Strange Things Happen
To Sailors”

By John Ellett, RMC, USN, Ret.

Part The First

Let me see.  How do I explain this to somebody that has never gone to sea or been a Sailor?  Well, here goes, with the caveat that most of this below occurred, or may
have occurred, in the middle 1950‘s.  Your narrator was an 18-year old country boy who had all of a sudden been thrown out into the wide world, with no preparation.

Going home?  I might as well start there, I guess.  Back in the early 1950’s, considering the pay scale of the younger Sailors, there was only one method of traveling home or anywhere else.  Let us face it, $65.00 a month did not go far.  Certainly it did not encourage a person’s throwing away good money for tickets on Greyhound or other commercial modes of transportation.  Air travel was unheard of, being reserved for movie stars and politicians or millionaires.  Or, possibly, for Officers.

Hitchhiking!  That was the preferred and only way that we of the lower classes went anywhere beyond a reasonable walking distance.  Riding your thumb, cadging a ride with a generous public, taking a chance that the driver was not a deviate.  That was our mode of transportation.

Of course, the Navy had prohibitions against this mode of transportation and had personnel specifically assigned to make sure that no Sailor used it.  The local and state police forces also knew that this method was forbidden.  Luckily most civilian law enforcement officers ignored this ban, and we of the “thumb” knew where the Shore Patrol’s authority ended.  In fact, in dire straits, you could almost count on a local law enforcement cruiser to give you a ride to the nearest truck stop or at least somewhere the lighting was better.

Out the gate at the Naval Training Center, grab a bus or taxi, if it was well within 15 minutes after pay call, or just stand on the curb looking wistful and shortly, you were on Highway 101.  If you walked across the bridge there, you were safe from the local San Diego Police and the Shore Patrol, since you were out of their jurisdiction.  California Highway Patrol Officers would wave as they went by you as you stood out there with the universal thumb in the air.

Finally, sometime within five minutes and one half an hour, you had your first ride and the first mile under you.  Only 399 more to go.  With luck, this ride would take you all the way to Los Angeles, if not beyond.  The driver would either be a fellow Sailor hoping for a little donation for gasoline, or a parent of a Service Member doing his or her bit for the Services.  That is the way people thought in those days.

The second ride you caught was the one you worried about.  In those days, the highway went right through the Hollywood area and strange people would pick you up.  For instance, there was the man who decided that he just “Loved” the feel of the dress trousers I was wearing.  During that short ride, I promptly decided to stop for something to eat at the first place I spotted. 

Another time, I got a ride from LA all the way up into the Great Central Valley.  My dropping off point was a little town called Delano.  A small agricultural town inhabited by early to bed, early to rise farming people.  My driver did not point out to me that there was exactly zero traffic into and out of Delano at 11 P.M., nor was there likely to be much traffic on Highway 99 at that time of night.  He turned off for home, and I ended up standing on the side of the road.  At the time, it seemed to be one of the Biblical 40 years until I got another ride.  In actuality, it probably was about an hour or so.

So, there I was, standing out in the cold under one of those mercury vapor lights.  If you don’t know what they can do to the colors of things, Pall Mall cigarette packages which were in those days a bright red color turned a deep black, while the white striping on the uniform and the white hat turned some unearthly color.  I have been told that a human body, clothed in Navy Blue, simply disappears into the background until glimpsed at the range of about 300 feet.  This is not conducive to being picked up, when the vehicle is traveling along at about 60 mph.

Finally, you reach your destination.  HOME!  At 2AM or so.  Walk the small town to your Mother’s house, and go to bed.  Hurrah, you have all of tomorrow to renew old friendships, attempt to find a giving girl that has a car and will take you with her to the Passion Pit, otherwise known as the Drive-in Movie.  If not, you can hang around and tell your homebound friends sea stories all night.  These stories are the result of your extensive naval experiences.  That is to say, all 5 months of those experiences.  All shore-bound, at that.

Sadly, comes Sunday Morning.  Breakfast with your mother, maybe church services, and it is time to get back on the road again.  Monday morning comes early when you are hitchhiking.  Out to the highway again, and up goes the thumb.  With extreme luck, some other fortunate Sailors - fortunate in that they have an actual automobile - will pick you up.  A couple of dollars for gas and you can sleep most of the way back to San Diego.  If you are extremely unfortunate, you might catch a ride with some Marines on their way back to Oceanside.  These rides could get you stranded just about anywhere, since Camp Pendleton, the Marines’ destination, covered a large distance of the coast line, and there was absolutely nothing out there but Marine Base, at that time.

I once got a ride from a First Class Gunners Mate in the middle of the night.  As we passed one of the Marine’s favorite ‘drop the Sailor off’ points designated by a lonely 100 Watt light bulb hanging from a drooping and weather beaten pole, he lit another of his Camel cigarettes and told me the Golden Rule.  He said, pointing over his shoulder with his left thumb, to indicate the direction of the turn off to Camp Las Pulgas, “Never get dropped off there, Shipmate.  I spent a whole 4-year hitch there, one night”.  Golden words to a country boy, and respected for the rest of my Naval Career.

Mothers were very worried about their ’little boys’ traveling by thumb, worried they might be attacked, assaulted, robbed or any other thing that their minds could conjure up.  I will say this, other than the person that ’loved’ the feel of blue Melton cloth, and a couple of other LA characters, I had absolutely no problems while traveling 800 miles on a weekend, by “thumb”.

