Disco Chief

By:  David McAllister

I had just returned to the orient after spending three years teaching baby Machinist Mates their rate at Great Lakes Naval Training Center. Beyond ready to return to what I considered my home, I found myself, once again and at last, back in Subic. I had fascinated over this moment ever since my detailer had given me the word that my term of Expat detention was over. The most beautiful sight I had seen in a long time, she was slender with great curves and glided with an uncommon grace in spite of her slightly swaybacked countenance. As she slid up alongside I could hardly wait to climb on and get into her. She was the Seventh Fleet Flagship and I had known her for almost as many years as I had served as a North American Bluejacket.

Once the brow was over, I stepped aboard smartly saluted the ensign, turned and saluted the Officer of the Deck, a fellow Chief, and requested permission to come aboard. After receiving his permission I stepped down off the brow; presenting him with my orders, he stuck out his hand, welcomed me aboard and said he would have the messenger show me to the Chief’s mess. “No need, I know the way,” I said, he nodded as we exchanged a knowing look that only old hands would understand.

I hoisted my gear, stepped through the door and negotiated the passageway back to the CPO mess. The sights, sounds, smells and organized confusion of a newly arrived ship stirred my awareness in an old familiar manner as I whispered below my breath, ‘Mac is Back’.

Upon entering the CPO mess I was greeted by a long mess table with several Chiefs seated behind steaming coffee mugs. Some I had known from earlier days and ships, others unknown to me introduced themselves, all welcomed me aboard. The mess area had a lounge with couches and chairs at the far end and turning aft from there led you into the berthing compartment. I quickly found a suitable rack with a nearby locker far enough from the head so as not to be bothered by its odiferous sights, sounds, smells and humidity. So, tossing my gear upon the rack, I set off to check out the main spaces. Then I met him, the other Chief Machinist Mate.

He was obviously heading ashore and stopped to introduce himself, which evolved into an odd encounter on many levels. First, I was sure that the engineering plant had not yet set up in port auxiliary steaming, and this guy was breasting out on liberty? Second, he was in company with a Filipino chief that turned out to be the MSCS in charge of the flag mess. In my mind, I found this to be a rather odd pairing. Finally, he was dressed as if he had just stepped out of the movie “Saturday Night Fever”- only not as well.

Brilliant cobalt blue slacks were mismatched with a pink floral print shirt, complete with long collars, unbuttoned to the naval. Four or five gold chains adorned an underdeveloped hairy chest atop a beer gut, while a white belt and white Cuban heeled fruit boots completed the outfit. The total look reminded me of an overripe pear in a dinner napkin. I found this to be totally bazaar, allowing that the polyester fabric of his pants and shirt couldn’t be conducive to comfort in the high heat and humidity of the Philippine Islands; not to mention all that gold going ashore in a country where just one of those chains would support an average poverty stricken local for months. To say the least his sartorial splendor and wisdom both left me underwhelmed and shaking my head in disbelief as I walked out of the mess towards the Log Room. I was trying to swallow this bad taste I always got in my mouth whenever I met someone I didn’t like. Recalling his invitation to drop by for a beer out in town, I made a mental note to follow up and check out this idiot later.

After a very brief peek into the Log Room, not exactly my domain of choice, I dropped down into Main Control. Here I found the MPA, an LDO ex-electrician type clearly out of his element, trying to secure the after plant and shift the load forward into an auxiliary steaming configuration. In addition to being an inherent know it all, he was further handicapped by the fact that he didn’t have a clue as to how clueless he actually was. Consequently, he was getting more resistance than cooperation from the seasoned watch standers that were only tolerating his presence. Hmmm! Disco Chief really needed to be here instead of where he was; I quickly made another mental note. Well, I hung out in Main Control until it appeared that the MPA was no longer in harm’s way of himself and then after a check of the after engine room and crew I was confident that “M” division, although having some  solid hands, lacked leadership. This wasn’t going to get fixed today, so I eased back to the mess to get settled in and stow my gear.

1700 found me over in the Chiefs Club with an old shipmate having a much anticipated cold San Magoo and swapping sea stories while checking out the local talent that plied their trade there as so called legit hostesses. After a few libations, we found ourselves stroking across the bridge into PoTown with the Barrio on our minds. Just then my mental tickler went off and I asked where it was that Disco Chief hung out. Having imbibed just enough to be ornery, I wanted to see this fool in action.

Pearlas Super Club was about half way down Rizal Ave going towards the Victory Liner Station. It was a good sized cabaret style joint and upon entering we were immediately accosted with the ever present Peso for body exchange offerings. The large dance floor was crowded with couples dancing to the disco stylings of one of the many talented copy cat bands that frequented Olongapo in those days. Ironically, this band was heavy into renditions of the Bee Gee’s latest hits and it didn’t take long to zero in on Disco Chief. Impressing himself more than anyone else, his moves lacked anything close to rhythm and were completely out of time with the music. As is commonly seen in the PI, several little gals were mimicking him behind his back and everyone laughing at them led Disco to think he was the center of attention. As the music ended he struck his best John Travolta pose just as his dance partner stuck her hand on his crank and her other one in his pocket. Noticing us he strutted our way off the dance floor followed by his honey tucking her catch away into a bosom that, although wasn’t abundant, was adequate.

