This is a bit different, not really a sea story, but i am seeking some answers to a troubling question i have.

In 1974, the Navy took three old Fletcher class destroyers out of the mothball fleet and towed them into Naval Base Long Beach, mooring them to the quay wall aft of where my ship, the USS Hollister (DD 788) also was moored. We learned they were to be further towed to the Pacific Missile Test Range off of Port Hueneme to be used as targets in missile exercises. Learning of this and surreptitiously going aboard (don’t tell anyone), i found it a trove of supplies we and the other ships in Destroyer Squadron (DESRON 27) could use and save greatly on our Operational Target (OPTAR) budget. Fire hoses, P250 pumps, even boiler burner plates, and many other parts and supplies.

i contacted our squadron maintenance officer and we went aboard to check it out. He arranged with someone managing these ships and gained approval for our ships to go aboard and scavenge for useful parts and supplies while being monitored for not exceeding understandable limits like taking something that would negatively impact watertight integrity. Seeing a wonderful opportunity to collect some wonderful artifacts that would be pretty useless in the depths of the Pacific, i took a large compass and an Engine Order Telegraph repeater.

As we were well entrenched into our salvaging effort, US Pacific Fleet Commander, Vice Admiral St. George came to San Diego from his Makalapa Headquarters above Pearl Harbor. A meeting of all chief engineers and squadron maintenance officers was set for the admiral to brief us on the upcoming changes to engineering. i sat toward the back of the hall with the squadron maintenance officer. The speech centered on how good engineering practices were going to be enforced fleet wide. The two of us applauded this new approach.

Then, as usual, the question and answer period followed. The usual innocuous attention-seeking — did i say vapid? — questions came about. Then, another chief engineer from our squadron, a rather pompous attention getter, was given the microphone. He explained to the admiral the scavenging effort and questioned why wasn’t more being done to strip the soon to be sunk tin cans.

The maintenance officer and i looked at each other and said simultaneously, “Oh shit,” adding. “He just screwed us.”

The admiral was startled such supplies were going to be sunk, and told the pompous one, he would get with his staff to improve the situation.

Two days later, the results were in. COMPACFLT and the missile test range put out an edict that the old cans were off limits and any scavenger efforts were prohibited.

But i had some fire hose, boiler burner plates for my ship and two prizes for me.

i carried the the compass and the EOT across the country four times and five commands. When we reached our final home in the Southwest corner, i made a rough mount for the compass, and my wife put it among her potted plants in our courtyard. The weather has given it a “weathered look” to the point, i can’t read the compass.

Today, i finally assembled the EOT in a manner i like. i still have some finishing touches including figuring out where and how to display it, and i may eventually straighten up the display, but, i like it:

Now comes the intriguing part. The nameplate notes thip EOT repeater states it is from the USS Twiggs (DD 591). i wished to add a description on the back of the ship from whence it came. But the Twiggs could not have been one of those destroyers in Long Beach, later sunk as targets.

The first Twiggs was (DD 127) commissioned in 1918, sold to Britain and subsequently sold to Russia and later returned to Britain to be the ship featured in the movie “A Gift Horse” depicting the British Saint Nazaire Raid in WWI.

The USS Twiggs (DD 591) received a torpedo hit off of Okinawa in WWII before the attacking Kamikaze aircraft self destructed into the ship. There were 188 survivors rescued out if a ship’s complement of 273.

So how did i end up with an EOT repeater from the USS Twiggs (DD 591)? How did it get from a ship sunk off Okinawa in 1945 to a ship about to be sunk in a missile ex in 1974?

i feel a bit eerie. You see, i wandered through officer’s country and came upon a stateroom, not unlike mine on the Hawkins and Hollister. i pulled down the desktop from its secure position and opened the drawer above the desk. There was a letter, unfinished, un mailed, to a girl friend from a junior officer. It was a bit haunting. Now even more so.

Any idea of how i could have ended up with the Twiggs EOT would be appreciated.

This will be my last post about sea stories for a while. i’m taking a break. i realized writing these have evolved more into my story about my wonderful time in my Navy career. Although i want to give my grandson an idea of what it was like, i had intended these to be more of sequential sea stories. i am also well into eighty years of living, so i am not into feeling obligated. Also, one or two folks have expressed displeasure at my “selling” something, which is far from any intention i’ve had. And there are other things i wish to accomplish with what time i have left here. i suspect i will resume after a while, but i’m old and need a rest.

This is a no sh.. sea story about the worst storm i experienced in my 22 years in the Navy.

That storm came unannounced and unwelcomed.

