Morning Thoughts: December 2, 2017

It all started because I forgot to grab a pack of cigarettes ere I went on the midwatch. That led to one of my best decisions ever.

Conditions were right. I had only been aboard the USS Hunley (AS31) for two days. I didn’t know a soul, unless you count the personnel officer who told me he was assigning me to a crappy detail because he didn’t like Vietnam veterans. (I had foolishly asked for East Coast duty as my new assignment. Big mistake).

That afternoon, I had gone to the PX on board and bought a carton of Marlboros. It cost me $2.10, or 21 cents a pack. I had smoked a half-pack up when the messenger from the quarterdeck woke me up for duty guarding the chow hall. About 0015, I realized that I had forgotten my cigarettes. Send me aft for a fathom of waterline, but I was pissed. Few people were awake, and I could have easily snuck out on the main deck for a smoke.

I thought about it a lot for the next hour or so. I had been accustomed to sometimes three packs a day on my last assignment, depending on how the watches fell. (We had stood 6 on and 12 off).

Somewhere around 0130, a drunken sailor weaved across the empty chow hall heading for his bunking area. I had a flash. He probably had cigarettes and would gladly share one with a shipmate. I started across the deck.

Something made me stop. “Here you are,” I said. “Going to accost a perfect stranger and beg for a favor. You can make it until you are off watch.” I turned and waited. It made me have something to look forward to on what was turning out to be a miserable tour of duty.

My relief came, and I rushed forward to where I bunked, thinking about that beautiful package of Marlboros, the same ones that cowboy smoked. They were, the claim stated, as fresh as the great outdoors.

Reaching my bunk. I had another thought. “You’ve gone for hours lad. Can’t you wait until morning? “Yeah. Why not?”

Morning, and another thought got underway. “Hell,” I says to myself, “you’ve gone over 12 hours without a cigarette. What if you went all day in addition to that?” Guess what I did the next day? I just didn’t smoke and began training myself not to think about it. Luckily, I didn’t have anyone much with whom to talk about it. Talking about quitting is a sure sign you’re not going to succeed.

That was 49 years ago. I threw the half-used pack away a month later. Two months following that, I sold the rest of the carton to a shipmate. I shit-canned my Zippo lighter that had gone to war and back with me then, and my deliverance was complete.

Here’s the deal. Breaking the habit of smoking is real simple. You just quit. You don’t taper off. That means you haven’t quit. You don’t use pharmaceuticals. That only signals to your brain that you are too weak to quit. You don’t talk about it. That uses up much of the psychic energy that is required for resolve. Mainly, you just don’t smoke.

It helps if you are thrown, as I was, into a new environment. I never associated life aboard a ship with smoking. Mainly, you just don’t smoke.

Is it easy? Hell no. For 20 years or more, I would dream that I had resumed smoking and boy did it seem nice. I would awaken and, after some time, would remember that I had quit years before and never started back.

That was 1968. Some 15 or so years later, I ran a complete marathon, 26.2 miles. Okay, I waddled the last three miles, but who was counting? Now, when I enter a downtown bank building when it’s below freezing and see office workers huddled against the wind, shivering and puffing, I can’t help thinking how simple salvation would be. Mainly, you just don’t smoke.

Don’t blabber to me about how you plan to quit smoking, or how you haven’t smoked a cigarette in eight hours. Don’t go spending good money on drugs to help. Save that money for wine or Four Roses to celebrate anniversaries of your victory. Unlike other victories, you don’t have to do anything. You just have not to do something.

It ain’t no big thing.

Mainly, you just don’t smoke.

They say he died of cancer.

Sailing to Oblivium: August 25,

Bosun's Mates in the U. S. Navy share a sentiment with our brothers and sisters in the U.S. Marines. There are no “ex’s” only “formers.” So, when, even years after our active service, one of us is hurt (even a non-Bosun’s Mate), we all bleed. When something is wrong, we want it righted.

Something is wrong now, seemingly at the highest levels. Our collective rigging is fouled. Our national anchor is dragging. Our shipmates are dying as a result of collisions at sea that would have been unthinkable in the past.

I don’t know why. It has been so long since I served, that I can’t imagine what modern duty at sea is like. I only know what it was like in my day.

