by Rick Cratty

People need to understand us Sailors better. We do NOT drink to get drunk! Nope! We drink so we can walk better…..the drunk part’s just a bonus…

From an idea by Jerry Collins

The safety and security of the world, more often than not, relies upon an innocuous little bean we all know and love. Well, we call it a bean.  It is actually the seed from the fruit of the flowering plants Coffea Arabica or Coffea Canephora.

An American Airman on his 89th day of duty in a missile silo located somewhere in North Dakota found a 20lb tin of coffee dated 1952 after they all thought they had run out.

A Submarine cook in a diesel boat moving in for one last attack on transports bound for Tokyo before returning to Pearl Harbor, opening the last tin of the stuff dated 1945.

An engineer Hole Snipe stole a tin dated 1960 and cut the impossible to remove top off with a grinder to make a fresh pot of ‘Black Gang’ coffee to keep the watch alert and the steam plant running like a well-oiled machine disguised as a hellish nightmare.

And do not forget the Marine Devil Dogs who carted the same tins ashore at Guadalcanal, Tarawa, and Inchon and across other battlefields, wiped the blood and mud off their John Wayne’s to free the fresh grounds and boil them in water strained through a mostly clean sock.

And remember the soldiers who spent hours, days, and weeks in the same sandy pits or mudholes, in Godforsaken shitholes around the world, pouring grounds or instant powder into their mouths and trying to work up enough saliva  to swallow.

The sky is protected, the sea lanes are open, our freedoms are preserved, and our enemies defeated, all aided and abetted by a little, bitter, often burned, tiny seed.

Nine Count Hand Salute to the Coffee Bean.

By Garland Davis

The mother said to the young girl,” Marry the rich man.”

“Mother why?” asked the young girl.

A Doctor, or a Lawyer, a Banker, a Merchant, or a Farmer.  They will provide you with good fortune, ease, and stability.”

“Daughter, Never marry the Romantic, the Troubadour, The Poet, the Vagabond, and never ever the Sailor.  They will bring you heartache and despair.”

“Mother, the Doctor, Lawyer, Banker, and Merchant promised me money, a beautiful house and a chauffeured car. The Farmer promised me the fruits of the earth.”

“The romantic promised me Xanadu. The Troubadour promised me a song and the Poet a verse.”

“Mother dear,” said the young girl. “The sailor promised me Love! I choose the Sailor; I choose Love!”

by Garland Davis

If they could only see me now

I’m the one who was said to roam

The one who’d rather be alone

If they could only see me now

If I could hold one now

Just for a moment, if I could really make her mine

Just for a minute, turn back the hands of time

If I could only hold her now

I’ve been too long at sea

Too long in the wind and rain

Taking comfort where I can

Looking back and longing for

The freedom of her chains

And lying in her loving arms again

If she could see me here now

Making way through my lonely nights

Dreaming of her arms that held me tight

If only there was a ship to sail back

I’ve been long in the wind

Taking what comfort I can

Longing for the time back in the day

And the freedom of her chains

And lying in her loving arms again

I’ve been too long in the wind

Too long in the rain

I can almost feel her loving arms again

A retired sheepdog now lives with the flock he used to protect. He once lived far from his home and the flock to provide from a distance for the flock’s safety and that is what drove him. Drove him to eat, to sleep, to fight. But now, he no longer goes out to fight the wolves anymore but lives among the sheep he once protected. He doesn’t stand guard at night any longer, younger, healthier dogs do so now, watching vigilantly for the lurking enemy.

Now he’s expected to live quietly among the sheep, following the command of the shepherds the flock has chosen to lead them. Sure, there are other retired sheep dogs like him amongst the flock, but they mostly keep to themselves. The sheep start to get scared if the old dogs spend to much time together. So, he spends most days alone, under the suspicious eyes of the flock who not understanding him are always wary that he may pose a threat to them, despite the fact that not so long ago he would have willingly died for them.

They worry that he might snap and hurt them, but they don’t realize that he’s not a threat to them They see his scars and his sharp teeth and they are worried by them’ so they keep their distance. This distance causes him to isolate himself and to resent the sheep. What is his purpose now? Why is he here?