“Well, I see you finally found your way ashore, ” he said as he ordered a round of beers. As the band went on break, we grabbed a seat at his table where MSCS was engaged in a protracted private conversation in Tagalong with what I considered the best-looking hammer in the joint. I made another mental note. Apparently thinking I had just fallen off the turnip truck and joined the Navy on the mid watch, Disco Chief commenced to inform me about his prowess with the ladies and how he got along in the PI without ever having to pay for any. Despite the air-conditioned comfort of the bar, Disco Chief was soaked through. His pallid glistening skin combined with the wet polyester made for a slimy unwholesome appearance. A rancid odor hung about him; however, as long as he kept producing those Pesos, buying drinks for all the girls that had lit at the table after being beckoned by his sweetie, he was the center of attraction. Meanwhile, MSCS was steady talking shit to the same good looking gal, keeping his money pocketed and attention on her, I began to get the nature of this strange matchup of liberty buddies, Disco Chief was the trolling bait while the ever sly MSCS skimmed off the prime catch from the fishing waters. I made yet another mental note.

Our beers ran low as the band retook the stage. Disco Chief jumped up and with Sweetie in tow strutted towards the dance floor mimicking John Travolta as best he could. I was totally unimpressed and as the band began with a decent imitation of “Stayin Alive”, Disco Chief began a rhythmically challenged, nauseating gyration, totally out of time into what he thought to be a sexy dance step. Laying down some Pesos I bought them a round of beers, and we headed towards the door. I waved so long to the lecherous leering lunatic out on the dance floor, thinking “Stayin Alive” my ass it’s more like “Runnin on Empty”. This was going to be so easy.

Instead of the Barrio our next stop was the 1622, a beer joint just up the street. Now the Sixteen Delawa Delawa had the well-founded reputation of having the coldest beer and ugliest women in town; however, they had, at one time, a knockdown drop dead good looker that happened to be a boy. To my amazement, he was still there and my shipmate thought I was adrift when I bought him a couple of beers. I told him of this new shipmate I met today that was a real sharp dresser, fine dancer and best of all he liked boys that dressed as girls. Since this new shipmate was just up the street, I offered to pay this guys bar fine so that I may introduce them. The light had come on for my shipmate and Momma sans mouth is probably still hanging open to this day as we left the 1622 heading for Pearlas.

Now when I say this boy was good looking I mean he was the type that if you didn’t know what he was even a seasoned veteran could get into deep trouble. He was pretty. As we seated ourselves at Disco Chief’s table his mouth was open and speaking came in fits and spurts. I introduced them and bought some beers. My little boy took an immediate liking to Disco and quickly moved in for some action. Disco got this smug look on his face as he looked my way. I just gave him that ‘You the Man’ look and eased back for the show. Several dances later Disco was becoming very familiar with my little boy and couldn’t keep his hands to himself. By the flush of his cheeks, knew my little friend was having some containment problems of his own. Catching my shipmate’s eye, I nodded toward the door. We just about made it all the way out before the fight broke out at Disco’s table. I can’t even begin to guess who grabbed who by the dick first but the end result was the same. Over the shoulder, I caught Disco Chiefs eye as he was going down for the second time. Man, I had no idea that little girlie boy was such a tough customer but he was doing a fine job whipping Disco’s ass with his high heeled shoes.

As we made our way to the Barrio I was thinking, Quarters tomorrow morning was going to be interesting at best for this guy didn’t know it yet but Mac was in the enginehouse.

THE FINAL INSPECTION

~Author Unknown~

This was written for a soldier.  I took license and rewrote it for a sailor.

Garland

The Sailor stood and faced God,

Which must always come to pass.

He hoped his shoes were shining,

Just as brightly as his brass.

‘Step forward now, Sailor,

How shall I deal with you?

Have you always turned the other cheek?

To My Church have you been true?’

The soldier squared his shoulders and said,

‘No, Lord, I guess I ain’t.

Because those of us who crew warships,

Can’t always be a saint.

I’ve had to work most Sundays,

And at times my talk was tough.

And sometimes I’ve been violent,

Because the world is awfully rough.

But I never took a penny

That wasn’t mine to keep.

Though I worked a lot of overtime,

When the bills just got too steep.
And I never passed a cry for help,

Though at times I shook with fear.

And sometimes, God, forgive me,

I’ve wept unmanly tears.

I know I don’t deserve a place,

Among the people here.

They never wanted me around,

Except to calm their fears.

If you’ve a place for me here, Lord,

It needn’t be so grand. 

I never expected or had too much,

But if you don’t, I’ll understand.

There was a silence all around the throne,

Where the saints had often trod.

As the Sailor waited quietly,

For the judgment of his God.

‘Step forward now, you Sailor,

You’ve borne your burdens well.

Walk peacefully on Heaven’s streets,

You’ve done your time in Hell.’

The Silver Plated Coffee Pot

by Bob ‘Dex’ Armstrong
Officers ate forward… The animals chowed down aft… It was always like that.

