Charlestown Naval Shipyard, Boston, Massachusetts, 1968-69 — it was absurd in so many ways…

I already have written of two goofs I made when Hawkins entered the overhaul. That six-month overhaul showed me a ship’s time in port had both the good and bad sides of the coin. Mine was complicated.

The ops boss, supply officer, the gunnery officer, and I decided to commute from our apartments in Newport daily, a trip of 70 miles one way. We would leave around 4:00 a.m. and get back to our apartments and our wives around 7:30 or 8:p.m. We would eat dinner and go to bed around 8:00 p.m, repeating the process each weekday for six months.

The gunnery officer and I were in three section duty, meaning every third day, we would spend 24 hours on board the ship. I had just taken this beautiful young Atlanta debutante away from her family and horse and put her down in an apartment so she could spend about three hours a day with me and be alone the rest of the time in a strange place. It is no wonder the short marriage did not end well. I still feel badly about that.

The yards. Ah, the shipyards. Honestly, it blew me away this first time. It was unlike anything I imagined could be in the Navy. It was bustling, inefficient, dirty, sooty, steel and concrete. It was long before the Navy became concerned about the debris and dirt from sandblasting. It was our ship in shambles, hoses of all kinds running everywhere. Sailors and sand crabs (the Navy’s derogatory term for non-navy government employees). It was prior to hearing protection but with pneumatic deck grinders grinding at a decibel level unheard of in football stadiums.

Men in dungarees and dixie cups, later ball caps, climbing all over their ship — ship’s force work we called it not recognizing the unintended play on words. Grizzled, unshaven old men in coveralls and work boots, recovering from the previous night’s toot at the tavern, red-eyed, crawling around with the sailors performing the shipyard work. Coffee, coffee, dark, old, burnt coffee, no cream, no milk, before creamer, no sugar, what the hell’s a latté? everywhere. Except at scuttlebutts, which are inoperable, no water, except what the ship is floating on, dark, filthy water, with yard waste, foul stuff from the scuppers, and black oil bubbles on the surface.

I was still the first lieutenant. My senior enlisted subordinate was BM2 Carrier. Chief Jones had retired. Shortly after we entered the yards, the new boatswain’s mate chief came aboard. I don’t remember his name. He was short, pale, puffy, with white hair, and immediately identified as a “ROADS” scholar. That stood for “Retired on Active Duty Sailor.” You could identify them with the permanent crook in the forefinger of their coffee cup holding hand because they sat in chiefs quarters with a cup in that hand, not doing too much more than that. I really don’t remembering him doing anything the entire time he was on board.

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The new ASW officer sits in his stateroom, second stateroom, port side, after officer’s quarters, on the main deck below the ASROC deck amidships. The compartment is too narrow for a desk chair, requiring him to sit on the bunk to work at the desk. He shares the narrow space with the COMMO (communications officer for landlubbers), while he fills out evaluations for his sonar technicians, ASROC gunners mates, and torpedo men. This is while the yard workers above are grinding down the deck topside to metal, loosening the tabs that hold the overhead insulation. The little metal buttons drop intermittently on the paper or his head as he works away with the noise barring sane thought.

This is the stateroom where the COMMO had the duty one night. He was a strait laced, god fearing Naval Academy LTJG. Several other of the officers snuck a lady of the night onto the yards and the ship. They gave her instructions, and closed her inside the stateroom. She crawled up into the upper rack. The COMMO awoke. Screaming, he jumped out of the rack and was trying to figure out what happened. The schemers were in the AOQ passageway outside the stateroom, entered and told the COMMO their joke. He was not pleased. The schemers, still laughing, escorted the lady back to her lair in Boston.

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The ensign has the duty and goes up to the 04 level to check on the shipyard work being done to “Sky One” gunfire control director. About a half-dozen yard workers are sitting on the deck next to the director. He asks why aren’t they on the director working on the system. They can’t, they say. There is no scaffolding, they say.

“Well, you can get up there without scaffolding,” he points out.

“Oh, no,” they say, “Can’t do that. Against union rules,” they say, “Must have scaffolding.”

