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  During one of the last sessions, I was asked what I wanted to do. I could no longer be a Radioman, but I could return to the fleet as something. Or, I could be discharged with or without further treatments. I told them I definetly wanted out, but I wanted out, fixed. He told me I’d be transfered to the Philadelphia Naval Hospital where I’d be counciled more and then discharged.

   The day of the big event started out as a bunch of us nutjobs stood along the curb waiting for the bus in our pj’s. There were 20 or so of us going, with some on stretchers. The ones on the stretchers were loaded up with some “Good fuckin’ times”, which I later learned was Thorazene. The boys on those stretchers were so far gone, they couldn’t handle being concious. The rest of us pretty much had our shit together and we were playing it to the hilt. Picking invisible insects off each other, smelling other peoples armpits, and smiling nice to the civilians.One guy could drool on command and droop one eye. There were corpsmen everywhere with us and they enjoyed fucking with the civies as much as the rest of us.We were eventually transported using a Navy bus, so unless we were dragging our tongues across the windows, we rode in quiet.

   We were all loaded on a MAC flight, (Military Airlift Command) with those on stretchers first, and then the rest of us in seats facing aft. It was one of those fancy passenger jets with the engine in the back. We even had some nice looking Wave corpsman too, which helped a lot. One might think that a few women among a shitload of horndogs would raise all kinds of hell, but the effect is the opposite. We all went out of our way to keep it civil and weren’t any more trouble than the poor dudes on the stretchers. We were rewarded by having a pilot that got busted for something that took him out of fighters. While we were taxiing across the tarmac, he said “as long as most of his riders were unconcious, and the rest crazy, he might as well have a fun ride”. The Corpsmen gave it away when they ran to their seats and straped themselves in. Once the front tires came off the runway, this dude nailed it and pointed it straight up. When we came to about 30,000′, he rolled it over and came to level flight. From there he flew around as many thunderheads as he could bank around and landed at Valley Forge in Pennsylvania. There, they offloaded a couple stretchers and the drooler. From there we flew to Kennedy International and I got to see what humanity can do to good clean air. It was a deep blue sky until we got near New York, and as we flew closer we could see the yellow get deeper and I had no problem at all not getting off. From there we flew to an airport in Maine where I got to see something that wasn’t there. As we taxied down towards the terminal, where we’d eat lunch, we rolled by a U2 in it’s hanger. The Captain came on the PA and said that plane wasn’t there, and you didn’t see it. No one would have believed us anyway, we were all crazy. Lunch came in a box and tasted like it and we were soon on our way to Fort Dix, New Jersey.

Near as I can tell, Dix is sevearal square miles of concrete with a few buildings in the middle of it.The plane almost pulled up to the door of the hospital we spent the night at. Ft Dix I think is/was the military’s primary airport for international flights because we spent the night with some seriously fucked up people, and they weren’t sailors. We were told we’d be spending the night there and bused to Philadelphia the next day. The chow hall was open 24 hours and the food was terrific. Other than us sailors, the rest were coming back from Korea, and a some of them were shell shocked. I asked one of the more normal ones how that could come about and he said anyone who believes the shooting war in Korea is over, is a fool.

   On the ride from Dix to Phily, I watched a trailer tire decentagrate and I noted that there wasn’t any open land between Fort Dix and Phily. It was constant houses for what seemed like a long ride and most of the riding around here is country. The lot of us were admitted into the hospital, and shown to our ward, where me met some of the staff. The corpsman were numbered at a lower ratio of 1 for 2 patients, but we were all well along the way of being humans again. We were getting to the point where we were making up stories to keep the shrinks happy because the living was so good.

   If we didn’t make the doctors happy, we could end up in the rubber room. Our’s wasn’t rubber per se, but totally mattress lined, including the ceiling. Any type of civil misbehavoir could land you in there, but those that were, deserved it. There were several there that had fits of agression and we’d listen to them yell and scream all night long. Eventually they’d settle down, or pass out and we’d all go to sleep. There were a couple guys there who’d spend a week being concious enough to get a shot of something and then sleep until the next one. I never asked what they’re problem was, I had my own.

   We had a Nurse, a Ltjg, who appreared to be dipping into the pillbox because we’d watch her beautiful ass dip back and forth as she’d bounce off one wall, and then the other, all the way down the hall. She had a glazed happy smile on her face all the time and she was as sweet as maple syrup. She never did anyone harm, but everytime she walked by we’d smile and say Thorazene.

   We didn’t have to stay in the ward to get fed; we were given wristbands that acted as a meal ticket and you could get free drinks in the local bars. If we weren’t scheduled for a therapy, we were free to roam the hospital and it’s grounds, and a week later, we could go on liberty.

   One afternoon as I was walking down a hallway, I could hear laughing going on with a lot of “Hoooah!” along with it. I went down the other hallway and watched as a bunch of amputee’s racing down the hallways on their wheelchairs, and giving each other all kinds of shit. Semper Fi.

