Three Peckered Billy Goat

By Robert “Okie Bob” Layton

My service on Guam was up. I was transferred back to the United States with orders to report ADJ “A” school NATTC Memphis in November. I also learned that I was selected for promotion to 3rd class ADJ3.

I arrived back in the states on the 18 October 1968 eager to get married. On the 23 October I grabbed my girlfriend jumped in my 56 Chevy and headed on out for Gainesville Texas to get hitched.

There is an old saying around these parts about sex and newlyweds. It goes something like this:

“On the day you get married put a bean-jar by the bed. For the first year of married life put a bean into the jar every time you have sex. After your first wedding anniversary, take out a bean every time you have sex. The bean jar will never be emptied in your lifetime”

Being young, dumb, and full of lust. I was going to try my hardest to fill that jar up before that One year timer went off.

After a quick honeymoon, then staying with kin folks,it was hard to find the solitude necessary for my matrimony quest. I was ready for some privacy so as to get working on that bean jar.

Just 20 years old I was in my prime and Horney as a Three peckered Billy goat!!

We packed everything we owned in the 56 Chevy and headed toward Memphis. I was really lucky and found a room in a large very old mansion in Munford, Tennessee, a little small town just north of Memphis.

The old Manson looked like it was built in the 1860’s, it had that style of architecture. My new wife and I lived in the servants quarters located in the rear of the house. It was a one room affair, with a small kitchen and table with a queen size feather bed.

My wife wasn’t a June bride but she qualified for that old saying! [Hotter than a June bride in a feather bed]. So between the Billy goat quest, and feather bed we were aiming on making good—filling that bean jar!

There was just one problem.

We was living in a haunted house, and the old woman who owned the house and lived in the house with us, –was “bat shit” crazy!

We started to notice the craziness of our landlord the first night we moved in. After getting all unpacked my newlywed and me were just starting to go to bed when—- in walks Misses Puryear, unannounced, catching us in the most compromising position!

She wanted to know if we had the water running.

She said “I can hear the water running.”

I said “It wasn’t us.”

“You are not running up my water bill like you had last month.” She screeched

Last month?

I didn’t know how to reply to that.

I thought—- Hell I was on Guam last month!! I had only been here in the house a couple of hours I just chocked it off to the previous tenants maybe she thought I was them, so I let it go. How wrong I was!!

That was just a beginning of a nightly visitation from her.

She would always walk in, never knock, just appear and start talking—— this old broad was frigging spooky!!

One night she walked in and demanded that I quit scratching on the walls!

Another night she claimed I was outside her bedroom talking loudly in the hall.

Another night she claimed I was up stairs walking about, and moving furniture around.

Within the first week I was ready to move the heck out! I just didn’t have the money to move, so I was resigned to tuff it out for three more weeks.

The nightly visits from her kept on like clockwork, added to that was our own observation of nightly mysterious noises and commotions coming from different parts of the house, plus ghostly glances of misty looking motions at the door ways. This bizarre accommodation was getting intense.

Old Lady Puryear seemed to be Ok at times, but when the sun went down she would morph into some kind of a witch. Her Jekyll and Hyde personality, would swing from a pleasant charming little old lady, to an agitated emotional wailing banshee!

It all came to a head the second week.

I had come home from school and had just sat down for supper when I get a knock on my door. It was the Tipton county Sheriff behind him peering around his shoulder was Old lady Puryear.

“Mister Layton?” he asked.

“Yes sir.”

“Mister Layton I need to talk to you,” He said vehemently.

I was at loss, for I had committed no crime.

“Ok,” I said.

“Let’s go outside,” he suggested.

I follow him out to the big open lawn in the front of the house. We stopped about halfway to the street. The sheriff turns to me facing the house.

“Mister Layton don’t worry you are not in any trouble.”

“Thank god,” I replied.

“I’m going to put on a show for Misses Puryear to see, so don’t pay any attention to my finger pointing. and arm waving understand?” he gestured.

“Yes sir,” I nodded.

“Misses Puryear called my office, she said you were giving secrets to the Yankees,” he said.

“The who,” I exclaimed.

“You Know the North the Yankees,” He said.

“I don’t know what you are talking about,” I said

“I know ,I know that was a hundred years ago,” shaking his head side to side

“Let me explain.”

“Her father was a confederate Cavalry Officer with Nathan Forrest during the civil war, and she has these spells that she is in the civil war.”

I was standing there with my mouth open– flabbergasted while he was jabbing his finger at me–telling me this weird story.

