Jessie

Jessie

By:  Garland Davis

Jessie carried his seabag up to the Marine sentry at the pedestrian exit at the Naval Station Treasure Island.  He showed his discharge papers to the Lance Corporal who said, “Finally going home, huh?”

“You bet your ass on that.  Four long years.  Biggest mistake, I ever made.  Soon as I get to the bus station, I’ll get out of this Donald Duck suit and into real clothes,” Jessie replied.

“I still have two more years in the Crotch, and then I’ll be following you.”

He humped the seabag and AWOL bag to the San Francisco-bound bus stop and settled on the bench to wait.  He looked back at the gate to T. I. with a feeling of freedom and release.  It was hard to believe that it was finally over and he was going home.  Home, the place where he grew up, the place where he belonged.

Almost immediately a car exiting the gate and driven by a First Class Cook pulled over.  The driver asked, “Where are you going? If I am going that way, I’ll drop you off.”

“The Greyhound bus station.”

“Jump in, that’s only a couple of blocks out of my way.  I’ll drop you.  You going to catch a new ship? I see from your shoulder patch you were in a can in the Pineapple Fleet. I pulled a tour on a tanker out of Pearl.  Good duty.”

“Nope. I’m no lifer. No more ships and no more Navy for me.  I am going home to Nebraska.  Four long years and three WestPac cruises.  It’s going to be a better life for me now.  I’ve waited for this day since I arrived in San Diego. Joining the Navy was a mistake.”

Little more was said as they drove from the bridge into San Francisco.  Jessie was thinking of his life before the Navy, hanging out with his friends and having a few beers.  Trying to get a date with some of the ugly girls from the tech college.  Trips to Omaha to get someone to buy beer or whiskey for them. His mother’s cooking and the quiet of his room and sleeping late on weekends.  Hearing the latest music and seeing the new TV shows.  Yeah, life was going to be good again.

As they arrived at the bus station, the PO1 offered his hand and said, “Well, good luck kid.  It ain’t as bad as you are thinking.  Remember that.”

Jessie took his hand, thanked him for the ride and hefted the seabag to his shoulder, grabbed the AWOL bag and went to the ticket counter.  He said, “One way to Omaha, Nebraska,” when the lady behind the counter acknowledged his presence.

She quickly prepared the ticket, placed a baggage routing tag on his seabag, and collected forty-one dollars from him.  She said, “The bus leaves in three hours from gate two.  Have a pleasant trip.”

Jessie thanked her, grabbed the AWOL bag and looked around for the head, nope, not head, restroom.  He had to break the habit of using Navy vernacular.  After all, he was a civilian.  He went into the restroom and quickly changed from Dress Blues into the Jeans, shirt, and boots he bought at the Navy Exchange and packed in the AWOL bag.  This was his Uniform of the Day from now on.  He picked up the blue uniform from the floor and moved to throw it in the shitcan, wait, trashcan but hesitated as he looked at the PO3 Machinery Repairman patch that he had been so proud of.  Instead, he stuffed them and the shoes into the AWOL bag and went looking for a place to get a hamburger.  No more roast mystery meat for Jessie.

After a quick lunch, Jessie went to a bookstore and bought three Louis L’Amour westerns.  It would be two days on the bus to Omaha.  He went back to the bus station, got four dollars change from the cashier and went to the phones to call home.  His mother answered as the phone rang for the fourth time. “Hello.”

“It’s Jessie Mama.  I’m out of the Navy.  I got discharged this morning.  I’m in San Francisco.  The bus will leave here in about an hour.  I will be in Omaha at three PM the day after tomorrow, and it will probably be a three or four more-hour bus ride to home from there.”

“We are looking forward to your coming home son.  Your daddy would pick you up in Omaha, but with just starting the new job, it is hard to get time off.  I’ll see if your cousin Donnie might be able to come get you. Call me back tomorrow, on the way, and I’ll let you know.  It’ll be good to have you back home Jessie.  It’s been hard on your daddy, Jessie since the factory closed and he had to take a lot lower pay at another place. Things have been hard here since the factory left. I am also working as a cashier at Woolworths.  Every little bit helps.”

“Okay, Mama,” he said as the phone beeped for more coins, “I’ll call tomorrow.  Bye, Mama.”

