by Garland Davis

Two years after the first date and over a year since our marriage

When we were children and watching a western movie and the girl came charging by in a runaway buckboard and our hero took after her on his trusty steed and rescued the girl just before the buckboard plunged over the cliff that happened to be there in the middle of a flat prairie and she batted her big eyes at him, you knew the mushy crap was about to start. You wondered what was wrong with cowboy heroes. Why did they always get sidetracked from chasing the bad guys by girls and mushy stuff?

This one will be mushy stuff. I have permission.

All stories of young love begin when two people meet. There are fireworks. Possibly angels singing. Bluebirds singing and that kind of movie crap. I met her in the Billet Office for Bayside Courts in Yokohama Japan. The Navy Housing Activity at Yokohama was comprised of four officers, fifty-six enlisted and a contingent of Japanese civilians that maintained and administered the more than three thousand Navy Housing units that provided quarters for Naval Personnel in the Kanto Area of Japan.

There were no barracks for enlisted. One building of an old Army BOQ complex was devoted to housing single enlisted sailors. She worked in the Billet Office and assigned me to a room. Room? WTF! Officers lived in rooms. Sailors lived in open bay barracks. But there it was a room. She explained to me that maid service was available for ten dollars a payday. The maids would clean your room and do your laundry. When I got to the room, I thought I had died and gone to heaven. The maid assigned to me helped me unpack and placed everything in the closets. Where she wanted them.

I quickly fell into a routine of awakening, dressing, going to the NEX cafeteria for breakfast (There was no enlisted galley), and then to work at the Commissary Store. We worked Tuesday thru Saturday and were not required to stand any duty days. At approximately 1630 my shipmates and I would stroll across the street to the Yokohama Seaside Club and take advantage of the ten cents Happy Hour. About 1900 or so we would take a cab to Bayside Courts shift into civilian clothes and head for the Zebra Club downtown for a couple and then on to Chinatown for an evening comprised of drinks and mushy stuff.

From the day in July when I arrived there until shortly before the Navy day celebration in October, I lived this idyllic sailor’s life. The command announced a date for the Navy Day Ball at the Seaside Club. Each member was permitted to bring a guest. A group of us were in a room at Bayside drinking beer when the subject of dates for the Navy Day Ball arose. Different bar girls were suggested.

I told them, “I am going to ask the girl who works at the Billet Office.”

“Not a chance Stewburner. She won’t date sailors. Believe me many have tried and no one has been successful.” Was the consensus.

I had just enough beer, so I said, “I’ll show you just wait and see.” And off to the billeting office, I went.

I walked in, she came to the counter and asked how she could help me. I told her, “I came to invite you to the Navy Day Ball as my guest.”

She said, “Okay.” She gave me directions where I could meet her.

I went back to the room with a shit eating grin on my face, opened a cold one, and sat down.

“Struck out, huh? I knew you would. She won’t go out with sailors.”

I said, “I have to pick her up at six thirty Friday evening.”

Of course, I got the, “What did you do, lick your eyebrows? What do you have that nobody else does?”

I picked her up for our date. We had a good time. Over the next few weeks, we became inseparable.

Fifty-six years ago today that young Japanese girl and I, both of us barely out of our teens, caught the train at Yokohama Central Station for Tokyo. It was to be our wedding day. There was no preacher or organist, no best man or bridesmaid. There was just a busy office in the American Embassy Annex and a Japanese government office.

I was carrying an envelope of papers that had begun six months before as a single sheet of paper asking the U.S. Navy for permission to marry a Japanese National. The envelope contained the results of physical examinations and background investigations. Also included were interviews with a Legal Officer, counseling interviews with Chaplains and English translations of my fiancé’s birth records and copies of the investigations of her family and background. And finally a letter from Commander Naval Forces, Japan granting approval of my request.

A clerk at the counter took the papers separated those he needed and returned the remainder to me. After a time, we were given forms in Japanese and directed to take them to a Japanese government office to register our marriage and then return to the embassy. This took some time because Japanese bureaucrats love properly completed forms and placing numerous rubber stamps on them. By mid-afternoon, we were back at the embassy annex and returned the properly stamped and annotated forms to the clerk.