“Wow,” I uttered

Inside the house the old woman was peeking thru the drapes looking at us.

The Sheriff said “She has done this before. To keep her from calling every five minutes I come out and do a show for her.”

“I have notified her son who lives in Nashville. I think she has gotten to the point that she has entered this fantasy world and is stuck in it.”

“Really,” I say.

“Any way he is on his way to have her put in a rest home.”

“I’m sorry about this but we will need you to move!”

“Well I don’t object to that.” I remarked

“Here is what I got for you Mister Layton. On the west side of town I know some people who have an old airstream trailer, the rent is 35 dollars a month.”

“That would be great we was wanting to move at the end of the month anyway.” I said

“Problem is—– I don’t have the 35 dollars to spare now” I added

“If I could get half of this month rent back [25 dollars] I would leave now,” I further stated.

“Let me see what I can do,” He said.

The Sheriff leaves goes back into the house with Old lady Puryear. He comes back out hands me 25 dollars. I go inside get my wife and we both come out, the Sheriff takes us over to the Trailer. We came back, pack up and were out of there before dark.

I had my 56 Chevy pulled up to the back side of the old house. Just as we were pulling out for the last time, old lady Puryear came running out to the car.

“Mister Layton will you tell those men to leave please?” she begged.

“What men?” I ask.

“The ones under the house disconnecting my water pipes,” she replied. She had this sincere pleading look on her face!

Taking an example from the Sheriff.

I get out of the car walk to the side of the building, bend down at the crawl space opening that went under the house.

I loudly yelled out, “You men get on out there now— Yawl hear—Yawl leave her pipes alone.”

I turn to old lady Puryear, she was a beaming, convinced that the problem was acknowledged and resolved.

She said in a very kind sweet southern Drawl, “Thank You Mister Layton.” She then turned and contentedly went into the house.

Our move into the trailer went smoothly. We had packed everything up including our supper still warm in the slow cooker. And wouldn’t you know it——We had Beans for supper!

Okie Bob

As for the bean jar let’s just say there were enough left over after my divorce to plant a 5 acre garden!!

The Navy Didn’t Prepare Me for Technology

By Garland Davis

I know in the past I have had problems with new technology. There was the time I bought the Taser for my wife and decided to test it by zapping myself on the leg. After all it only used two of those little triple A batteries. It only took me a couple of weeks to regain control of my bladder and to stop pissing down my leg. I still dribble a bit every time my wife uses the microwave oven. The hand tremors are pretty much gone and only bother me during lightning storms.

But that wasn’t a new experience with electricity. It pretty much mirrored the effects of testing the electric fence I installed to prevent my grandmother’s cow from getting out. How was I to know that for such a little enclosure the small unit would have been sufficient instead of the unit designed for forty acres that I bought? Although, I only pissed down my leg infrequently after that experience and the tremors didn’t last as long as they have with the Taser. That experience reminds me of what they used to say about me when I was growing up. “You can’t tell that boy anything. He’s one a them that just has to piss on the electric fence.”

Then there was the time I almost asphyxiated myself testing my wife’s Pepper Spray. I was careful with the spray. To prevent spraying myself, I closed the shower curtain, stuck my hand with the canister of spray into the shower and let loose a protracted burst, it floated over the top of the curtain, right into my face. I regained consciousness with the dog licking my hand and barking at me. My vision returned by time to go to work Monday morning. But everything I ate for a week tasted like it had been prepared with Chipotle peppers.

But that is all in the past.

Recently, this asshole who lives next door has been complaining about my dogs barking. I told him they wouldn’t bark if he kept that snotty, stuck up cat in his yard. It comes over and looks through the window until the dogs begin barking then lays down on the window sill and licks its privates. Drives the dogs crazy.

But knowing that cats cannot be controlled, I knew that I had to take measures to stop the dogs barking. I went to the computer and researched methods to control dogs barking. One suggestion was to spray water in their face and say “Quiet” when they barked. That wasn’t feasible because there usually wasn’t anyone home with the dogs during the day.

Another suggestion was an electric collar that would zap them when they barked. After my experiences with electricity I immediately nixed that idea.

I found a humane citronella collar on Amazon. When the dog barks the collar shoots a gentle blast of citronella under the dog’s nose. They don’t like it and stop barking. I was home alone with the dogs the morning the collars arrived. I followed the instructions and filled them with citronella and nervously inserted the batteries. I get that way around anything dealing with electricity. I have watched numerous reruns of Ducktales because I am scared shitless of the TV remote and cannot bring myself to touch it. The TV runs twenty-four hours a day. If we ever lose power, that should turn it off and I guess I’ll stop watching Ducktales.

