Drinkin’ Up a Windfall

Drinkin’ Up a Windfall

By Garland Davis

A crazy shipmate of mine and I reenlisted for the bonus in sixty-eight.

A grateful Uncle Sugar laid eight K on him and six on me.

So we decided to convert it into Mojo and San Miguel

The better our esophagi to fill.

So we started in Po City, and had a drink in every shitty

Little dive which is really quite a few

And a Jeepney Driver on Rizal took us over the hill

Toward the Barrio where he joined us in a brew

We was weavin’ just a trifle as we pulled into Nasty Mac’s

But it was nothing to the weavin’ we did as we was leavin’

And from time to time it got a little worse


Well there’s nothin’ like drinkin’ up a windfall

We was two assholes so goddamn drunk it was almost sinful

And I think I ain’t sobered up yet


We was feeling mighty fine as we crossed the Barrio line

Suckin San Magoo and wavin’ pesos at the girls

Halfway toward Subic City we picked up our second wind

In a lowdown joint where the ugly girls pull their Twilight Tours

So I had another pitcher and my shipmate had another brown bottle

And the jeepney driver killed a picture of Mojo

When we got to Subic City that Jeepney was in overdrive

The bamboo telegraph had spread the word that we were comin’

And crowds began to form

We drank our way from Blow Heaven to Dogpatch and back again

A-boozin’ and a-singin’ up a tropical storm

I lost my buddy and the Jeepney driver at Marilyn’s playin’ smiles

About the time I fell in love

We was drunker than it is possible to be

But there finally came a time when we just didn’t have a dime

We sat on Grande Island and wept into the sea


Well there’s nothin’ like drinkin’ up a windfall

We was two assholes so goddamn drunk it was almost sinful

And I think I ain’t sobered up yet


Jolly Jack Tar

Jolly Jack Tar

Shared from hairy arsed Stoker’s. Says it all, whatever Navy.

The traditional male sailor was not defined by his looks. He was defined by his attitude.

His name was Jack Tar. He was a happy go lucky sort of bloke. He took the good times with the bad.

He didn’t cry victimization, bastardisation, discrimination or for his mum when things didn’t go his way.

He took responsibility for his own sometimes, self-destructive actions.

He loved a laugh at anything or anybody. Rank, gender, race, creed or behaviour, it didn’t matter to Jack.

He would take the piss out of anyone, including himself. If someone took it out of him he didn’t get offended. It was a natural part of life. If he offended someone else, so be it.

Free from many of the rules of a polite society Jack’s manners were somewhat rough.

His ability to swear was legendary

Jack loved women. He loved to chase them to the ends of the earth and sometimes he even caught one (less often than he would have you believe though). His tales of the chase and its conclusion win or lose, is the stuff of legends.

Jack’s favourite drink was beer, and he could drink it like a fish. His actions when inebriated would, on occasion, land him in trouble. But, he took it on the chin, did his punishment and then went and did it all again.

Jack loved his job. He took an immense pride in what he did. His radar was always the best in the fleet. His engines always worked better than anyone else’s. His eyes could spot a contact before anyone else’s and shoot at it first.

It was a matter of personal pride. Jack was the consummate professional when he was at work and sober. He was a bit like a mischievous child. He had a gleam in his eye and a larger than life outlook.

He was as rough as guts. You had to be pig-headed and thick-skinned to survive. He worked hard and played hard. His masters tut-tutted at some of his more exuberant expressions of joie de vivre, and the occasional bout of punishment or stoppage of shore-leave let him know where his limits were.

The late 20th Century/early 21st Century has seen the demise of Jack. The workplace no longer echoes with ribald comment and bawdy tales. Someone is sure to take offence.

Whereas, those stories of daring do and ingenuity in the face of adversity, usually whilst pissed, lack the audacity of the past. A wicked sense of humour is now a liability, rather than a necessity. Jack has been socially engineered out of existence.

What was once normal is now offensive. Denting someone else’s over-inflated opinion of their own self-worth is now a crime



‘When Lightning Followed Thunder’

‘When Lightning Followed Thunder’

Art by Dale Byhre

This is a painting depicting the nighttime operation named ‘Lions Den’ on the 27th of August, 1972. It shows the destroyer USS Rowan astern of the USS Newport News (codename ‘THUNDER’) as they maneuver off Haiphong harbor shelling North Vietnamese shore installations and coming under fire from coastal gun batteries.

You can find more of Dale’s art at https://marineartbydale.com/


You stand no watch alone

You stand no watch alone.