The wardroom was a picture of decorum… Civility… Cloth napkins… China with little blue anchors on the rim… Nice silver and a silver plated coffee service. Nobody put their elbows on the table… Conversation was low-key, polite and intellectual on multiple levels. Emily Post would have felt right at home.

It wasn’t like that aft.

We ate off Pyrex plates, using stainless utensils that had been bent all to hell opening crates, boxes and varnish cans. We sat on padded potato lockers and didn’t give a damn where you put your elbows. As long as you didn’t park your boots in the mashed potatoes, you were okay. Nothing was off-limits when it came to table conversation… It was usually informative, disgusting and would have shut down a Sunday school picnic. Farmers talked about lancing bovine boils… Guys coming off liberty would expound on car wreck carnage… Old veterans would go into great detail about stuff they had picked up from wayward damsels in faraway places. Ghengis Khan and Ivan the Terrible would have been right at home. Emily Post would have had a heart attack.

Nobody understood the concept of civility.

“Hey Mike, toss me a couple of gahdam biscuits.”

“You want butter?”

“Yeah, slide it down.”

“Jeezus Christ Dex, how many pork chops you think you can get on that plate? You forget you have shipmates?”

“Look who’s talkin’. I seem to remember last night, you took enough meatloaf to fill the forward hold on Mother Onion.”

“Hey Jack, you gonna hog the spuds all night?”

“Pass the damn beans.”

And so it went. Red-blooded American bluejackets miles from the civilizing influence of the gentle sex. Who, when left on their own, reverted to the primitive ways of their Viking ancestors.

One thing smoke boat boys never forgot. We had the best mashed potatoes anyone ever turned out. The Army and Marines might put up with spuds out of a box… Powdered crap… But not the smoke boat service. We always had real live, peel ’em spuds.  The mess cooks peeled ’em during movies… It was the only way a non-qual ever got to watch a movie…  And if the lads were in a good mood, you could pass out peelers and have a mass peeling session along with your shoot ’em up.

They served mountains of them…  Butter and great mashed potatoes.

We didn’t have a magic, Aladdin’s lamp silver plated coffee pot.  We had a contraption called a coffee urn…  Something akin to a pigmy water heater with a glass sight gauge that told you the closer you got to the bottom, the closer you got to roofing tar…  From roofing tar, you went directly to ‘bottom of the pot asphalt’.  You could stand a spoon up in after battery coffee.

The urn had a gravity drain that connected it directly to #2 sanitary tank wherein resided crew poop and rapidly decomposing head paper.  The line had a small gate valve and a couple of kick throws…  Failure to secure these little rascals before opening 225 lb. discharge air, allowed the charming contents of #2 to back up into the urn.  Maxwell House and percolated doo doo make for one helluva cup of coffee…  One of those fringe benefits of diesel boat submarining that Tom Clancy never shared with the lads he writes about.

Submarines carry folks called quartermasters…  Guys who dabble in occult sciences remotely related to establishing a ship’s position as related to God knows what.  These are men who worship at the altar of the LORAN god and who couldn’t find their ass with both hands and a flashlight.  Guys whose entire vocabulary consists of,

“Anyone got a clean white hat?  Me and the skipper are going up on the tender.”

But they had one thing on the rest of the animals…  They got to drink coffee poured from the silver plated coffee pot forward…  The marvelous device not connected to anything from which it could receive surprise gifts.

Quartermasters were sometimes invited to officer pow-wows and secret handshake meetings…  I was an E-3 and had no idea what they did other than drink coffee and spend a lot of time trying to figure out where we were.  We had a piece of equipment called a LORAN…  A device that was about as reliable as a cinder block when it came to determining our position.  The only difference between our LORAN and a Hindu tea leaf reader was that the LORAN didn’t steal oxygen.

The quartermasters and the officers used to study the charts…  Drink chicken blood…  Throw bones in the air and communicate with unseen spirits and something called the Naval Almanac…  The stars…  Wind direction…  Earth rotation…  Aunt Jemima…  Jeezus…   and use words like,

“We should be somewhere right about here…”

Hell, we should have been drinkin’ at Bells.

It had to be something that came out of that silver plated coffee pot because we always managed to find the international buoy…  The Chesapeake Lightship and the light on top of the Cavalier Hotel at Virginia Beach…  And once you could see that you knew you were only a couple of hours until you would be seeing that world-wide universal navigation beacon…  A neon sign that read,

‘BELLS BAR and NAVAL TAILORS’

And the old faded cardboard sign in the window…

‘Let BELLS put you in a new set of blues – Only $29.95 – Credit available – Just ask’

How many of you still had your ass mortgaged to Bells two years after you tossed those Bells ‘nut-huggin’ blues in the lucky bag?

On the old 481, navigation was less of a science and more of a community crap shoot, but somehow or another, we managed to find our way there and back…  Had to be that damn silver plated coffee pot.

If someone ever gives you a choice between a quartermaster and a seeing eye dog, do yourself a favor…  Stock up on dog biscuits and learn rudimentary bark.

