“At Long Last”

Another Nautical Navy Poem found from a long ago Destroyer.

I hope you shipmates like it ...

What manner of ship is this I see?

With all hands turned to on bended knee?

All of her crew are working hard

While other ships are resting in the yard.

Men painting her guns and painting her sides;

From every position a bos’n chair rides…

It looks like an ant hill covered with ants;

The only difference is bell bottom pants.

Trucks full of chow and some full of gear

Are constantly stepping along the pier.

They’re filling her holds and taking great care;

Could it be that she’s going somewhere?

Snipes are busy checking such things

As diesel generator and main bearing rings.

Everyone’s moving at such a fast pace

That it looks like some fanatical race!

The Yeoman are turned to typing out papers,

While short tiers are doing all kinds of capers.

Disbursing personnel are trying to calculate pay;

Gods even the Doc is painting sick bay.

The Deck Force has gone ape, painting around,

From crack of dawn ‘til the sun goes is drowned.

No matter where you look, from No. 2 stack to keel,

The waiting is over. THIS IS FOR REAL!

What makes a ship act in these strange ways?

It’s easy to figure, only a few more days.

You ask where she’s going, where she will roam?

Nowhere my friends, she’s just going HOME!

"Two For One"

A Navy Sailor in his 20s and a few of his shipmates were at a bar when a pretty woman in her mid-40s sent over a drink and introduced herself. Having never been hit on by a cougar before, the swab was happy to let her buy him a few more drinks. Throughout the evening the woman made it clear that she wanted him to go home with her.

At first the sailor was reluctant, but his shipmates encouraged him. In a final attempt, the woman offered him some mother-daughter action if he would join her. Excited, he accompanied her home, and they soon began to kiss passionately on the couch. Looking around for the daughter and not seeing anyone, the man asked,

“Aren’t you forgetting someone?”

The woman apologized, walked over to the bottom of the stairs and yelled up,

“Hey, Mom, I’ve got one!”

"Hail To The Chief"

This week we have seen a few more of our new sisters and brethren pinned with the honorable fouled anchors that entitles them to the rights and responsibilities of the Navy Chief Petty Officer. I congratulate you and I salute you on your test, selection and induction into this great fraternity. Not sure who the author is, but here’s an ode to the Chief written by an old sailor from many years ago… I hope you enjoy, as I say again congratulations to the newly selected Chiefs in our Chief’s Mess!!!

One thing we weren't aware of at the time, but became evident as life wore on; was that we learned true leadership from the finest examples any lad was ever given. Qualified CPOs. They were crusty bastards who had done it all and had been forged into men who had been time tested over more years than a lot of us had time on the planet.

The ones I remember wore hydraulic oil stained hats with scratched and dinged-up insignia, faded shirts, some with a Bull Durham tag dangling out of their right-hand pocket or a pipe and tobacco reloads in a worn leather pouch in their hip pockets, and a Zippo that had been everywhere.

Some of them came with tattoos on their forearms that would force them to keep their cuffs buttoned at a Methodist picnic. Most of them were as tough as a boarding house steak. A quality that was required to survive the life they lived. They were and always will be, a breed apart from all other residents of Mother Earth.

They took eighteen year-old idiots and hammered the stupid bastards into seagoing sailors. You knew instinctively it had to be hell on earth to have been born a Chief's kid. God should have given all sons born to Chiefs a return option.

A Chief didn't have to command respect. He got it because there was nothing else you could give them. They were God's designated hitters on earth. We had Chiefs in my day...hard-core bastards, who found nothing out of place with the use of the word 'Japs' to refer to the little sons of Nippon they had littered the floor of the Pacific with, as payback for a little December 7th tea party they gave us in 1941. In those days, 'insensitivity' was not a word in a sailor's lexicon. They remembered lost mates and still cursed the cause of their loss. And they were expert at choosing descriptive adjectives and nouns, none of which their mothers would have endorsed.

At the rare times you saw a Chief topside in dress canvas, you saw rows of hard-earned worn and faded ribbons over his pocket. "Hey Chief, what's that one and that one?" "Oh Hell kid, I can't remember. There was a war on. They gave them to us to keep track of the campaigns. We didn't get a lot of news out where we were. To be honest, we just took their word for it.

Hell son, you couldn't pronounce most of the names of the places we went. They're all depth charge survival geedunk. Listen kid, ribbons don't make you a sailor. We knew who the heroes were and in the final analysis that's all that matters."

Many nights we sat in the after mess deck wrapping ourselves around cups of coffee and listening to their stories. They were light-hearted stories about warm beer shared with their running mates in corrugated metal sheds at re-supply depots, where the only furniture was a few packing crates and a couple of Coleman lamps. Standing in line at a Honolulu cathouse or spending three hours soaking in a tub in Freemantle, smoking cigars and getting loaded. It was our history. And we dreamed of being just like them because they were our heroes.