I met some very nice people.  I met some that could only be described as characters.  I had meals and coffee bought for me.  I had offers to assist with the gasoline bill refused.  I had people go out of their way for me, as far as 30 miles in one instance just to ensure that I would be in a good location for my next ride.  I was never, ever, assaulted or approached in a very serious vein, excepting the gentleman with the fixation on Melton cloth.  And, well, maybe a couple of other strange people who issued invitations to come see their ‘art‘, their apartments and such.

  Interesting conversations were had, compassionate feelings for a Man-O-Wars-man during the Korean War were expressed, old war stories from World War II and some World War I veterans were related, interest in the U.S. Navy from parents that had boys that were thinking of, maybe, going into the Navy, invites to stop and share a meal with their families, all these things.  Never anything bad. Just the patriotic gestures of a public towards the men of their Armed Services.  I was offered, and once or twice partook of illicit beers.  Of course, I did this only to reduce the drivers supply, you understand.  Sadly, I just don’t think a man could do the same in these days.  Times change. To my mind, for the worse.  Where did my world go?

Part The Second
Going Home, The Hard Way

September, or thereabouts, 1953.  Off the coast of what was then known as Formosa.  I was riding the USS PINE ISLAND, and was working in the Radio Shack.  I got a call from one of the Radiomen on watch telling me that my name had come up in a message.  This message turned out to be from the Red Cross asking for Emergency Leave for me, since my father was in the hospital and not expected to live.  Hard times for an 18-year old country boy far from home.  Anyway, we were due in port the next day and I got my leave papers and packed my bags.  What the hey, California was only about 9500 miles away and I was a Sailor.  ‘Nuff said.

When we got into port, I shouldered my sea bag, and marched down the ‘brow’ and eventually out the gate into a strange, never before seen, Chinese city.  Talk about stumped; I was definitely qualified.  “Now what?” was the question uppermost in my mind.

I was standing in the middle of a bridge, contemplating my quandary, and probably looking as if suicide was uppermost in my mind, when a Chinese Army Officer approached me.

In very good English, he enquired as to my problem.  After my sad tale, he turned and whistled for a “pedicab”.  For the uninitiated, a pedicab is a rickshaw pulled by a man on a bicycle instead of on foot.  Actually, he ’requisitioned’ two of them, one to carry us, and one for my sea bag.  Once we got underway, so to speak, he enquired to whether I had any money.  Reluctantly, fearing robbery, brigandage, whatever, I related that I did have money, but it was in ’Greenbacks”...i.e., American money.  The possession of Greenbacks ashore at that time was forbidden due to the possibility of that money being transported to fund the Korean and Chinese efforts against the U.S./UN forces then in combat in Korea.

“My” officer then directed the pedicab puller down a number of back alleys, causing me to think that I would probably pre-decease my father.  Eventually, we ended up at the offices of the pedicab company.  My officer then relieved me of $40.00 USD and entered the main offices of the company.  Shortly he returned with a sheaf of Yuan, as I believe they were called.  The local currency.  When queried about the exchange, without a doubt on the Black Market, he chuckled and said, “Yes, they were probably Communists, and would ship the money directly to North Korea.  However, they gave me the best exchange rate.”  Who was I to argue?

Shortly thereafter, we ended up at the Railway Station.  He purchased my ticket for me, telling me that he knew that an U.S. Navy aircraft was at an airfield some distance away, and I probably could get a hop.  He put me on the train, after giving instructions to the Porter and the Conductor.  And, away I went.  Exactly where I was off to, I had no idea, but I was definitely going there, wherever it was.  All I really needed was Dorothy and Toto and I would have felt right at home.

Apparently, I, or rather he, had purchased a First Class ticket for my travel, since I had no more than sat down when a functionary brought me a glass of tea.  There were actually provisions for the glass in the seatback of the seat in front of me.  I thought that was thoughtful of the railroad company.  However, it seemed that every time I took a swallow out of the glass, this gentleman would run over and replace the glass with a new, hotter, one.  This went on for the rest of my journey.  Never try to out-drink the “tea man” on a Formosan train...It is impossible.

Eventually, we reached my destination.  This became apparent, once the Conductor had grabbed me and hustled me off the train.  I now knew how the mailbags used to feel in the old days of Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid.  Suffice it to say, I was very shortly watching ‘my’ train depart the station.

BUT!  My Chinese officer had foreseen this little problem, also.  Awaiting me was another of the pedicabs.  I was ‘encouraged’ to mount the rig, my sea bag was placed next to me and we were off.  Shades of “Sand Pebbles” or some such sea story.

The next thing I knew, we were entering a Chinese Air Force Base, exchanging salutes with the Gate Guard and all the other required military protocols.  Well, here I was, there was a U.S. Navy P2V patrol aircraft and I had it made in the shade!

One small problem.  I encountered the pilot of the aircraft and begged a ride to Okinawa.  He promptly informed me that he not only would not take me, but that he was leaving a man or two from his crew, since one of the engines on the plane was “sick”.

Immediately, the thoughts occurred to me that, 1) I would never see my father again on this earth, and, 2) I was destined to wander Formosa for the rest of my natural life.  As behooves a real Sailor, I waved bye-bye to the airplane as it struggled into the air.  I further wished luck to the pilot and what remained of his crew on their perilous journey.

