Retirement

By:  Garland Davis

“All three of my ex-wives were good housekeepers.

The first one kept the fucking house.

The second one kept the fucking house.

And the third one kept the fucking house.

……Buddy Hackett……

“Dave, after having to give my ex fifty percent of my retirement pay and then paying child support on top of that, I am left with fourteen fucking dollars and eighty-seven fucking cents every month.”

….BMC(Ret) Charles Nathan Fulfer….

I was a Navy Master Chief Petty Officer assigned as Command Master Chief of a Submarine Squadron in San Diego.  This was my twilight tour, and I would be retiring from the Navy in a few months after thirty years’ service.  My relief was already ordered aboard.  Everything was ready for the turnover to him.

I have been married twice.  The first wife was a shipmate’s sister, a lovely girl I fell in love with when I stopped at his house in North Carolina.  I was on leave in Florida and him in North Carolina.  I was taking my car back to Connecticut and had promised to pick him up for the ride north.  I arrived at his house a couple of days early.  During the three days before we left, I fell madly in love.

Within a year we were married.  I arranged duty on a boat home ported in Norfolk so she could be near home.  She actually lived with her parents when I was deployed to the Med or on patrol.  We drifted through eleven years of marriage.  No children and no real problems.  I was at sea a lot and we just naturally grew apart.  The divorce came as no surprise to either of us.  I had received orders to a Pearl Harbor boat.  She just didn’t want to go that far from home.  The divorce was amicable.  She made no demands on me other than her rights to half my retirement pay.  I had no say in the matter and couldn’t refuse.  She was entitled to it by law.

I had nineteen years in when I married my second wife.  It was also her second marriage.  She had been married to a Chief on a skimmer.  She had caught him with another sailor’s wife and divorced him in, what I came to understand, a very acrimonious and contentious splitting of the sheets. We had, I thought, a good marriage.  She was helpful and supportive of me and my career and interacted well with the other wives after I was appointed COB on my first boat. Although, at times she could be a real bitch when things didn’t go the way she wanted.

After a tour of shore duty with TRE in Pearl and another boat, I came to the squadron in San Diego for a final tour before retiring.

I was just coasting when the Commodore called me in.  He told me that the COB (Chief of the Boat) of one of our deployed boats was being relieved for sexual improprieties.  It is unfortunate that the politicians have decided that open homosexuality is permissible in the services.  The Commodore asked me if I would fly to Yokosuka, Japan and act as interim COB for an approximate forty-five-day patrol.

My first reaction to the Commodore’s request was excitement. A chance for a final liberty in WestPac, a chance to ride a boat one last cruise, and a couple months’ sub-pay.  I would come back to San Diego to a retirement ceremony and sixty days’ terminal leave.  I had a tentative job offer at the local ship building company. My wife and I were planning a month’s vacation driving and sightseeing the country.  She acted enthusiastic about it.  I accepted the assignment and went home to tell my wife and pack.

She wasn’t happy that I had agreed without talking with her first.  I explained to her that I really didn’t think I had a choice and I wanted to experience one more trip in a submarine.  After all, it was what I had done and done well for the majority of my life.  I explained that the extra money would help finance the trip we had planned.  She reluctantly accepted the fact that I was going. I was flying from San Diego to Los Angeles and then on to Tokyo the following morning.

She wasn’t happy and that evening showed her displeasure as only a woman can.  The farewell the next morning was cold.  I took a taxi to the airport.  She refused to drive me.

I arrived in Yokosuka and reported to the boat.  My wife’s displeasure and her reaction to my going were driven from my mind in the last-minute preparations for sailing.  There were stores to load, berthing assignments, duty assignments, qualification checks, battle station assignments, a thousand things to do or oversee.  And then we were at sea.  After clearing Tokyo Bay, we pulled the plug and were, for all intents and purposes, isolated from the world for the next fifty days.

Now the surface ships have e-mail and limited telephone service that enables the members to maintain almost constant contact with family.  Submarines do not have that luxury.  We anxiously await, what in this modern day, is termed snail mail.  We arrived in Yokosuka, and mail bags were waiting on the pier.  I wasn’t expecting mail since I was only aboard temporarily.