And so it is with the Veteran!!

But know that there are many old sheepdogs and old veterans; old soldiers; old sailors; old marines; and old airman who are willing to stand and fight the wolves again

By Garland Davis

We were inport Hong Kong when BT2 was advanced to BT1.  We had one more night of liberty and then it was underway for thirty days of patrolling the Formosa Straits to keep the Chinese Communists from fucking with the Nationalists on the Island.

I made CS1 the same day.  Neither of us had the duty.  After the Old Man gave us the advancement certificates and shook our hands we caught the next boat, the first class crows weighing down our left arms.  We were on the way to celebrate.  We were both sporting red.  Me because I didn’t have the time in yet and BT1 because he had been a bad boy sometime in the past.

Our first stop was the China Fleet Club for a few and then we ran down to Wanchai for six or twelve and to cut out a couple of Suzie Wong’s from the crowd.

NOTE: After the hit movie, The World of Suzie Wong, half the bar girls in Hong Kong changed their Bar Names to Suzie Wong. END NOTE

Some where along the way, I lost the snipe. The Suzie I spent the night with woke me at 0400 and I caught the 0500 boat to the ship.  We sailed at 0800, without our newly minted BT1.  The RM1 told me that at 1000, the Station Ship sent a message that BT1 had reported, and they would bring him out in two days when they sailed.

Four days after we sailed from Hong Kong BT1 was high lined from the destroyer that had been station ship to our decks.  Once he was free from the Bosun’s Chair, the bridge passed, “BT2 lay to the bridge.”

He told me later the Captain said, “Consider this your Captain’s Mast and congratulations on making BT2. You’ll be restricted to the ship for our next inport period.  Do you have anything to say?”

The QM1 told me that BT2 replied, “Thank you, sir.  Damn, I kept it almost five days this time!”

By Garland Davis

We served together in two forward deployed ships homeported in Yokosuka during the 60s.  Then in ’70 we both got caught by the Zumwalt machine that determined we had been in WestPac too fucking long and must be repatriated to the States.  I went to the Galley at NAS North Island for two years shore duty and he to a Tin Can out of Long Beach.

I would see him from time to time when his ship came to San Diego for one reason or another.  Instead of living in the barracks, I had rented an apartment in Imperial Beach, and he would bunk in the extra bedroom.  I have often wondered if it was for good or bad, but he cost me a girl friend and possibly saved me from the terrible mistake of marrying a round eye.

I was taking courses at San Diego State thinking that some day I might be a college educated Doughhead. The cooks watch routine of working five days one week and two days the next made it possible for me to take some day as well as evening classes.

She was in a couple of my classes.  Tall, slender, athletic, and pretty.  She was from a well-to-do family from Bloomington, Illinois, and kind of looked down her nose at others.  She lived in one of the Sorority Houses.

I first talked with her early one Saturday morning at the San Diego Country Club.  One of my old XO’s was a member and since I was a decent golfer, he often invited me to play with him and his wife.

She approached me that morning and asked, “Aren’t you in Professor Hagerty’s English Lit course?”

“Yes, I am and so are you.  I have seen you there.  Are you playing alone?”

“I’m on the University team and trying to get in an early practice round.”

That’s where I made my first mistake when I asked, “Would you like to join us and make it a foursome.”

She accepted and we teed off.  The Commander, his wife, and I were pretty evenly matched and shot a round in the nineties while she carded a one under par round. 

Afterward in the clubhouse over drinks, once the Commander and wife had departed, she said, “You intrigue me.  You are learned, ambitious, associate with people socially superior to you, yet you are just a baker.”

The first thought that entered my mind was, “Intrigued enough to give me some pussy?” I managed to keep from saying it.  What works in WestPac seldom works with round eyes.

She eventually did and spent more nights at my apartment than at the Sorority House.

That’s when BT2 came to town for four days.  He called me at the Galley, “Hey dude, I’m stuck in San Diego for a week.  The old man got a nasty-gram from the Squad-Dog about people losing leave because the ship can’t do without them. I am being forced to take five days, so I don’t lose it. The ship is out shooting at San Clemente Island or some shit like that.  At the same time, I have to go to Balboa one day for a re-up physical, you know cough while a doctor plays with my nuts. Any chance I can crash at your place?”