Ah Hah!  My ‘Chinese Connection’ continued to operate.  I was shortly informed by way of somewhat mangled English that a flight to the other end of the island was about to depart, and I had a place on it.  I had just traveled from one end of the island to the other, and I was about to fly right back over my just finished railroad adventure.  The thought popped into my mind...”Why not?”  From the looks of the airfield, that P2V was the only airplane that had appeared there, or was likely to appear there again in some great number of years, discounting my Chinese Air Force ride.

I had heard tales of the Chinese Air Force.  They somewhat resembled the tales concerning a Chinese Fire Drill.  However, I was reassured by the logo of the “Flying Tigers” on the hull of the aircraft.  This somewhat quieted my quivering heart.  Suffice it to say that we eventually landed at Tai Pei, the capital city of Formosa.  There, I found a U.S. Air Force airplane engaged in what was called, delicately, The Milk Run.

In all actuality, it was a Milk Run.  Apparently the various Services had contracted for the output of a dairy farm and the Air Force was engaged in flying the fresh milk to Okinawa for the benefit of the mothers-to-be and the young offspring of the personnel stationed on Okinawa.  Hoo boy, here I go, eastbound, towards the ‘States’.

Since the aircraft was filled to near capacity with containers of milk, I took up residence upon a rubber fabric covered object on the right hand side of the aircraft.  Shortly after take off, I indulged myself with a cigarette, in full faith that I could replenish my supplies at the Exchange in Okinawa.

Very shortly after lighting up, the door to the cockpit opened up and one of the enlisted crew appeared.  He blanched, stuttered, and then informed me that I was smoking one of the United States of America’s finest tobacco products, while reclining upon a tank containing 500 gallons of aviation gasoline.  Needless to say, that cigarette was extinguished very promptly.  I must admit, though, that I rubbed it out on the rubbery cover of the gas tank. 

Such are we in our younger years.  Thoughtless and devil may care might fill that bill, I think.

Part The Third
Sinbad’s Further Adventures

We will accept that the journey to Okinawa was completed without calamity.  The reader is forced to this conclusion, since my story continues.

Once safely arrived at Okinawa, I was introduced to the strange way that the personnel lived there.  At times, very few times I must admit, I had heard the term ‘hanging’ lockers.  This was somewhat incomprehensible to me, since the only lockers I had had contact with were of the “Roll or fold real tight and stuff” kind.  In Okinawa, all the personnel were provided with a wooden ‘hanging’ locker.  And, each locker was electrified.  Every locker had a 100-Watt light bulb emplaced in the bottom of the locker.  Due to the high humidity of Okinawa, clothing was subject to attack by mold.

Stories abounded about personnel placing a brand new pair of shoes in his locker and the next day finding that instead of black shoes, he had green ones.  Mold, bad stuff.  So, the light bulb was emplaced.  Precisely why the idea of increasing the heat in the locker should prevent the mold from growing, since it only grew because of the high heat and humidity in the area was puzzling. 

I was never fully comfortable with this theory but that was the way of things in those days.  “Accept!”, that was the watchword.  Other beings from somewhere off in the far reaches of space, or Washington D.C., said that is the way it will be, so it was.

We will leave my sojourn on the lovely tropical paradise of Okinawa at this time.  I was only there a couple or three days anyway.  Shortly, as reckoned in geologic terms, I caught an Air Force flight to Tachicawa AFB in Japan.  By doing so, I was proceeding westward.  Some 24,000 or so miles in that direction and I should make it home.  Magellan would have been proud of me, I think.

Part The Fourth
Hello, Commodore Perry

I departed Okinawa on an Air Force ‘thing‘.  I must describe is as such, since it had little stubby wings, a fat body and appeared incapable of flight.  I have been reliably informed that this exact same aircraft is now on display in the Smithsonian Air Museum, in the section devoted to “Highly Improbable, But They Flew, Kinda” section.  I must go check this section out, just to make me feel better. 

This flight I had provided to me by the Air Force was improbably called the “Tachikawa Turnaround” Apparently this commuter bus ground it’s way from Japan to Okinawa and returned each and every day. So our taxpayers money was expended.  Fruitfully, in my case.

Arrival in Tachikawa was in the middle of the night, so I was not afforded the delights of viewing the base.  “Seen one airfield, you have seen them all“, is my motto.  However, I lucked out in one way.  An Air Force officer was on his way to Tokyo, and offered me a ride.  Offered, mind you.  Try THAT in the Navy!  Fat chance!  Anyway, off we went in a Staff Car.  This was my one and only chance to sit in the back seat and look important.

On the way to Tokyo, our driver at an intersection pointed off to the right and said “That way - Yoko-Suka”.  Heck, you couldn’t fool this old country boy.  That city was called Yokooska!  I knew, since I had just been there less than 6 months ago.

Upon arrival in Tokyo, I was informed that my flight would be departing that afternoon.  Truthfully, I don’t remember how I spent that day.  All I remember is that I missed Sunday night dinner.  Baked chicken. Or, as we called it in those days, ‘Baked Seagull‘.

Which was the more accurate description, I will leave up to the present reader.

Part The Fourth
Eastward, Once Again

Off we went, eastward into the wild blue something or other.  This particular aircraft had 4, count them, FOUR engines.  Talk about foolish belief in the magic of numbers.  Somewhere between Guam, or some such fuel stop, and Honolulu, one of the ‘fans’ stopped working.  Maybe union rules or something.  Another, on the same side decided that it had been injected with too much oil and began to regurgitate it all over the wing.