He hung up the phone and walked to the waiting area.  He was wondering what she meant by “things have been hard here.”  His hometown was a good place to live.  Life had always been good there.  Jessie guessed he would have to look for a job pretty soon.  But not right away.  He had over five thousand dollars that he had saved.  That should be enough to buy a decent car and let him take a break for a while   He would worry about finding a job after relaxing for a few weeks.

The trip seemed interminable, but finally, the skyline of Omaha rose slowly out of the prairie.  He had called last evening, and his mother told him that Donnie would be at the bus station to pick him up.  It took forever, but the bus finally arrived at the Omaha terminal, and he waited impatiently while the driver unloaded the baggage from the compartment under the bus, retrieved his seabag and went into the terminal searching for his cousin.

“Hey Jessie,” a voice called from behind him.  He turned and saw his cousin.  He looked a lot older and wearier than Jessie remembered.  He was heavier and moved slower.  He seemed a lot older than twenty-three.

“Hey Donnie, “as they shook hands.  “How are you doing?”

“Getting by,” Donnie said as he grabbed the seabag and carried it toward the door. “We gotta go, I have early deliveries tomorrow and need to get some sleep.”

The walked toward a beat up white pickup parked at the curb.  He was looking around for the Mustang that Donnie had been so proud of when Jessie was there on leave a couple of years ago. Donnie threw the seabag into the bed of the pick-up.  They climbed in, and the truck started after a few seconds of grinding the starter.  They pulled out and began the final leg of the trip home.

“Whose truck is this?  Where’s your Mustang?” Jessie puzzledly asked.

“It’s my truck.  I had to let the Mustang go back after I lost my job at the factory.  I couldn’t afford the payments.  I can barely afford this truck what with helping Mama and Daddy make the payments to keep from losing the house.  With mama losing her job at the factory, things are real hard at home now.  I deliver the newspapers early in the morning and then deliver bread from the bakery to the stores in five or six little towns.” Donnie explained.

“Donnie, how is Louisa? When are you guys going to get married” Jessie asked?

“I don’t rightly know how she is. I ain’t heard from her in a long while.  We broke up.  She moved to South Dakota with her aunt.  She got a job watching children at a babysitter business.  There wasn’t anything around here, and with me losing my job there was no way we could afford to get married,” he replied. “I tried to join the Navy like you did, but I couldn’t pass the doctor’s examination.  I really messed up my knee bad during that football game, and they classified me as 4F. I can’t even get drafted.  I tell you, Jessie, you oughta stayed away from here.  There ain’t a lot here anymore.  Most of the people we went to school with have left. A lot of the stores are out of business.  Many have lost their houses.  The whole town was the factory. Without the factory, there isn’t much left.”

Jessie was shocked to hear this.  Donnie was always making things out to be bigger than they really were.  It couldn’t be that bad.  They talked more on the way, but Donnie’s desultory attitude didn’t lend itself to casual conversation.

Finally, they made the turn onto the main street of town.  He was home. Arriving in his hometown after so many years away was stunning.  As they turned off Main onto Emery, he was astonished at all the dark houses in the early night.  Almost every house had a for sale or foreclosed sign on the neglected weed grown lawns. It reminded him of the ghost towns of the western movies.  The only thing missing was the tumbleweeds.

Simply riding down the street of his hometown, he was awash in nostalgia reminded of the past at every turn.  That dark yellow house was where he broke up with his first girlfriend, there in that park; he had lost his first fight. The places that he had fond memories of now seemed to be just that, places with memories, filled with the vestiges of people who weren’t around any longer or weren’t like they once were. He had no control over the constant flood of remembering.  But after what he had heard from Donnie, there was a strangeness about the familiarity.

His house came into view.  The porch light was on, and his mother was waiting, looking down the road to see if that was Donnie’s truck.  They pulled into the drive, he jumped out of the truck and ran to hug his mother.  She said, “Welcome home Jessie.  It is so good to see you. Your daddy wanted to come pick you up, but he is working the swing shift at the tire company.  He just got the job and don’t have any time off built up yet.”

Donnie brought the seabag and AWOL bag to the porch and said, “Well, welcome back.  I gotta go get some sleep. I’ll see you around.”

Jessie and his mother said, “Thank you, Donnie,” and she handed him a five-dollar bill. “This is to pay for the gas.”