This is where my morning should have ended but , of course, I couldn’t let it. I decided to test a collar before putting them on the dogs. I held it up by my mouth and barked like a dog. Nothing Happened! I reread the instructions, nervously looked at the batteries again, and barked again. Nothing Happened!

I’m not quite sure why. I shouldn’t have had the next thought, but I did; I put the collar around my neck, fastened it and positioned the growl box against my throat. I barked! Apparently, the collar works when it feels vibrations from the dog’s throat. I immediately received a blast of citronella to the face. This caused me to start coughing.

Holy Mother of God!

Every time I coughed it gave me another shot of citronella. The collar continued to squirt citronella into my nasal cavity. I’m on my hands and knees in my back yard, coughing and trying to breath while the dogs are barking at the cat and the neighbor is rolling in his driveway laughing outrageously.

While all this is happening, I am furiously scrabbling to unhook the fucking collar, which seems to have welded itself shut from around my neck. I finally got the collar off and flung it across the backyard at the cat. I lay in the grass sucking in the cool fresh air. In the middle of thinking this is the dumbest thing I have done recently, I hear my neighbor go into another paroxysm of laughter. He was laughing so hard he was having a harder time breathing than I was. He finally said, “I was gonna come to help, but every time I started over the fence you would set it off again and I would start laughing again and I couldn’t make it.”

I learned a lesson; Technology and I are non-compatible. Also, don’t depend on neighbors for help in a comedic emergency.

On the plus side, the mosquitos haven’t bothered me since the incident.

Asia Sailor’s Rules

By: Garland Davis

The following rules are promulgated to guide the societal actions of the Asia Sailor:

1. Under no circumstances may an Asia Sailor share an umbrella with another man
2. An Asia Sailor may cry ONLY under the following circumstances:
3. When a heroic dog dies to save its master.
4. The moment Salena Gomez starts unbuttoning her blouse.
5. At the decommissioning of a proud old ship.
6. At the final memorial for a shipmate.
7. An Asia Sailor may legally kill anyone who brings a camera to a party in the Barrio.
8. Unless he murdered someone in the Asia Sailor’s family. The Asia Sailor must bail a shipmate out of jail within twelve hours.
9. An Asia Sailor’s shipmate’s daughter or sister is off limits unless he actually marries her.
10. An Asia Sailor must never complain about the brand of free beer in a shipmate’s fridge. However, bitching is permissible if the temperature of said beer is unsuitable.
11. No Asia Sailor shall ever be required to buy a birthday present for another man.
12. On a road trip, the Asia Sailor with the strongest bladder determines pit stops, not the LantFlt Yeoman with the weakest bladder.
13. An Asia Sailor stumbling upon a shipmate watching a sporting event, may ask the score of the game but never ask who is playing.
14. There is never a valid reason for an Asia Sailor to watch men’s ice skating or men’s gymnastics. Ever! However, watching Michelle Wie play golf is permissible.
15. It is permissible for an Asia Sailor to drink a fruity alcohol beverage only when it is MOJO and he is sunning on a tropical beach in Barrio Barretto, and the beverage is prepared and delivered by a topless LBFM and only if another Asia Sailor paid for it.
16. An Asia Sailor always accepts free drinks.
17. Only in situations of moral and or physical peril is an Asia sailor permitted to kick another man in the nuts.
18. Asia Sailors never wear Speedos and never lets a shipmate do so. This issue is closed.
19. If another sailor’s fly is unzipped, that’s his problem. An Asia Sailor doesn’t notice such things.
20. Female sailors who claim to be Asia Sailors are to be treated as spies until they demonstrate the ability to pull a Seventy-Two in the Barrio and drink as much San Miguel as the Male Asia Sailor.
21. When an Asia Sailor compliments a shipmate on his six-pack, of course, he is talking about the beer the shipmate is carrying.
22. An Asia Sailor talking to a hot suggestively dressed LBFM in a club must always have enough Pesos for the Bar Pine.
23. An Asia Sailor never hesitates to reach for the last San Miguel or the last stick of Monkey Meat, but not both, that is just greedy.
24. An Asia Sailor never joins his wife or girlfriend in discussing a shipmate, unless she is withholding sex pending his response.
25. An Asia Sailor never talks to another man in the head unless they are on equal footing (i.e., both urinating, both waiting in line, etc.). For all other situations, only an almost imperceptible nod is appropriate.
26. An Asia Sailor never lets a telephone conversation with his wife or present shack up to go longer than he can have sex with her. Hang up when necessary.
27. The morning after an Asia Sailor and a female who was formerly “just a friend” have carnal, drunken, monkey sex and the fact that they are feeling weird and guilty is no reason not to nail each other again before the discussion occurs about what a big mistake it was.
28. It is acceptable for an Asia Sailor to drive a woman’s car. It is never acceptable for her to drive his.
29. An Asia Sailor never buys a brown, pink, lime green, orange, or sky blue car. Never!
30. A woman who replies to the question, “What do you want for Christmas?” with “If you love me, you will know what I want!” gets laid Christmas morning by her Asia Sailor. End of story.

