This is yet another of my sea stories out of sequence, actually just a short description of a destroyer’s firerooms in 1973 when i was her chief engineer. It will be included in my serialized book in progress A Tale of the Sea and Me (For Sam), more or less in chronological order. But the other night, this thought came into my head about the attraction i found in the firerooms i had on the USS Hollister (DD 788), 1973-74. i wished to capture it before it left my head as other thoughts have disappeared into the void of age.

Fireroom, 1973

She was old and worn out. Today’s Navy engineering plant “experts” would consider her abused. She had 27 years of service and three wars under her belt. Her firerooms were in another world.

And she was mine.

Un-dog the hatch and hoist it up to where it catches the lock on the bulkhead and stays. Slide down the slightly slanted ladder like any self-respecting boiler tender (BT) would do: facing forward, sliding on your hands with an occasional foot break to slow you down. Hit the upper level, propelled forward by your slide, take a step, and repeat to descend to the lower level. There you lurch against water tank sides where electrical cables hang in a bunch wider than a railroad track and a foot deep, running the length of the fireroom. And when you lean against that tank, you feel a slight shock, and draw back knowing to find the short or exposed wiring is an impossible task, omitted from the shipyard work because the expense would be more than the old girl is worth. But you are where men spin dials, light fires, replace burner plates, keep the furnace fires a’boiling with black oil, and sweat shirtless in the dank and dark lower level with blowers on the burner flats drowning out your voice and blowing off the sweat but not doing much to abate the heat. Worse than the humid Southern summer heat, not the dry heat the deserts to the west.

Your realize she, the boiler, and her sister across the flats, and the two in the forward fire room are the stomach of the food cycle, digesting the black oil with burners to heat the water coursing through the steam drum before routing the newborn steam to the heart of the two turbines, producing efficiency through the reduction gears to drive the two huge shafts to the propellers, the body, the legs, to thrust against the propellers: the steam cycle on the 600-pound steam plant of a World War II destroyer made perfect sense when you traced it, but tracing a Rube Goldberg composition was less complicated when you are down in the midst of it.

Then, the bridge orders up thirty knots, and the BTs shift into high gear for anything above twenty-seven requires super heat. More burner plates are thrust into the furnace. More black oil pores through the veins to the plates and the temperatures rises to 850 degrees and the superheater tubes at the top of the boiler reheats the steam and it is dry and courses its way to the turbines and Mr. Goldberg is smiling,

And then, they pass the word through the 2JZ sound-powered phone circuit that the ship is commencing a full-power run and there is no leash on the steam blasting out of all four boilers and you walk behind the boilers in the after fire room, and they are wheezing,, huffing hulks, the metal sides flexing with their power and you realize you are in the guts of a living thing, a living thing that any slight misstep might blow the whole thing away, including you, in a ball of fire hissing into the sea and she keeps pounding and the bridge announces she has reached her top speed of 37 knots but she keeps on winding out and no one can record the knots, but you know she’s getting close to 40 and the thrill is in your throat, pounding in your heart…and finally, the bridge commands to cease the run, not because she reached her limit or even that she became unsafe, ah unsafe, you laugh, because it ain’t ever safe unless she’s sitting cold iron at the pier, but the slow down begins because the ship has to be in another OP area for an exercise and cannot turn onto that course with that much speed, not even turn at all because of the high speed endangers any turn and the steam decreases and slowly, carefully the superheat is finally secured and the boiler and fireroom returns to normal steaming, but the BTs don’t slow down but stroke the boilers and their firebox like a child and you watch with pride and joy and allow the thrill to rest in your memory and you emerge from the hatch and walk out to the weather deck on the port beam with the wind and ocean spray cooling you…and you smile.

Shenanigans of Officer Candidate School (OCS)

My four months at OCS was not the kind of thing you brag about. Company Quebec had a bunch of misfits that banded together to be just a slight bit unconventional.

Initially, i played an important part, not in the unconventional way, by actually helping my company mates get ready for inspections.

