EPIPHANY OF THE DAY

 PATRIOTISM

The naval Battle of Somar was a defining event of the overall Battle of Leyte Gulf. The fleet supporting the liberation of the Philippines became unguarded save for some light aircraft carriers and a squad of destroyer and destroyer escorts. The American fleet supposedly guarding the north disappeared when American Admiral “Bull” Halsey fell for a ruse and departed the scene, chasing a decoy fleet. Another Japanese fleet of battleships, heavy cruisers, destroyers had only to break through weak resistance in order to perhaps destroy the invasion and the American will to continue the war in such a faraway place.

Obviously, the destroyers and destroyer escorts chose to “didi mau” and fight another day?

Nope.

They charged the Japanese.

Perhaps the most famous quote emerging from this battle (save the infamous “Where is Halsey? The world wonders.”) was given by the Captain of the U.S.S. Samuel B. Roberts, Commander Robert W. Copeland, to his crew:

“This will be a fight against overwhelming odds from which survival cannot be expected. We will do what damage we can.”

The first ship to charge was the U.S.S. Johnston captained by Commander Ernest E. Evans. This undoubtedly motivated the others.

Captain Evans (commanders of Navy ships are always "captains") received the Congressional Medal of Honor, posthumously. Survivors saw him last steering his battered ship with his remaining hand. Still charging, he waved.

The “gnats against elephants" charge initiated enough confusion and damage to save the day for America and the Philippines.

The U.S.S. Samuel B. Roberts and the U.S.S. Johnston now lie some 20,000 feet below the surface of the Pacific Ocean. The heroics of their crews fly high above us with their heavenly battle flags.

Incidentally, Vice Admiral John S. McCain commanded one of the carrier groups involved in the battle. He was the father of the John McCain who flew planes from a carrier and was shot down over Hanoi and spent six years in the notorious “Hanoi Hilton” prisoner of war facility. Yes, that is the John McCain who was offered early release because he was an admiral’s son but refused unless all his fellow prisoners were released as well. Yes, that is the John McCain whom Donald J. Trump dishonored because, "He was captured."

Lest us think about such Americans when those among us disparage veterans and the awards the receive for their bravery, not to mention the places where their dead are buried.

The U.S.S. Johnston

EPIPHANY OF THE DAY

 PATRIOTISM

The Vietnam War generation doesn’t receive the approval that the WWII Generation did. No wonder. One lost. The other won. The Korean War generation doesn’t receive much attention at all. No one can figure out exactly what the result was. No one even knows what the current generation is doing. There aren't enough of them to matter.

The Vietnam vets have a special place in my heart though, for one obvious reason. Beyond that, there is a special place in glory for those who were faced with a situation where the justification for the war was fabricated and false, the sentiment for it was mixed, opposition to it was violent, and the rich kids seemed to avoid it if they wished. What is special about a group of young men on the verge of their adult life facing the forced encounter with such a war?

Answer: They went anyway.

Yes they went. Some because they had to. Some because they wanted to. Some, myself included, because they wouldn’t risk telling their mothers they were cowards. One supporting layer floated them all. Deep down inside, they felt America was worth sacrificing two or more years of their life for, and maybe even itself.

America was that important. They were willing to sacrifice it all for her.

Now we have politicians that don’t seem to feel that way. Either their cult, their greed, their egos, or their simple mendacity govern their actions. If they loved America as much as we did, they would step aside and let young people with fresh and wholesome ideas run for office.

On some days, reading the news, I’m not sure that our present people deserve the America for which young men once risked it all.

Fiction Friday: Home From the Sea

Oh, a little fiction, but mostly a true story about how coming home from sea is nice. Warning: contains, or alludes to, some ancient naval terms. Skip over quickly if you have sensitivities.
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HOME FROM THE SEA

By Jimmie von Tungeln

             The huge ship lumbered nearer the bridges, shuddering from the turning of the screw but running true and straight. With a length of two football fields and the height of a ten-story building, it dominated Charleston Harbor, rolling alongside the smaller craft with the disdain of a weary queen. A boat had delivered the pilot nearly a mile back and the ship was still moving unfettered through the treacherous waters, with Castle Pinckney off the starboard bow. Soon the tugs would pull alongside her and begin to ease her gently up the Cooper River like boy scouts escorting a venerable old lady through traffic. Ahead, two massive and ancient bridges spanned the river, inviting the traveler home.