They Sailed Among Us

By:  David McAllister

The AOE slipped her moors at NavMag, Bangor, WA and slid out into the cold gray waters of the Hood Canal. It was one of those typical days in the Pacific Northwest, haze gray and befitting for getting underway for yet another deployment to Westpac and the war that raged in the waters of the Tonkin Gulf. Overloaded, the ship was completely topped off with POL products, cargo refrigerated stores and ordinance to the extent that the bomb fins had to be deck loaded. As the ship glided through the placid waters, we were in fact destined for our first hostile encounter of the deployment. An encounter that would take place an ocean away from the South China Sea; an encounter not with foreigners but with our own countrymen, an encounter that would forever break the peacefulness and solitude of the Olympic Peninsula.

It was 1970 and I was returning to the United States after serving the last six years at sea in Westpac. Having been in the fight on many levels, I was also a returning veteran of the war in Vietnam. Luckily, I flew MAC from Tachikawa, Japan to Travis AFB so I missed the confrontations that were taking place at the commercial airports between returning vets and the war protestors. However, I did encounter the weirdly foreign (to me) Hari Krishna’s at the airport in San Diego, CA when I arrived there reporting for Air Conditioning and Refrigeration School. Although a culture shock, it was a minor one compared to what I found when I reported aboard my first, and what proved to be my last, stateside sea duty assignment – an AOE homeported in Bremerton WA.

This AOE had been built by Puget Sound Naval Shipyard and remained homeported out of Bremerton WA after commissioning. It was, at the time, the only ship homeported in the Pacific Northwest. Naturally, the shipyard workers and the citizens of Bremerton loved it and the boost it provided to an already declining logging economy. Meanwhile, Seattle, just a ferry ride across Puget Sound, was a hotbed for liberal antiwar protesting activity and the ship was constantly a target of their scorn.

I was used to serving aboard ships with crews of differing individuals united by a common cause and purpose – Mission. Within 24 hours of reporting aboard this ship, I realized this wasn’t what I was used to and as they say, I “Was not in Kansas anymore”. This crew was diametrically opposed forming two distinct groups: Them and Us. Them: Consisted mainly of young men with less than four years in the Navy. Their hatred for the Navy was eclipsed only by a particularly energetic and vocal disdain of the Vietnam War. Some of them actively participated in anti-war demonstrations while ashore in Seattle. We: Us older hands with more than one enlistment; most of which had been tested under fire and found to be tried, true and trustworthy souls. We were un-affectionately known as Lifers. Contention and dissension existed on a daily basis and we were at odds continuously. To me this seemed totally alien and unacceptable to my military mind and way of thinking which went something like: If I, as a second class, instruct you, as an FN, to do something and your response runs along any lines that included “Fuckin Lifer”, we are going to have a problem resulting in a counseling session and subsequent attitude adjustment behind the emergency switchboard.

Needless to say, it didn’t take long to whip the reefer gang into shape; however, others not under my guiding hand and within my sphere of influence remained unruly – especially one FN assigned to POL. His extremely outspoken belligerent behavior regarding the war won him constant attention and he was on all of us lifer’s radar screens and shit lists.

The ship was preparing for deployment and this element of dissension added yet another twist of an already hectic and compressed pre-deployment schedule. As the time drew near to our sail date several of the most boisterous, including POL FN, failed to return to the ship and were presumably swallowed up into the local Seattle hippie community. They provided critical information to the anti-war types ashore regarding the ships movements which resulted in demonstrations at pier 91 in Seattle while loading refrigerated cargo, Manchester, WA while topping off POL products and at Bangor during our ordinance load out.

While in Seattle the CO dispatched the Chief Master at Arms and a squad of ships soft hat shore patrol to pick up and press back into service as many of the deserters they could find. Since they all stuck out like sore dicks among the long-haired hippies, the majority of the missing were apprehended, brought back to the ship and placed in a restricted status under the watchful eye of the Master at Arms force. Although many were returned to the ship and as our sail date drew near still others returned voluntarily a few remained in hiding ashore including POL FN. It was learned through these returnees that the hippie communes were planning a final demonstration at and blockade of the Hood Canal Bridge in order to prevent our passage and subsequent deployment.

The morning before we sailed, all hands were mustered on the flight deck where the Old Man made it quite clear that: ‘His orders were to sail for the Western Pacific and the South China Sea in support of Naval units engaged in the war against North Vietnam and that no scraggly bunch of long haired hippies was going to stand in his way of the execution of those orders.

So as the ship stood out into the Hood canal’s narrow waters tensions ran high. When the Hood Canal Bridge came into view you could see both sides of the floating portion of the bridge crowded with sign-waving protesters, state police, and media types. The distance opened by the raised portion of the bridge for our passage was spanned by row boats, canoes and kayaks all linked together by ropes and lines. All manned by protesters dressed like Indians, as in Boston Tea Party style. Coast Guard small boats were trying, to no avail, to disperse the small craft from harm’s way. Having little success their frustrations ran high as this AOE fully loaded drawing 42 feet of water bore down upon them and they finally sought for their own safety.