At Castle Heights Military Academy ten years before OCS, Tommy Palmer helped me. Tommy, another town boy cadet was a sophomore when i was a freshman. When one of the early personnel inspections was going to be held the next day, we all sat on the lawn in front of McFadden Gymnasium to shine our shoes, hopefully a spit shine. i was pretty much inept. My spit shine was hazy and spotty. Tommy was considered our champion spit shiner. He sat down beside me with his Kiwi black shoe polish, the top filled with water. He proceeded to show me how, and i emerged, not the champion, but something of a spit shine expert.

When a couple of Company Quebec OCs found out i went to a military academy, they immediately glommed onto me. We had a training session sitting on the deck of our hallway. After that, our shoes were never a problem in personnel inspections.

* * *

But otherwise, Company Quebec didn’t quite match the model of an officer candidate company. Perhaps it started when our liberty service dress khaki and service dress blue uniforms were finally issued. The next weekend’s liberty loomed. With Company LIma, a problem developed.

Every day, a new 4/c OC was selected as the “SLOD”, the acronym for “Section Leader of the Day.” During the week, our SLOD was marching our section to another class. He failed to see a rather uptight lieutenant walking the other way and failed to salute. The lieutenant, intent on teaching our SLOD a lesson, ordered him to to halt the section. As we stood at attention, the Lieutenant proceeded to chew out our SLOD unmercifully. One, if not several of us, recognized what we perceived absurdity in what was occurring. One of us stifled a chuckle. Quite a few more of us reacted by unsuccessfully stifling our muffled chuckles. The lieutenant became even more irate.

He put us on report as a section. We received a weekend of restriction. Thus, our section’s weekends of no liberty was a week later than the other fourth class Officer Candidates. It was not fun watching all of the other OCs head into town on liberty while we were confined to the base. Perhaps it gave us our identity as a company.

* * *

In our classes, i learned a great deal about seamanship, navigation, ship’s engineering, and damage control. i suspect my attitude was shaped by my instructors.

Our seamanship instructor was a Limited Duty Officer (CWO) Boatswain. He gave us a practical, no BS education in deck seamanship. In his introduction to our first class, he informed us, “I want your study guide to be familiar with you.” i lost it.

* * *

Our navigation instructor was what later would be called an E-8, and then called a Quartermaster Senior Chief Petty Officer. i learned a great deal about celestial navigation, piloting, dead reckoning, and charts. But today, i clearly remember our late afternoon class, the senior chief leaning back in his chair in front of the classroom and telling us when we were marching to our evening mess, he would be driving across the Claiborne Pell/Newport Bridge on his way to his home in Jamestown. “When you guys are filing into the mess hall, i will be reaching over to the back seat and pulling out my first of three Narragansett beers on the way home.”

* * *

Company Quebec’s Company Officer was LT Mellon. He was an Aviation LDO and old school Navy. He gave us the only leadership training i can remember us. It seemed almost offhanded. LT Mellon called us together in a lecture room in King Hall. He put on one of the old rolling slide cartoon films matched with an audio tape. The video was about John Paul Jones and how he led the United States Navy in the Revolutionary War. It was pretty hokey to me. At the conclusion of the slide show, LT Mellon gave us that one leadership lesson.

It was short. He bragged about as a division officer on carriers, he was most proud of never sending any of his division personnel to captain’s mast. i thought he must have had an exceptional group of enlisted personnel until he explained he took care of all the bad acts at the division level. Essentially, he told us that the best division officers were the ones who used the old corporeal punishment allowed in “Rocks and Shoals.” i thought it was strange.

* * *

After many years, i don’t recall any other training except for a warning about sexual contact. It was in January with slight snow on the ground when we marched to a WWII wooden barracks and climbed upstairs to a cramped, overheated room. We sat in wooden chairs as the training film began. The black and white, old film began with an obvious fake pilot house of a destroyer escort. the ship was in a dangerous situation on a dark and stormy night. Another ship was nearby when the OOD gave an steering order to the helmsman. The helmsman collapsed. The ship collided with the other ship. Then, the film revealed the helmsman had unprotected sex with a prostitute in a liberty port and had contracted syphilis. The film continued and showed “short arm” inspections, which were to check penises for venereal diseases, stressing how important those inspections were.