            Tim Hinson, Boatswain’s Mate Third Class of the United States Navy, leaned against a bulkhead watching the shoreline drift by as if it were a movie set. A short while earlier, he had stood on the fantail as the ship sailed between forts Sumter and Moultrie, the scene oozing history into the morning’s light. It would be his last view of the harbor, the end of an era that had begun four long years ago, in 1966—an eternity earlier.

            “Your last?” a voice said, breaking through the sounds of the wind and the ship's deep rumble. Hinson looked to see a young Seaman Apprentice at his side and recognized him as one of the new arrivals to the after deck section, the group that cared for the ship’s rigging and operated the small craft assigned to the vessel. He was a curious young man, completing his first time at sea. His face pleaded for a friendly word.

            Hinson said, “Don’t you have something to do?” He walked to the rail and rested his arm. The two were amidships, away from most of the activity and out of most direct lines of sight.

            “I’m supposed to be fetching some ‘water line’ but I’ve fallen for that one before,” the youth said. “Can’t you cut me a little slack, Boats?”

            “Have they told you to bring them the vertical windlass yet?”

            “Oh yes. I even stood the ‘Mail Buoy Watch.’ I went five places looking for ‘bulkhead remover’ and tried all afternoon one day to find Charlie Noble.”

            “Screw it,” Hinson said, smiling. “Just don’t tell anyone I said you could lollygag.”

            “Someone comes, I’ll ask them where the waterline locker is and skedaddle.” He eyed Hinson with suspicion.  “You gonna sail your hat off?”

            “Now what business could that possible be of yours?” Hinson said. “Did Chief Zelmer send you to spy on me?”

            “There’s a bunch of guys on the …,” he stopped, opened one palm, then the other, chose the left, and said. “uh, port side that are going to sail theirs, if they don’t get caught.”

            “Good for them,” Hinson said. “Maybe if I don’t throw you overboard you will live to sail yours off someday.”

            “Weren’t you in ‘Nam’ before you came here?”

            Hinson turned to look at him. “You got something against that?”

            “Oh no, not me,” the young man said. “But there are some NCOs, officers too, that really resent you.”

            “What makes you think that?”

            “I hear talk,” he said. “They say they give the guys who come here from Vietnam the shittiest jobs on the ship to show them their place. Do you think that is true?”

            “Well, they did make me work with fender-heads like you.”

            “Oh, come on Boats, I’m just trying to pass the time.”

            “Sure,” Hinson said. He unzipped his bluejacket and reached inside. The white sailor’s hat rested against his body rolled neatly into a saucer shape, ready for sailing.

            The youth noticed and said, “Is it really an old Navy tradition?”

            “What, to throw a nosey seaman overboard?”

            “No,” the lad said, “to sail a hat off the ship and into the sea when you come in from your last cruise.”

            “That’s what they tell me.”

            “And,” the youth continued, “you write the names of all your home ports on it?”

            “Yep, of course some have more than others.”

            “How many are on yours?”

            Hinson regarded the other. “Just three,” he said. “Waiting for Vietnam, Vietnam, and two years on this old girl serving with over-inquisitive seamen.”

            “Aren’t you the Coxswain for the Admiral’s Barge?”

            “I was. Next week I’ll be a civilian and they don’t let civilians drive the Admiral around.”

            “Did you ever think of re-upping?”

            “Do you really have shit for brains or is that a look you have practiced?”

            “Actually I have two years of college.”

            “Well good for you,” Hinson said. “The Navy needs educated men. You know what Chief Zelmer says about Bosun’s Mates, don’t you?”

            “No, what?”

            “He says that once there was one on board who was so dumb the other Bosun’s Mates started noticing it.”

            The youth laughed. “He’s funny, ain’t he?”

            “Sometimes,” Hinson said.

            “You know what he yelled at us when we were trying to get underway?”

            “I can’t imagine.”

            “He said we looked like a bunch of monkeys trying to [$#@*] a football.”

            Hinson smiled. He leaned over the rail and watched as the spans of the two giant bridges, the Silas N. Pearman and the Grace Memorial, seemed to move closer.

            “A civilian,” the youth said. “That must be nice.”

            Hinson turned and said, “Lad, would you like some advice?”