We waited for a time with another couple and finally were called to the counter. The other serviceman and I were directed to stand at the counter with our brides behind us. A number of forms were placed on the counter and we were instructed to sign them. A gentleman came from an inner office and introduced himself as a U.S. Consulate Officer. He instructed us prospective husbands to raise our right hands and said, “Do you swear that everything you have signed is the truth to the best of your knowledge, so help you, God?” We both replied, “Yes.” He said, “Congratulations,” shook our hands and left. The clerk gave us our marriage certificates and congratulated us.

There were no vows, no “I do’s.” Just simply completing paperwork and registering the fact with the Japanese government. I often joke that I dropped my pen, bent over to pick it up and when I stood up, the gentleman shook my hand and said, “Congratulations.”

It has been a tumultuous fifty-six years. There was the Vietnam War, twenty-six more years of the Navy, lengthy separations and, not a lot of money during the early years. Like most couples, we had to adjust to each other. Now we are aging and dealing with my Parkinson’s disease and the loss of our beloved dog last week. I guess you can say that after fifty-six years, we have succeeded.

Looking back, I wouldn’t have it any differently. She is my best friend, and I love her with all my being. As the poets say, “She completes me.”

Today is our fifty-sixth anniversary

by Garland Davis

Shipmate, knowin’ you, there’s a bar on a beach

Knowin’ you, there’s something cold in your hand

And a pretty warm temporary she in your arms

And knowin’ you, you’re still runnin’ wild and free

Shipmate, knowin’ you, It’s time for liberty.

Damn, back then, we were so alive

A couple of kids ridin’ the wheel on the Pike

Holdin’ our breath and dreaming up more

Shipmate, you were goin’ East, me West

We‘d stay in touch, we didn’t

But, Damn, it was good knowin’ you

Shipmate, we fought the war and rode the storms

We didn’t care, we knew we would win

Anticlimactic, and we each went our way

Shipmate, there’s a place in Missouri

I know, I know, too far from the sea

But hey, we’re gettin’ the gang together there

Shipmate, I’m grateful for knowin you

I’ll see you there in Branson come May

Damn Shipmate, it’ll be good again, seein’ you

By Garland Davis

I had just finished a night of baking.  I thought my days as Night Baker were finished, but the regular baker was notified of his Dad’s illness, and went to California on Emergency Leave.

The ship had just finished a thirty day period on the gun line off Vietnam and was originally scheduled for a two week availability in Subic before going back out there.  It seems that Raytheon, or maybe it was Black and Decker, had developed some kind of new fire control system and the Powers That Be wanted it to receive a ‘real world’ test off Vietnam.  Four retired Navy CPO’s, Tech Reps, were aboard to install and test the system. Instead of a two week availability, we would get an extra ten days to enjoy the delights of Olongapo.

I turned the Galley over to the Day Watch Captain and walked out to the mess decks for a cup of the fresh coffee that had just been made for breakfast.  BT1 came down the ladder from the 01 level and grabbed a cup. The MDMAA gave him a look that said, “no hanging around the Mess Decks before meals,” but knowing that BT1 and I were tight he refrained from saying anything.  But I knew he would be chipping his teeth to the Chief cook the first chance he got.

BT1 looked as if he had been through a meat grinder. He had an eye that was turning blue, a welt on the side of his head, and a lump on his forehead. “Who kicked your ass?”, I asked.

He said, “You know that Westpac widow that I have been shacking with?”

He had met a Filipina in the EM Club who was married to a second class cook. Her husband was stationed in Da Nang and as BT1 said, “She was puttin’ pussy out of both legs of her drawers. Why not take advantage of it?”

So, he moved in with her.  He told me it was cheaper than running the streets. He said all it cost was a fried chicken dinner at the club every day and a roll of dimes for the slot machines.

He went on to say, “She told me five days ago that she was riding the cotton hobby horse.”

“Huh?”

“She started her period.  She told me I ain’t getting no pussy for four or five days. I told her that I wasn’t against BJ’s.  She told me she didn’t do that. So, I said it looks like the street for me.  She said that she had a pretty cousin who would sleep with me while the Red River was flowing. All fucking right!”

He continued, “For the next three days, except for my duty day, I was porking her cousin. Last night she told me that her Menses, who knew there was a fancy name for it, was finished and she would return to sleeping with me.”

