By Garland Davis

BT2 turned his fireroom over to the Cold Iron watch. The silence roared through the space almost as loud as the machinery noise that it replaced. He was for a long Hollywood shower and then off to 1622 where at least a sixpack of frosty San Miguels, right out of the freezer, awaited. And after the cold beers, he would find a warm LBFM.  Then all would be right with the world

Sixty-two days ago, they had sailed from Subic for a routine thirty-day Gunline period which, because some broke-dick stateside ship couldn’t make their commitments, they pulled a double tour.  During the last two weeks, the evaporators had worked sporadically, and the ship had been on water hours.

No showers, no laundry, and a lot of sandwich meals on paper plates!

When BT2 slid down the handrails into the berthing compartment, many of the snipes were sitting around looking despondent instead of getting ready to leave the ship.

“What’s up?” He asked. “I figured you guys would be gone already.”

“Ain’t nobody got any black socks, and they are checking on the Quarterdeck.  All the laundry bags are locked in the laundry.  We can’t even get to them to get some dirty ones. The deck apes are in the same boat we are.  It is Saturday and Clothing, and Small Stores is closed.  We thought to get some of the topsiders to make a run to the Exchange to buy black socks, but they were already gone on libs by the time we got secured in the hole.”

“A couple of guys tried to go ashore without socks, but that ancient, grouchy Snipe hating Chief Gunners Mate has the Quarterdeck and he is checking socks”

“We checked, and the only person who even has dirty socks is that Pipefitter they call ‘Turd Chaser’ and I would rather wear your hash marked skivvies than anything that has touched his body.”

You got to remember; this was in the days before a visionary named Zumwalt threw a fucking to many traditions of the old Navy.  Only Officers and Chiefs were permitted to have civilian clothes aboard ship. All other enlisted crew were required to wear the uniform ashore and were routinely inspected before permission was granted to leave the ship.

BT2 had a thought.  They had been stenciling piping in the Fire room.  They were using, the latest in paint technology, spray cans of black paint. He went to the fireroom, grabbed the can of black paint and went back to the compartment, grabbled his douche kit and went to the shower. After bathing, he lathered and shaved his legs below the knees.  Then he dressed in his whites, spread newspaper on the deck, pulled his pants leg up and sprayed his ankles and feet black.

After waiting a couple of minutes for the paint to dry, he slipped on his shoes and lowered his pants.  Then he was off to the Quarterdeck. A crowd of snipes followed him to the main deck to see if he could get away with it.

A snappy salute, a quick up and down of the trouser legs, and he was free of the ship.  Looking back to the ship he saw the crowd of snipes moving rapidly into the ship, probably to shave and spray their legs.

He was working on his third Frosty when they began showing up at 1622.  They sat around peeling paint off their legs and toasting the marvel of the spray can.

That night a number of LBFM’s were heard to mutter, “Shabed Legs, Crazy Pucking Americans!”

By Garland Davis

He grew up in the fifties. He was what would later be referred to as a “Geek” or “Science Nerd.”  His only attempt at being cool happened one summer during the late fifties when his schoolmates called each other Daddy-O.  His cool got stuck there and in the mid-seventies he was still calling others Daddy-O.

He was slight, pasty-white, and hunched over.  He led one to think that he had been the inspiration for the cartoon character Casper Milquetoast.  But he was a hell of a Sonarman.  It was said that he could distinguish between a transient sound by a Soviet submarine and a Beluga Whale with stomach problems cutting a fart at thirty miles.

The crew called him Chief Daddy-O. He wasn’t a very good chief. Instead of running the Sonar Gang, they ran him.  A couple of excellent First Class kept things in order and actually ran the shop.  His Division Officer, some of the other Chiefs, his division, and even the mess cooks ordered him around.  He always did what he was told with good humor, saying, “Okay Daddy-O.”

He was married to a real ballbuster.  She demanded and ordered him around incessantly.  I don’t know if he loved her or was afraid of her, he never disagreed or disobeyed her.

We were leaving for WestPac, and the ship’s Legal Officer was preparing Power of Attorney documents for married personnel giving their wives authority to act in their behalf during their absence.  Chief Daddy-O’s wife insisted on an unlimited Power of Attorney, and he acquiesced.