The Old Man got up out of his chair on the bridge wing and walked into the enclosed bridge closing and dogging down the watertight door behind him. He informed the watch team that he had the Deck and the Conn and ordered material condition Zebra set throughout the ship and secured all topside spaces. With the maneuvering combination set, he ordered the lee helm to all ahead flank and steady as she goes were his orders to the helmsman. Fitted with two of the main engines destined for the never constructed battleship Kentucky, the ship was capable of 32 knots fully loaded and responded to the twenty-five-knot bell much faster than one would expect.

I have no idea what was going through the minds of those delusional idiots down in those row boats, canoes and kayaks attempting in vain to impede our forward progress but the bow wave alone capsized the first ones encountered and the remainder being lashed to one another fell helplessly along the port and starboard sides. As they were being dragged along at speeds that their small craft were not designed for, many pearled out of control and nosedived into oblivion while others managing to free themselves from the others but could not escape the powerful drag of the ship and slip streamed along shouting obscenities while trying to escape to safety. The Coast Guard’s mission now turned into one of rescue and recovery while the so-called safely ensconced protesters on the bridge got a taste of what sea legs are for as the ships wake sent the floating portion of the bridge into motions no one was expecting.

Meanwhile, I was not going to miss any of this shit. I ran aft. Finding the sounding and security watch I relieved him of the watch; with his duty belt and sounding tape I was making best speed for the fantail. Although the weather decks and topside spaces were secured you could sneak out on the fantail located under the flight deck relatively unnoticed; besides as sounding and security, I had business there. From there I had a good vantage point to observe the above-mentioned encounter. I was leaning over the side yelling my own obscenities, flipping off the enemy as they slipped on by while throwing dogging wrenches, fire station spanners and whatever else I could find at them.

Luckily I saw the grappling hook and ducked before it caught a lucky grip on the bulwark behind which I took refuge. Peering over the side I spotted two idiots in a canoe that by the looks on their Indian painted faces had no idea what they were going to do with this ship they had just caught by sheer shit house luck. The speed of the ship quickly pulled the rope taught jerking the No. 1 idiot holding on to it out of the canoe and into the drink. The canoe with idiot No. 2 was lost hopelessly in the wash of the ships gigantic wheels. Meanwhile, idiot No. 1 surfaced and with a death grip was still fast to the rope. As his head came above water through all the spitting, choking, sputtering and war paint I thought I recognized the face of POL FN.

With idiot No.1 in obvious extremis and for lack of anything better to do, I took out my buck knife and reached over the side and cut the rope setting him free to be consumed by the roiling backwash of the ships rooster tail. For a split second, I almost felt bad but then when his pointed little head bobbed to the surface in the calmer waters of the wake all thoughts of that left my mind. As I stepped back into the ship the real sounding and security watch greeted me. While handing him back his gear, he said ‘Well! Don’t you look like the cat that just swallowed a bird?’ To which I replied ‘Nope, just finished flushing a turd’.

To this day I don’t know for sure if that was POL FN or not. I know he never returned to the ship and was ultimately declared a deserter during time of war. If it was him, he escaped disaster that day and for all I know is alive and well in Canada somewhere; he along with his brothers in dissension all never to be forgiven by me.

War protestors, yes they sailed among us but were not ever considered shipmates.

My Dog’s Plan of the Day

By: Garland Davis

I wrote this four or five years ago about a dog who was my best friend.  He is no longer with us, but I like to think that his spirit walks with another dog and me each morning.

0400-Hold reveille on the Guy so he can guzzle four cups of that foul smelling coffee before taking him for his morning walk.

NOTE: Best way to hold reveille is to jump on his bed and place your nose about a half inch from his.  The minute he opens his eyes start licking like crazy.  Drives him nuts. END NOTE

0405-Take before walk Nap.

0530-Stretch and start reminding the Guy that it is almost time for his walk.  Do this by sitting and staring at him and periodically move closer to him.

0600-Take the Guy for walk

0605-Go back to the house. The Guy forgot the pick-up-crap bags.

0610- Resume interrupted walk and begin the search for anything that smells like it needs to be pissed on.

0630-Take a crap and wrap the leash around the Guy’s legs while he is trying to pick it up.

0635-Go the route you have decided upon.  Disregard the Guy’s input.

0710-Return home. Sniff the butt of the other dog in the house.  She may have come into heat.

0730-Have breakfast.

0731-Have the other dog’s breakfast.  If you snooze you lose.

0731-Lick the places where that bitch bit me.  Lick my dick while I am at it.

0732-Drink water. Dribble it all over the hardwood floors.

0735-Take after breakfast nap.

0900- Get up turn around and settle down for before lunch nap. Take this nap under his desk while he tries to write.  Pass gas when necessary.

1100-Remind the Guy that it is time for Doggie Treat Lunch.  Eat

1119-Go out in the yard and whiz.  Check the other dog again. Could heat up any minute.  Ever vigilant.

1130-Take after lunch nap.

1430-Take the Guy for his afternoon walk.

1445-Take before dinner nap.

1700-Dinner.  Don’t eat.  That drives the Guy crazy.

1715-Take after dinner nap.

1800- Sit and stare at the guy for fifteen minutes.  He goes insane trying to figure what I want.  He finally offers me cheese.  That’s what I wanted.