Donnie sheepishly took the money and walked to his truck, climbed in and drove away.

Jessie grabbed his bags and followed his mother into the house.  She closed the door and turned the porch light off.  She said, “Daddy will be home in about three hours.  I am going to fix his supper.  Are you hungry?  I would have had something ready, but I didn’t know exactly what time you would be here.”

“That’s okay; I am not really hungry.  I’ll wait until Pop gets home.  Donnie was telling me that things are really hard around here after the factory went bankrupt and everyone lost their jobs.  I saw a lot of what looked like empty houses as we came down the street.  What has happened?”

“There are only three houses on the street with occupants now.  They were all foreclosed or the owners just left the keys in the mailbox and moved up to Omaha or someplace where they could find work.  Your dad was out of work for almost six months before he got the job at the tire company.  He doesn’t make anywhere near as much as he did at the factory.  And I am working part-time at Woolworths. We got behind on the house payments while he was out of work. We can make the payments now, but we can’t catch up.  We got the foreclosure letter yesterday.  Your Daddy is going tomorrow to talk to them and see if there isn’t some way we can keep the house and make the payments and try to catch them up over time.  I am not sure they will.  I think we will lose the house.  Then I don’t know where we will live,” she said as tears started down her face.

“Now Mama, it can’t be that bad.  We will work something out.  How much would it take to catch your payments up? Donnie asked.

“Payments are five hundred and seven dollars a month, and we are five months behind.  I just don’t see any way of raising that much money.  We sold my car and the boat and used all the savings to make the payments that we did, but now there isn’t anything else to sell or savings.”

They drank coffee and talked while waiting for his father to return from work.  She worked making biscuits and frying Spam. She said, “You dad likes Spam and eggs when he gets home from work.”

Jessie made a pot of coffee and poured a cup.  She asked, “When did you start drinking coffee? You wouldn’t touch it before you left.”

“Sailors live on coffee, especially Snipes.  Snipes are engineers.  I was a Snipe.  I was a Machinery Repairman.”

They heard a vehicle turn into the drive from the street.  He checked his watch.  Twelve forty.  Pop was home from work.  His dad, dressed in coveralls, came in through the kitchen door.  He looked tired and much older than the last time Jessie had seen him. His face lit up with a smile, and he grabbed Jessie and gave him a squeeze.  He said, “You look good Boy, it is great to see you.”

Jessie’s mom brought the food to the table, poured coffee for them and they sat to eat.  Pop said, “Mabel, I’ve got an appointment at the mortgage company in Omaha at ten o’clock tomorrow.  I’ll have to leave here at six thirty.  Make sure I am awake.  We’ve got enough money to pay seven hundred dollars.  We have made the last two payments, and hopefully, they’ll rescind the foreclosure and let us stay here as long as we can keep up the payments. I’m going to take a shower and get into bed.  Jessie, we’ll catch up later.”

His dad left the table and went up the stairs.  His mom watched him go and said, “He comes home so tired, he was a supervisor at the factory and wasn’t used to doing the hard work that he is doing now.  I don’t know how much longer he can keep doing it.  You look tired too, son.  Why don’t you go to bed?  There’s cereal and milk for your breakfast. Your dad will leave early and so will I. I have to work the opening shift as cashier at the Woolworth cafeteria.  So I’ll see you later in the day tomorrow. Good night Jessie and welcome home.”

“Good night, Mama.  If I’m not here when you get home, I’ll probably be downtown.  I am going to look around and see who I can find,” Jessie said as he moved toward the stairs.  He climbed to his room and removed clean underwear from the seabag and headed for the shower.  Afterward, he relaxed in his bed.  He was finally home.  The homecoming was different than he had envisioned, but he was home.  That is what counted.  He opened the L’Amour western and was asleep before he had read half a page.

Jessie awakened to the sound of his father going down the steps.  He heard voices from downstairs as his parents were talking over breakfast.  He looked at the time.  Almost six.  He dozed off and reawakened to silence in the house.  He brushed his teeth and went to get dressed.  For some reason, the jeans from his closet seemed tighter and shorter than he remembered.  Really uncomfortable.  He dressed in the jeans he had been wearing since Treasure Island and went down for breakfast.