Now there ensued a march of intrepid birdmen into the passenger cabin, with much looking out the windows and very furrowed brows.  I heard some discussion as whether we should divert to Johnson Atoll or not.  Eventually, we arrived in Honolulu and debarked.

Wonderful, I had just flown innumerable miles over the open ocean on a somewhat crippled aircraft, and I had arrived in Hawaii in time for...you guessed it.... Sunday Dinner.  That durned date line. The main course? Baked Chicken.  Does anything sound familiar here?

Anyway, I managed to get checked into the barracks where they housed personnel in transit, as the phrase was in those days.  I had been informed by the man in charge that there was absolutely NO chance that I would be going anywhere for at least a couple of days. 

Enough!  I was going to go to the EM club and have a real dinner and a beer or two.  Then, the horrible thought occurred to me that I was “stoney” broke, having spent all my available cash in wanton high living, such as feeding myself on the way, not to say anything about railway tickets and the resultant glasses of hot tea. 

“Oh well“, I said to myself, “I will change out of my present uniform, put on clean Undress Blues and go to the Mess hall and dine on Baked Chicken“.  When I had cleaned up and changed to my Undress Blues, I happened to stick my finger in the pocket of my blue trousers.  Hooray!  I found a folded up $5.00 bill in the pocket.  How it got there, or why it was there, I have no idea, but it rescued me from the chicken.

Off I went to the EM Club and partook of a hamburger and a number of brewed concoctions.  Sailors will do that, from time to time, you understand.  Those concoctions serve to settle the stomach after an EM Club hamburger.

Sometime afterwards, say 1:30 AM or so, I repaired to my stately living quarters.  Middle rack, in a room with, say 40 other Sailors.  Ah, a good night’s sleep and all will be well.

 About 2:00 AM I was rudely awakened and informed that there was an aircraft departing for the Continental United States immediately, with room for one more traveler.  And, by George, that traveler was me.  So much for the good and much deserved sleep of the well behaved for that night.  We will close this segment with the knowledge that that remaining flight from Honolulu to Travis AFB was uneventful.

Part The Fifth
Sindbad Arrives Home

Has anybody a memory of Travis AFB in the ‘50’s or so?  If not, I can supply one.  The somebeach was way, way, out in the middle of nowhere.  Just try to hitchhike out of there.  In my present status of funds, that was the only way I was going anywhere, unless on foot.  After traveling over 1/2 the entire globe, counting backtracking, I was less than 150 miles from home and without a clue as to get home.  ‘Oh well, with out the problem of a broken leg or two, I should be able to walk it, in somewhere between 4 and 14 days’, was my thought as I raised the wonderful thumb in anticipation of a ride somewhere.  This trade I was somewhat familiar with.

How I ever got to the City of Merced from Travis, I have absolutely no idea, having been more or less awake for something approaching a month.  But I got there, in one piece and somewhat alert.  My first thing was to go back on the road and hitchhike 14 miles out to the house and get my father’s car.  Problem.  When mom and dad had left on his last trip, they had locked the car and taken the keys with them.  So, sleep over night in the unlocked house, walk a mile back to the highway and hitchhike back to town.

I wonder, did anybody notice the priorities in operation here?  The car was locked up, but the house was unlocked.  That was the way it was in those days.  Probably, this was the first time that dad’s car had  ever been locked.

In town the next morning, I promptly went to the bank to cash a check, which I devoutly hoped would clear.  While standing in line to get to the Teller’s Cage, I found Walt Roduner, one of my father’s best friends behind me.  The subject of conversation was, of course, my father.  I told Walt that my last information was that my father was hopefully improving in his condition.  Walt, then with a very hangdog look on his face, said, “John, I am sorry.  Your dad died yesterday”.

Such was my travels, unfortunately futile, but still enlightening, extending over at least one half of this wonderful globe we live on.

Thus endeth this part of my narrative.

Part The Sixth
Our Hero Returneth

After the completion of my Compassionate Leave, I reported in to the Receiving Station, Naval Station, Treasure Island.  After a large amount of paper shuffling, I was assigned to a “Transit” barrack.  Please note, in those days, we in the Navy were not IN Transit, but merely lumped together as “Transit” personnel.  This barrack was operated by one old crusty Chief Petty Officer, who I only saw one time a day, and a number of lower ranking personnel who were over-awed with their power.

Muster for the residents was held out in the front, with each man standing within his numbered square.  Woe betides a person that was standing in the wrong square.  I never saw it happen, but rumors persisted about hanging, quartering and other delightful pass times that might occur, should a Transit person commit this grievous malfeasance.

After being mustered, certain personnel were told off to go pull weeds in the flowerbed at the Officers Club, others were detailed to bag groceries at the Commissary.  Others, still, were detailed for other make-work jobs involving shovels and rakes. 

Since these personnel were in “transit” they were required to be in Dress Blues, just in case they might be called away to further proceed on their way to their permanent duty station.  One can imagine what those self-same blues looked like after a day of pulling weeds.  All these temporary occupations were provided since the Navy of that day found the spectacle of an enlisted man without employment highly abhorrent.

Simply put, these “occupations” were called “Working Parties”.  Much stress was placed upon the “working” part, and very little, if any, attention was paid to the “party” part.