1900-Take the Guy for his evening walk.

1915-Take after evening walk nap.

2000-Play with the Guy.  Even if he doesn’t want to.

2015-Do the sit and stare thing again.  More cheese.

2030-Taps.  It has been a rough day.

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

Sea Stories

By:  Garland Davis

There is a story that inventor Thomas Edison was a great practical joker.  Edison smoked cigars and was exasperated by a colleague who would smoke his cigars.  He decided to order a box of cigars from a Tijuana company.  He ordered the cigars to be made of five percent tobacco and ninety-five percent horseshit.

A few weeks after ordering the cigars, he called and asked when could he expect them to be delivered.  The Mexican Company responded by saying, “We delivered them three weeks ago.”

Evidently Edison had smoked them himself.  He told a friend, “You know those weren’t bad.  Maybe I will order more.”

That is about the truth quotient of sea stories.  About five percent truth and ninety-five percent horseshit. The truth has been diluted to the point that it is only visible with a pair of “Big Eyes.”

Sea stories are like fish stories.  It must have something to do with water.  Water is the determining factor.  Sailors sail on the water and fabricate some of the damnedest tales ever told about their exploits, both afloat and ashore.  Fishermen catch fish in water and tell tales about the, “One I caught last year” or “The one that got away yesterday.”

I expect a sailor who is a fisherman is the biggest damned liar who ever came near a body of water.

SIDEBAR: I have been known to spin a yarn, both orally and in writing, from time to time.  I add this disclaimer.  I hereby declare that all the stories I have told or written are the truth, no shit.  Neither my wife, dog, nor any shipmates (well maybe a few), are to be blamed for any story I have told. END SIDEBAR

I have been asked, “What’s it to you?  You writing a God damned book?”

“Maybe someday.  Who knows?”

“Well leave this chapter out.”

Nah.  Who gives a crap about reading stuff about a tribe of sea going idiots?  No one would believe it.  Once upon a time, I lived among people who volunteered to leave civilized society for months on end to go float around on various oceans training to fight a war with old rusty worn out ships in some of the most uncomfortable living spaces, monotonous food, eighteen hour workdays in conditions that would cause massive strokes and heart attacks at OSHA headquarters for less money than your little brother’s allowance.  Who’d want to read shit like that.

It was also good to live among men who were right where they wanted to be… Nobody chloroformed them and hauled them off to San Diego or Great Lakes. They never received the dreaded letter from the Selective Service Board. They volunteered. Every damned one. Most of the world didn’t even know they were there. They lived in ships.  Little primitive, and some not so little, communities of the finest men I’ve ever known.  Men who lived in metal containers and took them to sea. Maybe there is a story in there somewhere.

Perhaps, I’ll attempt to write it someday.

Action of Second Continental Congress,
July 4, 1776.
The unanimous Declaration of the thirteen United States of America,

WHEN in the Course of human Events, it becomes necessary for one People to dissolve the Political Bands which have connected them with another, and to assume among the Powers of the Earth, the separate and equal Station to which the Laws of Nature and of Nature’s God entitle them, a decent Respect to the Opinions of Mankind requires that they should declare the causes which impel them to the Separation.

WE hold these Truths to be self-evident, that all Men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty, and the Pursuit of Happiness—That to secure these Rights, Governments are instituted among Men, deriving their just Powers from the Consent of the Governed, that whenever any form of Government becomes destructive of these Ends, it is the Right of the People to alter or to abolish it, and to institute new Government, laying its Foundation on such Principles, and organizing its Powers in such form, as to them shall seem most likely to effect their Safety and Happiness. Prudence, indeed, will dictate that Governments long established should not be changed for light and transient Causes; and accordingly all Experience hath shewn, that Mankind are more disposed to suffer, while Evils are sufferable, than to right themselves by abolishing the forms to which they are accustomed. But when a long Train of Abuses and Usurpations, pursuing invariably the same Object, evinces a Design to reduce them under absolute Despotism, it is their Right, it is their Duty, to throw off such Government, and to provide new Guards for their future Security. Such has been the patient Sufferance of these Colonies; and such is now the Necessity which constrains them to alter their former Systems of Government. The History of the present King of Great-Britain is a History of repeated Injuries and Usurpations, all having in direct Object the Establishment of an absolute Tyranny over these States. To prove this, let Facts be submitted to a candid World.

He has refused his Assent to Laws, the most wholesome and necessary for the public Good.

He has forbidden his Governors to pass Laws of immediate and pressing Importance, unless suspended in their Operation till his Assent should be obtained; and when so suspended, he has utterly neglected to attend to them.

He has refused to pass other Laws for the Accommodation of large Districts of People, unless those People would relinquish the Right of Representation in the Legislature, a Right inestimable to them, and formidable to Tyrants only.

He has called together Legislative Bodies at Places unusual, uncomfortable, and distant from the Depository of their public Records, for the sole Purpose of fatiguing them into Compliance with his Measures.

He has dissolved Representative Houses repeatedly, for opposing with manly Firmness his Invasions on the Rights of the People.