A few of our section was gagging. The majority was dead asleep, and i was aghast the training program thought this would be effective for something.

* * *

When our section finally got liberty, it was like letting the dogs out of the pound. After the week long of classes and Friday night athletics, a personnel inspection was held on Saturday morning along with a parade of the OCS battalion. When it was over, we were granted liberty from noon until 2000 Sunday night. We made the best of it.

After exploring the many wonderful places to explore in Newport, Rhode Island, we found the gathering place for Officer Candidates and …women. Think “Officer and a Gentleman” except in Rhode Island, not in Washington, and none of my partners in crime looked like Richard Gere and none of the ladies from Fall River, although attractive, didn’t quite match up to Deborah Winger.

Hurley’s was a what i would call a dance hall. There was a bar (of course), a stage behind the bar, a dance floor, and a large array of tables back of the dance floor. The food was…well actually, i don’t remember the food, but we ate it and liked it. Hurley’s was located across Bellevue Avenue from the Tennis Hall of Fame on a side street. The bands played jazz and Rhythm and Blues, the old kind. i quickly learned Sunday afternoons at Hurley’s was a jam session, and the featured band, both Saturday and Sunday played “My Satin Doll.” The lead singer nailed it. i would have sat there forever listening this woman singing that song. It resonates in my head to this day.

One of our OCs, one of my closest friends there, who shall rename nameless here because i don’t wish to tell any tales that might get him in trouble now, met a woman on our first Saturday night of liberty. They became pretty hot and heavy. But on subsequent dates, she insisted he hooked up one of us with her friend. The friend was not all of that attractive. He was having difficulty with this and a bit desperate. Doc, my roommate, and i came up with a plan.

i agreed to have a date with her, but had to be accompanied by Doc. The story was i was in the German Navy, attending the US OCS, and only spoke German. Doc and i were roommates because Doc spoke German and served as my interpreter. We all met at Hurley’s and found a table for five. When our buddy introduced us, i uttered some gibberish i thought sounded like German mixed with a few actual German words and “ach”s sprinkled in frequently. Doc interpreted. We kept this up a bit more than a half hour. Doc then said the two of us had to go back to the base to meet a German attached to the German UN contingent who was visiting Navy installations.

We left. No one was the wiser (including us especially), and our OC company mate had his date.

* * *

One of our favorite “gags” occurred almost every liberty weekend. Liberty expired at midnight on Saturday and 1700 on Sunday. On Saturday nights, we would stop at Dunkin’ Donuts on our way back to our barracks. We would each get a cup of coffee and order a dozen, jelly-filled donuts to go. When we reported in on our deck in King Hall, we would go to the second deck stairwell at the end of each wing. Just to give us something else to do, a security watch was set on each deck after taps until reveille every night. The Officer Candidate assigned to the watch rotated between the fourth class OCs. Each hour, the security watch would walk through each wing to find nothing (except once). As he entered the first deck stairwell, the three or four of us with our jelly-filled donuts hurled them down on the unsuspecting security watch. We had ducked out of sight before he looked up and scampered to our barrack rooms. The security guard would report in to his post. We guessed he either went to his room to change uniforms or remain on his post to wipe off as much of the jelly, parts of donuts, and the powdered sugar.

We never knew what he did, and we never got caught. We thought it was funny is my only excuse.

* * *

There were several more antics, which will not, and should not be told here. The night before we were to complete the training and be commissioned as ensigns, one more event occurred, which aptly captured what OCS was to us.

We had liberty until midnight on Thursday, February 3, the day before commissioning. Everyone except married OCs and those who had families or friends there to attend the next morning’s ceremony, celebrated with drinks. We all came back to our barracks tipsy and hit the racks.

Sometime around 0200, a fire ignited in the small Navy Exchange Shop on the first deck of King Hall. The security watch finally had a reason for being there. He notified the base fire department. All hell broke loose. They began barking orders over the intercom system very loudly, accompanied by louder alarms clanging. The officer candidates awoke, or most of them. The awake OCs awoke the others. We were ordered to muster in our companies on the drill field in front of King Hall. Nearly everyone of us slept in our skivvies. Not knowing the extent of the fire, we guessed the worst and hurried down the stairwells to our section’s spot on the drill field. A few wise OCs had brought the blankets on their racks, but most of us had only our skivvies as we stood in our formation.