We sincerely hope this clears up any confusion.

The Asia Sailor Westpac’rs Association, Ltd.

P.S. Add something about an Asia Sailor never rubbing sunblock on another dude!

To follow Tales of an Asia Sailor and get e-mail notifications of new posts, click on the three white lines in the red rectangle above, then click on the follow button.

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.

Proud to be a Snipe

By John Petersen

He was tired. Having spent the last six hours on watch as the lower-levelman in the aft engine room, swapping out main condensate pumps, shifting the main and aux lube oil strainers, cleaning the lube oil purifier, lighting off one SSTG then securing the other, opening this valve and closing that other one, aligning then securing the main eductor, backflushing the EVAP brine pump to keep it running clear, wiping the oil trails off the main and aux condensers, and so on and so forth, yep, he was tired.

Finally, his watch relief reluctantly saunters down the ladder, the turnover report is given, and he is more than happy to ascend that same ladder out of the hole. He knows that in another six hours he’ll be back down there, but that’s six hours away. Now it’s his time, time to get some grub, hit the ships store for something needed or not, grab a shower, and maybe some rack time. Yet he cannot simply fall asleep, not gonna happen. Will just lay there, maybe read a few too many pages of the Steven King or Gary Jennings novel he always keeps under his pillow, then insert two of the best old yellow earplugs he could find in his ditty drawer and hopefully drift off for a couple hours. Hopefully…

Just as he is embedded in a good, deep sleep, above the white noise of the ventilation fan in the overhead, that all to familiar sound over the 1MC, ‘General Quarters! General Quarters!’ Even through the over-used earplugs, this call comes through clear as day, and, tired as he is, he’s out and on deck fully clothed and battle ready, headed to his GQ station without hesitation. ‘Tis only a drill, yet there goes another sixty minutes of sleep. Back to his rack, hoping for no more interruptions for a couple hours.

He has the midwatch, and knowing he needs to be up at a certain hour sleep comes in fits. 2300 and he is wide awake, so why not take advantage of it? Dressed and on his feet, he’ll head to the mess decks to scarf down whatever is offered for midrats, sneak out the aft port hatch to the fantail for a quick smoke, then down to the pit for yet another six hours of engine room hell, his only hopes being the EOOW is in a good mood and someone had the good sense to fire up the mud rack, as coffee is the nectar of the Gods at that point. His only thought as he makes his rounds after the usual turnover is ‘this six on- six off shit sucks hind tit’. The order comes, yet again, for him to SICLOS the mains. Ugh.

0600, and properly relieved. Breakfast for the crew has been announced, he bolts yet again for the mess decks, needs those carbs badly. A quick shower, maybe a shave and a gratifying dumping of the guts, and now some serious two or three hours sleep! Scratch that, time to work on PQS quals, most assuredly a fire drill, berthing is now secured for field day, the list of things to do and to be done are endless. Next watch: 1200. On the list of things to come: ECCT drills for OPPE. OPPE, the snipes second worst nightmare, after REFTRA.

Finally, a liberty port, Subic. He can smell the change in the air through the ventilation as the ship nears Grande Island, very few ports have that certain aroma. The ship is finally tied up, switched to shore power, and what really hurts is that every other swingin’ dick who isn’t a snipe is headed down the brow, as engineering is always the last ones off and will be the first ones on. This is set in stone. Therefore, his time off the ship to partake in the fun and debauchery is limited and every minute is of the essence. True to Snipe fashion, he makes every minute count. The exchange rate is 21 to 1, he knows that a $20 will get him fed, drunk and bred with enough left over to grab some BBQ on the way back to his ship. Life is good, if only for a couple days. Those couple of days are a Godsend for him.

A few days inport, and then back to the same old routine.

