess, or the Wardroom to eat. He became really upset when he overheard the BMC say to me, “We have a Galley with modern, perfectly good equipment. Why the fuck do you haul the shit up to the Hangar Deck and build a fire to cook every other fucking day.” After that and other bitches from the crew regarding the frequency of the cookouts the XO stopped insisting on cookouts.

We had departed Yokosuka for Subic and on to Pattaya and then into the IO. Sometime after Subic, the Supply Officer told me the XO’s plan for the weekly cookouts. My first reaction was, “Is he out of his rabbit-assed mind?” My second reaction was, “Why didn’t he let us know before we left Yoko or Subic. I don’t have that much charcoal aboard.”

The Supply Officer explained to the XO about the charcoal. His reply was, “Surely you can buy charcoal briquettes in Thailand.” So, we loaded a shit load of charcoal in Pattaya at three times the cost. The ship’s chandler and victualler in Pattaya routinely overcharged the Navy by two or three hundred percent for anything purchased. But we didn’t receive briquettes. It was big chunks of wood. It came aboard from the boats in large paper bags. Those of you who pulled liberty in that port remember the wading out to a boat which took you to deeper water where you transferred to another boat and then on to the ship. The charcoal and other stores came aboard the same way. The workers carried the bags to the long tail boat which took them to the larger boat and then to the ship.

I was ashore receiving the items and making sure they reached the boats. My LPO was supervising the working party and storage aboard. I had moved food items out of a small storeroom aft to use as charcoal storage. By the time I was back aboard, everything was stowed

Once we stopped the frequent cookouts, the storeroom wasn’t opened very often. It had been about three weeks since a cookout when the Sounding and Security watch came to me and said, “Chief, I think I smell smoke when I walk past your storeroom aft could we look in there.” I carried a master key to all my storerooms. We went aft to the storeroom. When I reached for the lock, it was hot. I touched the door. It was extremely hot. I told HT3, “We’ve got a fire in here. Call the bridge and have them pass the word for fire.” He left in a rush while I went to the nearest fire station and ran a hose to the scene and removed the lock from the door.

When the fire party arrived, I backed off as the OBA men opened the door. The charcoal had been smoldering up to that point but flamed as the extra oxygen entered the room. Water was used to quickly quench the fire. Over a half day was spent carrying buckets of sodden charcoal topside to dump overboard and clean the storeroom.

The Captain, the XO, the Cheng, the Suppo, the HTC and I were in the wardroom to determine why the fire started. I suggested spontaneous combustion of the charcoal and bags. I explained about spontaneous combustion in wet coal in coal yards and colliers in the days of coal fired ships. I told them because of the method of transporting the bags of charcoal from the beach to the ship I was sure it had gotten wet or at least damp. There was no way to determine how long it had burned. I have read stories of coal laden vessels sailing around the Horn with pockets of fire in the cargo burning for weeks..

There was really no other answer as to the cause of the fire

The XO had the BMC throw the charcoal grilles overboard and there was never another Steel Beach mentioned the rest of my tour in that ship!

I was told years later by a Chief who served in a ship where my old XO was the CO that they didn’t do steel beach cookouts and charcoal wasn’t permitted aboard.

Sunsets and the Green Flash

By Garland Davis

I was a cook and baker. I wasn’t required to stand bridge watches until they came up with the ESWS thing. Then I was made to stand underway Junior Officer of the Deck watches. This consisted primarily of monitoring bridge personnel to make sure that the watch was functioning properly. Depending on the Officer of the Deck, the JOOD could make recommendations. Some would consider your comments while it was worthless to recommend anything to others.

One of the highlights of being on the bridge or on deck is that I have seen some of the most spectacular South China Sea sunsets. The only thing I have seen to compare was the Northern Lights. The old sailor’s weather predicting adage of “Red at morning, sailors take warning; Red at night, sailors delight,” seemed to prove true more often than not.

Watches on the bridge often became hectic especially when operating in congested waters as the watchstanders on a couple of our ships have recently discovered the hard way. Those watches passed quickly often with an antacid relief for the knots in your gut.