After completing all the tasks of entering the port and ensuring that watch bills were correct, and the watch was set, I met the Master Chief who was to become the permanent COB of the boat.  Only an abbreviated tour was necessary.  He had served as the A-Gang LCPO on the boat before.  He assured me that he had it and I could go make a call to my wife.

A telephone was available in the CPO mess.  I dialed the numbers to my home only to get the message that the number was no longer in service.  That can’t be.  I tried again and got the same message.  What the fuck.  I called my neighbor and friend down the street.  He answered, and I asked if he knew why my phone wasn’t in service.  He told me that my wife had divorced me in an uncontested divorce while I was deployed.

I caught the first flight to the States and arrived in San Diego about noon.  Taking a taxi to my house, I found that my keys no longer worked and no one answered the door.  As I walked toward my neighbor’s house, two police cars stopped, and one of the officers asked my name.  I told him.  He said you will have to come with us.  I was taken to the main police station and informed that a Temporary Restraining Order had been issued forbidding me from communicating with or going within a hundred yards of my ex-wife or my former home.

The same day I left for Japan, she had contacted the lawyer from her previous divorce and filed two days later.  Letters notifying me and letters setting court dates were all sent to my address at the squadron in San Diego.  Expecting nothing important, I had instructed them to hold my mail until my return.  Her lawyer rushed everything through the divorce court.  Since I didn’t appear in court to contest the divorce, she was granted everything she asked for.  She was given the car and the house with the provision that I continue the payments until the mortgage was satisfied.  She was also awarded a substantial alimony.

All my pay was deposited to a joint account.  I went to an ATM to withdraw money only to find that there was a minimum balance and no funds were available.

I found all my uniforms and clothing in the storeroom at the squadron.  I moved into the CPO quarters at the base.  I was broke, no place to live after next week, and every dollar I would earn for years obligated to paying her divorce demands.  I contacted a lawyer who told me it could be undone, but it would take time and lots of money.

After the retirement ceremony, I learned that she and her lawyer filed a claim to fifty percent of my retirement pay.  My first wife also filed for half of it leaving me with zero percent. No retirement pay and alimony and house payments equaling more than I could possibly earn.  I was between the proverbial rock and a hard place.  You know, I have never understood what things would drive a person to suicide, but, that day  I seriously considered it.

I owned a few acres and a house in Florida that my folks had left me. She must have forgotten about it.  I called a realtor friend there and made arrangements for a quick sale.  I was able to stay in the CPO quarters during my leave.  Once I received the funds from the sale of my property, I bought a one-way ticket to Honolulu.  Arriving there, some friends helped me get a job with a government contractor.  The salary wasn’t enough to cover my court ordered obligations to her, so I just ignored them.  I went into work one morning to find that there was a court order to garnishee my pay and I was being fired for not disclosing these obligations when I was hired.

After being fired I spent a couple of months drunk, living in a cheap hotel. After the Florida money had run out, I sobered up with no job, no money, and no place to live.

That was two or three years ago.  I now live in Honolulu under a Nimitz Highway bridge.  I have long hair and a beard, I get my clothes from the free bin at one shelter, I eat at another homeless shelter when they are offering food.  I beg for money to buy my daily bottle of whiskey.  I will smoke pot if it is offered, too expensive for my circumstances. I have often been tempted to try the stupor of harder drugs, but so far have resisted.

I told this story to that young college girl who was doing a study on why homeless people become homeless.  I think I told her everything.  It gets harder and harder to remember.  Sometimes I am not even sure if it actually happened or if it is my imagination.  Maybe I just made it up because she gave me five bucks.  I’m not sure…..

“That’s my story, Buddy, you got a dollar or two, so I can get something to eat. I would appreciate it.”

A shipmate sent the above photo and asked if I could find a story for my Blog.  Here is what I came up with:

LBFM or Something

By:  Garland Davis

We all know at least a dozen LBFM’s.  The one featured in this story was a little more L and B than most a sailor could meet during a safari into the wilds of Magsaysay Street or if one was brave enough, the Barrio.  She wasn’t a great conversationalist, but there was something about her smile.  As a matter of fact, she was butt fuckin ugly.  But as the number of San Miguels or glasses of Mojo were consumed, one would begin to see beauty where none existed.

