THE FUNNY THING ABOUT WAR
©2014 AL CAMPO
Published by Hellgate Press
(An imprint of L&R Publishing, LLC)
All rights reserved. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be
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Hellgate Press
PO Box 3531
Ashland, OR 97520
email: [email protected]
Editor: Harley B. Patrick
Cover Design: L. Redding
e-Book edition: July 2014. ISBN: 978-1-55571-809-1
CONTENTS
Preface & Acknowledgments
I. Bell Bottom Blues
II. In Transit
III. “Request Permission to Come Aboard”
IV. The Gun Line
V. Return to Subic
VI. Back on the Line
VII. R & R: Hong Kong
VIII. Taiwan On
IX. Fire Up the Grid: DMZ
X. Gang Banging in Subic Bay
XI. Long Days & Short Timers
About the Author
PREFACE &
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I REMEMBER A TV SHOW MY PARENTS USED TO WATCH when I was a kid called “The
Naked City.” If you are unfamiliar with the show it was a police drama series that aired on ABC from
1958 to 1963 and took place in New York City. I can distinctly recall the narrator, Laurence Dobkin,
in his dramatic voice during the introduction proclaim, “There are eight million stories in the Naked
City...,” attributing one story to each citizen of the town. That introduction in many ways can be
analogous to the Vietnam War. Between the periods of August 5, 1964 to May 7, 1975 a total of
9,087,000 military personnel served on active duty of which 3,403,100 served in-theater and along
the shores in the waters of the South China Sea. Every one of those survivors has a story to tell of
their experiences during that lengthy and tragic war. The Funny Thing About War is but one of them.
As a Navy veteran of the war I have always wanted to put that experience on paper and
retirement provided me the time and opportunity to do so. Though the war itself was devastating to
those that participated and to their families as well, I believed that sufficient time had elapsed
whereby the general public might accept a reflective book on the war similar in nature to Catch 22.
My original concept was to treat my book as a comedy and accentuate the raucous behavior of sailors
while on liberty in some of the more unusual and exotic locations to which nearly all sailors deployed
to WestPac at that time could relate. Additionally, and to my astonishment, my research revealed only
a few books written and published about the Blue Water Navy’s activities in the conduct of the war
as opposed to the myriad of books involving infantrymen. Of those few concerning naval activities
one was a non-fiction memoir of an officer aboard a non-combatant ship and the other was a
documentary account of ships involved and their tactical usage in the conduct of various operations.
The remaining books about the U.S. Navy focused on the Brown Water Navy and the personnel
stationed aboard Swift river patrol boats.
It seemed only logical to write a book about an aspect of the war that so many participated in yet
whose stories remained untold. But rather than write the book as an autobiography, I elected to
portray it as a fictionalized, human-interest story. I have attempted to do so by depicting and
providing a perspective of the conflict through the eyes of an enlisted sailor, named Chris Columbo,
as his life’s choices thrust him into the crucible of a war.
Though much of Chris’s journey of rediscovery is elicited from many of my own personal
experiences and eyewitness accounts, others were embellished or fictionalized to augment the interest
and entertainment value to you, the reader. As I began to write, in deference to those that served, it
became clear to me that I could portray a perspective of the tragic conflict, treat the subject matter
honestly, interject humorous anecdotes and simultaneously furnish an historical narrative of an actual
ship’s deployment. The Funny Thing About War is the culmination of that concept.
This book was a labor of love that took four decades to formulate and complete. As time and
distance can erode even the sharpest memory I apologize if naval protocol and shipboard policies
were at any time mistakenly represented. I would also like to stipulate to any of my shipmates who
read this that the characters herein are fictionalized compilations of many and any similarities to
actual persons are purely coincidental and unintended.
In summary, I would like to add that this project could not have been done had it not been for the
love and support provided by my wife Josephine who has my eternal love and gratitude.
Additionally, I would like to thank Harley Patrick at Hellgate Press for all his support, patience and
hard work.
There are others to thank as well, such as the shipmates with whom I served alongside during the
war, whose courage, professionalism and camaraderie helped assure our survival and allowed me to
recount this tale. It is to those individuals to whom I dedicate this book along with the millions of
others who served, the 303,704 who were wounded and the 58,202 who perished during that war, as
well as to all those military personnel that have followed thereafter and have so gallantly kept watch
to help preserve our freedom.
And finally I would also like to dedicate this to my son Anthony whom I dearly love. This is my
legacy to you.
I
BELL BOTTOM BLUES
IT WAS 1972, THE WANING STAGES OF THE WAR. On a life-altering journey to Vietnam, Chris
watched the Chief Petty Officer cram another cigarette into the bouquet of butts between them. Its
smoky apparition merged with the existing cloud in the cabin of the chartered 727. As they coursed
through the sky, above the snow-capped Alaskan mountains, the pilot announced Mt. McKinley would
soon be visible through the port side windows. Chris in his vise-like seat, his head propped on his
palm, turned his gaze below.
Spotting the white peak rise above the wrinkled landscape, he sighed and thought, How the
colors of one’s life constantly changed from black and white to gray and back again. He prayed for
the fog enshrouding his recent years to lift, so his future may become as black and white as the scene
below. The seventeen-hour trip to Clark Air Force Base would give him ample time to reflect on such
matters and question how his parade of failures so changed his life that he would now place it in
jeopardy.
Growing up as a teenager, his future looked promising. With modest effort, he graduated in the
top ten percentile in a class of six hundred scoring fourteen hundred on his SAT’s. He received offers
to play football and baseball from West Point, Marshall University and Lycoming College. He had an
infectious grin. Inheriting his father’s obliging gene, he was always willing to help those in need. He
wasn’t a joke teller per se but his satirical wit spawned laughter from those around. He was popular
with the girls in school but in his senior year was devoted to only one. Respect for “famiglia” was an
inherent trait and he enjoyed his time with them. He was a normal kid from a middle-class Italian
family on Long Island, never venturing far from the friendly confines of the tri-state region on his
own...until he left for college.
During his senior year in high school, Chris had taken the Navy Reserve Officer Training Corp
scholarship exam scored well on it and interviewed for acceptance. He applied to a number of
colleges offering the NROTC program. The University of Missouri, which had one, was on the list
although it wasn’t his first choice of schools. Villanova, which also had one, was. It was the perfect
place for him. Its strong engineering curriculum suited his aptitude for math. It was close to home,
which would allow him to continue his passionate romance with Cassie.
However, within a week of leaving for Villanova, together with his good friend Matt, he opened
an envelope containing the mother of monkey wrenches.
Dear Mr. Columbo:
It is my great pleasure to inform you that the United States Navy has chosen you as
a candidate for officer training at the Columbia campus of the University of Missouri.
Towards that end, the Navy is offering you a full scholarship, which will defer the total
cost of your tuition and books along with a monthly stipend of fifty dollars.
Please advise the undersigned should you wish to avail yourself of this excellent
opportunity and become a proud member of our organization rich with tradition and
history.
I look forward to welcoming you aboard here at this illustrious institution.
Yours truly,
Captain Phillip T. Hunnicutt
Battalion Commander N.R.O.T.C., University of Missouri
“So, you will be going to Missouri then?” he remembered his father saying upon learning of the
letter.
“No, Dad, I’m not. I’m leaving for Villanova next week.”
“I want you to seriously reconsider going to Missouri. Full tuition, money for books and fifty
dollars a month is really a good deal. All we have to pay is your room and board.”
“A good deal for me, but a better deal for you, right, Dad?”
“I can’t afford to pay for more than two years at Villanova.”
“I don’t understand how it’s possible for Matt to go there. He was raised by a single mom who
worked as a clerk all these years and never made the money you have, yet she can send him and you
can’t send me! I am not going to Missouri, period! Villanova is a far superior school. It’s a three hour
drive from here. I can come home more often on weekends to see the family. Missouri is seventeen
hundred miles away. How often do you think I’ll be able to come home from there? Are you going to
force me to give up my dream?”
“Force you, no. I just want you to be reasonable and see my point.”
“Yeah, I see your point and it has nothing to do with my plans or being happy. It’s about saving
your fucking money!”
“Don’t you talk to me that way!”
They argued daily and fiercely. Chris weary and beaten by the constant arguing finally relented
the day before he was to depart for Villanova. His relationship with his father would never be the
same. He would remain bitter towards him for making him alter his plans. He informed Villanova he
would not be attending, and apologized to Matt for upsetting their living arrangements. He notified the
captain at Missouri of his intention to accept the scholarship and re-activated his application there.
Three weeks later, while standing by the gate he shook his father’s hand and turned to Cassie.
The tears in her eyes trickled down her cheek. They mingled with his as they embraced and kissed.
“I miss you already,” she said.
“I am going to wear your ears out over the phone. I love you so much.”
“I love you more,” she said as she squeezed him tight not wanting to release him.
They kissed once again and he turned to head out the gate. Little did he realize then when he
boarded that plane to St. Louis how it would affect the course his life would take.
****
The aircraft shuddered and rumbled rousting him from his thoughts. The turbulence augmented
his anxiety as the “Fasten Seatbelt” sign illuminated above him. He lit a cigarette to soothe himself
and stared out at the glaciers. Once the flight calmed down so did his stomach and he continued to
ruminate about how Missouri led to his demise.
The box-like dorm room with its tan enameled block walls had echoed with each footstep as he
entered. The black light poster, of a young man sporting an Afro with a raised fist, taped on the wall
was the only evidence of his roommate. When he returned from dinner the poster was gone. For now,
he was alone. Affable as he was, he soon made friends with those on his dorm floor but always
longed for the comforts and familiarity of home, the camaraderie of his life long friends and more
importantly Cassie’s passionate and loving embrace.
He called her frequently and helplessly listened to her cry. Her flowing tears eroded his selfish
concern about their long distance romance. Chris the pragmatist didn’t doubt he would remain faithful
to her but also realized hermitage wasn’t in his nature. Wanting to be fair and assuage her tears, he
suggested she go out with friends rather than stay home every weekend. He promised to travel back
east to be with her at every available opportunity.
Honoring his promise, he decided to surprise her one extended weekend and flew home. He
greeted his family long enough to borrow the car and without changing clothes sped to her.
Her younger sister Lauren, who was quite fond of Chris, answered the door.
“Chris! What a great surprise to see you here! Did Cassie know you were coming home?”
“No, I wanted to surprise her.”
“You sure will! Come in. She’s in the shower and should be out soon. Wow, you look really
handsome in that uniform!”
He stepped inside. “Oh this? Thanks. I wore it to fly standby. It’s not only cheaper but military
personnel get seated before civilians.”
Cassie called out, “Who was it, Lauren?”
“It’s Chris!” she shouted.
“Chris?” Cassie cried out. He didn’t answer. She called his name again, “Chris?”
Again, he didn’t respond.
“Lauren, stop teasing! Who’s there?”
“I told you. It’s Chris!” she called out laughing, aware he was playfully teasing Cassie.
“Come on, cut it out!” she yelled.
“I swear it’s him! Tell her it’s you,” she said while petting his arm. Chris remained mum as a
mime.
Cassie chastised her sister, “You’re gonna get it when I get out of here!”
Lauren continued to laugh approving Chris’s little game.
The door to the bathroom in the hall swung open. Exiting in her bra and panties toweling her
golden hair her pale blue eyes fixed on him in his dress blues. “Oh, Chris!” Dropping the towel, she
sped into his arms squeezing the air from his lungs. Their bodies clasped together like magnets. She
kissed him repeatedly on the lips, cheeks, eyes, and nose.
“Cassie, how I’ve missed you.”
“And I’ve missed you.”
“Are you cold? You’re trembling.”
“No. I’m just so happy to see you and hold you.”
All that passion would vanish the ensuing summer following his midshipman cruise. As a
condition of the ROTC scholarship, he was required to report for training exercises. He would have
to spend six-weeks of that summer training aboard the USS Wasp. The carrier’s home port was
Quonset Point, Rhode Island but the ship was on station as part of a Hunter Killer task force in the
Northern Atlantic. To get there he reported to Maguire Air Force base and flew on a chartered flight
to Rhein Mein Air Force Base in Frankfurt, Germany. He had a day layover in Frankfurt and spent it
touring Gothic cathedrals and beer gardens. The following day, he marched into the belly of a C-5
transport plane bound for Oslo where, he reported aboard the carrier, began his training and toured
the palaces, Viking museum and beer gardens during his off time. The ship spent two weeks at sea,
then berthed in Copenhagen for seven days where he continued to train, and during liberty toured the
King’s palace, took in a Blind Faith concert in Tivoli Gardens and consumed large quantities of
Pilsner beer in their brewery. After another two weeks of maneuvers and training at sea, the ship
steamed home.
The Atlantic crossing couldn’t go fast enough to please him as he anxiously awaited the day they
would tie up to the pier at Quonset Point, where he expected to be re-united with Cassie and his
family. His apprehension grew with each turn of the ship’s screws as it finally entered the harbor and
approached the pier. The Navy band began to play Anchors Aweigh when the mooring lines were
cast down, as the crowd of housewives, children, parents, and friends assembled on the pier blew
kisses and waved to the crew manning the rails. The ship tied up and the gangway installed. The crew
dismissed from formation and liberty call sounded soon after. Chris sprinted down to the hangar deck
for a better look and stood at the rail scouring the crowd trying to spot his family or Cassie. They
weren’t there.
He obtained a pass to leave the ship to phone home but no one answered. He assumed they must
be on their way. He phoned Cassie. “Hello,” she answered.
“Cassie! Hi, it’s Chris. I didn’t expect you to answer the phone. Haven’t my folks picked you up
yet?”
“Oh, Chris,” she hesitated and continued. “It’s good to hear your voice. But, no, I couldn’t make
the trip. My dad’s not well and I have to take him to the doctor.”
He thought it odd she would be taking her father to the doctor rather than her mom, but accepted
her explanation anyway.
“I hope it’s nothing serious.”
“We all hope so too.”
“Well it doesn’t matter, because I have a pass for the weekend and will see you when I get
home.”
“Uh, you’re coming home?” she asked.
“Yes I am. Is something wrong?”
“Uh, no. It’s just that I have plans for Sunday night, that’s all.” Plans? he thought. She knew he
was arriving that weekend. His belly began to boil.
“What plans?”
“Uh, someone asked me to go see Buddy Hackett at the Westbury Music Fair on Sunday night.”
“Someone asked you? Who’s that someone?” he said raising his tone. “Uh, a friend. Do you want
me to cancel?” she asked sounding disappointed.
He felt the fabric of their love affair begin to unravel. Hoping to salvage things he thought she
would think more of him if he acted noble.
With sadness in his voice he said, “No, no, I suppose it’s okay. I have to return here Sunday
night anyway and since you already made the commitment I won’t stop you.”
“Uh, okay. I’ll see you when you get home then.”
“Yeah. I am so looking forward to holding you in my arms. I love you.”
“... I love you too.”
He hung up the phone shocked and anguished. How and why would she do this? She knew he
was returning! It would be a harbinger of things to come and none were good.
****
There were two weeks left to his training cruise. He spent the workweeks in Rhode Island and
traveled home on weekends with his friend Matt, who, coincidentally, was on his training cruise on
board a destroyer, also based in Quonset Point. Ironically, the ROTC battalion at Villanova had
several scholarship openings and issued one to Matt. Chris knew Matt’s family wasn’t as well off
financially as his and was genuinely happy to learn his friend received the scholarship. But, he was
far more upset to think that having better grades and test scores than Matt it may have been offered to
him had he gone to Villanova. His plans would then been unchanged and he and Cassie would not
have to contend with the anxiety of separation, which now haunted him. Matt receiving the
scholarship was a cruel twist of fate for Chris.
When his training cruise ended, he wanted to make up for all the time he and Cassie were apart.
He spent as much of the remaining summer as he could with her until he had to return to school. Their
time together was fulfilling emotionally and sexually until one unusual night.
While at her house and cuddled on her couch the doorbell rang. He answered it. Standing on the
porch was a young man who could have been Chris’s twin. He stood about the same height of five
feet eleven, had black hair, brown eyes, Roman nose, full lips, rounded chin and was about one
hundred sixty pounds with Chris’s physique less twenty pounds. He only lacked his Carey Grant
dimple and the small beauty mark on his upper right jaw.
“Is Cassie here?”
“Yes. Who are you?” Chris asked lowering his eyelids.
The gentleman caller was just as surprised to find Chris there, as Chris was to see him.
Fidgeting, he said, “I’m a friend of hers.”
“The same friend who took her to see Buddy Hackett?”
“Uh, yeah that’s right.”
Chris’s brain went numb. He could have said, “Get fucking lost,” but he didn’t.
“Yeah, she’s here, come in.”
He slowly swung open the screen door to grant access to the surprise visitor. Chris followed
behind him as he walked into the living room, stopped and stood by the coffee table in front of the
couch where Cassie was sitting with Chris before the intrusion. Chris continued walking to the couch
brushing his shoulder against the young man like a lion warning a contender to stay away from his
pride. Chris sat next to Cassie, put his arm around her and glared at him. Cassie and the interloper
shared furtive glances, awkward greetings and pleasantries.
Chris mortified sat silently. A minute of palpable silence passed as the nervous visitor fumbled
for a hasty exit and left. During their two-year relationship he and Cassie never argued and although
he was deeply upset and angered over what transpired he didn’t want to compound the situation by
being critical. Within a week of his return, Cassie succeeded turning him from a virile self-assured
individual into a milquetoast schlub.
A week later and one week before he was to return to college, the first float in his failure parade
appeared. Chris and Cassie attended one of her neighbor’s backyard barbecues. She was edgy
throughout the affair and became prickly with him when she went to sit and felt his hand beneath her.
For her to react as she did was unsettling to him as it was she who initiated the sexual aspect of their
relationship. It was evidence of something more profound.
When the party ended and he walked her home, she stopped in the street at her front yard and
turned to him.
“Chris, we need to talk.”
“Let’s go inside and we can talk there.”
“No. We should talk here.”
“What? What is it that you can’t wait to discuss inside?”
“I think we have to break up.”
His heart fluttered and his body wilted as the blood stopped flowing through his veins. He
leaned against her father’s car placing his hands upon it to steady himself. This was his worst fear
coming to fruition.
“What? How can you say that? Don’t tell me you don’t love me anymore because except for that
incident three weeks ago you certainly haven’t acted like you don’t love me.”
“Yes, I think I still love you, but I need time to think. I know you were hurt the weekend you
came home, and I don’t want to continue to hurt you. You being away so long and often has been hard
on me too. This hasn’t been an easy decision for me to make, but it’s one I think is best for the both of
us.”
“You don’t want to hurt me? What do you think you’re doing now? Cassie, please don’t do this. I
am sure we can work it out. I love you and I know you love me! Together we can solve this. I know
we’re young and talked of marriage and that day seems so far away, but time will pass quickly.
Everything I am doing and have done is for the two of us.”
“I’m sorry but this is how it has to be.”
“Are you leaving me for that dick who showed up at your house that night?”
“Uh, no, but I have to find out if I truly love you.”
He begged, he pleaded, he cried but she would not relent. With their conversation concluded, his
summer and love affair had come to a disastrous end.
The black and white realities of his life quickly turned to white noise. He lacked the antidote to
deal with his heartbreak. His plan for their future vaporized. With his plans shattered his motivation
and ambition withered like unpicked fruit on the vine.
He returned to college humiliated, hollow and abandoned, and to comments such as, “I told you
hometown honeys don’t work.” When he lost Cassie, he lost his North Star. To numb his sadness he
consumed alcohol more frequently and in greater quantities. His views on the war changed and along
with it his commitment to the ROTC program faltered. His schoolwork suffered and his confidence
with women went the way of the dinosaur. Mired in a vortex of sadness, he was incapable of
establishing any romantic relationship with women fostering a crescendo of despair to further swell
within him.
He turned to a vast menu of illicit drugs ranging from barbiturates to psychotropics. His letters
home to his friend Rick became increasingly despondent. He resigned from the ROTC program and
wallowed in an ocean of self-pity inducing a paralysis of his will to move on.
A reversal of fortune seemed apparent, though, when his roommate Barry began dating Carol, a
student at Columbia College. She introduced Chris to her dorm mate, Shelly. She was a fun-loving
girl, vibrant and sexually aggressive, which relieved the tension often pervading his one-dimensional
encounters with women. He enjoyed Shelly’s company, she laughed at his jokes, possessed a sense of
humor herself and had a hearty sexual appetite that his hometown friends Rick and Linda witnessed.
Rick and his high school sweetheart Linda were moving to Los Angeles. Driving cross-country,
they stopped in Kentucky to elope and detoured to Missouri to visit Chris. They arrived at his
apartment on their wedding night and, since his other roommate was home in St. Louis, Chris invited
them to spend the first night of their honeymoon with him. He would sleep on the couch in the living
room. Carol and Shelly dropped in unexpectedly and decided they would spend the night too. Before
it was over Carol and Shelly were running and giggling half naked around the off-campus apartment.
Unable to explain their behavior Chris repeatedly shrugged his shoulders at Rick and Linda intimating
his own surprise at the girls’ antics. The scene they created was an aberration, and far from typical of
his nights at college, but managed to become a memorable night for all. The sweet recollections of the
evening quickly evolved into a bitter memory when Chris decided to write a letter to his friend Matt.
Several days later Chris spent an afternoon with Shelly and when he drove her to her home, he
asked her to do him a favor and drop the letter in her dormitory mailbox. In it, he described the
evening’s frivolity in explicit detail. Rather than mail it as he requested, Shelly roguishly opened and
read it. Later in the evening, there was a knock on his apartment door. Chris answered it only to find a
pile of envelopes bearing his name. He opened and read them.
You are a male chauvinist pig! Where do you find the nerve to look at yourself in the mirror?
The letter was unsigned.
What manner of man would do such a thing? Let me answer for you, not a man at all but a
wretched human being! This one was signed “Anonymous.”
Burn in hell, you bastard!
Shelly deserves much better than a worm like you.
He became increasingly upset with each letter. Their criticisms and insults were tremors further
loosening the man’s mortar. He was injured and furious. Once again, a woman had violated his trust,
in addition to violating federal law.
This would be but another float in his parade of failures and a fatal blow to his already fragile
psyche causing him to again retreat into despair. Soon after, he simply surrendered; stopped attending
classes altogether and flunked out of school. He packed his belongings into his car and hit the long
gray highway back home, knowing how to get there but uncertain about the route his life would take.
At home, Chris could not look his parents in the eye. He could only find jobs in local factories
and by the end of each weekend would have a few dollars left in his pocket from the meager salary
earned at those menial jobs. His money went up in numbing smoke, numbing pills and numbing liquid.
His life was a blur. His best friends were moving on with their lives and he was a park statue. He
surrounded himself with new friends and nihilistic acquaintances bobbing along with the tide as well.
The parade of failures however was nearly at an end. One last float in the parade would compel him
to seek a change.
It all began one evening in Screwy Lewy’s when he told Hank and Tom, two of his partying pals,
of the marijuana fields he knew of in Missouri. This conversation turned to planning a road trip. They
intended to gather as much free reefer as possible and bring it back to Long Island for personal
consumption and sale. They loaded up Chris’s car and together with his Doberman, Aries, headed
down I-80, making a brief stop in Pittsburgh, to visit their friend Steve attending the university there.
Their journey continued the following morning and ended later in the day when they reached the
Missouri campus. After renting a motel room, and locking Aries inside, Chris took them to the campus
where he ran into several of his old college classmates. One they met was Susie. Susie was a stunner
with long flaxen hair, aqua blue eyes and bore a strong resemblance to Tuesday Weld, one of Chris’s
childhood infatuations. Chris was attracted to Susie at their first meeting, but his fear of rejection
prevented him from making any advances. Much to his surprise, while they were catching up over
coffee in the Commons, and in the presence of Hank and Tom, Susie made a confession.
“You know, Chris, I was really sad when you told me you were leaving school.”
He could not imagine why and asked the logical question.
“Really, why?”
“Because, from the moment we met I had a massive crush on you. Couldn’t you tell?”
Chris gulped down his coffee together with his surprise.
“No, I couldn’t. I mean, I never noticed. Why would you not tell me then?” he asked, still reeling
from her belated admission.
“Well, I was too shy to come right out and say it, but I tried to show you by meeting you here
everyday.”
“Susie, honestly if I had only known, or picked up on your signal, things might be quite different
than they are now. I thought you only wanted to be friends.”
She reached across the table placing her hand on his. “At first I did,” she said, and while gently
sliding her foot along the inside of his calf added, “but it only took a heartbeat for want to change to
desire.”
Chris stammered at her sudden display of sensuality. She was never this brazen. In the past, they
would talk about class, about current events, about their pasts and other less trivial matters but never
about pairing up. Chris quickly glanced at his traveling companions. They sat staring at her with their
mouths agape. Chris and Sue continued their conversation until she would have to leave for class. She
stood up and he did as well. They hugged and she kissed him on the cheek.
“Good to see you again, Chris. Take care of yourself. Nice to meet you fellows,” and off she
went.
The three stared at her firm bottom as she walked away. Hank said, “Man you must be fucking
crazy for leaving a school with foxes like her on campus.”
“You heard her. She never let me know how she felt.”
“So what! All you had to do was ask and that prime real estate was yours for the taking.”
Neither Tom nor Hank ever kept company with a woman. They were never in love. They could
never understand what it was like to have one’s heart ripped from one’s chest and how the vacuum
created by a lost love could suck the life from someone obscuring their judgment. He didn’t want to
take the time to explain it to them, as it would only rekindle a painful memory and offered, “Susie is a
drama student. I am sure she was just rehearsing.” Standing to leave, he fidgeted with his pants to
disguise the excitement she imparted on him.
****
The next day they proceeded to the interior farmlands and drove around looking for patches of
marijuana plants within easy access of the road. They found a concentration of them growing between
a cornfield and a solitary country road. At nightfall, the trio of harvesters returned to the cornfield. To
avoid suspicion, Chris dropped his partners off with several trash bags. He returned for them two
hours later to find they picked enough marijuana to fill the footlocker he had in the trunk. They went
back to the motel and struggled to smoke some of the damp illicit cargo to ascertain its quality. It was
good.
In the morning they hit the road home stopping again in Pittsburgh long enough to sell one pound
of the weed. The sale financed the trip and defrayed the cost of tickets for the Blood Sweat and Tears
concert they would all later attend. Their good fortune was soon tested because, after the concert, they
returned to the dormitory to find Chris’s car missing. The police towed it away with the footlocker
still in the trunk. They were forced to use the remainder of the proceeds of their first sale to bail out
the car from the impound lot. Rather than press their luck, they got back on the interstate and headed to
New York.
Since each still lived with their parents neither of them could store nor dry the weed in their
homes. Tom and Hank had a friend Mike, who lived alone, and suggested they ask him if they could
store and dry the grass at his house. Chris had never met Mike before. When he saw the artwork to
King Crimson’s “In the Court of the Crimson King” in day glow paint on his living room wall he
knew immediately Mike was deeply committed to the drug culture. He agreed to their request without
hesitating. They spread their cargo atop plastic bags in his attic to cure. Once again, misfortune
bestowed its dour countenance upon Chris.
An acquaintance of theirs, Sal the “Weasel,” a known heroin addict, frequent visitor of Mike’s,
police informant and someone Chris despised learned of their arrangement. The next day the local
paper’s afternoon edition had a photo of Mike in handcuffs exiting the front door of his home with
three officers in the background each carrying a contractor’s bag containing the forty-three pounds of
marijuana. The trio of foiled dealers knew they were responsible for his arrest and wanted to make
amends. Together they pooled their few resources to hire an attorney to represent him. Chris having
no savings had to sell his only possessions, which were his car and record collection. It could have
gone worse for the three smugglers had Mike given them up to the police, but he was steadfast, and
took it on the chin receiving three years probation. This was the final float in his failure parade.
His aborted enterprise as a pot-picking dealer occurred slightly over a year after leaving
college. Since he resigned from ROTC after completing the first semester of his junior year
contractually, he was indentured to the Navy. They came to collect the debt owed. The postman
delivered a registered envelope containing Chris’s orders. Now opposing the war, he refused to sign
the receipt and the envelope with its contents returned to the sender. Chris was clueless and absent a
plan of what he would do should they come to arrest him. He liked living in the states and essentially
proud of his country so Canada was out of the question. Like a boxer who received one to many
blows to the head, he was nearly catatonic from the neck up. Unless he came to his senses, he would
stumble through time, as the boxer stumbled about the ring.
Dismay bred anger and it swelled up inside him like lava. He was Mt. Etna waiting to erupt.
One hot summer evening while hanging out at Screwy Lewy’s it spewed out violently.
A stranger had come in for a drink. Inexplicably, Chris’s friend John began to taunt the man who
immediately left the bar. John followed him continuing to goad him. The confrontation led to blows
with John getting the better of the exchange.
Chris empathized for the stranger knowing John had no cause to accost the man.
“Come on John, leave the guy alone. He didn’t do anything to you. The poor guy just came in for
a drink. Why are you doing this?”
John turned on him telling him to, “Stay out of it!”
“No I am not going to stay out of it. Leave the guy alone, please!”
“This is none of your business!”
“Fuck you! I am making it my business! He’s done nothing!”
“I’m not going to tell you again. Stay out of this!”
Chris could not and would not. He grabbed John to separate him from the man he was assaulting.
