This post is a old Navy sea story of mine and is really true. It is not for folks who are overly sensitive and certainly not for those who are politically correct.
He was notable, a legend amongst us, at least amongst Navy folks.
1970. Sasebo, Japan in mid-January. i was the new XO of MSTS (now MSC) Transport Unit One (gone with the wind of time) which road USNS troop ships carrying Republic of Korea troops to Vietnam and back. He was the master chief corpsman. i cannot remember his name for now. But he is indelibly etched in my memory bank, how frail and sketchy that might be. i met this jocular, white haired master chief shortly after i reported aboard.
The master chief liked to gamble a bit. So he frequently visited the game room (aka slot machine room) at the Sasebo Chief’s Club. As we were getting underway for our overnight steam to Pusan, Korea, i spotted him with a large bandage around his head and jowls.
“What happened to you, Master Chief?” i inquired.
“I broke my jaw,” he tersely replied.
“How?” i asked just as tersely.
“This woman, a dependent wife hit me in the chief’s club,” he responded.
Somewhat astounded for several reasons, i pursued, “How could that have happened?”
“Well sir, i went into the game room and grabbed a stool for an empty slot…at least i thought it was unoccupied,” he continued, “Well, this woman apparently had had a winning streak and left her machine for a moment. When she came back, she got mad at me taking her slot machine and hit me.”
“She hit you and broke your jaw?” i stated, even more amazed, “Must have been one big woman.”
“No sir, XO. She was tiny. i think she was the Japanese wife of one the chiefs stationed here.”
“She was a tiny Japanese woman, and she broke your jaw?” i stated, totally flummoxed.
“Well, sir,” the master chief embarrassedly concluded, “She hit me with her purse. It was full of quarters.”
The Master Chief was single. He had decided to get a vasectomy. The Navy medical facilities did not provide for such procedures in 1970, but he had found a Army dispensary outside of Qui Nhon, Vietnam, arranging for the procedure on our next port call. As we were departing Sasebo for our overnight excursion to Pusan, i went down to the ship’s infirmary to the unit’s two doctors who had become good friends. The master chief was working furiously on a cardboard sign. i suspected it had something to do with the red light district in Pusan where most of the single unit members frequented when our ship was in port.
“What are you doing, Master Chief,” i questioned.
“Well XO, this is going to be my last port before my vasectomy, so i’m going trawling.”
“Yes, sir. Just before i go on liberty, i’m going down to the galley and get a whole chicken, thawed. Then, i’m going to tie it on a long line and this pole with the sign on it. When i get down to about the San Francisco Club, i’m going to walk down the middle of the street with that chicken at the end of my pole. i’m thinking i’ll catch me several of those women.”
Although wary, i still asked, “Master Chief, what does the sign say?”
He held it up so i could see. In big block letters, he had scrawled, “Get the last live load.”
Yes, he was a legend.