After reading my first post on my serial book, several folks have asked me about the periodicity for publishing. i was astounded, even felt complimented that there are folks out there who think i might have a plan, and if i did, i might just might stick to it.

Well, that ain’t the case, folks. My plan is for this to be my top priority in writing until it’s finished. They may come out daily or every week or so. i hope this does not disappoint you, but i am retired (except for this, you see), and i really do things when the mood strikes. We’ll see. i hope you enjoy.

And Sam, you don’t have to enjoy. You don’t even have to read, at least right now. But these are for you.

You Are In the Navy Now, Chapter 002

My Navy sea stories at Vanderbilt are limited except for the third class midshipman cruise in the summer of 1963. But to give Sam of an idea of how i got to my sea stories, here’s a very truncated recap:

i made several bad decisions. i partied and i drank, too much of both. In two years and one summer semester, i flunked out. That venture and the ensuing ones are stories of their own. But the summer after my first year, 1963, served as my introduction to sea stories…and there were several doozies.

The first began before i actually boarded my first ship for the third class midshipman cruise, the USS Lloyd Thomas (DD 764). i had unwisely taken the travel money to get to Newport, Rhode Island where i would embark on the Thomas. Most midshipmen took the paid airfare to arrive. I ended up not making any money as was my plan. My choice was traveling by bus. i left Nashville on a Trailways at noon on Saturday and arrived in Newport at 0700 on Monday morning. It was 42 hours of travel in an unseasonably warm early June with stops for travelers departing and boarding and meals. It was all in the only service dress khaki uniform i had. It was a dress khaki shirt with black tie, gabardine khaki trousers and blouse, black shoes and socks and a combination cover, again khaki.

When my bus reached downtown Newport, to put it politely, i stunk.

Things got worse. When they offloaded our seabags, mine wasn’t there. After some lengthy confusion, the bus agents told me my seabag had not been transferred when we changed buses in Providence, adding it should arrive on the next bus and would be delivered to my ship before we got underway.

It didn’t.

i was stuck with no uniforms. None, not my other dress uniforms, not my midshipmen working khakis, not my dungarees, not my middie dixie cup caps with the blue fringe, not my underwear and socks, not my toiletries.

As the Thomas got underway, someone sent a message stating my seabag was just delivered to another ship on the cruise and would be transferred by hi-line, which should occur soon. “Soon” turned out be three weeks.

i was not distraught, but “concerned” is too mild.

When we all met the executive officer in the wardroom, he greeted us, gave us some ground rules for being part of ship’s company, then told us we would muster on the 02 level forward of the bridge above while we stood out of the channel to sea. Before we left the wardroom, he directed the ASW officer, the midshipmen coordinator, to see if they could get some enlisted dungarees for me to wear until my seabag arrived. He also directed the supply officer to open up ship’s store and let me purchase toiletries…after we were secured from sea detail.

We filed up to the 02 level where Mount 52 had been removed during the Fleet Rehabilitation and Modernization Program the year before i came on board. She was a “FRAM 2,” which meant she did not get an Anti-Submarine Rocket (ASROC) launcher and her torpedo tubes remained amidships unlike the FRAM I, which had the ASROC launcher amidships and torpedo tubes where Mount 52 had been.

The 18 third-class midshipmen and the 3 first-class midshipmen fell into formation in full view of the bridge a deck above and aft of us. For the duration of the approximate six nautical mile transit to the sea buoy, we stood at parade rest with an occasional at ease. For the first 10 minutes, we were at parade rest.

Now midshipmen were considered “fresh meat” for pranks by the crew. We were even better than recruits for the sailors could yank the chains of college students. They delighted in such fun, and the chief petty officers were the champion pranksters. One senior chief was the star. His target was the formation of midshipmen.

He grabbed one of the small paper “seasick” bags hung on hand rails around the ship when the ship first got underway for those who had to adjust to the sea, getting their sea legs, and likely getting sick several times. The senior chief struck below to chief’s quarters and the galley. He grabbed a large handful of graham crackers, crunched them up in the seasick bag, and then filled the bag with milk. He shook the bag until he was sure the mixture was complete.