When they accepted you as their shipmate, it was the highest honor you would ever receive in your life. At least it was clearly that for me. They were not men given to the prerogatives of their position. You would find them with their sleeves rolled up, shoulder-to-shoulder with you in a stores loading party. "Hey Chief, no need for you to be out here tossing' crates in the rain, we can get all this crap aboard."

"Son, the term 'All hands' means all hands." "Yeah Chief, but you're no damn kid anymore, you old coot." "Horsefly, when I'm eighty-five, parked in the stoved-up old bastards' home, I'll still be able to kick your worthless ass from here to fifty feet past the screwguards along with six of your closest friends." And he probably wasn't bullshitting.

They trained us. Not only us, but hundreds more just like us. If it weren't for Chief Petty Officers, there wouldn't be any U.S. Navy. There wasn't any fairy godmother who lived in a hollow tree in the enchanted forest who could wave her magic wand and create a Chief Petty Officer. They were born as hotsacking seamen and matured like good whiskey in steel hulls over many years. Nothing a nineteen year-old jaybird could cook up was original to these old saltwater owls. They had seen E-3 jerks come and go for so many years, they could read you like a book. "Son, I know what you are thinking Just one word of advice. DON'T. It won't be worth it." "Aye Aye, Chief."

Chiefs aren't the kind of guys you thank. Monkeys at the zoo don't spend a lot of time thanking the guy who makes them do tricks for peanuts. Appreciation of what they did and who they were comes with long distance retrospect. No young lad takes time to recognize the worth of his leadership. That comes later when you have experienced poor leadership or let's say, when you have the maturity to recognize what leaders should be, you find that Chiefs are the standard by which you measure all others.

They had no Naval Academy rings to get scratched up. They butchered the King's English. They had become educated at the other end of an anchor chain from Copenhagen to Singapore. They had given their entire lives to the United States Navy. In the progression of the nobility of employment, "U.S. Navy CPO" heads the list.

So, when we ultimately get our final duty station assignments and we get to wherever the big CNO in the sky assigns us, if we are lucky, Marines will be guarding the streets. Well, I don't know about that Marine propaganda bullshit, but there will be an old Chief in a oil-stained hat and a cigar stub clenched in his teeth, standing at the brow to assign us our bunks and tell us where to stow our gear... And we will all be young again and the damn coffee will float a rock.

Life fixes it so that by the time a stupid kid grows old enough and smart enough to recognize who he should have thanked along the way, he no longer can. If I could, I would thank my old Chiefs. If you only knew what you succeeded in pounding in this thick skull, you would be amazed.

So thanks you old casehardened unsalvageable sons’-a-bitches. Save me a rack in that berthing up in heaven!!!

-Author Unknown-

" The Fireship "

Addicted to the excitement of drama and danger, swabby sailors often found themselves in precarious situations.  The Fireship is an old shanty of naval origins, where the poor swabby lost both his possessions and health. Enjoy the poetry … it’s well written!!!

As I walked out one evening upon a night's career,

I spied a lofty clipper ship and to her I did steer.

She hoisted up her sig-a-nals which I so quickly knew,

And when she saw me bunting up she immediately hove to.

She had a dark and a roving eye, and her hair hung downs in ring-a-lets.

She was a nice girl, a decent girl, but one of the rakish kind.

"Oh sir, won't you excuse me for staying out so late,

And if my parents heard of this, then sad would be my fate.

My father, he's a minister, a good and righteous man,

My mother she's a Methodist; I do the best I can."

She had a dark and a roving eye, etc.

I eyed that girl both up and down for I'd heard such talk before,

And when she moored herself to me I knew she was a whore.

But still she was a pretty girl; she shyly hung her head.

"I'll go along with you, my lad," was what to me she said.

I took her to a tav-er-in and treated her with wine.

Little did I think that she was one of the rakish kind.

I handled her, I dandled her, and much to my surprise,

Turns out she was a fireship rigged up in a disguise.

So up the stairs and into bed I took that maiden fair.

I fired off my carronade into her thatch of hair.

I fired off a broadside until my shot was spent,

Then rammed that fireship's waterline until my ram was bent.

Then in the morning she was gone, my money was gone too.

My clothes she'd hocked, my watch she stole, my seabag bid adieu.

But she'd left behind a souvenir, I'd have you all to know.

And in nine days, to my surprise, there was fire down below.

So come all you good whaler boys that sail the wintry seas,

And come all you good sailor boys, a warning take by me:

Beware of lofty clipper ships, they'll be the ruin of you,

For she not only made me walk the plank, she set fire to me mainmast, too.

Salty Dick

" Oh That Father Murphy "

Father Murphy walked into a pub and said to the first sailor he met …

"Do you want to go to heaven?"

… The sailor said …

"I do Father." The priest said, "Leave this pub right now!"

 He then approached a second sailor ...

"Do you want to go to heaven?"

"Certainly, Father!"

… Was the sailor's reply ...

"Then leave this den of Satan!"

… Said the priest … 

Father Murphy then walked up to an old Senior Chief Bosun and asked…

"Do you want to go to heaven?"