   Not long after I was given libery rights, I went with a buddy to a neighborhood bar somewhere in Phily. The entire neighborhood was residentual with a bar or two on the corner. I wish I could remember the bar name..damn…. Anyway, word had it, if you wore your uniform and the wrist band, a Phily steak sandwich and a beer were on the house. This guy was good for his word and everyone who frequented the place was just as nice to us as any I’ve ever met. If we played three Frank Sinatra songs in a row on the juke box, he’d give us an extra beer. I got to talk to all the people there about the war, fishing, kids, being a kid, not being a kid anymore, all kinds of shit, and it did me a world of good.

   From there I was transfered to the Naval Base proper and 10 days later was issued my DD-214 and thrown into the unmilitary world of civilianship. I was awarded at 30% disability status and drew a check for three years. On the day of it’s arrival I’d act especially crazy, but now I do it for free.

   The ride to the hospital held many firsts for me: First time in an ambulance, first time I got to hear the siren from the inside, and the first time I’d try to kill myself. I’d been thinking about doing myself in for over a year and would spend hours figuring the best way to do it. Spending months at sea, one might figure to jump over the side, but that’s abandoning ship and something that I’d never do unless ordered. I thought a lot of using a weapon but I’d seen too much carnage to wish the clean up on someone else. I’d read somewhere that the heart couldn’t pump air and that a bubble in the vein would travel to the heart and it would quit working. Along that line, I optained a large hypodermic needle that was used in the antenna cleaning process. That I kept with me close, in case things got real bad. I opted to use drugs that I hiested from my dad while I was home on the last leave. It turned out those drugs wouldn’t have accomplished what I’d planned, but it got me in front of a shrink. He and I spoke for a while and I told him of my lifestyle over the last two crusies and he asked me if I had feelings of killing someone else besides my thoughts on suicide and I told him Hell No. I had, but not to the point where I’d paid off the fantail overboard watch, but that was a group effort, not just mine. He told me to take the rest of the day off and sent me back to the barracks.

   When I reported on the ship the next day, I was told that my security clearance had been withdrawn and I was to report to the PAO (Public Affairs Office) for duty. The office was next to the post office and as far off the beaten path as they could find.

   That night a few of the guys stopped by and we talked of having a Mental Health Night that evening. One of the guys had been attending AA meetings all during the week, but they don’t serve alcohol at those things. So, we decided in helping our stressed-out shipmate, we’d gather together occasionaly and get ripped to the gills. The guys figured I could use one and it’d been days since we’d gotten together. I was given orders that I was not to communicate with any Radioman onboard, but they didn’t say anything about while ashore. With a bottle of Wild Turkey and one of Haig & Haig Pinch, we spoke of the merits of life, and the bennies of death. As you can imagine, I didn’t make any converts and it turned out to be my last Mental Health Night with my shipmates.

   The next day I was transported back to the Portsmouth Naval Hospital and admitted into the psyc ward. The hospital was constructed before the civil war and I had the honor of living in the same building. The ceilings were 12′ high with open wards taking up entire wings. I’d seen pictures of this place from a history text I’d had a couple years before, but these guys didn’t have missing limbs or dying from the flu.And it didn’t have barred windows lining both sides of the wards, or the hallways. At the end of one of these hallways was a large steel door with a small barred window, and a keyboard on the wall. This type of entrance I was quite familiar with and even the sign: “Authorized Personell Only” didn’t bother me. When they opened the door and I saw a room full of nut job’s, that got my attention.

   There were 20 or so of us, and during regular hours, half that many corpsmen. None of us were there because of dangerous behavoir to others, so it was very safe. Had I spoken to the doctor of what I was going to do with Cheif Hawkins body, my buddies might have been quite different. All ages were represented as well as the Marine Corps. The Marines were the ones I ended up feeling the sorriest for, but I’ll get back to that later. When I walked in, they all looked over and nodded and went back to doing whatever it was they were doing, and I was led to a desk. One of the corpsman was seating me when I heard the door mechanism lock, and watched me as all the demons exited with it. I immediatly asked him “if that meant that those outside couldn’t get in?” “Is there anyone on that ship that could come get me and take me back?” The corpsman said “he heard that a lot and that I was absolutly safe”. The feeling was unbelievable and it wasn’t until I momentarialy died years later that I felt it again.

   After some more questions I was given my pj’s and shown which bunk was mine. He said I was required to clean under it each morning and could sleep in the bed, only at night. During the day I could sleep on it, and he said I should give it a try. I slept except to clean under my bunk once a day, stand at attention once for a meeting with the Admiral, ate twice a day, and used the facilities, for four days straight. On the first morning after swabbing under my bunk, we were told there was going to be a “Grand Tour” or some such crap with an Admiral leading.

   Evidently, my mom didn’t take my attempted suicide very well, and she immediatly wanted to know what the fuck was going on. Mom decided the President was busy I guess, because she called the Secretary of the Navy and had a very vocal, one sided conversation with a series of of people and ended up with the Chief of Naval Operations. Admiral Zumwalt can be considered the boon or bane of Naval History, but personally, I got to meet the Commanding Officer of the hospital. Everyone looked pretty nervous before, during and after this encounter so I’m figuring he don’t do it often. I’d dealt with high ranking officers for two years and a room full of Captains and Commanders didn’t impress me a whole lot. The group started on the other side of the ward and he shook their hand and smiled and moved on quickly until they got to me. He asked me to tell him about my life onboard so I gave him the short story of what I went through. He asked me if there was anything he could do for me and I said “I’d like to sleep for a couple more days and then get some beer”. He said to go back to bed and look forward to the beer. With that, they continued around down the line and back out the door and everyone watched as I went back to bed. 