One other aspect of Receiving Stations of the day should be noted.  Treasure Island was well known throughout the Fleet as the world’s largest repository of what one of my favorite authors, Dex Armstrong, calls “Mobile Freckles”.  In other words, body lice, crabs, boogers and some other names too descriptive for designation herein.

Virtually no person passing through a RecSta could escape contamination, since they were reputed to be able to jump 6 feet straight up.

Thankfully, after a short period of time, I was notified that I was scheduled to fly out to return to my ship.

Part The Seventh
Westward Bound

Leaving Travis AFB, after having arrived by bus for a change, I passed through Pearl Harbor, for a fuel stop and we were off to scenic Okinawa.

When I checked into the “transit” barracks on that lovely island, I was in the midst of a very troublesome attack of the ‘freckles’.  The old time Chief at the counter inquired as to my problem, and when so informed of my affliction, produced one of the old DDT canisters. 

These were made of some steel material about the same thickness as used for armor plating on a Heavy Cruiser, and had a screw top.  One unscrewed the top and the pressurized contents spewed forth out of a hole, as long as the top was not retightened.  He then told me to go take a DDT shower and that would cure my problem.

Since Chief’s are known not to ever come close to even stretching the truth, I followed his directions, and soon my freckles ceased moving, much to my relief.

I was then directed to a Quonset Hut and my bunk, where I was reintroduced to the novel electrified hanging locker.  Since I had my sea bag packed, I removed only what I required for my brief stay, made my bunk, and then decided to walk about and enjoy the scenery.

Having heard of the beautiful sunsets that were enjoyed over the bay, I decided to walk down a ways to where I would have an unobstructed view.  While there, I detected the proverbial “black cloud no larger than a man’s fist” way over on the horizon.  Or, so I thought.

Apparently, my judgment of distances over the sea had deteriorated during my brief stay in the U.S., since it was soon apparent that this cloud was rapidly growing and quickly approaching me.

I immediately decided that discretion was, in fact, the better part of being soaked in a thunderstorm and took off running for my hut.  Upon reaching the area, I decided rather than to go around, I would cut in between two of the Quonsets and save time and distance.

I reached about 1/2 way down between two of the huts when WHAM!, I felt my feet go out from under me, while something clutched me fiercely by the throat. I then approached 90 degrees to the vertical, and subsequently made contact with Mother Earth, flat on my back at just about the time that the T-storm reached me.  There I lay, trying to breathe, while being drenched in somewhat the manner of being on the business end of a fire hose.

Regaining my breath, I managed to go back around the huts, and reached my bunk.  Much wetter, somewhat still winded and no wiser about who or what had tackled me.

Upon investigation after the rain had gone away, I found that someone had stretched a wire between two of the huts for a clothesline.  This wire had a sag so that the middle of it’s span was about 5 feet off the ground - just the ideal height to ensnare a running Sailor. 

From that day forward, I have had no doubt about what the football announcers term a “Clothesline Tackle”.  I intimately know the feeling, without ever having been in one play in the NFL.

Shortly thereafter, I was dispatched on an airplane back to Formosa, where my ship had returned for refueling and such, and thus returned to my place of departure.  I may have been bereft at the loss of my father, but I had gained much respect for the earlier world explorers. 

As I said at the outset, Strange Things Happen To Sailors.

Part The Eighth
Fun Times

Flash forward 50 years or so.

The other day, my lady (Also a retired Chief Petty Officer) and I were over at the Naval Air Station for the obligatory Commissary run.  When that was over, I suggested that we stop at the Chief"s Club for a nice cold barley/malt type beverage.  If you are not aware of what that beverage is, you are excused from having to read what follows.  I will ring.

While sitting out on the porch indulging in beverages and smokes, something mostly unheard of in today's Navy, we became embroiled in conversation with a youngish Chief.

In the conversation, he pointed out an older gentleman in a blue shirt, and indicated that he was a member of the "Old Navy", having retired some time back with 30 years of service to his country.  Apparently, he was somewhat proud of being the Cock of the Walk, as it were.

I shortly had an occasion to enquire of this older gentleman as to when he had entered the Naval Service.  He told me very proudly and then he enquired if I was a Chief.  I responded in the affirmative.  He then asked me when I came in.  I responded, truthfully, "February 27, 1952".

He looked awe struck for a moment or two, and then he turned back to the table full of older folks where he had been sitting and fully basking in his glory.  He said.  “Good Lord, guys...This Chief came in TWO years before I was born”.

I humbly assumed the mantle of "Cock of the Walk" for the remainder of the afternoon.

As I have said before, Strange Things, etc.

Part The Ninth
Destroyer Fun And Games

Some years back, I was riding a Destroyer (Tin Can) out of Norfolk, VA.  Since, at the time, we had nothing to do (Please see the above concerning RecSta’s and employment), our Power-That-Was, decided that it would be nice for us if we went to Key West.  Of course, we had nothing to do, except clean the ship, repair failed equipment from the last outing, and maybe, possibly, in our spare time see our beloved people on the beach...i.e. wives, children, Rosy who worked down at the corner bar, whomever.

And, oh yes, travel over very frequently to the Supply Center, to find out why the part to fix something had not been delivered.  After all, it had been promised a large number of times that it would be there “Next Monday” I have often wondered if Supply Center’s calendars even had a Monday on them.

Since Commanding Officers of Tin Cans very rarely say “No, Sir, I don’t think that would be a good idea”, off we went to Key West, FL attempting to repair stuff, sans parts.  It is amazing what Sailors can ’make do’ when they have to.  String, wire, tin cans - the vegetable kind - whatever.  The proof, in reality, is “does it work?”.  Eventually, to everybody’s surprise, we reached Key West.