After returning from land-based duties overseas, I spent the final two years of my enlistment aboard the USS Hunley out of Charleston, South Carolina. We spent a lot of time moored and servicing the submarine fleet. But, like any Navy warship, we went to sea when the time came.

There is a difference between being berthed, and being at sea. The Navy would communicate that difference quite clearly by the command, when the last mooring line was cast off, to “Hoist the Battle Flag.” At that moment, the flag was moved from astern to the mainmast. Everything changed. We rigged for war. Even though we might be moored five miles up the Cooper River, as we were, the ship was ready to go “in harm’s way.” Lookouts were posted fore and aft, port and starboard, and places in between.

If the Navy took those precautions while being led by tugboats down a river within our own country, one can only imagine how tightly we made things shipshape when we reached international waters.

Something is wrong. Our military people sign a contract with the 99.5 percent of Americans—the ones who do not serve—that they, the few, including sailors, will go into life-threatening situations to protect the many. It is their job. But no less a person than Carl von Clausewitz, in his classic work On War, cautions leaders to avoid what he called unnecessary “friction,” or avoidable acts that impede the mission in war. In short, war is a messy, complex business, so don’t knowingly make it more so by inserting such friction.

I’ve read where American warships such as the USS John S. McCain are designed to be difficult to detect at night. Let’s file that tactic in the same drawer with "It became necessary to destroy the town to save it."

Something is wrong when our brothers and sisters are dying without being fired upon in battle. As for my own experience, I didn’t have to go to sea, or stand watch aboard ship. I coxswained our Admiral’s “Barge” and could stayed ashore with it and watched the Hunley led down river. But if the “old man” was away somewhere, I volunteered to sail and stand my watch with the other sailors.

We learned, in the Navy, to identify the direction in which a distant vessel was steaming by the visual appearance of their “running lights,” i.e. white lights fore and aft, red to port, and green to starboard. If numerous vessels were near, it could be confusing, But one thing was abundantly clear: if you saw a symmetrical combination bearing toward your post, displaying a white light amidships, a green light to your starboard, and a red light to your port, it was “gunnel awash,” (or “holy shit’ in landlubber’s terms).

Something is wrong. Shipmates from the USS Fitzgerald and the USS John S. McCain are dead or missing from disasters only a few days apart and in the same waters. The latter, by the way, is named after Senator John McCain’s father, a crusty old admiral who once attacked an entire Japanese battle fleet with an undersized carrier force and was present when the armistice ending the war in Japan was signed aboard the USS Missouri. His memory deserves our respect, as his son’s service does not deserve our disrespect.

Our lost sailors themselves deserve better treatment, said treatment to include recognition of their sacrifice, not tweets but real recognition.

Something is wrong, terribly wrong. America is dragging her anchor and we need to trim our sails. Maybe better still, we could, as progressive Americans, borrow the United States Naval command that still rings in the ears of those who have served our country with only a thin sheet of steel (or wood) between them and eternity:         

“Sweepers, sweepers, man your brooms. Give the ship a clean sweep down both fore and aft.”

Sounds like a good tactical plan to me.

Anchors aweigh, old girl.

Fort Lauderdale

I’ve always had a warm spot in my heart for Fort Lauderdale, Florida. It’s not only because Travis McGee’s mythical boat, The Busted Flush, was anchored there in Slip F18 of the Bahia Mar Resort. No, that strengthened my affection, but its source goes all the way back to 1970 when I was a seaman aboard the USS Hunley, AS-31 out of Charleston, South Carolina.

A little over a year before, I had returned from a year with the Naval Security Forces in Da Nang. Around that time—1968—may have been the least popular time to have ever served in the United States Armed Forces while wearing the two ribbons denoting service in Vietnam. It seemed as if the entire nation was divided into those who hated us and those who resented us.

There were the big things, like the angry crowd awaiting us at the airport when we landed from our tour. There were the little things, like segregated seating in airport lounges and our sea bags being thrown down three floors to a basement cage in the San Francisco airport to separate it from the baggage of regular passengers. Airline stewardesses weren't even cordial to us, more than necessary.

My own shipmates aboard the Hunley weren’t above needling us, “We always assign you Vietnam guys to the crappiest job aboard ship so you’ll learn your place." Of course, other military personnel weren’t treated much better when they went “on the beach.”

No, the people of Charleston provided no balm. They hated, in decreasing order of severity, people of color, military personnel, and anyone who had moved into the city since the 1700s. I made two of the three. Some of my shipmates covered them all.