   A couple days later I felt well enough that I wanted to get up and around, and went to one of the group therapies. One of the great things about group therapy is you find out how crazy you ain’t. I lived with a bunch of crazy motherfuckers, but I wasn’t one of them. Well, they were crazier than me. There was one American Indian that had a real problem with staying alive. He was sure he’d crossed the line somewhere and the only honorable way out was to do himself in. We had a Jesus Christ and I guess every group in there has at least one. He was a very peacefull kid who spent a lot of time staring out the window looking for his DAD.
Several of them were manic depressent and a few of us were Obsessive Cumpulsive, plus mine was with Self Deprecating Behavoir. A couple times a day we’d all break into groups and have conversations about what we’d been through and talk about the problems we were having.

   Inbetween these meetings, we’d play chess, or ping pong, read or assemble puzzles with each other or with the corpsmen. If the corpsmen weren’t interacting with the patients, they were setting at a desk writing down observations, and they were always observing. I was having a chess match with another patient when I got blindsided by a lunch truck and those that weren’t making sure I wouldn’t go ballistic, were writing about it on the sidelines. Me being somewhat of a fast reader, and knew how to get around security issues, read my own chart once. I learned alot doing that.

   The other meetings I had where with the psychiatrists and I never met a quack in the bunch. One of them told me that most cases can be diagnosed within the first ten minutes and everything after that is profit. Those guys weren’t there for the profit, they knew they’d be making that soon enough and in the meantime, they were going to help as many people as they could. Once I found out they couldn’t speak of the security issues that had prevented me from talking to anyone else about it, were were able to, and their help was immense.

   The Marines where there for the usual gamut of behavoirs but they weren’t immune to “Out there”. Some of these guys were messes, but the SP’s would show up at the door and the Marines would have to go stand in inspection. They had a line of mental nutcases standing amongst them but they were all there. Had they carried out what they’d spoke of during therapy

   After a week or so, I was given the opportunity to move to the “open ward” but to do so would require work and responsibility. They never held it against anyone that was willing to stay but I’d had enough of that place. “Too many crazy people in there” for me.

   The ward was the same size, with the same amount of patients, but we could come and go as we pleased. Pleased being able to work all day and have visitors in the evenings. My first assignment was with the ambulance service and I’d help people go from the main hospital to the various outbuildings the hospital had. The Oncology department wasn’t attached to the living portion, so we’d transport them. On the second or third day, I was on the back end of a gurney and released the locks on the legs before I had hold of the gurney sides. This poor old lady dropped like a rock, right on her noggin that was about to get zapped. Right after that I was transported to the Services Department and ran a Masher in the Laundromat. This device is large enough to accecept a Kind sized sheet and press it, or any clothes that needed pressing. That was one hot assed job, but I loved it. I got to carry on conversations with the ladies that worked there and it helped moving back into humanity.

  Butch came over as well as a lot of the guys from the ship and talked about life there and what was going on with the families. We talked a lot about different cruises and liberty ports but nothing about the ships operations. I was no longer someone who had the need to know so there was little we could discuss. One of my shipmates was married to a nice lady who’d come and visit a couple times a week, but besides Butch that was my extent of excitement. I did spend one afternoon in the hospitals cemetary where I saw some very old and historical headstones. There was a sailor who fell from atop the mainmast to the deck on the USS Constitution, many Civil War stones, and a LOT of deaths from the flu epidemic in 1918. It was a quiet and peaceful piece of property surrounded by future patrons.

   A couple weeks later, I was given orders to report to the Philadelphia Naval Hospital for further treatment and honorable discharge, which I’ll write about next…