“Her cousin was gathering her stuff, gettin’ ready to leave.  I thought that since I had screwed both of them, it would be fun to do a threesome.  When I suggested it, they called me a pervert and kicked the shit out of me.”, he finished.

HMAS DERWENT 1976

by Alan ‘Frapper’ Lehman, RAN

Destroyer Escort, HMAS Derwent, Royal Australian Navy, visited Maizuru, Japan in 1976 for a goodwill visit.   It was a cold winter’s night in Maizuru and Bummer Briggs and Frapper Lehman, both Petty Officer CTs, had been drinking together in a local bar. We were now heading back on board after the bar shut for the night.  We come across a Beer machine with the obligatory plastic milk crates scattered around. The plastic crates make good seats.

We sat down and proceeded to empty the beer machine.  A little while later some guys (Gunnery Jacks or Gunners Mates) come along pushing a wheel Barrow with a fire going inside the tub.  They stopped awhile and we all got warm, it was bloody freezing.  The Gunnery Jacks eventually went their own way.

After a few hours at the Beer Machine we headed back on board.  A little way up the road Bummer and I come across a Plastic Policeman (full life size) at an intersection.  It was designed to reinforce to drivers that you must slow down at intersections and take care.  The Policeman was mounted on a pedestal, but could be lifted off by drunk sailors with the right mindset.  It took two of us, but we got the Policeman and proceeded to carry him back on board as a Rabbit.  Rabbit’s are like souvenirs or mementos of your visit.  Navy ships’ Messes are full of them from street signs to Plastic Policemen and Baby Ducks from Olongapo.

We approached the Gangway of the ship and the duty Gangway staff  (Boatswain’s Mates) were looking and shaking their heads.  Gangway staff know not to interfere with drunk sailors returning back on board.  We got the Policeman down to our mess and then hit the sack. 

Next morning we were sailing from Maizuru and heading to another Japanese Port.  Come the morning we were lined up around the perimeter of the ship in Procedure Alfa which entailed all the crew being dressed in number Ones, ceremonial Blue uniform. This was our way of farewelling the port and thanking the people for their hospitality.  Down on the wharf were the Mayor and town council and invited guests.  As we were standing in line around the ship, the Captain made a pipe over the main broadcast.  “Would the sailor or sailors who stole the Policeman last night please return him to the Maizuru Town Council members on the wharf”.

The jig was up and I looked at Bummer and told him with my eyes that we had to return the Policeman.  We both went down to our mess and brought the Copper up on deck and carried him down to the waiting Council Members.  After much bowing and saying “Gomen”, (sorry in Japanese) we returned on board and departed Maizuru.  We received a stern talking to from the Coxswain (Master At Arms), but otherwise got off rather lightly.

by Peter T Yeschenko

What does “Bravo Zulu” mean and what’s the origin of that term?!

ANSWER: In the Navy, if you did good work, you may have heard the term “Bravo Zulu,” which means “well done.

The term BRAVO ZULU originated from the Allied Tactical Publication ATP 1, an Allied military maritime tactical signals publication, which in the aggregate is For Official Use Only, and can also be found in Multinational Maritime Tactical Publication 2

Signals are sent as letters and/or numbers, which have meanings by themselves sometimes or in certain combinations.

A single table in ATP 1 is called ‘governing groups,’ that is, the entire signal that follows the governing group is to be performed according to the ‘governor.’ The letter ‘B’ indicates this table, and the second letter, A through Z, gives more specific information.

For example, ‘BA’ might mean ‘You have permission to . . .’ do whatever the rest of the flashing light, flag hoist or radio transmission says.

‘BZ’ happens to be the last item of the governing groups table and it means ‘well done’.”

“Bravo Zulu” is also defined by the Allied Naval Signal Book, an international naval signal code adopted after the North Atlantic Treaty Organization (NATO) was created during 1949.

Until then, each Navy in NATO had used its own separate signal code and operational manuals.

World War II experience had shown that it was difficult or impossible for ships of different navies to operate together unless they could communicate readily and the implementation of ACP 175 was designed to remedy this.

In 1908, 500,000 Aussies turned out to welcome the arrival of the Great White Fleet to Sydney. The reception was so warm that hundreds of sailors went on unauthorized absence so that they could further enjoy the hospitality of the Aussies. When the fleet left, USS Kansas had to stay behind for several extra days to round up the stragglers, offering a $10 bounty on every sailor returned.