Afterward, Jessie decided to walk and look at the place in the daytime.  He strolled down Emery toward main.  The lawns were grown over.  It looked even more like an abandoned ghost town in the daylight.  He could hardly believe this was where he had played and grown up.

He turned on main and walked the long block to Epperson’s Hardware or, as it turned out, the building that was once the hardware store.  It was now boarded up with a torn, water stained, deteriorated sign that said “Commercial Space for Lease,” hanging from a single nail.

The building that had been the post office was also boarded up.  He knew the post office had closed and the postal district incorporated into that of the adjoining county. He walked through the entire town.  The only place that seemed open was the diner on the corner of Watson and Main.

He walked into the diner and sat at the counter.  A young woman came from the kitchen and said, “What can I get you?  Jessie!  Jessie! Is that you?  Are you home for a visit?  You remember me, don’t you?  Lorraine Stevenson, well, Gridley now.  I was a year ahead of you in school.”

“Hi, Lorraine.  Sure I remember you.  Did you marry Todd Gridley?”

“No his older brother, Rodney. We got married when he came home from the Air Force.  Things have changed a lot around here in the last year.  Most of the people are leaving.  I don’t know how long the town will last.  I don’t know how much longer the Donelson’s will keep this place open.  The only other place that is still operating is Pop’s Taproom. Oh yeah, the grocery store is still open but will probably be closing too. Look at me talking.  Can I get you something to eat or drink?”

“Just a cup of black coffee.  Is Betty Ross still around?  We use to date before I enlisted.”

“She was going to the Community College for a while and left with some guy she met there.  I think they are living in Omaha.  Her folks moved up there also.  Rodney and I will probably go too, that is if he can find a better job there.”

A man and woman entered the diner and Lorraine left to take their order and prepare their meals.  Jessie finished the coffee and left a dollar under the cup.  He waved to Lorraine as he departed the eatery.  He walked to the corner of Watson and started that way.  There were more boarded up buildings and houses, more untended lawns, a sense of something that was no longer there.  He walked around the town, noting that the Iverson’s grocery store was still open.  It looked as if the Diner, the grocery store, and Pop’s Taproom were the only businesses still operating in the town.  As he walked back toward Emery Street, he came to the Taproom just as Pop was opening the door.

“Are you open sir?” he asked.

“Yep.  Welcome.” As he held the door for Jessie. “What can I get for you?”

“A draft of whatever you have available.

“Wait, I remember you.  Your name is Jess.  I threw you out of here once.  You came in with a fake ID that you had manufactured and tried to buy beer.  You weren’t too bright.  Eight hundred people in the town, everyone knew you, and you thought you could get by with a fake ID.  We had a couple of laughs about that one. That was a long time ago.  I’m sure you are of age now.”

“Glad all you guys were amused,”  Jessie said sheepishly. “I guess it wasn’t too smart. Tell me, what happened with the factory.  All I’ve heard is that they closed and let everyone go.  How can something like that just happen?”

“One of the Vice Presidents used to be a customer, and he told me what happened.  The owners of the company went public and sold stock in the company.  A predatory group of investors bought a controlling interest in the company.  They started stripping the assets and selling them off; they closed the factory letting everyone go, then sold all the equipment to a company in Central America.  Without a union to represent them, the workers didn’t even get their outstanding or severance pay.  All they can do is make a claim in the bankruptcy court and maybe somewhere in the future; they will get a few cents on the dollar.  It’s a shitty situation.  Most of the people have moved away.  I will be closing at the end of the month and moving up to Omaha myself. The diner and grocery will both be closing pretty soon also.”

“Pretty shitty at that!  My Mom and Dad are going to lose their house unless he can catch up the mortgage payments.”

“Well, I wish them luck, but the mortgage companies and banks are being pretty strict unless payments are kept current.  It’s hard.  Me, I will probably close this place by the end of the year, I am barely breaking even.  When the beer distributor closes, and I have to buy from a distributor from Omaha, the beer will cost more.  If it wasn’t for my Army pension. I couldn’t have stayed in business this long.  You want another?”

“No, I don’t think so,” answered Jessie. “I’ve got to go see a guy about a truck.

Jessie walked down to Donnie’s house and saw his truck.  He figured Donnie would have finished his bakery deliveries and would be at home.  He went to the back door and knocked on the wall by the screen door.  Donnie stuck his around the corner from the kitchen and said, “Hey Jess, come on in.”