  Everyone has a point they may come to where a decision is made if they still want to live beyond this day. For me it happened on a mid-watch while routing messages in Maincomm.
   I looked down at the message and I couldn’t for the life of me figure out where it went or if I even cared. I left the ship, walked to the barracks and downed a buttload of pills. When I was sure they were all swollowed, I called the Operations Office on the ship and told Lt. Commander Brandon what I’d done. I thought it fitting at the time, that the man who’d helped create my situation would be the dude I told.
   I come from a Catholic/Lutheran upbringing and geneticly, a German with Scot and French/Odawa Indian as a buffer. I have the work ethic of a Krupp employee who’s looking forward to busting his ass on a Monday morning. The Kamradts are full of these people and I’m sure all their employees benifited from it.
   The Navy certainly did. Our deployments were 6 months long and during those cruises, I worked 16 hours of every day at sea. That leaves 8 hours for sleeping, eating, and poker, unless your relief doesn’t show up. Then you spend those 8 hours in Radio Central because there’s only one other person on the ship that can do it. There were two or three instances where I spent 96 hours on watch without releif. I’d plead sometimes to get an officer in there so I could leave long enough to take a shit. During General Quarters Drills, I was the ships High Speed Code Operator, so I manned the CW circuit. Then there were the activities that were going on around us. For a couple month period we were in the Eastern Med, watching the Palistinians and the Hebrews go at it with Soviet bombers flying overhead all day. There was a lot more going on then than I can ever talk about, but at the time, I was reading as much as I could get my eyes on. The problem with that was once I went off watch, the information stopped. The ship had two watch sections, or shifts, and you couldn’t divulge what you’d read or heard on that watch (or time period) to the other watch section. So what I’d do, is to join the other watch section and work their shift too. Radio Central was covered so I could spend my time working in broadcast/ship-shore circuits. I’d help out finding clear frequencies and read broadcast all shift. During the period when Cairo almost disapeared from the face of the Earth, I was there reading it.
   Sleeping became such an issue that I’d fall asleep standing in line for a meal. There were many times I’d wake up to the sound of “Secure the Chow Line”, and walk back up to Central.
   Then of all things, I was sent to “Ditto Repair School” so there would be an onboard repairman for all the duplicators. Of the four of us who went to school, I was the only one who passed, and I aced the exam. Those fuckers knew what they were doing because I ended up getting screwed real good. During the periods when I would get to bed, I’d get woke up to go fix one of the duplicating machines. Often times, the plug would have been pulled, or the “ON/OFF” switch was placed in the “OFF” position.
   I guess it was no suprise that I was burned out, but my work ethic admonished me for being so incompetitant. I was a firm believer in culling out the weak and I was a prime example of what to get rid of. I had myself in a real funk by the time I started on that mid-watch, and it ended when I heard the Psyc ward door lock.

Next edition: Rubber Room Ramada

   On these 6th Fleet cruises; it wasn’t always Operational Drills, and inspections to insure you were battle ready. There were days when we’d get to watch other ships exhibit their Operational Drills, or have a picnic, and watch sailors beat the shit out of each other.

   By the third month, that ship became a little small and personalities began to conflict. I never knew them personally, but they all got there the same way. Whenever two guys were written up for fighting, they could either go before the Captain, or volunteer for the Sunday smokers. On the fantail of the ship, we had a helocopter pad that would decend below decks, to a hanger area. We didn’t have one aboard, so they’d use it as a boxing ring. By the third month, they had accumulated enough voluntees to make for a pretty fair show, and add bbq’ed steak and maybe some dive bombing, it turned into a hellava day.

    Instead of the cooks making dinner in the galley, they’d set up bbq grills on the Port side and grill steaks. If you’ve ever wondered what happened to old milked out cows, you can rest assured they’re still serving their country. But, they were steaks non the less and there wasn’t a restaurant within 500 miles to compete with ‘em. The ship had it’s own rock and roll band, and two or three members were from my division. One of them had his own wig and looked like hell in it, but hey, he played good. Around 1500, all that was put away and the main attraction was announced.

   The contestents had volunteered to fight each other for three, three minute rounds and they wore 16oz gloves. That’s a half pound of padding and weight on the end of each arm and these guys weren’t trained for it. If the dispute between these guys was recent, or had survived in hatred since it’s inception, then it was a great one minute round. I’ve seen them last as long as 1 and 3/4 minutes, but nothing beyond that. They still had to fight though and the pissed off ones didn’t last nearly as long as the smart ones. Those guys would catch holy hell from the fans and the Master At Arms, who was reffing the match, when they started to slow down. The ones who’d paced themselves, or usually the ones who’d talked about it before hand, would slowly circle each other around the deck and throw slow, avoidable punch’s. Those guys caught even more shit until they started to fight. I don’t ever remember seeing any of them during the next smoker either.

   I think the best show I’ve seen was when the F-4’s were holding gunnary practice on a sled we pulled. Several hundred feet behind us was a water sled that would cause a huge splash and the planes would use it as a target. They always approached with the sun behind them and off to our port quarter. Some of them came from almost straight up to just off the waves. On this particular occasion we were running through 20 to 25 foot breaking seas, and not a cloud in the sky. The sea and sky were the same deep blue with only the froth showing where one met the other. This thing was raising holy hell with the seas already rough and cannon explosions adding to the effect. The pilots with no balls would approach at a 45º angle and begin firing early and wild. The ones who’d been there either came in at a 90 or but a few yards off the waves. Those guys pounded that sled and the fantail roared with our approval.

   I attended the National Cherry Festival, in Traverse City a couple years ago, along with my son Matt, and his friend and his dad. Jason, Matt’s buddy, was enlisting in the Navy and this was a bennie for doing so. It wasn’t for the main event but for the practice round and a small group of people were given the VIP treatment. As I watched those planes go through their practices, I remembered another day where the waves showed me the line.

To all of you who have been in a combat situation where this crap might be causing some ill effects, I salute you, and apologize for causing it. To the rest of us though, it was one hella show.

Not long after I was discharged from the Navy, I took advantage of the GI bill and went back to school. Although my major was Landscape Technology, I was required to take an English class and I chose a course in writing. I figured it would help in drawing up proposals or producing reports that may be needed in my field, (no pun intended). One of the first things she taught me was to “Write what you know”.

