T’was the night before Christmas—Navy Style

Twas the night before Christmas, compartments were still,
the sailors were sleeping, as most sailors will.

The ditty bags hung by the lockers with care,
in hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be there.

The men were all peacefully dreaming in bed
as visions of liberty danced in each head.

The Chief in his skivvies, hopped into his rack,
having just came from town and a quick midnight snack.

When out on the deck there arose such a roar,
I ran to the porthole to find out the score.

I stuck out my head and started to shout,
“Just what in the world is this noise all about?”

A moon made for boon docking showed with a glow.
It was downright cold out, ’bout seven below.

What I saw out there looked like those Mardi Gras floats.
T’was a Captain’s gig drawn by white Navy goats.

In the boat was a man who seemed quiet and moody,
I knew in an instant St. Nick had the duty.

As quickly as Monday his Billy goats came,
he whistled and shouted and called them by name.

“Now Perry, now Farragut, Dewey and Jones,
what’s the matter John Paul, got lead in your bones?

A little to Starb’rd, now hold it up short,
no fluffing off now, or you’ll go on report!”

He was wearing dress “Reds” that fit like a charm.
His hash marks they covered the length of his arm.

The gifts to be issued were all in his pack.
The gedunk was ready to leave on each rack.

His eyes they were watering, his nose caked with ice,
he wiped it with canvas, then sneezed once or twice.

He opened his mouth and started to yawn.
It looked like the Sun coming up with the dawn.

The stump of a pipe, he held tight in his teeth,
and took a small nip from a bottle beneath.

He wasn’t so big, but he must have been strong,
I figured he’d been in SEALs early and long.

He was chubby and plump, a right jolly old Tar,
Who said “Evenin’ Matey, here have a cigar.”

He filled every sea bag with presents galore,
And left us all leave papers, right by the door.

With “Anchors Aweigh” he climbed back into place,
a broad smile was creeping all over his face.

One look at his watch and he started to frown,
“This mid-watch is certainly getting me down.”

Then out to the breakwater and into the night,
the gig started fading, the landscape was bright.

“Merry Christmas” he said, as he drove on his way,
now I’ll finish my rounds and sack in for the day.”

T’was the Night Before Christmas —WestPac Style

Twas the night before Christmas, And all through the fleet
Just the midwatch was stirring, The rest were asleep
Their boon dockers are strewn, all over the deck
If Santa tripped on them, he might break his neck

The sailors were nestled, All snug in their bunks
And dreaming of PI, And a good three day drunk
The CO in his stateroom, the XO on the bridge
And the Command Master Chief, out raiding the fridge

When up on the foc’sle, I heard something thump
So grabbing my white hat, from my rack I did jump
Up the ladder from berthing, I flew like a flash
Cranked open the hatch, and down the deck dashed

The moon on the haze gray and brasswork did glow
All sparkling and white like a Mt. Fuji snow
And what should I see, though my eyesight seemed dim
But a horse bedecked jeepney, with eight LBFMs

With a little old driver, with a beard long and white
It was old Santa Claus, on his Christmas Eve flight
More rapid than A-18 Hornets they came,
He squeezed all their asses and called them by name

Now, Judith! Now Marites! Now May and Irene!
On Mary! On Anna! On Grace and Aileen!
To the top of the mast, and down to Shaft Alley
Let’s spread Christmas cheer, now rally, girls, rally!

As sea spray before the wild typhoons do fly
With waves so tall they seem to reach to the sky
And so to the flight deck the bright jeepney flew
With a load of Pinays, and St. Nicholas too

Then I heard a sound, so subtle and sweet
The flapping of flip-flops on little brown feet
As I gathered my wits and was looking around
Down the smoke stack, St. Nick and the girls all did bound

He was wearing Bermuda shorts, lei, and some sandals
With a Hawaiian shirt that showed his love handles
He carried a cooler of cold San Magoo
And another of Kirin, (it might have been two)

His eyes they were hidden by mirrored sunglasses
He kissed all the girls and slapped them on their asses
He smiled a sly smile because Santa Claus knew
Just what he could do to cheer up the crew

He fired up his pipe (the smoking lamp was not lit.)
But old Westpac Santa did not give a shit
For though Santa kept track of the naughty and nice
He has been caught breaking the rules once or twice

To each berthing compartment, traversed Santa and team
For each sailor left gifts, (and a few pleasant dreams)
For Santa knew sailors were their own special breed
And he knew how to fill, their specialized needs

The good sailors got mojo, the naughty, balut
But he left San Miguel for the whole fuckin’ crew
Then he called all the girls and hugged them all together
And winking their eyes, up they flew like a feather

They piled in the jeepney, he gave one last whistle
And away they all flew like the down of a thistle
But I heard his voice on the old 1MC
Merry Christmas to all, Commence Holiday Routine!

T’was the Night Before Christmas – Destroyer Style

A Sailors Christmas~

Twas the night before Christmas, and he lived in a crowd,

In a 40 man berthing, with shipmates so loud.