The life of a Snipe is akin to the circle of life, the same thing day after day, night after night, to the point that he knows whether or not night is day or day is night. He lives mainly below decks, rarely see’s the shining of the Sun. His clock is either the 1MC or the messenger waking him. His body automatically knows when to be where he needs to be, his thought process becomes robotic. Yet he maintains his routine, for he is, after all, a Snipe. And damned proud to be one!

MM1 J. Petersen

Hap Hernandez, The Legend

By Jack Thomas

Hap is second from the left wearing the porkpie hat.

This story was related to me in the mid-80s by Capt. John Chamberlain, CNFJ COS, during a vigil at his quarters in Yokosuka while awaiting the arrival of Don O’Shea from the airport in Narita.

Incident at the Border crossing San Diego /Tijuana:

In the early ’60s, USS ARCHERFISH (AGSS-311) was operating out of San Diego. They were unique in that the entire crew was unmarried (single) and there was a several year waiting list of Submariners desiring duty on that boat. Archerfish was constantly deployed throughout the Eastern and Western Pacific.

One evening five enterprising crewmen, including future legend Hap Hernandez, decided to hit Tijuana for a night of debauchery. They drove one sailor’s car into Tijuana and Hap, as was his norm in Tijuana, rented a Mariachi band to follow them wherever they went and provide music.

Early in the evening, a discussion ensued as to when they were going to head back to San Diego because they were getting underway the next morning to provide target services for some DDs to do ASW exercises. The driver said if they cleared the border by 0730 he could get them back to Ballast Point by 0800, the expiration of liberty. That was greeted by cries of Bullshit but the driver insisted that he had done it before.

Finally, a $300 bet between Hap and the driver was agreed to. They headed back to the border crossing about 0700 and were in line shortly after that. The Border Patrol officer approached the vehicle and requested ID from everyone. Hap was in the middle of the back seat looking like a rotund Pancho Villa and he held both hands up and said, “No Hablo Ingles”.

The driver said, “Hap, show him your fucking ID card.”

Hap’s response was a shoulder shrug and, “No Hablo Ingles”.

The Border Police had them pull the car off to the side and herded everyone inside for further discussions. When it became obvious that there would be no way to get to Ballast Point by 0800 unless they flew Hap said “Oh, is this what you want to see?” as he pulled his wallet out.

The Border Police were pissed, but they let them go. They missed ship’s movement, of course, and enough money was scrounged up to pay the $300 bet. When the CPO Club opened about 1100 Hap put the $300 on the bar and said to drink it up. When Archerfish returned that afternoon one of the five went down to the pier to brief the C.O. and invite all hands to the CPO Club for a party.

There was no report, of course.

Just one more story in the legend that became Hap Hernandez.

Elvis is Dead

By Garland Davis

It was August 1977. I was the Assistant Commissary Store Officer at the Pearl Harbor Commissary Store. I remember it well. I was on the loading dock with an inspector from the base fire department. The motor of a cardboard compactor had short circuited and set the contents of the compactor on fire. The inspector was verifying this for his report. I was standing on the dock when an SH3 came out of the Receiving Department Office and said, “Chief, Elvis is dead.”

Elvis is dead. The words were wrong somehow. Some third world president is dead, some rock star overdosed, a blind man was killed by a hit and run driver. For some reason all that seemed to make more sense than Elvis is dead.

“The radio said that he had a heart attack.” Said the girl with the bad news.

Elvis had a heart attack? No way. Elvis couldn’t have a heart attack. He was just too young. Hell, he was only nine years older than me. I was in the seventh grade when I became aware of Elvis and his music. I remember begging my father to let me watch the Ed Sullivan show to see Elvis. My dad gave in and let me watch it. His idea of the perfect music was solidified with the Carter Family, Earl Scruggs and bluegrass.

I always intended to go see Elvis in person someday. I never made it. Me and him didn’t live on the same continents for so many years. I have seen all his movies and I have a set of vinyl records that purports to be everything he recorded.

Elvis was forty-two and had a heart attack. I was thirty three. But if Elvis was forty-two and old enough to die, what did that say about me and the generation his music had captured. Was Elvis dying a portent for me. I worried about it for a time but the Orient called and I got on with life in Westpac.

Last August sixteenth was the fortieth anniversary of Elvis’ death.

Elvis died forty years ago and I feel like shit today/

Sailors, Tequila, and the Border Patrol

By Garland Davis

I was reading an article today about the illegal immigration situation and proposed actions to limit illegal immigration. Evidently it is very easy to cross the border and once a few miles above the border an illegal is home free.