By: Richard H. Thayer Jr

When you are out there, on that mid-watch, alone, you might question why you are there, and if anyone really cares.

I care. We all care. Our hearts are with you, and we stand every watch with you. The work you do, the work ALL Sailors do, is protecting so many of us who depend on you, whether we realize it or not. We are so proud.

You stand no watch alone.

The spirits of seafarers from time immemorial stand with you, uncountable generations long since relieved of their ephemeral watches, huddled in their oilskins, shivering for some measure of warmth in the icy rain. You stand where they stood. You are their proud legacy.

You stand no watch alone.

You stand solitary sentry, steadfast in the obligation you accepted when you swore your oath to stand in harm’s way. You protect the Navy, and the Navy protects us all. You stand with the hopes of millions of Americans and their trust that you will be true to your vow.

You stand no watch alone.

From the birth of our country until now, many Americans have never known the full import of what you do, and what you are willing to do, to protect them. They lie in cozy beds while the world struggles in chaos, oblivious to the millions who serve their duties, uphold their oaths, stand their lonely watches, and dedicate their livelihoods – nay, even their very lives – to make that simple comfort a reality. Indeed, in the words of a famous quote, one I believe is derived from the collected writings of George Orwell, “People sleep peaceably in their beds at night because rough men stand ready to do violence on their behalf.”

You stand no watch alone.

I stand with you. I salute you for your sacrifice, and for the life you have chosen. May a benevolent God rest his loving hand on your shoulder, keep you company in the bleak night and continue to stoke the fire in your heart.

You stand no watch alone.


Command Duty Officer

Command Duty Officer

By Captain M. W. Newman ’71, USN (Ret.)

Returning to Pearl Harbor from my first WestPac cruise in U.S.S. GOLDSBOROGH (DDG20) the summer of 1972, we settled into a pleasant in- port routine. The Chief of Naval Operations had decreed that all ships would have a minimum of five in-port duty sections. After we finished our post-deployment leave and upkeep period, we managed to stretch ourselves into five sections. I was fortunate enough to be assigned to the Section Five Supper Club. We gave ourselves that name because the Supply Officer, himself, was our duty Supply Department representative; and he ensured we ate exceptionally well on our duty nights. Wild Bill Kreaser, the Weapons Officer, was our Command Duty Officer (CDO) and Lt. Dennis Daley, newly reported aboard, was the duty Weapons Officer. Ensign Rick Fruechtenicht, my roommate and the Comm Officer, was Duty Ops. I was duty Engineer. With three lieutenants and two ensigns, we were a little heavy; but we were also the best section.

Section 5 Supper Club enjoyed an active social life. On weekends, we could invite guests to join us for the evening meal in the wardroom. Only Kreaser and the Supp-O were married and we saw quite a bit of their wives and children. Occasionally, we bachelors would bring in a guest, normally a young lovely we had met on the beach and wanted to impress without spending the kind of money we would have had to spend in Waikiki. Whoever had a guest got to prescribe the uniform for evening meal. The married guys always picked khakis, but the bachelors invariably picked tropical whites.

Our Captain had been selected for promotion to Commander just before we came home from cruise. He and his wife planned a Wetting Down party at their quarters for the Saturday night before our duty day the following Sunday.

Everyone was in attendance at the Wetting Down, and a grand time was being had by all. Then Lt. Kreaser announced that he was ill and going to the Naval Hospital. That left the Supper Club without a leader. The Executive Officer and the Senior Watch Officer, who was the Operations Officer and a Lieutenant Commander, went into a corner to resolve this dilemma. Normally, you would expect the S.W.O. to throw himself into the breach and take the duty for Wild Bill. Maybe it was the time of night. Maybe it was the extent of wetting down that had been accomplished. For what ever reason, the XO and the S.W.O. decided to “let Newman do it.” They ran it past the Captain (who was seriously wetted down), and he concurred. What could possibly happen in Pearl Harbor on a Sunday? They then rounded me up and told me the good news. They also told me to go home and start sobering up for my awesome responsibilities in the morning.

Why me? I was a Fleet Ensign to be sure, but an Ensign nevertheless. I got tapped because I was the only other officer in the Supper Club who was a qualified Officer of the Deck (Underway). This ostensibly meant that I could take the ship to sea in an emergency (not very likely with only one fifth of the crew on board). The Supp-O was a staff officer and not qualified. Lt. Daley was a former PBR skipper in Viet Nam and a certified hero; but this was his first gray ship, and he had no underway qualifications. So I was it.