I had come down the exhaust stack with presents to give,

And to see just who in this rack did live. I looked all about, and a strange sight I did see,

No tinsel, no presents, not even a tree.

No… stockings were hung, just boots close at hand,

On the bulkhead hung pictures of far distant lands.

He had medals and badges and awards of all kind,

And a sobering thought came into my mind.

For this place was different, it was so dark and dreary,

I had found the home of a Sailor, this I could see clearly.

The Sailor lay sleeping, silent and alone,

Curled up in his rack, dreaming of home.

The face was so gentle, the berthing in such good order,

But not how I pictured a United States Sailor.

Was this the hero whom I saw on TV?

Defending his country so we all could be free?

I realized the families that I’ve seen this night,

Owed their lives to these Sailors who were willing to fight.

Soon ‘round the world, the children would play,

And grownups would celebrate a new Christmas Day.

They all enjoyed freedom each month of the year,

Because of the Sailors, like the one lying here.

I couldn’t help but wonder how many lay alone,

On a cold Christmas Eve, on a sea far from home.

The very thought brought a tear to my eye,

I dropped to my knees and started to cry.

The sailor awakened and I heard a rough voice,

“Santa, don’t cry, for this life is my choice.”

“Defend the seas this day, the peace do I keep.”

The sailor then rolled over and drifted to sleep,

I couldn’t control it, I continued to weep.

I kept watch for hours so silent, so still,

And we both shivered from the night’s cold chill.

I didn’t want to leave on that cold, dark night,

This guardian of honor so willing to fight.

Then the Sailor rolled over and with a voice soft and pure,

Whispered, “Carry on Santa, it’s Christmas … All is Secure

Liberty Risk

By:  Thayer Ward

Long story, but hopefully you enjoy it and find it worth reading through!

2004, deployment. I was a dirtbag. Knew my stuff, good at my job, but still a dirtbag.

We pulled into Palau. The whole country (tiny island country, very beautiful) loved that we were there. My liberty partner and I checked into our hotel, and 4 other guys are staying there hanging out as well, got their own rooms.

I went out back for a smoke. I looked around and realized how beautiful, but how poor, the place was. As I glanced right, I saw an old Filipina lady on the top floor of a 3 story apartment building sweeping. She looked down and over and saw me. She smiled and waved, I smiled and waved back. She asked if I was from the ship, which I replied yes. She told me to wait there, goes in, and comes back out with 3 young Filipina women. They all beckon me over.

I run back inside, change, brush my teeth, fix my hair, and spray on some cologne. The other guys are all wondering what’s up, and I told them I was working on something, give me a bit.

I walked next door, walked up the stairs, and the old Filipina lady welcomed me in. I enter the seemingly small apartment, and she sat me down on the couch. Immediately 8 young, beautiful Filipina women came out of the woodworks. They asked me if I was hungry if I wanted rice or a burger or steak or ice cream. I declined. One sat down next to me, and I realized I had been claimed. She asked if I wanted to go to her bar that evening, and of course, I said yes. She gave me directions and made me promise to bring others. They then sent me on my way.

I told the guys the plans, and they were ecstatic. I explained what happened, and they opened my eyes to Filipina bar girls. My first time dealing with this, so I was clueless, yet it made sense.

We went out to grab a bite across the street at the Chinese restaurant (only one in the country). When we walked out, we decided to take a cab to the bar. They asked me where the place was and I told them. Turns out it was across the street and slightly right from the Chinese restaurant, and in fact, if I walked out the front of our hotel, walked down the six steps, across the 10 feet of covered concrete slab, and up the five steps of the building next door, I was at the bar. Made for an easy walk back to the hotel. (I want to say the hotel was here: https://goo.gl/maps/A7hF7iLoFm52 but not sure).

So, we headed in. It seemed more like a regular bar than a buy-me-drinkee bar (as I later learned). The young lady, Michelle, sat me down and asked me what I wanted to drink. Jack and Coke of course. Her sister, the bartender, made it for me. $3.50 for a nice sized drink, little ice, that was properly made as Jack with a splash of Coke. The kicker was that her drink was only $5 and she drank exactly what I did! She couldn’t quite hang, but boy did she try.

We enjoyed our time there. I had duty the third day. Came back out, had more fun. The last night there, I did something stupid. We had a new guy, and I went out with him, showed him a good time. I was so wrapped up with Michelle that I liberty buddy swapped without going back to the ship and properly signing the log, with the new guy.

When I got on the ship, I got my butt chewed by my LPO and our Department LCPO, OSCS Arce. Liberty risk Bravo, no drinking, back on the ship by 2200 next port. If I didn’t do anything wrong, it would graduate to Alpha next port (no drinking, back at 2359), then no liberty risk with no overnight liberty the port after (drinking allowed), then back to normal liberty the port after.

Next port we hit was Yokosuka for 2 weeks. I had been there before. Still got off base to do tourist stuff, but kept my nose clean. That is, until my buddies, Tillman and Rav (nickname Ravioli because he had a big tattoo of a ravioli tattooed front and back, with the fork stuck in front and the tines coming out the back), decided to take me out. Rav was also on liberty risk Bravo and Tillman had to escort us.