It wasn’t always that way. In the early sixties, I was stationed at NAS Lemoore. During the year I was there, I made a number of weekend trips to Los Angeles. I remember there was a Border Patrol check station somewhere near Bakersfield. Vehicles would stop and a Border Patrol Officer would simply ask, “Where were you born?” Answer truthfully and you were passed on your way.

One weekend three of us rode the Trailways bus to L.A. An Airdale friend whose family lived in the city named Jones, another Airdale striker named Gomez and me.

As I remember, we spent the weekend at Huntington Beach where I learned I don’t have a talent for surfing. The weekend ended Sunday afternoon as Jones’ sister drove us to the Trailways station. We boarded the bus and went to the rear. We had a pint of Tequila and didn’t want to draw the attention of the driver.

The bus proceeded north and eventually ended up at the Border Patrol checkpoint near Bakersfield. The officer proceeded down the aisle asking each passenger where they were born.

Jones answered, “Los Angeles.”

I answered, “Winston-Salem, North Carolina.” in my best Southern accent.

Gomez, who was born in Santa Fe, New Mexico, giggling answered, “Guadalajara, Mexico senor.”

That tickled Jones and me. All three of us in our alcoholic stupor were laughing our asses off.

They jerked us off that bus and locked us in a cell. It took us two hours to convince them that he was actually from Santa Fe and just fucking with them.

They weren’t really amused.

The Hat

By: David ‘Mac’ McAllister

Hello, I’m his hat! I spend my days now sitting on his desk, nothing more than a reminder of glory days gone by. Ah! But it wasn’t always this way; pop the top of a cold one, come along side and let me spin you our yarn.

I remember when I was just a pup, brand new, that would have been when he was initiated as a Chief Petty Officer back in 1974. Man, what a day that was. We had not met yet; however, I watched from afar as he fell in with the other new Chiefs in preparation for the reading of the CPO Creed. He was the only one there in dress blues without a hat. Standing there, he looked like a sore dick; that is until I was placed squarely upon his head by his sponsor – a gift from his messmates. Atop his head now, with pride, we grew together a quarter inch taller than anyone else in the room.

We got drunk that night, the first of many DrunkEx’s we would share over the years. The next day he was torn as to whether I should be enshrined in a place of honor as a piece of memorabilia or put to use. He decided that the best way to honor those that came before and those who had given me to him was to wear me. So our journey began as Shipmates.

He was never a ball cap person, so I was worn daily. I remember he was asked once “Why don’t you ever wear a piss cutter” to which he replied (to my satisfaction): “If I wanted to wear a fuckin piss cutter I’d either still be in the God Damn Boy Scouts or I’d get a fuckin sex change and be a Wave”. So for the next fourteen years, we were inseparable and I was his prime scraper.

I was proudly decked out with the fouled anchor of a Chief Petty Officer. Later he added the star of a Senior Chief Petty Officer. Then he really screwed with my military mind and placed an Officer’s crest on me. Got to admit that for a while that took some getting used to; I really thought he had lost the load for sure, but it all panned out, in the end.

As I aged I guess the first thing to go was my sweat band. It became brittle, cracked and deteriorated due to being repeatedly wetted and dried out from sweating during long days in the hole. One night he flipped me over and performed surgery on me. With his Buck knife, he clipped out my sweat band and threw it in the shit can. Got to admit it smarted a little but I felt much better afterwards and I sat a little lower and in a much more intimate manner upon his head.

Soon my cover stretch band started leaving rust stains on his white covers. That wouldn’t do, so you guessed it – more surgery. My stretch band was unceremoniously jerked out and joined my sweat band in the shit can. After that, my covers hung limply over my headband and gave me an appearance of a WWII bomber pilots cap with a McHalesk continence that sort of complimented a McArthurian nuance.

The piping on by bill was next to go. I guess I just couldn’t take that constant bill shaping he was always doing trying for that perfectly non-regulation look. Not being one to give up on a garment, he would blacken my exposed cardboard edges with a magic marker and, as in the immortal words of Admiral Butcher, we “Pressed on Regardless”.

My Khaki cover grew stained with oils and sweat; my chin strap lost its golden luster and took on a more verdigris appearance. My headband lost its elasticity and became droopy. With scissors, needle, and thread he performed more shipboard surgery trimming and sewing me back repeatedly to his weird perception of perfection. As the years past I was referred to as salty.

I was autographed by shipmates and became a sort of who’s who muster list: Don O’Shea, Russ Enos, Don Barnett, Gene Gain, you get the idea. Many wore off over time and were replaced with others; all indelible forever within his and my memory.