… The Chief Bosun replied …

 "No, I don't Father." 

The priest looked him right in the eye and said …

"You mean to tell me that when you die you don't want to go to heaven?" 

The Chief smiled …

"Oh, when I die! Why ... yes Father. Shit, I thought you were getting a working party together to go right now!"

"Firecontrol"

Working closely with the Gunnersmates, the Firecontrolman doesn’t fight fires as the name might imply, on the contrary, we create them by aiming the guns and guiding the missiles once in flight.  Firecontrolmen are responsible for the maintenance of the Directors, Rangefinders, Fire Control Radar, Electric & Hydraulic Power Drives, Fire Control Computers, Synchro-Servo Mechanisms, and Stabilizing Devices used to correct for the pitch and roll of the ship.  Naval Firecontrol is at the cutting edge of technology capable of suppressing and attacking any enemy.  We are the tip of the spear!!!

Those Silly Firecontrol Guys ...

"Why She's Called A She"

Whether affectionately or spitefully, sailors always call a battleship a “she!”    This, they will tell you, is …

“Because she carries a lot of paint to keep up her appearance; because she always has a crowd of sailors around her; and because she make a hell of a lot of noise in an argument!”

" Ship Handling Problem "

Dear Sir,

     It is with regret and haste that I write this letter to you; regret that such a small misunderstanding could lead to the following circumstances, and haste in order that you will get this report before you form your own preconceived opinions from reports in the World Press, for I am sure that they will tend to over dramatize the affair.

     We had just picked up the pilot, and the apprentice had returned from changing the 'G' flag for the 'H', and being his first trip was having difficulty in rolling the 'G' flag up. I therefore proceeded to show him how, coming to the last part I told him to 'let go'. The lad, although willing, is not too bright, necessitating my having to repeat the order in a sharper tone.

     At this moment the Chief Quartermaster appeared from the chartroom, having been plotting the vessel's progress, and thinking that it was the anchors that were being referred to, repeated the 'let go' to the Junior Officer Of The Deck on the forecastle. The port anchor, having been cleared away, but not walked out, was promptly let go. The effect of letting the anchor drop from the 'pipe' while the vessel was proceeding at full harbor speed proved too much for the windlass brake, and the entire length of the port cable was pulled out 'by the roots'. I fear that the damage to the chain locker may be extensive. The braking effect of the port anchor naturally caused the vessel to sheer in that direction, right towards the swing bridge that spans a tributary to the river up which we were proceeding.

     The swing bridge operator showed great presence of mind by opening the bridge for my vessel. Unfortunately he did not think to stop the vehicular traffic. The result being that the bridge partly opened and deposited a Volkswagen, two cyclists and a cattle truck on the foredeck. My ship's company are at present rounding up the contents of the latter, which from the noise I would say were pigs. In his efforts to stop the progress of the vessel the Third Officer dropped the starboard anchor, too late to be of practical use for it fell on the swing bridge operator's control cabin.

     After the port anchor was let go and the vessel started to sheer I gave a double ring Full Astern on the Engine Room Telegraph, and personally rang the Engine Room to order maximum astern revolutions. I was informed that the temperature was 83 degrees, and was asked if there was a film tonight. My reply would not add constructively to this report.

     Up to now I have confined my report to the activities at the forward end of my vessel. Down aft they were having their own problems. At the moment the port anchor was let go, the Second Officer was supervising the making fast of the aft tug, and was lowering the ship's towing spring down into the tug.

     The sudden braking effect of the port anchor caused the tug to 'run in under' the stern of my vessel, just at the moment when the propeller was answering my double ring Full Astern. The prompt action of the Second Officer in securing the shipboard end of the towing spring delayed the sinking of the tug by some minutes thereby allowing the safe abandoning of that vessel.

     It is strange, but at the very same moment of letting go the port anchor there was a power cut ashore. The fact that we were passing over a 'cable area' at that time may suggest that we may have touched something on the river bed. It is perhaps lucky that the high tension cables brought down by the foremast were not live, possibly being replaced by the underwater cable, but owing to the shore blackout it is impossible to say where the pylon fell.

     It never fails to amaze me, the actions and behavior of foreigners during moments of minor crisis. The pilot for instance, is at this moment huddled in the corner of my day cabin, alternately crooning to himself and crying after having consumed a bottle of gin in a time that is worthy of inclusion in the Guinness Book of Records. The tug captain on the other hand reacted violently and had to forcibly be restrained by the Steward, who has him handcuffed in the ship's hospital while he is telling me to do impossible things with my ship and my person.

     I enclose the names and addresses of the drivers, and insurance companies of the vehicles on my foredeck, which the Third Officer collected after his somewhat hurried evacuation of the forecastle. These particulars will enable you to claim back the damage that they did to the railings of number one hold.

     I am closing this preliminary report for I am finding it difficult to concentrate with the sound of police sirens and the flashing lights.

     It is sad to think that had the apprentice realized that there is no need to fly pilot flags after dark, none of this would have happened.

Yours truly,

Captain US Navy …