Later in life, I suffered a stroke and was incouraged to take up writing to rehabilitate whatever synop’s I’d lost in the process. Later yet, when the opportunity arose, I made claim to a website where I could write to my hearts content. Remembering back to my schooling, I began to write of my navy years, and I still do, to this day. In the process of all this, I came into contact with a fellow radioman I’d served with, and he too, became a writer.

His first work, which is classified as ficton, takes place on the ship we both served on back in 1968. “Apollo Rises” is it’s name and is about the counter intelligence work that took place (allegedly) on the USS COLUMBUS. I wrote to him after I’d read it and congratulated him on his efforts and admired how he could use his imagination to create such a story. I told him my writing was more of a rememberance of what I went through and could never make up characters, or come up with some kind of plot to incompass it all.

When I heard that he’d writtin another book, I immediatly ordered one and took right to it. “Nea Makri” is another book on the same subject, using the same characters as the first. As I was reading it, I remembered reading some highly classified material pretaining to his story line, and then it dawned on me.

He must have taken the same class I did.

If anyone is interested in how things work in his line of work, I highly recommend reading it, and forgot what it says on the first page: “This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.” You can contact him, but he’s going to tell you I’m full of shit.

The book can be ordered through:

Xlibris Corporation

1-888-795-4274 or www.Xlibris.com Orders@Xlibris.com

   As intense and exciting as a 6 month cruise was, the remaining 6 months were not, not by a long shot. It was exciting in that you’d get to go home and see your family, not have to stand port and starboard watch’s, and I could go fishing again. But, that was about it.

   On the down side; I wasn’t married so the supply of poontang dropped to nil, wasn’t able to drink booze, so my fondness of Johnny Walker (Black and Red) and Wild Turkey went unfullfilled, and worst of all, the ship was put into drydock.

   From NOB (Naval Operating Base) Norfolk, we were unceremoniously pushed and pulled up the Elizibeth River, to the shipyards at Portsmouth. All I remember about this ride was the shame I felt having to be pushed somewhere. Four weeks before we were a force to be reckoned with and now we had cold boilers, no nuclear warheads, and one VHF radio for Communications. After being gawked at by the sailors aboard Destroyers and Submarines, at the D&S piers, we were slowly moved into position at our dry dock. The Columbus was one huge mother of a ship and it always drew a crowd wherever she went. At 670′ long and with 10 levels (100′ + radar and antenna’s) above the main deck, it must have been a sight to watch. Before our arrival, shipyard workers (yardbirds) had placed huge chocks that would hold the ship in place as the water was removed from the drydock.

   When I’d reported aboard ship the night before, the after brow (gangway, Columbus had two; one for officers amidships and one for enlisted, aft) was crossing water from the pier to the ship. When I left the ship that afternoon, it was over a cement floor, a loooong way down. It reminded me of an iceberg in that there’s a lot more under the water line, than there is above it. I wished I’d seen that before I made my first cruise, or I wouldn’t have had the reoccuring dream of it flipping over with me in it. It was hard to comprehend how large it was until I saw two guys standing below one of the brass props. Each blade was two of them high and three wide and that was just one of three blades. As I watched those two guys, I saw five or six more go down with baskets and they started picking up the soft shelled crabs that were always there every time they emptied a drydock. There must have been a zillion dollars in crabs in that hole.

   The crew and yardbirds immediatly began dismembering the ship, as well as removing every square inch of paint. They used sandblasters on the hull and various tools from it’s water line up. Some had disc sanders and grinders, but the one noticed most where those using magic fingers. It was an air driven mechanism run by hand, where a series of small protrusions pounded the paint off of the steel and aluminum. The noise level was that of one sitting in the middle of a pack of Harley’s at full throttle, and the dust created by it covered everything, including us.

   All of our Communications equipment had been removed and was being upgraded in the various shops at the yard, so we had to walk to the Communications station a half mile away. The messenger of the watch was required to walk to the yards’ main communications building to retrieve traffic every four hours unless there was a high priority message that needed to be distributed to the ship. The messanger of the watch also had to wear service whites to get in there and dress whites after 1700hrs (5pm). Picture yourself in a nice clean set of pure white cotton clothes, then take a walk through a dust storm, and be required to look good afterwards. We would have to take three seperate sets of whites on watch with us because they were only good for one trip. Everywhere we walked, there were pneumatic hoses running along the decks and hundreds of obsticals to get around and through. We would receive a phone call from Portsmouths’ radio room and told that there was an “Operational Immediate” waiting for us and by regulations we had very little time to take care of it. We’d haul ass over there, remembering the “Oboes” of times past where peoples lives depended on it, and find out it was about a hurricane a thousand miles away.

   Until room in the bases’ barracks were available, we had to berth on the ship. The same ship that’s totally out of the water with nothing but mosquetos between the sun and the hull. The temperatures would rise to above a hundred degrees and sleeping was out of the question. Most of us slept out on the deck, and my favorite spot was the platform above the bridge. It was almost impossible to sit on in the daylight, but after dark it dropped down into the 90’s and almost tolerable. Once we were able to live and sleep in the barracks, life improved some, unless you minded the huge cockroach’s, but I got used to them too.

