Pier Dollies ... I guess to normal folks, that would appear
to be a derogatory term. Then again, normal folks didn't ride diesel-powered
submersible iron septic tanks. The women who waited loyally in all kinds of
weather, at all hours of the day or dead of night... And smiled and waved to
welcome you home, were collectively known as 'pier dollies'. Any smoke boat sailor who doesn't have a special place in his heart for our beloved pier dollies...
The same women who waited rainy night after rainy night for 'their boat and
their sailors', is a coldhearted rascal.
Pier dollies were... And always will be
some of God's finest work. What made them so wonderful was their devotion,
loyalty, and the ability to stand on a lousy navy pier in weather unfit for
dogs, Marines, and anyone in France. They never broke faith with the ship and
her crew.
They came in a variety of types from
devoted officer's wife to professional 25 & 7 working girl... PTA regulars
and old barmaids fighting cellulite and varicose veins... From starry-eyed
sweethearts to veteran submarine wives who had met enough incoming boats over
the years to know that all you get at 2:00 AM after all lines have been doubled
up and liberty goes down...Is a smelly guy who stinks of diesel and hydraulic
oil... A sack of disgustingly dirty laundry... And a raging erection looking
for a home.
Maybe all this has changed. Maybe the
Salvation Army and the Singing Nuns meet the boats that throw their heavies
over in the middle of the night... Who knows?
The old expression that all boat sailors used,
"Ain't nobody up this time of morning
but burglars and bad wimmin..."
Didn't apply to pier dollies. They were
saints.
There were gals who used to call SUBRON SIX
Ops on the Orion... Get your ETA... Then drive out Willoughby Spit to Fort Wool
and sit there drinking thermos coffee, waiting for an old rust-stained smoke boat to come churning past Thimble Shoals light.
As you passed Fort Wool in 'balls and brass
monkey' weather, in the pitch-black darkness someone would yell up to the
bridge,
"Hey Stokes, flash an Alpha-Alpha over
to Wool."
You would hear the shutters on the signal
light bang away and see the light reflections in the rising and falling swells.
Then you would see the dual flash of automobile headlights that told you
several cars would be pulling into the gate at DES-SUB piers and parking in the
pier head parking lot. One guy's wife told us she could sit out there at
Willoughby Spit... Listen to the radio... Read a paperback book and breast-feed
a kid, all at the same time. We never could have won the Cold War without gals
like that.
It's nice to be remembered. The lousy part
of being a guaddam boat sailor was that nobody knew where in the hell you were
or what in the hell you were up to... And probably wouldn't have given a good
guaddam if they did. But pier dollies did and there is something wonderful about
standing topside waiting to toss a heavie to some half-asleep sonuvabitch on
the deck of the outboard boat in the nest... And seeing the smiling face of a
devoted fan whose panties past experience told you... Were taking a rest break
in the glove compartment of a 55 Chevy that needed new tires. Little
unsolicited gifts like that made life worth living.
If you got in at a decent hour... 'Decent
hour' defined as 'Before Thelma secured the beer taps at Bells'... You could
take a dolly or two up to Bells and treat them to a gourmet meal of Slim Jims
and Rolling Rock... Breakfast of Champions.
Pier dollies had the straight skinny on the
information that E-3s needed... Sports scores, what the new cars looked like,
baseball scouting prospects, and what supermarkets were running beer specials.
The vital intelligence for anyone who parked their boots in Hogan's Alley.
I have always been disgusted with anyone
who ever looked down their nose at a pier dolly. Those wonderful women were the
closest to angels I've ever been next to. Where in the world would you be able
to go and find a smiling, big-busted bleached blond who would sit in a car for
two hours just to wrap her arms around a foul-smelling line handler, standing
under a dim pier light in a drizzling rain? They were saints and they were
truly glad to see you at a time the rest of the world cared less what you were
up to. They gave or sold at reasonable rates, unreserved, no bullshit love, to
guys who weren't exactly prize packages.
A whore can sell her wares without stepping
over fuel hoses and ration boxes on a cold pier at 2300 Zulu. You can bet your
thirteen-button blues on that, horsefly.
I am damn near sixty years old and no one
in my life ever welcomed me and made me feel ten feet high and bulletproof like
those gals did. In my book, they are and always will be, shameless gals who did
a helluva lot more in Cold War service than a lot of the worthless
sonuvabitches out there taking all the bows.
And you returned to the boat... Dropped
below, your foul weather jacket reeking of dime-store perfume... Cheap red
lipstick smeared ear to ear all over an unshaven face only a mother could
love... And the coffee tasted great and all was right with the world.
Sure, the little woman out in the kitchen
fixing your dinner would never understand. She never lived on the snorkel for
weeks at a time in a forgotten world. But you did... We did. And the world was
a better place when there were women who waited to welcome worthless bastards
on the bitter ends of heaving lines.
My idea of heaven is a mental picture of
Saint Peter on an ivory pier standing up to his armpits in the middle of a
bunch of perky busted pier dollies yelling,
"Put your lines over when you
can."
If any woman reads this whoever stood out
there on a dark pier waiting on incoming smoke boat bluejackets, God bless you,
darling…