They pulled and tugged at each other. Chris’s wrestling coach would have been proud to see him
maneuver into position and get a firm grasp of John’s upper torso. He quickly repositioned his legs,
thrust and turned his hip into John and executed a perfect hip toss slamming the larger man to the
ground. With John now on the ground Chris pummeled John’s face, compressing his head with his
fists slamming it to the rough macadam surface. He punched and kicked John repeatedly. If his vicious
assault were to continue, he would kill him. His rage was irrepressible, but he regained his senses
when he hesitated, for just a moment to look down at John and the carnage he wrought upon him. He
could not understand why he vented his fury on someone he considered a friend. Ceasing his brutal
onslaught, he turned and leaned slamming his back against the dated shingled wall, slunk down,
propped his arms on his knees, lowered his head in shame and wept uncontrollably.
Their friends from the bar witnessing the scene were shocked and angered with Chris, but mostly
befuddled by his pitiable display. John slowly rose to his feet and stood before Chris watching him as
he continued to weep. He helped him to his feet. Chris dropped his arms to his side offering no
defense for John’s reprisal.
“Go ahead hit me,” he said.
John didn’t accept his invitation. He simply put a hand on Chris’s shoulder. Overcome by John’s
compassion Chris reached out and hugged him.
Still weeping he said, “John, I am so sorry for losing my cool like that. I don’t know what came
over me. I just feel so fucking frustrated. All the drinking and drugs is becoming too much for me. I
am so damned tired of feeling lost and going nowhere. I have to get the hell out of this whole damned
scene, before I kill someone or myself.”
John simply patted Chris on the shoulder as they separated.
Chris turned to the stranger who was nursing a bloody lip and said, “I think it would be best if
you got out of here too.”
He thanked Chris for his help and left.
Submitting his fate to the Navy was his only logical escape plan. The next day he drove to the
Naval Recruitment Station to ask their help tracking down his orders, which is how he came to find
himself sitting besides the chain-smoking chief petty officer replaying the sequence of events that led
him there.
II
IN TRANSIT
THE CHARTER PLANE LANDED IN NOME for refueling and before continuing on its next leg to
Yakusaka, Japan, the passengers had a chance to stretch their legs in the terminal. He walked about
and stood in front of the stuffed polar bear on display taking pity on the magnificent beast. His mood
was as devoid of spirit as the animal was of life. The brief respite did little to soothe his aching butt
or ease his growing anxiety. When they re-boarded, he settled back into the torturous seat, and once
they were airborne, lit a cigarette, and continued to replay the events of the past month.
The night before he was to report for active duty Hank and Tom gave Chris a sendoff which
consisted of a case of beer and a bonfire on the town beach. Lacking any loose timbers on the beach,
they used and burned one of the lifeguard stands.
As the sun began to make its appearance Chris dropped his friends off and returned home to find
his father ready to drive him to the Brooklyn Navy Yard. Chris said goodbye to his mom and plopped
his drunken carcass into the rear seat of his father’s car. Chris barely said two words to his father on
the drive in, nor did he pay attention to anything he had to say. He just wanted to sleep. After a
brusque handshake and simple goodbye, Chris entered into his new world.
The robotic yeoman at the Brooklyn Navy Yard processed his orders, assembled his personnel
file then instructed Chris to report to sickbay for medical clearance. After his physical, he reported to
the supply room and given his uniforms. He received one dress blue and one dress white uniform, his
seaman first class stripes, a Dixie cup cover, a working cap, two pair of working denim bellbottoms,
two pair of working denim shirts, a pair of shoes, a nylon web belt, a brass belt buckle, a pea coat, a
black scarf tie and a duffel bag. The assembly line processing had one last step as he reported to the
Quartermaster for testing and evaluation. After the exams, he reported to the Petty Officer in charge of
his assigned barracks to await further orders. Those orders ultimately came. He was to stand the early
morning “Cinderella watch” at the main entrance to the barracks.
Chris’s hangover from his farewell party on the beach with Tom and Hank subsided by
dinnertime. He had to prepare his uniform to stand the midnight watch. He purchased a sewing kit at
the supply depot to sew on his rating insignia and hem his white bellbottoms. He sat plying needle
and thread remorseful about the meteoric decline his life had taken. In a year and one half he went
from possibly becoming an ensign in the U.S. Navy with all the privileges afforded a naval officer to
a Seaman 3rd class with little or no privileges at all. When he severed his relationship with ROTC,
he also erased much of what he learned as a midshipman. He even forgot the various insignias and
associated ranks. He struggled to recall those ranking insignias rather than ask someone and look
foolish. Once he finished, he sat in the lounge and passed the time watching television until he had to
relieve the watch.
As he stood guard in the glaring entranceway, he realized the lighting amplified his slovenly
appearance. He didn’t have creases in his blouse and pants, he didn’t have his shoes spit shined, his
belt buckle was unpolished, and his insignia not sewn on his sleeve properly. He hoped no officers
would pass through those doors during his watch and relieved none had by the time he was relieved.
The rest of the week consisted of cleaning the living spaces and hallways, standing a watch at
the Admiral’s Barge, mooring details in Newark and further testing. He traveled home to spend one
final weekend with his family. His orders finally arrived at the end of the week. He was given ten
days transit time to report to Travis AF Base in San Francisco where he was to board a military
transport which would bring him to his final destination. He spent his last night in the enlisted man’s
club quelling his nervousness about the next leg of his journey by imbibing a quantity of tequila
sunrises.
His orders provided an ideal opportunity for him to travel to Los Angeles and spend time with
Ricky and Linda before leaving the states. At the time of his visit Ricky’s mom, dad, and younger
sisters were visiting as well. It was pandemonium in Rick’s two-bedroom apartment as it used to be
at Ricky’s parents home with six kids running amok. Chris traveled with them to Tijuana where
Rick’s mom had her pocketbook stolen within the first thirty minutes of their arrival. Rick’s family
returned to New York two days after Chris arrived and afforded them some quality time to spend
together before Chris had to leave to war.
He lounged poolside at Rick’s apartment complex, went to see Woody Allen’s movie “Play It
Again Sam,” got tanked at Busch Gardens on the free beer and one night tried unsuccessfully to
hitchhike from Van Nuys to Anaheim to visit Disneyland, yet the alternative was far more enjoyable.
Two young blue-eyed Californians of the surfer clan with sandy blond hair wearing white tee
shirts with color images of waves and surfers screen-printed on the back picked Chris up at the
entrance ramp to the freeway. That ride resulted in what would be one of Chris’s most unforgettable
nights of his life. They explained that Anaheim was sixty miles away from Van Nuys and a trek to get
to, however they would take him as far as they were going. Chris discouraged about the prospect of
not getting to Disneyland quickly altered his itinerary.
Chris recalled having heard a promotional broadcast regarding a concert on the radio earlier that
day.
“I heard there is a concert tonight at the Hollywood Bowl.”
“We know that’s where we’re going,” answered the passenger.
“Cool, then I’ll get out there with you and try to ‘kink’ it.”
“Kink it?”
“It’s an expression we use back home to crash an event. I guess you don’t say it here.”
“No, we don’t. So where are you from?” asked the passenger. The question would become
commonplace to Chris in the coming weeks.
“New York, ” he responded omitting the more obscure Long Island portion of the response.
“Yeah, what part?”
“Long Island. Are you familiar with it?”
“Yeah, I have some relatives who live in a place called Brookhaven, I think.”
“Okay, I’m about a thirty minute drive from there.”
“If you ask most people who live here they probably have someone living in New York because
most Californians actually migrated here. By the way, my name is Curt,” reaching back to shake
Chris’s hand. “Our chauffeur here is Lance.”
“Glad to meet you guys. My name is Chris. Chris Columbo.”
“Like the explorer. So you’re out here exploring California, Chris?”
“Sort of. I have to catch my ship in the Philippines. I was given ten days travel time so, I thought
I would take advantage of it and visit my friends from home, who moved here.”
“You see, what did I tell you, about most people migrating here! Are you going to Vietnam?”
“I don’t know. The fellows at the recruiting station told me the ship was coming back from Nam.
What about you two, were you born here?” Changing the subject, which became more distressing the
closer it came for his departure.
“We’re both born and bred here.”
They continued to chat throughout the ride and paused at times to listen to music played on the
radio. Lance parked the car and the three began the walk up the hill to the concert.
“Thanks a lot for the ride guys.”
“Not a problem,” said Lance as he turned to talk aside with Curt while reaching into the breast
pocket of his shirt. Chris’s story and situation would foster an act of generosity on the part of his
benefactors. After Curt nodded to Lance, he turned and extended his hand to Chris.
“Here this is for you.”
Chris took the ticket and read it. The concert would feature Fluorescent Leach and Eddie,
Loggins and Messina, and the Allman Brothers Band.
“Holy shit! I know guys back home who would sell their mothers to Moroccan slave traders for
this ticket!”
His exuberance waned when he saw the forty-dollar price tag. He reached in his pocket and
leafed through the few bills he had left.
“I’m sorry but I can’t afford this,” handing the ticket back to Lance. Lance and Curt waved their
hands refusing the ticket.
Curt said, “That’s not necessary Chris. We talked it over and decided we want you to have it.”
Their kindness and generosity overwhelmed him. First a ride and now a free pass to a concert.
Amongst his circle of friends charity of this sort would never been offered to a stranger. They might
cover for one in their own circle short of cash, but expect repayment at some future date. Their menial
jobs only provided enough sustenance for beer, pills, weed, an occasional movie and gas money.
“I don’t know what to say. You two have just become my new best friends,” as he high-fived
each of them.
The gifts kept coming! They shared their wine and pot with him as the music of Fluorescent
Leech and Eddie, Loggins and Messina and the Allman Brothers Band spilled into the warm
eucalyptus scented California night. Lance and Curt gave Chris an unrivaled farewell-parting gift,
which made his last case of beer on the beach with Tom and Hank a slumber party in comparison.
They treated him to a mystical night replete with great music, great wine, great reefer and great amity.
As an encore, they drove him back to the exact spot they found him.
The next morning Rick dropped him off at the Greyhound bus station where he caught a bus to
San Francisco, then a taxi to Travis Air Force Base. There he checked in at the military transport
terminal and boarded the chartered flight now on its second leg.
The flight refueled in Yakusaka, Japan. The final leg to Clark Air Force base would take six
hours. It was dusk when the plane landed at Clark. Chris stood with blood shot eyes.
“Motherfucker! My butt is blistered!” he exclaimed while he massaged his rear.
As he exited the plane, the blast of tropical air struck him sending his sweat glands into
overdrive. His face perspired profusely and shadows of sweat formed on the front and back of his
shirt. The Chief Petty Officer on the tarmac greeted the passengers barking orders to form up for roll
call and billet assignments.
“There are no quarters available on the base so you men will be billeted at a local motel for the
night. A bus will pick you up outside the motel tomorrow morning at 0900 hours.”
Chris found his duffel bag among the others piled outside the cargo hold of the plane and
climbed onto the bus destined for the motel. On the way to the motel, the CPO announced the room
assignments. Chris and the rest were to give their name to the desk clerk and obtain their room key.
Chris entered his room, plopped down on a bed and stared at the stained ceiling. When his
bunkmate entered, they made their introductions and chatted briefly about where each was from and
going. Chris decided to shower and wash off the long trip. He climbed into the tub and reached for the
shower knob.
He let out a startled, “Oh Shit!” as the large green lizard bolted from its perch on the knob. The
gecko scurried off more fearful of Chris than he of it. He shouted, “There was a friggin’ lizard in here
taking a shower!”
After his shower, he desperately needed to sleep, but could not. Not only was he wound up from
the trip but there was also a constant knock on the door. Throughout the evening they heard, “Hey Joe
I got girl for you, twenty dollar.” About the fifth time, Chris reached into his pants pocket to find he
had ten dollars left from his week in LA. He thought perhaps he could expend some energy getting
laid. Accepting the pimp’s offer would also stop the incessant knocking. With only ten dollars to his
name, he would have to negotiate the price down.
Chris opened the door and the pimp entered with a young girl no more than fifteen years of age in
tow. She sat down on Chris's empty bed and smiled timidly at him revealing a bandolier of goldcapped teeth.
“Twenty dollar for all night fuckie-fuckie,” said her manager.
“I’ll give you five dollars for a fuckie,” eliciting a chuckle from his roommate.
“No, twenty dollar!”
Chris turned to the merchandise and looked her over. By Filipino standards, she was cute. Her
breasts were small mounds jutting straight out. He reached to feel one and it felt hard. He tapped on it
with his knuckle. It made a knock-knock sound as though he were tapping a coconut shell.
“I tell you what I’ll give you five dollars and this pair of sandals for fuckie-fuckie.”
The pimp replied, “No deal,” grabbed his wares by the wrist, and left the room.
“At least maybe now we can get some sleep.”
He eventually fell into a dreamless sleep awakened by a loud rap on the door. A voice
bellowed, “Rise and shine sleeping beauties. Chow is being served in the restaurant.”
Chris reluctantly stirred from his comatose sleep. “Not bad. Wake-up calls and restaurant styled
breakfasts. This tour may turn out ok after all.”
The personnel billeted in the motel slowly streamed into the restaurant. Chris feasted on a buffet
breakfast of omelets, pancakes, cereals, breakfast meats, juices, toast and coffee. Nearing the end of
the meal the CPO stood in the middle of the dining room.
“All hands are to gather their gear and muster out front at 0830 hours.” Chris would have to
adapt to military time. After breakfast, Chris got his sea bag and reported to the motel parking lot.
“Fall in!” shouted the CPO.
Chris had been the Executive Officer of the ROTC drill team, which finished in 2nd place at the
regional competition in Champagne, Illinois. He had no problem complying with the order. He fell
into rank and sharply dressed right. The CPO called the roll and when finished they boarded the
battleship gray bus to Subic Bay.
Shortly after leaving, the CPO ordered the driver to stop at a roadside ramshackle Filipino style
7-11. It was a small wooden structure with a rusted tin roof tilted back to front. There was one
window in the front and a screened door with gaping tears in it. The CPO announced the drive to
Subic Bay would take about three hours and this was the one and only refreshment stop. Anyone who
cared to imbibe was welcome to chip in. Chris wasn’t going to miss this party and handed the CPO
five dollars. He took the money he collected and two Sailors with him into the shack.
While waiting, Chris surveyed the area. He was in a scene of a William Holden movie. They
were on a dirt road that rose above two ditches on each side of the road perfuming the air with what
he called “eau de sewage.” Extending past the ditches were rows upon rows of pineapple plants.
Interspersed amongst them were Filipinos tending to the plants dressed in black slacks, shirts, and
sandals, with kerchiefs around their necks and wearing straw conical hats. In the distance through a
faint haze, he could see a rust colored mountain range majestically rise from the horizon on each side
of the valley. Several Filipino men were sitting in front of the convenience store chatting. One was
wielding a machete and occasionally struck a stump in front of him, which also served as a small
table. They looked up at the bus chatting in Philippine and periodically laughed. Lord only knows
what they might have been saying and what jokes they might have been telling about the occupants in
the bus.
The CPO exited the store along with the two Sailors each carrying two cases of San Miguel
beer. They brought the beer to the back of the bus and those that contributed money descended on it
like a school of piranha. Chris yanked out his six-pack and cracked one open. Surprisingly, the beer
was cold and tasty.
About midway through the trip the bus pulled over and the CPO announced in a drunken tone
“Piss Call.” Everyone scampered off the bus, lined up on the side of the road, and like a row of
fountains urinated into the ditch. Chris was at the end of the line and while relieving himself heard
something and turned his head to see a massive water buffalo sauntering towards him. By now, he had
a good buzz on, marveling at the creature’s size and apparent docility.
“Do you want some of this?” twisting his lower torso to hose down the approaching beast. The
beast skipped away making a brisk retreat. “Wow, that’s something you won’t see on the LI
Expressway,” he joked.
The hilly terrain flattened as they approached the coast. The bus then coursed through the busy
main street of Olongapo to the main gate. When they reached the gate, the CPO handed the Marine
guard the manifest of passengers. Their transport shuttered past the raised gate with each shift of the
transmission. Chris surveyed the base from his seat marveling at its size. Through the front window in
the distance, he could see a number of warships, tankers, tenders and dry dock vessels either berthed
or tied three abreast to the main pier. To the left he saw several other ships moored. Chris wondered
which of those vessels was his. A large open area with baseball fields was to the right. Clustered
about the base were a number of buildings one to two stories high and dozens of Quonset huts side by
side.
The bus finally came to a stop alongside the Administration Building. Chris slung his duffel bag
over his shoulder, disembarked and entered the building to check in. When he finally reached the
window, he handed the yeoman his orders. After the yeoman took his copy, he checked the clipboard.
“The Lawrence arrived this morning. She is berthed at the Alava Dock. You will find a van
outside to take you to the pier.”
“How will I know which ship it is?”
“Let’s see,” as he rechecked the clipboard, “look for hull number four.”
“Hull number four, okay, thanks.”
“Next!”
Chris boarded the van and when filled the driver headed down to the pier making several stops
along the way calling out each stop. At last, he heard the driver call out the Alava Pier. Slinging the
bag over his shoulder, he took a deep breath and as he exited the van gazed in awe at the sight of the
battleship gray warships tied alongside the pier. Their superstructures with radar arrays, smoke
stacks and antennas formed a steel skyline. At every turn of his head, he witnessed a flurry of activity.
Metal grinders were sending sparks everywhere. Bearded Sailors in their denim blues were carrying
soft goods from palettes on the pier. Sailors were sitting on scaffolds hanging over the sides of the
vessels painting the hulls while others were polishing brass works or chipping paint.
As he approached the edge of the pier he could see the numbers 148 painted on the bow, which
he discovered was the heavy cruiser USS Newport News (CA 148). She was a massive and
impressive ship about two football fields long and her mast rose some three hundred feet. The
gangway was at the stern of the ship, which he slowly crossed where he encountered an ensign
carrying a sidearm, a petty officer third class and seaman recruit all in dress whites. He saluted the
flag at the stern, then the ensign and asked the requisite, “Permission to come on board,” which was
granted. He explained he was looking for the USS Lawrence (DDG-4) and the ensign told him the
Lawrence was the third vessel breasted to the pier. He responded with a salute and a “Thank you,
sir” and proceeded to cross over to the USS Cochrane (DDG-21) where he repeated the boarding
ritual and crossed to the USS Lawrence.
III
Permission to Come Aboard, Sir
REQUEST PERMISSION TO COME ABOARD, SIR,” Chris said snapping the proper salute.
The young ensign returned the salute. “Permission granted.”
As Chris boarded the vessel he handed the ensign a copy of his orders and said, “Seaman 3rd
class Christopher Columbo reporting for duty, sir.” He could see the PO 3rd class and seaman recruit
on watch with the ensign look at each other and grin as if to say “we got a green one coming aboard.”
Their time at sea had earned them the right and privilege to look down upon replacements even if the
replacement may have outranked them.
The ensign said, “Ok your papers appear to be in order. Welcome aboard, Mr. Columbo. Mr.
Farleigh, escort Mr. Columbo to personnel so he can get settled in.”
Seaman Farleigh replied, “Yes, sir,” then to Chris, “follow me.”
They walked towards the bow of the ship down its port side which walkway was wide enough
for one and one half person to pass so Chris had to twist his body to avoid banging shoulders with
those coming from the opposite direction. The deck had a path of black non-skid paint running down
its center causing it to stand out from the battleship gray deck and bulkheads. There was protective
railing with three rows of stainless steel cable running the length of the ship.
As they walked forward Farleigh asked, “Where ya from?”
That was a standard question he was and had asked repeatedly of everyone he had met during his
travel. Farleigh’s distinct accent had already clued Chris as to his New York roots, but he
nonetheless responded, “Long Island. And you?”
“Brooklyn,” he said. Farleigh was around five foot three and exuded a Brooklynese cockiness
that seemed to add another ten inches to his short stature. At first meeting, he seemed likeable.
They turned into an oval shaped hatch that Chris had to step up and over while slightly ducking
his head. They passed through a small area termed the “light locker” in which the bulkheads were
painted black. Alternating black canvas curtains were securely tied on each side of the passageway.
The ship’s interior passageway had black and white linoleum tile on the deck, which absorbed the
sound of his footsteps. The bulkheads were white, with pipes and cable neatly strung up along the
overhead like guitar strings. The passageway was about four feet wide and two passageways
terminated into it. One ran along the port side and the other the starboard side. There was a door to
the left leading to the bridge and the Combat Information Center (CIC). They crossed over to the
starboard passageway and headed aft.
They came to a corner office with a half window and when they stopped, Farleigh said, “Hi ya,
Charlie, we got some fresh blood coming on board here.” He turned to Chris and said, “See ya
around.”
“Yeah, see you, thanks.” Farleigh strolled back aft to the quarterdeck. Chris watched Farleigh
punch an oncoming shipmate on the arm.
He handed his orders to Yeoman Heinz. Every enlisted man had their names neatly stenciled
over their left breast pocket so you always knew the name of the individual you were addressing. The
yeoman took the orders, turned toward the typewriter, made a carbon paper triple-decker sandwich
and inserted it into the typewriter. He fiddled with the roll and return lever and once properly lined
up asked, “Last name?”
“Columbo.”
“Spell it please.”
“C-o-l-u-m-b-o”
The yeoman typed each letter slower than Chris spelled it. “First name?”
“Christopher.” This time he didn’t have to spell it.
“Middle name?”
“None.”
“N-M-N.”
“No, my middle name is not ‘Enemen.’ What kind of a name is that? I don’t have a middle
name,” he said correcting the yeoman.
“N-M-N, no middle name. Get it?”
Now Chris felt this guy must think him an idiot and regretted conveying himself as such.
“Social Security number?”
The questioning went for at least a half hour and when at last all the forms were completed, the
yeoman handed Chris his ID card, which he would need to show to the bursar on payday, and said,
“Since you have no striker rating you’ve been assigned to First Division. Go back up the passageway
you came from and go through and down the second hatch on the right side of the passageway. Report
to Boatswains Mate (BM) 1st Class Jordan.”
“Thanks a lot,” Chris said, turning to head down the hallway while slinging his bag over his
shoulder. It was about 4:30 pm, or 16:30 military time, and knock-off time for the crew. He reached
the hatch to his compartment and could hear laughter and music blaring below. Although the song
wasn’t known to him he later learned it was the Chi-Lites’s “Oh Girl,” which he eventually heard a
few thousand times during the next several weeks.
The stairwell was quite narrow and steep with steel pole handles on each side. Burdened by the
duffel bag on his shoulder he carefully navigated down the metal stairway praying he would not fall
clumsily announcing his arrival. He made it down into the berthing compartment and faced a set of
bunk beds constructed of aluminum, three levels in height with a sleeping area of two feet between
each level. A mattress lay atop a footlocker with a latch. The bottom bunk was raised and propped
open and a Sailor with a towel wrapped around his waist was leaning over digging around inside for
a change of clothing when suddenly another ran up behind him, placed his hands over each haunch and
pretended to butt fuck him. The recipient of the jest shot up and as the assailant started to run off he
snap whipped his towel at the perpetrator and with a smile on his face said in a deep southern drawl,
“Get the fuck out of here you sorry ass fudge packer.”
The corridors in the berthing compartment were approximately three feet in width so he couldn’t
help but bump into his new shipmate at the bottom of the stairwell and nervously said, “Sorry, I’m
looking for Boatswains Mate 1st Class Jordan. Can you tell me where I can find him?”
“Yeah,” he said in his gravely drawl, “his bunk is ’round the corner to the right on the port side,
middle bunk. You’re a new guy, huh?”
“Yeah,” he answered, “the name’s Chris, Chris Columbo,” and extended his hand in friendship,
which was accepted.
“Welcome aboard, Columbo. My name is Rob Brown. The guys call me Little Brown.”
He could see why as he was about five feet six inches tall but his hands were hard as rocks and
offered a firm grip. “Okay, thanks Rob, I’ll see ya later.” He then turned and startled to wobble
through the narrow corridor of the berthing space, hugging his duffel bag.
As he turned the corner he peered down to where Jordan’s bunk might be and saw a stocky wellbuilt black man talking and laughing with another Sailor who was over six feet tall and, as the
insignia on his sleeve indicated, a petty officer 3rd class. Chris approached the two and as he got
closer noticed Jordan’s well defined biceps and tattooed forearms, which had some pretty mean scars
resembling remnants of a few knife fights or bullet wounds.
“Excuse me, but are you Boatswains Mate 1st Class Jordan?”
Jordan turned his head to the right, looked at Chris, tilted his head down, and raised his eyes as
though he were going to lecture a child. His gravely voice bellowed when he spoke but rather than
speak in a drawl his speech pattern was rapid as he answered, “Yeah, I’m Jordan. Who the hell might
you be?”
“My name’s Chris Columbo. I’ve been assigned to First Division and told to come and see you
about getting settled in.”
“Well, well, well. Okay, Columbo welcome to First Division. The only rack open is right here
below mine,” he said as he stepped away from the rack of bunks to point it out. “Stow your gear, get
yourself settled in, and head on up to chow.”
The Sailor who had been speaking with Jordan addressed Chris in a Gomer Pyle tone,
“Welcome aboard, Columbo. My name’s Brown, the guys call me Big Brown.”
“I can see why. Nice to meet ya,” he said, as he reached to shake Big Brown’s extended hand
and looked up at his bearded face as he himself stood five feet ten wondering if there might be a
“Medium Brown” on board.
Chris started to unpack his gear while the music continued to rattle through the compartment. He
could hear the soul brothers on the other side of the compartment sing and clap along with the music.
While he was unpacking a few of the crew stopped by and introduced themselves. They came from all
over the States: Alabama, Virginia, Michigan, Minnesota, Maryland and so on. All were young,
ranging in age between late teens to mid-twenties.
At last he met the missing link when a young, sinewy, muscular black man with skin as glossy as
a new coat of wax on a Chevy approached his locker. He walked up to Chris and extended his hand
that had extremely long manicured nails and introduced himself.
“Hi, my name’s Eddie Brown, but the crew calls me Brown Brown. Who might you be?”
“Chris. Chris Columbo. I’m from New York,” said Chris anticipating his next question.
“Oh, yeah, cool, man. I’m from Detroit. I’m heading up for chow. Why don’t you hurry up and
unpack and come and join us for mess.”
“Sounds good. I’ll be done in a minute and see you there.”
“I guess you ain’t ever ate Navy chow. ’Cause it might sound good, but tasting good is another
matter,” he said jokingly and strolled off bouncing as he walked snapping his fingers to the music.
Chris was famished from the long bus trip and once he unpacked and locked up his gear headed
up to the mess deck. It wasn’t hard to find as it was just up the steps down through the starboard side
passageway. As he walked down the passageway, he passed the ship’s store with crewmen queued
up. There they could buy cigarettes at half the price found in the civilian world, personal sundry
items, candy bars, ship souvenirs, baseball caps with the ship’s class and numeric designation of
DDG-4 embroidered in gold, amongst other things. Chris acknowledged them by nodding to them as
he walked passed and they nodded back.
When he reached the entrance to the mess deck he heard loud chattering interspersed with
outbursts of laughter. The tables were aligned into five columns of four rows apiece affixed to the
deck. Each table could accommodate eight diners. The deck had the same black and white linoleum
tile as the passageway and the bulkheads had wooden oak paneling that offered some element of
décor. Hanging on one of the walls at the entrance to the mess deck was a plaque with a large blue
and gold raised medallion with a replica of the ship steaming along the water. Under the medallion in
capital letters was “D G U T S” and beneath them was its decrypted anagram “Don’t Give Up the
Ship,” and credit to the Captain Lawrence who coined the statement with his dying command during a
naval battle with the British in the War of 1812. Along each side of the ship’s plaque were black and
white portrait photos of the ship’s Commanding Officer, Commander, USN, James R. Boxer. His
bulldog like face implied he might have done some boxing during his life. He was a stout looking guy
with a broad neck, and in the photo he had a confident and determined visage. On the other side of the
plaque was a picture of the ship’s Executive Officer, Lieutenant Commander, USN, John J. Grimley.
There again the name seemingly depicted the face in the photo as he looked to have a grim
countenance. He was a relatively good looking man, in his late thirties or early forties, and his dark
bushy eyebrows were in stark contrast with his dress white cover and blouse.
To his right was the chow line. Crewmembers slid their trays along and picked up plates the
mess crew in the galley were dishing out. Chris got on line, grabbed a tray and utensils, and
wondered what they were having. As a young boy and teenager, Chris was always a fussy eater and
the words his father always repeated to him immediately came to mind: “You better learn to eat it and
like it because when you go into the service you won’t have any choice but to eat what they give you.”
As he moved along, he could see they were serving spaghetti with meatballs, soup, and salad.
There were dinner rolls piled in a large metal bowl with pats of butter in a side dish. He took a plate
of the spaghetti and a bowl of salad, grabbed a roll and butter and came to a station with clear plastic
glasses adjacent to a large metal dispenser with several levers. So, as not to look like a novice he
took a glass, placed it under the plastic hose, lifted the lever, and watched this yellow liquid, pour
into the waiting glass. He turned to look for a place to sit and could see Brown-Brown gesturing for
him to come join him, which he did.