We headed out. We went to Shibuya. Tillman had a buddy that retired and opened a restaurant there. We went looking for it. We walked for an hour or more, couldn’t find the place. We stopped at a Japanese restaurant. Rav and I had Japanese spaghetti, best ever! We figured, it’s not even noon, we don’t have to be onboard until 2200, let’s have a couple drinks (surprisingly Tillman’s idea, but we were happy to oblige). We had a couple shots of Wild Turkey and a couple Kirin beers.

We kept walking, looking for Tillman’s buddy’s place, but after 45 minutes, he said forget it. “What should we do?” “Well, I saw a Gas Panic back there a few blocks,” I said. So we headed off. We figured, it’s not even 1300, we can have a few and sober up before we head back.

So we were just about there when we ran into this guy, another gaijin, sitting on a low concrete wall. He asked me in broken English “Excuse me, you have…you have…tobacco?” “Yes, I have a cigarette. Would you like one?” We sat down and started talking with this guy. Cool guy.

Tillman checked out Gas Panic and said it didn’t open until 1500. At that point, this guy, who is from Nepal on Vacation, pulls a fifth of Jack out of his backpack. So we all sit there, taking swigs from the fifth, talking, smoking (making sure to ash in the dirt and put the extinguished butts in the trash, because those streets are just so dang clean!) and having a good time with this guy.

We finished the bottle, and the guy brings out a second one, so we start into that. We soon realized it’s just after 1500, and Gas Panic was open. We invited the guy from Nepal (we called him Steve because we couldn’t pronounce his name) with us and offered to buy his drinks since he so kindly shared with us. Steve joined up, and we went into Gas Panic.

Now, I am not sure if they had them during your time, but Gas Panic was like the Circle K of bars. They were everywhere around Tokyo it seemed. We went in first ones there. We grab some beers and look around. Cool place with 80s paraphernalia all around. A DJ with a sign that said: “no requests” asking us what we wanted to listen to. 70s/80s classic rock most of the evening! Metallica, ACDC, Deff Leopard, GNR, etc.

At one point, I looked up to see…BEER BONGS! 3 of them! The guys behind the counter had never used them, didn’t know what they were for. We gladly showed them. At one point Steve disappeared. At another point, Rav went into the bathroom and puked (came back out and continued as a true sailor would). While he was there, I had Tillman hit me with a chug. Finished up my beer, said “Hit me!” and he poured his beer into the beer bong, and I hit that. I said “Hit me again!” and he said “I don’t have anything” and I demanded back “HIT ME AGAIN!” He poured something down, I slugged it, then looked at him and asked: “What was that?” “Your Long Island Iced Tea, ” he said, at which point I put the beer bong down and said, “I think I’m good.”

So, 2000 approaches, and we realize we need to get back. We finish our beers, close our tabs, and head back to the ship.

A little back story. When we went to exchange money at Hotel New Yokosuka, I noticed as we walked in the umbrella rack. You put your umbrella into a slot, turned an orange key (like the ones at public swimming pools or airports), and it locked your umbrella in. LoJack for umbrellas! I noticed everyone carrying one, so we went to the Daison and I picked one up, a cheap, clear, green-tinted plastic one.

So, back to the main story. On the Keikiu Green Line from Yokohama to Yokosuka, 3 stops to go. First stop, we’re good. Second stop, we’re good. 5 minutes from the third stop, I’m looking about the color of my umbrella. I start up, but swallow it back down. Start up, swallow it down again. Start up, can’t swallow it down, cover up my mouth, it starts leaking, Tillman hands me my umbrella, and I unleash…into a see-through, green-tinted, plastic umbrella…on the train pulling into the terminal. We pull into Yokosuka, and I step onto the terminal from the train, still yakking.

I finally finish, toss the umbrella (I wanted to empty it and clean it out, and tried, but the spaghetti noodles just wouldn’t let go), and we’re on our way.

Now, this was at the time when piers were either in short supply or were being remodeled, or there were just too many ships inport. We were docked at an old barge-turned-floating-dock. They sealed most of it up with those big steel plates. As I’m walking to the ship, staggering like I had been out to sea for 50 days straight, I get the bright idea that I will walk the weld lines for the steel plates to try to keep straight. Unfortunately, the steel plates weren’t welded in even heights. Almost broke my ankle doing that.

To sign back in from liberty, both Rav and I have to sign the liberty risk log. It’s a 3-ring notebook, and we each have our own page with a picture and what level we were on. Tillman goes up to the OOD (ENS Spillane) and runs interference. Rav signs in no problem and heads to the smoke deck. I sign in, and just as I’m about to leave, ENS Spillane stops me, grabs the log, opens it to my picture and says “That’s you, isn’t it!?” Crap, caught. I said yes, and he said “Okay, just be careful, don’t fall down the ladder wells. Someone already did that tonight.” So I headed off to the smoke deck.