Seven months later the ship returned to Pearl Harbor.  All the Brown-baggers were excited because Puss and the kids would be on the pier to welcome them home.  Chief Daddy-O was as excited as a Seaman Deuce on his first run to the Samari.  I was standing with him as he searched the pier for his wife.  She wasn’t there.  My wife was in Japan and would be coming to Hawaii in a couple of weeks.

He waited nervously while a phone was installed into the CPO mess and called his house only to get a message that the number was no longer in service. An old shipmate had kept my car for me while I was in WestPac and brought it to the ship.  Daddy-O asked me to drive him to his house in CPO Housing. I reluctantly did so.  I was fairly sure what he would find.  I followed him to the door and inside after he unlocked it.

There was nothing in the apartment except a pile of stuff in the center of the living room.  The one bowling trophy he had won the night divine intervention had caused him to bowl a 225 with his 130 average, a stack of documents and photos commemorating graduations from Navy Schools and promotions.  The album containing their wedding photos was also there.  She had used a magic marker to cover his face in each picture.

If you are thinking, “That’s not so bad, at least he is free of the bitch,” hang on to your asshole, that was just the beginning.  She had shipped all their furniture to Virginia charged to his next transfer.   She had maxed out their credit cards and contracted for new ones using the Power of Attorney and maxed those.  She had taken loans from three different credit unions and a couple of banks.

When the smoke finally cleared, he found that he owed sixty seven thousand dollars.  Navy legal helped him trim that down some and helped lower the interest rates.  But the bottom line was, “he had given her the pawer of attorney.”  In other words, he was fucked.

Shortly afterward, I transferred to Pearl for shore duty.  Three years later I transferred to an FF homeported in Yokosuka and there was Daddy-O.  He told me he hadn’t been on liberty in over four years. He said he had less than twenty thousand dollars left to pay off and he would finally be free.

But look in his locker and her picture was displayed on the inside of the door. 

I guess it was love…

by Garland Davis

HM1 took a canned Pepsi from the medication refrigerator in Sick Bay, killed the lights, and locked the door before heading to the Mess Decks to get a seat for the movie before the watch changed and the place filled with Snipes coming off watch.

He was early enough to get the seat he wanted.  Shortly afterward, the word was passed for Eight O’clock Reports which meant the snipes and their raucous bullshit would be arriving soon.  He had done most of his service with the Marine Corps.  This was his first shipboard assignment and his first contact with Snipes.  He was about half convinced that they were mentally flawed.

He saw BT2, one of the craziest of the bunch, come through the hatch. He looked around spied the Corpsman and came directly toward him.

“Got a minute, Doc?” He asked.

“What can I do for you?  You are wearing your earplugs in the Engineroom aren’t you?” Doc replied.

“Fireroom, Doc, Fireroom.  Yeah, no problem.  These new earplugs you got us are better than the old ones. Doc, I got a Hemi on the Left Bank that is acting up.  Been keeping me awake. Can you do something for me tonight so I’se can get some sleep? I got thenext four to eight ”  The BT said.

“Hemi?  What’s that?” Doc asked with a puzzled expression, thinking he was being pranked again.

“Hemorrhoid Doc. I got this big ass hemi and it itches and hurts. when I fart or shit”

“Well, I’ll have to examine you first.” HM1 said, visions of losing his seat for the movie.

BT2 starts undoing his belt in preparation for dropping his pants.

“Not here, in sickbay!”

“I didn’t figure it would make any difference; all these guys have seen an asshole before.” BT2 grabbed a Fireman and said, “Sit here and save Doc’s seat for the movie while he takes me up to Sick Bay and checks out my asshole.”

“Doc, you do know its that movie where Charlton Heston is a Hole Snipe in a Roman Light Cruiser, the CHENG is on the bridge sucking ass with the O;d Man and the MPA is beating on a drum while the Chief whips the Snipes.  All, this while Marcus Aurelius is back in Rome fucking his girl.” BT2 said as he followed Doc to Sick Bay.

HM1 opened Sick Bay and reluctantly performed the examination.  He referred to his Merck Manual, compared the photos to BT2’s condition and decided that suppositories should be a sufficient treatment.  He removed a package from the Medication Locker and instructed BT2 to use after voiding his bowels and showering and going to sleep.

“What, I gotta take a shit first.? I already did that today.” BT2 complained.