Now, i don’t know how many of you have been to Newport in February, but i can tell you with great assurance, it is cold. It may not snow much being on the seacoast, but it can rival any place in New England with its coldness. i don’t know what the temperature actually was, but there was a 15-20 knot wind blowing off Narragansett Bay that night, enough to make shivering me in my skivvies feel like it was zero degrees Fahrenheit. We stood there for about 45 minutes before we were told it was a small fire in the exchange and had been doused. Shivering, we went back to our racks.

The next day, we went to our commissioning, glad the gym was large enough for the 600 or so of us wouldn’t have to stand outside.

“The Adventures of Remo Williams” continues…

This is out of sequence. If i ever get through all of my sea stories and make it a book, this post will be toward the later part of that book.

It seems nowadays, everyone wishes to knock what used to be, failing to recognize the progress we have had is rooted in what was in those days. To fail to recognize the goodness of what was, and deride the bad is a negation of that progress.

To me this is sad. Yesterday, i found myself in the midst of some great men whose institutions are now subject to a lot of rebuke…and misunderstanding of what was. Selective memory is bad, creating only divisiveness and disrupting if not stopping progress. Sad.

Gratitude

It was after our usual Friday morning golf round, a ritual begun in May 1991. In the past, we have had as many as four foursomes included. For the past number of years, we have been down to two groups. Now, it seems the number is growing again. Yesterday, we filled up the two foursomes. Eight of us sat on the patio of the Sea ‘n Air Golf Club on the Naval Air Station, North Island, located on the northwest end of what is now part of Coronado — Sometime after the big war, they filled in the “Spanish Bight.” It was a spit of water and sand almost totally separating the two islands connected by a causeway.

That golf dining patio, and the one at the Admiral Baker Golf courses, North and South, are part and parcel of the tradition. It is where we gather at the end of the round with our usual pitcher (or two) of beer. That’s where sea tales and war stories abound.

As i sat listening yesterday, several thoughts bounded from the past into my head.

i also thought of the folks who have played with us and been an integral part of our group who have passed on. They are missed, and we continue to try to recapture them in our stories.

Another thought: in 1964 in “Maple Manor,” a 1920’s relic of a house near Vanderbilt housed four Vanderbilt students and me, a former Vanderbilt student and office boy/cub reporter for Fred Russell’s sports department of The Nashville Banner. Think of the movie “Animal House” and you should have a good idea of what “Maple Manor was like. Cy Fraser, also a former Vandy student and close friend from Old Hickory, frequently spent the night. One morning while fixing the coffee, i remarked to Cyril that i apparently was going to be someone who recorded life and people and not be an earth shaker. This is why i am writing this post.

Another thought, frequently uttered by yours truly, also bounced into my head: “i am one lucky man. i have met some incredible people passing through life, amazing folks who consider me a friend.

Friday was a good example of that. It is not a place for thin skin. Each of us is roasted for past antics. We delight when a new golfer joins our mix. We can tell our phalanx of stories all over again. Some we just repeat because we think they are hilarious. The Friday session is what we politely call sea stories and war stories. There are a whole bunch of other kind of stories in the mix. It is really a bullshit (B/S) session. And it is great fun. Many of the stories cannot be told anywhere else. Politicians, many flag officers (we have had a couple of admirals that enjoyed our sessions), the politically correct, do-gooders, and single-cause focused folks would gasp at some of those stories, maybe even faint. We love them. It is a relief from the daily grind and awful news of today. It is the past, which will never be repeated. It is at the root of esprit de corps.

Our Friday group was composed of five Navy SEALS, all of whom made Captain; one army artillery major who was awarded the Silver Star for his actions in Vietnam; one nuclear power submarine maintenance Commander; and me, a ship driving Commander that was euphemistically changed to “Surface Warfare Officer” in 1969. All but two of us were in action in Vietnam although mine was only slight compared to the others.