In December 1972, the U.S.S. Stephen B. Luce (DLG-7) returned from a Mediterranean deployment with Destroyer Squadron 24. Being the holiday season, the squadron was allowed to exceed the normal limit of 15 knots.

After crossing the Atlantic on a great circle route to Charleston, SC, the U.S.S. Stanley (CG 32) detached and headed toward its homeport. The other five ships turned north toward Newport, RI, expecting to cover the 1000 miles in about three days, arriving two days ahead of schedule.

There were no warnings about what was ahead. Even without satellites, Navy weather stations normally did a decent job on weather reports, but not this time.

When the storm hit us, wind speeds approached 100 miles per hour, perhaps even more. Of course, it was somewhere off of Cape Hatteras.

The bridge of the Luce was 75 feet above the water line, and green water, i.e. real waves, crashed against the bridge windows almost in relentless rhythm.

We tied bridge watch standers into their posts. Only the officer of the deck (OOD) and his JOOD remained unfettered to frequently shift from side to side for better vision. Mostly, this OOD (moi) stood behind the center line gyroscope repeater with one arm around a handrail, making small course changes to find a better course.

The bow would climb up a wave and about one-quarter of the 500-foot ship hung in the air above the ocean before crashing down, the bow plunging under water before settling out briefly and starting up the next wave.

Foam covered all the sea except when the wind gave a glimpse of the dark blue ocean. The other ships were often within a 1000 yards but seldom seen except for their masts, the rest of the ship hidden by the waves.

Our watertight doors proved less than that, leaking from the pounding seas. Over a foot of water rolled about the main deck passageways. The galleys could not keep food on grills or steady in the ovens. We ate what was available, cold. We did manage to make coffee for almost five days.

The Luce took innumerable 45 degree rolls. Hanging tightly on a bridge wing, it seemed as if I was parallel to the sea.

When two other officers and I ate in the wardroom, the chairs were tied to the tables, unavailable. We propped ourselves on the floor against the port bulkhead. After a bite or two, the ship rolled fiercely. We lost our seating and tumbled across to the starboard side, sandwiches and coffee flying everywhere.

One enlisted man with the top rack in a three-tiered section was sleeping peacefully when another jolt tossed him out and down, across to the adjacent tier where he landed in the lowest rack with another startled sailor.

The Luce lost two days, arriving in Newport on its original schedule. Two older destroyers arrived about a half-day later. One newer class frigate arrived a day later. The final ship, another frigate arrived a day after that.

On the one frigate that was last in making Newport, a freak wave crashed off a forward bulkhead and ripped a three-foot hole in the back of the forward gun mount. The ship experienced flooding forward but successfully secured the breach with damage control.

When we pulled in, none of the Luce’s usual weather deck projections remained: life lines, fire stations, and damage control equipment were gone. Ladders (stairs to the landlubber) between decks had disappeared. Plenum chambers for air vents had been ripped back from the exterior bulkheads, eerily resembling giant wings.

Remarkably, we only had one major injury. At the storm’s onslaught, our assistant navigator took a dive into the brass around the chart table and cut a gash in his forehead, requiring several stitches.

Strangest of all, the sun shone daily through the entire ordeal.
Never before and never after have I been so glad to be home for Christmas.

i received a gift several days ago. Totally unexpected, it was delivered in a small box at the front door. We get a lot of them because we use Amazon quite a bit (in erroneous logic, i claim it is to take advantage of the “prime” free shipping).

When i opened it, my jaw dropped about six inches. Five coasters were inside. They are nice coasters. What was etched on those coasters is what floored me. It was even more surprising when i found who had sent them.

Darryl Gunter.

Darryl is one amazing guy. He was a boiler technician — still “Boiler Tender” to me. He was on my last ship, the USS Yosemite (AD 19) when we deployed to the Indian Ocean, 1983-84. When i wrote my book, Steel Decks and Glass Ceilings, Darryl was one of the few folks who sent me photos to include.

Darryl has created a very successful boiler business in Atlanta. He is the “Chapter Commander” of the Combat Vets Association 25-8, a life member of Veterans of Foreign Wars (VFW), and North Cobb American Legion Post 304. He is a patriot through and through. Currently, he is riding around the country on his motor cycle and will be out here in about a month.

i cannot wait to see him to thank him in person.

i received a number of honors while serving in the Navy. i’m most proud of my two commendation medals. But i cherish what a number of my superiors wrote about me in their reports of fitness and recommendations. Yet, there is only one that compares to what Darryl sent me.