She wasn’t the ugliest girl I ever woke up with, but she is a goddamned strong second.

I will say that she could do as many tricks on a six-inch penis as a monkey can on a six-foot grapevine.

Once Upon a Time

By Garland Davis

To walk those muddy streets once again

Sail the South China Sea and Tonkin

Stained with salt and running rust

Gale winds, typhoons wrath, and yellowed seas

Pacific Fleet an ill to poisoned freedom;

If only memory

In this case

Was exaggerated

The muddy streets, once dusty, before the rain,

Buildings, scraped, peeled, bars, welcoming

Interrupted only by the thunder,

A girlchild/woman, plastic raincoat tucked around her

Hand sheltering her eyes beckons from the door

Once across the bridge

Toward the bars and clubs

Bleak in the afternoon light

Moved along by the wind and rain

And we passed too, alongside her

Her hand pulls to bring us inside

Her words offer cold beer, her eyes offer much more

Never mind, more of the same is offered further along

Coming back full to see

Woman’s eyes still offering

Everything in the day and night;

I hope she doesn’t die there.

No story for today.  I just want to take a moment to wish our new President and our country peace and prosperity in the coming years.

Garland

Seaman Son-of-a-Bitch

By:  Garland Davis

He cross decked to the ship from a Yard Water Barge (YW) in Da Nang Republic of Viet Nam.  He came to us for a price.  He cost six packs of Red Bug Juice, a couple loaves of fresh baked bread and a pound of butter.  He left his Mama and his siblings on the deck of the YW.

He was a black and white puppy of questionable ancestry.  We were half way to Subic with a tow before the Officers learned he was aboard. The XO was for putting him over the side.  He was worried about animal and quarantine laws in the various countries we visited.

The Captain looked at him and said, “He’s a cute Son-of-a-Bitch.  Just keep him hidden when we are in port.”  That was how he acquired the rather unusual name. Since the term was an integral part of a sailor’s conversation, Son-of-a-Bitch came to think that he was needed in all areas of the ship.

He was sworn in as a Seaman Recruit.  Over the first few weeks, he underwent a rigorous training program.  He learned to use the fantail for a toilet in good weather and the head in rough weather.  He learned that he wasn’t permitted in Sickbay, the Wardroom, or the Galley.  He could go pretty much anywhere on the main deck he wished.  He learned early that he could climb the ladders, but usually fell when he tried to descend a ladder. He often slept in the passageway forward by Supply.

Son-of-a-Bitch also learned ship’s routine, and since he was a non-watch stander and had no duties, he managed to be at the head of the chow line for all meals.

The signalman had a sewing machine area in the Supply storeroom.  One of the deck Seaman who had sewing ability converted an old dress uniform to a doggie size dress blue jumper with the piping rank and everything. He fell in with the Deck/Supply Division for Quarters and Inspections.

During his two and a half years in the crew, he was advanced as high as Seaman several times. Every time you thought he would make it he screwed up and the BM1 held mast on him.

SN Son-of-a-Bitch didn’t go on liberty often because of the necessity to keep him hidden inport.  Although a couple of snipes did bring a bitch dog in heat aboard and he had his way with her.  Another time some snipes took him ashore in Yokosuka and paid a streetwalker to give him a blowjob.

When we learned, we were getting a new Commanding Officer, the decision was made to retire Son-of-a-Bitch into the care of an EN1.  An appropriate retirement ceremony was held on the Foc’sle.  He was presented with an Honorable Discharge, DD214, transfer to the Fleet Reserve, and a meritorious promotion to Kay Nine Third Class.  A box of Milk Bone Biscuits was ceremoniously opened, and he partook of a couple (the RM3 joined him and ate a couple also).

He was piped over the side and went to live out his retirement years in a life of luxury although the EN1’s wife shortened his name to Son.