“Nevermind, , just use the suppository after taking a shower.” Doc said.

He locked up Sick Bay and went to reclaim his seat for the movie while BT2 headed off to his berthing compartment.

                                   *******************

The next morning HM1 was finishing breakfast as the Snipes from the morning watch were coming in for breakfast.  As they took places in the mess line, Doc walked over to the BT2 and asked, “How are you this morning?  Is there any improvement?”

BT2 replied, “You know, that was the hardest Gawdamned pill I ever swallowed in my life.  Fer all the good it did, I might as well have shoved it up my ass.”

Doc walked away shaking his head. “Fucking Snipes.”

by John Petersen, MM1

This is the life, the recruiter said all bright eyed and without a doubt,

as he (she) as instructed thru the door would not let you out.

Your name, last and first, SSN, birthplace, life’s history on the spot,

all aspects of your upbringing the recruiter instantly records like it or not.

After what seems like hours, you’ve spilled your guts from day one,

Seems the recruiter wants to know everything, this person will dig till they’re done.

Comes to a point where you think ‘Can I just get signed up and move on with my life’?

Do they really need to know the history of my wife?’

The Moon with a fence around it, it can be all yours, that’s what you hear,

you’ll get everything you want the recruiters message is clear.

As you sign your name, and subject yourself to the unknown, you ponder,‘

My life is now golden, I’ll have all I’ve ever wanted, and the world I’ll wander!

I’ve been promised a future of travel, glamour, a life truly one to turn others green,

The jealousy and envy they’ll forever grumble about, quietly, unseen.

I’ll visit places ‘round this globe most only dream about, and I’ll hear it,

The closest they’ll get to those places would be National Geographic’.

You’ve passed the ASVAB, and with this it has been found, in your favor,

That you CAN walk and chew gum simultaneously, your choice of flavor.

The military physical, oh what an absolute thrill, all would vent,

Only an alien abduction would top this momentous event!

Being poked and prodded, in ways never thought allowed,

Longest day you’ve ever had, at the end feeling less than proud.

Things are not what you expected so far, not what you thought was true,

This you consider while inline to get your first official military hair do.

The line outside the door, those from all walks of life, no matter the season,

Hair of all colors, long, short, mohawks, styles that defy any reason.

Won’t matter within minutes, you notice while watching the exit position,

In the end we’ll all look like a tennis ball with a thyroid condition.

Trip to the beauty shop has come to an end, yet the fun’s just begun, no gag,

Around the corner you’re marched, time for uniform issue, civies in a bag.

A never ending line of enthusiastic, eager young cronies,

Starting their new lives fashionably attired in Maytag white chonies

.Assuredly, you’re told , these uniforms will fit like a glove,

You’ll have the appearance of professionalism, a look you will love.

The outcome, however, belies all you’ve been guaranteed,

The mirror reveals a two-toned eggplant, full and ripe with seed.

Your new home for the next several weeks is now within sight,

A huge block of concrete shining brightly in the Sun’s light.

A slight snicker you stifle as you enter this shiny abode,

That personal room you were promised, a promise put on hold.

There they are, spaced and measured with a MILSPEC measuring tape,

Twenty sets of bunk beds lined up either side, the precision leaves you agape

.For the next several weeks, life becomes an unforeseen reality,

You and all your new shipmates have become a family.

Think about it, and consider all the new friends you’ve made, if you will,

That in a few short weeks this new ‘family’ will be separated against all will.

Roughly 80 humans, each with a desire of their own,

Have chosen the path of their future, and with their hand held high that seed has been sown.

Final pass and review is now nothing more than a memory for us all, they are,

Each of this ‘family’ now heading off to parts until now unknown, some very far.

So we’ve passed that first step in our lives in the service, no longer a booter,

And our experience is proof, ‘Never trust fully that Recruiter’!

Written by John Petersen, MM1

By Garland Davis

Ike was my friend, and, to our wives’ chagrin, we were drinking buddies.  I was the Commissary Officer at Pearl Harbor, and he was the CMC at LOGPAC.  We first met at Ocean’s; a quasi-legal bar located in the CPO barracks located just outside the Makalapa gate at Pearl. (After 911 the fences and gate was reconfigured to include the CPO area inside the gate.)