At 07:30, the Supper Club, minus Wild Bill, took over the ship. There were lots of comments about Ensign Newman getting a “battlefield” promotion to C.D.O. What it really meant was that I got to sit at the head of the table in the Wardroom, but the Lieutenants picked the movies to watch. It was a beautiful day in Pearl. Once we got past morning colors at 08:00 and no Japanese air planes appeared in the sky, I began to relax a little. At 08:30, I received a call from the XO, just checking on things. At 09:00, the Captain called, clearly concerned about his judgment the night before. From then on, all day long, one or the other called me every half hour to make sure I hadn’t done something outrageous like steaming the ship over to Maui. I could hardly leave the Wardroom for answering the phone!

Finally, just before ten at night, the Captain made his last call and told me he was going to bed. I was ready to stand down myself when suddenly an emergency announcement was made over the ship’s 1MC (public address system). The Base C.D.O. had driven down the pier alerting each ship’s quarterdeck watch that there was a fire on the base and he needed assistance. Our quarterdeck took action immediately and passed the following word:



I took off at a dead run down the starboard weather deck, trying to get to the quarterdeck and secure the brow before I lost my entire duty section. Petty Officer Sundby, the Duty Damage Controlman, got there first and was desperately fighting to hold back the flood of sailors rushing to render aid to the WAVES. The Rescue and Assistance Detail was a designated group of section personnel trained and equipped to go off to another ship or shore station to help with fires or flooding. On a good day, the entire detail was no more than eight men. This Sunday night, however, every sailor onboard grabbed whatever piece of equipment he could find that looked like firefighting gear (even life rings) and designated himself a first-responder.

When Petty Office Sundby and I finally got control of the quarterdeck, we estimated that we had no more than half of our section left on board. Sundby was beside himself with rage over the loss of so much equipment. I was beside myself with anxiety over how I was going to explain this to the Captain and XO. The WAVE Barracks was a WW II-era structure commonly referred to as a Splinter Barracks. It was just up the hill from our berth on Bravo Pier, and we could clearly see the fire burning. I could almost see my sailors comforting the now-homeless females watching the flames from across the street in various stages of undress because of their emergency evacuation. We later heard that someone even produced marshmallows for the event. Well past midnight, my duty section began to straggle back aboard, all with big grins on their faces but none with Sundby’s damage control equipage.

My first command and I had lost all control. I expected to be court-marshaled. I was on the quarterdeck before six a.m. to meet the XO and make a full confession. Just as I saw his car approaching his parking space, the duty radioman handed me a priority message from Commander, Naval Base, Pearl Harbor. As I read it, the weight of the world left my shoulders. The sun broke through the clouds. Birds began to sweetly sing. The Base Commander lavished praise on all the ships that responded so gallantly to the fire at the WAVE Barracks, even though the structure was a total loss. GOLDSBOROUGH was prominently listed among the heroes. The very best part of the message was the last line which authorized all ships to replenish their damage control lockers from the base supply center at NO charge. Petty Officer Sundby had a blank check and he used it.


Getting Along to Branson

Getting Along to Branson

By Garland Davis


He is getting closer to older

there he is though

this Sunday evening

making his way.


Freeze in his stride

cane in hand

pain is his back

causes him to walk hunched over.


Past the Burger King.

On past Gates 8 & 9.

Pause at the drinks kiosk for a moment.

Shakes head and moves on.


This way each May for five years.

Other airlines, other destinations.

He single-mindedly moves on

to the same gate and the same flight.


To the Windy City far to the East.

Then South to a more hospitable clime.

Hoping his bags are coming along.

Sometimes they don’t.


His action speaks

my independence I’ll keep.

I won’t lay down and die.

I’ll see my shipmates in Branson.


At least one more time.