“Of course, I’ve got the extra bedroom.  But I have to warn you.  I have a girlfriend who often stays over.”

“Where’d you pick her up at, the Westerner or the Trophy Lounge?”

“Neither she is in some of my classes at the University.  We actually met on the golf course.  She is not a Westpac Widow.  She is single.”

“Well, lah ti fucking da. I’ll bet she is a fucking round eye too.” The Asshole said.

“As a matter of fact.”

She called me later and told me she would be a little late getting home that evening.  The golfing coach wanted to work with her on her putting. I’d bet that old Dyke had working on putting her tongue in a different hole on her mind.

When she arrived it quickly became apparent that she was less than impressed with BT2.  He looked her over and said, “Damn boy, you are reaching for the high hanging fruit.”

The second night ended her adventure with sailors. BT2 invited us to a quaint Steakhouse for dinner.  Afterward, while driving through National City, he said, “Let’s stop at the Trophy Lounge.  I want to see if there is anyone I know around to pull liberty with. You are a bummer.”

We went into the bar, and I could see she was equally as unimpressed as BT2 was happy to be in familiar surroundings.  We went to the bar and ordered drinks.  There was a group of Filipinas sitting at the place where the bar juts out into a circle.

BT2 said, “Lots of slime trails on the dance floor tonight.  Be right back, I gotta go shake hands with Willy.”

The look of disgust on her face turned to horror as BT2 stopped at the gaggle of Filipinas, raised his right arm, with finger pointing upward, and made the ‘Gather on me motion,’ that Marine Sergeants make when they want the troops to gather round.  He said, “Ladies, I’m new in town.  Do any of you have some pussy you would like to get off on?”

She said to the bartender, “Call me a taxi.”

To me she blurted, ”I’m going to the Sorority house right now.  I’ll get my things from your place tomorrow when you are not there.   I thought you were different than other sailors. You are educated, well read, you can quote Dostoevsky and Shakespeare, yet you are friends with a rude and crude person like that. I am disappointed and disgusted.”

She moved to a table by the door to wait for the taxi.  Right before her ride arrived, I walked over and spoke. “He is more than my friend; he is a shipmate. He may not quote Shakespeare, but he can expound of the principles of steam generation and propulsion and can quote Louis L’Amour and Travis McGee.  If you can’t accept that then, you can fuck off.”

The last time I saw her she was going out the door with a ‘Holier than Thou’ look on her face.  BT2 and I refreshed our drinks and set out to track down a couple of slime trails.

by David ‘Mac’ McAllister

It was a hot sultry night in the Philippines. I lay in bed, skin wet and clammy with passion spent, perspiring, the stale taste of beer on my breath. The oscillations of the floor fan across my body lulling me to the brink of sleep. The last thing I remember before dozing off – rats scurrying on the window sill in the moonlight.

It was close to dawn as my internal alarm clock faithfully started to rouse me from my slumber. As I lay in that glorious twilight between sleep and consciousness my mind drifted back to the night before. Prolonging the inevitable as long as possible I remembered the Hole in the Wall and the terms of the Ugly Contest. As the reality of deeds done set in, my senses raced to wakeful horror. Fully awake now, I was afraid to open my eyes for fear of what I may find next to me; besides, there was something nibbling on my feet – RATS.

As my eyelids snapped open like window shades, there she was at the foot of the bed; that fucking baby duck, the one I bought and didn’t have the heart to feed to the crocodile at Pauline’s, in her hands allowing it to peck at the soles of my feet. Reflexes brought my legs and torso upright, knees meeting at my chin. As my vision cleared and the San Miguel haze abated in the dimly lit room, I noted all she was wearing was a pair of golden hoop earrings. Jesus, I wasn’t even going to be in the running for the Ugly Contest, what a movie star! I think I was probably going to be late for morning muster at the Hole in the Wall.