We got in the habit of meeting there each day for a few.   We later introduced our wives to each other, and we became quite the foursome.  The one anomaly was neither of our wives drank and were very conscientious in their efforts to limit our consumption of the grape and the grain.

I met Ike one evening at Ocean’s. He ordered a Coke instead of his usual Seven and Soda.  He said, “I had an appointment for a physical today.  They took blood last week.  The Peter Machinist told me that I have Hepatitis.   I forget which one A, B, C, fuck X for all I know.  The bad news is, I have to stop drinking for at least a year, maybe longer.  I’ve also got some horse pills to take a couple of times per day and a list of foods that I shouldn’t eat.”

You’ve seen the cartoons where there is a little Devil on the right shoulder trying to lead our hero astray and a little Angel on the left shoulder keeping him on the straight and narrow. I have a sloppily dressed Seaman Recruit holding a copy of the UCMJ in one hand and a BCD in the other. I call the little Son of a Bitch Sea Lawyer. He is always trying to talk me into taking the easy way. His favorite saying is “Fuck em.” I very seldom listen to him.

On the left shoulder is a little Chief Petty Officer wearing wash khakis with a cup of coffee in one hand and a report chit in the other.  After 1700 the coffee becomes a mug of beer.  He forces me to do the right thing by reminding me I am a Chief and that he will kick my ass if I listen to that other Cocksucker.

Before I knew it, the Chief on my shoulder had me saying, “A year of no drinking, that should be no problem.  Tell you what, I’ll do it with you.”  I noticed that after making me say that the little asshole took a long pull off his mug.

Ike said, “You would do that?  I appreciate the support.  I’m sure we can do it.”

That little prick on my left shoulder had me saying, “It’s what a Shipmate does.”

A whole year without a drink or a beer.  And that was back in the days when it took much longer for a year to pass than it does now.

We left Ocean’s sober that evening, not to darken their door for over a year.  We met our wives for dinner at a Mexican restaurant.  They looked at us in shock when we ordered iced tea instead of our usual bottle of wine.  Their reaction to Ike’s illness was shock and to our decision to give up drinking bordered on incredulity.

Over the days and weeks, we did things, went to movies, plays and even shopping, with them.  I took up jogging again.  I even got Ike to join me.  I’m sure some of the other guys we once drank with thought we had suddenly queered out on them.  We drank a lot of tea and milk.  I even drank water.  I try not to.  Fish fuck in it, you know!

The days, weeks, and months slowly dragged by until Ike was scheduled for a physical.  He called me a little after noontime and said he had a clean bill of health.  We decided on Mexican and called the wives to let them know.

That was a Friday forty years ago.  Ike and I have managed to stay sober for that whole time.

Damn, that little Son of a Bitch just kicked me in the left ear for lying to you.  Ike and I started with wine at the restaurant and ended up with Seagram’s Seven at the CPO Club.  I barely remember my wife driving home.

I woke up naked on the couch, the sun shining through the window with a thunderous roar, dry mouthed and having to piss so bad that if I had had pants on to unzip, I would have pissed all over myself.

The only thing in the reefer to drink was water that she chilled for the dog.  He growled at me as I drank his water while charging the Mr. Coffee.

My wife came in glaring at me and said words I hadn’t heard in over a year, “You do know that you are not as funny as you think you are? Do you know what you did last night? I hope you are proud of yourself!”

A couple of minutes later Ike called.  He said, “Fuck, I am sick.  I feel like I got shot at and missed and shit at and hit.”

I replied, “I know ain’t it wonderful. As old Robert Browning said, ‘God’s in his heaven, all’s right with the world.’”

“Bloody Mary’s at Ocean’s?”

“You got it.  Thirty minutes.””

contributed by Peter T Yeschenko

DID YOU KNOW….that the Jack in the Box fast food restaurant was founded by a Sailor?!

The very first Jack in the Box opened in 1951 by a businessman and former Sailor Lt. Robert O. Peterson on El Cajon Blvd. in San Diego…..

Hamburgers were 18 cents.

Robert was the founder of the Jack in the Box restaurant chain, he popularized the drive through fast food restaurant concept and was credited with being the first to pair the drive-through window with an intercom system.

Robert was a native of San Diego and attended San Diego State College and graduated from UCLA with a degree in economics.