He has refused for a long Time, after such Dissolutions, to cause others to be elected; whereby the Legislative Powers, incapable of Annihilation, have returned to the People at large for their exercise; the State remaining in the mean time exposed to all the Dangers of Invasion from without, and Convulsions within.

He has endeavoured to prevent the Population of these States; for that Purpose obstructing the Laws for Naturalization of foreigners; refusing to pass others to encourage their Migrations hither, and raising the Conditions of new Appropriations of Lands.

He has obstructed the Administration of Justice, by refusing his assent to Laws for establishing Judiciary Powers.

He has made Judges dependent on his Will alone, for the Tenure of their Offices, and the Amount and Payment of their Salaries.

He has erected a Multitude of new Offices, and sent hither Swarms of Officers to harrass our People, and eat out their Substance.

He has kept among us, in Times of Peace, Standing Armies, without the consent of our Legislatures.

He has affected to render the Military independent of and superior to the Civil Power.

He has combined with others to subject us to a Jurisdiction foreign to our Constitution, and unacknowledged by our Laws; giving his Assent to their Acts of pretended Legislation:

For quartering large Bodies of Armed Troops among us:

For protecting them, by a mock Trial, from Punishment for any Murders which they should commit on the Inhabitants of these States:

For cutting off our Trade with all Parts of the World:

For imposing Taxes on us without our Consent:

For depriving us, in many Cases, of the Benefits of Trial by Jury:

For transporting us beyond Seas to be tried for pre-tended Offences:

For abolishing the free System of English Laws in a neighbouring Province, establishing therein an arbitrary Government and enlarging its Boundaries, so as to render it at once an Example and fit Instrument for introducing the same absolute Rule into these Colonies:

For taking away our Charters, abolishing our most valuable Laws, and altering fundamentally the forms of our Governments:

For suspending our own Legislatures, and declaring themselves invested with Power to legislate for us in all Cases whatsoever.

He has abdicated Government here, by declaring us out of his Protection and waging War against us.

He has plundered our Seas, ravaged our Coasts, burnt our Towns, and destroyed the Lives of our People.

He is, at this Time, transporting large Armies of foreign Mercenaries to compleat the Works of Death, Desolation, and Tyranny already begun with circumstances of Cruelty and Perfidy, scarcely paralleled in the most barbarous Ages, and totally unworthy of the Head of a civilized Nation.

He has constrained our fellow Citizens taken Captive on the high Seas to bear Arms against their Country, to become the Executioners of their friends and Brethren, or to fall themselves by their Hands.

He has excited domestic Insurrections amongst us, and has endeavoured to bring on the Inhabitants of our Frontiers, the merciless Indian Savages, whose known Rule of Warfare, is an undistinguished Destruction, of all Ages, Sexes and Conditions.

In every stage of these Oppressions we have Petitioned for Redress in the most humble Terms: Our repeated Petitions have been answered only by repeated Injury. A Prince, whose Character is thus marked by every act which may define a Tyrant, is unfit to be the Ruler of a free People.

Nor have we been wanting in Attentions to our British Brethren. We have warned them from Time to Time of Attempts by their Legislature to extend an unwarrantable jurisdiction over us. We have reminded them of the Circumstances of our Emigration and Settlement here. We have appealed to their native justice and Magnanimity, and we have conjured them by the Ties of our common Kindred to disavow these Usurpations, which, would inevitably interrupt our Connections and Correspondence. They too have been deaf to the Voice of Justice and of Consanguinity. We must, therefore, acquiesce in the Necessity, which denounces our Separation, and hold them, as we hold the rest of Mankind, Enemies in War, in Peace, Friends.

We, therefore, the Representatives of the UNITED STATES OF AMERICA, in General Congress, Assembled, appealing to the Supreme Judge of the World for the Rectitude of our Intentions, do, in the Name, and by Authority of the good People of these Colonies, solemnly Publish and Declare, That these United Colonies are, and of Right ought to be, FREE AND INDEPENDENT STATES, that they are absolved from all Allegiance to the British Crown, and that all political Connection between them and the State of Great-Britain, is and ought to be totally dissolved; and that as FREE AND INDEPENDENT STATES, they have full Power to levy War, conclude Peace, contract Alliances, establish Commerce, and to do all other Acts and Things which INDEPENDENT STATES may of right do. And for the support of this Declaration, with a firm Reliance on the Protection of divine Providence, we mutually pledge to each other our Lives, our fortunes, and our sacred Honor.

An old Southern gospel song:

Thank God for the U.S.A.

By:  Albert E. Brumley

In a world that is drifting and changing
When the faith of the people is torn
There’s a nation of hope and of freedom
Where the sons of courage are born
It’s the land of the Star Spangle Banner
Tis a nation as fair as the day
Thank God for the land born of freedom
Thank God for the U.S.A.

Thank God for the U.S.A.
Land of the brave and true
Thank God for the true American way
For the stars and the red white and blue

Thank God for the land we love
Life and our liberty
Thank God for the right to be an American
Thank God for the U.S.A.