By 1970, I could get dispirited with little encouragement. Then, our ship’s captain, a Captain Anders serving his last cruise and feeling charitable, decided the crew deserved some R and R, thus scheduling a three-day stop in Fort Lauderdale.

That’s when it happened.

After a smooth passage, we reached the city. The harbor pilot took us through the harbor and the ship began moving down a canal, lined with multi-story condos, to our berth. Those of us not on duty were expected to line the main deck in our best “dress whites,” and look as military as possible. We complied, standing at “parade rest” and hiding our desire to get ashore.

At first, nothing happened. Then, it was if something, like the ripple of an ebb tide, was moving along the balconies and windows of the condominiums. There sounded an almost audible buzz. Ahead of us, flags appeared. People materialized on the balconies and began to wave. Old men, so close we could make out their features, saluted. Some groups even clapped.

It was the first time in over a year that anyone, other than family, close friends, and fellow vets of that unfortunate war, had offered a kind gesture for my military service. Tears ran down my face then, as they do now when I think about that moment.

Yes. I’ll always think highly of Fort Lauderdale, Florida.

Best wishes, dear city.

Rolling Home

By Jimmie von Tungeln

            This time all three men wondered if she would make it. The old girl rolled over until, holding to the rail, the men stared directly in to the dark green water of the Atlantic Ocean. “This time,” Hinson thought, “she might just keep rolling.”

            Then came the familiar shudder, the roll stopped and for maybe thirty seconds the ship moved ahead with her deck elevated at a sickening angle. Then she began to right herself. When Hinson looked at the other two, he saw faces white with a mixture of fear and relief.

            “I’m going in,” a Mechanics Mate named Rudder said. “I’ve served on everything from cruisers to carriers, and I’ve never seen anything like this old top-heavy bucket. One of these times, she’s going to keep going.”

            “Hell,” said a Gunner’s Mate named Simpson, “I’ve served on an LST and they ain’t nothing but a bouncing cake pan. But this tub scares the hell out of me. Never thought I’d get spooked on a Tender.”

            They were standing on the ship’s starboard side abaft the missile bay. This was a large flat area amidships where the huge cranes lowered the missiles removed from the nuclear submarines that the ship tended. The cranes made the ship top-heavy and would have been removed and stowed on deck if the cruise hand been longer. And too, they hadn’t really expected to run into this storm, but the sea has always been bad about announcing her intentions. The worst of the blow had passed and they were now in an almost oily sea of billowing waves. Inside, every head on the ship had a sailor draped over it. Some were calling for their mothers, Chief Zelmer had joked. The three sailors had come outside for fresh air when the ship began rolling in earnest. Now two of them had experienced all the outdoors they wanted. “Have fun,” Simpson said to Hinson. Then they went inside.

            They left Hinson standing alone as the ship came level and then began her roll to port. He held the rail as the dark sky began to fill his vision. The movement seemed endless before the shudder came and the angle of the deck stabilized.

            “As long as she shudders, she won’t roll over,” a voice from behind Hinson said. “If she don’t shudder before green water touches the main deck, you’d better jump.”

            Hinson turned. The voice belonged to Senior Chief Boatswain’s Mate Lionel Pettigrew. The sailors loved him and called him “Old Lionsides.” No one knew for sure how long he had been in the Navy. There were those that were sure it had been forever. Someone said that he got drunk one night and told a group about riding out the Normandy Invasion on a destroyer as a young seaman. He was a “sailor’s sailor.”

            Hinson nodded. “Chief,” he said.

            Chief Pettigrew patted him on the back with one hand and grabbed the rail with the other. “Boats,” he said, “you trying to get a feel for what the real Navy is like?”

            “Just got tired of smelling vomit,” Hinson said.

            “Would you believe there is even a bit of an odor in the chief’s quarters?” Pettigrew said. “I hate to think what it smells like topside in the officers’ quarters.”

            “Why did we sail right into the middle of this mess, Chief?”

            “Don’t know for sure. It’s the Old Man’s last cruise, you know. He ain’t gonna make admiral and scuttlebutt has it that he wanted to see green water over the foc’sle one last time. He’s an Annapolis Man, you know.”

            “I didn’t. Aren’t they supposed to make admiral?”