Liberty Machine

By:  Robert “Okie Bob” Layton

USS Coral Sea 1981
VFP-63
We had just completed a 135 day at sea period in the Indian Ocean. We were pulling into the PI for a much-anticipated liberty. With us was a 3rd class metalsmith by the name of Medina a fairly decent sailor, & “cherry boy to the PI.”  Well, old Medina had duty the first day in port, so no off base liberty for him that day. Early next morning as the Liberty party came back onboard old Medina really got his ears full of the wonders of Subic and was really pumped-up about his upcoming liberty.

Since it was his first time, Joe Creapo and Red Lahe were to take Medina under their wings for his “Liberty in PI” indoc. Well true to their character Joe and Red left instructions for Medina to catch a taxi from the Cubi Carrier pier, go to the main gate, walk across Shit River, turn right on Murphy Street, and Meet us at the Marmont bar. Where all of us VFP-63 Det-2 sailors were hanging out.

Well, sir, Medina was completely green in the ways of the PI. So he gets off the ship about 0900 goes down the after brow gets into the taxi line.

Anyone that has been tied up to the carrier pier in Cubi knows how it uses to work. You stood in line and as the taxis pulled up the guy getting into the taxi usually turned around and addressing the remaining line would say something to the effect “anyone going to the main gate—–top of the hill—–exchange—ETC?” room for 1, 2, 3 more.

It was one of them unspoken rules (people who had been there before) done. Everyone shared space and the cost of the ride too!

When it came time for Medina to grab a taxi he failed to observe the taxi etiquette and just jumped into the front seat followed immediately by three sailors (whom he didn’t know) in the back seat.

Throwing away all time-honored precedence Medina started to question the move by the uninvited riders stating “This here is MY taxi now get out.”

The three sailors dumbfounded by his unusual behavior pleaded their case saying “Hey man you’re going to the Main Gate aren’t ya?”

Medina still oblivious to the workings said: “Yes but this is still MY taxi so—get the fuck get out!”

By this time the taxi had traveled about 200 feet when Medina gave the order to the taxi driver to stop.

When the cab came to a halt, the three sailors got out, opened up Medina’s door, —-got Medina the fuck out, and commenced to kick the living shit out of him to the cheers of the remaining Liberty party/taxi line.

After the older sailors had taken care of this west-Pac transportation neophyte, they started loading back into the taxi.

The newly designated shotgun rider looked back & shouted “room for one more–main gate.” And Medina’s recently vacated seat was instantly replaced by another sailor.

Well, the JOOD (junior officer of the deck) had also seen the goings on down on the pier and dispatched the ships oncoming shore patrol to take care of the ruckus on the shore.
Medina was instantly scooped-up and taken to sick bay. Where he was patched-up, stitches above the right eye, skin knocked off cheeks and forehead; you know the common (I-got-my-ass-kicked) injuries. Of course along with the injury came the insult he was taken out of liberty status and restricted to the ship for the remaining import.

We all felt a little sorry for Medina, not for his ass whoop, but because he had missed liberty in one of the best ports in the world.

Back out at sea we were all comparing notes laughing about the good times and just reliving the incredible liberty everyone had experienced in the PI.

Everyone that is except Medina. Who sat quietly in the corner still banged-up, And now about+140 days from his last tube cleaning.

People were just carrying on something awful showing off stuff they had purchased, you know that hard to find things like T-shirts, pictures of dogs playing cards, fine Magsaysay Street jewelry, and tattoos.

After the “show” came the “tell” San Miguel consumption was the topic with everyone trying to convince his shipmate who had drank the most.

Next was the “Top Gun” bragging rites centered on the most bagged hookers competition.

Followed by the “I was a bad ass” stories. It was at this time Medina joined in on the conversation. Rehashing his five-minute Liberty, Medina tried to convince us how he had the upper hand in the great taxi cab brawl.

But you just can’t bullshit them old salts, about mid-sentence in his description of how he had kicked the intruders out of HIS taxi Joe butts in, “Medina” he says “you’re full of shit admit it, you just overloaded your ass and got it handed back to you.”

Medina replies back “Joe if you and Red had been WITH me maybe the odds would have been even, and we could have handled those guys.”

Joe answers back “Medina, Red or me wouldn’t have kicked those guys out, to begin with.”

I’ll tell you what boot camp, Next liberty we will make sure you have a good time—-your way”.

“I’m going to make you a Liberty Machine.”