To our almighty father in heaven
To the One who ranks higher than all
May He lead may He guide us and keep us
By His grace we never shall fall
For the stars and the stripes of Old Glory
Let us humbly earnestly pray
Thank God for the land born of freedom
Thank God for the U.S.A.

Thank God for the U.S.A.
Land of the brave and true
Thank God for the true American way
For the stars and the red white and blue

Thank God for the land we love
Life and our liberty
Thank God for the right to be an American
Thank God for the U.S.A.

Chipping Paint

By:  Garland Davis

It was the fall of sixty-two.  I had just finished a one-year hiatus at NAS Lemoore.  It was a new base and they hijacked a group of us out of boot camp for a one-year special shore duty tour.  That meant they needed mess cooks and coop cleaners.  I did manage to get into the galley as a cook striker.  It just meant that it took a year longer getting to the real Navy.

I remember walking down the pier at Triple A Shipyard in San Francisco with my seabag on my shoulder looking at the USS Vesuvius AE-15.  Thus began my illustrious Naval career.  I was a little short of Admiral Lord Nelson, Captain John Paul Jones, or Admiral Halsey.  I was more on a par with Popeye the Sailor and the Cracker Jack kid.  Some of the best years of my life.

I had hoped for a sleek Destroyer or a stately Heavy Cruiser, but I wasn’t that disappointed.  She was gray and she had guns.  Looked like Navy to me.  I correctly recalled the proper method of boarding a ship.  The OOD took my package, annotated my orders and had the Messenger lead me to the Ship’s Office.  A short time later a BM1 with a Master At Arms Badge came and led me away to the Deck and Operations berthing.  He told me that I would be in First Division, to unpack, stow my locker, get into dungarees and report to him on the main deck forward of the superstructure.  Doing this, I ended up in a gear locker with a chipping hammer trying to chip many layers of paint off the bulkhead while another sailor was chipping one of the other bulkheads.  I am amazed that I can still hear after that afternoon.

I managed to convince the command that I was more valuable in the bake shop and galley than I was chipping paint and pulling lines and shortly afterward ended up in the Galley and not too long afterward was advanced to CS3.  It only got better from there.

Since I retired things haven’t always gone well with me.  It doesn’t matter how much I tried, I still have the vocabulary of a lower level hole snipe with crotch rot and the crabs. I broke the habit of carrying smokes in my sock and then lived long enough to give up the habit.

I still like to drink beer.  And I really love to do it in the cheapest dive I can find usually with an over the hill bar hog begging me to buy her a drink.

I no longer yell, “Put some metal in the pneumonia hole!” when someone leaves a door open.  I still drink my coffee black, hot, warm, lukewarm, morning, noon, and night.  I like it dark and strong.  I have lived for days of rough weather on whatever we could put together and black coffee.

I do my damnedest to keep my mouth shut when visiting one of our old ships that have been turned into a museum while someone who never went to sea explains how they could do fifty knots and fire one hundred round per minute from each gun.  I just move along in the line with an amazed look on my face like the rest of the tourists.  I think that is the mellowing of old age and the fact that my wife has me saddle broke and pussy whipped.  Who cares?  It wouldn’t be any fun embarrassing some volunteer sea scout by making him look silly in public.  The kid is fine company when you think back over the list of liars, bullshit artists and third-degree horse shit weavers the Far East Fleet produced over the years.

I still get a little misty when I hear “Anchors Away” or smell fresh baking cinnamon rolls.  Every now and then I tell a civilian to “get squared away”, or “Pop the Son of a Bitch between the running lights.”  They look at me strangely.

When it is really hot, I can see Bob Burns coming up out of the Engine Room soaked with sweat and saying, “It’s hotter than two mice fucking in a wool sock.”  My neighbor’s daughters know that two mice in a wool sock means hot.  I never told them what the mice were up to.

I still sleep spread out to keep from rolling out of my rack in rough weather. I really miss the awesome spectacle and the majesty of really heavy weather.  The roller coaster ride, the rolling, and pitching.  That was the closest I ever got to God.  He knew it and so did I.

I always know where my glasses and my pants are in case we go to General Quarters.

I am a creature of habit.  The after CPO Berthing on USS Reeves was cold enough to hang meat.  Now I cannot sleep without extreme air conditioning.  My wife has taken to sleeping in the guest bedroom.  She says she cannot sleep in a reefer.

Most of all, I miss the guys who lived through it with me.  I missed meeting a shipmate in a passageway and being greeted with, “Dave, did your mama have any kids that lived?”

Or,

“Dave, don’t take this personally, but you are one ugly bastard.”

Or,

“Dave, do you get along with your wife’s seeing eye dog?  She must be blind if she married your ugly ass.”

And, there were twenty-eight more years and seven other ships.  There were fourteen years in Japan or homeported there and there were three WestPac cruises out of Pearl Harbor.

And, suddenly, it seemed, it all came to a halt.

Once each year I muster with some old shipmates in Branson, MO. A bunch of ex-sailors, some of the best people a person could ever be privileged to call shipmate.  Men who are almost, if not more, deranged than I am and we live that life again in the stories, half-truths, and outright lies.

And it all began with me chipping the paint off a bulkhead in a deck force gear locker.