Seated at the table with Brown Brown were Little Brown and several other members of First
Division some of which he met while unpacking. Chris said, “This chow looks pretty good, but what
is this?” holding up the glass of urine looking liquid.
“Bug Juice,” Little Brown answered.
Brown Brown asked, “So tell me Columbo where you from?”
There was that question again. If the Navy stenciled addresses on their shirts as well, they would
save a great deal of time. “Long Island, New York. And where are all you guys from?”
He learned Little Brown was from Macon, Georgia, Harriman was from Birmingham, Alabama,
Flynn was from West Virginia, and Diaz was from San Diego.
“Ding ding-Ding ding,” rang the shipboard bell through the PA system. “Got to go relieve the
watch,” Little Brown said as he got up with his tray and left the table.
“You are such a fucking lifer,” Diaz said to Little Brown.
“Yeah boot, I love it so,” Little Brown said as he left the table.
Harriman asked Chris, “When did you get out of boot camp, Columbo?”
It seemed nobody used first names whenever they addressed someone. Chris found it somewhat
impersonal but figured when in Rome. “Never went to boot camp.”
“Get the fuck outa here! Howz it dat you never went to boot?” Brown Brown asked
incredulously.
Chris explained how he was once an officer candidate in the Navy ROTC program and because
he left the program one semester too late he was contractually obligated to serve two years of active
service and that the Navy counted his time spent in school and summer cruise as time served in boot
camp.
“Damn that’s fucked up!” Brown Brown declared. “You coulda been eatin' in the officers’ mess
right now, instead you dining with us swabbies!"
“My choice.”
Chris tasted his spaghetti and to his surprise, it was rather good for mass-produced chow. Not
like Mom’s back home but tasty nonetheless. Twirling his fork, he noticed something unusual in his
dish. The secret ingredient first resembled a twig of dill but upon closer inspection, he realized it
wasn’t an herb at all.
“You want to know what’s fucked up! This is fucked up!” as he picked up the unusual ingredient
and held it up for all to see. It was a cockroach! The spit-take that followed was characteristic of a
Three Stooges skit except laden with profanity.
“Jesus!”
“Shit!”
“Mother Fucker.”
Their shouts of disbelief soon turned to laughter. Brown Brown seated across from Chris said,
“See, I told you bout the chow” as he reached for his dinner roll about to shove the whole roll in his
mouth.
Chris watched him and saw Brown Brown was about to ingest more than he bargained for.
Immediately he reached across the table and grabbed the roll from his hand before he could stuff it in
his gaping mouth.
“Hey what the fuck, man?”
Chris slowly turned the roll over to reveal what he had failed to see. Embedded in the bottom of
the roll was another cockroach. It looked like it had done a free fall off the Twin Towers with its legs
all spread out after striking the pavement.
“Goddamnit,” Brown Brown uttered, “the motherfuckin’ Navy will go to any length to see we
get our protein.”
The table once again burst out in laughter, but everybody recognized the situation was
intolerable. They waved the mess deck Master at Arms over to the table and asked for his recipe then
showed him the surprise ingredients they discovered. Those who had finished eating were anxious to
get up from the table and upchuck. Those who had not, lost their appetites and equally anxious to
leave. They all got up, brought their trays and silverware to the cleaning station, and headed back to
their compartment.
The ship maintained a skeleton crew during the evenings while in Subic Bay and those sections
not on duty had liberty until the following mornings muster. With C&W, R&B and Rock music blaring
on the boom boxes throughout the compartment those guys going into town were changing into civilian
clothes and gearing for a night of debauchery in Olongapo. Chris could have gone along but his five
dollars would not last long so he remained on board ship. Instead, he settled into his bunk and wrote a
letter home to his parents informing them he had arrived safely, detailing his first visit to California,
describing first trans Pacific flight, relating his first night in the Philippines and offering his first
impressions of his crew and ship.
By 20:00 hours, the compartment was quiet. Jordan passed by Chris’s bunk with Big Brown and
two seamen and headed forward to the boatswain’s locker where the ship stored lifejackets, ships
fenders, rope and other supplies.
“Hey, new guy, Columbus! Want to play some cards?”
It was a tempting offer, but having only had five dollars to his name he said, “Thanks, but I’m a
bit short on cash.”
Jordan shot back in his Satchmo-like voice, “Aint no problem, we’re playing pay stakes. You
can pay me back what you lose on payday, heh, heh, heh.”
Chris could not decipher if this was merely a nice gesture on Jordan’s part or was he baiting
him. The thought of losing his measly paycheck before receiving it made him hesitant. On the other
hand, it was a chance to fraternize and get to know some of his shipmates. He wasn’t a novice at
poker having played once a week with his friends back home and rarely lost big. “Okay, what the
hell, I’ll play!” and headed into the boatswain’s locker where they had gathered in a small circle on
the deck.
“How much you want?” Jordan asked.
“Forty dollars should do.”
“Heh, heh, heh, forty dollars will do me fine too,” smirked Jordan trying to intimidate Chris, as
he reached into his pocket pulled out a wad of bills rapped with a rubber band and handed Chris his
forty-dollar stake.
When he saw the wad of money in Jordan’s hand he thought, Now I‘ve done it, this guy’s going
to fleece me like a lamb at a wool factory.’
Big Brown finished shuffling the deck, “One dollar ante, five dollar raise limit, and seven card
stud boys. I take no prisoners gentlemen.” He had Carey cut the deck and dealt the cards to Jordan
seated to his left, then Chris, Rollie Rhodes, and Bill Carey.
As the game continued, Chris learned Big Brown was from Baton Rouge, Louisiana. He and
Jordan made the Navy a career and known as “Lifers.” Big Brown had been in for five years and reenlisted one year ago. Jordan was eleven years into his enlistment. Chris assumed Jordan must have
had his rank busted for some offense during his enlistment because in that length of time he should
have surely progressed to a higher rank. He would not pry and never asked the question figuring it
was none of his business anyway. He could only speculate about Jordan’s presumed offense. Perhaps
he busted up a CPO or other shipmate’s nose or something of that nature as he had a dangerously
ominous yet sedate presence about him. Chris assumed it would take some provocation to get Jordan
going but once started he would not stop until you were unconscious or dead.
Roland “Rollie” Rhodes was a Seaman Apprentice from Raleigh, North Carolina. He had been
in for three years and kept remarking about how he was getting shorter by the minute. Chris the
neophyte at first had no clue of what Rhodes meant, but as the evening progressed and Rhodes
continued to make comments about Lifers, he finally realized he was talking about the time left until
his discharge. Rhodes wasn’t interested in making the Navy a career.
Bill Carey was a Seaman from Framingham, Massachusetts. He was a tall fellow about six feet
one, with an Amish looking beard and frozen smile that constantly displayed glistening white teeth
through his rustic red facial hair. He was into his fourth year of enlistment and indicated he was
undecided whether he would re-up.
Chris once again explained about leaving the ROTC program and received the same reaction as
he did during dinner. They told jokes and played until taps and lights out. By the end of the card game
Chris had a bankroll of fifty-five dollars. He gave Jordan back his forty dollars and a five-dollar tip.
He opened his footlocker, placed his wallet inside, plopped the top and mattress down, undressed
and slid into his bunk for some much-needed sleep.
Jordan later climbed into his bunk and fiendishly laughed “Heh, heh, heh.”
Chris gagged. “Christ Almighty! My dog’s farts smell like perfume compared to that!” he yelled
as he rolled out of his bunk to escape the deadly stench.
Jordan’s “heh, heh, heh” turned into a roaring “HAH, HAH, HAH!”
The day’s long trip, nervousness about his new life and the methane imposed its toll upon Chris
causing him to fall into a deep but restless sleep.
A long burst of the boatswain’s pipe came over the ship’s PA system and a voice blared
“Reveille, reveille, all hands on deck. Give the deck a good clean sweep fore and aft. Breakfast is
now being served in the mess deck.” Chris rolled out his bunk and stretched. He could see some of
his shipmates were still in their civilian clothes and changing into their work denims. They spent the
night in town and had reported on board just in time for breakfast and muster. Chris changed into his
denim bellbottoms and denim work shirt, grabbed his cap and headed up to the mess decks for some
breakfast.
He hoped he would not find cockroaches doing the backstroke in his coffee or burrowed in his
scrambled eggs. He was pleased to find a nice selection to choose from for breakfast. There were
pancakes; scrambled eggs, sausage, bacon, ham, hash, toast, juice, milk, and coffee for your choosing,
and portions were unlimited as each individual could prepare their own dish from individual hot
trays. He sat with Carey, Rhodes, Diaz, Little Brown, Farleigh and a few others Chris had yet to
meet.
Carey asked those at the table if they had met Chris and introduced him to those who
acknowledged not having met him, jokingly advising them not to engage him in cards as he had fallen
victim to his prowess. Chris met Bobby Diehl who was from Pennsylvania and Brian Hill from
Maryland. Following the introductions and geography lessons, the conversation revolved about the
time Farleigh, Diehl and Hill had in Olongapo and the conditions there. According to them, it was an
anything goes liberty town, replete with bars, booze, babes, and drugs. Chris thought it sounded like
Screwey Lewy’s Bar back home on Long Island where he would party through the night and thought
the guys there would give their left testicles to vacation in Olongapo. The ship would be in port for
another five days and payday he learned would be in three days so he was guaranteed at least one
evening in town where he could experience it for himself.
They finished their breakfast and Chris followed his shipmates up to the foredeck for muster.
Jordan was waiting with a young bearded ensign named Stafford for the Division to gather. The
ensign looked to be about twenty-three years of age. He was of medium height, roughly one hundred
seventy or so pounds with reddish blond hair. His loosely trimmed beard matched his hair. His short
sleeve khaki uniform was neatly pressed and the creases in his blouse perfectly dissected his breast
pockets down to his belt line. His buckle glistened in the morning sun and his gig line was in perfect
alignment. His shoes had a glossy spit shine. He looked composed as he stood at ease with his hands
clasped behind his back waiting for the crew to form up. Jordan ordered the men to “Fall in on me!”
The crewmembers slowly gathered in six row four abreast by height tallest to shortest. Chris jumped
into one of the columns. Jordan gave the order to “Close Interval, Dress Right, Dress” and each
crewmember placed their left hand on their hips looked right and nudged up to the elbow to their right
and squared themselves in line with those on the right. When they finished aligning he barked, “Ready
Front!”
Three Sailors marched to the flagstaff located at the bow of the ship. One was carrying a folded
American flag. Jordan ordered the Division to “Right face!” They all turned on command though
without the crispness Chris had demanded of his ROTC drill. “Hand salute!” was the next order and
the crewmembers brought their flattened right hands to the brim of their caps. Soon after the Star
Spangled Banner broadcasted over the base PA system as, the colors raised. After hoisting the flag,
Jordan ordered “Ready two!” followed by “Left face” and began to call the roll. Once he finished, he
turned to the ensign and reported that all were present and accounted for.
“Very good,” the ensign replied and stepped forward to conduct his inspection of the
crewmembers. He walked slowly between the rows passing in front of each crewmember stopping
occasionally to comment on the appearance of those Sailors whose appearance he felt needed
correcting. When he came to Chris, he looked him square in the eyes then slowly up and down. His
uniform was only three weeks old and he had not performed any physical labor that might have
caused any wear and tear to his uniform. He did have a high gloss spit shine on his shoes and his belt
buckle glistened. The ensign addressed Chris and said, “Very good. Welcome aboard Mr. Columbo.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Mr. Columbo I would like you to report to my state room following muster.”
“Aye, aye, sir. Where might I find it?”
“It’s amidships, second deck, portside stairwell.”
“Very good, sir.”
When the ensign completed his inspection, he stood in front of the Division and read the Plan of
the Day from his clipboard. When he was finished, Jordan barked, “Atten hut! Hand salute.”
The ensign saluted his division, said, “Carry on, Mr. Jordan,” turned and walked away.
“At ease!” Jordan ordered.
The Division responded with greater zeal to his last order than those he issued up to that point.
He began to organize the Division into work crews and assigned each petty officer to oversee the
work details. One crew would clean the Division’s head, another was to paint the foredeck, another
was to clean the forward passageway, another sent aft to work on the fantail and the last was to go
over the side to paint the ship’s hull. Ship’s stores were to arrive at or about 14:00 hours and each
division was to select four individuals to report to the quarterdeck to help loading the supplies. Chris
was one of those selected. When Jordan finished giving out the day’s assignments he ordered the
Division to stand at attention and ultimately to fall out and carry out the Plan of the Day. Chris having
been assigned to the foredeck along with Diehl, Diaz and Farleigh followed them to the paint locker
where they would be given the tools of their trade consisting of paint chippers, hand wire brushes,
red lead primer paint and paint brushes. Chris remembered that he was to report to the Ensign
Stafford’s stateroom and told them he would meet them forward once he finished his meeting. At least
now, he knew where to find the paint locker.
Chris headed to Ensign Stafford’s stateroom having to salute each officer he encountered en
route. He knocked on the ensign’s door. “Enter.”
Chris opened the door, stepped inside and stood at attention.
“Seaman Columbo reporting as ordered, sir.”
“Very good, stand at ease seaman.”
It wasn’t until that moment and the manner in which the officer addressed him as seaman that he
correlated the name to sperm. He looked around the stateroom. It was about eight feet by ten feet with
two bunks and two desks offering little floor space. Ensign Stafford was seated at his desk with
Chris’s file open in front of him.
“I see by your record that you were once an officer candidate, Mr. Columbo.”
“That is correct, sir.”
“What happened? Why didn’t you complete the program?”
“It’s a long story, sir, but suffice it to say that certain events caused me to lose the commitment I
once had for the war effort. Some of my friends from high school who volunteered or drafted never
came home and some were seriously wounded. One is now blind from shrapnel wound to his head.
He had been in Vietnam for only seventeen days. I started to doubt the veracity of our nation’s leaders
and their conduct of the war itself.”
“Yes, war isn’t pretty and does cause heartbreak and devastation, but this is the job we have
signed on for and the job we must resolve ourselves to execute so we may protect and defend not only
our nation and way of life but more importantly, to protect and defend our comrades in arms...our
shipmates. Will you be able to execute this job, Mr. Columbo, considering your present views? Can
your shipmates count on you to perform? Can I count on you to perform?”
Chris became pensive and realized he never equated the importance his presence might have on
his shipmates. He essentially chose this option as a means to escape his dead end situation back
home. “Yes, sir, I understand what you are saying. I have no objection to help defend our nation
should we be threatened and would definitely help my crewmates whenever needed as I hope they
would for me, but...” The “but” part proved to be antagonistic in his first dialogue with his superior
officer as he continued, “...in my opinion, this war has gone on long enough without achieving its
objective. I question not only the manner in which we have conducted this war but also our motives
as well. It seems to me that the greatest number of soldiers dying here are Americans and not the
South Vietnamese, so I am suspect of whether they truly care to be a separate democratic nation. I do
not buy into the domino theory and feel that we are trying to impose our way of life on people who
simply do not want to live as we do. Their culture and heritage is far older than ours. Who are we to
say that our customs would be good for them? From the Aztecs to the American Indians history is
riddled with instances of civilizations nearly being wiped out through foreign imposition.”
The officer clearly didn’t want to debate the merits of the country’s involvement in the war.
Officers are to carry out orders and their political opinions had to be in step with those of the
Commander-In-Chief. “I did not ask you nor do I care about your views on the war Mr. Columbo,
what I want to know is can I count on you to perform your duties without question and can your
shipmates count on you when needed?”
Sensing he agitated the young officer and feeling uncomfortable about doing so he thought to
himself, Dumb ass, just answer the question. Why the fuck did you have to shoot your mouth off? He
knew the answer to extricate himself from the situation he placed himself.
“Yes, sir!”
“Very well, Mr. Columbo, we shall see. You may return to your duties,” he said, abruptly ending
their conversation.
Chris stood at attention, saluted the ensign, and once the salute was returned, turned and left the
room.
He joined his work crew on the foredeck and asked what it was he had to do. Farleigh handed
him a chisel hammer, paint scraper and wire brush and told him they were to chip away the paint
where rust spots bled through and wire brush the rust from the steel to ready the surface for an
application of red lead primer paint. They were to do this on all the stanchions of the guardrails,
gunwale, deck and davits. They weren’t to touch the gun turret because they were Weapons Division
responsibility. This wasn’t what Chris had envisioned as a career choice. Nevertheless, he figured
the mundane work would help pass the time.
They broke for lunch, of soup, sandwiches French fried potatoes and Jell-O for dessert. They
returned to the foredeck and continued to try to repel the rust that seemed to blossom right before
Chris’s eyes. After the sounding of four bells, the shrill boatswain pipe blared through the ship’s PA
system ordering all those assigned to the on-loading detail of ships stores to report to the fantail.
“Well that’s me,” Chris said putting his tools aside and headed aft. He assisted carrying the
boxes of powdered milk, powdered eggs, powdered “bug juice” and other food stores down to the
ship’s reefer deck, and when the last carton was stowed away he returned to the foredeck to continue
the all-important task of rust removal. This continued through the sounding of five bells, six bells,
seven bells and then eight bells. Once again, the shrill boatswain whistle came through the PA
system: “Knock off ship’s work. Return all tools and supplies to their designated lockers. Relieve the
watch.”
They returned their work tools to the paint locker and headed off to their berthing compartment.
Farleigh and Diehl were joking with anticipation about a night of connubial bliss. Diaz had first
watch on the quarterdeck and jealously joked, “You guys couldn’t get laid at a nympho convention!”
Farleigh countered, “I’ll be thinking about you in your dress whites while I spill my white jizz
all over my Filipino pussy, you Lifer.”
Diaz smirked and playfully punched Farleigh squarely in the arm. “You cock sucker,” Farleigh
said as he went to counter punch Diaz. Diaz took evasive action and shuffled out of Farleigh’s way as
they laughed and continued to head forward up the port side deck. Diehl turned to Chris and asked
him if he was going into town tonight.
“I would like to but I’ve only got twenty dollars to my name. I figure I’ll stay in tonight and
finish writing some letters home.”
“Too bad, you don’t know what you’re missing.”
“Payday is in two days, I can wait until then.”
As they headed down the stairway Chris heard the Chi Lites’s “Oh Girl” blaring as the soul
brothers danced in the cramped quarters. The showers were full of Sailors prepping for a night of
iniquity in Olongapo. Chris settled into his bunk waiting for mess call to sound and when it did he
made his way up to the mess hall, feasted on roast beef, mashed potatoes, peas and carrots, and
powdered milk. Following dinner he went back to his bunk, broke out his stationary, and began to
write the letter to his folks he failed to the night before.
While he was writing, Jordan walked over. “Columbus, come with me.”
Chris corrected him for the umpteenth time, “It’s Columbo, not Columbus. What’s going on?”
“The Newport News is getting underway. I need you to help man the lines.”
Chris manned the lines once while in Brooklyn, for a ship docking in Newark, so he knew what
was expected. This detail was a slight variation to his previous detail as it involved several ships
and tugboats. As soon as they reached topside, the announcement came over the PA system to “Man
the Special Sea and Anchor detail.” The choreography and efficiency of the whole detail impressed
Chris. When they were ready, a Sailor on the tugboat prepared to toss the messenger line, which is a
thin rope with a complex knot called a “monkey fist” at the end of it to give it weight. He swirled the
line around to generate enough centrifugal force needed to propel the knot. After he let go, the monkey
fist sailed over the steel rail in Chris’s vicinity. Chris retrieved the ball, gathered some of the line,
ran it through the ship’s chock adjacent to the cleat and began to pull on the messenger line. When the
hawser attached to the messenger line began to lift off the deck of the tugboat Chris waved SA
Armstrong over to help pull it up. They yanked on the line until the loop of the hawser passed through
the chock. Chris grabbed the loop, hauled it to the cleat and, careful not to place his fingers between
the hawser and large metal cleat placed the loop over the top of the capped round cleat.
Once all the mooring lines were secured and the Newport News lines freed of the Cochrane’s
cleats the two tugs reversed engines, the hawsers strained and creaked becoming taut under the
pressure as the tugs started to pull the two nested ships away from the pier. When they were
sufficiently far enough into the harbor the Newport News cast off her lines preparing to depart under
her own power. Chris watched in awe as the seven hundred plus foot vessel deftly maneuvered its
way away from the pier and toward the harbor entrance with her giant propellers boiling the water
behind her as the setting sun loomed large above the horizon on her port side silhouetting her sleek
and powerful lines. Chris thought it would have made a nice recruitment poster. Once the Newport
News was clear, the tugs in tandem went from pulling to adroitly pushing the nested vessels back to
the pier. The entire operation took one hour to complete. The announcement came over the PA system
to “Secure from Special Sea and Anchor Detail” and Chris returned to his bunk to finish his letter.
The following two days consisted of more of the same shipboard activity and more letter
writing. Payday finally arrived. Each division received word to report to the supply window over the
PA in turn. Stuffed in the windowed booth was a rotund man. The nearly perfect spherical shape of
his upper torso fit so snugly in the booth he would only be able to fall straight down. He was PO 1st
Class Schoenberg, a tried and true Lifer. Behind his back members of the crew would call him
“Scumberg.” Few people liked him. He was an arrogant man enamored with his rank. Everybody
however loved him on payday and would gladly kiss his ass in the middle of Times Square at noon if
he asked them.
Scumberg was about five feet eight inches and must have weighed about two hundred eighty
pounds. Looking at his portly frame Chris wondered if this man could possibly fit through any of the
circular hatches on board ship. The Navy was looking to drum him out of the service for exceeding
the maximum weight allowance for his height which fact attributed to his orneriness. According to
Navy regs he was ninety pounds overweight. Obese Sailors were normally required to enter into a
mandatory weight loss program. They were also ineligible for promotion, volunteered assignments,
schools, and re-enlistment. His ineligibility of the latter accounted for his irascible attitude.
He sported two massive colorized tattoos on each of his forearms. His left forearm had “U.S.
Navy” printed in shaded block letters with two crossed fluke anchors with an anchor chain
surrounding them beneath the lettering. The other arm contained a massive eagle with its wings spread
above an American flag.
He had both of them done in one night while on liberty in Olongapo. Members of his Division
who went with him recounted how he decided to get tattooed after getting totally wasted at one of the
local clubs. They say he passed out on the chair as he was selecting which tattoo to get. The tattoo
artist evidently didn’t speak English well and believed Scumberg wanted both of them. When he
awakened from his drunken stupor, he wasn’t only in pain from the ordeal but incensed about getting
both tattoos done. When the tattoo artist demanded payment for both, Scumberg socked him in the face
knocking him through the front window of the tattoo parlor, stormed out of the store, and didn’t pay
for either of them.
Scumberg was all business when he was passing out the pay. Guys would try to tell him some
joke or say something amusing. He would simply smirk, pull out the bills from the till, count the pay
and hand it to the crewman. Chris stood at the window to receive his pay.
“Name?” he said in an impatient tone.
“Columbo.”
“ID card,” he said without even a please and without deviating his tone.
Chris handed him his ID card and Scumberg looked down his pay manifest list to find Chris’s
name and pay amount. He reached into the till and counted out Chris’s pay, which for his E-3 pay
grade amounted to one hundred and sixty five dollars, net of federal taxes. This was the first pay he
received since his activation and had never bothered to even inquire about what his salary would be.
His base pay was three hundred thirty three dollars per month to which the Navy added a bonus of
eight dollars foreign duty pay. When the ship reached the hostile waters of Vietnam the Navy would
add hostile fire pay to his wages in the sum of sixty-five dollars per month. He had held summer jobs
while in high school where he earned the similar amount per week. He slinked off counting the money
once again, combined it with the twenty dollars already in his wallet and took some comfort realizing
he was now off duty until the following morning muster and with money to burn in Olongapo.
Chris went to his berthing compartment shaved and showered to prepare for Liberty call. The
Chi-Lites were playing in the background; Diaz was brushing his teeth alongside him at the adjoining
sink.
“You going over tonight?”
“Yes, I am.”
“Cool, why don’t you come with me, Diehl and Farleigh. We’re gonna meet up with some of the
other guys at the EM club first for drinks and then blow on into town.”
Chris accepted the invite. He was glad he would be in the company of familiar faces. Safety in
numbers also made him feel more secure, as he was unaware of what to expect in town. His civilian
wardrobe consisted of two pair of pants, four shirts, a pair of sandals, four pair of socks and brown
biker boots. He splashed on some English Leather, put on his pale blue corduroys, dark blue cotton
crew neck pullover, socks and boots then headed up to the mess decks with Diaz. They ate dinner, left
the ship and headed to the EM club for cocktails.
After walking several blocks, a small reservoir began to accumulate in Chris’s boots.
“We better get there soon. If I get any more water in my boots I won’t be able to lift my feet up!”
When they walked into the club the blast of the air-conditioning cooled the droplets clinging to
his body immediately refreshing him. “Saturday in the Park” was blasting from the PA system. He
looked around the dark club as they entered searching for other shipmates. The facility was
cavernous. Flight squadron flags adorned the gray walls. Chris focused straight ahead and saw a large
room containing a bandstand, a large well-lit dance floor and at least one hundred round tables each
big enough to accommodate ten people. He heard the familiar smack of the break from the occupied
pool tables to his left. To the right was a long bar that angled around a corner. It was crowded with
enlisted men two rows deep. To the left of the dance hall was another large room separated by a half
wall with lathed wooden posts. There were another fifty or so tables in that side room. Filipino
waitresses were carrying pitchers of beer and mixed drinks to the tables.
They found several groups of their shipmates seated at tables in a corner of the anteroom and
joined them. Drinks were cheap at the EM club, which is why enlisted men stopped in there before
hitting the town. A bottle of beer cost fifty cents. Mixed drinks were a dollar a pop so for less than ten
bucks they could get good and tanked before hitting the town where the prices doubled. By about
2100 hours, they had all gotten a good buzz on and walked out of the club to the main gate.
Once outside the gate they had to cross a post and beam bridge which spanned a small pea soup
green river about one hundred yards wide with brush running along its banks. About ten feet below
the bridge were teenage Filipino girls each with long black hair and dressed in clinging white tee
shirts and tight white pants. They stood in dugout canoes parked in the river alongside the bridge.
Their dark complexions and tight white outfits contrasted against the greenish water further
highlighting their lithe supple shapes and perky young breasts. Each held a cone basket formed from
chicken wire and yelled up to the men as they crossed the bridge into town. “Hey, Joe, you spare
change?” or “Hey, Sailor, I be good girlfriend!” The men would stop and toss coins to the girls who
would catch them in their baskets. Their all white attire signified them as un-plucked virgins.
Upon crossing the bridge, they entered a small plaza with a police stand in the center. He was
directing traffic largely comprised of taxis called “Jipneys.” They were nothing like the yellow
checker cabs in New York. They were open air Jeep cabs colorfully painted in intricate patterns of
white, red, blue, green and yellow. Flags and tassels, which hung down from the roofs and bumpers,
adorned the vehicles. In spite of the traffic cops presence there was an incessant honking.
To the left of the plaza stood a four-story building with a large electric billboard for Pioneer
brand electronics on scaffolding that rose high above its roof. Another large painted billboard
advertising Sansui and Winston towered over a two story building to the right of the plaza that stood
alongside the Marmont hotel which had its own electronic billboard atop its three-storied structure.
They walked down Magsaysay Street with hundreds of other service men seeking a good time.
There were nightclubs with signs in English every twenty paces welcoming everyone to see “The
Sexiest A-Go-Go Dancers in Olongapo.” Rock and roll music spewed out of them whenever someone
entered or exited. Two small ditches containing dark kaleidoscopic pungent smelling water ran down
both sides of the street. There were planks with plywood interspersed down the street allowing
people to cross over them. The aroma of barbecue clung to the smoke wafting through the street from
the roadside vendors hawking their “grilled chicken.” Chris walked up to one of them and peered
down at the meat on a stick.
“I can’t recall ever seeing a chicken leg with two joints,” he remarked.
Other vendors were selling what Chris thought were hardboiled eggs. Chris had worked up a
little appetite and was blitzed enough to eat so he stopped to buy one.
“Yeah, go ahead try one. They’re really good!” prodded Diaz, as he turned unnoticed by Chris to
the others placing his finger over his lips.
Chris paid the vendor the twenty-five cents and the young Filipino punched a small hole at the
top of the shell. “Here, you drink,” as he made the motion of putting the egg to his mouth and tilted, his
head back while he made a sucking sound. Without hesitation or smelling the egg, Chris followed the
vendor’s instructions and sucked it down. What he ended up consuming was a partially developed
chicken embryo replete with feathers, feet and eyeballs that tasted exactly like a rotten egg might
smell all the way down. His friends howled at the sight of Chris reaching for his throat as he made
vomiting gestures with his mouth and bobbed his head back and forth like a strutting chicken.
“Jesus fucking Christ! What the fuck was that? That was the foulest thing I ever ate!”
The others in his party who had already been into Olongapo knew what Chris was about to
experience and said nothing as several of them had eaten the infamous baloot during their prior
excursions into town. Diehl who was inquisitive enough to inquire about the regional culture had
learned and explained to Chris while laughing that the baloot was a partially developed chicken egg
which had been buried in the sand for a month where it would be slow cooked to an oozy consistency.
“Where the fuck did they come up with this recipe?”