At this point everyone’s attention was focused on Joe, he adds “Here is how it is going to work.”

(1) I’ll set the machine up down on the pier.

(2) I’ll make sure there are plenty of boots like you standing in line waiting to use the. machine

(3) I’ll have it all painted up so you can’t mistake it (looks something like a photo booth).

(4) After waiting in line for awhile 2+hours you enter the machine.

(5) You will sit down in front of a blank TV screen.

(6) A recording will come on telling you to deposit one dollar (pretty cheap hey).

(7) After you deposit a dollar, a little door will open, out of which will drop a shot glass full of really cheap gin.

(8) As you reach to grab the gin, a hand comes out and locks on your wrist another arm drops down with a needle and starts to give you a Tattoo it reads (MOM).

(9) At the same time your getting tattooed a little suction tube comes out of the bottom and clamps on your dick however it doesn’t give you a blow job just the clap.

(10) The machine will ask for all your money and you wanting to finish your blow job will start to put money into it then you will realize you can do it yourself and stop with the money.

(11) That’s when the two boxing gloves come out of the sides and start to beat the living crap out of you.

(12) Another hand comes out takes your wallet, and all your money rips up your liberty card and loses your ID.

(13) A phone automatically calls the shore patrol.

(14) A side door opens and ejects you out of the machine.

(15) The shore patrol arrives takes you back on board the ship.

“So ya see Medina you don’t need Red or me for liberty, take a tip from us old salts, and just go down & get in line for the Liberty machine.”

“It will be everything you need, cheap drunk, tattoo, quick sex, a case of the clap, a fight on liberty, shore patrol involvement, and punitive action.”

“Damn boy just about everything a seagoing sailor needs to pull off a successful liberty and the beauty about it is——– you have all the evidence of a long and hard liberty (without any witness) so you can tell it any way you want.”

Everyone cracked up, including Medina.

Postscript: Medina did get liberty the next import.

Beer for Breakfast

Garland Davis

Early one day when the sun wouldn’t shine
I walked into the Hole in the Wall not feeling too fine
I saw two sailors with two honey-ko’s an’ San Miguel before ’em
And this was the song that I heard them singing

Chief forgive us and protect us,
We’ve been drinking beer for breakfast

Well my LBFM and I stopped by the table where they was sitting
And I couldn’t believe how drunk they were getting
I said “shipmates, have you been drinking long?”
They said ‘Just long enough to be singing this song”

Chief forgive us and protect us,
We’ve been drinking beer for breakfast

Well they passed me a bottle and I took a little sip
And it felt so good I just couldn’t quit
I drank some more and next thing I knew
All of us were sitting there singing this tune

Chief forgive us and protect us,
We’ve been drinking beer for breakfast

One by one every shipmate who could hear the sound
Heard our ruckus and they came around
And pretty soon the Hole was ringing
With the sound of the every sailor laughing and singing

Chief forgive us and protect us,
We’ve been drinking beer for breakfast

navy retirement

by: Garland Davis

a quiet knowledge, an

unspoken admission, a stupid goddamn truth

all our great adventures

lie in the past

that that we were has nothing to do with

who we are

but we will never forget that that we were

perhaps our truths no longer hold pleasure

but our fucking truths none the less

that very moment where we finally stopped

growing up and just started growing old

where we donned the cloak of USN(ret)

The Silver Cruiser

By:  Garland Davis

He could see the cruiser in the mists at the end of the pier as he walked toward it, his seabag rocking lightly on his shoulder. Funny he always thought it was heavier than this.  Although the pier was in golden sunlight, the ship was blurred, the gray almost silvery in the cloudy mist.

His orders had come in the middle of the night.  He was to report at 0800 this morning.  He glanced at his watch as he crossed the gangway.  Exactly on time.  He stood on the gangway and saluted during morning colors, turned and saluted the OOD and requested permission to board.  The members of the Quarterdeck watch were squared away and efficient.  There was something familiar about them. It was as if he knew them.

The Petty Officer of the Watch entered him in to the log and said, “Welcome Aboard Chief. I’ll have the Messenger show you to the CPO Mess.”

He answered, “That’s okay, I know the way.  I’ve served in this class before.”