            “Sure,” the youth said.

            “Don’t be thinking about civilian life. You’ve a long time to go and that sort of thinking will drive you crazy. Try to enjoy this man’s Navy.”

            “Did you?”

            “At times,” Hinson said, “after I quit fighting it 24 hours a day. Want to know something else?”

            “I suppose.”

            “Don’t look for gratitude because it won’t be there.”

            The youth looked stricken. “You mean they don’t appreciate us out in the real world?”

            “Only in the abstract,” Hinson said. "Oh, they'll brag about you on the 4th of July but make you sit you at the back table in a restaurant. He stopped and seemed to relish a memory. “There was one time recently that was different, but just one since I've been aboard this bucket..”

            “When was that?”

            Hinson said, “Have you heard the crew talk about when the ship docked at Fort Lauderdale?”

            “Oh man,” the youth said. “That sounded like some real fun.”

            “When we were coming up the canal to our berth,” Hinson said, “there were huge condominiums lining the banks.”

            “And?”

            “It was as if people were telegraphing ahead as the ship moved along. Flags started appearing on the balconies and people started waving at us. Of course they were all old farts. One old guy on our side even saluted us.” He stopped and looked away. “That was nice.”

            “So they did appreciate you … us?”

            “Lad,” Hinson said, “that was the first time in three years that I had received kindness at the hand of strangers, and it would be the last of my military career.”

            The youth stared into the water. “The only time?”

            “No,” Hinson said. “There was one other. Long before, when I hadn’t been in much longer than you have.” The ship veered a point or so to port as it started its passage beneath the bridges. “Now,” said Hinson, “if you will excuse me, I have something to do.”

            With that, he reached into his jacket and drew out the rolled hat. With one swing, he sailed it into the harbor as the shadow of the first bridge moved athwartships toward them. It spun itself into a high arc and settled with grace and solemnity on the surface.  Simultaneously, dozens of other hats sailed forth until Charleston Harbor was dotted with white circles dancing on the waves like the stars of a flag waving in the wind.

            Hinson turned to the youth. “One other thing,” he said.

            “What’s that?”

            “Be careful in this city. They hate service men, especially sailors. The cops will beat the hell out of you for looking at them funny.”

            “Don’t the people here appreciate us?”

            “Not particularly.”

            “They’re not patriotic?”

            “Doesn’t matter,” Hinson said. “As my mother used to say, familiarity breeds contempt. And, as I have learned, contempt overrides patriotism any day of the week.”

            The youth looked stunned.

            “Don’t worry,” Hinson said. “It will be just fine. Someday they may even build a monument to us. Just stay away from the officers, go on liberty every chance you get, don’t catch the clap, and don’t volunteer for anything, ever. You will do just fine.”

            The youth’s face broke into a smile. “Thanks Boats,” he said. “Thanks for talking to me. You’re the first one who has … I mean … man to man.”

            “My pleasure,” Hinson said, “Now get your ass back to the fantail and let’s moor this ship. America needs us, whether she knows it or not.” As he spoke, the fantail of the great ship passed beneath the second bridge and the lady was home from the sea once more.

The proud old lady Rolling home.

A Love Story

A funny thing happened to me yesterday. I never thought it would at my age. Took me by surprise it did. What was it? I fell in love. Blindsided, you might say. Don’t tell anyone.

It happened this way.

Each year, the MacArthur Museum of Arkansas Military History sponsors a performance by a wind orchestra on the grounds of MacArthur Park with the historic Arsenal Building (where the General himself was born) as a backdrop. They play Sousa marches and other things. There’s free ice cream and chilled water. The Boy Scout troop from Pulaski Heights Methodist Church makes sure that everyone has plenty of both.

Oh yes, and flags. Everyone gets a flag.

I always try tmo make the affair since it’s right across the street from the condo and I serve on the Museum’s commission. I always enjoy it, especially when they perform the Armed Forces Medley. When your theme song comes up, you stand if you served. (The standers get fewer each year, for less than one percent of Americans now serve).

Anyway. I waited patiently but respectfully until they broke out with “Anchors Aweigh.” They play it last, the Navy being maybe the oldest and certainly the most respected of the forces. We stood, we few, we too-seldom-honored few. It took me back a few years and I teared up, just a bit. I ain’t no crybaby, you understand.