Diehl attempted to enlighten Chris with his anthropologic theory by saying, “It is likely that in
primitive times before the use of fire for cooking, some tribesman watched a crocodile or some other
nest raiding carnivore dig up a bunch of turtle eggs out of the sand and devour them. He figured that if
it was good enough for the croc, it was good enough for him. Ergo the birth of a Philippine delicacy.”
“That sounds like a crock,” Chris said lightheartedly, “Brave was the man who ate the first
oyster.” It was a right of passage for Chris and an initiation informing his crew that he possessed a set
of balls or was too crazy to care.
Diehl threw his arm across Chris’s shoulders and said “C’mon let’s go wash that down,” and
they crossed the street to a club called “The Cave.”
They walked in together still laughing about Chris’s snack. “Superstition” was playing from the
huge speakers situated throughout the club and two Filipino Go-Go dancers were dancing on small
platforms behind the bar. They were dressed in bright yellow two-piece bathing suits with frills
hanging from their bras. They shook with each gyration of their hips and bobbing of their breasts.
They were doing the jerk or something similar as they flailed their arms back and forth to the beat of
the music. The place was loud. The front section of the bar had a low ceiling and was dark with
tables scattered around. Servicemen crowded the bar. As they entered towards the rear of the club, it
opened up into a more expansive area with a large dance floor in the center and a stage to the left.
Large circular tables seating ten to twelve people encircled the dance floor.
They found an unoccupied table on the perimeter of the dance floor and sat down. As Chris
looked around, he could see familiar faces of the crew from the Lawrence. He noticed LT Pearsall
from Engineering sitting with guys from B and E Divisions.
Farleigh raised his arm and signaled to an elderly woman and yelled “Hey, mamasan! We need
drinks here!”
She acknowledged him, nodded quickly, and gave him a slight wave of her hand as if to say
“okay, you little shit, I’ll be right with you.” She waved to a waitress standing near her gesturing she
follow her to the table. They approached the table. The mamasan was wearing a full-length red satin
form fitting dress with embroidered red flowers and cloth buttons buttoned up to her square cut
collar. She was attractive and resembled the wife of the Philippines President.
Chris turned to Diaz, “Looks like Imelda Marcos is moonlighting here.”
Diaz looked at him as if he had two heads because he had no clue as to who she was. Chris
figured he had to stick to T&A jokes with Diaz.
Mamasan arrived at the table quickly shuffling her feet with the waitress trailing behind her. The
waitress moved to her side. She was another cutie wearing a tight black mini skirt, which exposed her
shapely legs. She had jet-black straight hair that flowed down and came to rest on her shoulders. She
wore a white blouse, unbuttoned to and dissected her breast line. There wasn’t much cleavage
exposed, as all these Philippine girls seemed to have firm compact breasts. Chris concocted a theory
their breasts were compact because they wore bras made of coconuts. He equated it with the ancient
Chinese practice of foot binding, titty binding so to speak.
Mamasan said, “Good evening gentlemen, welcome to my club. We hope to make your visit here
at the Cave Bar most enjoyable. As you can see we have live entertainment tonight for you,” pointing
to the band setting up. “Tonight we have the Fresh Tones play at Cave.”
Diaz said, “I’d rather have the Flesh Tones sit on my face.”
Farleigh chimed in, “How can these guys be in two places at once. I thought I saw a sign with
their name outside a bar up the street.”
“No, that was the Mono Tones,” Diehl said.
“Does every band have the word Tones in it?” Diaz asked jokingly. “Yeah,” Farleigh quipped,
“but let’s not go anywhere the Deaf Tones are playing?”
Mamasan turned to the waitress. “This is Lulu she will be your waitress tonight.” She rattled
something to Lulu in Philippine turned back to them and said, “I will return.”
“Thank you Mama Macarthur,” someone said as she turned and walked away. They gave Lulu
their order of five San Miguel beers, which was easy enough to remember that she didn’t write it
down.
She smiled to reveal two gold fillings on each of her bicuspids and said “Okay, five San Miguel
beer” and she spiritedly walked to the bar to retrieve their drinks. She returned shortly thereafter with
the cold bottles of San Miguel. Everybody paid their dollar fifty apiece and quickly consumed their
first round. A few minutes later Farleigh waved to Lulu and ordered another round. She brought them
their second round, which they polished off in ten minutes. Farleigh signaled her again.
After she finished serving another of her tables she brought them their third round saying, “You
boys thirsty, yes.”
Farleigh was starting to drift from consciousness and said, “Thirsty for love, honey,” taking five
seconds to say love while he wrapped his arm around her bottom.
“You funny,” she said as she turned and walked back to whisper in mamasan’s ear while
pointing to their table.
The dance floor was starting to get crowded. Servicemen were dancing with the Filipino girls
who had begun to come into the club. Chris noticed Mamasan corralling several of them and headed
for their table with the conga line of girls. They were all smiling and talking to one another and
pointing at members of the table, evidently laying claim to their dates for the night. The girls circled
the table to each claimed stake. Some placed their hands of the shoulders of their mate or sat on their
laps.
Farleigh asked the one plopped in his lap, “What’s your name honey?”
“Mona.”
“Well, Mona I’m a gonna make you moan-a all night,” he said as he stuck his tongue in her ear.
Mamasan said, “Hey, Joes, these girls for you. You want date for night cost you ten dollar.”
Chris recalling the motel quipped, “They must be having a sale! They wanted twenty at Clark.”
He looked at the girl standing beside him and thought, Man she’s old and ugly . He waved to
Mamasan and said, “Sorry, Mamasan, me no want this girl.”
She walked around the table to Chris and asked, “Why? She good girl.”
“Maybe so, Mamasan, but I would prefer someone younger than my mom.”
“Okay, Joe,” she said and left with the aboriginal woman. She would come back periodically
with a different girl each time. He had the same complaint about every one of them. By now the table
was getting full of empty bottles of beer so Chris’s vision was starting to get impaired. At last, she
came back with a young girl who had an athletic catholic schoolgirl look who stood about five two.
She had short black hair that came down to the top of her shoulders, with nice legs, olive green eyes
that were luminescent compared to her dark brown complexion, well turned hip line, firm perky
breasts and a really cute smile that also displayed a cache of gold in her mouth. She had a white short
sleeve pleated blouse, a pleated plaid skirt, frilly white anklet socks and black shoes.
“Okay, you hit pay dirt,” as he handed Mamasan the ten dollar rental fee. “Hi what’s your
name?” he asked pulling over a chair for her to sit in.
“ Layla. What is yours?”
“Chris. My name is Chris.” He asked, “Does every woman in the Philippines have a twosyllable name? The waitress is Lulu; She is Mona and you are Layla. I never thought to ask Mamasan
but do you speak English?”
“A little.”
Then he wondered should I care. He wasn’t hiring her for deep philosophic conversation. He
hired her to be his dance partner and maybe later provide boom-boom fireworks. “Would you like a
drink?”
“Yes, thank you. Rum and Coca Cola, please.”
Chris ordered her drink and paid the three-dollar bar bill. He didn’t realize the girls’ drinks
were non-alcoholic. It wasn’t their job to get drunk. Their job was to entertain the servicemen, and
get them to pay inflated prices for distilled drinks, which would be difficult for them to do if they
were plastered and passed out or puked on their patrons. By now, the Fresh Tones had started playing
and Chris suggested they dance by taking her by the hand and leaning toward the dance floor. She
understood what he wanted and got up with him. They danced for the complete set and Chris was like
a wet cloth. They returned to the table where she sat on his lap and mothered him by drying his
forehead, face and neck with napkins. Her tenderly care genuinely moved him.
The band stopped playing as Mamasan climbed the steps up to the bandstand, walked to the
microphone and announced, “Ladies and Gentlemen! Tonight we have special treat for you! Tonight, I
happy to present to you exotic dancer from Far East. I pleased to introduce the beautiful and
enchanting GIGI!”
Chris remarked, “Gigi? Isn’t that a French name?”
The band started playing mid-eastern music. The curtains at the rear of the club flew open to
reveal the exotic dancer as she swiveled and gyrated her way to the dance floor. She was about five
foot tall and her costume was a cross between Indian, Persian and something Twiggy might wear. She
had a sheer pink veil across her face and a mother of pearl laden red headband. A sheer veil like
material draped down her arms. Her bra was of the same color and comprised of the same mother of
pearl. The Twiggy portion of her costume was a mini-skirt of red fabric with rows of white mother of
pearl hanging around it. She clasped castanets as she danced. Her Filipino looks belied her being
from the Far East. She was more likely from the Far East side of Olongapo. She shimmied and shook
to the music repeatedly thrusting her hips to the audience. She moved about the perimeter grabbed a
beer bottle from a table, carried it to the center, and placed it on the floor. She continued shimmying
about extending her hand out asking for loose change. Someone handed her several quarters, which
she placed in her palm and danced back to the bottle. She placed them on the top of the erect bottle
and continued circling it. She stopped above it and squatted down. When she stood up the coins
magically disappeared.
“Now that’s entertainment!” Diaz shouted and applauded.
Everyone laughed in amazement at her erotic act. Lieutenant Pearsall raced onto the dance floor
and laid down placing a dollar bill over his eyes. She wiggled her finger at him while she continued
dancing as if to say “you naughty boy.” She reached down and put the money over his mouth then
squatted on his face and when she rose, the money was gone. She had accepted his deposit into her
wet piggy bank. The club erupted with howls of laughter.
Chris stifled his laughter long enough to yell, “Isn’t she going to give him change?”
The pace of drinking had slowed while the evening progressed. Chris danced and perspired so
much he sweat all the alcohol from his system. By closing time, he was sober. Layla said, “You nice
guy, Chris, would you walk home with me?”
He looked her in the eyes and said, “Sure, yeah,” anticipating that it was about time to get some
boom-boom. They got up from the table and slowly ambled to the exit where a Filipino bouncer stood
guard holding an M-16 rifle. Bouncers back home wished they had that kind of punch. When they
exited the club, she grabbed his hand and turned left.
The street was devoid of activity and eerily quiet. After two blocks, she turned left down a
dimly lit street. The only source of illumination came from an occasional porch light. Now and then, a
dog would bark breaking the silence. They spoke in hushed tones as they walked. He learned quite a
bit about her. She was nineteen years old and from Manila. She was a student at the university and
had come to Olongapo to work. She had a brother and three sisters who lived in Manila. He told her
about his family. They reached a modest two-story apartment building and her apartment was the third
from the corner on the first level.
She unlocked the door and took him by his hand, leading him into the apartment. She told him it
wasn’t safe to walk back to the base alone at that hour and suggested he stay the night.
“You won’t get any argument from me, honey” he said.
She had shared the apartment with another girl. As they entered he saw a tiny kitchen to the right
and to the left was a small seating area with a couch and coffee table. She led him further into the
apartment and led him to her bedroom down the hall. She pointed to her roommate’s room to the left
and placed her finger over her lips. A small toilet containing a sink, toilet and bathtub was at the end
of the hall. Her bedroom was on the right.
She opened the door and gestured for him to sit down on the bed. The room was Spartan and
furnished with a bed, a dresser, and night table with a lamp with an undersized bulb barely lighting
the room, and a chair. “Be right back” she said as he sat down on the bed. She returned with a damp
towel and began to tenderly wipe the sweat from his forehead. She continued to do this down the
sides of his face, his neck and upper chest. She reached down and slowly pulled his shirt over his
head and said, “You know I don’t do this with everybody.”
Whether that was true or not didn’t matter to him, because her caresses were soft and welcomed,
it made him feel like he was the center of her universe. She knelt down between his legs, unbuckled
his belt buckle, unbuttoned his pant button and lowered his zipper. She reached down and removed
his boots, socks and pants. He was getting quite excited by her actions and felt compelled to reach for
her arms to pull her up and kiss her passionately. While they kissed, he slowly unbuttoned her blouse,
slid it over her shoulders, and let it fall to the floor. He reached behind her, undid her bra, slid the
straps over her shoulders and she let it fall to the floor. She had nice firm breasts that were like
cantaloupes jutting from her body.
She stood up. He unhooked her skirt and let it fall to the floor. She was now standing in front of
him wearing a black lace thong, white anklet socks and black shoes. She told him to lie down and he
anxiously obeyed. She removed her thong, socks and shoes and went to the dresser. She grabbed a
bottle of baby powder returned to the bed and told him to roll over. He did so and she reached down,
removed his underpants and straddled his ass. She powdered his back and began to gently massage it
working from his lower back up to his shoulder blades and over his shoulders.
“You strong,” she said as she massaged his upper shoulders.
When she was finished with his back she told him to roll over again and when he did he
revealed a boner that would make King Kong proud. “Watch it I might poke your eye out.”
She looked at it and giggled. “For me?” she asked in amazement.
By now he could hardly muster up an answer all he wanted to do was drive it home but managed
to say, “All for you.”
Her massage session wasn’t yet done as she powdered his chest and slowly massaged it rubbing
her hands up and down and around when at last she slowly moved them down to his genitals and
gently stroked his engorged cock and balls. His body ached with pleasure from her touch and never
thinking of himself as terribly well endowed thought his member looked huge in her tiny hands. He
restrained himself and reached to pull her down on top of him. He kissed her and slowly put his
tongue in her mouth. She responded in kind letting out a deep breath as she did. He could sense her
passion was rising with each kiss and he reached behind her back and began to fondle her moist
crevice. She began to writhe in response to his touch as he penetrated deeper and deeper with each
pass of his caressing finger.
She positioned herself to move his hand away and impaled herself on him. Her hips moved in a
circular motion back and forth and with each thrust, he could feel himself moving deeper and deeper
within her. Her moaning told him that she was enjoying this just as much as he was. She raised herself
up off him and continued to move her hips back and forth. She placed her left arm atop her head and
slowly lowered it down dragging her hand across her face and down to her breasts. The gyrations of
her hips began to increase. He sensed she was reaching her climax, when at last she made one last
thrust of her hips reached and squeezed her left breast with her left hand and ran her right hand
through her hair. He knew she came but he still had not reached the finish line. She fell on top of him
and kissed him deeply.
He moved out from under her and had her roll onto her stomach. She responded immediately,
offering herself to him by jutting her tight ass into the air, and slightly spreading her legs to
accommodate him. He entered her from the rear as she leaned back forcing him deeper into her. He
started to pump her like a piston in an engine. With each thrusting motion, she cooed. He sensed she
was about to climax again.
He was nearly at his peak and sprinted for the finish line. His recent years of frequent self
gratification taught him to hold it as long as possible and when at last he exploded in her he thought
she would shoot across the room like a water rocket. They both collapsed onto the bed with him lying
on top of her. He rolled over in delight and to his surprise felt refreshed and anxious for round two.
They hugged, kissed, and complimented each other on how much pleasure each had given the
other. During the course of the evening they made love several more times until each collapsed from
fatigue and fell asleep in each other’s arms.
The sun’s morning rays formed a staggered wall of light as they penetrated through the window
at the head of the bed. She was still asleep with her head on his shoulder and hand on his chest. He
could hear a strange grunting sound coming from outside the window. He started to stir and she woke
up.
“Good morning, Layla” he said as he observed her face gleam in the daylight. She picked her
head up and when light struck her eyes, they seemed to become even more luminescent taking on a
turquoise appearance. He was pleased when he saw her face in the morning sunlight finding her to be
quite pretty until she smiled and revealed those gold caps. He had a hard time getting over those gold
caps. Although once used in the states, it wasn’t common to meet someone who had them. “Good
morning, my Chris, you were wonderful last night.”
“Thank you. Making love with you was one of the most pleasurable experiences in my life. You
certainly know how to please a man.” He heard that grunting noise again and asked, “What the hell is
that noise?”
“Oh that’s just the pigs in the back.”
He got up and went to the window to see three massive pigs in a pen in the back of the
apartment. He pointed to one and said “Hey there’s Scumberg!” knowing she would not get the
private joke.
“Would you like breakfast?”
He looked at the alarm clock on the night table and saw it was 5:30 and said, “No thanks, it’s
late and I have to get back to the ship. We are shipping out today.”
“Will you come back?” she asked in a sad tone.
“We’ll be back in a month and then I’ll come and find you at the club,” he said while he dressed.
“Layla not able to boom-boom for a month!” she said pursing her lips down expressing her
sadness.
He laughed at the joke. “I have waited two years for a night like we had. Thirty days is a drop in
the bucket.”
He reached into his pocket and handed her forty dollars, which he believed based upon prior
offers he received was twice the going rate. He didn’t mind and thought she deserved every cent of it
for the treatment she gave him. She made a gesture that she didn’t want the money, but he told her to
take it knowing she could put it to good use. He kissed her on the forehead, took her hands in his,
kissed both her hands, and said he would see her in a month.
He raced back to base and got back to the ship just in time for a quick breakfast of hash browns,
eggs over easy, toast, juice and java.
IV
THE GUN LINE
IT WAS AN ANIMATED BREAKFAST AS THEY rehashed and enjoyed another laugh over last
night’s antics at the Cave Bar with those who weren’t there. They spoke about LT Pearsall’s stunt
almost in reverence and admiring his ability and willingness to fraternize with the enlisted men in his
department.
Following colors, Ensign Stafford read the Plan of the Day: “The Lawrence will depart for the
Gulf of Tonkin this morning. The Special Sea and Anchor Detail will be set at approximately 08:30
hours. Following our departure the Ammunition Handling Detail will be set to take on ordnance. This
will be an all hands operation. I have posted the new Watch Schedule and General Quarters Bill on
the bulletin board in your quarters. I am reminding all of you to check your assigned watch and GQ
sections as soon as possible. Mr. Jordan please take over.”
After Jordan dismissed the Division, the Sea Anchor Detail was set and the ship slowly steamed
from the harbor to Anchorage G-4. It was a clear day and the water in the harbor was calm. The ship
pulled away from the pier and Chris could feel the rumble of the boilers and the turning of the giant
propellers under his feet as the ship slowly made its way to the ammunition anchorage. When the ship
neared the anchorage Ensign Stafford relayed the order from the bridge to lower the port anchor to the
water’s edge. Little Brown disconnected the restraining pins from the huge anchor chain and signaled
to Jordan that the anchor chain was clear. Jordan slowly disengaged the anchor windlass and the
weight of the anchor began a controlled descent slowly pulling out the anchor chain from the chain
locker below making a loud grinding sound as the chain extended out through the hawespipe on the
port side. When they were on station Ensign Stafford gave the order of “anchors aweigh.” Jordan
engaged the windlass and the anchor dropped to the sea bottom at a faster pace with anchor chain
roaring behind it to the water below. When it was set the order came over the PA: “Secure the Sea
and Anchor Detail, set the Ammunition Handling Detail, the smoking light is out.”
A tugboat towed the ammunition barge alongside. When the fenders were in place, the barge tied
up to the ship. The crew from the tug boarded the barge; connected large palettes of ordnance to a
cable and began hoisting them by crane onto the ship’s fantail. Two separate bucket brigades were
organized. One went from the fantail forward down to the magazine compartments of the forward
five-inch gun and the second to the five-inch gun just ahead of the helo deck. The first items hoisted
aboard were palettes of cordite powder casings. They looked like giant lipstick canisters. Because
the base housing the detonator cap was slightly larger in diameter than the case itself they could stand
upright. The starboard side bucket brigade quickly passed each case forward up to the forward
passageway, down the stairwell to First Division’s compartment, down through a raised hatch under
the stairwell and into the magazine where they were neatly stacked in the powder room. The other
brigade passed their casings up the port side to the aft passageway down the stairwell into
Engineering’s compartment and down the deck hatch into the aft magazine and powder room. The
casings being lightweight were quickly loaded and stowed.
Loading of the seventy pound, five-inch shells on the other hand took longer. They required more
care in handling. The crew loaded shells of white phosphorous better known as Willie Pete’s,
variable time fused shells for anti personnel usage and HEPD impact shells for destruction of fixed
targets. The two five-inch gun batteries on the ship were in fact the secondary weapons system of a
total armaments package intended to protect the ship from airborne, surface or sub-surface threat. As
a guided missile destroyer, its main mission was to protect carrier groups against air and subsurface
attack. To achieve the ship’s mission its primary weapons were the TARTAR surface to air guided
missile weapons system, located aft astern of the helo deck and forward of the fantail. The antisubmarine weapons system known as ASROC was located amidships on the second deck between the
forward and aft stacks. The crew worked cohesively during this detail succeeding in loading the eight
palettes of ordnance in less than thirty minutes.
Two minutes after securing from the ammo detail the order to “Man the Special Sea and Anchor
Detail” came over the loudspeaker and Chris reported to his station. The previous night’s festivities
along with the physical exertion of the detail as well as the motion of the boat were beginning to
affect him. As a youngster, Chris spent a lot of time fishing the Great South Bay on his father’s
sixteen-foot boat and never experienced any seasickness. Neither did he experience any aboard the
Wasp. Being aboard a four hundred thirty seven foot long vessel, however provided a rather different
sensation. Secured from the sea and anchor detail they slowly pulled away from the barge and headed
out to the open sea. The water was calm in the harbor but he could see dark clouds ahead.
Chris headed up to the bridge for his forenoon watch once the detail dismissed. Standard
underway watches at sea were broken up into seven sections. There was the Cinderella Watch from
midnight to 0400, the morning watch from 0400 to 0800, the forenoon watch 0800 to 1200, the
afternoon watch from 1200 to 1600, the first dogwatch from 1600 to 1800, the second dogwatch from
1800 to 2000 and the first watch from 2000 to 2400. Dogwatches were only two hours in length
enabling all crewmembers the opportunity to have supper. Each watch crew would stand every fourth
watch so they would be on one and off for two successive watches. Specific details such as the sea
and anchor detail had designated watch crews assigned. Those assigned to specific watch stations
during these details had to temporarily relieve those individuals on the current watch until it was
completed.
First Division’s underway watch station was on the bridge located on the third deck of the
forward superstructure. Approximately thirty feet wide and twenty feet deep, it tapered to fifteen feet
wide at the forward most section of the bridge. A series of windows ran along the forward bulkheads
and along its two sides. The deck on the bridge was the same black and white linoleum tile found
throughout the ship. Fixed to the overhead were loudspeakers and electric cables supplying the power
to the lights and various electronic equipment. Telephones and radio microphones were snugly
secured in holders along the front gray bulkhead. The captain’s chair was on the forward starboard
side. It was a black-leathered swiveled seat attached to a steel column with a footrest. A similar
chair was on the port side for the Executive Officer. Behind the captain’s chair was the navigator’s
table, where he kept charts and the ship’s deck log. Set back eight feet from the forward bulkhead
running from port to starboard was the ship’s helm, the engine order telegraph (EOT) and two radar
screens. Hatches were at each side leading to the flying bridges, which ran along both sides of the
superstructure. Attached to the deck of each flying bridge was a compass and pelorus mounted on
steel posts. The navigator and lookouts used these compasses to shoot bearings on fixed objects when
navigating harbors, channels and rivers and to get bearings on objects spotted.
Seven First Division crewmembers stood watch at a time on the bridge. The watch consisted of
the BMOW (Boatswain Mate of the Watch), three lookouts (port, starboard and fantail), helmsman,
engine order telegraph (EOT) operator and a communications relay man. The relay man and each of
the lookouts wore sound powered telephones through which they communicated. It was the lookout’s
responsibility to scan the surrounding sea and sky through binoculars and report to the relay man any
potential hazards such as other vessels, planes and objects in the water. The lookout was to provide a
description of the item spotted along with the relative bearing and approximate distance. The relay
man would call out and repeat the lookouts report to the OOD (Officer Of the Deck). The helmsman
stood and manned the wheel controlling the ship’s rudders. It was a polished solid brass wheel three
feet in diameter with a smooth wooden border surrounding it. Elevated in front of the wheel was a
gyrocompass that the helmsman used to maintain course headings given to him by the conning officer.
The EOT operator stood to the right of the helmsman. The EOT was the device used to signal and
notify the engine room what speed and direction the conning officer wanted each propeller to turn.
This device consisted of two levers on each side of a cylinder to control the port and starboard side
engines.
To avoid tedium during watch bridge crews would rotate on station at the top of each hour. The
fantail lookout would relieve the port lookout, the port lookout would relieve the relay man, the relay
man would relieve the helmsman, the helmsman would relieve the EOT operator, the EOT operator
would relieve the starboard lookout, and the starboard side lookout would relieve the fantail lookout.
The BMOW in charge of the crew would remain at his post throughout the watch directing his crew.
Little Brown was the BMOW on Chris’s watch. The others in his watch party were Bill Carey,
Harry Harriman, Bobby Diehl, Frank Thompson and Sean Farleigh. Little Brown told Chris to take
over and relieve the port lookout. Chris heartily welcomed his assignment out in the fresh air. As the
ship progressed, further out to sea the surface began to undulate lifting the bow of the ship four to five
feet and slowly let it down as the ship traversed the oncoming swell. Chris hoped the fresh air would
help relieve his growing discomfort as the motion of the ship coupled with the balut and activities of
the prior evening were all starting to discombobulate deep within his bowels.
He relieved SN Duncan at port lookout. Duncan pointed out the several ships he was tracking to
Chris. Chris placed the sound powered telephone headphones over his ears, ran the strap of the chest
piece with the mouthpiece attached around the back of his neck hooking it to the chest piece. He slung
the binocular strap over his head and started to scan the horizon.
Diehl relieved the helm and Chris could hear him say, “Seaman Diehl assuming the helm, sir.
Steering three zero five degrees.”
“Very well,” responded Ensign Stafford.
Thompson relieved the EOT operator. Harriman was the starboard side lookout, Carey the relay
man and Farleigh who reported ten minutes late for watch was to relieve the fantail lookout.
Chris heard Rollie Rhodes impatient voice come through the headphones, “Where the fuck is my
relief? Man I’m starving.”
“Farleigh’s on his way,” Carey said.
A minute later Farleigh on the fantail lookout said, “Farleigh’s on the line, you homos.”
Harriman at starboard lookout said, “I hear your father was a homo and you’re the son of a
dwarf your mother fucked when she worked at a freak show!”
Carey interjected, “Quiet on the line, fellas.”
Chris was doing all he can to keep his breakfast down. He wasn’t up to the banter being tossed
about. Ensign Stafford joined him on the bridge wing. Chris briefly diverted his attention from his
failing condition.
“Morning, sir.”
“Good morning, Mr. Columbo. Everything okay out here with you?” The ensign could also see
the dark gray clouds in the distance and noticing that Chris was turning a bit green said, “Looks like
we’ll be hitting some weather today. Should make an interesting first day out to sea for you.”
“Beg your pardon, sir, but I have been to sea before. I did a summer ROTC cruise aboard the
USS Wasp in the North Sea back in ’68.”
“Oh is that so? How did you like it?”
“It was okay. The Wasp was a hell of a lot larger and you didn’t quite feel the effects of the sea
as much. By the time we hit rough seas I had my sea legs under me, if you know what I mean, sir,”
Chris said, implying this voyage might foster a different reaction.
“You feeling, okay, Sailor?”
“Doing the best I can, sir,” he said feeling queasier with each spoken word.
“Good, keep it up. Or maybe I should say, keep it down.”
“I’ll try, sir,” Chris said thinking the ensign was being an asshole by not showing any
compassion for his impending sickness. The ensign went back into the bridge, leaned, spoke into
Little Brown’s ear, and discreetly pointed in Chris’s direction.
Shortly afterward Little Brown came out onto the deck stood beside Chris and said, “Feeling
okay, boot?” slapping him on the back as he said it.
“So far, so good,” Chris countered. “Shit, is it that evident?”
“Is what evident?”
“My getting seasick.” The more he talked about the possibility the sicker he felt.
“Yeah, just don’t blow chunk until the watch is over.”
Little Brown’s choice of words created a visualization making him feel even more nauseated.
“Do the best I can...not to get any on you...if I do,” Chris said trying to disguise his discomfort.
“Good,” Little Brown said recognizing Chris was boldly trying to buckle up to overcome his
condition and remembering he himself had also experienced seasickness his first day at sea. “Word of
advice,” he continued, “when you get off watch go down to the mess deck and grab a bunch of
crackers. They’ll help settle your stomach.”
“Thanks for the advice.”
The ship continued on its journey into the heart of the maelstrom. With each passing hour, the sea
swells escalated in height and frequency. Chris moved from watch station to watch station, feeling
sicker with every move. He survived and retained his breakfast through the watch and when it was
over, he went down to the mess deck to follow Little Brown’s advice. Confined in the ship’s interior
he could feel the pitching and yawing of the ship become increasingly severe. The air in the mess
deck was steamy and musty. The ship entered into a trough and the voluminous water pushing onto the
side of the ship caused the ship to quickly yaw to starboard sending meal trays and food flying off the
tables onto the deck below.
Suddenly he felt it. That “I wanna die” feeling that boils up from the pit of one’s stomach. He
could feel the tan drain from his face, replaced by cold linen white as beads of sweat burst out upon
it. The stink-ridden remnants of yesterday’s repast erupted from his innards carpeting the deck. He
released another torrent of bile, and another, repeatedly until all he had left was an acrid gag. He was
perspiring profusely.