Full Steam Ahead: Rescue The USS Pueblo

Full Steam Ahead: Rescue The USS Pueblo

By: Pat Dingle

The 12 months between April 1967 and April 1968 were the best of times and the worst of times of my four years in the Navy. It started with a murder and narcotics undercover assignment in Las Vegas while home from the Yorktown’s second full 10-11 month tour in the Gulf of Tonkin. My week long leave turned into a month assigned to the LV police, having been recruited by a detective who, as it turned out later, was also in the Chicago mafia. After a very narrow escape from getting knocked off myself, I returned to Long Beach and the Yorktown. I was an RD-3 and among the senior in OI Division and there’s nothing more useless to the Navy than a radarman in port. This time they did something about that. I was recruited by the Office of Naval Intelligence (ONI) to be the first “Nark” in a pilot program to combat civilians selling dope to sailors. These were the best of times. Here I am, a 20-year-old sailor packing a gun, going all over the southern California map in civvies of the era on my motorcycle or ‘55 Chevy depending on my target, like a kid in a candy store only I couldn’t/wouldn’t ingest the candy. I’d only return to the Yorktown near paydays, and the Captain would personally arrange for me to be paid (He once told the Disbursing Officer to pay me whatever I wanted. I had to think hard for a minute about that temptation but then requested my regular pay) I had a room on base or at a bad guy’s pad. The Navy’s only request was for me to call every day or two to say I was alive and to come into ONI’s headquarters once a week or so and tell them what I was doing. Finally, it’s the Navy I thought I had joined over three years ago and that misunderstanding was rudely corrected on the first day of boot camp. All good things must come to an end, and my end with ONI came after a bad guy’s house was shot up, and ONI thought things were too hot for me to continue. Thus they returned me bruised but not broken to the Yorktown just as she deployed back to Westpac and Vietnam waters. It would be the last time for the USS Yorktown and I. It was early January 1968. The worst of times.

Our four destroyers formed up with us the day we left Long Beach. The following day we steamed off San Diego as our air squadrons landed aboard and we then steamed westward. There were about five of us E-4s who were equal in seniority in CIC and several E-5s and 6s who were also making their second deployment with us. A new Sr. Chief joined two others, and of course, there was a complete turnover of the seven or eight officers in OI Div. Captain Bennett was still in command of the Yorktown, and I don’t recall who the new Admiral was, too far above my pay grade. There were some new RD-3s and a shit load of new seamen, many who were reserves. I was a short timer due to be discharged in a few months and truth be told these many decades later, it showed. There was a clash between the new Sr. Chief and myself. Again, truth be told now, he won. I trained the new guys on the operation of CIC as did the other salty petty officers but coming off nearly a year as the lone ranger it didn’t come easy. The Yorktown drilled nearly every day as we steamed to Pearl for a few days of liberty then on to Japan, with more drills along the way, to replenish stores but I don’t recall any of this, done it too many times, and the drills were ingrained as were Pearl and ports in Japan. The thrill was gone. It was January 23, and we were approaching the southern Japanese Islands when the message was received telling us that USS Pueblo is under attack by North Koreans.

I can’t begin to describe what we felt upon hearing that the North Koreans were attacking one of our ships, but I’ll try. It was an outrage to the max. NOBODY FUCKS WITH ONE OF OUR SHIPS AND LIVES. The Yorktown and her escorts were ordered to make the best speed to the Pueblo’s location, about 15-20 hours away, and rescue her and the crew. Capt. Bennett first ordered the destroyers to come alongside for an underway replenishment to top off as we changed course to the Sea of Japan. Refueling UNREP, we made 32 knots throughout the cold night, passing through the Tsushima Straits with our radars turned off. That had never happened before during my years aboard. The reason was we didn’t want the enemy to pick up our radar signals and know we were coming. CIC went to GQ stations, and that’s about the time a few strange things happened. Our orders from the Commander Pacific Fleet, Pearl Harbor, were left out in the open for all of us in CIC to read. I’ll never forget them. The first read “Attack anything communist.” The second thing was moral shot sky high throughout the ship. Guys in the passageways, strangers, were giving high-fives. The crew was so pumped, we’re on our way full speed to kick ass. The ship was vibrating from making all those knots, and so were we. I guess it helped to know we were the closest military response and closing. The Yorktown was steaming at best speed to the sound of the guns. I’m sure it was the same aboard the destroyers. None of us could wait to get to the North Korean coast and kill those fucking commie bastards messing with the Pueblo. We didn’t know she’d been captured.