And so that was the first, and last, time I drank on liberty risk. I soon gained the confidence back from my COC (especially the CO) and was off Liberty risk for the next port, just in time to properly enjoy Hong Kong for the first time. But that is for another story…

A Not So Merry Christmas

By: Garland Davis

It was the winter of ’49-’50.  It was an unusually long and cold winter.  I was five years old.  These events actually happened.  My mother always marveled at my ability to remember the details of happenings when I was a child.  I remember the months before and after Christmas of that year.

The United States was struggling to pull out of the recession/depression that set in at the end of WWII.  Jobs were hard to find.  My Dad was fortunate enough to have a job with the City of Winston-Salem Streets Department.  I remember that his salary was $140 per month.  I thought that was a fortune and that we were rich.  My mother watched a couple of neighbors’ children during the day for a dollar per day.  I had a hard time believing that we were poor.

My dad had bought a ninety-acre farm earlier in the year using the GI Bill.  The cost was $100 per acre or $9000.  I don’t know the particulars of payments or interest rates.  We moved into the main (there were three in all) houses on the farm in the spring of 1949.  There was no electricity and the earliest that Duke Power would run the lines and install a fuse box was the spring of 1950.  We lived there almost a year with kerosene lamps for lighting, a wood burning range for cooking, and an outhouse a hundred yards or so from the back door.  My brother described it as “five rooms and a path.”

Rob was married to my dad’s niece. They lived in town.  He and dad were close and always were helping each other in projects of one kind or another.  There were ordinances against livestock within the city limits. Rob would always buy two pigs each spring.  My dad would pen them on the farm, they would split the cost of feed, (I was usually forced to do the actual feeding) and each family would have the meat from a hog at slaughter.  They also planted a large garden on our place.  Rob and his family would come in the evenings and on weekends to help tend it.  I was happy for that; less that I had to hoe.

Rob worked for a small box company.  They made corrugated cardboard boxes and wooden crates for industry.  They were an unionized shop with a little over a hundred employees.  They were part of a union that represented workers in the furniture manufacturing industry.  The furniture workers called a strike and insisted that the box company workers strike in solidarity with them. I remember hearing Rob tell my dad that they didn’t want to strike, but were threatened with violence by the furniture workers if they didn’t go out.

The Owners and Management of the box company told the workers that a strike would put them into bankruptcy and they would be forced to liquidate the business.  The union ignored management’s warning and forced them to strike.  The company filed for bankruptcy and went into liquidation.  Rob was without work and didn’t have the money to pay rent or to even feed his family.  They moved in with us.  Their furniture was stored in a stall in the barn.

At the time there was my two brothers and me.  I was five, Johnny was three, and Tommy was less than a year old.  The cousin’s family consisted of three boys also.  Tony was six, Tim four and the baby, Mike, was less than a year (he died of leukemia in ’53).  After sleeping arrangements had been sorted out and beds were allocated, we ended with four boys sleeping in a double bed, both babies in the same crib, and two beds for the adults.

It was a bleak winter and Christmas that year.  It was made even bleaker by Tony, the six-year-old. He was lazy and a complainer, he was unhappy because there was no electricity and no indoor toilet.  He didn’t want to help with the chores.  He complained about feeding the chickens but had no complaints about eating them. He was a chubby kid (fatass) and always wanted seconds and the largest helping when, more often than not, there was barely enough to go around. He complained because he couldn’t go to his old school because he had to walk about half a mile to the school bus stop and because I didn’t have to go.  He was also a tattletale who would rat you out for your infractions and shift the blame to others for his.

He tried to beat me up because I could read his books and he couldn’t.  (My grandmother taught me to read and write long before I was six years old.)  He felt that if I could read, then I should also be made to go to school. (Later after I started school, he also tried to beat me up when I was moved from first grade to the third grade.  One year ahead of him). I will admit that I resented being replaced as the oldest child in the house hold.  I also disliked him referring to us as “poor hillbillies” because my dad and us boys wore bib overalls while Rob and he had belted pants.

I will not go on any more about Tony other than to say that after the three months living and sharing the little I had with him, I came to dislike him and have always felt that way.  I lost track of him after enlisting and never bothered to learn anything about what he did with his life.

I know that my mom and dad bought presents for Rob’s kids as well as my brothers and me.  Christmas gifts that year consisted of apples, oranges and a piece of clothing.  It was far from Merry.  My brother loudly voiced his discontent about the situation to my mom’s embarrassment.  You see Johnny is very much like I described Tony.

In March, Rob found a job with the State Highway Department as a heavy equipment operator.  He had been with the Army Engineers during the war.  They re-rented the house they had previously lived in and moved back to town.  The feeling among us children was, I imagine, like being freed from prison.

Suddenly the house seemed empty, there appeared to be more food.  And our mom and dad were much more relaxed and less liable to discipline a kid for imagined infractions.

Within a couple months of Rob going to work for the state, my dad was able to go to work at the same place as a Chain Gang Guard (in those days the penal system was part of the highway department).  The hours were the same as the city, but the pay and working conditions were better.

We saw Rob and his family frequently, but Tony and I never pretended to like each other.