Chris could not stand it any more and raced out of the amidships hatchway, held on to the rail
and lurched what was left of his guts over the side until all the half digested morsels vacated his
system. White caps littered the sea for miles. The swells were between seven to ten feet high. With
his eyes closed and still leaning over the rail he turned his head forward. The cool ocean breeze and
briny spray hit him square in the face briefly refreshing him. When he opened his eyes, he saw the
bow rise and fall into the oncoming waves. As the bow came down it pushed and splayed water away
from the ship as it sliced through the turbulent sea. A wave exploded over the bow as the ship
dropped down into a trough and into an oncoming wave. The power of the colliding ship and sea shot
water up over the forecastle to shower back down upon the deck.
He felt weak, clammy, and returned back to the mess decks. Another seaman was cleaning up the
mess Chris had left behind. “Sorry” was all he could muster. Chris was unable to join his
crewmembers for lunch. He knew whatever he ingested would only come back up so he grabbed
some crackers and headed to his compartment.
He slinked down to his compartment and found Jordan there “What’s wrong with you
Columbus?” Jordan said.
“I’m dying!”
“Heh, heh, heh, boot. First time out to sea I guess.”
Suddenly, everyone was too observant and it made Chris feel embarrassed, but he was
powerless to control his sickness. The compartment started to collapse on him and he rushed to the
head to dry heave some more. He rinsed his mouth out and ate a cracker hoping it would provide the
miracle cure. Chris went back to his bunk crackers in hand, undressed and hit the sack. He lay there
bemoaning the fact that in an hour he would have to go topside for work detail. He just wanted to go
to sleep and wake up when his enlistment was over. He was relieved to hear the announcement,
“Brace the ship for foul weather. Knock off ship’s work and clear the weather decks. Secure and
stow all loose items. Close all topside hatches.”
What a relief, he thought. It seemed the rough seas and weather, which brought him such physical
misery, had now granted him a reprieve.
His body turned side-to-side in response to the ship’s movement as he lay there in his bunk,
crackers in hand. Given his compartment was the closest living space to the bow of the ship, Chris
could feel the ship rise out of the sea with each cresting wave and crash down into the ensuing trough.
The sheer weight of the ship and the indomitable power of the ocean colliding sent a loud boom
through the compartment causing the entire section of the ship to shudder from the stress. The constant
side-to-side rocking helped him finally fall asleep. Several hours later, a nudge on the shoulder
awakened him.
Seaman Wilkerson laughed when Chris looked up at him. “Man, you look like a pie crust with
all that shit all over your silly ass face. Time to get up and relieve the watch, Mr. Cracker!” It was
17:30 and nearing time for the second dogwatch to report to the bridge.
Chris had managed to sleep through lunch and dinner, and felt marginally better. Since he had not
eaten anything, his nausea wasn’t as acute as before, though he still felt weakened from the ordeal. He
got up, grabbed his toothbrush and toothpaste from his locker and went to the head to wash the sleep
from his eyes, coating of cracker crumbs from his face, and lose the bitter taste lingering in his mouth.
He dressed and headed up to the bridge firmly gripping the handrails as the ship swayed side to side.
Little Brown said, “Back for more, eh?” He lifted up the seat from the bench behind him, pulled
out foul weather gear, and handed it to Chris saying, “Put this on and relieve Dixon out on the
starboard lookout.”
He pulled the hooded foul weather gear over his head and foul weather pants over his and
relieved the watch. It was raining and the seas were still rocking and rolling causing his insides to
churn some more. Chris peered through the binoculars looking for rays of sunlight ahead hoping to
find a patch of blue and calm seas so he could tell the conning officer, “I wanna go there!” All he
could see were gray skies and miles upon miles of churning water. Peering through the binoculars to
the faint horizon, he could still see choppy water, and serrated horizon. Fortunately, the second
dogwatch was only two hours, which ended for him on the fantail. During the two hours, the lookouts
would talk to each other via the sound powered telephone about home, whores and other newsworthy
events.
He was anxious for his watch to end, hit the rack and get back to sleep. He knew he had eight
hours off and hoped by the time he awoke his seasickness would be gone. To his chagrin, his relief
SN Langston a high school dropout from Chicago relieved him fifteen minutes late. He rushed
forward to return his foul weather gear then straight down to his bunk. He fell asleep to the sounds of
“Oh Girl” reverberating through the compartment.
He felt a nudge on his shoulder once again at 03:30 for the morning watch. The rain had stopped
and the rough seas abated. The seasickness, which ravaged him, disappeared along with the raging
sea conditions. It was flat water and the ship cut through the ebony water like a razor through silk.
Chris relieved Dixon at the port lookout. The only light visible were the red overhead lights, the light
from the compass, the illuminated panels of the EOT, the light from the sweeping cursors of the radar
scopes, and a few green and red instrument panel lights, the masthead light, the ship’s running lights
and a few white deck lights. Beyond the boundaries of the ship and in the absence of a moon, the sky
was black as coal with little bits of mica glittering on its surface. With his naked eye well off into the
distance he spotted a faint glow coming from beyond the horizon. He looked at it through the glasses
and immediately realized it was a masthead light from another vessel, so he shot a bearing on the
pelorus and reported his sighting to the relay.
The relay called out, “Port Lookout reports surface vessel over horizon bearing two nine zero
degrees.”
“Very well,” acknowledged the conning officer who was once again Ensign Stafford. He
stepped out onto the deck, stood with Chris, and looked through his binoculars to confirm what Chris
reported was accurate.
A minute or so later the operations watch stander positioned on the bridge shouted, “CIC reports
surface contact bearing two nine one degrees, distance one five miles, sir.”
“Very good,” the ensign shot back. He turned to Chris and said, “Excellent work Columbo, you
succeeded in reporting the contact before combat did.”
From his tone, Chris implied the ensign was pleased that a member of his division was able to
beat Operations Division to the punch and report a potential threat. There really wasn’t much of a
threat because of the sizeable distance between the two ships and based upon its heading it was going
to pass in front of the Lawrence as it steamed northwest. Chris simply replied, “Thank you, sir,” as
the ensign returned to the bridge.
“Lifer Ass Kisser.” It was Farleigh speaking through the sound-powered telephone.
“Suck my veiny tube steak, Farleigh,” Chris quipped back.
“You mean cocktail wiener, don’t you?”
“Hey, Farleigh, your mama said that when she sucked my cock it rivaled the horse’s cock she
sucked in the pornos she starred in,” Chris joked.
“Quiet on the line,” said Carey through the phones.
His command only worked for so long as the guys would repartee throughout the watch to pass
the time. Chris eventually took notice of the millions of tiny lights sparkling on the water’s surface
along the ship’s wake. Bursts of jade green flashes illuminated the darkened water. They were caused
by the disturbance of bioluminescent organisms living beneath the surface as the ship knifed through
the black parchment sea. The flashes were so dense it looked like a green carpet strewn over patches
of the ocean.
Little Brown passed the announcement over the ship’s PA system, “Reveille, reveille. All hands
muster on station, give the ship a clean sweep forward and aft. Breakfast for the crew.” His watch
was relieved and he headed down for breakfast. After breakfast and muster, Chris headed to the paint
locker to gather his tools with Farleigh and Diehl. The sky was clear except for a few cumulus clouds
scattered in the distance. The sea was calm and as azure as the sky. Only the miniscule variation in
color between the sea and sky distinguished the faint unobstructed line of the surrounding horizon.
The bright rays of sunlight piercing the water’s surface formed a veil of white lines as they penetrated
into the depths below.
As he looked down he noticed fish spring from the water and skim atop the surface using
elongated pectoral fins as wings to glide through the air. He could hear their wings buzz as they leapt
out of the water and flew alongside the ship. They would stay aloft for several yards, plunge back into
the sea and others would emerge. Amazing, he thought as he stared at them in wonderment. Flying
fish! This scene as nearly every one he witnessed up to then was a first for him. He heard about them
but thought they were mythological creatures like mermaids and sea bats.
When they arrived to the fantail, they broke out their cigarettes for a smoke. He looked back over
the fantail and watched as the trail of white water generated by the turning screws extending hundreds
of yards behind withered in the distance. Thirty yards off the stern was a large bird with a white body
and dark brown wings that spanned at least ten feet. It glided gracefully keeping pace with the ship.
As if a pendulum suspended without a tether, it would effortlessly hover from one side of the ship to
the other in an arc without flexing its wings. As it moved from side to side, it would slowly gain
altitude reaching an apex and slowly descend and rise again.
Pointing to the bird, Chris asked, “Isn’t that an albatross?”
Farleigh answered, “Yeah, that’s a Gooney Bird. We saw thousands of them in Midway and
Guam on the trip here.”
“It’s uncanny how it appeared out of nowhere without any land in sight and how it manages to
keeps pace with us.”
“They can fucking fly, alright,” Farleigh said. “But it’s funny shit to watch them take off and
land. They need a running start to take off. Landing is even funnier cause they tumble head over heels
when they land. It’s a pisser to watch.”
Chris started to recite some lines from the Rhyme of the Ancient Mariner he recalled from Mr.
Searcy’s literature class back in high school:
At length did cross an Albatross,
Through the Fog it came;
As it had been a Christian Soul,
We hail’d it in God’s name
“Huh?” Farleigh said.
Diehl said, “Samuel Taylor Coleridge.”
Chris and Diehl exchanged glances acknowledging a greater respect of each other’s intellect.
“So?” said Farleigh.
“You mean to say you never heard the expression ‘having an albatross strung around your
neck?’”
“No, what does it mean?”
Chris explained: “It comes from a poem. It’s a morality poem involving an albatross and deals
with the negative consequences irrational acts have on people who commit them as well as to those
around them. It also conveys the burden of guilt people feel as a result of those acts. The poem
connects the Albatross to both good and bad fortunes. It is about supernatural events that a mariner of
old had experienced during a voyage. He tells a stranger he encounters on a road about his journey
and how, after a storm drives them off course into the Antarctic, an albatross suddenly appeared and
led the ship out of the icy waters. To satisfy a morbid urge the mariner shoots and kills the bird with
his cross bow.”
“The guy had to be some fucking shot!” interrupted Farleigh.
“Whatever,” Chris said, then continued. “Sailors considered the albatross to be a good omen and
his shipmates were furious with him for killing it. When they entered calmer warmer waters, their
anger disappeared but so did the wind. They drifted aimlessly for days without wind to fill their sails
and no rain to replenish their fresh water. I mean you must have heard the quote, ‘Water, water
everywhere yet not a drop to drink,’ haven’t you?”
“Oh yeah, you mean that’s where it’s from?”
“Yes.”
“Go on.”
“Well, without rain they ran out of drinking water. The crew blamed the mariner for the lack of
rain and drinking water because they believed their predicament was a consequence of his killing the
bird. They force him to wear it around his neck as punishment. The mariner becomes stricken with
remorse for killing it claiming to feel the weight of the albatross around his neck even when he is not
wearing it. That’s where the expression having an albatross around your neck comes from. You sure
you never heard that expression?”
“Yeah, I’m sure, keep going.”
“Soon after a ghost ship appears carrying the spirits Death and the Nightmare of Life and Death.
The spirits gamble for the lives and souls of the crew. Death wins the souls of the crew and
Nightmare wins the soul of the mariner. The crew dies one by one and as they do, they place a curse
on him. In the end for his penance he is forced to wander the earth to tell his sad story and the lesson
to be learned.”
“So what lesson is that?”
Diehl answered, “Don’t fuck with Mother Nature!”
They all laughed, finished their cigarettes and began the task of rust hunting.
Chris performed the same routine during the next several days, standing watch, cleaning First
Division passageways, rust hunting and painting. While in port Sunday was always a stand down day
and the crew other than those who had watch were off. This Sunday, being their third day at sea,
would be different. Unbeknownst to Chris the ship entered the war zone at 05:03 and at 05:15 the
alarm sounded for General Quarters.
Clang, clang, clang went the bell.
“General Quarters, General Quarters. Man your Battle Stations, Secure All Watertight Doors
and Hatches, Report When Manned and Ready.”
Clang, clang, clang...
Chris and the others in his compartment leapt from their bunks, quickly dressed and raced off to
their GQ positions. Since his GQ assignment was in the forward magazine, he didn’t have far to
travel because the gun mount was directly above their compartment and the magazine directly below.
Jordan had Chris help him lower and latch down the one hundred fifty pound rectangular deck hatch.
Jordan turned the wheel to the scuttle hatch within the larger one, opened it, and told Chris to get on
down there. Farleigh, Flynn, Brown Brown, Henley, Rhodes, Grant, Smythe and Jordan followed.
Jordan had Chris and Farleigh man the powder room. Brown Brown and Flynn would load the
powder-casing conveyor. Henley and Rhodes were ordnance handlers, Grant, and Smythe would load
the ordnance conveyors. At 05:19 Jordan reported the forward magazine as Manned and Ready over
the sound powered telephone.
There they stayed until 09:57 when Modified Material Condition Zebra was set and at 10:06,
Readiness Condition Two was set. This meant specifically marked hatches remained closed but
movement about the ship permitted when conducting replenishment operations. In addition
commencing with the next scheduled watch, they would now be on six-hour shifts. The weapons
systems would remain manned and ready but with half the complement required at General Quarters.
Once Readiness Condition Two was set, Chris was able to secure from his GQ post because it
wasn’t his scheduled watch. He headed up to his deck to get some sleep before relieving the
afternoon watch.
The Boatswain Mate of the Watch woke him up and he reported up to the bridge to relieve the
afternoon watch. At 12:15 hours the call to “Set the refueling detail” came over the intercom. Chris
was the starboard lookout during the refueling detail, so he remained on the bridge. As the starboard
lookout, he had a perfect vantage point to watch the proceeding from start to finish. When he relieved
the watch, the Lawrence was four hundred yards behind a refueling tanker and the tanker was about
fifteen degrees relative off its starboard bow. “Captain’s on the bridge,” said the quartermaster
standing at the navigator’s table. A minute later, he again called out “XO on the bridge.” Each of them
had come up to observe the activity. Captain Boxer sat in his chair and the XO stood beside him.
Lieutenant Dickerson had the con and issued the orders to adjust the ship’s course and speed to
eventually position the ship off the tanker’s port side.
Chris watched as his ship gradually pulled up alongside the refueling tanker USS Kawishiwi.
The Kawishiwi was nearly twice the length and its beam twice the width of the Lawrence. Its bow
and stern sections rose higher than its midsection. The bridge was slightly behind the bow in the
forward portion of its midsection and a second superstructure and stack was in the aft section. The
midsection was the refueling portion of the ship and each side contained three hoists. These hoists
held the hoses that supplied the diesel fuel. Both vessels were slowly pitching up and down as the
Lawrence pulled up alongside. The wakes created by each vessel crashed into each other making the
water between the two lumbering ships choppy. Each ship was doing twelve knots which he knew
from his ROTC training was the equivalent of fourteen miles per hour. The distance from beam to
beam between the two craft ranged from thirty to forty yards. The crews on both ships were busy
making preparations as the warship eventually matched course and speed with the floating filling
station.
He continued to observe as a crewmember from the tanker slung the monkey ball over to the
Lawrence. His first toss was a success and the crew from the Lawrence in their bright orange
lifejackets began to hastily pull the messenger line over which was attached to a heavier line which
was ultimately attached to a steel cable. They had to do this quite quickly to make sure the lines
stayed out of the narrow channel of turbulent water between them. If enough line submerged the
resistance from the force of the water could rip the lines from their grasp or worse pull someone
overboard.
After attaching the cables to the top of the receiving station, the crew pulled on the rope tied to a
long hose that hung from the Kawishiwi’s hoists. The hose was about four inches in diameter and had
something resembling the head of a penis at its end. This fitting at the end would lock into place at the
bowl shaped receiving station. The Lawrence signaled they had a secure hookup and the tanker
commenced pumping diesel fuel. The approach to hookup took twenty-five minutes to complete.
The degree of skill and seamanship it took to maneuver these two massive ships into position
impressed Chris. The slightest error could easily have dire consequences to each vessel and
collisions at sea during this detail have often occurred. He correlated the resultant damage from a
collision between vessels this size tantamount to a train wreck at sea. After the detail was completed,
he was relieved from his watch and headed to the fantail to hang out and shoot the shit.
At 19:10 hours, the ship arrived at its assigned sector off the coast of the Republic of Vietnam.
By then, Chris finished his supper and stepped outside onto the weather deck for a smoke, not
knowing the ship had reached its final destination. He got his first view of Vietnam as the ship was
positioned about five hundred yards off the coast. The warm tropical air embraced the ship as the
clear blue water lapped along the ship’s hull while the sun hovered low in the western sky. It loomed
large over a white sandy beach, which stretched for miles both north and south with white crested
waves gently caressing the shoreline. The sandy beach gradually sloped up and disappeared into a
jungle of lush tropical vegetation. It looked like a picture postcard of a tropical paradise, though he
knew some of his friends may be actively engaged in deadly combat beyond the picturesque setting.
The ship was cruising slowly along the coastline in a stealth-like posture flexing its muscle
intimidating those on the shore. Bill Carey came out onto the weather deck and joined him. “Hey,
Chris, how ya doing?” Carey was the only one on board who addressed him by first name. Either his
Amish like appearance affected his demeanor or his demeanor affected his Amish like appearance.
Chris could not tell or didn’t care because he simply liked Carey’s congenial manner and addressed
him similarly.
“Okay, Bill.” They both turned and looked at the coastline spread out before them.
“Sure looks peaceful and pretty, doesn’t it?”
“Yes it does.”
Before Chris could finish those three short words, carnage erupted all along the shore. A drum
roll of thunderous explosions went off behind the tree line. Brilliant orange fireballs appeared within
the jungle between the scattered palm trees and they watched in awe as these fireballs grew and rose
above the tree tops with gray and black smoke trailing immediately behind them tossing palm trees
and brush high into the sky. The booming explosions seemed to last for ten to fifteen seconds as the
concussion wave pushed the heat of the blasts before it. The repetitive beat of the explosive sounds
laying waste to the jungle continued. They had been leaning on the ship’s guardrail and
simultaneously stood up and stared upon the mile long series of explosions. Only one aircraft could
deliver such a payload of devastation. Chris looked up and spotted vapor trails of a B-52 miles
above the jungle. He pointed to it so Carey would see it also.
“Un-fucking real” Chris said in amazement. “You have to pity the poor souls caught in that shitstorm,” he added as he watched the dust and debris continue to settle and calm restored ashore but not
yet in his mind.
“Makes you glad you joined the Navy, eh?” Carey said nervously.
Chris wanted to share with Carey his optimistic viewpoint and nervously said, “Yeah, I guess
so. Have you heard anything at all about where in the hell we are?”
“I heard Polanski in operations say we’re in a sector called Point Angela. He said we’re six
miles south of the Demilitarized Zone and just north of the Cua Viet River,” Carey said.
“The DMZ?” Chris said in disbelief. Chris wasn’t ignorant about current events and was well
aware of the bombing campaign the U.S. had been conducting, on North Vietnam. The ultimate goal of
this bombing campaign was to disrupt the flow of men and arms and foment cynicism in the
population with their government. “Do you suppose, we’ll ever head north while we’re here, being
we’re so close now?”
“I don’t know, but it’s possible.”
“I figured we’d just be performing picket service for the carrier task force miles off the coast
during this deployment. I can’t imagine our two guns are going to have much of an impact in the
conduct and outcome of this war, do you?”
“Well, it’s quite probable we will go north sooner or later. It really doesn’t matter much what
you and I might think about how our mission is conducted here does it, because we can’t change
anything can we?”
“No, we can’t but they got guns up there and will certainly fire back. You know, it’s not that I’m
afraid or anything like that. I would just like to know what the future might have in store for us.”
“We’re just going to have to wait for tomorrow to find out won’t we? We’re all in the same
boat,” Carey said jokingly.
“Funny.”
He glanced down at the water and spotted something. He squinted to focus on the ribbon of light
writhing from the depths of the dark blue water.
“Hey, will you look at that!” he said like a kid at the zoo and pointed to the creature as it neared
the surface for air. It was about five feet in length and had alternating bands of black and gray.
Maroon blotches were within the gray spots and the creature had a vertically flattened tail. They got a
good look at it swimming along the surface in an S-shaped pattern with its head jutting slightly out of
the water gathering a lungful of air before it slithered its way back down into the abyss.
Carey said, “Yeah look at that. It’s a sea snake. I knew they inhabited these waters but Lord
knows I never thought I would ever get to see one. From what I know they’re extremely poisonous but
mild tempered and won’t bite unless provoked.”
“That’s good to know. Just the same I think I’ll stay on board if we ever have swim call.”
“Me too. These waters are filled with things that sting and bite. They have some of the worst
kinds of man-eating sharks here. There are Great Whites, Tiger Sharks, Threshers and probably a few
more I would not want to meet. Besides, I can’t swim a lick.”
“Then aren’t you in the wrong branch of service?”
“My father was in the navy, his father was in the Navy. Shit, I’m told we had family who were
whalers dating back to the early 1800s. In fact, my dad has some old scrimshaw on his mantle, carved
by his great-great grandfather. Truth is I just never bothered to learn to swim.”
Chris found Carey’s family background interesting. “That’s cool that your family has such a rich
tradition involving the sea and you know so much about your ancestors. What I know of my family
only goes back one generation.”
They spoke a while longer and Chris decided to go below and write home and tell them about
the last few days and some of the amazing things he had just seen. “Well, I’ll see you later, Bill, I’m
going to go below,” and he turned to head forward.
“Okay, later.”
He opened the door and headed down the stairwell to the sounds of “Oh Girl” took his stationery
out from under the mattress, laid down and began to write home to his folks.
Dear Mom and Dad, Here I am writing to you off the beautiful coastline of Vietnam.
The past several days have truly been interesting to experience...
He went on to write about his night in Olongapo leaving out the more intimate details. He knew
they would not understand how anyone could derive amusement from what he had seen and done
there. They were children of the depression and molded by the forties.
The morals and culture prevalent at the time his parents were his age were quite different from
Chris’s generation. The golden years of the 1950s immersed him in the growth of television, Howdy
Doody, Sputnik, the Cold War, backyard bomb shelters, the bikini, the Corvette, Mickey Mantle,
Wonder Bread,rock and roll, and Playboy magazine. He was assailed in the ’60s by the election of
JFK, the Cuban Missile Crisis, the assassination of JFK, the assassination of his assassin broadcast
live on national television, constant news reports and footage of the escalating Vietnam War, race
riots, campus protests, campus shootings, the assassination of RFK, free love, the glorification of
dope, “Sock it To Me,” the assassination of Martin Luther King, Jimi Hendrix, Woodstock, and the
lunar landing—just to name a few. Although his folks may have had opinions on these subjects, he
could not recall them ever espousing them. They clung to the values imparted on them during the
depression and throughout the forties and didn’t endorse society’s more permissive attitudes.
Knowing this he used discretion in omitting the more prurient details in his letters home.
He simply told them where he now found himself and he was okay, he missed home, his basic
impressions of things he had witnessed, and what life was like aboard ship. Nevertheless, even as he
related events to them his letters were always caustic purveying a sense of sadness and bitterness
directed at them. It was his pertinacious and perverse way of bestowing guilt for sending him off to
Missouri a decision he continued to believe led to his present situation.
At about midway through his letter writing he fell asleep. He rudely awoke when the forward
gun mount above his compartment opened fire. The three inches of steel separating his compartment
with the upper deck and gun barrel’s twelve foot height above the deck had little effect on dampening
the volume of the gun’s earsplitting sound. The “kaboom” of the gun discharging above him was
deafening and the rattling shudder accompanying the discharge quickly wakened him from sleep. He
looked at his watch and saw it was 23:15. So, by his estimation he might have gotten at best one hour
of sleep. Knowing he would have to relieve the watch at midnight, he lay there and listened to the
ongoing barrage.
Unaware when the next explosion might occur his body instinctively reacted and jerked with
each thunderous discharge. He got up, finished dressing and headed up to the mess deck with Farleigh
for some coffee. They sat down had their coffee and joked about the kick ass alarm clock they had
above their beds.
After coffee, they headed down to the magazine. He and Farleigh manned the powder room. It
was their job to bring each powder casing to whoever was manning the conveyor system for the
powder casings. Now that they were on Condition II, they had to perform both functions and load the
conveyor system as well. On the opposite side of the magazine, the explosive shells sorted by the type
of ordnance were stacked in bins like logs on a woodpile. The system as designed was to provide an
uninterrupted supply of ammunition in a rapid fashion. The conveyor system for the ordnance was
located on the starboard side of the compartment and the powder-casing conveyor was on the port
side. One conveyor system fed the powder casing up to the gun turret and the other sent up the
ordnance. The conveyors were cylindrical in shape about five feet in diameter. Each casing and shell
were loaded and locked into a holding breach, which rotated with the press of a button revealing an
empty breach where another powder casing or shell was loaded. A piston, powered by a compressor
triggered by the gun crew in the turret lifted the casings and shells to the gun turret. Each cylinder had
the capacity of holding eleven pieces of ordnance at a time. The twelfth breach was the shaft to the
gun. Jordan donned the sound powered telephone headset and reported to the bridge that the forward
magazine was Manned and Ready.
Jordan reported the station ready at 0001 hours. The crew sat there with the conveyors loaded
awaiting the order to open fire. Chris felt the rumble of the ship’s engines turning and hearing the
water racing against the hull as the ship steamed along.
Jordan received the order to “Stand down on station” and repeated it to the crew. He broke out a
deck of cards from his back pocket and said in his deep froglike voice, “Who wants a game?” They
sat down and played seven card stud, five card draw with one eyed jacks wild, five card draw with
one eyed jacks and deuces wild, five card draw with one eyed jacks, deuces and suicide kings wild.
One hour later at 01:00 hours Jordan received the order to “Man all stations and prepare for
firing mission.” Chris up forty dollars was happy to receive the order. The five-inch gun started firing
at 01:15 hours. Although the sound of the gun discharging had to travel through two decks, it was still
quite loud by the time it reached them below. With each firing of the gun, he could feel the ship list to
starboard as it recoiled from the force. The firing mission lasted six hours and ended at 05:00.
Overall, the ship fired one hundred six rounds of projectiles, distributed between both guns. Chris’s
battery fired at an average rate of eight rounds per hour. Throughout the night between firing missions
they would try to get some sack time or read a comic or book they had in their pocket, or just bullshit
amongst themselves. His watch was relieved at 06:00.
Reveille sounded, he went up for breakfast following which they mustered on station to observe
colors and received the Plan of the Day. Because the ship remained in a GQ status work was
restricted to the ship’s interior. Jordan assigned Chris the chore of swabbing, waxing and polishing
the forward passageway. He summarily completed his task and went to the compartment to assist
Farleigh and Diehl clean their berthing space. They finished around 11:30 and went to chow. Since
they had the forenoon watch they went to the head of the mess line saying, “got the next watch” to each
person they cut ahead of until one said, “So do I.” After filling their trays, they sat with POs 3rd Ross
Polanski and Gary Henning two radar men from Operations.
Both Diehl and Farleigh reported to the Lawrence straight from boot camp. Diehl had been part
of the crew for one year and Farleigh for six months and during that time, they got to know nearly
everyone of the three hundred sixteen enlisted men and the seventeen officers on board. Diehl
introduced Chris to the two petty officers. Chris learned Polanski was from Asbury Park, New
Jersey, and Henning was from a small town called Beaver Dam, Wisconsin.
Diehl asked the radar men, “What the hell have we been firing at?” Polanski answered, “We
were grid firing.”
“What the fuck is that?” Farleigh asked.
Chris answered, “It’s just as it sounds. We are shooting at coordinates on a firing grid.”
“That’s right,” Henning said, “how did you know that?”
“I learned about that in college.”
“What kind of course was it to teach that?” Polanski asked.
“I was an officer candidate in the Naval ROTC program.”
“You’re shitting me,” Henning said.
“No, it’s true,” Chris, said not wanting to rehash the whole story again, because it would always
resurrect the memories of how he ended up in Missouri and all the failures that followed.
“Well I’ll be,” Henning said.
Chris’s own bias influenced his perception of the reactions of Polanski and Henning assuming
they didn’t hold boatswain mates in high esteem, as though they weren’t capable of possessing enough
intelligence to even go to college. Justifiably or not, he had an uncomfortable sensation he was
looking up the social ladder when he met these two fellows. Conversely, he felt if he were looking up
to them, they were looking down at him. For the first time he perceived the existence of a discreet yet
pervasive caste mentality amongst the different departments and divisions on board. He understood
and readily acknowledged the obvious differences between the officers and enlisted men as it
pertained to privilege and dress. Philippine stewards waited upon the officers who dined separately
in the officers’ mess. Daily attire further distinguished the crewmembers. The working uniform of the
day for officers and CPO’s was always a khaki shirt with matching pants and brimmed khaki covers
while enlisted men wore bell bottom jeans, white t-shirts, denim blue shirts and baseball caps with
the ship’s type and number designation “DDG-4” embroidered above the brim. Within enlisted ranks
Chris noticed during mess, crewmembers tended to sit and dine in groups from their own division and
rarely intermingled with other divisions. He witnessed the same pattern while on liberty, recalling he
had hung out with guys from First; Engineering and Weapons sat and partied with members of their
own divisions, and so on.
Boatswain mates had little or no technical training other than basic seamanship skills like
marlinspike seamanship and knot tying. They fell into a category similar to the “Untouchables” caste
in Hindu society. Machinist mates and boiler men whose hands and clothes were always covered
with oil and grease were slightly above them as they had a modicum level of technical skills. Supply
yeomen in their clerical role seemed to be next up the ladder. Electronic technicians, gunner’s mates
or any other rating with a technician designation placed them above the mid point of the social ladder.