We are laughingly referred to as curmudgeons by the golf staff. It is an appropriate name we have adopted for our group. Our laughter is a mainstay on the patio, and several folks have told us they really enjoy listening to us have so much fun. Yes, there have been a few who have been shocked by our language. Profanity was part of the art of being in the army and navy back then as was drinking a bit more than we should and antics on liberty that would get us hoisted on our own petards in today’s military. We revel in it.

i will not take a stance on today’s military here. It is what it is today and not what it was then. i am too old to disparage our forces today, at least not here.

But we represent a living that no longer exists and, in our own way, are proud of it.

i will not name names here. i will send a link to this post to all of those who golfed Friday, thanking them for allowing me to be a a part of this group of not just good, but great men.

As i said, i am a lucky man.

i was to report to the Navy Officer Candidate School in Newport, Rhode Island on September 15, 1967. The first airplane i ever made me think i might have been better off taking the bus. i had a connection, i think it was in Philadelphia for our final leg to Providence, and then a bus ride to Newport. The last leg’s passengers were largely young men headed where i was.

That’s when the storm hit. We bounced around in the middle of the thunder and lightning. Several times, the aircraft dropped seemingly forever. Prospective officer candidates were using up those airsick bags like they were peanuts. We began our approach into Providence it seemed like fifty times, only to climb back up, turn, and try again.

Finally, we landed and loaded onto the bus to Naval Base, Newport. The ride was uneventful. Arriving, the first class OCs acting as DI’s ordered us off the bus. We hurriedly gathered into the sorriest formation i ever saw and marched (sic) into the barber shop line. i had fallen into line behind this one guy who, i later learned, had driven his car up and parked it in the lot available for OCs.

He was noticeable as the line slimmed down toward the four chairs. The barbers were almost croaking with delight as the long haired candidates sat in their chairs. The razors hummed and the OCs left the chair shorn down to the scalp. When this guy in front of me gets there, the barbers were obviously upset. He had shaved his head the day before. Their joy at whacking it off was lost. i chuckled under my breath as i sat in the chair. My shearing wasn’t quite so bad after watching this guy flummox the barbers.

From there, we were ushered to the uniform supply line where the storekeepers piled uniforms of all kinds into our arms until we could barely see over them. Then the faux DIs had us running in formation, or moving as fast as we could while trying to keep all of the uniforms, shoes, and covers in our possession. We were marched to the drill field in front of King Hall, an impressive new building for berthing Officer Candidates. i later found out it was a huge improvement over the World War II wooden barracks that had been previously used as OC barracks.

i was assigned to Company Lima. The DI’s marched us up to the fourth floor to the wing for 4/c OCs. i filed into my stateroom and introduced myself to the guy who would be my roommate for the next four months. He was the guy who showed up with his shorn head. It was Doc Jarden, a recent Duke graduate from Philadelphia. With what little time we had, we hit it off. Doc would have a significant impact on my life, although i didn’t realize it yet.

The DIs kept us running. It was good to hit the rack at taps. The DIs decided to continue to pursue the harassment. With taps on their shoe heels, they marched up and down the passageway outside of our rooms, clicking their heels to keep us awake. It didn’t work for Doc and me.

The next morning, a rumor came that one of the new OC’s on the third deck had needed to go to the head in the middle of the night. The rumor was he was so afraid of the DIs, he dared not leave his room, and crapped in his towel. i never had the rumor verified, but i still believe it happened.

One Drill Instructor, this first class Officer Candidate was particularly disliked by the new OCs. He was a NESEP. i don’t remember what the acronym actually was, but NESEPs were enlisted sailors who had performed well enough to be awarded a college scholarship. They remained enlisted while attending college and went through OCS in two summers, not like us. He apparently believed he truly was superior and delighted in harassing us at every turn. Our dress uniforms had to be tailored to fit (they claimed), which meant no liberty on the weekends for the first month. That meant more time at the mercy of the DIs.

We had been run to the limit during the first two weeks and were stressed out. But over the weekend, i had the opportunity to call my friend and teammate on the Castle Heights football team. John Sweatt had preceded me through OCS and was the Main Propulsion Assistant the USS Basilone (DD 824), home ported in Newport.