Shortly before my dad died in ’57, Rob was killed in an accident unloading a bulldozer from a flatbed truck.

With spring, we got electricity and dad were able to install indoor plumbing.  He was able to lease out the tobacco acreage to a sharecropper.  We got new pigs, a couple of steers, a mule, and two milk cows.

Life was better, even after my dad died and we were struggling with just the Social Security payments.

I recall this each holiday season.  It is one of my memories of growing up.  I know that Rob and my cousin appreciated us doing for them.  I would like to think that Tony also did, but I know he resented ever having to depend on those he considered “inferior.”

Saturday Morning

By: Garland Davis

Well, I woke up Sunday morning 
With no way to hold my head, that didn’t hurt. 
And the beer I had for breakfast wasn’t bad, 
So I had one more for dessert. 
Then I fumbled in my closet through my clothes 
And found my cleanest dirty shirt. 
Then I washed my face and combed my hair 
And stumbled down the stairs to meet the day….Kris Kristofferson

I woke to the thunderous sound of sunlight streaming through the window.  On the other hand, maybe it was an un-muffled jeepney passing outside.  I knew I wasn’t dead.  If I were dead, I wouldn’t feel this bad.  Where am I?  I squinted at the room through aching eyes.  I think it is my brother’s house at Baloy Beach.  I vaguely remember stumbling in here with a girl sometime in the night.  He told me to stay, just lock up when I leave and drop the key with Hanson at the Rose.  He had to leave early; said he had duty Saturday.  He isn’t here.  Must be Saturday.

I crawled off the Futon onto the cement floor and fumbled around for my glasses.  It never ceases to amaze me that no matter how drunk I get, I always know where I leave my glasses.  I was bare ass naked.  My dick was stuck to my leg with dried saliva and other body fluids. I hadn’t been wearing skivvy shorts.  I had thrown them away when the assholes in Subic City had started doing skivvy checks.  My denim shorts were in the corner. I stumbled to my feet and slipped into them and stumbled into the head.

Returning to the room and remembering that I had placed my wallet under the futon, I snaked my hand under and retrieved it.  I hesitated to look inside.  How much money had I spent?  I was pleasantly surprised.  I had been afraid that I had shot all the ammunition in my peso gun last night. I checked the secret pocket sewn into the denim shorts to ensure that the three fifty dollar bills were still there.

I stumbled into the kitchen, looking for something to drink. There was a cooler in the corner.  Inside was a single San Miguel beer submerged in the tepid water.  The thought of warm beer made my gut turn over.  Nevertheless, I was thirsty; my mouth was so dry that I would consider drinking a gallon of Shit River if it was served on the rocks.  I grabbed the opener off the floor and popped the top.  I drank about half the bottle, gagged and thought it was coming back up.  At least there was something to puke.  I held onto the table weaving back and forth for a moment and then forced down the rest of the beer.

I found my shirt, pulled it on and stumbled around looking for the athletic shoes that I usually wore out here.  I don’t have to worry about combing hair or grooming.  I keep it in a buzz cut.  I discovered long ago that a man’s wallet carried more weight than his hair when it came to female companionship in Olongapo. I remembered that there was an outdoor bar thing just down the beach.  I would seriously consider sucking dick for a cold soda right now.  I locked the house and stumbled that way.  The girl behind the counter showed no surprise as this sick drunk made his way to the bar.  I asked for a cold Coke or Pepsi.  Then I told her to make it two. She set the first Pepsi on the bar.  It was cover with ice flecks and streaming cold water.  I picked it up and drank it down.  Nectar.  The cold and wet started the healing process.  I sat the empty onto the bar, and she replaced it with the second one.  I threw some peso coins onto the bar and told her to keep them coming.

As I sat there drinking cold Pepsi, trying to repair the damage, I thought back over the previous day and the events that had led to my waking up wishing for death to help me feel better.

Midway had moored yesterday at Cubi Point Naval Air Station, Republic of the Philippines. The ship had spent the last fifty-nine days in the Tonkin Gulf performing flight operations in support of ground forces fighting in the Republic of Viet Nam.

Once the ship moored, I was occupied getting food stores aboard, the underway watches secured, and the inport watch set.  Everything was set; a two-day weekend awaited, nothing between Monday morning and me but forty-eight hours of liberty.

I left the ship about fourteen hundred Friday afternoon.  I grabbed a cab with a couple of Airdale Chiefs.  They were heading to the Chief Petty Officer’s Club.  I figured “Why not.”  We walked into the main room of the club; the other two Chiefs spotted some of their friends and moved that way.  I made my usual way to the stag bar.  San Miguel beer was calling.

I saw the beginning of my downfall at the bar as I walked through the door.  A Senior Chief Aviation Boatswains Mate known as “Smokey (he smoked four packs of Camels a day) was at the bar.  Smokey drank beer with a shooter of rum on the side.  He had the proverbial “Hollow Leg.”  No one could recall ever seeing him drunk.  He insisted on buying shooters for anyone he knew.  He was aware that I drink Crown and immediately ordered a shooter for me.  I asked for a beer; deciding that one and I was out of here.  If I tried to drink with Smokey, I would be “knee walking drunk” by sixteen hundred.