   Every morning at quarters, we would be assigned a job that had something to do with the refitting of the ship. Some were assigned to cleaning up after the yardbirds and some to fire watch’s. There was arc welding going on everywhere, and it was required that each welder have someone with a fire extinguisher along side. Fires were always breaking out as the hot embers would set the paint on fire and we’d immediatly put them out. None of us were given protective glass’s, and instructed not to look at the arc; it would give us sunburned eyeballs. I remember one day RM3 Orton had an experience like that. He was working in Radio II along side a welder when summoned by Chief Hawkins who was irate when Orton told him he wasn’t going to come to Main Comm. The Chief hauled ass down there to kick some bootcamp butt but stopped short when he walked into II. Orton’s eyes were mere slits and his face was three times it’s normal size. Orton didn’t get his ass kicked but the welder did.

   After the ship “knocked off ships work” at 1700, we could either go to the beach (liberty), go back to the barracks, or to the Navy Exchanges’ entertainment center. The building housed a restaurant (Ge-dunk), movie theatre, gymnasium, weight room, and bowling alley and was infinitly safer than trying to take a buss out of Portsmouth and go to either Norfolk or Virginia Beach. That old buss was riddled with bullet holes and traveled at night without interior lights. The one time I stood Shore Patrol during my enlistment, was held at this Navy Exchange. Normally, Radiomen didn’t stand Shore Patrol duties because of the hours we worked, but while the ship was in the yard, we had pleanty of time. I was issued an arm band with SP printed on it, along with a billy club and a belt to hold it. It was my responsibility to keep the peace within it’s confines, insure that everyone wore dress whites after 1700, and that everyone in the movie house stood up when the national anthem was played before the show. The nice thing about this was I was representing the Commander in Chief and could tell a chief petty officer to “Get his ass outta my building” if it was required. Not many times could I do this and hoped Cheif Hawkin’s showed up with dirty dungarees and a shitty attitude. It didn’t happen of course, but all day I waited for him to show up. I was able to evict one E-6 for wearing his baseball uniform after 1700, and he did have a bad attitude.

   Inter-ship baseball was a nice part of the time we spent in the shipyard, but it wasn’t because of my love of baseball; it was for the love of Lowenbrau. The ship had purchased several hundred cases of beer while overseas and issued to the teams for every game. The baseball field was back at the D&S piers and we took a Utility Boat back down the Elizibeth River to get there. Once there, we were assigned an opponent and our ration of beer. It usually took two innings before the fun started and it wasn’t long after that, that we were trying to hit the beer bottles that usually sat behind the players on the field. I’m pretty sure someone kept score because at the end of the week there would be the Division standings posted outside the personnel office. How accurate those postings were, were dubious to say the least.

   This was also the time when the ship, or it’s Divisions, would send some of it’s crew to various schools. My first school was on Crypto systems, which I shant get into, but the second was “Ditto repair school”. This was long before what we use now for duplicational duties, but back then we’d put on a “matt” over a drum and with each revolution, a copy would be produced. It was a wet and sometimes sloppy job, but in our line of work, it was a very important piece of machinery. Each morning we were taxi’d over to some office building in Norfolk and taken up to an old dusty equipment room and instructed on how to fix the things. There were four of us who went and I was the only one who passed the course. At first I thought these guys were a bunch of morons until the following cruise when I was awakened at night to fix one of them, in the personnel office. There were four of five of these machines on the ship and I was the only one qualified to fix it. Nine out of ten times, I’d look under the counter and plug the fuckin’ thing back in, and go back to my rack. At the time I was only getting 3 to 4 hours sleep every night and those duties took even that away.

   After three of four months, the ship once again started to turn “Battleship Gray” and it was starting to look like a ship of the line again. Those sailors that had been sent to various “A” schools returned and we began to take on new equipment and stores. Those personnel that left were replaced with men from different commands and boot camp. Those that we recieved from boot camp were indoctrinated into the daily operations and the locations of our various work spaces. It was common to see some boot walking around the ship with a sketch of the ship in his hands looking for his assigned spaces. It was also common to have some kid walk up and ask where he could find “a hundred feet of chow line” or where they kept the “key” to the ship. We’d think up the most out of the way place, give him directions, and laugh as he’d walk off looking for it. I talked to a sailor from the Enterprise about this once and he told me they had one guy missing for three days, while at sea.

   As we were taking on stores, we also took on fresh water and the ship had one embarassing situation because of it. While they were receiving the fresh water, they only filled up the bunkers on the startboard side of the ship. While the seawater returned back into the drydock, the ship as it rose, took on a nasty list to starboard. Soon an announcement was made over the 1mc for all hands, not currently on watch, report to the port side…..like that was going to help. It took an hour or so for the pumps to move the water over, but there were news crews in the area that caught it on tape, so we got to watch it on t.v. that night.