During that first night, word came in that the Pueblo had been boarded and taken to the Port of Wonsan. Our orders were to steam to an area close off that port. The order to shoot still stood. To a man, we were ready to do battle. As we approached our destination, more orders started coming in, “Only shoot if you can clearly identify your target,” a few hours later, on station, “Don’t shoot unless you’re attacked.” The word going around was we’re going to use our Marine detachment and a voluntary force of sailors to storm ashore and find the Pueblo’s crew. I looked high and low as did my shipmates for the guy with the clipboard taking names. Moral was still very high as was the outrage. More destroyers joined up with us. Every time a new American ship arrived we thought that’s it, we have enough now, let’s go in. Everyone was asking why are we waiting? I kept thinking of the captured crew and what must be happening to them. The weather and my Chief didn’t help matters. Like I said, we clashed when he first came aboard a month or two ago. We were prepared for the South China Sea, and pea coats worked for liberty in Japan during the winter, but this fucking freezing weather was something I’ve never experienced before. None of us had. We had foul weather gear of course, but that had the same warming effect as a t-shirt. CIC is always air conditioned. We turned it off. There’s fucking SNOW on the flight deck most days. My Chief wanted me to have a very responsible position during this time of conflict, away from CIC and him, so he put me in charge of the lookouts up on the open 07 deck. Now, remember, there were blizzards nearly every day, you couldn’t see the end of the flight deck. The slow burn I felt helped but not very damn much. My section stood watch seven on, five off, five on, seven off 24/7 for what turned out to be several months. I relieved one lookout at a time to go down below to CIC to warm up and get a cup of coffee. When all four had a break, I went down to CIC and got the latest intelligence reports. The Yorktown and task group steamed back and forth off the Port of Wonsan.

To say the situation was tense would be an understatement. The North Koreans had an air base five minutes away making us an immediate target if war breaks out. Attacking the Pueblo, we thought it had. We didn’t know what kind of Navy they had other than enough of a Navy to overcome one of our ships. During that first few days, word was the Enterprise, Ranger, and one other attack carrier was ordered up from Vietnam. We’d cling to any rumor that offered hope that we’ll go in and attack. Moral was still very high as a result. I understood the carriers are underway to Korea, then the Tet Offense began, and they were ordered back to Nam. More ships arrive and take station with us. Why the hell are we waiting? Nobody knew, and the rumors seem to become downgraded each long day, less action orientated, but in our heart of hearts, we knew they were just rumors anyway. But for now, that’s all we had. The forward and aft lookouts and I were allowed to move up to the enclosed 010 level located just under the radar antennas for humanitarian reasons. It was that or suffer frostbite. The 010 remained unchanged from 1943 when the Yorktown was built. It wasn’t anything more than a small space made of thick bulletproof steel with four slit portholes. It was the highest enclosed space on the island above the flight deck and just as cold as the flight deck, but it protected from the wind and blowing snow. We found a small electric heater somewhere and used that to take turns warming our hands through the gloves. Turn’s up, hands froze. This sucked. I had this tiny taste of understanding the hardships our ground troops went through during the Korean War after a month or so on the 07 and 010. My respects gentlemen.

I would go down the many ladders to CIC for hot coffee and the scuttlebutt; one was hot, one cold. The focus during this stage was all eyes on the jet bases and anything on the waters in between us and those commie bastards. We had our small detachment of A-4 Skyhawks ready to launch, and our two 5 inch guns were manned 24/7, but we depended on all the destroyers to protect the Yorktown during an attack. During my nearly four years aboard I’ve seen our guns fire once, off California, never came close to hitting the towed target sled. After learning all there was, I’d carry hot cups of coffee in a box up to my guys. It was always cold in the time it took to climb up there, and I climbed ladders like a monkey back then. During those days of blowing snow, the only duty we’d do is announce over the sound powered phones “Forward Aye.” “Aft Aye” every half hour when CIC asked for a report from us and the bridge. The rest of the time we’d just sit on the deck leaning back against the bulkhead and swap sea stories. As I was the one with two tours and E-4, I’d run my mouth more than the seamen boots on duty. I tried to regale them with exploits of on the beach, what’s it’s like in the Gulf of Tonkin, how important it is to pay strict attention to your scopes as lives depend on it etc. And of course the jokes of the day. Those were repeated so much we all had our responses down pat, no pun intended. Today I can only recall one of those guys. He was a reserve college kid and total introvert in his late teens. He never said a word. He’d just sit there with his hood pulled tight over his head looking out with those wide blue eyes like an owl. Now and then I’d fuck with him by telling some stories of dangerous areas in Hong Kong or Subic. When I realized this kid couldn’t cut it, I left him alone. Swashbuckler, he ain’t and within a few months, he was flown home as a mental case. I know that happened to three or four guys in CIC during our first two tours too. I understand today but didn’t back then; I lived for adventure the Navy provided. The capture of the USS Pueblo changed that mindset for me.