            “Not the way West Point men make general,” Pettigrew said. “The Navy sets a higher standard. They really don’t have a slot that corresponds to a Brigadier General any more. You have to go straight to two-star. Want to know the sad part?”

            “I’m all ears.”

            “When he and the missus get to the retired officers’ home, he’ll put ‘Lieutenant Commander’ on his calling card.”

            Hinson looked doubtful. “Why is that? He’s a Captain.”

            “So folks won’t get him confused with a captain in the army,” Pettigrew said with that grin sailors have when they don’t want someone to know if they are yarning or not.

            The rail began its downward trajectory and Hinson eyed the Chief with a frown. “But,” he said, “you didn’t come out here to teach me Naval lore.”

            “Nope. Came to see if you had changed your mind.” They began staring into the dark green water.

            “I’m afraid not,” Hinson said. The angled deck rose behind them. “Are you sure about this ‘shudder’ thing?”

            The Chief ignored him. “Did I ever tell you why I stayed in the Navy?”

            Hinson didn’t answer, just used his arms to push away from the rail. At what seemed like the last possible moment, the shudder came and the roll stopped. He turned to the Chief. “What did you say?”

            “I chose to stay in the Navy when I was just past 21. Did I ever tell you why?”

            “I’m sure you did, but I’ve forgotten it,” Hinson said, staring at the water.

            “Because I love this country.”

            “Don’t we all?”

            “Some more than others.”
            “I don’t understand,” Hinson said.
            “We’re going through this … this… thing right now,” the Chief said, “where she doesn’t seem to love us in return.”

            Hinson nodded. The Chief continued. “But that ain’t no reason to quit on her. Things change. You should have heard the old timers talk about how bad things were in the service before World War Two.”

            “That’s not the reason I won’t ship over,” Hinson said.

            “Then what is it?”

            “I want to try something different.”

            “Is there any use in me talkin’ anymore?”

            “Chief, I’ve got to go see for myself what might be out there.”

            “There’s more assholes per square inch out there than in the Navy. Trust me on that one. Less fun. Less stability. Did I ever tell you that I got out for a while?”

            Hinson turned sharply. “No.”

            “Yep. I thought I might try something new. My heart ached every day for a month and I came back.”

            “You must really love the sea.”

            “I do. I’ve done things that normal people would call crazy. I’ve climbed up masts in worse storms than this to tighten rigging. I’ve stood watch in nothing but a stocking cap and pea coat when snow was so thick you couldn’t see the railing. I’ve stood in the rain, the blistering sun, and the howling wind, and all the time I never complained because I was a proud damned Bosun’s Mate doing my job and serving my country. How many bank presidents can say that?”

            “Probably not many,” Hinson said. He changed course. “Is the Old Man on the bridge?”

            “He was,” Pettigrew said, “the last time I saw him. I’d say he was having the time of his life yelling at the helmsman.”

            “I’ll bet it’ hard to steer her in seas like this,” Hinson said.

            “There are sure times that the old girl appreciates a steady hand. The trick is,” the Chief said, “to not over-steer. You can’t go too far one way or the other. Hit her over too hard to port , or too hard to starboard and you’ll have a nautical nightmare on your hands. This old girl will last a long time if her helm is in good hands, hands that want the best for her, hands that don’t overreact, panic, or think they know better than everybody else.”

            Hinson nodded. The ship came level and began to plow directly into the waves. Spray flew along the deck as her bow dove into a mountain of water. The two watched in awe for several minutes. Then Chief Pettigrew turned to leave. “Damned shame,” he said. “You’re a fine sailor and that’s a compliment I’ve never given many people. It would be a better Navy with more men like you in it. Men like you could keep this old ship trimmed and upright.”

            “Thanks Chief,” Hinson said. “Can I tell you something?”

            “Sure.” The Chief waited.

            “If anybody could have made me ship over, it would have been you.”

            Pettigrew smiled. “Can I tell you something?”

            Hinson laughed. “Go ahead.”

            “It’s better to have been a proud damned Bosun’s Mate for a short time than to never have been one at all.” He saluted Hinson, walked to the fantail, turned, and disappeared.

            Hinson went back to watching the sea as the proud old ship plowed into another wave.

Haircuts

About this time of year in 1967, I was busy settling in on my new job with the U.S Government. All around me, freedom fighters were getting ready for the Tet Offensive, a little over a month away. They were ready to die by the thousands. I was concentrating on staying alive for another 11 months. Goals are important.