In 1982, i was the emergency executive officer on USS Cayuga (LST 1189) for almost three months. It was a grueling time, including Amphibious Refresher Training and several incidents, two of which before i arrived involved a crew members losing their lives. The sitting XO had a nervous breakdown. As my work neared completion, The captain, Commander John Kelly recommended i stay on board to complete my required XO tour. The squadron commodore, Captain Jim McIntyre also recommended my staying aboard. The bureau said no. Still, these recommendations made me feel very good.

Yet, the only one i can remember that still makes me feel good as much as Darryl’s gift came 42 years go. Five quartermasters wrote a letter of appreciation as i was completing the XO assignment and returning to my regular tour as current operations officer on the Amphib staff.

i valued our sailors and these two gifts recognized i did. That is the best compliment i could receive:

Darryl’s gift nd the quartermaster’s letter:

“Thanks” really does feel like a feeble response. But thank you, Darryl and Picconi, Ling, Demers, Klein, and Bickford. Thank you.

Note: i once again apologize for my inability to manage graphics in Word Press.

This is not related to my time in the Navy, but it is a sea story i heard when i was aboard the USS Stephen B. Luce (DLG 7) in Newport, Rhode Island, 1973. It is one of my favorites.

In the late 1950’s, an ocean going minesweeper home ported in Newport, Rhode Island, had a new executive officer report aboard. He was a very devoted Christian and abhorred the Navy’s liberal use of profanity and vowed to get rid of foul language on his ship.

After he had relieved the outgoing XO, he called for a meeting of all officers in the wardroom, and quickly launched into a long and tedious lecture on restraining from using profanity. After about twenty minutes, he began to wind down and came to what he considered his clinching arugment:

“There is never a situation, never any time, where there is not a better word to use than a cuss word. You should never have to use a profanity because there is always a better word or phrase to use,” the XO remonstrated.

The old warrant boatswain in the back of the wardroom, coughed, leaned forward in his chair, and raised his hand. Although the XO already knew the bosun was the salt of the earth, a crusty old seaman who cursed a blue streak, he reluctantly acknowledged him, “Yes, Bosun?”

“Well sir, if you’ll excuse me, I do know of one situation where that wouldn’t work. In fact, it happened on board just the other day.”

In spite of his dislike for profanity and disagreement with the Bosun’s claim, the XO was curious and allowed the Bosun to continue.

“You see, sir,” the Bosun politely explained, “Seaman Jones was the kid designated for the mid-morning geedunk run.

This was before the destroyer-submarine piers had been added to the Newport Naval Station, and the old MWR geedunk van, called the “roach coach” by sailors, would stop at the head of the pier around 1000 hours. The destroyers and minesweepers moored out in the harbor would make a geedunk run in their motor whaleboats after a designated sailor would collect orders and the cash to buy snacks and cold drinks.

“When they got to the pier, Jones ran up and bought all the geedunk. There was so much, he had taken the tops of two shit cans (trash cans) to hold it all.

“When got back to the whaleboat, the sailor handling the bow line had forgot to attach it to the bollard on the pier, and when Jones put one foot on the gunnel with one foot still on the pier, the whale boat begin to float away from the pier.

“Well sir,” the Bosun continued with a wry grin, “Ole Jones was doing the splits, inevitably going in the drink. He looked at the two shit can lids full of geedunk he was holding with both outstretched arms, looked around, and he said, ‘I’m fucked!

“And XO, there ain’t no other words he could have used that were any better for  that situation.”

Before i get to the historic journey home, there are two sea stories while in the Med i want to share.

Some time after we got underway from Korfu, the third division crew told me a story that still makes me laugh. The Luce had been in a regular overhaul in the Philadelphia just before the deployment.

The officer i relieved was a good guy, a lieutenant who went to the Naval Academy, and got married while the ship was in the yards. Just before the wedding took place when he was the Command Duty Officer on the weekend, he invited his future wife and her parents on board for lunch and a tour of the ASW spaces.

They toured the ASW fire control and ASW spaces on the third platform. He took them to the forecastle and showed them the ASROC launcher. They then went back to the torpedo tubes on the starboard side.

The second class torpedo man was there. He was resting against the bulkhead next to the tubes. He was wearing the classic dungaree working uniform with his Dixie Cup sailor pulled down and resting on his nose.

The lieutenant pointed to the three tubes in a triangle and proudly stated to his future wife and in-laws, “Helen, Mom, and Dad, these are my torpedo tubes.

The torpedo man seemed startled. He stood erect, pushed his Dixie cup back to the top of his head and said, “Beg your pardon, sir, but these are my fucking torpedo tubes.”

They didn’t tell me what ensued, but the torpedoman was right.