On Tuesday of the following week, the DIs ordered a room inspection right after the evening mess. Doc and i flanked the entry to our room at attention, as did the other 4th/OCs as our menace began his inspection at the first room

A stir occurred at the end of the hall. LTJG John Sweatt, in his service dress blue uniform, emerged from the stairwell. If possible the OCs stood a stiffer attention as he passed. When John reached us, he motioned us into our room. He sat on the bed and motioned for us to sit down as well and we all lit up our cigarettes. i was thinking what a great release his coming was to me, and how he was taking off from his precious liberty to do so. We chatted.

The dreaded DI emerged from the first room and saw we were not at our position of attention by the door. Although he demanded strict adherence for wearing our covers correctly, he had his on the back of his head as he entered the room, ready to give Doc and i hell. He stopped, startled to see a LTJG with us. He snapped to attention and looked like an idiot as he tried to decide whether he should pull his hat down to the correct position and then salute or salute and then pull his cover down. His right arm bounced back and forth for a few seconds before John directed him to leave us alone and proceed on his room inspection.

Not only was John’s visit a momentary escape from the rigid discipline, it gave Doc and i a reality check, and the silliness of the regimen dished out to us made it much more bearable. John passed away in 1921. He had retired as a commander with his last operational tour as executive officer of the USS Samuel Gompers (AD 37), the same path i followed several years later on the USS Yosemite (AD 19).

i will always be grateful to John for his visit and his mentoring.

The shenanigans at OCS will continue…

When i started writing this section, i wrote a long narrative about how i lost my NROTC scholarship and ended up in Naval Reserve. Yesterday, i realized that stuff is pretty boring, perhaps only interesting to a few, if any, family members.

To make it short, i cut out the particulars and ended up with the following summary:

i lost my scholarship, finally flunked out of Vanderbilt, and because of the contract i had signed with the Navy was required to become a Naval Reserve enlisted for either four or six years. i do not remember which. i began the weekly Tuesday sessions at the Navy Reserve Center in Nashville’s Shelby Park. After testing, i was designated as a radioman striker and began taking courses to advance.

Regardless, when i resumed college at Middle Tennessee, it was impractical, damn near impossible to go to school full time, work two jobs requiring about 50 hours of work a week and commute to Nashville on Tuesdays to attend the weekly reserve meetings.

i went to a lieutenant, my supervisor at the reserve center seeking a solution. He told me i could go into the “Active Status Pool.”

i asked, “What’s that?”

He explained i would go into this pool, not attend meetings, not get paid the very, very small fund a reserve seaman would earn, and unless a requirement arose for my kind was needed on active duty (almost totally unlikely), i would get my DD-214, the document that legally showed i had completed my active duty service in a year’s time.

It sounded like the solution for me. i took that step in at the year’s end, i received my DD-214. i continued pursuing my BA English degree at MTSU, and before my last semester in May 1967, was beginning to look for work as a sports writer.

That’s when i received a draft board notice announcing i was “1A” in the draft from the Selective Service System, further stating i would be called to active duty. In 1967, it was obvious i was, in all probability, headed to Vietnam as a grunt, an army enlistee.

i was not pleased.

i began investigation as to why this could happen when i had a DD-214 denoting i had completed my active duty. Well, i had completed that phase, but i still had a year of obligated service remaining. Since one year was not one of their options, i would have to serve two years. Thus, the SSS policies and procedures changed the course of my life.

i changed direction and began to seek to go to Navy OCS, reasoning i had really enjoyed my time during my midshipman cruise, and it was certainly more attractive than pounding ground in Vietnam.

It turned out that was more difficult than i expected. The Navy was not really drawn to having a flunkie from NROTC attend OCS, but with a review of my appeal, my subsequent academic record at MTSU, and especially a personal letter to the Navy on my behalf from Joseph L. Evins, the respected Democratic representative for Tennessee (he somehow knew my parents), i was accepted by the narrowest of margins.

After graduation in August, i traveled once again to Newport, Rhode Island in mid-September, this time more wisely choosing to fly rather than taking a Trailways bus.

The next phase of my sea adventures began.