Then he went up the port ladder to the deck where we were in formation. the senior chief was under the port bridge wing so anyone on the bridge could not see him. But by cutting our eyes while at parade rest, all of the midshipmen could see and hear him.

He was seemingly ignoring us but proclaimed, “Yep, every time i have gone to see for 18 years, i have to get sea sick before getting my sea legs.” He paused and said in a distressed voice. And it’s happening again.”

With that, he began to gag and choke and leaned against the safety lines. He leaned his head over the safety lines and brought the seasick bag up to his mouth. For about a half minute, he feigned retching, gagging, and, as we called it, chucking up into the seasick bag.

By now the midshipmen had dropped their parade rest and were earnestly watching the drama unfold. The senior chief raised the bag in his hand up to his mouth again and tilted it up again as he announced, “And there is only one way to cure it.” He began pouring the mixture down his mouth making sure most of the contents missed and poured down his face and uniform and on the deck. He crumbled the bag and threw it over the side, turned and struck below.

That did it. Only three of the midshipmen remained in formation. The rest had rushed to the sides and were barfing like crazy, some too soon to make it to the side. The bridge was amazed to watch what they must have believed were the greatest collection of pansies in midshipmen uniforms that they had ever seen.

To this day, i will never understand why i was one of the three who did not get sick. i didn’t feel that good, but i made it through that ordeal, little realizing the worst was to come before my first day at sea was completed.

Perhaps it was an omen about my Naval career long before i had any intention of making it a career.

(Chapter 2 to be continued)

Prelude

This is a different way for me to tell stories, sea stories to be exact. It is not for the faint of heart, the politically correct, or the pious. i am writing it to give my grandson an idea of what my life was like and what i experienced.

It is also written to share sea stories, wonderful tales of what used to be in our Navy on ships at sea. Until my last two tours, my Navy was all men on steam ships, mostly old steam ships, but very, very reliable for accomplishing their mission. It was a man’s world then. We cussed, we chased women on liberty, and we drank too much on liberty. We were as close to “Fiddler’s Green” as any mariner would ever get. Oh yes, we laughed a lot.

This is sort of a Charles Dickens kind of thing. i am not in the financial position to publish another book. As i write this, both of the books i have published, one, A Pocket of Resistance: Selected Poems through a “print on demand” company, and my last one, Steel Decks and Glass Ceilings, which was self-published, are in the red. So my idea is to publish this book as a serial as Dickens did with a number of his novels. Therefore, the serial will not have an editor other than moi, which means it is likely to have a lot of errors.

if there appears to be enough interest, or if an “angel” steps forward, i may decide to go ahead and publish in one manner or another. But for now, you get what i got. And what i got is nearly thirty years of sea stories,

As much as possible, when there are negative characterizations of the folks in these sea stories, i will attempt to make them fictional. That is, of course, unless i am that folk. i can laugh at myself, and i don’t have a problem with others laughing with me. But i don’t wish to hurt anyone’s feelings while telling funny stories about another time, another place in a world that no longer exists.

i would like to know how you feel about these serial posts other than this is gross, this is inappropriate, this is disgusting, kinds of comments.

You see, during my Navy service, i was somewhat of a swashbuckler, although it was more swish than swash. i loved most of it. It was unlike any civilian pursuit or any pursuit that did not include long deployments at sea. And these sea stories are indicative of the environment that shaped me.

Sam, both of my grandfathers both died before i was born. i have always longed to know what they were like. Due to many things, distance, time, etc., i have never spent enough time for me with you in your youth. i want to give you a clear and unadulterated idea of what i was like. These sea stories are a a large piece of me.

i hope you understand.

Chapter 1: How It Began

My life can best be described as chequered. I don’t know why. I am not really sure why.

But it has happened.

Through it all, the Navy has had a thread in my life beginning with my birth.

In January 1944, my father cobbled together enough liberty passes from his friends in the 75^th Seabee Construction Battalion to spend about a week back home. He took a train from Gulfport, Mississippi to Nashville. His battalion was awaiting a liberty ship to take them to the Western Pacific. He was there when i was born at 7:30 in the morning, 19 January 1944. He left the next morning to catch a train back to Gulfport. The Seabees were a branch of the Navy. After my mother and aunt took me to Gulfport in May so he could see his infant son, he left for over two years in the middle of the Great War in the Western Pacific.