Then it happened.

The orchestra went into “Stars and Stripes Forever.” Now if that doesn’t make you blood stir, nothing will. I’ve heard it even heals bone spurs.

Anyhow. Everyone stood this time, flags just a’waving. To my right were a family with young kids getting excited about the music. To my left was a group of friends, including a couple of vets. In this old park, with the honored and majestic building in the background, I could see not one shred of hate, avarice, anger, or wroth. Just Americans.

At that moment, I realized that I love this country. Oh, it’s made some mistakes, and paid a price for some of them. It has withheld its dream from some and bestowed its blessing unjustly on others. But in the years after I put aside its uniform, it made progress in righting the injustices. There were signs that we might reach a point someday where Stars and Stripes Forever resonated with all Americans.

Then a group challenged that dream, wanting to take us back to the ugliest of times.

I ain’t about to stand by while that happens. My America doesn’t mock the disabled. My America doesn’t denigrate the service of brave people who answered its call and paid dearly for it. My America doesn’t reward people who “make their bones” spreading hatred for groups of other humans. My America doesn’t allow churches to stamp their individual, and sometimes insidious beliefs upon the unwary. My America doesn’t march forward on propaganda-induced and artificial patriotism. My America believes in redemption, not in ruining the lives of people who are now doing good but may have a lingering scab from some decades-ago transgression. My America believes in salvation for all humans, not just for deserving sub-groups.

My America believes in love, not lapel pins. My America believes in respect, not slogans.

So step aside. I can be silent no more. Lead, follow, or get out of the way. I’m standing, with Stars and Stripes still sounding strong in my ears.               

See, I love this country.

The Boy Scouts were concentrating
on doing their job. Photo by the MacArthur
Museum of Arkansas Military History.

 

My Redacted Life: Chapter One (Cont. 5)

It was only the second day of my civilian life but it felt like a year had passed. In a few moments, I would be home. Home. Robert Frost once said, "Home is the place where, when you have to go there, they have to take you in." I knew my return wouldn’t be that cynical. It was the only place on earth where they wanted to take me in, at least from love.

 

Fight our country's
 enemies, and this
is your thanks.

I've mentioned that the Navy had offered to take me back in and give me home if I only promised to serve on river boats in Vietnam. See, to the right,  how the country allowed people to treat men who did that. I’m glad I passed on a grand patriotic adventure such as that.

Back to Day Two, I drove by fields, recently harvested, where men still made good livings tilling the soil. Large, but not grand homes, appeared where plantation mansions had stood years before. The farms gave way to scattered housing, then subdivisions, and then commercial enterprises. I seem to remember that a massive outdoor movie screen still stood on the outskirts of town. Roberts Brothers Tire Store came into view, then an all-night service station where we had delivered milk when I was an eleven-year-old.

Herbie’s Barbecue, where they used to bring beer to your car, was still there. I learned later that the bathroom was still as filthy it as it had been when I left. They say Herbie left it that way to discourage people from spending too much time within. A story, not verified, by me at least, held that a young man had left his empty beer can on the long, once white, urinal, his last beer before leaving for Vietnam, only to find it still in the same spot on his return. I don’t know. You hear a lot of things in your home town.

My crowd’s main teenage hangout, “The Wagon Wheel” had closed years ago. I drove on.

I reached Main Street and saw our town’s landmark: a billboard with a little girl on a swing that actually moved, “Little Miss Sunbeam.” I don’t remember how long it had been there, at the end of Main. I just couldn’t remember when it wasn’t. She was still swinging that day, and smiling right at me. Appropriate.

All the sights were familiar now. My heart was warm. I was no longer a stranger in a strange land. In a few moments I would be home. I drove down a divided and landscaped street with grand homes on either side. Then I made the final turn toward where my future waited.

I had no way of knowing at the time, but at a college 60 miles away, a beautiful young girl of 20 was finishing classes for the day and was sashaying across campus on the way to meet her boyfriend at the Student Union. Her flowing red hair and grandly formed legs no doubt drew a great deal of attention that day. Jimmie Buffett would later describe her type as “A smart woman in a real short skirt.”

Paths cross in this world. They choose strange routes and take their time. Sometimes, they carry anchors with them. I sometimes wonder if the gods don’t stand at the intersections and laugh.