Other evenings and nights, the only contacts visible were a floating box and a pod of dolphins pacing the ship. These were the nights when the OOD would let members of the watch duck into the Chart Room for a few quick drags on a cigarette. Then there were times when the Captain would be in his chair and say to the OOD, “Give the deck to the Chief and let’s talk about your preparations for the Commodore’s visit next week. He is particularly interested in that modification to the new equipment that SRF installed.” And suddenly, although the Captain and the OOD were right, you were in control of the ship. You could order speed and course changes. You checked the contacts to insure you knew their position relative to your ship. You went from wing to wing with your binoculars and eyeballed every one.

Often when independent steaming, the CO would give the deck to the JOOD during the entire watch. The CO would prearrange with the Chief Boatswain’s Mate to throw Oscar overboard and you would have to make sure the proper words were passed on the 1MC and make an Anderson turn. If done properly this turn will bring the ship back to a point it previously passed through for the purpose recovering the man overboard. Then maneuver the ship to pick up the dummy.

But, I digress. I started talking about sunsets. Another sunset phenomenon is the Green Flash. Supposedly when conditions are right, a green spot is visible above the upper limb of the sun’s disk. The green spot usually lasts no more than a second or two. I spent many evenings staring at the sunset but the green flash eluded me or I blinked and missed it.

Another overwhelming sight is the night sky on a clear, moonless night. Literally billions of stars so close that you feel as if you could just reach up and touch them. And those night with a full moon hanging up there were almost as clear as daylight.

I guess what I am trying to say here is that those of us who went to sea have seen the world in a way that people ashore can never experience.

Here Come The Judge

By Garland Davis

It was a Friday afternoon and all the Chiefs had early liberty. I guess I can talk a little about the initiations since they no longer do them. It was CPO Initiation day. We entered the CPO Club and found the table that BMC Garcia had been sent ahead to hold for us.

As we went through the door, I was accosted by the Master Chief who was running the initiation.

He said, “Dave, I have a problem. The Master Chief who was supposed to act as the judge called and said his daughter went into labor and he is at the hospital. He’ll not be here. Will you be the judge?”

Now, CPO initiations were a Kangaroo Court that tried all the prospective Chiefs for major and minor offensives such as. “Prospective Chief Jones slept with a First Class Petty Officer’s wife last night.”

I tried to decline acting as Judge, but there was no one else so I reluctantly agreed.

There were approximately three hundred CPO observers in the room. To raise money to pay for drinks, each observer and participant was fined a minimal amount to pay the bar bill. Anyone disrupting the ceremony by getting up and moving around the room to go to the head or the bar were charged a quarter.

As I said there were about three hundred Chiefs. There were also Commanding Officers and Executive Officers as well as junior officers who were detailed to act as defense counsels for the obviously guilty miscreants.

I took my position as the judge and looked out over the room. Right down in front was a table with some doctors and nurses from the Medical Center. One of those to be initiated was a Corpsman. Beside me was a Senior Chief Yeoman who was to act as recorder and keep track of the bar bill, in case we needed to raise more money. There were a couple of Chiefs who were acting as Master at Arms collecting the fines and escorting the guilty prisoners before the bar.

I started by welcoming everyone to the initiation. I then said, “I see a number of Chiefs wearing working khaki. You are not working. That will cost you two dollars.”

“Those Chiefs wearing dress khaki today, you didn’t intend to do any work. You get up two dollars also.”

“Those Chiefs wearing Salt and Pepper (for a short time there was a uniform of dress blue pants and white tropical shirts) get up three dollars because I hate that damned uniform.”

“It will also cost two dollars for each retiree in the audience.

“Since they are overpaid, all officers will be fined four dollars.”

“And if anyone is wearing panty hose, that will cost you an extra dollar,” while looking at the number of nurses.

A nurse Lieutenant at the front table raised her hand and said, “Your honor, I am not wearing panty hose.”

I said, “Step up here and prove that Darlin’ and I’ll give you five dollars.”

She did! I saw that Senior Medical Officer cloud up. I am sure he had words with that girl when they got back to the Medical Center.