By Garland Davis

I was Watch Captain in the Galley. BT2 stopped by after lunch and asked, “Hey dude, what are you doing this afternoon? The Chief cut me loose for the day.  I know you get relieved in a little while.  I saw the other CS2 a few minutes ago.”

“I don’t know.  Thought maybe I would run by the exchange and then park my truck at the P.O. Club, have a few in the Asshole Locker and then grab a cab for the Honch.” I answered as I finished making notations on the daily Galley Worksheet.

“The exchange? I need a favor. You see, I promised Junko that I would get one of those small refrigerators that the exchange has on sale. Can I go with you and use your truck to carry the reefer to her place on Chuo Hill?”

Junko was his current girlfriend.  He had recently set up housekeeping with her.  She was a cashier at the Commissary Store.  I didn’t think the relationship was tenable for very long.  Junko seemed to be pissed at the Snipe most of the time.  But then, BT2 had that endearing quality that usually caused women to ask, “What the fuck am I doing with this asshole?”

I agreed to take him to buy the reefer and take it to her place.

After my relief and I went through the galley turnover routine, BT2 hung around the cooks berthing while I showered and got into my dress canvas. 

NOTE: These events happened in the days before civilian clothing was permitted aboard Navy ships. Most sailors kept civvies in a locker club and changed there after leaving and before returning to the ship. END NOTE

We left the ship and went to the exchange where he bought his refrigerator while I made my purchases.  We loaded the reefer in my Datsun pickup, covered it with a tarp I kept in back, tied it securely and started for the gate.

BT2 said, “How about stopping at the Club so I can get a case of cold beer to put in my new reefer.  I’ll buy you a couple!”

We did that.  Had a couple, bought a case of cold Oly’s and headed for Chuo Hill where I helped him carry the stuff into the apartment.  Actually, the reefer was small enough that he carried it after we unpacked it. I carried the case of beer.  He plugged it in and assured himself that it was cooling.  He opened the case of beer, grabbed an opener popped a couple and began to stock beer in the reefer.

After I finished my beer, I left him there and headed for the club for a few and then a run out to the Honch to see Sumiko.  I wouldn’t stay over tonight. I promised the Chief that I would help him go through the books to get ready for the supply inspection next month.

The next time I saw BT2 was after I was awakened by the Messenger of the Watch at 0400 and told that the OOD needed me on the Quarterdeck.  I got up, dressed, and went topside to the quarterdeck where I found the BT and his refrigerator.

The Chief standing OOD said, “Dave. The Shore Patrol brought him back.  Just a ride, no charges, but he has this refrigerator, half full of beer, and I can’t let him bring it aboard.  He insisted that I call you to put it in your truck.  Can you do that?”

“Yeah.  Come on asshole, you cause me to lose sleep, you can carry your fucking reefer to the truck!”

He sheepishly hefted the reefer and carried it down the pier to the truck where we secured it under the tarp and headed back to the ship for coffee.  There was no sense in going back to bed at this late hour.

This is how I pieced together the events that transpired after I left him at the apartment and terminated by him storing his reefer in my truck:

While we were having coffee, I asked, “What the fuck happened?  Why are you here with the refrigerator?”

“Well, it’s like this. After you left, I decided the reefer would be better out in the apartment instead of in the kitchen, so I didn’t have to walk far for beer. I had to move some stuff to make room close enough to the plug.  When Junko got home, she got pissed because I had fucked up some of her stuff.  She told me to leave. So, fuck her, I took my reefer and my beer and left. I caught a cab.  He was kinda pissed because I wanted to put the reefer in his trunk, but I gave him a couple of hundred extra yen. I remembered that there was a electric plug in the alley beside the Club Alliance.  I had him take me there. I plugged the reefer in, sat down with my back against the wall and proceeded to drink some beer.”

A BM acquaintance told me the rest of the story.  He was night dispatcher at Shore Patrol Headquarters. It was a slow boring night.  He was looking across the street toward the Club Alliance when he saw a light flash in the alley alongside the club. He didn’t give it any thought until he saw it twice more. Curious, he called for a unit to check out the alley.

There they found BT2 with his reefer and a pile of empty cans.  It seemed that the dispatcher was seeing the reefer light each time BT2 opened the door to get another Oly.