Walking out onto Rizal Ave I was greeted by the already hot tropical Sun searing through my bloodshot eyes, two or three dozen roosters crowing and some nitwit singing out “BAAALOOOT!” Hopping in a Jeepney I bounced along in the dusty heat towards the main gate, and my destination.

Now the Hole in the Wall was a little one step go down joint that served as a starting off and finish up hangout for us hole snipes. Depending on how you looked at it, it was either the first den of inequity encountered or the last outpost of passion before crossing the bridge that separated Olongapo from the Naval Station.

Ugly Contests, for the uninitiated, were a cross between and animal act and charity with a little machismo thrown in for good measure. Usually occurring after a day or so in port, the basics are as follows: All participants put twenty or thirty pesos into the pot, then scour the night for the ugliest girl they could find, take her home and meet up the next morning with her in tow. The lucky sailor with the winner, as judged by his peers, got bragging rights plus a small portion of the pot; while the majority of the winnings were given to the girl. 

Stepping out of the jeepney, I was greeted by the aromatic stench of Shit River which was met on its way down by last night’s beer trying to come up. Swallowing hard, I negotiated the returning crowd of sailors, stepped down into the Hole in the Wall and quickly ordered beers for the crew awaiting my late arrival. Picking mine up, I inspected the label ensuring it said Philippines and not Manila, wiped the neck on my shirt tail and finger popped the bottle opening. Little trick’s, learned the hard way, to avoid the horrid San Magoo’s. A long pull on the cold sweet beer settled my rebelling stomach and washed the bad taste of the river smell away. Not having a horse in the race, I was relinquished to spectator status this morning. So leaning against the bar, sipping on the beer, I settled in to watch the festivities.

From bad past experiences, the Ugly Contest was always referred to as a beauty pageant while the contestants were present. You know ugly girls can get real ugly when their feelings get hurt. A great spectacle was always made and many of the  contestants were paraded about by their sponsor’s so as to show off their most despicable qualities. 

MM3 was one of those individuals that could shit, shower and shave, put on deodorant and foo foo, then don a brand new tuxedo and still look like crap. His standards of excellence regarding the fairer sex were well below those of an inbred red neck snorkeling after his sister. Consequently, he was hard to beat at these affairs and his notoriety was legendary.

That being said, our newly reported aboard BT1 stepped down into the Hole in the Wall hand in hand with what I would classify as a poster child for revulsion. There wasn’t really one defining trait that set her over and above the rest. It was just that, as they so frequently say on “American Idol”, she had the total package. Thin stringy hair, a few beetle nut stained teeth and eyes that creepy pale color associated with cataracts, she was beyond homely. Her body shape was that of a time piece alright; rather than an hour glass, that of a clock – round.

 Totally surprised by this unusual turn of events, BT1 was beside himself to be unanimously, although inconspicuously, without contention judged to be the hands down winner without so much as having to do anything but walk in with this lovely.

Well, after the awarding of the grand prize BT1’s honey jumped for joy and hopped around the joint, as well as her chubby little legs would permit, singing “I be d’weenner, I be d’weenner” over and over. Picking up her winnings she placed an unforgettably nauseating lip lock on old BT1 and up and out she went, disappearing into the humanity of the morning rush. As everyone else was left to distance themselves from the specimens that they had drug in, I clapped BT1 on the back and said “Let’s head out shipmate”. Across the bridge we went, tossing Pesos to the Bonka boat girls, thru the main gate and into a taxi, off for Alava pier. Busily jabbering away congratulating my new shipmate on his victory in unseating MM3, I finally noticed his lake of enthusiasm, response or reflection upon his good fortune. So I poked him in the shoulder and said “What’s up with you? Aren’t you proud of that shit?” as we jumped out of the cab and started up the brow. He gazed at me through watery eyes and said “I don’t mind winning, it’s just that that was my wife”.

“Oh!” say’s I.

Now what the hell do you say to that?

I thought to myself ‘Beauty is only skin deep, but ugly goes clear to the bone’, but instead, said “Well shipmate, beauty is in the eye if the beholder” and left it at that.

He and I became regular shipmates; however, never did see him in the Hole in the Wall again.

By Garland Davis

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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