It wasn’t until my junior year at Castle Heights Military Academy that the Navy entered my thoughts again. Someone, perhaps Col. Brown, our professor in calculous our senior year, informed us a Navy scholarship was available. Lee Dowdy, another town boy who was much less frivolous than I, pointed out we should try for that. The Naval ROTC scholarship paid for tuition, provided books, and gave the students $50 a month (a huge sum in 1962) toward room and board. Being awarded the scholarship would open up the possibility of attending some of the best universities in the country for us.

Lee and i were both making good grades and while applying – we were filling out much of the required paperwork for the NROTC scholarship and others in the “Cavalier” room, the journalism center for the award-winning newspaper, The Cavalier, and The Adjutant, the school’s annual.

When we reached the section where we were required to enter our top three choices for colleges to attend, Lee and i discussed our options. We both expressed the desire to attend Duke.

Then, as just about any two 18-year-old boys i have ever known, we figured out how to outsmart our seniors. We figured we would be less likely to get our desired program if both of us applied for Duke since we were from the same high school. I demurred.

I put Vanderbilt as my top choice, Duke as my second, and Michigan as my third – Jimmy Gamble and i had dreamed of playing football at Michigan since we were the co-captains of our junior high team.

Lee got Duke. I was awarded a scholarship to Vanderbilt.

And so, my life with the Navy began. Although i have delved in numerous other pursuits, The Navy, or more accurately being on Navy ships at sea, is me, part of the core of me.

i found this in drafts of posts today when digging up those i had misplaced or forgotten (old men, especially this old man, have a tendency to forget and misplace things). A good story, this book Brenda Fake recommended to me.

i have just finished reading Frankie Maru by Lionel F. Price. My good friend, Brenda Fake sent it to me after the author had given it to her. It is not a book for everyone. It was for me.

The book relates the story of how the USS Frank Knox (DD-742) , with the nickname of “Frankie Maru,” went aground on Pratas Reef, an atoll in the South China Sea in 1965 while transiting from Vietnam to Kaohsiung, Taiwan.

i related.

The Knox was a FRAM II Gearing class destroyer. i was the First Lieutenant and Anti-Submarine Warfare (ASW) Officer on the USS Hawkins (DD-873) and Chief Engineer on the USS Hollister (DD-788), and ASW Officer again on the USS Stephen B. Luce (DLG-7).  The former two also were Gearing class destroyers but FRAM I’s, which meant they were very similar to the Knox, but had one less 5-inch 38 gun mount and the bridge was enclosed, part of the pilot house, while the FRAM II’s, like  the Knox had open bridges with the pilot house enclosed. 

The Luce was newer and bigger and much more modern. While sports editor of The Watertown Daily Times, i served my two weeks of annual active duty service aboard the USS Waldron (DD-699) of the earlier Sumner class of destroyers, and spent eight weeks during my third class midshipman cruise aboard the USS Lloyd Thomas (DD-764), a FRAM II like the Knox.

i spent a bunch of time as OOD (Officer of the Deck) on all but the Thomas. i don’t recall ever being close to going aground but twice and that happened on the the USS Okinawa (LPH-3) when i was the OOD.

The first time occurred when we had given an aviator (whose name will not be included here) the conn as we stood out of  San Diego Bay in order for him to become qualified for command of a deep draft Navy ship. The channel was fairly wide but if a large ship was standing in while your ship was standing out, it became tight, a piloting/channel challenge; not an open sea situation, but it was close. Too close. He became confused and turned the ship perpendicular to the channel, headed straight at Harbor Island.  Close enough that the diners in the pier side restaurant window seatings were swallowing their salads and entrees aghast at the bow of a helicopter carrier hanging over them.

The second near grounding occurred when i was the Sea Detail OOD while standing in to San Diego Bay at night with only one main feed pump and tug going DIW (Dead in the Water) ahead of us in the channel with no warning. This tale has a story of its own, but for now, suffice it to say, to avoid the DIW tug, i executed an emergency maneuver that propelled the ship directly to the shallows of North Island. A welcomed recommendation from the navigator reminded me to shift rudder and avoid running aground. That, by the way, is the way a ship’s bridge team should work together. We escaped a collision and a grounding.