Jessie opened the door and went into the kitchen where Donnie was eating a sandwich.

Donnie asked, “Jess, you want a Co’ Cola?”

“No, thanks, Donnie.  I stopped by to ask if you’ll lend me your truck tomorrow.  I need to run up to Omaha to see about a job.  I’ll pay you twenty bucks and bring it back with a full tank of gas if you’ll let me use it.”

“Sure you can use it. Come to the bakery at seven in the morning and pick it up. I’ll leave the key on top of the left rear tire like we used to do.  I hate to take your money, but I really need it to help Mama make the house payments.  Ever little bit helps.” Donnie said embarrassedly.

“Thanks, man. I really appreciate this.” Jessie replied.  “Well, I gotta go.  Dad should be back from Omaha pretty soon.  I want to be home when he gets back.”

Jessie walked the four blocks to his house.  His mom was standing looking out the front door as he walked down the drive.  She stepped out onto the porch and said. “Jessie, your father ought to be back anytime.  I hope he gets here in time to rest a little before he goes to work at four.  Have you had something to eat Son.”

“Yeah, I’m fine Mama,” as he walked up the three steps to the porch.

She said, “I’m glad you are home, Jessie.  I just wish things were better. There’s your daddy’s truck now.”

They watched as the truck turned into the drive and stopped beside the house.  His Dad climbed out of the truck and walked around to the steps and came onto the porch. He told them, “They said unless we can catch the payments up, they will foreclose, but we can rent the house for the amount of the payments until they can sell it.  I guess the best thing to do is move; we can rent a house for a lot less than the seven hundred dollars we would have to pay to stay here.”

“Oh, Jim,” his mother said as tears began to run down her cheeks.  “This is our home.  Jessie was eight when we moved in here from my Daddy’s rental house.  We were so glad that we could afford to buy a house.  Now it’s all gone.” She turned and went into the house sobbing.

His dad said to Jessie, “That tears my guts out and there ain’t a damned thing I can do. Hell of a homecoming for you Boy.”

Jessie, looking at his Dad’s face said, “Things will work out Pop.  You got to believe that. You got a couple of hours before work, and you were up early this morning.  You ought to get a little rest.”

“You’re right, Son.  We’ll have some time in a few days.  Have you thought about what you are going to do?”

“I borrowed Donnie’s truck and am going to Omaha tomorrow about finding work.”

“Two more days until Saturday, then we’ll have some time to talk and catch up, Jessie.  Well, I’m going to lay down for awhile.

They walked into the house and on into the kitchen where his mom was preparing his father’s lunch and a snack to take to work.  She asked, “Would you like something, Jessie?”

“No, Mama, I am meeting a couple of guys downtown and will get something at the diner,” Jessie fibbed. “I’ll be back before nine or ten.”

Jessie left the house and walked down to the diner.  Lorraine was still behind the counter when he walked in and took a booth.  She walked around the end of the counter, handed him a menu and asked if he wanted something to drink.  He handed the menu back and asked her to bring him a hamburger, fries and a coke.

Jessie sat waiting and then shrugged as if he had reached a decision on a pressing matter.

Lorraine brought his meal and realizing that he wasn’t in the mood for conversation and returned to her post behind the counter.  Jessie quickly finished eating, left a buck tip under his plate and went to the counter to pay his bill.  He told Lorraine, “I am going up to Omaha tomorrow about a job.  I was hoping to stay here, but it doesn’t seem possible.”

“We’ll probably be following you soon.”

Jessie walked down to the Taproom.  There was only one other customer, and he was leaving as Jessie entered.  Pop said, “Come in Jess.  I was thinking about closing, but I’ll stay here as long as you would like.  I don’t have anything else to do, and I have done it so long that I can’t go to sleep until about two in the morning.”

Jessie sat and talked with Pop for a couple of hours and then went on home.  His mother was sleeping on the couch waiting for his dad to come home shortly after midnight.  Jessie went up to his room, found his old alarm clock and set it for six, brushed his teeth and went to bed.  He lay awake for a while thinking over his decision and decided again it was the best thing to do.

The noise of his mother getting up awakened Jessie about five minutes before the alarm was set to wake him.  He showered, shaved, brushed his teeth, and went down for a cup of coffee before going over to the bakery to get the truck.