   Another thing that happend during this time, happend at morning colors. Across the river from us, there was a Coast Guard cutter that raised it’s flag upside down, and as a curtesy, we asked them by signal light if they were in dire need of assistance. They weren’t, but they didn’t forget the gesture and gave the ship a $500.00 fine for polluting when they caught one of our sailors throw a pop can over the side. Shallow water sailors have no sence of humor at all.

   Not long after that we were once again on our way down the Elizibeth River back to Norfolk, with dreams of Barcelona once again dancing through our dreams.

   Napoli, the only city we came to, that we could smell the day before.

   A couple of us were on our way up to Maincomm, when we stopped on the ASROC deck and had a cigarette. The sky was a deep, deep blue, the rolling sea the same. It was only the white caps that told us where one ended, and the other began. After spending a week below decks, it was glorious to have a wind in our faces again. (There were extended periods, when we might as well have been on a submarine). We stood admiring the view and enjoying the wind, when we all twitched our noses at the same time. One of the guys said “Naples” and we all just nodded our heads.

   It’s not one particular odor, but rather a boquet of them; diesel fumes predominitly, but with a mixture of fish, decay, feces, and just a hint of decedence. Most cities have their own aroma, but Naples was truely different.  We arrived working against that same offshore wind, and once we were tied to the pier, we either became adapted, or we weren’t getting the whole effect. Must be the decedence was happening on the other side of town, but before the night was over, we knew we’d find it.

   The crew had been prepped the night before, with a brief history lesson, and a long list of things to do and places to see. Many of the ships crew (including Butch) were off to Rome on a photographic tour and an over-nighter. Those guys really made out; spent all day hangin’ with the Pope, and all night hangin’ with the hookers. Radiomen weren’t that lucky, as we weren’t allowed to be off the ship overnight. Too many communists would have been more than happy to snatch up an RM and take him to his local cell leader for an interview, and never seen again. So, we stayed in town, frequented the local bars, restaurants, and of course visited the camp fire girls.

   One of the other things the ships Chaplain talked about the night before were the taxi cabs. Any nightmares you’ve had, movies you’ve seen, stories you’ve heard about taxi drivers in Naples, is probably true. We were told that there was one taxi company that had hooked up with a cameo factory, and if at all possible to use them. They were at least honest. The offer was if we were taken to the cameo factory first, we’d then be delivered, free of charge, to any location in Naples. Frankly I didn’t believe him. I’d read enough history to know to never trust the Italians, and enough message traffic to believe it, but I was wrong. We even lucked out on our taxi driver, he was a U.S. Marine recouperating from a wound suffered in Viet Nam. The wound was caused by a rocket grenade that didn’t explode, it just passed through the left side of his head. It gave his head an off kilter look and partially explained why he spent so much time driving on the sidewalks. Because we spent so much time driving on the sidewalks and doing everthing else possible with a car that small, I didn’t ask him about the particulars. There was one stretch there, where I’d lifted myself up off the floor to ask, but before I could, there were a half dozen dissedents throwing rocks and calling us baby killers. “Next time, I’ll get yours too, motherfuckers!” was what the Marine yelled as we drove through them. He was good for his word though and took us right up to the cameo factory.

   Naples was making cameo’s before Vesuvius was a mole hill, and the art work looked it. Each setting was of pure silver and hand etched, or carved I guess, and the image would be bass reliefed (relievo) using oyster shells as a medium.  The best part was you could tell the guy exactly what you wanted, and then stand there and watch him do it. The whole process was fascinating and for a long time, was my prized posession. I wasn’t a M.S.U. fan at the time, but it would have been a fine showing had I been.

   The Marine was dutifully awaiting, and took us to where ever we wanted to go, for free. (I still didn’t believe it)   I believed it though when he dropped us off at a restaurant, and left careening alongside a building, avoiding a kid on a bike. I have no idea how many world travelers are reading this, but I’m sure they’ll all agree on two things. One: Pizza over there is a pie, and it’s gooood, and Two: eating pasta in Naples ranks right up there with a 19 year old sitting on your face. You just have to be there to appreciate it. Tomato paste was never seen nor mentioned while we were there, and I for one, appreciated it. All they use is cheese. Oh! if I had the vocabulary to describe what it does…(I probably wouldn’t have had to use the 19 year old simile for one thing)..it gives you the feeling of contentedness without the indegestion I guess. We were in a dinning room that would seat 500, and there were five of us there. Each of us had our own waiter, who stood 5 paces behind with eager anticipation to please. After a while, we got used to them; stepping forward to gather used plates, refilled our glass’s of wine, present the next course, stuff like that. Four of the five of us smoked, and after finishing we all reached into our socks for our smokes. By the time we straightend up, there were four lit lighters waiting for us. The fifth guy got a mint. We sat for a while and drank up another couple bottles of their wine, and decided on our next course of action. The next course of action was an easy pick, which road you went down was another. Speaking of roads here, it should be mentioned that there were still many streets in Naples, where raw sewege flowed down the middle of the street. I suspect that’s still the case. 