We steamed the seven seas and visited ports and places that most people don’t even know exist. We saw our way through MTT’s, PEB’s, REFTRA’s, 3M Inspections, Command Inspections and all the other myriad of shore duty shitheads that would come aboard our home and feeder to help us. We put engineering red E’s and Damage Control DC’s on ships stacks and bridge wings and then turned em gold out of spite.

I have sat squarely on his head for inspection, on the back of his head in comfortable go to hell relaxation and at a jaunty give a shit angle when ashore. We have been shot at and missed, shit at and hit and better for it. We’ve stood engineering watches, bridge watches and watched over 5,000 sunrises and sunsets. I have been the center of wanted and unwanted attentions; however, through it all, we remained the best of Shipmates.

I remember one day I was kidnapped by an XO and taken prisoner and held hostage in his stateroom. He showed up demanding my return to which this particular XO said that he was going to throw my scruffy ass over the side. I remember as if yesterday, he slowly closed the XO’s stateroom door and in a very calm voice explained that I had more time at sea than the XO had in the Navy. That we had been shipmates since he had become a CPO and if the XO was dumb enough to throw me over the side the XO had better ensure his rescue swimmers PQS was signed off as he would be going in after me. Needless to say, I was liberated post hence.

In the strictest of confidence, he has told me that when he finally crosses the bar he will be cremated in the same uniform he was born in except he’s taking me along for the ride; our ashes to be scattered together at sea by sailors that never knew us – yet sailors none the less.

Nowadays I live a comfortable existence in retirement. I sit on his desk off to one side much as I used to, when not on his head while we were on active duty. Every once in a while, late at night when the light of the day has faded to darkness and the household is asleep, whisky in hand, he will slip me on, lean back and close his eyes as we sail together once again through those days of a gone by era, with shipmates of yesteryear, across those stormy seas of war and peace.

David “Mac” McAllister a native of California, now resides in the Ozark Mountains of Southwest Mo. Having served in Asia for the majority of his 24-year Navy career, he now divides his time as an over the road trucker, volunteer for local veteran repatriation events and as an Asia Sailor Westpac’rs Association board member and reunion coordinator. In his spare time, he enjoys writing about his experiences in Westpac and sharing them online with his Shipmates.

Navy Cooks and Nutritionists

By Garland Davis

The Commissaryman First and Chief training course listed a primary duty of a Leading Commissaryman as “preparing the weekly Bill of Fare.” In other words, writing the weekly menu. He had several tools to assist in this process. The Navy Ration Law, the Navy Recipe Service (Now the Armed Forces Recipe Service), an up to date listing of food items available, a special form for writing the menu and another form on which to type the menu for the Commanding Officer’s approval.

NOTE: Sailors don’t dare say ”pass the Parkay” in mess halls and shipboard galleys. It’s against the law. Despite a trend throughout the military toward more health-conscious eating, the 1937 Navy Ration Law bans all spreads except butter from Navy and Marine Corps dining rooms. The law, kept on the books at the insistence of the butter lobby, was originally written to help ensure that seagoing sailors got enough dairy products in their diet. Over the past few years, Navy officials have tried to get the law changed four times to allow the use of margarine, but Congress has never gone along. Because government surplus butter is used, a switch to private-sector margarine would cost more. This arcane rule does not apply to the other armed services. END NOTE

When I first became a cook, the Chief wrote a new menu each week for the following week. Later the Navy Food Service Office recommended a three-week cycle menu and then a five or six-week menu. I always used a six-week cycle. A cycle menu makes it easier to plan a loadout to the menu rather than plan a menu to whatever you have aboard.

It became inherent that the Commissaryman writing the menu have a rudimentary knowledge of nutrients and nutrition. Since becoming a Chief Commissaryman and later a Mess Management Specialist I have had both a professional and a personal interest in food and nutrition.

Almost every week one can find a news article touting or condemning a food. It is cyclical. One time eggs are bad, then in moderation and later eat as many eggs as you desire. At one time or another, we have been cautioned about red meat, sugar, eggs, bacon, and all sorts of other things we enjoy eating. If we listened to health food advice we would be forced to dine on soybeans, kale, bee pollen, and various kinds of bran. Eating a diet like that would end everyone’s fear of constipation and increase sales of Charmin.

Several years ago, the Coca-Cola company suggested that people drink Coke for breakfast. I became a strong proponent of this philosophy. When you wake up in the Barrio after a night of sipping San Miguel and providing companionship for a lonely LBFM an ice cold Coke or Pepsi just seems to hit the spot. The nutritionists were faking coronaries at this. They might well have suggested one begin the day with Twinkies, Little Debbie, and a Snickers Bar. The nutritionists were aghast that someone might chase down breakfast with a soft drink.