The USS Yorktown remained the command ship as the task force steamed back and forth in a fifty-mile long figure eight and in about the same miles from shore. Morale aboard began to plummet in the third week of this clusterfuck. The only thing we knew for sure was the Commies had our ship and crew a few minutes over the horizon. Even the top secret messages from Pearl dried up, meaning they weren’t being given out anymore for everyone in OI to read, just the select few. We were getting daily updates on the 7th Fleet’s actions taken because of the Tet Offence still underway, but that had little or no meaning to us. Our fight’s here but “they” won’t let us fight. Then we read the orders, the USS Enterprise and several other attack carriers are, for the second time, steaming north to join with us off North Korea. Morale had been going up and down like a yo-yo, and this news shot it up like a rocket. They’re not coming unless this is it. Again high-fives, the crew’s pumped, we’re going in for sure this time. Even the weather improved. Still fucking freezing but no blowing snow, just heavy wet fog. I took the lookouts down below to the exposed 07 for a change of pace over the next week and that helped matters. Any change helped matters. OI division was at GQ for a month now and would stay there for another month. I don’t know about the other divisions.

It was one of those moments that stays with you for the remainder of your life. It was midday, visibility about 5,000 yards then a wall of fog in which you couldn’t see your outstretched hand. Our surface radar was reporting the CPA (closest point of approach) every few minutes, she’s minutes out, and I’m on duty on the 07 level. The USS Enterprise came bow first out of the fog on our forward starboard side and kept coming, sliding past us about 4,000 yards out. Jesus H. Christ, I’ve never seen a ship that big. And as a carrier sailor, I thought the Yorktown was huge. I’d seen photos of the Enterprise of course and her box-like superstructure signature. But seeing her coming out of the fog like that was surreal. I took one of the binoculars away from a lookout and looking higher than our 07, focused on her attack aircraft on the flight deck, starboard side, couldn’t see her port side. I couldn’t take my eyes away, but the relative speed of two ships passing in the fog did within a few moments. Moments that would forever more be with me. I never saw the USS Enterprise again. The Enterprise and the other attack carrier that came, can’t now recall, let’s call it the fog of war, with their escorts, are on the scene with us. I knew it’s for real, payback time. No more waiting, slash and burn upon landing, we’re going to get our Pueblo and crew back. Why else would they send the two other carriers and ships? It’s High Noon right? Moral aboard the Yorktown now peaked, every man aboard was convinced the waiting was over. The weeks of freezing throughout every compartment forgotten. Our blood’s up as is our fighting spirit, it’s only a matter of hours or days at most. This is why we drilled, why we had two full tours in the Gulf of Tonkin. I’m in CIC more than my duty station up topside. I have to know from the vast number of Intel sources there, that and I’m one of the most experienced on any station. I belong with my shipmates, not the boots on lookout. Besides, we can’t see shit past a matter of yards. Such was my attitude; the new Chief had one too. Whenever he left the Chief’s mess to drop in CIC and caught me in there, he’d chew my ass. I’d reply just getting coffee for my guys Chief. He couldn’t bust me for that, but we both knew, everyone knew. The cat and mouse game played out 24/7, and I’m no fucking mouse. I’m a 20-year-old war-seasoned salty sailor wanting to do the job for which I am trained. Our other Chief, a great guy I respected named Sorrel made Chief after two years with us. He’d try to help me with my frustration, and I appreciated that, but after serving as the lone ranger with ONI and my natural nature, well it was hard. I didn’t act ignorant or do anything a good E-4 doesn’t do to circumvent his Chief, it’s only natural to forget the Chief was once an E-4 and knows what I’m thinking and doing before I do. Thinking of nothing but the Pueblo’s crew, the fucking Chief, the fucking freezing weather, the fucking waiting weeks for the fight, the fucking Navy that just extended this short timer’s enlistment, it was a perfect storm for this fucking fighting PO-3 as well as most of my shipmates. Attack the bastards, and we’re OK with all this and a lot more. It was the perfect storm about to get worse.

It wasn’t long, perhaps a week, before the USS Enterprise and the other carrier or two and their ships left for Nam. We’re alone again, the Yorktown and some destroyers, steaming in that goddamn fifty-mile figure eight offshore. This is where we came in over a month ago. I don’t have the words to describe the betrayal I, we, felt. How could the United States do this to the Pueblo’s crew? It was incomprehensible. It was unforgivable. My shipmates felt so too. It was so fucked I quit. The truth is I have no memory whatsoever of the next few months. I know from old shipmates in recent years that we steamed off North Korea for a few weeks more, did another stint in the Gulf of Tonkin, made port in Subic and I have no memory of any of that. Fuck it. The only thing I recall is in mid-April something happened to a propeller shaft while steaming in the Gulf and the joke going around was that we’d hit a rock. I was due for discharge on April 24th, the day before my 21st birthday, but had been extended like so many others. We had to make way to Yokosuka for dry dock repairs, but I didn’t give a shit. It was the worst of times.