   As much as “traveling the road less traveled” sounds romantic and all, we weren’t after romance, we were after pussy. Romance was what you read in letters from home, pussy was found standing next to bonfires alongside a road. The Italians were a civilized people who passed civilized laws preventing it’s population of free spirited entrepreneurs, dwellings to pursue it. It was nice in Barcelona, with everything done indoors, with mirrors no less, and here we have bush’s, of all sorts and types. It was interesting, and fun as well, to walk along the trees and see the different positions being displayed, and endurance capabilities rising to new levels. I could see how the orgy’s of old caught on so quick; what with warm temperatures and more than willing participants. American’s are way too hung up on it’s sexual moores, and if we were more open about it, it wouldn’t have the commerical allure that it has. It didn’t take long and I had a pair of 15 year old virgins (HONEST JOE, NO BULLSHIT, SHE VIRGIN, I KNOW, SHE’S MY MOM) and her virgin sister. Thinking back on it, I should have got a third one to hold the beer.

….Set condition Zebra throughout the ship”

   When you hear that in the movies, there’ll be guys running up and down ladders, through the knee knockers and everyone putting on helmets. I only saw that happen once; my brother Butch and I were standing on the ASROC deck and watched a MIG do a victory roll as it passed our port side, from aft to fore. Right after that, general quarters was sounded and there were people running everywhere, and I along with them. I didn’t have far to go, Radio Central was up two levels on the ladder and then in through a hatch.

   Immediatly to your right, is the door entering into Butch’s working compartment. He ran the computer that operated the Tatar Missle System, Port side launcher. Moving to the left, led you down a passageway forward, to the ladder that ran up and down the center of the superstructure, from the Main deck, to the Captain’s bridge. Taking that ladder up one deck, brings you to Communications. Immediatly to your front was the sewing room for the signals bridge, your left was Radio Central and following the passage way aft, was MainComm. From that point on, only authorized personel were allowed to pass.

   That meant that any time the M.A.A. (Master At Arms, the ships police) was after your ass, you could run up to MainComm and lose him. It also meant that any time my brother was hot on my ass, I’d run up to Maincomm and laugh at him. We could get food transported up to us, they couldn’t. It also meant that when they “Extinguished the smoking lamp” it was shining bright in MainComm. You could count on seeing all the ships echelon parading through MainComm, “just to see how things were coming”. There wasn’t any officers under Commander that stood around a buttkit and shot the shit with each other, during these operations. Down below, there’s guys loading enough fireworks to level the Eastern seaboard, all the way back to Memphis, but I didn’t feel guilty for lighting up another one.

   My combat duty station was in Radio Central, which was nice, since that was my normal job. I had two duty stations at times of combat; one in Central, and the other in my rack. Communications went to war when we pulled out of Norfolk, so other than having to wear a heavy helmet and cover another 5 circuits, it was just another day at work. It’s not until you hear the bosn’ announce “This is not a drill” that the sphincter begin’s to twitch.

   I got my ass up to Central as fast as I could and relieved Underdog, aka Dan Raustadt, of his duties, and put on the helmet with the soundpowered phones. I was connected to the Captain’s bridge, the Admiral’s bridge, CIC, Damage Control Central, and Radio spaces 1 through 5. Immediatly after donning the phones, you listen for a clear spot in conversations, and announce your space is manned and ready. Then you sit and wait.

   It’s not like on t.v. where a coupla guys’ll shoot the bull, with their helmets cocked back and having cigarette ash’s falling on their dirty t shirts. No, you sit there and remember all the messages you’ve been reading; all the planes being blown up by Palistinians and some A-rab named Yassar Arafat, doing his best to light up Tel Aviv. You remember hearing the Admirals talking across the hall in Crypto, about how long it’ll take to level Cairo. (These guys musta been talking about something big, ’cause it was going to take 6 minutes and it would all be over). You think about your brother, one deck below and a few frames aft; either franticly trying to get the fucker to work, or chugging coffee and talking about Moose hunting. You look around the compartment and see the K-Y8 nestled in the corner and the long row of patch switches that connect every receiver and coresponding remote position throughout the ship. Off to your left is the patch panel that connects every transmitter on the ship to it’s remote operating positions. Then you look at the bulkhead, which is 1″ aluminum plate, and what a simple .50 caliber machine gun round could do to it.

   I listened to Pritac (Primary Tactical 121.5) and Sectac (Secondary Tactical 281.9) for aircraft communications, and then through a few more I don’t remember the frequencies to, but there wasn’t anything going on. I also monitored International Distress (500khz), and there was usually morse code messages being passed from frieghter to frieghter, but this time, there wasn’t even that. Another circuit I monitored was CINCUSNAVEUR’S HICOM, which at the time was in the H.F. range, (2-32khz). These frequencies, and the method they were used, were often rife with static bursts, whistles, and all sorts of strange noises. This time it was as quiet as a church.

   All night we cruised through the high rolling seas, everything lit with dark red bulbs, some watching gauges, some franticly trying to get the Mark 1 working again, some cooking our next meal, and one staring at the speakers, wondering what was going to happen next.

39 years ago today, I was inducted into the United States Navy. I served my country with dignity and pride, both of which I still possess to this very day. Nothing in my life has influenced me more, and I thank them for giving me the opportunity.