I suppose I should, at this point, describe Key West to the initiated.  The best description I can give is “it depends”.  When you left the ship to go to town, if you walked, it seemed that the whole place was about 5 acres in size.  If you splurged, thinking you would get to town before your walking Shipmates, the cab fare for the trip indicated it was the size of Texas.

If you had spent the evening doing what Sailors do in strange and exotic ports of call...At this point I will allow your minds to run rampant thinking of that last partial statement.  Whatever you came up with, I can only answer “Probably”.

IF you had done some of those things, in truth, it is amazing just how long a distance back to the ship had become late at night, when you attempted to walk back to the ship.  Of course, the fact that the sidewalks were very crooked does not improve upon your conception of distance.  To further complicate your reasoning, the fact that the sidewalks did not appear crooked while on the way to town was something else to consider upon a Sailor’s lonely late night watches.

I should probably describe of one of the joints, to be sparing of pejorative words, which some of my Shipmates possibly visited.  Apparently, the idea of glass windows had not been imported that far south as of 1966 or so.  As I grasp the idea, this place of dispensation of alcoholic beverages had windows, but no glass or screens.  After musing upon this for some time, I determined that the windows were this way so as to enable the bouncers to “ask” a patron to leave without worrying about the proximity of the front door.  Possible. Very possible.

We had been dispatched to Key West for the purpose of engaging in a joyous sport called “Ping Time”.  As the opposing team, we had a submarine whose crew had been forced into performing their antics for the edification of the soon-to-be-graduates of the U.S. Navy Sonar School, Key West, FL.  Precisely what terrible crime those submariners had been found guilty of to be so assigned, we never did find out.  Remember the title of this essay?

Yup.

This submarine and we, in our destroyer, were detailed to go to a certain spot in the ocean, whereupon the submarine would submerge and attempt to elude the efforts of the Sonar School’s students to find them. 

There is a very well selling book titled “Blind Man’s Buff”, or something like that, concerning submarines.  I feel sure that the author was so detailed to Key West to perform for the school, hence the title.  That is my best description of the fumbling efforts of the students.  To the best of my knowledge the ‘Sonar Girls’ never did find the submarine.  It was also noticed that the submarine always followed us back into port.  They were most likely lost, and needed the help.

We had been out partaking of this joyous operation for about a week, when the long day had ended for us and it was time to return to port.  Unbeknownst to your earnest relater of this tale, the Commanding Officer (CO) had detailed the Executive Officer (XO) to take the ship into port.  “Makee-learn”, I believe the term was in the old China Fleet.  Key West is a very hard port to get into, and if you can moor your ship there, you can moor most any place else in the world.  Wind and tide can conspire against the average ship driver without even trying.

As I said, all this pertinent information was, somehow, not passed on to me.  So, I was just doing my “thing”.  It was time for me to relieve the watch in Radio.  I had stopped on the Mess Decks and acquired a cup of coffee, and had proceeded up two decks to the level of the Radio Shack.  Between where I arrived on this level and the door to Radio One was about 20-30 feet.

I was proceeding along this ’passageway’, coffee cup in hand, when all of sudden I noticed, somewhat to my surprise, that I was walking on the adjacent bulkhead.  This was somewhat unusual, since normally a person walked on the deck and more or less ignored the bulkhead.  It was there, and always had been since the ship was built.  After a step or two, I found myself walking on the deck, again.  Strange, I thought to myself.

It seems that the XO had let the ship get away from him and we had rammed the pier.  When you ram a pier with a ship displacing 2250 tons of seawater, strange things happen.  In this case we “stove” the bow in about 15 feet and cut a lovely compound curve in the wooden stringer alongside the pier.  A master craftsman could not have cut that curve without intense study, and XO had done it with no real effort.

After we finally moored, inspection showed that we had done the damage noted above, and had collected about 1 1/2 cords or so of redwood in place of the steel that had been there moments before.  About this time, the Naval Station’s Fire Department was called away to extinguish a fire at the head of the self-same pier.  Suffice it to say that a good time was had by all.

The next day, we were moved, very carefully, up to the head of the pier in order to make it easier to do the metal work required.  This metal work was to be done by the shop that had the fire the day before, so things got a little confused for a bit.

Head of the pier!  Great, we thought.  Less distance to walk to the ship when returning from liberty.  Of course we forgot, or were ignorant of, the dreaded tourists. 

At that time, Key West ran what was called the Elephant Train.  This ‘train’ carried tourists all over the island for what I am sure was an exorbitant fee.  So, the crew was treated to the sight of innumerable tourists pointing fingers and worse, cameras at our damaged ship.

We left Key West somewhat quickly after the required repairs, and had proceeded a couple of days homeward, when we found that the painting job we had received in Key West was somewhat lacking in staying power. 

In short, our freshly repaired and repainted bow was again somewhat unpainted.  We requested and received permission to remain at sea one extra day.  This day was spent with a portion of the crew over the side repainting our bow. 

If I may say so, myself, we looked splendid when we finally entered port at Norfolk. 

Yep, I bet you were thinking “Strange Things...etc”.  It happens.

Part The Tenth
Old Navy Air Operations, And a Fishing Expedition

Shortly after our Holiday in Key West, we were ordered along side for the installation of new gear.  Along side means that we will not be going to sea for a while, and maybe, just maybe, we can get all our equipment into working order for a change.