He was a Lieutenant in the Navy Intelligence during World War II.

He was married four times, notably in 1977 to Maureen O’Connor, who went on to become the first female mayor of San Diego from 1985 to 1992.

Robert entered the restaurant business in 1941 with a drive-in diner called “Topsy’s”, later renamed “Oscar’s”, located on El Cajon Blvd., in San Diego.

This was a classic drive-in where food was served by carhops to customers in the parking lot.

Over the next decade his company, the San Diego Commissary Company, operated several Topsy’s and Oscar’s restaurants throughout San Diego, including a flagship Oscar’s at Midway Drive and Rosecrans Street near the Navy Recruit Training Command.

In 1951, he converted the Oscar’s on El Cajon Blvd. into the first Jack in the Box, a drive-through with the innovation of a two-way intercom that allowed one car to place an order while another car was being served.

Other restaurants had previously offered drive-up window service, but Jack in the Box was the first major chain to make drive-through windows the focus of its operation.

Since the concept was unfamiliar to most customers, the speaker, topped with the trademark clown had a sign that announced “Pull forward, Jack will speak to you!”

In 1984, he was diagnosed with leukemia. He battled the disease for 10 years until his death in 1994 at the age of 78. His wife Maureen was by his side.

By Garland Davis

He never knew if his father had a hell of a sense on humor or if he was pissed when his ninth son was born and he had really wanted a girl this time. His dad named him John Jean Ivan.  Jean is French and Ivan is Russian for John.  So, in essence, his name was John John John! Everyone called him Ivan,

Ivan had been assigned to a unit in Pearl Harbor that had heroically saved a large number of injured sailors while being credited with shooting down a number of the attacking planes during the attack, for which many of them, including Ivan were awarded the Navy Cross. .  A congressman from one member’s district had added an amendment to legislation authorizing the building of ships a provision that would promote each member of the unit one paygrade.  Each individual was listed in the amendment by name. With a stroke of his pen FDR made BM2 Ivan bullet proof. It would take an act of congress to reduce him to a paygrade lower than BM2.  Afterward he refused to take advancement exams.

After the war, Ivan left the active Navy while remaining in the Reserves. He went active during the Korean Conflict and was tasked with helping move ships from “Mothballs” to active status. After Korea, while working for the State of California Ivan qualified himself as a San Francisco Bay Harbor Pilot.

After three years as a pilot, as he put it, “My dick took control of my thinking and I got married.”  A number of years later, he learned that while he was spending long hours piloting ships into and out of the various Bay port facilities, she was piloting lovers into her bed.  He filed for divorce and, of course, a California judge awarded her half of everything including fifty percent of his salary, until such time as she remarried.

Ivan immediately resigned his six-figure position as a harbor pilot and reenlisted in the Regular Navy.  His pay was $240 per month with a $6 clothing allowance. He was assigned to an Ammunition ship homeported at Port Chicago, on the Sacramento River.

By this time, he was in his forties and the young sailors that worked for him nicknamed him “Pappy.”  He became Pappy John or Pappy Ivan to everyone in the ship.

Pappy stood Duty Master at Arms in one of the duty sections.  I was working in the Bakeshop, just below the Quarterdeck, the Saturday afternoon Pappy’s wife came aboard searching for him.  He was in the mess decks, and someone told him that his old lady was on the Quarterdeck.  The word was passed, “Petty Officer Ivan to the Quarterdeck.”  He ignored it. The same word was passed again and again he ignored it.  Finally, they passed, “Duty master at Arms lay to the Quarterdeck.”  This one he couldn’t ignore.

He reluctantly climbed the ladder to the Quarterdeck and the harridan he had been married to immediately started, “Ivan the judge said you have to pay me three thousand dollars a month.  You haven’t paid it.  I need money!”

Pappy replied, “The judge said I have to pay half my income.  I am a Second Class Petty Officer in the Navy, and I gave you half my pay.  If you need any more money than that go Fuck for it!”

We left for WestPac shortly after that.  Pappy swapped to a homeported ship in Yokosuka.  I heard that he eventually retired there, married the Mama-San of a bar, and spent his golden years elbow polishing the bar in the Asshole Locker at the Yokosuka Petty Officer’s Club.