I managed to get out of the club after drinking only one beer and two of Smokey’s shooters.  I headed through the gate, across Shit River, to the moneychanger and loaded my “Peso Gun.”  I intended to take a taxi to Barrio Barretto.  There wasn’t one around, so decided to walk down to a shit kicking joint on the right and have a Pepsi.  The beer and two shots were heavy in my stomach.  I didn’t want to get fucked up before dark.  Going in there was a mistake.  A half dozen of my cooks was there and called to me as I entered.  By the time, I made it to the table a frosty cold San Miguel was sitting before an empty chair.  I thought, “You can’t fight fate.”  I sat down and took a pull on the bottle.  I finished the beer and bought a round.  After that one, I left.  Outside, I stopped a taxi and negotiated the fare to the Barrio.  I told the driver to take me to the Irish Rose.

Things went downhill from that point.  There were about a dozen people that I knew in the Rose.  The beer was flowing freely, the jukebox was playing “Amarillo By Mornin’,” everyone’s favorite, the ceiling fans were slowly exercising the flies, and I was negotiating with one of the girls for a blowjob when I suddenly realized that it was dark.  Where in hell had the day gone?  It seemed as if I had just left the ship.  The rest of the night became a kaleidoscope of bars, beer, and girls.  I remembered jeepney rides, a girl stroking my dick, drinking Mojo, another girl, more beer and going to my brother’s house with a girl.

I was sitting on Baloy Beach drinking Pepsi trying to sort out the events of the night before deciding whether I had a good liberty.  I concluded that it was good.  I was hung over, sick, my dick was sore, and I still had plenty of money.  That is all a sailor can ask of a good liberty. Only had a couple of days to do it.  Wednesday it was back to Tonkin.  Monday and Tuesday would be loading stores and trying to get some equipment repaired.

I finished the second Pepsi and signaled for another as a tricycle taxi pulled up with two people aboard.  Jack Coates was a passenger.  I didn’t know the other.  They came to the bar and Jack ordered three beers.  The girl placed the beer on the bar, and Jack handed one to his companion and slid the other in front of me.  I told him that I was drinking Pepsi.  He grabbed my soda bottle, threw it across the street onto the beach and said, “When I’m drinking beer, everyone is drinking beer.”

Karma is karma.  I thanked him and took a pull on the bottle.  After the Pepsi, it went down much easier than the warm beer I had for breakfast.  I thought that I still had two whole days of liberty to go.

Fuck, a sailor’s life is good….

T’was the Night Before Christmas — Submarine Style

by Sean Keck

T’was the night before Christmas, and what no-one could see,
The men with the dolphins were under the sea.
Most of the crew was flat on their backs,
Snoring and dreaming all snug in their racks.

Those men on watch were making their rounds,
Some manning the planes or listening for sounds.
Back in maneuvering or down in the room,
They all hoped the oncoming watch would come soon.

I’d finished some PM’s whose time was now due,
And hoped for some sleep, even an hour or two.
Against better judgment I took a short stroll,
And found myself wandering into control.

The Nav had the Conn, the COW was in place,
The COB had the Dive and a scowl on his face.
The helm and the planes were relaxed but aware,
The QM and ET were discussing a dare.

To comply with the orders the Nav told the Dive,
To bring the boat up with minimum rise.
The orders were given and soon they were there,
At periscope depth with a scope in the air.

The QM confirmed our position with care,
The broadcast was copied, we brought in some air.
The Nav on the scope let out a small cry,
He shook his head twice and rubbed at his eyes.

He looked once again to find what it was,
That interrupted his sweep and caused him to pause.
Try as he might there was nothing to see,
So down went the scope and us to the deep.

I asked what it was that caused his dismay,
He sheepishly said, “I’m embarrassed to say.”
It could have been Northern Lights or a cloud,
Or a meteorite he wondered aloud.

But to tell you the truth I guess I must say,
Whatever it was it looked like a sleigh.
And though it passed quickly and never was clear,
I almost believe it was pulled by reindeer.

We laughed and teased him and I got up to go,
When our moment was broken by “Conn, Radio.”
They told us a message was just coming in,
We looked at the depth gauge and started to grin.

”Radio, Conn, I feel safe to say,
Your attempt at a joke is too long delayed.
If it had been sooner it might have been neat,
But I doubt we’re receiving at four-hundred feet.”

”Conn, Radio, you can come down and see,
We’re not playing games to any degree.”
I headed aft with nothing better to do,
Surprised by the fact it was still coming through.

It stopped and was sent to control to be read,
The Nav read it slowly and scratched at his head.
Then again he began but this time aloud,
To those that now waited, a curious crowd.

”To you Denizens of the Deep and men of the sea,
Who risk your life daily so others stay free.
I rarely have seen you on this, my big night,
For far too often you are hidden from sight.