New equipment usually means that new cables will be strung through your spaces, Yard Birds (Civilian Shipyard Workers) would be in and out of your spaces.  In short, things are a mess and even more equipment will refuse to perform, entailing more troubleshooting and work, more trips to the Supply Center and more possible lies from them.  It becomes an unending sort of thing.  The phrase about going somewhere in a hand basket came readily to mind in those days.

Sisyphus and his boulder had it easy, in my mind.

Apparently, in cases of National Emergency, or more likely, overtime pay, the Sand Crabs would work on a weekend...For ‘Sand Crabs‘, please see ‘Yard Birds‘....

In any case we came to work on a Monday morning, and there our ship sat in all her splendor and WWII glory, with one shiny new object for the world to admire.

A golf ball.  One that Arnie Palmer would have had problems with.  One huge golf ball.  Super Secret, you understand.  Even the Mess Cooks had no idea of what it was, but of course, they all had theories.  Mess Cooks always have theories, even though they never get above the main deck for weeks at a time.  All you had to do was ask them.

At the time, we were one of the destroyers equipped with what was called a DASH  (Drone Anti Submarine Helicopter).  As the name implies this was a drone aircraft specifically designed to prosecute submarine contacts much faster and further away from the ship than was possible from the ship alone.  I will admit that there were other more descriptive definitions of the thing.  Very descriptive terms they were, too.

Our very own Golf Ball was an antenna designed to allow us to drive the DASH much further away from the ship for it’s operation. 

Wonderful aircraft.  I always wanted to buy one and have my own flying machine.  Of course, as the pilot, I would have had my choice of sitting in front of the jet engine’s intake, or it’s exhaust flame.  Minor problems, easily corrected, you comprehend.

Shortly after the installation, we received orders to go to AUTEC (Sorry, translation is classified, or something), in the Bahamas.  Frankly, this is where the Navy used to play lots of games with submarines, dealing with their sneakiness.  We were going down there to show the entire world that we could do what no other destroyer in the Navy could do.  Prosecute a contact way beyond where our sonar could reach.  ‘Find sub, we deliver‘, was our motto. 

In fact with one of our machines, we did successfully persecute a simulated contact three consecutive times in the same flight, at the range of 25 miles.  Unheard of at that time.  But, that was the successful bird.  There were others.

The first DASH we launched proved to be somewhat contrary.  In the words of one of the engineers we had aboard, that bird became ‘schizophrenic‘. 

The normal operation was to launch the bird from what was termed the “Local” station.  This operation was entrusted to the XO...He of the pier...and once the bird was airborne, then control was shifted to Combat Information Center (CIC) where the bird was controlled by radar.  The take off was normal, or as normal as a DASH takeoff could be.

Standing Operating Orders (SOP) were that once the aircraft reached 100 feet, control would be shifted to CIC.  Control was successfully shifted and the bird was told to climb to 300 feet and go into a hover.  The 200 feet climb was no problem, however the hover was something else.

The Bird decided in its schizophrenic condition that “hover” meant that it should go to full throttle, full climb attitude AND invert itself.  All in the same instant of time.

I did not see this operation, but I have been informed that “You ain’t seen nuttin, ‘till you see a DASH, inverted, in full climb attitude and at full throttle”.  We will close this painful episode with the information that the bird made quite an adequate splash when it hit the surface.  Very little was recovered from the wreckage. 

One down, two to go.

Our second bird was more docile, after the engineers worked on it a bit more.  It flew wonderfully.  It had one problem.  After a short period of excellent performance, it decided to ignore all commands.

We were left with the necessity of awaiting fuel exhaustion, which occurred, more or less, on time.  Shortly after it sensed low fuel, it went into a “Self-Hover” condition, which allowed us to approach it very closely.  When the fuel was exhausted, the engine quit and it settled down into the water nicely, exactly as designed.

The aircraft was also designed with a self-flotation device, a rubberized fabric of some kind, which self inflated upon contact with the seawater and thus equipped, it awaited our recovery attempts.  We put the ship’s boat in the water and the boat approached the bird.  The ship’s crew by the way, had never done this evolution before.

Attached to the flotation device was a rope surrounding the bird, so that it could be towed back to the vessel from which it had departed.  When the boat approached, the Boatswains Mate First in the boat attempted to snag the rope with the Boathook.  This device had a pointed end for fending the boat off, as needed, and a hook to grab on to things such as ropes.

I feel the reader can decipher what happened next.  When Boats tried to snag the rope, the pointed end made contact with the rubberized fabric, which was subsequently determined to not be of sufficient thickness to resist this effort.  There was a “Whoosh” of released CO2, and the bird promptly sank. 

The location is well marked and should any of the readers feel the need to possess a DASH aircraft, it probably still resides there in about 2,000 fathoms and is available for retrieval.  If you wish to retrieve it, I suggest you consult your local Army/Navy store.  The self-inflating flotation gear may be available there. 

Another possibility is that of placing a patch on the device.  However, this will have to be done quickly, in order to prevent another fishing expedition at 2,000 fathoms.

Uh-huh...Caught you......You were thinking about...Well, we will keep that to ourselves.

Part The Eleventh
 Questions Answered

About this time, the careful and meticulous reader will have wondered about this tale concerning THREE of these aircraft.  However, those of the cognoscenti will know that a DASH equipped Tin Can could only carry two of them.  There, upon this knowledge, depends a tale. 