He walked forward on the port side and entered the water tight door just aft of the Wardroom and down the ladder into the Messdecks.  He wanted a look at the Messdecks, the Galley, and his cooks.  Breakfast was still being served for the guys just coming off watch.  The food looked and smelled good.  The spaces looked great and the mess cooks were neat and clean.

CS1 Roy, his old Galley Captain and LPO came around the drink line, wiping his hands on a clean apron, and said, “Hey Chief, we have been waiting for you.  Good to have you aboard.  Gonna be great to serve with you again!”

Roy said to one of the mess cooks. “Get the Chief’s seabag and carry it to the after CPO berthing, just across from his office. You are going to live there aren’t you Chief.”

“I hope so, if there is a bunk available.” The Chief replied.

“Oh, I’m sure there will be.”  Roy said as he turned back toward the galley.

He followed the mess cook down the starboard passageway past the scullery.  He stopped for a minute and noticed that the scullery looked neater and more squared away than he had ever seen it before.  He caught up with the mess cook, thanked him, took his seabag and entered the berthing compartment.  He was amazed to find his old bunk and locker vacant.

After making his rack, stowing his locker, and changing into a work khaki uniform, he headed forward, back through the Messdecks, to the CPO Mess. As he entered he saw many familiar faces as well as some strangers.  A Master Chief BT that he knew, wearing the Command Master Chief Badge, rose, stuck out his hand, and said, Welcome aboard, Shipmate.  We have been waiting for you. Did you find your bunk and locker okay?  I had the compartment cleaner clean everything so it would be ready.”

“We’re getting underway.  I have to go to the fireroom.   I’ll be back in a little while and we can talk.  Have a cup of coffee and breakfast.  I won’t be long.”, The Master Chief said as he prepared to leave the mess.

“Just some coffee” the Chief said to his back as he went out the door.  As he turned, the mess cook set a cup marked with his name and a CPO anchor on the table and said, “Here you go Chief.”

“Still crankin’ in the CPO mess Johnson?” The Chief said, taking a drink from the cup and thinking, this is one fine cup of coffee.  He wondered why he knew the kid’s name.

“Yep seems like I’ll always be here. I don’t mind, it’s good duty lookin’ after you guys.” Johnson replied as he gathered up the plates and cups to wash.

“Now set the Special Sea and Anchor Detail for getting underway.” Blasted the 1MC speaker as the Chief sat down in his usual seat with his coffee.  He looked around the mess at the Acey Deucy board and dice stowed away in their niche alongside the cribbage board.  There was the Chief’s Creed framed in a prominent place on the bulkhead with the three carved wooden anchors from the PI above it.

He felt movement from the ship as the tugs bumped alongside and later could hear the sound of the water rushing down the side as the ship gained speed leaving port.  He took a sip of his coffee and thought, “Damn, it is good to be at sea again.”

“Now secure the Special Sea and Anchor Detail, set the normal underway watch, commence ship’s work.” From the 1MC as the Master Chief comes back into the Mess. “Let’s take a walk around, Dave,” he says.

They exit the Mess and go aft toward the Galley.  As they walk aft, crew members greet him with, Welcome Chief.” And “Great to have you back Chief.”

The CMC says, “You’ve got a good crew here Chief.  You won’t have any worries with them.  As a matter of fact, the whole ship functions well without any problems.”

“Where are we headed?” the Chief asks.

“To sea.”

“What are we gonna do?”

“Steam.”

‘When will we be back?”

“Never.”

“Why are we going out?”

“Don’t ask me, I’m just a snipe.”

As they walked down the passageway toward the Galley and Messdecks something didn’t seem right to the Chief.  He asked the Master Chief, “We both retired from the Navy.  Why are we back?”

“You remember how Boats Grimley used to talk of a silver cruiser in the sky when the end comes?” the BT replied.

“Yes.  How could I forget.  Tied up at the end of a golden pier.”

“Well this is it, the Silver Cruiser.”

“You mean?”

“Yes! This is our Valhalla! This is a sailor’s heaven! This is where old sailors go for the rest of forever. The Old Man told me our next port of call is a place called Fiddler’s Green!  All our old shipmates are there.”

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