His mom said, “Jessie, you are up early.  Do you want coffee?  I have instant.  That’s what I drink when I am working early instead of making a pot. Do you want something to eat? I’m afraid you’ll have to fix it yourself. Your Dad said you are going to Omaha to look for work.  Well, good luck.   I have to go. I am opening this morning.”

“Instant will be fine.  I’ll just have one of these Pop Tarts. I have to go pick up Donnie’s truck.  I should be home by five this evening. I’ll see you then.”

After his mom had left, Jessie went to the drawer where she kept her bills and important papers and recorded some numbers in his “Wheel book,” a memoranda notebook.

Jessie left the house and walked over to the bakery arriving there about seven-thirty.  The key was on top of the tire as promised, he started the truck and headed toward the highway.

A long day later, Jessie dropped the truck at Donnie’s house.  He tapped on the edge of the door, and his Aunt Liz came to the door and said, “Hey Jessie, come on in.  Donnie’s not here.  Mrs. Lawson called him to come over and fix a hole in her chicken lot where the chickens are getting out.  He ought to be home pretty soon.”

“That’s fine. I just wanted to bring his truck back.  I know he needs it early.  Here are the key and the twenty I promised.  Tell him I filled the tank.  And tell him I said thanks for letting me use it.”

Jessie stopped at the diner on the way home and had a hamburger steak and a couple of cups of coffee. Afterward, he walked on home.  His mom was napping on the couch. Jessie went up to his room and dumped the seabag out looking for his sewing kit. He had some sewing to do.

The next morning was Saturday.  His father and mother didn’t have to work.  Jessie got dressed but stayed in his room until he heard them up and moving around. When he heard them in the kitchen, Jessie walked down the stairs into the kitchen.

They watched him as he poured a cup of coffee. His mom asked, “Why are you wearing your Navy clothes?” she asked.

Jessie sat down at the table and said, “I went to the Navy recruiter in Omaha yesterday and re-enlisted in the Navy.”  He laid the papers he was carrying on the table and said, “I went to the bank that owns the mortgage on this house and paid it up to date, and I made the next payment.  Mama, you don’t have to leave your home.”

“Jessie we can’t ask you to use your money.  But, you so looked forward to leaving the Navy and coming home, and now you used the money you had saved to pay for our home.  Why?” She said with tears streaming down her cheeks.

“Mama better to use the money to keep the home.  That way I will have someplace to visit while on leave. I would probably just have pissed it away.  After seeing what has happened to the town and people since the factory closed, I realized that the town and home I was dreaming of no longer existed.  To find a job to pay for a comfortable life means I would have to leave here anyway.  I have been dreaming of coming home and missed understanding that I liked the Navy and the life of a sailor.  Also, I miss my friends on the ship.  “

“When I talked to the recruiter about going back in, he called the personnel people in Washington and found that I am authorized for promotion to MR2.  He got it fixed, so I re-enlisted as a Second Class Petty Officer.  I got thirty days leave, and then I will go back to Treasure Island in San Francisco for orders.  I asked to go back to the ship I just left.  After talking with Pop down at the Taproom, I am thinking a military career is good.  I think it is best this way Mama.”

His mother pulled him into an embrace and his father’s arms surrounded them both.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Standard

The Return

The Return

By:  David ‘Mac’ McAllister

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

 

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

 

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Dodged A Bullet

Dodged A Bullet

By Garland Davis

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Just a minute Larry.  I’ll get her.”

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

“Hello,” Marie said

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

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

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

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

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

“What will you do?” She asked.

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

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

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

PNC asked, ‘Did you report to PSD yet.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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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.”

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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.

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THE HAND DRILL

THE HAND DRILL

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

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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

Still-

 

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

Rising

At dawn’s half-light.

 

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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.

 

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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!”

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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.”

“THIS IS A DRILL, THIS IS A DRILL, NOW GENERAL QUARTERS, GENERAL QUARTERS, ALL HAND MAN YOUR BATTLE STATIONS. SET CONDITION ZEBRA THROUGHOUT THE SHIP. NOW GENERAL QUARTERS. THIS IS A DRILL.”

“Later Dude.  Play hearts tonight?”

“Yah.”

 

 

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