Corpsmen were above them. Quartermasters and operations specialists like radar men worked in CIC
and some with “Top Secret” clearance had a closer association with the higher echelon officer with
tactical responsibility and because of that relationship seemed to be regarded as high on the social
ladder. Therefore, Chris reasoned it was the degree of technical training as well as the level of
involvement with tactical and strategic information, which dictated a division’s position on the ship’s
social strata. He put the thought aside remembering Carey’s statement about being in the same boat.
“So what do you know about this morning’s firing mission? Did we hit anything?” asked Diehl.
Polanski answered, “We don’t know. Spotters on shore fed us coordinates all morning long. We
didn’t get any damage assessment from them. The lookouts on the weather decks reported secondary
explosions every now and then, but who is to say what they really saw. I mean none of us have done
or seen anything like this before. From what I know we and the Holt provided shore fire to various
grids interdicting troop movements into the south and provide protection to the PBR base on the
river.” They talked some more, joked around and finished their meal and Chris, Diehl, Farleigh and
Polanski headed to the bridge to relieve the forenoon watch.
Ensign Stafford had the con, and the captain and navigator were on the bridge as well. Chris
relieved Duncan at the starboard watch. The ship was about a thousand yards from the shore with the
bow pointed directly to land. The destroyer escort USS Holt (DE-1074) was about a quarter mile off
the starboard beam pointing in the same direction. A radioman came onto the bridge and handed the
captain a message. The captain informed Ensign Stafford the Holt had the ship’s mail on board and
ordered him to have the motor whale boat crew go over to pick it up. Ensign Stafford had Little
Brown go see Jordan and tell him to ready the motor whaleboat crew.
Chris watched as Big Brown, Rollie Rhodes and Flynn boarded the whaleboat. Boatswains
Mate 3rd class McClain and SN Roberts helped to swing the davits supporting the boat away from
the sides of the ship. Rhodes and Flynn undid the lines at each end of the boat and gradually lowered
the boat to the water. Big Brown started up the engine and once the boat was unhooked, they headed
over to the Holt. They returned twenty-five minutes later with two large bags of mail. He hoped that
there might be a letter or two from home for him in one of those bags. The announcement for mail call
came soon after they returned.
At 14:10, the ship received a firing mission and commenced firing to port. By then, Chris was
the starboard lookout. He now had an opportunity to not only hear the gun but watch it as well. The
sound powered telephone headphones had no effect minimizing the crushing force of the sound wave
generated by the blast. His eardrums were banging against each other inside his head. The noise was
unnerving. He searched his pockets for anything he might use to muffle the sound and ended up juryrigging earplugs from Marlboro filters.
He was relieved from his watch and ran down to the supply office to see if he had any mail.
Yeoman Gleason looked and handed him two letters. He recognized the meticulous penmanship on
one to be his father’s, the other he didn’t recognize and turned it over to read the return address and
discovered it was from his cousin. He put them in his back pocket and went to supper. The guns
continued to fire through dinner and with each loud burst he could still feel the tremor of the ship and
watched the ripples in his bowl of chicken soup emanate from the center with each explosive roar.
After supper, he went below to read his mail.
Once he settled in his bunk and with the Chi-Lites playing in the background, he opened the letter
from his dad. In his letter, his father wrote he hoped Chris was well and safe and that everybody at
home was okay and missed him. His father further wrote to say a car struck Chris’s dog Aries in the
street in front of their home. The car lost its side view mirror but the dog was no worse for the wear.
His father loved Aries. Chris missed his dog. According to his dad, Aries missed Chris too.
Searching for his missing master Aries picked up Chris’s scent on his mattress and searching for him
dug a hole through its center destroying it. When he came to the sentimental part of his letter Chris
immediately dismissed what he would now read as typical parental jargon. His father went on to urge
his son to be strong stating it would all be over sooner than expected and he would be a far better
person for the experience. Chris thought, Yeah, Dad, if I don’t get killed in the process.
Chris’s broken heart was a festering wound abnormally slow in healing. The anguish of lost love
made him blind and reluctant to accept the consequences of his own actions and decisions. He would
continue to blame his father for altering his plans and subsequently change the course of his life. He
held a deep resentment that his father never once admitted culpability for his situation. He could not
remember his father ever apologizing for failing to set aside funds for his college education during
any of their arguments about the scholarship. Damned stupid, he thought to himself, If I survive this
and ever have a family I will make damned sure my children have the money to follow their
dreams.
He finished his father’s letter and put it in his pocket then opened and read his cousin’s letter.
His cousin Nick had been a weekend warrior with the Army National Guard in the sixties. Because of
the draft, his unit as well as all the other National Guard units throughout the country never went into
combat. He had a comfortable enlistment, spending only two weeks a year on assignment attending
drill meetings once a month. He could not possibly equate his service time with Chris’s and to Nick’s
credit he didn’t. He merely asked Chris how he was doing, telling him to keep his head up and ass
down. His letter was inquisitive and simply expressed interest in knowing what things were like for
him there. It was a welcomed letter and not patronizing like his father’s. He decided he would answer
Nick’s letter first once he found the time to write.
Now he had to try to get some sleep before relieving the midnight watch. He closed his eyes and
managed only to get brief snippets of sleep. The ferocious blast from the gun above him as it
sporadically continued to pound the shore throughout the evening with its deadly payload prevented
lengthy sleep. He became increasingly awake with each successive roar of the gun and coveted the
moment he might get accustomed to it and in return some in rem sleep.
His watch crew relieved the watch in the magazine at midnight. By Chris’s count, he may have
managed to get at best four hours of sleep within the last twenty-four. To their good fortune, the ship
left their sector and headed to Point Dianne, which was southeast of their present position to
rendezvous with a helicopter. It was a perfect opportunity to catch some shut-eye, but sleeping on the
cold hard deck wasn’t the ideal place to get prolonged sleep. They mustered on station at 05:45 and
left the magazine when relieved at 06:00. The watch crew went for breakfast thankful for the respite.
Chris, Carey and Farleigh sat with Polanski and Henning from Operations hoping to extract some
information. “Morning, fellas,” each man said to the two radar men.
Both answered simultaneously, “Hey guys.”
Henning sheepishly said, “You guys seem pretty spry this morning.” Chris could see that both
Henning and Polanski appeared tired. They had also just gotten off their watch in CIC.
Farleigh said, “Yeah, felt good to get a full night’s sleep.”
“I’m so happy for you,” Polanski said sarcastically.
Chris understood Polanski’s sarcasm stemmed from lack of sleep. Chris’s watch was well
below decks away from the eyes and ears of any line officer. Consequently, they could take advantage
of periodic lulls and sneak in some sleep. Whereas CIC watches had to remain diligently alert at their
radarscopes and communications stations while always under the watchful eyes of a commissioned
line officer. Therefore, although Chris and his watch may have to endure physical stress during their
watch the CIC watch endured mental fatigue.
Oblivious to the sarcasm Farleigh continued, “Do you guys know why we didn’t shoot at
anything last night? Tell me the war is over.”
“Don’t we all wish,” Polanski quipped. “We’re heading south to someplace called Point Dianne
near Da Nang.”
“Any idea why we’re going there?” Carey said.
“Nope,” said Henning.
They finished their shit on a shingle breakfast said “See you later,” to each other and went off to
perform their morning chores.
Shortly before relieving the afternoon watch, the command to Set the Helo Detail came over the
intercom, followed five minutes later by Relieve the Watch. Chris relieved Duncan at port lookout.
Ensign Stafford had the con. The captain was on the bridge observing the detail. Chris spotted the
helicopter as it approached from the portside stern quarter and reported it to the relay. The captain
grabbed his binoculars from their resting case and proceeded out to the port lookout deck. Chris
noticed him coming and moved to make room for him but even doing so the captain bumped into him
forcing him to slam into the exterior bulkhead without even an “excuse me.”
He called to Ensign Stafford to put the ship into the wind. The ensign got the wind direction from
CIC and ordered a course change to 140 degrees.
The helmsman replied, “Coming left to one four zero degrees. Aye, aye, sir.” A minute later
Diehl shouted, “Steady on course one four zero degrees, sir.”
“Very well,” answered the ensign. “Com radio, advise the helo of our heading of one four zero
degrees.” The radioman on the bridge relayed the course heading to the pilot of the helicopter who
acknowledged the heading.
The relay reported, “Sir, helo deck reports clear deck and ready to receive helo.”
“Very well, com radio. Advise helo to commence approach.”
The radioman relayed the message to the pilot. “Commencing approach,” he answered. Eleven
minutes later the SH-2 Seasprite helicopter hovered above the helo deck as it maintained course
while the ship steamed along.
The helo deck was on the third deck between rear gun mount and the Tartar Missile system.
Given the limited space available it wasn’t possible for him to land on the deck. He had to make all
exchanges while aloft of the ship. Chris watched as the rotors turned and its turbine engines
vociferously whirred. He admired the skill of the pilot as he brought the helicopter down
perpendicular to the ship nearly to the deck keeping his rotors clear of the potential hazards while
maintaining the course and speed of the ship. Chris watched as two men holding down their caps with
one hand and grasping their duffel bag in the other raced to the doorway of the hovering helicopter.
Each threw their bags into the black interior and extended their free hand to the helicopter crewman
inside. He pulled each one on board and after having done so saluted the helo crew below and
shouted to the pilot with his hand held alongside his right cheek. The helicopter slowly gained
altitude and turned away from the ship. “Secure from helo detail.”
Once the helo left, the ship began to slowly cruise up and down the coastline and while it did,
Chris marveled at the scenery and thought this area of Vietnam even more scenic than that of Cua Viet.
The terrain was hillier and the greenery provider a far more picturesque setting than the flatter lands
just north of their position. Hon La and Cu Lao Cham islands rose quickly out of the sea and the tree
lines on these islands plummeted down the steep hillsides close to the water’s edge and bordered by
large rock formations jutting from the sea. There was more boat traffic in the area than up north where
there was none other than war vessels. There was the occasional large double masted junk with
square sails and tires hanging down all along their gunwales cruising about. The crew with their flat
straw hats, black pajamas and sandaled feet would be mulling about the deck or readying their fishing
nets. There were large motorized sampans with several fisherman hand line fishing the water beneath
them. No one would have suspected this to be a war zone were it not for the presence of his ship.
The ship remained at Point Dianne for the next several days and the daily routine varied little
from day to day. The crew would stand their watches, perform their daily work routines, continue
with their fire missions, and eat and sleep when time allotted. That was until the third day on station
when they performed not one but two replenishments at sea. They refueled from the USS Capacon
(AO-52) early Wednesday morning and took on ammo by helicopter transfer from the ammunition
ship USS Mt. Hood (AE-29) eight hours later. Following the ammo load the ship departed the Da
Nang region and headed back north to an area designated as Point Allison slightly north of the Cua
Viet River. They arrived on station thirty-six minutes into Chris’s midnight watch and commenced
firing thirty-five minutes later. His battery ceased fire by 01:45 having fired off rounds at a rate of
two per minute during that interval and didn’t fire another round during the rest of his watch. Three
hours later, the rear gun commenced its firing mission and continued firing for the greater part of an
hour. The shelling continued well after Chris’s watch was relieved and his crew recognized this was
one of the more intensive bombing missions the ship had participated in during their first week in the
war zone.
During breakfast, they learned from Polanski and Henning the ship was part of “Operation Lam
Son 72.” They had been providing artillery support to the South Vietnamese army in their attempt to
recapture Quang Tri Province, which had come under the control of the North Vietnamese regulars in
May of that year.
Polanski also informed them about the big brass who would be coming aboard later in the day.
“Polish your brass and shoes, fellas, because some VIPs are making a house call later today.”
“Who?” A chorus of voices asked.
“None other than the Chief of Naval Ops himself along with Commander Seventh Fleet Vice
Admiral Holloway and Commander Cruiser Destroyer Group Rear Admiral William Rodgers.”
“No kidding, Zumwalt, eh?” Diehl said.
Admiral Zumwalt was highly regarded by the naval enlisted man. During his appointment, he had
promulgated a number of changes designed to reduce sexism and racism in the Navy as well as
improve morale of the enlisted ranks. Members of the Navy received notice of his enacted policies
through issuance of his “Z-grams.” Were it not for his implementation Carey would not be sporting
his Amish beard, Farleigh would not have a mustache and Diehl’s hair would be significantly shorter.
They heard the boatswain’s pipe come over the intercom followed by BM 3rd class McLane’s
voice, “All hands stand by for a message from the captain.”
The captain addressed the crew: “Crew of the Lawrence, I am proud to announce to you that
throughout the morning the ship has been engaged in providing fire support to allied troops in the
vicinity of Quang Tri City. I am happy to provide you with a damage assessment report we received
from spotters on shore, indicating our guns successfully destroyed six enemy bunkers and damaged
eight others. My compliments go to the crew. Keep up the good work. I am also pleased to announce
that the Chief of Naval Operations along with the Commanders of the Seventh Fleet and Cruiser
Destroyer Group will be visiting the Lawrence later this afternoon. I would expect all crewmen to act
and look, sharp and that all brass fittings polished to a high gloss shine. That is all.”
Chris smirked, “I guess the brass is coming to inspect the brass.” Following muster they
proceeded to polish the brass fittings and spit shine the ship as ordered. Meanwhile, the guns roared
in the background.
Chris relieved Dixon at the fantail watch at 12:00 hours. The ship had set the helo detail and
was maneuvering to close on the light cruiser USS Providence (CLG-6), which served as the
command ship for Rear Admiral Rodgers. At the fantail, Chris could see Admiral Zumwalt exit the
helo. As soon as he stepped on deck Little Brown piped him on board announcing, “Chief of Naval
Operations on board.” He then piped and announced, “Commander Seventh Fleet on board” as Vice
Admiral Holloway exited the helo. Finally he announced, “Commander Cruiser Destroyer Group on
board for Rear Admiral Rodgers.
The captain, executive officer and several other officers were on the helo deck to welcome
them. They shook hands and the captain escorted them down the exterior stairwell alongside the helo
deck. As they walked down the stairwell Chris could see Admiral Zumwalt brandishing a broad
smile and was somewhat surprised to see how young he looked in comparison to the officers in his
company. They passed by Chris and he snapped the appropriate salute, which they all returned and
headed forward. Thirty minutes later, the helo was back and picked up the admirals and their
entourage.
Chris pressed down the button on his sound powered telephone and remarked, “I don’t think they
were here long enough to have a cup of coffee. Do you think the Admiral noticed how shiny our brass
fittings are?” With the royal visitation behind them, the ship proceeded to its next assigned patrolling
station Alpha off the Cua Viet River where they once again resumed their bombardment of inland
targets.
His ship remained on station for several days as part of Task Unit 70.8.9. The remaining ships in
complement were: USS Newport News, USS Rowan (DD 782), USS Providence (CL 82), USS
Mullinnix (DD 944), USS H.B. Wilson (DDG 7), USS J.S. McCain (DDG-36), USS R.S. Edwards
(DD 950), USS Wiltsie (DD 716), USS Towers (DDG 9), USS Anderson (DD 786) and the USS
Providence (CLG 6). The days would go by and the ship would conduct firing missions each day
throughout the day. They would stop only to replenish fuel, ammo and food stores. They held these
details almost on a daily basis and on some days, they would conduct two a day and several of them
went well into and beyond the midnight hour. The crew considered themselves fortunate on some
days to get five straight hours of sleep.
It was the dog days of August and temperatures consistently reached into the mid to upper
nineties each day. The ultra violet rays beating down on the ship transformed it into a 437-foot long
griddle causing the days to become even more oppressive as the heat radiating from the deck and the
heat from the sun clashed and lingered close to the deck. The heat rising from the deck created
distortions to the blanketing air as it did along open highways on hot summer days. One excessively
hot morning while rust hunting Chris placed his hand down on the deck. The heat seared the flesh of
his palm. “Christ!” he exclaimed while shaking off the pain. “I bet this deck is hot enough to fry an
egg.”
“I’ll take that bet,” Diehl said. “Shall we make a friendly wager?”
“What do you consider friendly?”
“Is twenty bucks friendly enough?”
Eager for the diversion Chris immediately responded, “Sure, you’re on.”
“Okay, I’ll be right back,” said Diehl leaving for the mess deck.
As he walked away Chris started to think he was a little hasty making the bet. He figured these
guys have been on this ship much longer than he and thought they must have made bets like this before
while transiting through the tropical waters on the way from Norfolk. What the hell, he thought it was
only twenty bucks and would provide a humorous diversion from the boring task of rust hunting.
When Diehl returned holding the egg others on the fantail, who had overheard their bet began to
make side wagers with each other. They went to an open area of the fantail exposed to continuous sun.
They formed a small circle and knelt down.
At that moment Ensign Stafford was making his rounds about the deck to check on the progress of
his workers, saw them all squatting in a circle, approached the group and barked, “What’s going on
here?”
They all stood up looking as if they raided the cookie jar. No one seemed to want to say
anything. “I asked you guys a question.”
Chris felt obligated to speak up because it was his bet with Diehl that caused this gathering. “We
were about to settle a bet, sir.”
“What’s the bet?”
“Well, sir, we bet whether the deck was hot enough to fry an egg on.” The ensign simply stood
there mulling over his response.
Chris attempting to coerce his approval said, “Sir, may we have your permission to settle the
bet? We will clean it up once it is settled.”
The ensign looked around at the Sailors and said, “Fine, go ahead.”
“Thank you, sir. Mr. Stafford, would you care to make a wager yourself?”
“No thanks,” he snickered.
They knelt down with the ensign standing behind them. Diehl took the egg and rapped it on the
deck spilling its contents. The egg didn’t sizzle as it would on a hot grill when it hit the deck but the
albumen slowly turned white. Within five minutes, the white of the egg was completely cooked and
those who had won their bets let out a cheerful “Yeah!” and collected their winnings.
“Thank you, sir,” Chris said as he pocketed Diehl’s payment.
“That’s a bet I certainly would have lost,” said Ensign Stafford. “All right get this cleaned up
and continue with your work,” he said as he turned to go forward.
“Yes, sir, will do,” Chris said and then scooped up the runny egg, flung it over the side and
washed down the deck. “That was cool,” Chris said to Diehl.
“Cool for you. You’re up twenty bucks!”
“Tell you what, here’s your money back,” he said handing the bill back to Diehl. “It was worth
the twenty dollars to learn Stafford has a sense of humor.”
The moment’s levity dampened at the sight of OE Division technicians PC3 Michael Pike and
PC2 Jason Kim coming down the stairwell from the helo deck. Pike was holding a dead bird by its
neck and its lifeless head bobbed from side to side with each step he took. Having noticed the two
radar technicians coming down the stairwell, Chris nudged Diehl to take notice of them. Judging from
the size of the bird and considering the albatross was generally the only bird seen so far from the
shoreline it was obvious to Chris and Diehl, Pike was in fact holding a dead one. The two techs
walked past them and proceeded to the fantail where they gave the bird a burial at sea tossing it
overboard. They walked over to the technicians and asked what happened as they watched the
floating carcass float amidst the prop wash into the distance.
Pike said, “We went to do PM on the aft radar array this morning and when we got there we
found the fucking thing dead on the catwalk. It must have gotten fried by a microwave burst from one
of the radar antennae sometime ago.”
“How common is that? Do you usually find dead birds up there?”
“This is a first for me,” Pike said.
Kim added, “Me too.”
“Shit, when I noticed it was no longer trailing behind us I figured it simply flew off,” Chris
remarked.
“It might have. There is no way of telling if it was the same bird. Either way it’s a bad sign,”
Diehl said and began to quote another verse of Coleridge’s poem:
And I had done an hellish thing,
And it would work ’em woe :
For all averred, I had killed the bird
That made the breeze to blow.
Ah wretch! said they, the bird to slay,
That made the breeze to blow!
Overhearing the conversation Farleigh exclaimed, “Again with the fucking Gooney Birds! You
guys are fucked up with all this talk about a dead fucking bird.” Sean Farleigh was a perpetually
upbeat guy and would never allocate any time on the macabre or superstition. He was the type to
whistle while walking beneath a ladder, step on a crack without hesitating, and sing for his morning
breakfast. Nothing seemed to perturb the feisty little guy. Chris and Diehl nervously laughed at his
remarks and returned to their rust hunting.
At midnight on Sunday, August 27, the ship’s readiness status changed to Condition IV and
Material Condition Yoke, and the watch schedule changed to three-hour shifts for the first half of the
day. During the morning watch of the 27th and unknown to most of the crew the ship detached from
Task Unit 70.8.9 and left Point Angela embarked to its new assignment with Task Unit 77.1.1
stationed off Hon La Anchorage as part of Linebacker Operations. They arrived in vicinity of Hon La
Anchorage shortly after 08:30. Chris asked during breakfast if anyone had any idea where they were.
Farleigh answered, “Flanagan in Ops told me we’re somewhere off the coast of North Vietnam.”
Every one at the table immediately picked up their heads surprised and uneasy about hearing the
news. The threat of any counter attack while stationed off the gun line in the south was non-existent.
The North Vietnamese had no navy or fighter aircraft present in that theater of operations to be
concerned about. Operations in the North would now change the complexion of their involvement in
the war and turn it into a shooting war for them because they would certainly conduct bombing runs
on strategic locations in many of the fortified harbors within North Vietnam. The North Vietnamese
now could and would fire back in defense.
In this test of opposing political systems, the North Vietnamese were continuously receiving
shipments of weaponry and technical support from both the Soviet Union and the Peoples Republic of
China. As a result, their air defenses were among the best in the world. They had an air force
comprised of MIG-19s and MIG-31s capable of rapid deployment. Entrances to all their harbors and
chokepoints had shore batteries with targeting G and J Band radars strategically placed augmenting
their coastal defenses. Their navy consisted of a contingency of Swatow Torpedo Boats capable of
attaining speeds up to sixty knots. Their speed and payload of torpedoes not only made them
formidable but they were rumored to have been modified to include the Soviet made Styx surface-tosurface missiles. With the Lawrence’s top speed of thirty-six knots, these torpedo boats could easily
intercept them and their missile arsenal provided the North Vietnamese additional long-range strike
capability. Their small target profile would not only make them difficult to spot visually and on radar
but also difficult to hit with the ship’s batteries and consequently posed a very dangerous threat.
Little Brown broke the ice at the table and said, “Well boys we’re in the shit now.”
Little else was said during their morning meal as everyone at the table preferred to contemplate
the present situation. Chris ruminated the current state of affairs and considered his mortality in terms
of last things. He thought of the last time he got laid, the last letter he wrote to his folks, the last
Christmas dinner with his family, the last time he drove a car, the last time he spent with his friends,
the last time he fished with his dad, the last time he played Wiffle Ball with his kid brother, the last
Met game he went to, the last time he loved someone, the last time he was loved back and a myriad
other events. He silently prayed those would not be the last of the lasts. He bemused again as he often
did about how quickly his life had changed and what little control he now had over it. Four weeks
ago he was partying with Rick and Linda in Los Angeles and today he finds himself on a U.S. Navy
guided missile destroyer several miles off the coast of North Vietnam with people he barely knew yet
had to trust. He hoped when the shit hit the fan and the shells started falling he would prove his metal
and worth to his shipmates and not let them down. Although he had an opinion about the war which
conflicted with his involvement, he acquiesced to the concept of them being brothers in combat and
knew it was essential each perform their assigned duties to assure their mutual survival.
The ship remained on station about five miles off Hon La Anchorage for the next week as part of
the continuing Linebacker operations. This was a joint campaign of the Seventh Air Force and U.S.
Navy Task Force 77, which commenced operations on May 9, 1972. The operational objective of the
campaign was to provide air support to ground troops under attack by North Vietnamese troops
operating in the south and to interdict in the transport of men and materiel from the north. Nixon and
his advisors conceived the operation in response to the North Vietnamese Easter Campaign launched
earlier in the year against South Vietnam with the goal of splintering the country apart during which
they successfully targeted and seized the cities of Quang Tri, Kontum and An Loc. The Easter
Campaign was the largest offensive launched by Communist forces since the Tet Offensive of 1968.
By the end of 1971 President Nixon’s Vietnamization program had significantly reduced the
number of ground forces operating in South Vietnam by 386,000 to 156,800 combat troops.
Furthermore, the Soviets and the Red Chinese continued to court the alliance of North Vietnam and in
1971 again provided massive amounts of aid, furnishing them with one thousand T-54 and Type 59
medium tanks, anti-aircraft missiles, shoulder fired anti-tank weaponry and heavy caliber long-range
artillery.
The North Vietnamese saw the decline in American ground troops as an opportunity to seize
sizeable amounts of strategic territories within South Vietnam, inflict heavy casualties upon the Army
of the Republic of Vietnam and further disenfranchise American involvement in South Vietnam’s
struggle for independence. Emboldened by the infusion of armaments and U.S. troop reduction the
military commanders of the North decided to commit some 150,000 troops to the Easter Campaign
and further elected to disregard the terms of the Geneva agreement of 1954 by launching an attack
across the Demilitarized Zone.
The Hon La Anchorage located about sixty miles north of the DMZ served as a supply center for
offloading and distribution point of cargo destined for those North Vietnamese troops engaged in that
campaign. As part of Linebacker operations, the ship conducted naval gunfire missions every night
through the early morning hours in and around the Hon La anchorage. Military intelligence provided
the targets and firing missions and the ship fired upon those supply depots, bridges, roads, radar
installations, AA sites and other enemy positions.
It was on the second day of the ship’s deployment off Hon La Island and during Chris’s
afternoon watch when Farleigh spotted and reported objects floating in the water. The captain
ordered the motor whaleboat lowered to investigate. Big Brown and his gig crew entered the boat
and proceeded on the heading Farleigh provided to the bridge. About a mile off the starboard beam
they stopped. Big Brown’s southern drawl coming through the overhead loudspeaker reported,
“Motor boat to bridge...What we have here is good ole American garbage.”
“What do you mean?” asked the conning officer, LT Wendel.
“What I mean, sir, is the object in the water is nothing more than a bag of ship’s trash.”
Little Brown, who was the BMOW, called out to Farleigh who was standing on starboard
lookout, “Way to go, Farleigh, the ship was saved from hitting a deadly garbage mine!”
Farleigh responded into the voice-activated telephone and said to Diehl who was standing relay,
“Tell that little fucker the object is another two hundred yards to port of the motor whale boat.”
Diehl shot out to Lt Wendel: “Sir, starboard lookout reports objects he reported are two hundred
yards to port of the motor whale boat.”
Lieutenant Wendel went out onto the starboard wing with binoculars in hand to get a look for
himself. Farleigh pointed in the general direction to help the lieutenant spot the object. The lieutenant
came back onto the bridge and radioed back to the whaleboat to proceed another two hundred yards
to their port bow.
Big Brown said, “Aye, sir” put the boat in gear and headed off to find the suspicious object. The
crew of the motor whaleboat spotted the object and Big Brown cautiously approached it. At first
glance, it looked like the top of a floating mine. When they got a clear view of the object they pulled
up alongside it. “Motor whaleboat to bridge, we are alongside the object and it ain’t nothing more
than a bag of rice, with Chinese writing on it.”
Lieutenant Wendel ordered Big Brown to retrieve the bag from the water and return it to the
ship. Chris heard Diehl say, “What the fuck... he must believe this bag of rice may provide some vital
information crucial to the outcome of the war.”
Chris said, “No I think he just wants to deny the North Vietnamese soldiers their daily ration of
rice.”
“Whatever the reason it seems like a waste of time and effort to me,” said Diehl.
Big Brown did as ordered and headed back to the ship. Several minutes later the ship
commenced firing at its assigned targets.
Although Chris’s remark about depriving food to the North Vietnamese was said in jest he
would learn within the next several days his comment had naively contained a grain of truth.
The North Vietnamese after receiving their initial shipment of arms and material from the
Communist bloc found it increasingly difficult to logistically support their troops in the South as
Linebacker Operations drastically curtailed the influx of supplies. As part of Operation Linebacker
President Nixon ordered not only an increase in the bombing of installations within North Vietnam but
also the mining of North Vietnamese harbors to further impede their ability to re-supply their forces.
Chris could remember the furor his course of action created in the states and around the world and
recalled seeing the demonstrations on the news when he was a civilian. Hon La Anchorage due to its
proximity to the Demilitarized Zone was one of the strategic locations mined along with Haiphong
harbor. The mining of these harbors evidently had succeeded interdicting the North Vietnamese
supply chain, which denial of supplies ultimately aided the South Vietnamese in their eventual
recapturing of Kontum, An Loc and later Quang Tri. Intelligence assessed the rice bag floating in the
water a response by the North Vietnamese to the harbor mining. Denied the ability to offload supplies
directly ashore, they tried to thwart the embargo by dumping these bags into the Gulf of Tonkin
trusting the tide to wash them ashore.
While on station the crew remained at readiness Condition II and the ship at modified material
condition zebra, so during the days the crew was required to perform their daily work routines. Their
daily routine was routinely interrupted by the occasional helo or replenishment details when all hands
were called to assist in taking on fuel, food or ammo. These details often took place in the evening
after the crew knocked off work. The ship would refuel, take on ammo and stores on average every
second day at sea, consequently between participating in these details, and their normal work day,
and standing of watches, and running general quarter drills the crew had little time for sleep or
relaxation. They had been on the gun line for one week and conducted twenty-one missions firing four
hundred fifty shells. They refueled three times, re-armed once by helicopter and twice by highline,
had three helo details and five motor whaleboat launchings.