My next and last story picks up from there with an ending you can’t make up and one that’s never left me if triggered by a certain song of the era. Fast forward a few months and due to my experiences in the Navy, taking off alone to parts unknown in foreign lands described in prior stories, ONI, hearing men die in CIC, all that my Navy was in 1964-68, all three years eleven months and three weeks, a kiddie cruiser. I became a street cop, one of a handful, in the blue-collar ghetto mobbed up end of Las Vegas in time for the start of riots, Black Panthers, SDS, snipers, and ambushes. Burning of draft cards, something I never had, wasn’t old enough. I found my fight after all. It was the best of times.

PS I followed the Pueblo’s story over the years the same as all of you, and we know the reason why it happened, The Rat-Bastard Traitor Walker Family and the USSR’s need for an updated U.S.Navy cryptograph machine. Any thoughts on this “Incident”?


Homesick Sailor

Homesick Sailor

By Captain M. W. Newman ’71, USN (Ret.)

My first ship was USS GOLDSBOROUGH, a guided missile destroyer homeported in Pearl Harbor, Hawaii. I was extremely excited when I finally reported aboard the evening before the ship was to leave for a deployment to Vietnam. It was late August 1971 and I had flown all day long from Philadelphia, across a major portion of the globe, to get there. Just being in Pearl Harbor within sight of the ARIZONA Memorial was a thrill.

We left Pearl in company with USS KNOX (DE 1052) and stopped at Midway Island a few days later for fuel. I knew all about the Battle of Midway from the required Seapower course at the academy, and I kept an eye out for Japanese dive bombers the entire time we were there.

The second day out of Midway, I was on the bridge as Junior Officer of the Deck for the 08:00 to 12:00 morning watch. The rest of the ship was at quarters when the Boatswain’s Mate of the Watch got a call asking him to pass the word for a fireman who had not made it to muster. A short time later, he got another call asking him to pass the word again. Not long after that, the XO, the Chief Master-at-Arms and Senior Chief Boilerman Temple came to the bridge to tell the Captain that they were unable to find the missing fireman. He had gotten off watch in the forward fireroom at midnight but failed to report for the 06-12 watch. He was not in his bunk, and no one had seen him. It was now almost nine o’clock in the morning.

The Captain ordered the OOD to sound General Quarters. Once everyone was up and on his battle station, if the fireman was still missing, the MAA and Senior Chief Temple would conduct another search. The ship went to General Quarters, and I went to Damage Control Central, my battle station. I directed all three of my repair lockers to send out investigators to search their areas of responsibility for the missing fireman. As they each made negative reports in turn, I passed the news to Main Control and to the Bridge. All the other control stations were doing the same thing. After almost two hours and no sign of the fireman, we secured from GQ; and I reported back to the Bridge.

The CO and XO were discussing reversing our course and starting a search for a man overboard. Just then, the MAA and Senior Chief Temple stepped into the pilothouse with the wayward fireman in tow. The poor fellow was just about the saddest sack I had ever seen. He was a short young man, with a dark complexion, a round, flat face and straight black hair. He wasn’t oriental and he wasn’t Hispanic. He was wearing a pair of over-large, dirty fireroom coveralls; and the MAA had him by the collar like a bag of potatoes. The Captain pounced on the poor soul and started lunging at him about how many valuable man-hours had been wasted looking for his sorry ass. The kid just hung his head in shame.

I then noticed the two chiefs’ expressions. They both looked like they were in great pain. I couldn’t tell if they were about to cry or laugh out loud. When the Captain finally ran out of breath, he turned to the MAA and demanded, “Where did you find him?” The MAA literally burst out, “He was on the reefer deck!” (where all the frozen food was stored). “The reefer deck?” the Captain shouted incredulously, “What the hell was he doing there!” At that point, Senior Chief Temple lost it. He blurted out, “He’s a damn Eskimo, Captain. He just got home sick!” The Captain and XO looked at each other and then turned beet-red choking back the laughter. The Captain waved the two chiefs and the fireman out of the pilothouse while he and the XO escaped to the starboard bridge wing. As soon as they got outside, they doubled over with laughter.