I’d gotten a little shaggy upon arrival at the new assignment, so the gendarmes sent me to the base barber shop for a haircut by one of the “guest workers” there. I think maybe there were three or so barbers therein, all Vietnamese locals. It had to be a real military haircut, complete with shaving around the neck with a straight razor. Appearances are important.

I visited the shop a couple of more times before the end of January. Then all hell broke loose. During the Tet Offensive, the base was closed to local nationals, and no one had time for haircuts anyway. After the Tet Offensive, none of the barbers returned. The story went around that they had all been freedom fighters. For some reason, I think about this every time I shave. Memories are important.

Steady there. Steady. I'm from the
government. Come to help.

Man Overboard

Yesterday was a fun day. I dined with one of my dearest and best friends for free at one of the local restaurants offering lunches to vets. We reminisced about old times, the uncertain future, and just how happy we were to be there.

Later I started thinking about memorable adventures. I had quite a few in four years, many of them after I returned from the Orient and went aboard the USS Hunley for a couple of years. It was on the east coast and I learned, to my dismay, that they hated west coast sailors, particularly ones with certain service ribbons. So … they gave us the lowest jobs on the ship, or so they thought. I ended up being a Bosun’s Mate.

I loved it.

There was this one time. We were at sea and they decided to have a “man-overboard drill.” Since I was coxswain of the Admiral’s Barge, they decided somehow that I was senior and should coxswain the lifeboat.

Oh wow. The photo shows us being lowered over the side. I’m the one aft with his arm sticking out to grab the lowering lines.

Now. You see these shots of ships at sea and you think, "How peaceful." Not really. Those waves were about nine feet from peak to trough and it was a little boat. The ship would disappear into the tr when we descended and reappear at the peak. We struggled toward the “man-overboard dummy” that was also appearing and reappearing. The ship, on the other hand, was a little farther away each time we caught a glimpse.

Then the engine died.

We had an officer with us but he was bent over a gunnel puking.

We had an engineman on the craft but he was the second dumbest man on the ship.

We had several Marines with loaded weapons (what for I don’t know, sharks maybe) but they were puking on one another and waving their rifle muzzles in our faces.

As if all this weren't unnerving enough, we were bouncing around like a kernel of popcorn.

The ship was drifting farther away.

I thought I could hear the dummy yelling for help.

While I was mentally computing the distance to Cuba, the engine caught. We grabbed the dummy and motored back.

Then our troubles really started.

Getting back aboard called for inserting pins into bollards at each end of the boat. One of those pins is what the lad, forward at the bow, is trying to grab. The pins were attached to lines that would then hoist us aboard.

Remember, the waves were about nine feet deep, or high—depending on which way we were bouncing.

Also know this. It was right after lunch and they were cleaning the galley. There are these things called scuppers on the side of a ship where they discharge waste.

Thanks to my shipmate and FB friend
 Sidney Bussey for the photo.

Yep. You guessed it. In addition to the sick passengers, we were now being bombarded with partial heads of cabbage, uneaten meals, and other delicacies.

We stopped for three minutes to give thanks that this adventure was playing out on the port side of the ship. I shan’t tell you what the scuppers on the starboard side discharged.

Well, we made it or I wouldn’t be here to relate this adventure. I was somewhat a local hero although it was observed that, after several failed attempts at grabbing the dummy in the rough water, I solved the problem by landing the boat athwart his lifeless form. Although it might have been bad for his health, it facilitated recovery. Besides, a real person could have been expected to get the hell out of the way.

I was happy to get back to motoring the Admiral's wife and her friends around Charleston Harbor. As an aside, they always had a nice meal aboard of chilled chicken and white wine with beer chasers. As we deposited them at the main naval base pier, the precious lady would always say with a wink, "Now 'Boats' (they give us this honorific), "You do know how to dispose of the leftovers properly, now don't you." That's when I learned the benefits of saying, "Yes ma'am."

But back to the man-overboard drill. Did I learn a lesson? Yes. Being able to find humor in situations is part of the coping skills that four billion years of evolution has provided us. Luckily, we had them, the coping skills I mean.

We can only hope these younger brothers and sisters do.

"Youth is wasted on the young." - George Bernard Shaw

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