Aside from the normal bitching the morale of the crew remained good, though to a man each
would have preferred to be back in the states with their loved ones or for those without hometown
honeys shacked up in Olongapo with their Philippine version. For diversion at night the crew would
perhaps catch a movie on the mess decks, play poker, write letters home, listen to music, talk shit
with each other, read a paper back novel or comic, and routinely masturbate to relieve their anxiety.
At nights when lights were out in the compartment, Chris could often hear the sound of chicken skin
slapping together as many of his shipmates would whack off in their bunks. Chris was well
accustomed to the sound, as he could spank his monkey with the best of them, generally visualizing his
past sexual encounters with Cassie and more recently with Layla.
One night while Chris lay in his bunk unable to sleep, he heard that distinct sound coming from
across the aisle. He looked up. In the dim red light, he could see Seaman Apprentice Pete Armstrong
completely covered in his sheet fervently working on himself. He looked like a pupa about to shed its
skin. When he finished spilling his semen Chris heard him exclaim, “Aw shit,” and saw him remove
his head from beneath the sheet. As he turned to reach for a towel to wipe himself the cause of
Armstrong’s distress became evident. He had ejaculated with such force it spewed onto his cheek.
Armstrong was mortified when he noticed Chris staring at him.
“Jesus Christ, Armstrong!” Chris whispered incredulously.
“Fuck you, Columbo,” Armstrong whispered back in defense while wiping the jizz from his face.
“You better not say anything about this to anyone, okay?”
Chris quelling back his laughter, whispered back, “Don’t worry, my lips are sealed, I only hope
for your sake yours were.”
Armstrong wasn’t the sharpest knife in the drawer. He was a young kid from Toledo who
dropped out of high school and joined the Navy. He always seemed to be the target of ridicule by
Jordan who in his jocular manner would imply Armstrong was the poster child for idiots. Perhaps
Jordan formed his opinion during a replenishment detail which Chris could recall witnessing from his
watch station. During the detail Armstrong was twirling the messenger line about his head in
preparing to toss it to the tanker but when he released it rather than travel to the tanker it traveled
forward to the forecastle and the monkey ball struck Jordan smack in the back of the head knocking
off his hard hat.
Perhaps his opinion was formed in Olongapo as Armstrong on three successive days failed to
make it back on board from liberty in time for muster. Chris didn’t care why Jordan treated
Armstrong the way he did. He took pity on him, because nearly everyone in the Division seemed to
view Armstrong the same way as Jordan. Although Armstrong tried to be a good Sailor his demeanor,
actions and vacuous look in his eyes did nothing else but portray him as an underachieving slacker.
Chris decided he would not subject Armstrong to further ridicule by announcing what he witnessed to
the others. He simply tried to diffuse the situation by telling a joke. He whispered, “Hey, Armstrong,
do you know why dogs lick their balls?”
“Uh, no why?” Armstrong asked as though the question was more than rhetorical.
“Because they can. Goodnight scum face,” Chris said as he lay back down onto his rack
chuckling as he did.
Still unable to sleep and inspired by Armstrong’s performance he thought masturbating might
also help him relieve some tension and help him slumber. He reached down beneath the sheet took his
member in hand, fantasized Layla was playing with his balls and cock and proceeded to jerk off. He
began slowly and as the erotic imagery of Layla sucking on his cock became more distinct the depth
of his breathing became more pronounced and his strokes more feverish. As if orchestrated at the
exact moment his semen spurted out of him a resounding BOOM bellowed from the gun above.
Amused by the symbolism, physically and psychologically drained, he closed his eyes let out a deep
sigh and fell into a deep sleep.
Yet another week passed by as the ship remained on station off Hon La anchorage. They refueled
three times, re-armed twice via highline transfer, took on provisions once, stationed the helicopter
detail four times, launched the motor whaleboat four times, conducted another nine missions firing
one hundred forty eight projectiles at suspected enemy positions, conducted three general quarter
drills and recovered fifty bags of rice from the sea. The bags brought aboard were stowed in the light
lockers between the interior passageways and exterior decks along the bulkhead on the fantail. They
would remain there pending a decision on how to dispose of them.
On one afternoon watch, while Chris was manning the fantail watch he heard Diehl through the
sound powered phone report sighting rice bags off the ship’s forequarter. Shortly thereafter Ensign
Stafford and Big Brown arrived on the fantail and went to the stern of the ship. Chris noticed each of
them had a .45 pistol strapped to their sides. Chris saw this as rather unusual as up to that point
except for quarterdeck watch no officer and no crewmember was armed on board. “I think Ensign
Stafford and Big Brown are going to have a gunfight, they’re each packing .45s,” Chris said jokingly
into the mouthpiece.
Diehl responded, “They’re taking some target practice at rice bags. The captain told Stafford he
didn’t want to clutter up the ship with anymore of them and ordered him and Big Brown to get their
side arms and ‘waste the damned things’.” Chris walked as far back as the cord to the phones would
allow trying to watch the two of them shoot at the floating targets. Chris could see about ten bags
floating some thirty yards astern of the ship. The engines stopped and the ship was dead in the water
while they conducted their firing exercise.
Ensign Stafford fired his first three round salvos in rapid succession. From Chris’s vantage point
he could see the ensign’s first shot missed as water shot up at the bullets entry point. His second hit
the bag quite near its center sending up dust, burlap and rice as it struck its target. The third shot
splashed into the water above its intended target.
“Nice shooting,” Chris could hear Big Brown say to the ensign.
“Let’s see how you do,” the ensign said.
Big Brown pulled the gun from its holster pulled back on the slide, held the gun forward with his
left hand under the handle, flicked the safety, took aim and fired. The gun popped. Rice flew in the air
as the bullet tore into it splitting open its side allowing the contents to spill into the sea. His second
shot rang out and the bullet penetrated into another. He took a third shot and the bullet ripped into the
same bag for the kill shot. He put the safety back on and holstered his pistol. While doing so his
mannerism bore a resemblance to Gomer Pyle with that innocent “golleee” type of swagger, bouncing
his shoulders up and down as he swayed left and right.
“How’s that, Mr. Stafford?” the big galoot boasted.
“Fine shooting, Brown,” the ensign replied with a smile.
“What say we wager on who scores the most hits, sir?” Brown said confidently. It may have
been the sound of the small arms fire or the prospect of placing a bet but a small crowd was
beginning to form around the pair making it difficult for Chris to see the results of their target
practice. What Chris could see was the crewmembers exchanging money as they were making side
bets. With each shot, one segment of the crowd or the other would let out a supportive cheer. They
continued firing for another twenty minutes. When they finished the crowd dispersed handing over the
winnings to each other laughing and joking. Brown Brown was amongst the group and walked
towards him along with SN Thomson and Dixon. He was laughing as he counted his winnings placed
the money into his pocket and flagrantly scratched his crotch as he walked along.
“Hey, Brownie. See you had a profitable afternoon.”
“Yeah. Fifty bucks gonna buy me plenty of poontang back in Subic,” he said still laughing. “That
motherfucking ensign is one helluva shot,” he said again scratching himself as he spoke.
“I take it you had money on Stafford.”
“Hell yeah, I took the long odds.”
“Good for you,” Chris said, noticing Brown continuing to scratch himself while they talked.
“What the fuck’s wrong with you, you got the crabs or something?”
“I ain’t got no idea, but I’ve had this fucking itch for a couple days now.”
“Me, too,” said Dixon.
“When do you guys plan on seeing Hawthorne in sick bay, before or after you rub your dicks
off?”
“That’s probably a good idea,” Brown responded.
“Well I hope you guys solve your problem, because that itch looks fucking nasty.”
“Thanks, catch you later,” Brown said as he and his companions walked off still rubbing
themselves below.
Ensign Stafford walked forward towards Chris and when he came near Chris playfully asked,
“Afternoon, sir, how many bags did you kill?” As the ensign came near Chris reprimanded himself for
once again engaging his mouth before his brain, thinking the ensign might not find that line of
questioning the least bit comical.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Columbo. I managed to sink eight out of the ten.”
“That was some fine shooting, sir, Big Brown appeared a bit humbled after your exhibition.”
“Yeah, well I think he was somewhat at a disadvantage.”
“How’s that, sir?”
“Although it was a couple of years ago I was on the Navy’s pistol team at the academy.”
“That sounds like it might have been a fun sport. If you have no objection, sir, I’ll make Big
Brown aware of that fact, to help soothe his bruised ego.”
“I have no objection.”
“Sir, if I might ask, why didn’t we pick those bags up?”
“There are too many of them aboard as it is and they are getting in the way. The large number we
are finding makes it a waste of time and effort to launch the motor whaleboat to recover them.
Besides HTM1 Howarth has correlated an outbreak of lice on board with the recovery of these bags,
so from hereon we will try to sink them with small arms fire whenever possible. You might spread
the word around to your shipmates to avoid contact with these bags.”
“Will do. Thank you, sir, for the information.”
“Your welcome, Mr. Columbo. Carry on,” he said and proceeded forward back to the bridge.
Chris continued his duties as the fantail watch and looked around at some of the crewmembers
still gathered about the stern. Cognizant of this latest information from Ensign Stafford he noticed
several casually scratching their crotches while standing around talking. Oddly, he equated those
scratching themselves as those individuals having the reputations as the most blatant “skaters.” During
more arduous details like rearming, refueling and replenishments these “skaters” would discreetly
slip out of the line and hide inside the ship. These laggards would often use the rice bags as cover.
Surprisingly, those engaged in the details and knowledgeable of these “skaters” rarely alerted their
superiors of the missing workers. They kept their mouths shut fearing reprisal or becoming viewed as
a snitch. Often those who “skated” were so brazen about it, they would make jokes and laugh, which
didn’t ingratiate them to those who remained because they were made to look like saps, yet they kept
silent. Given what he recently learned from Ensign Stafford about the lice, Chris felt it poetic justice
that these “skaters” were infested due to their flagrant indolence. However, the sight of their
discomfort and the knowledge he occasionally sat upon these bags himself made him feel itchy.
Layla had been Chris’s one and only exposure to prostitution. Although his casual sexual
encounters in the past were with young girls and women considered being of good repute, he always
used condoms as a precaution against venereal diseases and unwanted pregnancies. He had not worn
one though with Layla. He felt it prudent to learn something about the symptoms and treatment for
crabs, so he posed the question into the sound powered telephones.
“Does anyone know anything about crabs?” he asked.
“What kind, blue claw, stone, rock, king, Dungeness?” responded Carey.
“No the sexually transmitted kind,” Chris explained.
“Why you got the crabs?” exclaimed Diehl.
“I hope not. Ensign Stafford told me the doc has been treating some of the crew for lice and
Howarth claims these cases coincidentally appeared soon after the rice bags were brought on board.
That’s one reason why we aren’t picking anymore up. Brown Brown and Dixon were talking to me
earlier and scratching their nuts off. After what Stafford told me I couldn’t help but think they must
have crabs. Besides there are a few others back here scratching themselves as we speak.”
“You fuckin’ homo,” Farleigh blurted into the phones.
“Eat shit, I’m a pitcher not a catcher,” joked Chris. “I am serious about this. In fact I’m feeling a
bit itchy myself, just talking about it.”
Diehl interjected, “Come to think of it, so am I.”
Farleigh asked, “Do you know how they treat you for crabs?”
“Never had them so I ain’t got a clue,” Chris answered.
“Well they shave half your pubic hairs off set fire to the rest and stab the crabs with an ice pick
as they flee the fire.”
“Ha, ha. I’m sure that’s how they cured your mother,” said Diehl. “I’ll be a son of a bitch! They
put cockroaches in our sauce and crabs on our cocks. I think the Navy’s got it twisted around.”
Chris laughed. “Hey Farleigh, isn’t it time you relieved me back here?”
“We’re rotating the watch now,” Carey said. “See you up on the bridge, Chris.”
Chris relieved the port lookout just as the forward gun mount bellowed its thunderous roar
expelling its deadly cargo towards the vicinity of Hon La Anchorage. The forward gun fired before he
could insert his cigarette filter earplugs in his ears and don the headphones. He recoiled and ducked
as the brown cordite cloud spewed through the muzzle twenty feet from his head. “Goddamnit,” he
muttered while he scurried to put the filters into his ears and the headphones on his head. In three
weeks on the gun line, he still had not gotten accustomed to the sound of the gun while topside. He
resumed his watch and scoured the area through his binoculars.
It was a beautiful day in their sector, but when he looked south, he could see gray clouds
enveloping the entire southern horizon. As he peered south with his naked eyes, he noticed two
distinct lines perpendicular to the sea just before the line of the horizon. Looking through the
binoculars, he was able to distinguish them as water spouts. They appeared to be about one mile
distant from one another. He reported his finding to the relay operator.
Ensign Stafford stepped out onto the lookout platform raised his binoculars and said, “We have
reports of a typhoon heading this way and that weather pattern south of us is the front line of the
storm. I suspect we’ll be bugging out of here soon to evade the storm.”
The storm surge headed in the ship’s direction caused the sea to rapidly alter its disposition. The
calm waters were beginning to swell to crests of three to five feet. To evade the storm the ship
assumed a course perpendicular to the coastline of North Vietnam of 090°. Chris watched the
coastline sink into the horizon from his starboard lookout post. Shortly after his watch ended, the call
came over the intercom to man the refueling detail. By the time, the detail was set the wave crests
reached eight to ten feet. In spite of the turbulent sea they completed the replenishment without
incident, following which the ship continued on its course to its assigned position where it joined
company with seven other naval vessels comprised of two carriers, four destroyers and one nuclear
powered destroyer leader.
The guns were silent for the next several days while the task group steamed around in a circle
evading the effects of typhoon “Elsie.” In spite of the distance placed between the task group and the
typhoon the sea continued to swell to crests of twenty feet and accompanying fog limited visibility to
no more than one thousand yards.
Severe conditions closed the weather decks to unnecessary personnel. The only people
permitted on deck were the forward lookouts when dense fog called for the low visibility detail.
Overcast conditions and the thick fog imparted a forlorn grayness upon the sea, which lasted for
several days. The dearth of color in the surrounding environment and the relentless thrashing of the
sea wore upon the crew fostering short tempers. For the most part, when the crew wasn’t holding fire
control and GQ drills they were busy polishing lockers; the decks, the heads, their shoes, their belt
buckles, and brass fittings. As time wore on the bitching amongst them during drills and work details
became more vociferous.
One evening while Chris was lying in his bunk writing a letter Dixon’s boom box blasted out
“Oh Girl.” Chris rolled his eyes at the prospect of hearing the song again.
Others in the Division seemed just as annoyed with it as Farleigh shouted, “Do we have to hear
that fucking song again?”
Dixon responded, “You got a problem with soul music, Farleigh?”
Farleigh didn’t want to make this the racial issue Dixon implied when he referred to the song’s
genre rather than the song itself. “I got no problem with soul music, it’s good to dance to. What I have
a problem with is listening to the same fucking song over and over. Play something else for Christ’s
sake!”
Dixon ignored Farleigh’s plea turning up the volume even more.
Farleigh interpreted Dixon’s action as antagonistic and leapt from his bunk and turned down the
volume to the boom box.
“Get your motherfucking pasty white ass hands off my music box, Farleigh.”
A scuffle ensued as the two shipmates began to shove each other in the narrow passageway. A
number of the crew nearby began shouting. “Cool it.”
“Knock that shit off.”
“Get back in your bunk, Farleigh.”
Chris and Jordan got up to see what was going on. They turned into the aisle to see Farleigh and
Dixon in a stalemate having each other in a headlock. Jordan took control and forced his way through
the spectators.
“Cut this shit out!” while trying to separate them.
Jordan stood their in his skivvies, tee shirt and flip flops and placed a firm grip on each of their
shoulders pressing his thumbs into the pressure points just below their front shoulders. The combined
weight of Farleigh and Dixon may have surpassed Jordan’s but they offered little resistance to the
pressure he applied and quickly separated turning their attentions to the pain he inflicted. Placing his
hands on each of their shoulders he held them apart as a father might separate squabbling siblings yet
looked prepared to crack their skulls together at the first sign either wanted to continue.
“What the fuck’s wrong with you two? There ain’t enough fighting going on here already, that we
need this bullshit too? I want both of you to knock this shit off now or I’ll put both your asses on
report right after I kick ’em both.”
He released his hold on them and had them shake hands. They did so reluctantly and headed their
separate ways. Jordan grabbed Dixon by the back of his neck, reached up to his boom box lowering
the volume and spoke directly into his ear. Dixon acknowledged what Jordan whispered shrinking
away from him while nodding in comprehension and moved away once Jordan released his grasp.
“And put some motherfucking Temptations on for a change! Heh, heh, heh,” he said trying to ease
the tension while walking back to his bunk.
Dixon took the Afro pick stuck in his hair and headed off to the head to comb out his fro he
thought got mussed up in the tussle.
Brown Brown’s bunk was beneath Dixon’s and as Chris headed back to his, he stopped to say
hello.
“Hey Brownie, fucked up shit, eh?”
“Yeah, something like that was bound to happen sooner or later with that niggah.”
“Meaning what?”
“I mean he’s a brother from the Detroit ghetto and has no great love for whitey.”
“That’s too bad,” Chris said, “because the way I see it we’re all in this shit together. Black,
white, brown—it don’t matter much here, does it? Bullets don’t discriminate.”
“Amen, bro. It’s just some brothers won’t ever change their attitude no matter what the latitude.
Hell, Dixie could win a million dollars and he would move into a lily-white neighborhood just to
piss them off. But not me. Shit, give me a million dollars and I’ll be as sweet as brown sugar to my
neighbors, cause them white women will all be itching to get my black ass into bed,” he said with a
laugh.
“Speaking of itching, did you see Howarth about your problem?”
“Shit, yeah, I did. The motherfucker said I had lice.”
“Lice? So it is true what they said about the rice bags! So what did he do about your problem?”
“That faggot shaved off all my pubes and gave me a cream I got to use for ten days.”
“Guess we should change your name to Bald Balls Brown,” Chris said jabbing his arm.
“You funny guy, Columbo,” and jabbed Chris’s arm in response. “Catch you later, Brownie.”
“Yeah, take it slow, mo fo.”
Chris went back to his bunk to find Jordan reading the latest edition of Jet magazine. Lying on his
back, he was fidgeting around in his skivvies while he propped up the magazine on his chest with his
free hand.
“Don’t tell me you got ’em, too?” Chris asked.
“Got what there, Columbus?”
“C’mon give me a break. When are you gonna get my name right? It’s Columbo not Columbus!”
“Heh, heh, I just been fucking with you,” he said while continuing to play with himself, “Now
tell me, got what?”
“Brown Brown told me he is being treated for lice.”
“Yeah, I know about that and no, I ain’t got ’em. What I got is a good size hard-on for this sweet
piece of ass.”
He turned the magazine to show Chris the picture of a well-endowed black woman, in a skimpy
bikini, with a huge Afro posing by the water’s edge. She was sitting on a rock with her arms extended
behind her as support while she arched her back pointing her breasts at the sun making them appear
even larger.
“Yeah, she’s a fine piece of tail,” acknowledged Chris.
“That’s my wife you be calling a piece of tail there, son,” Jordan said.
“No shit?” Chris said failing miserably to feign surprise.
Jordan noticing Chris’s skepticism said in an annoyed tone, “Why, you don’t think someone like
me could be married to someone who looked like this?”
“Uh, no. If I sounded surprised it’s not that you couldn’t be married to such a fox it’s that I never
would have guessed you were married to Pamela Grier.”
Jordan started to laugh that sinister laugh of his, “Heh, heh, heh. Then you know who she is.”
In truth, Chris had no clue about her, but when Jordan flashed the page of the magazine for him to
see he read her name in the bottom right corner of the photo.
“Well I’m impressed,” Jordan said.
Chris climbed into his bunk smugly complacent about gaining Jordan’s respect simply for
reading and reciting the name of the young actress. Her body of work had included a few nominal
roles in “blacksploitation” films. Those outside of black society knew little of her. Chris liked
Jordan. Although Jordan was an imposing physical specimen, he saw him as a jovial character with a
joie de vivre perspective who would not hurt a fly unless it crossed him. Chris had no reason to cross
him nor would he play him for the fool, so he immediately confessed.
“Don’t be, Jordan. I had no fucking idea who the chick in the picture was. I guess you were too
busy staring at her tits to notice her name at the bottom of the picture.”
He could hear Jordan flip the page back and said, “You sly motherfucker, well you got me. Heh,
heh, heh.” Then he cut one.
Chris hollered, “For Christ sakes. Do you release them at will?”
He coughed at the foul stench, sprung out of his bunk, and waved his stationery pad to deflect the
stink.
Jordan laughed and Chris joined him as the foul odor seeped to Flynn’s rack causing him to gag
and leap to his feet.
When the air cleared, Chris climbed in his bed and finished his letter. He went up to the mess
decks to catch the evening movie. On the way, he met Diehl who was returning with the Division’s
clean laundry.
“Hey what’s up?” Diehl asked.
“Nothing much.”
“You going to the mess deck?”
“Yeah, thought I’d take advantage of this down time and catch a movie,” answered Chris.
“Hold on and I’ll join you. Let me just drop this off below.”
“Sure.”
Diehl headed down the stairwell to the berthing compartment and Chris walked over to the
ship’s geedunk. He viewed the merchandise in the window.
Schoenberg barked, “You gonna buy something or are you just window shopping? If you ain’t
buying anything then move along and stop blocking the passageway.”
“What a charming sales technique you have,” said Chris. Chris surveyed the items through the
display and asked, “How much for the Zippo, with the ship’s emblem?”
“If you have to ask you can’t afford it.”
Chris, understanding why the crew referred to him as Scumberg, scowled at the fat slob behind
the counter and asked again, “How much is it?”
“Five fifty.”
“Okay, I’ll take the lighter and a can of fluid.”
“That’ll be seven seventy-five.”
Chris paid him and as he was receiving the merchandise and change Diehl and Harriman
appeared. They headed for the mess deck to catch the film. They grabbed some popcorn and soda at
the mess line and sat to watch the movie. It had not yet started and Chris recounted the incident
between Farleigh and Dixon to them.
“Shit like that was bound to happen eventually,” said Harriman. “Farleigh is a loose cannon with
a short fuse and Dixon is a ghetto nigger.”
Chris jumped back at Harriman’s choice of words and the ease by which he employed it,
especially when there were so many other blacks within earshot. Considering Harriman was from
Alabama it was reasonable to expect he would not be remiss using such a defamatory term, but during
the times Chris spent with him over the last few weeks at work and watch he never heard him say a
derogatory word about anyone. Harriman seemed like a laid back Southerner who did his job
professionally, kept quiet and displayed no hint of animosity nor espouse an opinion about anything.
He never displayed the KKK type of bigotry rampant in that region of the country.
Fortunately, he didn’t say it loud enough for any of those around to hear. It was the first time he
heard the term used by any white member of the crew. The blacks used the term repeatedly in their
conversations with each other, but as far as Chris was concerned, it wasn’t appropriate for whites to
use that expression when referring to blacks. Whites referred to them as “soul brothers.”
Chris considered soul brothers an endearing term. To have soul meant to have heart. To be a
brother meant to be part of a family. The color of their skin and history bound them together. In some
regard, Chris envied their unity. Whites didn’t enjoy that sense of brotherhood. They had no
equivalent concept as “black pride.”
“Familgia” was the nearest Italian equivalent. However, the unbreakable bond of family only
applied to those who shared a bloodline and not to those outside the family. The bond shared by
blacks transcended families and was a bond forged by two centuries of persecution. In that regard,
they were a family united by a perverse history suffering the indignities of slavery, of rape and
murder, of the dehumanizing practice of segregation, of having to struggle for equality within a nation
that prided itself on its founding principles of liberty and justice for all yet denied the black race the
privileges of those principles. He knew of their degradation but being a Caucasian born into the
middle class where opportunities abounded for him and the fact he never had to feel the ignominious
effects of racism, he could never truly correlate what he knew about the black race with what it felt
like to be black.
“Are you crazy using that word here?” Chris nervously whispered to Harriman.
“I didn’t mean it in a disparaging way,” said Harriman in his laid back Southern drawl.
“What other way could there be?” Chris asked amazed someone could think there were
someway to use the word without being disparaging. Harriman tried to explain, “Look there are
African-Americans and there are niggers. African-Americans are blacks that I see conforming to
society. They go to school, go to work, raise a family and tend to their lives without demanding more
than what they’ve earned and are entitled to. A ‘nigger’ is someone who wants everything given to
him and everyone to respect him because he believes it is owed to him as repayment for years of
slavery and segregation that neither he nor any member of his family may have ever experienced.”
“You are entitled to your opinion Harry, but please don’t use that word while I’m around,
okay?”
“Sorry, I meant no harm.”
“Well you might want to consider the next time you choose to use that word that anyone within
earshot who might hear you might tend to disagree with you,” opined Chris as the lights went out.
The film snaked through the projector and the images materialized upon the screen on the
bulkhead. The picture went black for a brief period and as the voice of Buffy Sainte Marie emanated
from the speaker, the opening scene of an Indian village seen from a distance appeared which was
soon overlaid with the movie’s title, “Soldier Blue.” It was the last movie he and Cassie had seen
together.
He thought how paradoxical it was they just discussed an insulting term referring to a race
persecuted for two centuries, and now they will be watching a movie explicitly depicting the
savagery perpetrated by the white man upon another minority. As Chris watched the movie, he
discovered a new appreciation for the film drawing parallels between Peter Strauss’s character
Honus Grant and himself. Both were neophytes in war and both were naively innocent about their
participation in it. He drew another inference thinking Candice Bergen bore a strong resemblance to
Cassie and in the end, the two characters ended up split apart. When the flick finished, he felt
melancholic about it and for subconsciously associating himself with the main character and his lost
love. He returned to his bunk, took advantage of his latest reminiscence, and in the darkness pleasured
himself.
****
Shortly after the morning muster, the refueling detail was set and completed by 1031 hours. The
typhoon’s effect had abated and the sea terminated its assault. The ship detached from the squadron
and got underway for Qui Nhon, Republic of Vietnam.
They arrived at Qui Nhon mid-afternoon and transferred squadron commanders. Once the
Commander of Destroyer Squadron 21 departed and the Commander of Destroyer Squadron 20
embarked, the ship made its way back to Hon La Anchorage. Condition II was set once the ship
entered into the war zone. They arrived at their assigned station off Hon La Anchorage early the next
morning. The wind and seas may have subsided but the rain continued to fall so the crew again
remained confined to the ship’s interior for another day.
Shore bombardment commenced again that evening. The ship and crew resumed its standard war
routine of work, and replenishment details during the day and naval gunfire missions throughout the
evenings and early morning hours. Two days after arriving, they left the Hon La Anchorage region to
conduct electronic counter measure sweeps off the coast fifteen miles south of their originally
assigned position. When they returned to their assigned station they discovered a Chinese
merchantman had entered the anchorage and took up a mooring position a short distance from the
beach. Since the Chinese were non-combatants in this conflict the merchantman could not be fired
upon, however once the supplies they offloaded reached the beach they were fair game and targets of
opportunity for the Lawrence’s guns. Well off the beach was a small mountain and based at the foot of
the mountain were a number of caves. The North Vietnamese used them as storage facilities for the
materiel offloaded from the merchantman. While on watch, Chris could see these caves through his
binoculars whenever the ship ventured near the shoreline.
The crew and ship concluded a third week on the gun line and in spite of the interruption caused
by the typhoon they conducted another thirty-five missions, firing two hundred twelve shells, refueled
three times, re-armed twice, held five helo details, replenished food stores once and launched the
motor whaleboat three times. The ship continued to roam free off the coast unopposed by any North
Vietnamese naval, air or artillery elements.
Week four on the gun line would provide more of the same but at a more intense pace. The week
began innocuously enough though Chris and those of the crew topside got an opportunity to bear
witness and experience a couple of extraordinary events during that week. The crew had their typical
morning chow of powdered eggs, powdered milk, and pancakes made from powdered batter then
mustered on station. After muster, Chris, Diehl, Farleigh and Harriman left for the paint locker to
gather their tools and continue the ritualistic rust hunt. As they headed aft down the port side, they
encountered SN Giorgio of supply in his flak jacket and protective helmet.
Diehl called out, “Hey, Giorgio, are you going to assault the beachhead?”
“They want me to pop some rice bags with the .50-cal. There’s a shit load of them floating
around out here,” he answered as he started to climb the ladder up to the ASROC deck where the .50caliber machine guns were mounted.
As they continued to walk to the paint locker they looked around off the port side of the ship and
could only distinguish, a few bags scattered about in the water. Farleigh opened up the paint locker
and started to hand out their weapons of rust destruction. They heard the repeating burst of the .50caliber machine gun coming from the starboard side, followed by a pause, then another reporting
burst and still again. Intermixed with the sound of the .50-caliber were also spurts from a .45-caliber
pistol and another short string of gunfire.