Tomorrow: meeting Mother.

In my hometown, you know you have
arrived when she smiles your way.

My Redacted Life. 1

My military life ended when I told a boldfaced lie to a two-star admiral of the United States Navy. I didn’t think too much about it at the time. I was a Third Class Bosun’s Mate. That’s a highly respected position, one largely earned by bluster, bullying, deception, and prevarication. Since I only knew one admiral on a personal basis, I lacked perspective.

Here’s the deal. I read somewhere that each of us should write the story of our own life, redacted of course, omitting those parts that would threaten hard-earned reputations, marital harmony, or “free-world” status. Yesterday, someone egged me on.

I begin with my exit from the navy. That experience had begun in San Francisco, California when the Draft Board sent my Sainted Mother a letter that translated roughly as, “Tell him he cannot run from us any longer and that if he doesn’t report to the Oakland, California Induction Center by the date specified, the entire resources of the Federal Bureau of Investigation shall be unleashed upon him. Along with this message, you might suggest to him that he have a will prepared, for his chances of a long life aren’t particularly promising.”

We respected our federal institutions in those days, and with a charming invitation like that, I sought a military solution that was more forgiving of negligent attitudes than the United States Army, or so I thought. There was also the prospect of carrying a rifle and slogging through the jungles of Southeast Asia.

So, I joined the United States Navy, and they first thing they did was to send me to the jungles of Southeast Asia and start me slogging around carrying a rifle. I still fail to understand the obsession that some have with those things (They don’t really make it larger. Trust me).

After that rather unpleasant experience, they sent me aboard the USS Hunley out of Charleston, South Carolina. That’s where I met my Admiral.

They, the Navy, had taught me to drive boats. We carried different varieties and sizes, from 50-foot wooden crafts, to officers’ vessels, to landing crafts left over from the Normandy Invasion. I drove them all.

After I had performed a year as naval coxswain without sinking a single boat, they told me that two jobs were open for which they, the Navy, felt I was eminently qualified. The first was a return to Southeast Asia, this time to drive boats on the rivers there. The second was as coxswain of the Admiral’s Barge (a nice swanky boat).

With a premonition of the dreadful manner in which the future Republican Party would treat those who drove boats in Vietnam, but with a twinge of adventurous patriotism, I went to the ship’s fo’c’sle late on a moonlight night, watched the flying fish guiding the ship, and pondered what would be a major life’s decision.

For almost 15 seconds.

That’s how I came to know my Admiral. As I say, he was a “two-star.” That’s where the Navy started them, admirals I mean. They saw no use for a BG equivalent so I began as coxswain for the equivalent of a major-general.

My duties varied from taking the Admiral’s wife and her friends to Fort Sumter to taking the Admiral out to meet a submarine returning from patrol. I had to move alongside the sub while we were both sailing along and let him jump from the barge to the sub. The experience chewed up the seats of my dress white trousers every time we did that, but I never dumped him.

Back to my last day of active duty. I was signing out, ready to say for the last time, “Request permission to go ashore, Sir,” when I was called to the phone in the Captain’s headquarters. The Admiral wanted to speak to me. “Come to my headquarters on the Main Base,” he said. “I have something for you.”

“Mary, Mother of Jesus,” I thought. Then my mind locked and loaded and went into attack gear. “Admiral,” I said, “I’m transferring out this morning, and I have three shipmates I promised to take to the airport on a tight schedule.” 

I imagine that may have been the first time anyone had told the “Old-Man” no in 20 years.

Anyway, after some wrangling, he agreed to have his aide mail it to me. It was a Naval Citation. I tried to trade it for a cup of coffee once, but they wanted money too.

Of course, there were no shipmates and no promises for transportation to the airport. I had lied. There was only freedom. I always regretted it a bit, but I’m sure the Admiral got over it. For me then, it was all, “Give me a fast car, for I intend to go in fun’s way.”

They, the Navy had paid me for travel all the way back to San Francisco, and I planned to take advantage of their offer. First, though, I planned a stop at my childhood home. I gave the stuck up, hateful, and military-loathing people of Charleston “the finger” as I drove through town.

It was “Goodbye Navy, hello Arkansas.”

One duty of a Coxswain, is too take
part in "Man Overboard" drills while at sea.
Look closely, I'm the one with my arm out.