But purely by luck I saw you tonight,
As your scope coaxed the plankton to glow in the night.
And lucky for me I’ve finally won,
The chance to say thanks for all you have done.

I know that you miss your families at home,
And sometimes you feel as if you’re alone.
But trust what I say and I’ll do what’s right,
I’ll take something special to your families tonight.

Along with the gifts I’ll take to your kin,
I’ll visit their dreams and leave word within.
They’ll hear of your love, and how you miss them,
I’ll tell them that soon you’ll be home again.

It might not be much I know that is true,
To thank you for all the things that you do.
But I’ll do what I can, while you do what’s right,
Merry Christmas to all, and to all a goodnight.”

Reeves Ironmen

Re-printed from the 2012 Winter edition of “The Ironman – A Double Ender’s Newsletter” (newsletter of the USS Reeves Association)

I’m sure everyone knows of the Reeves Ironmen, but many of our earlier shipmates might not really figure out where and when the whole “Ironman” thing came into play. The year was 1985, and we were home-ported in Yokosuka. During a change of command, the Reeves went from the capable hands of Captain James G. Weber to those of Captain George C. Chappell. What we didn’t realize at the time was that more than a few things were also about to change. During the first few years in Yoko, the ship had the dubious handle of the “Only Cruiser in Town.” The story was that the moniker had much to do with us being the only CG stationed in Yokosuka, and maybe, even more, to do with the continuously ongoing rivalry with the USS Sterrett CG- 31, which was officially home-ported in our un-official second homeport; Subic. Regardless of all the reasons and history behind the “only cruiser in town,” the nick -name was well broadcast on everything connected with the ship; to include t-shirts, jackets, and even painted down both sides of our generic baby-blue ships van. Well, it turns out that our new Captain didn’t see “the only cruiser in town” as the future of the Reeves, and stepped in with his very own campaign to establish a whole new basis for pride in the Reeves.

It was by Captain Chappell’s decree that the “Reeves Ironmen” became the new trademark for the only cruiser in town, and the start of a whole new sense of being. Along with the Ironmen came a few more of Captain Chappell’s nuances that we eventually learned to enjoy. Captain Chappell came to us from the Propulsion Examining Board (PEB), which was otherwise known as OPPE. He was an engineer’s engineer and left no doubt that he knew exactly how our propulsion plant worked, and why. We learned that you couldn’t sugar-coat any information dealing with his boilers, turbines, or fuel. He knew! He had also been the CO of a tender, so he really appreciated having a new toy that could really get out of its own way. He also liked classical music, so the new Reeves Ironmen quickly became used to a rousing rendition of The “William Tell Overture “(or the theme from the “Lone Ranger”, as most of us knew it) as our new underway and breakaway song.

Captain George also had a flair for speedy exits, and high-speed flybys after refueling breakaways. Standby for a FLANK bell (shortly after clearing the pier) became the norm, and we loved it. My best memory of this new found “ironmen” pride took place topside as we had just completed an UNREP (underway refueling) from the USNS Ponchatoula. It was an absolutely beautiful day in the South China Sea, and the sea conditions were perfect. As Reeves cast the last lines back to the oiler, our new breakaway started loudly over the 1MC, and the Reeves broke away with the hammer down. We pulled away smartly and executed a sharp turn to port. We accelerated and held that turn until we looped around and overtook the Ponchatoula down her starboard side. Reeves cut an absolutely beautiful turn under full power and then blew past the lumbering oiler like it was going backwards. The view and music from the slanting deck of the Reeves were something I’ll never forget. Apparently, it was equally impressive to the crew of the Ponchatoula, as there were plenty of her crew manning her rails to enjoy the “Ironman” fly-by.

The “Ironmen” theme kept developing during Captain Chappell’s tenure, as pride in the ship continued to grow. The evidence of that pride was confirmed with a clean-sweep of every readiness category that year. We (engineering) were most proud of the GOLD Engineering “E” that we got to paint on the aft mac. The theme was also enhanced by the ship’s cartoonist, who made the Ironman into a real character that graced many a POD. They even painted the ship’s van a bright red, gave it cool wheels, and applied the Ironmen theme to both sides.

The Ironmen had arrived! The Reeves Ironmen started as a plan to provide “the only cruiser in town” with a new identity and foster some new pride to a crew that didn’t think it was necessary. The Ironman turned out to be the front man for a tremendous matter of pride in a great ship. The Ironman has prevailed long beyond Captain George Chappell’s vision to improve pride on the Reeves. The Ironman became the Reeves!

And now you know the rest of the story…..

George Charles Chappell, Captain (Ret.) USN passed away on December 4, 2016, in San Diego, California. He was born in Portland, Oregon on August 31, 1937, the eldest of three children born to the late Mr. and Mrs. George C. Chappell. George graduated from the University of California at Santa Barbara in 1960. He completed his graduate studies at National University in 1980. George served 28 years in the United States Navy, the majority of his service as the Commanding Officer of Ships: USS McCain (DDG-36), USS Decatur (DDG-31), USS Hector (AR-7) and USS Reeves (CG-24).