I realize that you, the reader was afraid of that, but such is life.

After the episode of the Boatswain’s valiant effort to retrieve the second failed bird, the appropriate personnel at headquarters were notified.  We were soon informed that it would take a week or so to replace the birds, since they were now undergoing extensive testing.  So soon we are old...so late we are smart?  No problem, the taxpayers were picking up the bill.

Since, pending the arrival of the replacement aircraft, we had nothing to do...Horrors...the CO decided that the crew could have liberty.  This term, liberty, envisions in the average Enlisted mind thoughts of cold beverages, carnal delights and such.  Alas, this was not to be.  Our liberty was to be on one of the close by and uninhabited islands.

This liberty was to be granted for 4 hours for one half the crew one day, and the other half the next.  Additionally, since we had brought a supply with us, each crewmember would be allotted three beers.  Warm and possibly seasick, but 3 beers is better than nothing.  By the way, I was referring to the beer being seasick.  Obviously, none of our valiant, seasoned crew would answer to that description.

The first day, I was selected to stand Shore Patrol.  This is somewhat similar to being appointed neighborhood beat cop.  Not a problem, I thought, I am in the second half, and possibly the cooks will chill the beer for day #2.  All this goes through my mind, as I marched alertly in a military manner up and down the beach, equipped with a brassard emblazoned with the letters “SP” and a wooden club.  Ah, yes, tomorrow....

Unfortunately, upon my return to the ship, I learned that we had been ordered to meet up with another ship, which would transfer our third DASH to us.   So go the dreams of the average Sailor.  Off we went, and I watched my dreams of drunken revelry, after 3 whole beers, disappear over the horizon.  The hard part was that I had volunteered for Shore patrol the first day, thinking that I might have a chance at the leftovers from the first day’s festival.  Strange.

But you have heard that phrase before, I believe.

Part The Twelfth
Success, Kinda

Well, after we received DASH #3, we made a high speed run back to AUTEC and went back to work.  Successfully, as has been noted above.

However with success quite frequenty comes unforeseen problems.  Mine, as the Leading Radioman, occurred thusly: We were required to discuss any problems of the day, as to whether in fact, we still had #3 bird, things like that with the engineers on the shore station there.

Obviously, we could not go into port there, mainly since the station had no facilities for ships.  So, these very technical and lengthly discussions were conducted from CIC by radio.  It had been “suggested” by everyone from the CO down that the Leading Radioman be present when these conversations took place.  Suggestion, Aye!

The discussions were conducted daily at 3:30PM (1530 in Navy talk).  Promptly at 1600,  right when the “discussion” was getting good, a distant station would come up on that self-same frequency with Radio-Teletype (RATT) traffic.  And daily, I was “requested” to get that “damn RATT off the frequency”.  Your humble hero checked the pertinent books and found that that frequency was assigned to another shore station for use in communicating with commands ashore and at sea.  Apparently none of these highly paid engineers had thought to check and see if they had a clear frequency on which to do their discussions.  Pure standard Sand Crab operating procedure.

Daily, after the “request” to clear the frequency, I explained that since the other station was authorized to use the frequency and we were really not, there was nothing that I could do.  Apparently the engineers had consulted the local swami and had just selected that frequency to use.  Obviously, my inability to clear the frequency did not endear me to the engineers and the Wardroom.  “Incompetent” was one of the better terms I happened to hear applied to my hard working Radio Crew and me.

In this particular vessel all my transmitters lived across the passageway in the Transmitter Room.  However, we had one transceiver in Radio One with us.  At the very top of this piece of equipment was a bright red button.  No one knew what the button was for, but it looked very official.  In fact, later on, when I studied this very same type of equipment, I queried my instructor of the function of this red button.  His answer, as best I could determine was “DamnedifIknow”.

After a couple of days of requests from CIC about the other station’s interference, and my resultant notification to them that there was nothing I could do about it, I decided that there WAS something I could do.  I had the man with the best handwriting in the ‘Shack’ make me a sign.  It read “RATT Reject Button”.  This sign was then prominently attached to the equipment.  My crew was then informed that if they got any more complaints about the RATT, that they should run over and push this red button and then, enquire nicely if CIC was happy with their efforts.  The button didn’t seem to do anything, but pushing it WAS doing something. 

By the way, this sign remained attached until after we returned to Norfolk.  Shortly thereafter, it was noticed by the CO on one of his tours of inspection and I was “requested” to take that “Damn thing down”.  I did notice the CO was having a very hard time keeping a straight face every time he glanced at the equipment, and was smiling very broadly when he left my space.  Apparently someone must have told him a funny story, because I heard hearty laughter out in the passageway after he left.  I also suspect that I really did hear “Those damned Radiomen!”.  But then my hearing is not of the best.  Too many years of working RATT, I suspect.

Possibly you have heard that “Strange Things.....“  Oh, you have heard it before.  OK.

Part The Last
For Now

Ladies and gentlemen of my extensive readership...Yeah, both of you...I have enjoyed reliving these portions of my naval career.  I hope that you have somewhat enjoyed reading my poor efforts.  However, no tears, please.  I just might be able to come up with some more, given time to sober up.

Just so you have something to remember this treatise, I leave you with my undying belief...”Strange things happen to Sailors“.  

That is the Gospel truth.

HAVFND...John