BT2 reconciled with Junko but she did eventually threw his ass out for good.  She kept the reefer!

by Cort Willoughby

This episode finds me in Japan heading to Korea with my Great Shipmate Willy.

We were being sent there by the CAPT to get, of all things, Cruise Jackets for the sons of crew members.

We were in the train station near Sasebo. Sitting in a restaurant on the second floor of the station looking down, I spied a public toilet which reminded ne that I really needed to go.

The need for the facilities became stronger as I went down the stairs. the first mistake I made was to rush into the ladies toilet and scare the shit out of the women in there. I quickly backed out of there throwing “Gomenasai’s” left and right.

I rapidly corrected myself, the pressure in my bowels becoming stronger, and ran, like a sprinter going for the gold, into into the men’s room. As I was preparing to drop trou, I noticed that there was no toilet paper.

There is a box mounted on the bulkhead by the doors to the toilets. I could see it cost 80 Yen to get paper from the dispenser. I didn’t have 80 fucking Yen. I was on the verge of shitting myself because I was short a damned copper looking 10 Yen coin.

Willy is looking down at me from the restaurant. I mimic holding coins up and he gives me a positive head shake . By this time I’m drawing a crowd . I’m getting desperate and run topside to get change from him.

I run back down and do a fucking tap dance trying to not shit myself. The crowd has grown to about 50 and the big smiles only increased my anxiety that I might not smell so good if I didn’t take care of business. Fumbling, I insert the coins and twist the knob and out slides a pack of tampons .

Giggling and outright laughter are coming from the Locals. They are really into it by now. I’m panic stricken . Look topside and Willy is holding up the napkin dispenser.

HELL YES AND DAMN RIGHT I THINK .

I scorched the stairs to grab the stack of napkins and barely made it in time . The JAPANESE gave me a standing ovation with big smiles and hand clapping. It seems I was the star of the show!

This is just one of the many awkward incidents in the life of a Westpac sailor and one of the many times a SHIPMATE has been there for me.

By Garland Davis

He was from a small town called Flop in a Great Plains midwestern state.

The town was built on top of a hill and was one of the highest places in the state. The townspeople billed the town as 1,200 feet above sea level although it was only a few feet above the surrounding prairie.

The founder of the town had been bound for Oregon with trade goods when his wagon fell apart after climbing a slight slope to the dizzying heights. 

Since he couldn’t continue his migration, he decided to settle there.  He knew the winter would be harsh and he must build a shelter but the only materials available were dried grass and thousands of dried Buffalo Flops.  Desperate, he built something that looked like an igloo using the flops.  He called it the Flop House.

During the fall and spring, he traded some of his goods to some Indians for buffalo skins.  He was afraid not to.  He thought that they might scalp him otherwise.  In the spring a troop of buffalo hunters came through and bought his skins for more gold than he dreamed they were worth.

He rode one of his horses back to civilization, bought a wagon, trade goods, and went back to the Flop House and set up a trading post.  He also hired a couple of boys to hunt buffalo and found himself in the trading and skin business.

Over the years lumber and building materials were brought in and a town grew there on the hill. In homage to the stuff that saved his life that first year, he named the town Buffalo Flop.  He built a building which contained his living quarters, a trading post, a saloon, a few rooms to rent, and a whorehouse. Of course, he called it the Flop House. It was said that he kept a dried flop beside his bed because he couldn’t sleep without the smell of buffalo shit.

Somewhere long after he was gone and his descendants ran the Flophouse as a General Store, Saloon, and two ladies plied (we don’t say that in polite company) another enterprise from the two rooms in back.  Th grandchildren also operated a buffalo ranch on the prairie surrounded by cornfields.

A few years ago, to make the name sound more respectable, the town elite proposed they change its name to Buffalo.  Another faction wanted to call the town something else because there were already a few towns named Buffalo.  A third faction, comprised mostly of Oldtimers, wanted to leave the name as Buffalo Flop.

After much discussion, arguments, acrimony, and one gunfight they settled on Flop as the new name although it took six years to get the U.S. Postal Department to recognize the name change and almost a decade to get Rand McNally to list it as Flop instead of Buffalo Flop in their maps and atlases.

By 1960 the town population was a little over 600 and was pretty static.  As soon as the youngsters gained adulthood, they left for greener pastures.  There wasn’t much of a future in Flop.