Although these close encounters were not as complicated as the Knox’s, these two close calls and a number of near collisions with other ships, i respect the problems facing the Knox  watch standers on that calamitous night in 1965. Of those, one close call on the Hawkins in 1969, and one on the Luce in 1972 stood out for me as i read the pages of Frankie Maru.

On the Hawk, an oiler turned too early on a maneuver in the rough seas and foul weather of the Northeast Atlantic. It was the evening watch. i had asked the captain, Commander Max Lasell to remain on the bridge for that particular maneuver before he went down to the wardroom to watch the evening movie. He did stay, thank God. The oiler passed in front of our bow and we estimated we were as close as 75 feet to her starboard side, possibly 50 feet (We didn’t have time to measure). i had given the CO the conn and i ran all the other aspects of managing the ship.

Afterwards, the two of us discussed what had occurred. i concluded i might have made the same “All Ahead Emergency,” but perhaps not in time. That most likely could have been the difference between a near miss and a collision at sea. 

On the Luce in the Med in 1972 on the mid-watch (midnight until 0400), a radar contact appeared at somewhere under 20 miles. Combat (CIC), i as the OOD, and the JOOD arrived at the same course and speed for the contact, and tracked the contact on our radar repeaters. The bearing did not change (no drift) and the distance between us continued to close. That meant the CPA (Closest Point of Approach) was zero, a collision course. The calculated course and speed validated that under the International Rules of the Road, she was the “burdened vessel” and the Luce was the “privileged vessel.” For landlubbers, this means the privileged vessel should maintain her course and speed and the “burdened vessel” should maneuver to avoid the collision, nearly always turning to starboard to pass astern of the “privileged vessel,” aka us.

Following the captain’s standing orders, i awoke Commander Richard Butts, and told him of the contact and the status, adding i would keep him informed. Before the distance between the Luce and the cargo ship was ten miles, the lookouts had spotted her, and the JOOD and i had also found the contact with our binoculars, even though she was hull down (only the mast or superstructure showed above the horizon while the bulk of  the ship was still below the horizon). The visual contact , and the calculated course and speed from tracking on the radar still showed a collision course.

The contact had not yet maneuvered. i called the captain, informed him again there was no change, and apologetically asked him to leave the sea cabin and come to the bridge. He was by my side within two minutes or less. The JOOD and i had been continuously on the port bridge wing to take sightings on the contact using the wing’s gyro compass repeater. The captain was at our side. No change.

At five miles,  i took over the port wing gyro compass, personally taking sightings and reporting to the captain standing beside me that there was no change in bearing. Then inside of four miles, i found the bearing had slightly moved to the right. i told the CO. i rechecked and told him the drift was about 1/2 degree. i recommended we take evasive action. It was way too close for me. Commander Butts asked me if i was sure there was bearing drift. i confirmed. He then replied negatively to my request to change course and speed (i had planned to turn hard to starboard and go to “All Emergency Flank” as i had learned in several shiphandling courses. The bearing kept increasing slightly as we continued too close.

The merchant ship passed in front of our bow. The closest we came was probably about fifty feet. It was close enough for us to look up into the merchant’s lighted pilot house to see it was empty, unmanned. The ship was running on autopilot.

It was a cool autumn night on the Mediterranean, but i was sweating. The captain looked at me, winked and said, “If you have bearing drift, you won’t collide.”

Dick Butts was one of the best CO’s i had on my ten ships and made two stars. To this day, i am pretty sure we stayed on that course because he wanted to teach me a lesson.

He did.

 

This column, published in The Lebanon Democrat in January fifteen years ago, will be included in my next project, a serialized story here about my Navy days: A Tale of the Sea and Me.

SAN DIEGO – As the new year ramps up, I am back in the Southwest corner considering why I made the Navy my career.

My father also has wondered why a boy from Middle Tennessee would choose the sea for his livelihood. Others have wondered the same thing.

The sea called me during my midshipman cruise on the U.S.S. Lloyd Thomas (DD 694) in 1963. We steamed from Newport, RI, to Sydney, Nova Scotia; to Bermuda; and back to Newport as part of the U.S.S. Intrepid (CVA 11) battle group.