The last time I saw Pappy was in the old FRA Club in Yoko.  We had a couple of beers and he declared, “You ain’t too bad for a fucking Doughhead,”

Just one of the characters of a Westpac’rs life…

contributed by Brion Boyles

Launched in ’44. retired from the US Navy in ’81, sold to S. Korea where she served another 18 years as ROKS JEON JU and became a museum ship in 1999….after 55 years’ service.

USS Rogers (DD-876) was a Gearing-class destroyer of the United States Navy. She was named for three brothers — Jack Ellis Rogers Jr., Charles Ethbert Rogers, and Edward Keith Rogers — killed in action aboard USS New Orleans during the Battle of Tassafaronga in the Solomon Islands on 30 November 1942.

By Garland Davis

These days when a man’s wife is ready to deliver a baby, the new father is included in the entire process.  In addition to laying the keel, he has to go to classes to learn to become her birth coach, you know, hold her hand tell her how to breath while the baby is sliding down the ways and being launched while she subjects him to the vilest language and threats of never getting any pussy ever again.

Now, back in the day, you know, the 1960s the prospective father was considered a pervert if he even suggested being in the delivery room.  Most civilian hospitals barely provided a waiting room somewhere in the vicinity of the maternity rooms. The Navy Hospital in Yokosuka had a couple of chairs in the hallway where they could fret and wait.

I will not tell you his name.  Some of you may know him and I know one  will recognize him from this story.  His wife went into labor before sunrise.  His ship gave him the day off.  He was sitting in the hall, when the thought crossed his mind that he had special liberty and was wasting it sitting in the hospital when he could be in the Animal Locker (Stag Bar) at the Petty Officer’s Club. 

He talked with the nurse, and she told him it looked as if it would be a few hours and if he left the hospital to leave a number where he could be reached.  He gave her the number of the Club and drove there.

He wrapped himself around a few rum and cokes and shot some Shuffles as the afternoon wasted away.  Shipmates came and went as the day dragged into evening with no word from the hospital.  Along about 2200, the nurse finally called.

She said, “Petty Officer (This is where I’ll keep his name secret) your wife delivered a healthy boy.  Mother and son are well.  Your wife told us to ask you the child’s name so we can complete the paperwork.”

He thought for a minute, stared at the drink in his hand and said, “Call him Ron Rico.”

Charles Plumb was a US Navy jet pilot in Vietnam. After 75 combat missions, his plane was destroyed by a surface-to-air missile. Plumb ejected and parachuted into enemy hands. He was captured and spent 6 years in a communist Vietnamese prison. He survived the ordeal and now lectures on lessons learned from that experience!

One day, when Plumb and his wife were sitting in a restaurant, a man at another table came up and said, ‘ You’re Plumb! You flew jet fighters in Vietnam from the aircraft carrier Kitty Hawk. You were shot down!’

‘How in the world did you know that?’ asked Plumb.’

I packed your parachute,’ the man replied.

Plumb gasped in surprise and gratitude.

The man pumped his hand and said, ‘I guess it worked!’

Plumb assured him, ‘It sure did. If your chute hadn’t worked, I wouldn’t be here today.’

Plumb couldn’t sleep that night, thinking about that man. Plumb says, ‘I kept wondering what he had looked like in a Navy uniform: a white hat; a bib in the back; and bell-bottom trousers. I wonder how many times I might have seen him and not even said ‘Good morning, how are you?’ or anything because, you see, I was a fighter pilot and he was just a sailor.’ Plumb thought of the many hours the sailor had spent at a long wooden table in the bowels of the ship, carefully weaving the shrouds and folding the silks of each chute, holding in his hands each time the fate of someone he didn’t know.

Now, Plumb asks his audience, ‘Who’s packing your parachute?’ Everyone has someone who provides what they need to make it through the day. He also points out that he needed many kinds of parachutes when his plane was shot down over enemy territory – he needed his physical parachute, his mental parachute, his emotional parachute, and his spiritual parachute. He called on all these supports before reaching safety.

Sometimes in the daily challenges that life gives us, we miss what is really important. We may fail to say hello, please, or thank you, congratulate someone on something wonderful that has happened to them, give a compliment, or just do something nice for no reason. As you go through this week, this month, this year, recognize people who pack your parachutes.

I am sending you this as my way of thanking you for your part in packing my parachute.

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