The entire bridge watch laughed ‘til we cried. When order was finally restored and the CO and XO had gone below, a sage Boatswain’s Mate of the Watch, wise in the ways of the Navy beyond his years of service, blamed the whole thing on Boot Camp. He explained to us officers that at some point during Boot Camp, each sailor has to visit with the classifiers who determine what rating path he will pursue. The classifiers establish who is going to be a cook, who will be a gunner’s mate and who will be a snipe (an engineer). According to the “Boats”, some smartass classifier took one look at this poor recruit from Alaska, assumed he’d been freezing his butt off for eighteen years, and decided to make him a Boilerman so he could warm up in the 100+ degree firerooms.

We all had to agree the logic was irrefutable.




Stolen from Dave Petersen

Painting by Arthur Beaumont

A colorful and fitting tribute to the stalwart Antiaircraft Light Cruiser CL-53 and her World War II accomplishments, U.S.S. SAN DIEGO arrives home to the port of San Francisco on Sept. 14, 1945. This after steaming over more than 300,000 miles in the Pacific in battle and support for more than three years of combat duty. The artist Arthur Beaumont was undoubtedly personally requested to paint her likeness for a naval collector, most likely one of the officers associated with the ship.

Working with watercolors in an aggressive manner to show the diversity of subjects, including a PT-Boat, a destroyer and a troop ship shown meeting SAN DIEGO just inside of mouth of San Francisco Harbor. A flag man sends a message to the returning victors, while two sea planes carry the skies above. The overall artistry of the spectacle is inspirational, and makes one proud of the service and dedication shown by our nation and those in her service.

Launched in July of 1941, she arrived in her namesake port on May 16, 1942 and in escort just missed the battle of Midway. She was instrumental in the first American offensive of the naval war in the action at Guadalcanal, and followed with operations “Galvanic”, “Flintlock”, “Catchpole” as part of Task Force 58. She’d go on to participate in strikes against Japanese territories and their home islands through 1945 until hostilities ceased. A classic tribute to the warship and warriors on their arrival home.

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My Commentary

San Diego was also the first ship to enter Yokosuka on 30 August 1945, three days before the official surrender on 2 September, and tie up at what was to become known as Piedmont Pier.

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Sh!t Holes

Sh!t Holes

DURING MY NAVY DAYS, I HAVE BEEN TO A FEW SHITHOLES. ONES THAT COME TO MIND ARE COLUMBO SRI LANKA, MOMABASA, KENYA, AND KARACHI, PAKISTAN. I have to also include Norfolk Va because it is always known to us Navy guys as “shitcity ” for the way they treat the Navy.

How to tell if your ship might be pulling in to a “Shit Hole”:

1. If Doc tells you to update your Gamma Globulin, Yellow Fever, Malaria, Plague, Dysentery, Tetanus, Cholera and other fun immunizations- You might be pulling in to a Shit Hole.

2. If the Chief tells you not to waste your time bringing a radio, cell phone, or any other electronics, as there is no electricity and there are no signals- You might be pulling in to a Shit Hole.

3. If Disbursing tells you the Per Diem rate for the Shore Patrol Beach Det is only $8.00/day, for everything- You might pulling in to a Shit Hole.

4. If the “Area Cultural” briefing is only 30 minutes long, but the briefing on communicable diseases is 3 hours long- You might be pulling in to a Shit Hole.

5. If the “Area Cultural” briefing includes facts that some leaders in the host country keep young boys as sexual slaves- You might be pulling in to a Shit Hole.

6. If the “Area Cultural” briefing includes facts that male members of that society have multiple wives, but also engage in sexual activity with barnyard animals- You might be pulling in to a Shit Hole.

7. If the “Medical Briefing” includes recommendations not to walk barefoot, drink the local water, go near any of the native women, or eat ANY food on the local economy- You might be pulling in to a Shit Hole.

8. If the “Medical Briefing” includes information that the roadside ditches not only serve as flood control but also as a common latrine- You might be pulling in to a Shit Hole.

9. If the Shore Patrol Daily Report for your new port includes an area for “Number of Personnel Med-Evac’ed” from the port for unknown diseases- You might be pulling in to a Shit Hole.

10. If the monetary exchange rate is greater than 100 to 1 for local currency to US Dollars- You might be pulling in to a Shit Hole.

11.If you can smell it from outside the twelve-mile limit when arriving, you might be pulling into a Shit Hole.