“I can get some boatswain’s mates to rig scaffolding,” he offers.

“Oh, no,” they say, “Can’t do that. Against union rules. The riggers have to rig the scaffolding.”

The ensign walked away shaking his head in disbelief. Things didn’t happen like that in his Navy.

It took another four days for the riggers to show up.

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Then the Hawkins goes to dry dock. But the dry dock at the Charlestown Naval Shipyard has another ship in it. So, the Hawk goes to the commercial yard. That dry dock was built for the HMS Queen Mary.

Entering and leaving a dry dock is one of the most exacting science and art combinations in the Navy. You are putting a very large object on wooden blocks to hold, in FRAM destroyers cases, about 3,000 tons. The blocks are situated to sit on exact points of the ship’s keel. Getting the ship there is an art.

This was my first experience of a dry docking. I erred in an earlier sea story about the CO chewing me out. It did not occur when we entered the yards, but we we were docking in Queen Mary‘s dry dock. The distance between the forecastle and the dock walls were way to far to try and throw a mooring line. We should have begun with a shot line. I remain in awe of my ensign ignorance, and it was, I’m sure BM2 Carrier’s first time in charge of the forecastle and first time in dry dock. I should have known better, or at least done a little research.

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After we were docked and the rest of the water had drained from the dock, yard personnel, and key ship’s personnel went down into the cavernous dock. My first thought, which still remains intact over a half-century, is the mighty destroyer USS Hawkins (DD 873) looked like a toothpick in a bathtub.

I was simply awed by the vastness of it all. The ship looked so small in that dock. But as we walked toward and under it, The propellers, aka screws, were tremendous. The hull was dented and sealife clung to the sides. We walked under the sonar dome, which projected another 6-8 feet underneath the keel — It was the reason STCS Rogers and I were included in this party.

I felt very small.

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Because of the distances, the only exit from the ship was a gangway that stretched from the ship’s 01 level amidships to the dock’s side. It was probably about 30 feet, but it seemed to be about 100 yards. It was akin, but not quite, to those swinging bridges across chasms. For safety, cargo nets were strung below the gangway for the entire length to ensure if someone fell off they would be saved to falling to the dry dock deck.

Sometime in early December, I had the mid-watch as the OOD. The Petty Officer of the Watch, the Messenger. We stood there for four hours. It was cold. Over the course of my life, I have been extremely cold about four times.

The first time was fishing for sauger below Pickwick Dam in Tennessee in February 1968 with my father and uncle. There was ice on the water and it snowed. The third time was standing on the bridge wing of the USNS Geiger (T-AP 197) entering Pusan in January 1970. At the fourth coldest moment, I was attired in a golf shirt and shorts when I played golf at Harding Park outside San Francisco in July 1976. But the first time in that dry dock in Boston, where I wore my service dress blues and my heavy bridge coat with its lining as i did entering Pusan.

But it felt cold and lonely on that quarterdeck in that cavernous Boston dry dock in the middle of the night.

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One of the more significant jobs during the overhaul, perhaps the most expensive, was the upgrade of the SQS 24 sonar to the “G” revision and changing the 105 ASW fire control system to the new SQS 114 ASW system. The ship alteration cost over $4 Million in 1968 dollars. This ensign from Tennessee making about $400 a month just didn’t seem to be the guy you would want in charge of this. But I was. However, I had a spectacular group of folks working for me. Senior Chief Rogers was the most knowledgeable person in Anti-Submarine Warfare expertise I met during my career. He brought that knowledge to bear. First Class Sonar Technician Alan Ernst was the leading petty officer. He is the guy that made it happen. I reconnected with Alan in later years. He had become a successful financial guy, but passed away too soon from brain cancer.

The entire sonar gang was dedicated, good guys. I didn’t do much more than tell them to do it right, keep the spaces clean, and don’t get in trouble. They knew I checked to see if they were following those guidelines, and they always exceeded my expectations.

We left the yards with a super and current anti-submarine capability. And knew I was blessed…at least as a Naval officer.

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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