I’ll admit that I am not a specimen of good health, but I don’t think I would be in as good a shape without my Diet Dr. Pepper in the morning. If one can become addicted to soft drinks, then I am addicted to Diet Dr. Pepper. I am usually groggy, sluggish, ill-tempered, slack-eyed, and loopy when I wake up. I start the day with two or three cups of strong black coffee and my e-mail. Shortly afterward I have the first of my daily six-pack of Diet Dr. Pepper. It used to be one or two a day, but since events at the last Asia Sailor’s reunion in Branson, I have given up the beer, whiskey, wine, moonshine, and Sterno. Diet Dr. Pepper is my drink of choice morning, noon, and night.

I once had a Petty Officer in my division who started each day with a warm Pepsi Cola. I am not sure that this practice had anything to do with the fact that he only had one tooth. But Furd is another story that I have told before.

One last thing, one of my best friends is a Texan and lives in Dallas. Texas is considered in the South. Dr. Pepper is a Texas product with deep Southern roots. I must stand against any nutritionist who would try to take my Diet Dr. Pepper away. Give them that and perish the thought, pork belly and grits could be next.

One will often read scare articles on Facebook and other social media damning Aspartame, the artificial sweetener used in most diet drinks. The people who write and pass on these stories attribute every affliction known to man to this ingredient, everything from cancer to hammer toe, erectile dysfunction, and toenail fungus. They succeeded in getting cyclamates banned and saccharin for a while until public sentiment forced Congress to rescind the ban. Ignore these people. They will only be satisfied when we are eating something raw that grows in a swamp.

Tara

By Daniel J. Decampo

Waking up is hard to do for some reason. I always manage to wake up and relieve Kim a couple of minutes late for the watch. Luckily he’s a super chill dude and is never in a rush to really go anywhere and I do cover for him if he needs it. I just feel shitty about the whole not waking up thing.

I definitely do not get enough sleep. I try but, my mind is a whirlwind of crazy thoughts. Last night I went a little crazy thinking about Tara and what the fuck ever happened to her. She was nice and I definitely took her for granted.

I first met Tara at a place called the Soundview in the lovely town of Everett, WA. We met sometime towards the end of the summer and the year was 2011. I don’t recall meeting her. I don’t even remember making the decision to go to the Soundview, being there,  our meeting, or the walk back to her place. Needless to say, I went pretty hard back in those days but, that doesn’t matter right now.

I have vague memories of fucking around with her back at her place but, no idea what time it was or anything like that. When I woke up and was aware of my surroundings, I realized I was on a mattress, on the floor, of a living room and her mentioning getting up and getting ready for work. At this time I realized that I did not remember her name at all.

The only thing I could think to do was look for mail. I found a letter with her first name on it and I was good to go. She ended up quizzing me on her name later.

We sat around for a few and she headed to work. I meandered to Starbucks and had some coffee, went back to the ship, changed and went back out for more debauchery.

We went on date a few days later. It was a restaurant called the China Girl in downtown Everett. Had a super Asian feel to it and they served really good food. The date went well, we both had a good time and I sent her on her way.

Thinking of Tara always brings up painful regrets. This was a girl totally into me, she liked to have fun, she liked to drink, she liked to fuck. She was smart and had a good job yet, I only ever went to her place to crash and fuck around. I guess I was always looking for the next best thing and that, sure as shit, did not happen in Everett.

When I left that town, I totally broke contact with her. She texted me some kind words before I left and I deleted her number. A few days later I arrived in San Diego and had a text from her, although I deleted her number, I still recognized it. It was a pretty simple, “I miss you” text; I just deleted it and carried on. I don’t know whatever happened to her but, wherever she is, I sure hope she’s doing well.

To change the subject, the morning has consisted of CSOOW watch, 0900 to 1200. Combat Systems Officer of the watch, one the “milestone qualifications” of a Sailors career on the briny blue.

In a nutshell, a CSOOW is trained to be a super knowledgeable, intrusive asshole when it comes to the maintenance of a warship’s combat systems. Getting qualified is hard and staying qualified has proved to be hard as well.

I don’t really mean a CSOOW is supposed to be an asshole, just have the attitude of not taking any shit from the technicians. Have procedures; don’t do anything dangerous, blah, blah, blah. It’s not a bad thing; I just don’t feel like writing about now.