Our hero from Flop enlisted in the Navy and was sent to San Diego for boot camp and afterward ordered back to the Midwest to attend Boiler Technician School at Great Lakes.

From BT School our BTFN was ordered to an old WWII destroyer homeported in Japan.  He spent the next six years rotating to two other ships there and eventually attained the rank of Petty Officer Second Class. BT2.

Finally in 1978, his ship changed homeports to Long Beach, CA.  He immediately started scheming to get back to the Western Pacific.  In the meantime, he decided to visit his older sister, who had raised him after his Mama died. He took the train into a large midwestern city and caught the Greyhound into Flop.

The Vietnam War was raging, and the town leaders jumped on the fact that he had fought in the war, albeit from a gun platform off the coast.  He was the closest thing to a war hero that flop had ever had. He had sent his sister copies of his certificates for the Vietnam Service Medal and the Combat Action Award, and the town council declared him a bonafide hero and voted to award him $100 to help pay for his vacation.

BT2 played the hero, took their hundred bucks, and as darkness fell, repaired to the Flophouse saloon for a few cold ones and to see if there was any action to be had.

The townsfolk were not shocked that he went to have a few drinks.  Men did that.

They weren’t shocked that he sampled the wares of one of the ladies.  Single men and some married men did that.

But… The town women were scandalized by the perversion and the town men were walking around with half a chub imagining doing it themselves.

BT2 took BOTH of the whores to bed at the same time…

…and the town paid for it!

By Garland Davis

This is the story of how BT2 gave me a black eye.

We had served in two previous ships together, both homeported in Japan.  The second one had just rotated back to the states and was to undergo overhaul and then be homeported in Long Beach. We were lucky enough to arrange duty swaps with crewmembers of a ship that would be rotating to Japan in about three months.  In the meantime, we tried to make the best of Long Beach, but it just wasn’t Westpac.

BT2 and I had made First Class together.  He had lost it after five days in after a Hong Kong peccadillo. (I can hear him now, saying, “There, that’s what’s wrong with you always using them big fucking high school words that only them college educated assholes in the wardroom know!”) But I have already told the story of Hong Kong…

We left the ship at liberty call and headed for a joint on the Pike where we sometimes trolled for female companionship.  We had both been lucky at the endeavor there from time to time.

We were embroiled in an argument that was long running.  BT2 was saying, “Goddammit, you are a fucking Navy Stewburner, not a wardroom puke.  Why do you read them, fucking high brow books and use them big words?  You ain’t Cary Grant. Swave and Deboner ain’t gonna get you any more pussy than a pocketful of green.  You been in Westpac long enough to know that.”

I always replied, “What works in Westpac doesn’t fly with round eyes.  You have to use a little more circumspection.”

“What the fuck does circumcision have to do with it.  Fuck the round eyes.  There are enough P.I. LBFM Westpac widows around that half the time you think you are in Olongapo.  If we had a few jeepneys and some San Miguel, we wouldn’t even know we were in Long Beach.

We entered the joint and bellied up to the bar, ordered a couple of Lucky Lagers and looked around at the talent.  A striking blonde, sitting alone at the bar caught my attention. I said to BT2, “You’re on your own Shipmate. Well, here goes nothing.”

I moved down and asked if the stool to her right was being used.  She looked me over and said, “Please, I am Kate, but everyone calls me Kat.”

I sat and introduced myself and asked, “Kat because you purr or because you have claws?”

She laughed but didn’t say anything. We talked, laughed, and drank for about an hour before BT2 suddenly showed up on the stool to her left.  I reluctantly introduced them.  If you can move away from someone while sitting on a stool anchored to the floor, I do believe she managed to widen the space between her and the Snipe.

She had slipped her shoes off and left them on the shelf that served as a foot rail.  After a time, she, walking in her stocking feet, and I went to the juke box to play some music.

Shortly after we resumed our position at the bar, she said, “I have to go to the ladies room.”

Soddenly she turned and said, “You despicable Son of a Bitch,” and punched me in the left eye and carrying her shoes went into the ladies room and a few minutes, still in her stocking feet and carrying a pair of obviously wet shoes stormed out of the place.

BT2 said, “I’m just looking out for you Shipmate!”

The Asshole had pissed in her right shoe, the one on my side, while we were at the juke box.