FNG

James Werner

My first duty station after A school was the USS Reeves, stationed Pearl Harbor. I remember to this day, the first time pulling back into port asking my watch supervisor if I could go out on deck and check things out (it was just a short underway period. We didn’t man the rails, just set theSea and Anchor detail. I vividly remember, the call to attention and Hand Salute to the USS Arizona (imagine my sense of pride, knowing American Sailors will honor this Ship and Crew for the rest of time). I turned to go back down to Radio when I looked at the Gun Mount. Wondering if I had the guts/balls to man the gun during a Kamikaze attack.

I was still a boot. During my first couple of weeks onboard I participated in a program where I was assigned to each Department for 2 days to gain an understanding of what goes on in each work center. I worked with the members of ENG/OPS/SUP/WEAPONS/DECK. Learning how to put an OBA on, how to man a fire hose, chip paint, watch standing, helping the Jack of the Dust, etc.

The good thing that came out of this program was I got to meet Shipmates from all RATES. Going to the club with Snipes, OPS types, Gunners, and Cooks. The lessons I gained from this was a basic understanding of how the ship functions, it gave me confidence in myself and my Shipmates (knowing these guys really knew what they were doing with some complicated shit), and I made friends.

The second time underway, “This is not a drill, General Quarters, General Quarters, Fire in number two Fireroom, Man you battle stations.” I ran Radio and assumed my position of Broadcast Operator (this is where all boots start off in Radio). I reported manned and ready. When word was passed secure from General Quarters, I thought to myself WOW. I was surprised I was not shitting in my pants, I knew what to do, and did it. Looking around Radio, I saw RM1’s, RM2’s, RM3’s, RMSN’s, all doing what we were trained to do.

Going back to my question to myself, if I had the guts/balls to man the gun during a Kamikaze attack. “Fuck yes,” I said, not because of guts or balls. I would man that gun knowing that I had shipmates by my side, fighting every bit as hard. I figured out that day what the word SHIPMATE means, something I cherish to this day.

God Bless our Navy. My hope, a new SECNAV will right the rudder, because I like having BT/MM/QM/BM/SH/RM/ET’s/OS/MS/EN/DC (I could go on). Cheers SHIPMATES.

TC and Lighting Farts

Garland Davis

Some of you probably know him, but I’ll not use his real name.  I’ll just call him TC.  Unwrapped is a mild description of him and some of his antics.  Per the story he told, he and another idiot were caught painting profanities on the town water tower in the Louisiana Parrish where he lived.  He said the judge gave him a choice of jail or the military.  Ironically, he retired from the Navy after an Admiral kicked him out of the Far East.

He was a Hole Snipe, a good enough one to rise to the rank of Chief Petty Officer regardless of the situations he got himself into.  I only knew him as a Chief, but I heard some of the stories told of him.

Jose was the Chief Electrician and had a weak stomach.  He was prone to seasickness.  TC learned that he could easily gross Jose out.  Using this information, he almost starved Jose.  He would sit down across from Jose at mealtimes, get a mouthful of half-chewed food and yell, “Jose, Look” at Jose while opening his mouth and letting the contents dribble out.  This would result in Jose gagging as he ran for the head.

One evening TC came into the CPO Mess from the berthing.  He sat down on the couch beside Jose to watch the movie.  After a couple of minutes, he ripped out a fart.  He said, “Damn, I think I shit my pants.”

He ran his hand down into his pants and pulled out a brown substance, showed it to Jose, and said, “It looks like shit.”

He then sniffed the substance and said, “Smells like shit.”

Then he ate it and said, “Tastes like shit.  Yep, Jose. I shit my pants.”

NOTE:  The brown substance was a Milk Dud that he had placed somewhere in his pants.  END NOTE

Jose left, gagging, in a rush to the head.  Jose would sneak around to eat when he knew TC was on watch.  If TC was in the Mess for the meal, Jose would beg me to make him a sandwich and smuggle it to him from the mess line so that he could take it to his spaces.  He was happy when TC was transferred.

TC was known to light farts, especially when drinking.  He was well known in Olongapo for awing the girls by burning a gaseous eruption.  We were in Bangkok when TC’s fart lighting backfired on him.   A group of Chiefs was in a gin mill, and TC was making moves on one of the girls.  She didn’t believe that farts would burn, so TC decided to put on a demonstration.  His girl told all the other girls, and they gathered around to watch.

TC flics his BIC bends over a rips a huge fart.  It lights like a stinky explosion and melts the ass out of his polyester pants.  Since he wasn’t wearing skivvies (Everyone went commando in those days), it also singed the hair on his nuts. TC was jumping around yelling and holding his beer bottle to his nuts to cool them.

TC spent the rest of the evening walking around with his nuts hanging out through the hole in the ass of his pants.  As he said, “A little hole in your pants ain’t a good reason to end a liberty.”

I have no idea what happened to TC.  He retired and disappeared.  I have used internet searches and questioned my many friends on Facebook and other sites to no avail.  He came into the Navy under a cloud, left it the same way, and just vanished into the civilian world.