My last four weeks were in engineering with two watches and normal work requiring 16-hour workdays. Having no more sense than I do now, I went from my last watch to the crew’s movie in the Drone Anti-Submarine Helicopter (DASH) hangar – “DASH” was a weapon which did not last long. Sailors called it “CRASH” instead of “DASH.” But its hanger on the 02 level just aft of amidships was perfect for showing movies.

This night, I watched “The Quiet Man” for the first time. As I left the theater and traversed the torpedo deck, I walked to the port side and gazed at the full moon.

The ship was making 15 knots. The moon’s reflection cut a wide, rippling, reflective path straight to me. The boilers roared through the forward stack. The bow wave was white, curling from the side and swishing its whisper as the ship cut through the water. “Darken ship” allowed no lights except those for navigation. At least a billion stars blanketed the black sky.

The sea grabbed me. She came down that path from the full moon, wafted across the bow wave, and reached deep inside. I felt her grab my heart and take it away.

I have loved her in her fury of the winter Atlantic, when she tossed a 500-foot ship around like a cork, ripping off protruding metal like dandelion bristles, and tossing sailors around the ship like matchsticks. Her intense fury blanketed the sea surface with froth.

I have loved her in the doldrums of the South China Sea where not a breath of wind existed, and the sea surface was glass for a week. I saw my first “green flash” then.

In the summer of 1973, steaming in the operating areas off of Newport, Rhode Island, my father saw why I went to sea. My ship, the U.S.S. Luce (DLG 7), was undergoing a major inspection. My Commanding Officer learned of my father visiting and invited him to ride during our underway day.

As a lieutenant, I was the sea detail officer of the deck. My father was by my side as I had the “conn” while the ship stood out of Narragansett Bay. As soon as we reached the operating area, we went to 25 knots for rudder tests, rapidly shifting the rudder to max angles both ways. The commanding officer and I went into a frantic dance, running in opposite directions across the bridge to hang over each wing checking for small craft in the dramatic turns.

After the rudder tests, I took my father into the bowels of the ship to our anti-submarine warfare spaces. My father stood behind me as I directed prosecution of a submarine contact. In the darkened spaces with sonar pings resounding, he watched as we tracked the sub on our fire control screen and simulated firing a torpedo.

After lunch, we set general quarters and ran through engineering drills. Finally, we transited back to Newport.

With mooring complete, the captain gave my father a ship’s plaque. My wife and mother were waiting on the pier when we debarked from the ship’s quarterdeck. As we walked the brow to the pier, my father said to me, “Son, I understand why you would want to make this a career.”

I did. Somewhere in the latter stages of that career, I met a woman, a native of San Diego, and we got married. After a brief taste of being a Navy officer’s wife, she and I returned to San Diego for my “twilight” tour, the last four years on shore duty.

So now when I walk up our hill to raise and lower the flag, I look out to sea and check to see how many ships are pierside at the Naval Station.

And that, my friends, is why I made the Navy career and live in the Southwest corner, far from my home in Tennessee.

the old mariner stepped cautiously,
a cane steadying his step,
toward the dilapidated wood pier
and
small dinghy at the head of the pier,
but
he wouldn’t board the dinghy today,
not today,
for the sea had chosen to be
belligerent and gray
with the wind whipping up
the spume of white caps:
too rough for old men
to row a shabby dinghy
out for a mile and then back,
which was his custom.

the old mariner sighed,
settling for listening to the sea
speak to him
as she had done
for what seemed like centuries
after­ she, the enchantress,
called him on a calm night,
using the full moon’s path
to him while he stood
at the rail port amidships,
the moon calling him like Circe’s sirens,
and
she, the enchantress, touched him,
gripping him deep inside
and
he fell in love.

little did the old mariner realize
until now
she would possess him
until the end of time
and
others he held close
would recognize
she possessed him,
assume he didn’t care,
and
leave him alone,
as alone as he was,
on this blustery sea day
looking out
at his angry, jealous enchantress.

the old mariner turned from her,
walking away,
carefully placing his cane for the next step
to his shanty on the nearby beach
where he would place the logs
in the hearth,
light the fire
to sit by
until
the next day
when he would row out
on the dinghy
and
speak to his enchantress
again.