The initiation proceeded as the miscreants were marched before the bar and examined and fined hundreds of dollars.

I had the prospective HMC and his defense counsel, an Ensign Nurse before me when I noticed observers going to the head unmolested by a MAA collecting the quarter fine for disrupting the dignity of my court.

I stopped everything and announced, “I need another MAA to stand by the head door and collect fines. I need a volunteer. Do I have anyone who will act as MAA?”

The aforementioned BMC Garcia yelled, “I’ll do it, Dave, your honor if you’ll give me back my two dollars and let me kiss that good looking head up there.”

I said, “That’s a deal. Get your money back and come kiss the good looking head.”

Garcia made his way through the tables. I saw the Nurse prepare for Garcia to kiss her. He walked past her and threw a lip lock on the YNCS who was acting as recorder.

Cracked the whole place up.  Must have taken me five minutes to restore order.

After the trials and punishments, we got down to the serious part of advancing the new Chiefs. They were lined up in their new khaki uniforms but without the CPO collar devices or covers. Wives, mothers, sisters, brother Chiefs, and some Commanding Officers had the honor of pinning the new Chiefs. A fellow Chief presented them with their CPO combination covers.  The Hat!

As they stood in a line before the room, a Chief read the CPO Creed:

The Chief’s Creed

During the course of this day, you have been caused to suffer indignities, to experience humiliations. This you have accomplished with rare good grace and therefore, we now believe it fitting to explain to you why this was done. There was no intent, no desire, to demean. Pointless as it may have seemed to you, there was a valid, time-honored reason behind every single deed, behind each pointed barb.

By experience, by performance and by testing, you have been this day advanced to CHIEF PETTY OFFICER. You have one more hurdle to overcome. In the United States Navy and only in the United States Navy, E-7 carries unique responsibilities. No other armed force throughout the world carries the responsibilities nor grants privileges to its enlisted comparable to the privileges and responsibilities you are now bound to observe and expected to fulfill.

Your entire way of life has now been changed. More will be expected of you, more will be demanded of you. Not because you are an E-7, but because you are now a CHIEF PETTY OFFICER. You have not merely been promoted one pay grade–you have joined an exclusive fraternity, and as in all fraternities, you have a responsibility to your brothers, even as they have a responsibility to you.

Always bear in mind that no other armed force has rate or rank equivalent to that of the United States Navy. Granted that all armed forces have two classes of service: enlisted and commissioned, however, the United States Navy has the distinction of having four i.e., Enlisted, CHIEF PETTY OFFICER, Commissioned Warrant Officer and Commissioned Officer. This is why we in the United States Navy may maintain with pride our feelings of superiority once we have attained the position of E-7.

These privileges, these responsibilities do not appear in print, they have no official standing, they cannot be referred to by name, number nor file. They exist because for over 200 years the CHIEFS before you have freely accepted responsibility beyond call of printed assignment, their actions and their performance, demanded the respect of their seniors as well as their juniors.

It is now required that you be a fountain of wisdom, the ambassador of good will, the authority in personnel relations as well as their technical application. “Ask the Chief” is a household word in and out of the Navy. You are now the “CHIEF”.

The exalted-position you have now received, and I use the word “exalted” advisedly, exists because of the attitude, the performance of the Chiefs before you. It shall exist only so long as you and your compatriots maintain these standards.

So this is why you were caused to experience these things. You were subjected to humiliations to prove to you that humility is a good, a great, a necessary change which cannot mar you—which in fact, strengthens you, and in your future as a CHIEF PETTY OFFICER, you will be caused to suffer indignities, to experience humiliations far beyond those imposed upon you today. Bear them with the dignity, and with the same good grace, which you bore these today.

It is our intention that you will never forget this day. It is our intention to test you–to try you–to accept you. Your performance today has assured us that you will wear your hat with aplomb brothers in arms before you.

I take a deep, sincere pleasure in clasping your hand, and accepting you into our midst.

Then all the Chiefs in the room went down the line congratulating each of the new Chiefs and welcoming them to the Mess.

Initiations were fun and, at the same time, very serious. Too bad they no longer do them in our kinder, gentler, more diverse Navy.