It’s been a while. i have had other projects, some posts that were not really sea stories, but related, a lot of home tasks, and golf. Did i mention golf? If you would like to read my posts that are not sea stories, you can subscribe to my website (no charge) in the menu above and received emails when a new post is on line. But it’s time to get back to my sea stories.

The next lesson Commander Lasell gave me came in another wardroom session between the two of us. It was not pretty. i learned a lot.

In those days, overhauls were conducted in a much different manner than today’s overhauls, even the one in 1982-83 in on the USS Okinawa (LPH 10). Our ship’s company lived on board during an overhaul unless their living quarters had to be part of an overhaul job. The shipyard performed the major upgrades and “ship alterations” (SHIPALTS). The ship’s crew and officers were with the shipyard workers throughout the overhaul, monitoring and learning about the changes. They also performed maintenance and repair not being done by the shipyard.

To perform their work, the crew used shipyard tools: pneumatic chippers, grinders, and other similar equipment. The Tools Officer, aka me, who had no clue about tool inventory, had to check out all of the necessary tools and issue them to the crew as needed, and keep an inventory of what had been checked out and what had been returned. BM2 Carrier, who remains one of the best LPO’s i ever had in a division or department was as naive as i was in bookkeeping. We were also unaware that shipyard workers would take the tools we had checked out for ship’s company as well as the pneumatic hose, the conduit for powering those tools.

After the first month, the shipyard put out a report on tool status. Hawkins’ inventory was over $1,000 in arrears for missing tools.

The captain had called me to the wardroom where the two of us were there alone when he read me riot act (in a most kindly manner) for the line handling disaster when we had entered the yard. i was called to the wardroom again for a one-on-one with CDR Lasell. This one was actually worse for me. i felt i had let the captain, the ship, and the Navy down by poor record keeping.

After that, Max Lasell and i met in the wardroom many times. Usually, it was one-on-one, but those meetings often included Louie Guimond. None of those follow-on meetings were to give me a motivational ass-chewing. Those meetings became a time for me to give the captain information about the status of what was going on in the Weapons Department and Max providing me guidance in how i should continue improving my leadership.

After the first yard tool assessment, we never lost another tool. A month later, i was relieved as first lieutenant and became the Anti-Submarine Warfare Officer. i was looking forward to turning over the yard tool control job to my first lieutenant relief. But the CO and XO decided Petty Officer Carrier and i were doing such a good job, i would continue as tool officer. Ugh.

But we did okay…except for one thing. As we concluded the overhaul, our tools had to be returned to the yard’s tool control guy. We had all of the tools we had checked out. i was thrilled until Carrier told me the yard workers had continue to steel the pneumatic hose. We were just shy of $1,000 shy of hose. My very short career and a major ass-chewing loomed before my eyes. BM2 Carrier told me not to worry.

The two of us put all of our tools on a large dolly and headed to the yard’s tool shed. We stood at the window as the tool guy checked off all of our tools. He then gave us the total for the unreturned hose. Carrier pulled out a ubiquitous olive green foul weather jacket from our stock. He told the tool guy he could have it if he forgot about the missing hose. The tool guy was thrilled. Our total of missing tools magically went to zero, not a bad deal. A foul weather jacket that cost about $30 bucks in 1969 and a zero debit for tools.

And i escaped another major chewing out.

i’ve had a bunch of stuff going on, including writing other, non-sea story things, and just haven’t had the time to get back to my series. i’m getting close. In the mean time, i wanted to post this old column i wrote for home town newspaper 14 years ago. The story will become part of this series, but, as many are, not in chronological order. The burger/beer place where Doc and i convened in Norfolk the summer of 1969 was the Red Mule.

Notes from the Southwest Corner:

A Sea Story                                                                                                              1/12/2009

by Jim Jewell

SAN DIEGO – An advantage of the Southwest corner for me is “sea story synergism.”

When I am in Tennessee, I regale folks with sea stories. But they are mostly repeats.

In the Southwest corner, it is different. At lunch last week, Pete Toennies and I reminisced about the deployment of Amphibious Squadron Five in 1979 and 1980. Lieutenant Toennies was the Underwater Demolition Team (UDT) advisor attached to the squadron staff. I joined the staff in Hobart, Tasmania and relieved the Current Operations Officer. We rode the flagship, U.S.S. Tripoli (LPH 10), one of nine ships in the squadron.

For Pete and me, our sea stories fit like an old baseball glove.

Then we wandered to other anecdotes. I remembered long forgotten events. So did Pete. We fed off each other. It was synergistic.

Here’s one I recalled.

In the summer of 1969, I reconnected with my OCS roommate, George “Doc” Jordan when the U.S.S. Hawkins (DD 873) changed home port to Norfolk. Doc, on the U.S.S Guam (LPH 9) and I hooked up to discuss our future. We were reaching the half-way point of our obligations. We could stay where we were or request reassignment. We both preferred the latter but pondered where.

One evening over a cheeseburger and beer, Doc announced he was requesting Vietnam. I was stunned. Doc was the hippie’s gift to the Navy.

“Why would you, of all people, volunteer to go to Vietnam?” I asked.

Doc replied, “Well I’ve been thinking about it and regardless of how we feel about what’s going on, this is our generation’s war.

“If I don’t go, I have missed that part of history.”

After a few minutes of contemplation and another beer, I agreed. I was 25 and had absolutely no good sense.

Separately we called our ‘detailer,’ who coordinated new assignments.

The detailer, who will remain anonymous to protect the guilty, informed us separately an officer cut was pending. Doc was told he would remain on active duty. I was told I would be getting out. At our favorite tavern, we compared notes and scratched our heads.

The reduction was by commissioning date. We missed the cut by a month. The detailer informed us the reduction was only half what was needed. He told Doc the next cut would not affect him. He told me I would certainly be let go. The next cut was by unnecessary billets. Again, we were not cut. Again we were puzzled.

The detailer reported the reduction again missed the needed number and one more cut was imminent. Again Doc was told he would miss it. Again, I was assured I would be gone. Poor performance dictated the last cut. Again, we remained.

We began our transfer discussions in earnest. Doc’s command refused to let him transfer.

Converted by Doc and the beers, I volunteered for Gunline Liaison Officer (GLO) in Vietnam. The detailer was elated. No one else had asked for that billet. A GLO goes past the front lines and relays targeting information for aircraft and artillery fire, not a highly sought assignment.

He informed me I must extend my active duty for two months to have necessary training and a full year in Vietnam. I informed him I was crazy but not that crazy. I would not extend so I could go risk my life. I would do it for ten months, no extension. He said no.

We discussed other options. Finally, he found an opening for executive officer, Military Sea Transportation Service (MSTS) Group One. I asked what it was. He didn’t know but would find out. When he came back to the phone, he told me I would be the only Navy personnel aboard an MSTS ship carrying military personnel and dependents to duty stations in the Pacific Rim, and should visit every major Pacific port in the year, adding I would have to extend a month.

I told him, “No problem.”

When I finally reached my new job in early January 1970, I sent the detailer a radio message. It said, “Every major port in the Pacific is Sasebo, Japan; Pusan, Korea; Qui Nhon, and Nha Trang, Vietnam. The Unit has not just me, but two Navy line officers, two doctors, one chaplain, and 18 enlisted. The military personnel are Republic of Korea troops. There are no dependents.

Several months later, I heard Doc had been released from active duty.

It was quite a year.

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