They walked to the fantail and looked up at the ASROC deck to see Giorgio on the .50-cal. The
head of the supply department, LT Price, was also on deck firing his .45 as well as Seaman Lennox
who was firing an M-16 rifle. When Chris looked out to see the carnage they were inflicting he was
stunned to see a mother lode of jetsam as hundreds of bags of rice floated off the starboard side in
close proximity to one another. There were so many bags the blue water of the sea between them
appeared as puddles between the bergs of bags. The .50-caliber was doing quite a bit of damage as
the bullets ripped through them. Giorgio was extremely accurate with the fire he was spraying. They
continued to watch the puddles become larger and larger with every bag that plunged to the ocean
floor as they succumbed to the onslaught of bullets ripping and tearing open their skin spilling their
contents into the open sea.
“Now that looks like fun,” said Chris.
“I’ll bet it is. There’s nothing like rapping your finger around the trigger and bagging a few rice
bags in the morning, to get your juices flowing,” joked Diehl. “Right now we have more important
things to do like bag some rust bugs,” he said mockingly while holding his paint scraper with both
hands at his side, pretending to strafe the deck left and right while mimicking the rat-a-tat sounds of
the .50-caliber machine gun. They all got a chuckle watching Diehl continue to act like a kid playing
war and then went about the mundane business of rust hunting.
Suddenly, they heard the loud roar of a jet approaching. Chris looked up into the clear blue sky
to see an F-14 Tomcat diving toward them astern of the ship. Within seconds, it passed down the
ship’s starboard side at an altitude of two hundred feet releasing a barrage of cannon fire from its M61 Vulcan cannon into the bags floating seventy-five yards away. After the pilot completed his first
run he put the plane into a climb and when he had gained sufficient altitude put the plane into a
looping turn to get himself into a position for a return run. Chris and the rest ran over to the starboard
side rail to get a better look and watch the pilot maneuver and commence his second run. The pilot
pressed the trigger and released another long burst into the floating objects in the water. The bags
literally exploded from the impact of the shells spewing the white grains high into the air. Those
bullets that missed caused the water to erupt as they pierced the surface. The pilot finished his second
run, repeated his previous maneuver of climbing, looping, and turning, and made one more strafing
run sending its load of hot metal into the flotilla of bags. After his run, the pilot put the aircraft into a
climb made a turn and headed back to the ship. He approached the ship parallel to the sea at an
altitude of a few hundred feet and as he neared the ship, he wiggled his wings as a gesture of victory.
All those on deck waved at the pilot as he passed by and watched him soar off into the distance. Chris
looked out to see only a few bags remained of the hundreds originally visible.
He looked back into the sky and looked down at the L-shaped paint chisel he held in his hand
similar to the way a pilot might hold the joystick of a plane and shook his head ruminating once again
about life’s choices and ironies. He thought about the pilot flying that F-14 and envisioned himself in
the cockpit.
The Navy offered him the opportunity to begin flight training while in college. However, after
Cassie left him the grip of depression caused him to seriously question his ambition of becoming a
naval aviator. He formulated his plans assuming he and Cassie would always be together. Back then
he wanted to be a Navy pilot and after completing his tour with the Navy he would become a
commercial pilot and together they would lead a comfortable and romantic life traveling the globe.
Since they were no longer to be together, those plans seemed pointless to him and he sought solace by
binge drinking. He became so dispassionate about his goal he missed his scheduled flight physical
having gotten so inebriated the night before he slept through his appointment and morning classes.
Self-pity continued to engulf him whenever he forayed into the past. When would this obsession
stop haunting him? In these instances and under these circumstances there was nothing more he could
do but bury himself in benign tasks and clear his mind of these discomforting memories. He sullenly
knelt down on one knee and started to chip away at an area of the deck blistering up from the
oxidizing metal beneath it. He deeply wished he could chip away and discard the layers of sadness as
easily as he could the gray paint beneath his feet.
“Do you suppose he will paint rice bags on the side of his plane, as kills?” Chris asked.
“Maybe they’ll write an article about it in Stars and Stripes,” joked Farleigh.
Diehl started to impersonate the sound of a radio bulletin making the sounds, “Dit-Dit-Dit-DitDit,” and continued narrating, “Naval forces today accompanied by naval air successfully interdicted
the infiltration of several hundred bags of rice destined for the shores of North Vietnam. Sources
close to the action confirmed that gunners from the USS Lawrence and an F-14 piloted by LTCDR
Roger Ramjet shot and killed several hundred bags of rice as they were attempting to float ashore
from the waters off Hon La Anchorage in North Vietnam. When asked about the mission, Captain
Boxer of the USS Lawrence told reporters,” Diehl started to do his impression of the captain’s
speech and mannerism. “We were sent here to do what we could to expedite a rapid conclusion of
these hostilities and goddarn it if it means the annihilation and slaughter of innocent bags of rice then
so be it.” Diehl was facing the fantail so he could not see the captain, the XO and Ensign Stafford
approach him from behind. He was so enrapt in his narration he failed to notice Chris and Harriman
gesturing him to curtail his impression as the three walked up behind him.
“Ten hut, officer on deck!” Chris shouted thinking it might get Diehl to stop, but it was too late.
Captain Boxer and the officers heard every word of Diehl’s comedy skit. Diehl stood and turned at
attention and they all saluted the captain and officers as they neared and the three officers returned the
salute. Although Diehl had some semblance of a tan, Chris could see Diehl’s cheeks turn a ruddy red
as the captain stepped towards him.
“Very funny, Mr. Diehl,” the captain said while surveying him head to toe. “Are you the ship’s
jester?”
“No, sir, sorry sir, I didn’t mean to offend, sir.”
The captain took another minute and continued to stare Diehl up and down. When he failed to
find any fault in Diehl’s uniform and appearance, he simply backed away and told the crew to carry
on. As they continued on their rounds the XO looked Diehl over, as did Ensign Stafford who shook
his head in apparent disappointment when he walked past Diehl. Once the officers left, they broke out
into mischievous laughter.
Farleigh said, “Ensign Stafford is gonna catch shit from the captain about you Diehl.”
“And man the shit flows downhill,” added Harriman.
“Diehl, I don’t think you even want to be you right now,” chimed Chris.
Diehl could not only dish out verbal jabs but he could also take it with the best of them and
laughed along with the group.
Thirty minutes passed by and they continued their work slinging good-natured “Your mama”
bullshit at each other when Carey walked onto the fantail. He called out “Diehl! Stafford wants to see
you in his quarters right away.”
Hearing the order Farleigh wisecracked, “Maybe if you suck his dick he’ll let you off easy,
Diehl.”
“Don’t worry Diehl, they don’t keel haul Sailors anymore,” said Chris.
Harriman finished the offensive yelling to Diehl as he walked away, “No, they just fist fuck ’em,
so watch yer ass, Diehl.”
When Diehl disappeared from view Chris asked, “What do you suppose will happen to him?”
Harriman said, “Stafford ain’t a bad guy, he will probably just give him a reaming out.”
“Yeah, that faggot’s gonna ream his asshole out with his tongue, and give him some good anal
lingus,” Farleigh said making a circle with his thumb and index finger then sticking his tongue through
it simulating the act.
“You’re one sick fuck,” Chris said playfully to Farleigh.
“Man, I had my bitch in Olongapo give me a tongue reaming,” boasted Farleigh, “and I can’t
wait to get back there and get me some more of that action!”
“I suppose you kissed her after that,” Chris joked.
Farleigh must have been in a sexual coma during that episode, because he stopped to think about
what Chris said to him and slunk down to the deck in silence.
“Fuck me!” Chris said. “You did kiss her!” and together Chris and Harriman roared with
laughter at Farleigh’s discomforting realization and veil attempt at denial.
“I did not kiss her,” he said. “She kissed me!”
Chris and Harriman’s laughter increased exponentially with his latest remark, lasting several
minutes. Farleigh recognized the futility of responding fearing it would only cause further
embarrassment, and he gradually started to laugh along with them. Diehl returned just as the laughing
jag wound down.
“What’s so funny?” he asked. Harriman and Chris didn’t have the heart to cause Farleigh any
more ridicule than he had just caused himself and only answered with a brief “nothing.”
“So, what did Stafford have to say?” asked Chris.
“Not much, he chewed me out for disrespecting the captain and revoked my liberty for one day
as punishment.”
Chris said, “Damn that’s too bad, Diehl. Honestly, I don’t see what you did warranted any
punishment at all. Doesn’t he realize imitation is the sincerest form of flattery?”
“Yeah, in a free society perhaps. Remember this ship isn’t a democracy, we are just an
instrument for democracy.” They finished their work for the morning, put away their tools and went to
mess for lunch, before relieving the next watch.
****
Things started to get a little more interesting nearing the midpoint of their fourth week on the gun
line. On Friday of the ship intercepted another massive flotilla of rice bags. There were at least one
thousand bags strewn across the surface of the water floating towards the shore and looking out upon
them they resembled a large sand bar jutting from the sea. The captain ordered that both .50-caliber
machine guns manned and assembled a complete firing squad to shoot at and destroy the floating
cargo. To facilitate their destruction the ship slowly weaved its way through the jetsam to present
easy targets to those firing from the ASROC deck. After nearly two and one half hours of firing, they
destroyed approximately six hundred bags of rice.
Early the following morning the USS Wiltsie reported receiving hostile fire from North
Vietnamese coastal defense positions. They reported receiving twenty-one rounds of hostile fire and
in response Captain Boxer ordered the ship to steam to the sector where the attack occurred. Soon
after the ship arrived on station, they commenced pounding the suspected gun emplacements and
within thirty minutes fired fifty-one rounds into suspected positions.
Later in the evening, they observed anti-aircraft fire coming from the mainland. These were the
first reported instances of North Vietnamese reprisals in the ship’s first month of participation in
Operation Linebacker and signified a shift in the enemy’s posture. It was irrelevant for them as they
detached from the task group the next afternoon and proceeded on a course back to Subic Bay. In the
fourth week of operations the ship conducted forty eight firing missions, expended three hundred thirty
rounds of ordnance, re-armed twice, re-fueled twice, held four helo details, and performed seven
boat transfers. The list of casualties to the crew included one broken leg and one case of appendicitis.
The crew was tired from their arduous schedule and welcomed the respite a week in Subic Bay
would provide.
V
RETURN TO SUBIC
THEY DETACHED FROM THE TASK GROUP SUNDAY afternoon at 13:20 hours. Before
embarking on their journey back to the Philippines, they would conduct another helo operation to
receive mail and proceed to a replenishment station to take on stores. At an average speed of twenty
knots, it would take the ship forty-two hours to traverse the seven hundred fifty three miles between
Hon La Anchorage and Subic Bay. As soon as they left the war zone, the crew went back to a fourhour watch schedule and resumed standard underway operations. They held a general quarters drill
and when they weren’t conducting drills, they prepared for port by cleaning, painting and performing
preventative maintenance to ship’s equipment. After hours the crew would sack out in their racks,
play cards, read, write letters home, listen to music or hang out topside where they would enjoy a
smoke some conversation and majestic sunsets.
Chris and members of his watch were relieved from the first dogwatch and had supper. After
supper Chris, Diehl, Farleigh and Diaz went to the fantail for a smoke. When Chris walked out of the
hatch from the mess deck, he found himself staring at the sun suspended slightly above the horizon.
The orange sun looked five times its normal size as it made its western migration. Cumulus clouds in
the distance were scattered about framing the setting sun. A slight distance off the beam Chris noticed
a school of dolphin tagging alongside swimming and playfully jumping from the water. The
contrasting layers of colors of bright orange, blue, green, and white and the animals at play imbued
Chris with reverence for the Creator as he gazed marveling at the beauty of God’s artwork. He
thought this is the life! It was for him a nirvana moment, a moment of complete and utter serenity.
Being amidst nature’s inspiring wonders washed away the sadness burdening him. He was transfixed
on the sight and simply stood on the deck staring out. Diaz walked onto the walkway and turned
towards the fantail, as did Farleigh. Diehl stepped out, stopped to stand beside him, and looked at
Chris as he gazed out to sea. Diehl extended his right hand moving it up and down in front of Chris’s
face to get his attention.
“Beautiful sunset!” said Chris.
“Yeah, it is. Red sky in the morning, sailor takes warning. Red sky at night is a sailor’s delight.”
“The delight will have to wait until tomorrow.” As he continued to look at the sun resting atop
the horizon, Chris said, “You can almost here it hiss as it sinks into the sea.”
“Nah, that’s only me pissing,” said Diehl. Chris had been so affixed on the scenery he didn’t
notice Diehl unzip his fly to relieve himself over the side.
“You fucking pig. You ain’t in enough trouble with Stafford for your impression of the captain?
You have to now risk being caught out of uniform?”
“When you gotta go, you go,” he said zipping up from his finished business.
They arrived at the fantail and found several groups mulling about. Dixon and several soul
brothers were on the port side of the fantail with “Freddie’s Dead” blasting from a boom box. There
were a couple of guys from M Division sitting by the Tartar Missile launcher strumming away on
their guitars. The atmosphere was festive and relaxed. Chris likened it to a Saturday evening in
Washington Square Park. Diehl and Chris walked back to the stern to join Farleigh, Diaz and
Harriman standing along the guardrail.
“What are you guys talking about?” asked Diehl.
Farleigh responded, “We’re talking about your mama, Diehl.”
“Well, Farleigh, your momma’s like a squirrel, she can’t keep nuts out of her mouth,” rejoined
Diehl which response elicited a collective “Ooooohhh” from the others as Diehl challenged
Farleigh’s wit.
“Your mama’s like a doorknob, everyone gets a turn,” quipped Farleigh back with a selfsatisfied air.
Chris and the others didn’t react to Farleigh’s joke giving the first round to Diehl. “Farleigh,
your momma’s like a refrigerator, everyone sticks their meat in her!”
The three spectators said “whoa” in chorus and laughed at Diehl’s comeback, ceding he just
landed a haymaker.
Farleigh was a scrapper and he thought a moment and verbally counter punched with, “Your
momma’s like a boomerang, she keeps coming back for more.”
Diaz while laughing implored Farleigh, “Give it up, Farleigh, you’re losing the fight.” Diehl
sensing he had Farleigh on the ropes went for the knockout saying, “Farleigh, both you and your
momma are like a toilet, you’re both full of shit!”
“Ow!” Chris howled.
Farleigh bested by Diehl’s wit laughed at Diehl’s joke along with the rest of them and admitted
defeat. As the laughter subsided, he changed the subject matter and had them turn their attention to
planning the forthcoming liberty in Olongapo. “Man I can’t wait to get back into town and bag me
some poontang.”
Diaz joined him in anticipation boasting, “Yeah, this time, I plan on going for two at a time!”
“Man Diaz you’re crazy,” Farleigh said laughing.
“CRAZY? CRAZY? YOU CALLING ME CRAZY? I’M NOT CRAZY!” shouted Diaz at the top
of his lungs behaving as though he was in fact deranged. He punched Farleigh squarely on his biceps
and immediately smiled and laughed implying it was all a joke, while Farleigh rubbed the pain from
his arm.
While Diaz and Farleigh bragged back and forth about their intended sexual exploits Chris began
to think about Layla. He was looking forward to seeing and being with her again.
“How about you Columbo, you gonna pick up some fresh meat tomorrow night?” Farleigh asked
Chris.
“No, not tomorrow night, my section has the duty. But when I do go over I will probably head
back to the Cave and find Layla.”
Farleigh remarked, “What’s the matter with you boy? Don’t you know variety is the spice of
life? Or did you fall in love with your whore?”
That last clause struck Chris between the eyes. Falling in love with a prostitute to Chris was as
ludicrous as Farleigh kissing one after she reamed his asshole. No, it wasn’t love. Aside from his
most recent moment of exaltation he considered the night spent with her nearly the equivalent. He
fondly remembered her tender embrace and acts of kindness. To him she represented a sanctuary in
this sea of insanity. Chris butched up saying, “No, Farleigh I don’t love her. However, I loved the
way she treated me.”
“You mean the way she fucked you,” Farleigh joked elbowing Diaz in the side.
“Yeah, that too,” said Chris appeasing Farleigh’s lurid sensibilities. “What about you Harry?
What are your plans?” asked Farleigh.
Harriman had not said a word throughout the entire conversation. He was simply an observer
laughing periodically. He joined the conversation and answered, “To geyit drunk.” Harry was a
Southern Baptist and pleasures of the flesh didn’t entice him as much as beer did. Besides, Chris
knew Harry had a girl back home he intended to marry. He wasn’t going to run the risk of giving her
any venereal disease or parasite as part of her dowry.
Farleigh turned to Diehl, “And how about you Diehl? What are you gonna do tomorrow night?”
“Serve my penance.”
“Oh shit, that’s right, I forgot. Bummer, man!”
Chris, tiring of the conversation, was anxious to get some much needed sleep. He excused
himself saying he was going to hit the shower and do some letter writing. He left to the rhythm and
music of “Superfly” broadcast over the South China Sea.
****
Chris awakened at 03:30, and relieved the forenoon watch on the bridge. At dawn, he could see
land on the distant horizon from his position on the bridge and watched it become more prominent as
they made their way towards the harbor. Before entering the harbor the ship conducted testing of its
communications and electronics equipment at the ULM-4 range and once these tests concluded the sea
and anchor detail was set. Chris remained on the bridge during the detail. The harbor pilot came
aboard at 08:45 took the conn and directed the ship into and through the harbor to its assigned
berthing space at the Alava pier. By 10:15, the ship moored to starboard at berth two of the Alava
Pier.
There was a flurry of activity on deck as a tug towed a fuel barge alongside. Little Brown piped
into the PA system, announcing the smoking light was out as the barge tied up and began to pump fuel
to the ship. Electricians connected cables from the pier supplying electrical power into the ship’s
distribution outlets. The gangplank to the pier was strung near the stern of the ship. No sooner was the
quarterdeck secured people started to cross it and onto the ship. Among them were a replacement and
various service technicians. When the sea and anchor detail secured Chris stowed his sound powered
phones and went to report to Jordan who was back at the quarterdeck overseeing the rigging of the
canvas overhead.
As Chris walked along he couldn’t help notice the soothing sounds of the sea were now replaced
by the reverberating sounds of metal grinders, truck engines, chipping hammers, welding torches and
such from both his ship and ship tender alongside the neighboring pier. As he approached the
quarterdeck Chris noticed Jordan standing with the replacement who just come aboard in his navy
white shirt, bellbottoms and white Dixie cap.
“Columbus, come here. This here is Mazola.”
“No, my name is Mazzarelli.”
“Yeah, whatever,” grumbled Jordan with his usual aplomb.
Chris shook the replacement’s hand and introduced himself. “Hi, my name is Chris, Chris
Columbo.” Chris, a veteran of Jordan’s treatment of newcomers smirked. “I’m here a month and he
still gets my name wrong,” he said pointing to Jordan.
“Show Mazola to the personnel office and then join Harriman on the starboard deck,” Jordan
barked.
“Okay. Follow me,” Chris told the replacement. The replacement slung his duffel bag over his
shoulder and Chris led him up the starboard deck to the office he reported to just over a month ago.
Chris turned to him and asked the predictable question, “Where you from, Mazzarelli?”
“New York.”
“Yeah? Me too. What part?”
“Long Island.”
“No shit, so am I,” Chris said germinating a provincial kinship with the new recruit.
“Yeah? What town?”
“Lindenhurst, or as some call it, ‘Swindlehurst.’”
“I’m from Huntington.”
These towns were eleven miles apart, however diametrically opposed from each other
geographically and socio-economically. As a teenager, Chris and his friends held a perception of
residents of northern Long Island as spoiled little rich kids who invaded the southern beaches every
summer with their dune buggies and surfboards. The socio-economic distinction was evident to Chris
even by the quality of the equipment worn by their respective high school football teams. Lindenhurst
with its modest athletic budget outfitted its players in Bronco Nagurski era leather football helmets
while players from Huntington wore the more modern plastic helmets and silk-layered pants.
Mazzarelli might be one of those spoiled brats.
Although they had not said much to each other while Chris escorted him to personnel he heard
something in his speech pattern indicating this new kid might have a problem. His tongue seemed too
big for his mouth causing him to slur and muffle his words. His speech pattern reminded Chris of
Paul, one of Screwy Lewy’s regulars back home who overdosed on Quaaludes. Chris visited him
after his overdose and remembered the vacuous look in his eyes and how the brain damage noticeably
affected his speech pattern. Paul slurred the words his oxygen deprived mind struggled to recall.
Mazzarelli’s speech pattern was similar to Paul’s after his overdose.
“How old are you, Mazz? You don’t mind if I call you Mazz do you? It’s a hell of a lot easier to
say.”
“No, that’s what they called me at home. I’m nineteen.”
Though only separated by three years the ordeals of the past month matured Chris beyond his
physical age making him view the replacement more like a kid rather than a peer. Chris led him
through the hatch and back to the personnel office.
“Here we are,” and turned to get Yeoman Gleason’s attention over to the window. “Okay,
Gleason will take care of you from here. I’ll catch up with you later.”
Chris joined Harriman and the pair polished all the brass fittings located on the starboard deck.
At lunch, they met up with Diehl, Farleigh and Diaz in the mess hall. As Chris waited in the chow
line, Mazzarelli walked into the mess deck and as he walked by stopped to say hello to Chris. Chris
took the opportunity to introduce him to Diehl, Farleigh, Diaz and Harriman and allowed him to cut
ahead of him in the chow line inviting him to join them during lunch. The inquisition of the
replacement was performed by the guys which included the standard line of questioning: “Where ya
from?”
“When did you finish boot camp?”
“Got a girl back home?”
Once the interrogation finished, Farleigh changed the topic, anxious to discuss the evening’s
plans and his expectations of getting laid. The only deviation from prior arrangements was to visit
different clubs following the EM club.
Chris would not be joining them because he had the duty and said, “Well be sure to leave some
for us.”
Diehl would also remain on board to serve his penance for his impersonating the captain. “I will
be waiting with baited breath to hear all about it tomorrow and I’m sure you will be just as eager to
tell us Farleigh.”
They finished their meal and had a half hour before they had to resume ship’s work. Chris
thought he would take advantage of this free time. “I’m going to go to the PX to check it out. Anybody
want to tag along?” he said.
“Yeah, I’ll go,” said Harriman.
“Me too,” Mazzarelli said like a child told he was going to Disneyland.
They left the ship and walked the one block to the Post Exchange (PX). The size of the exchange
surprised Chris. It was about 20,000 square feet, well lit and stocked with everything imaginable.
The exchange provided one stop shopping for families billeted on base and all other military
personnel. The store was organized in sections for groceries, clothing, records and tapes, electronics,
toys, cameras and books and magazines. It was the military’s miniaturized mall. There were Sailors
and Marines milling about as well as women in civilian attire toting children around in shopping
carts.
Short on time, Chris and Harriman went directly to the book section. Mazzarelli went to the
record department adjacent to the books and magazines. Chris looked through the best selling
paperback section and picked up a copy of The Godfather by Mario Puzo. He then selected
Dostoyevsky’s The Idiot in the classics section. Harriman grabbed copies of the latest Playboy,
Penthouse and Justice League comic.
When they finished making their choices, they went to the records department and found
Mazzarelli holding the new Rolling Stones album Exile on Main Street.
“Okay, Mazz, we’re ready to go,” said Chris.
“Hey, man, have you heard this one? It’s fucking awesome! It’s got blues, rock, country and soul.
I mean it goes perfect with a couple of ludes.”
There it was. “Goes perfect with ludes” was Mazzarelli’s scarlet letter. Harriman being a
boozehound had no idea what he meant but Chris did. Mazzarelli had announced his usage of
barbiturates referred to as downers, reds or ludes by those knowledgeable of the drug culture. Chris
simply shook his head in bewilderment.
“Are you going to buy it?”
“Yeah, but I got to find it in cassette tape.” Mazzarelli moved to the new release section, found
the cassette and put the tape in his pocket.
“You do plan to pay for that don’t you?”
”Uh, oh yeah.”
They went to the checkout counter and Chris paid for his books, Harriman paid for his magazines
and Mazzarelli just walked, shoplifting the tape.
“You got balls, pal. You haven’t been here more than five hours and your stealing from the Base
Exchange. Are you looking to get busted out?”
“It wouldn’t upset me if I did.”
They got back to the ship and Chris went to his locker to put his reading material away. While
Chris and Mazzarelli were at their respective lockers Jordan approached Mazzarelli and said,
“Mazola, since you the new guy you get to clean the head. I want you to go help Nutley!”
“Okay, Chief,” he said and went off to the head.
“I ain’t no chief and don’t call me that! Harry, you and Columbus go topside and finish polishing
the brass works on the port deck.”
“Sure thing, Jordan,” said Harriman tapping Chris on the shoulder motioning him to follow him
topside.
“Knock off ship’s work,” came over the PA system and Chris and Harriman put the polish and
rags away and headed down to their compartment. “Oh-Girl” was already playing on Dixon’s boom
box and the guys below were talking loudly as their excitement grew the nearer it got to liberty call.
Chris showered and when he returned to his bunk found Mazzarelli sitting in the rack just forward of
his.
“Hey, Mazz. I see you’re settled in.”
“Yeah,” he answered.
“Why so glum?”
“I got the midnight watch on the quarterdeck, so I can’t go on liberty,” he answered.
“What’s your hurry? We’ll be here for a week so you’ll get your chance before we leave,” Chris
said trying to console him.
“Are you going ashore?”
“No, I have duty too. I’ve got the second dog watch on the quarterdeck tonight.”
Just then, Farleigh walked over already dressed and eagerly awaiting liberty call. The air
wiggled around him.
“Shit, Farleigh, did you use the whole fucking bottle?”
“It was that fuck Little Brown. The son of a bitch poured the bottle on me.” Little Brown liked to
mess with Farleigh, and Farleigh most times seemed to enjoy the mischievous attention Little Brown
bestowed on him interpreting his actions an expression of fondness.
“Dinner for the crew,” was announced as Chris finished dressing into his whites.
“Okay, I’m ready. Let’s go. Want to join us for chow?” Chris asked Mazzarelli.
“Sure,” said Mazzarelli and the three headed up to the mess deck.
They met Diehl, Diaz and Harriman on the mess line and the six sat together consuming their
meal of mystery meat, potatoes au gratin, salad, boiled peas, powdered milk, bug juice and an ice
cream cup for dessert. Those going ashore were discussing their plans for the evening and those that
weren’t sat and listened to Farleigh get more and more excited as he carried on about the evening’s
prospects.
“Too bad you got the duty, Columbo, and too bad you’re grounded, Diehl. Man we gonna have a
hot time tonight,” Farleigh boasted clapping his hands together.
Sarcastically Diehl replied, “Shit, Farleigh I hope you and the others will leave some beer and
babes for us to plunder tomorrow night.”
“Yeah, don’t worry guys. I’ll try to leave you at least a six pack,” laughed Farleigh.
“I can’t wait to hear all the lurid details,” said Diehl.
“So, have you decided on where you guys are going to go?” asked Chris.
Diaz quickly answered, “We’ll start at the EM club as usual and after we’ll hit one of the opium
dens.”
Mazzarelli’s ears perked.
“Opium dens? They have opium dens here?”
“Yeah, kid, that’s what they tell me,” answered Diaz. “Olongapo is an anything goes liberty
town.”
“Yeah, they’re there but don’t listen to Diaz. We ain’t going to no opium den,” said Farleigh who
was strictly a boozehound and discomforted by Diaz’s proposed itinerary.
With supper finished, they emptied their trays at the scullery, Diehl and Mazzarelli returned to
the Division’s compartment, and Chris headed to the quarterdeck along with Diaz, Harriman and
Farleigh. They arrived at the quarterdeck at the sounding of four bells. Chris relieved SN Hill and
donned the white web belt with the nightstick holder and assumed his watch along with BM 1st class
Mike Holcomb and Ensign Wellman from operations. Farleigh, Diaz and Harriman departed down the
gangway.
Chris stood the short dogwatch observing the crew as they headed off for their night of revelry
and joked with many as they left. The quarterdeck watch was responsible for dispensing the proper
military honors and ceremonies for boarding and de-boarding the ship, validating identification,
examining packages and maintaining a quarterdeck log to record all events, drills and events deemed
significant. During the workday, the watch was busy as shore technicians and supply personnel were
constantly coming and going. The dogwatch was comparatively quiet as traffic was substantially less
so the watch provided an opportunity to shoot the breeze.
Chris joked around with PO Holcomb, an affably gullible guy from Kentucky who would guffaw
at wisecracks Chris would make about Lifers and Navy life in general. Holcomb was himself a Lifer
who Chris thought should really take advantage of the Navy’s free dental work, as his teeth were
quite yellowed and sparse.
Crewmembers would often humorously jibe and rank on each other. The focal points would
center around the region of the country they hailed from, or on the individual’s intelligence, or
sexuality and personal appearance. Chris would ask Holcomb things like, “Was it a problem for you
to eat corn on the cob without front teeth?” or “What model trailer was your old Kentucky home?” or
“What’s it like to wipe your ass with corn cobs? and “Did your bathroom have a quarter moon cutout
on the door?” Holcomb would chortle, do a double take and take a playful swipe at him, punching
him on the arm. Chris would not evade his jabs letting him get even in some small way.
Chris could not joke with the ensign in such a manner. His conversation with the officer was
more serious. He considered striking for the rate of radar man and wanted to learn more. When and if
the opportunity presented itself the ensign might then support Chris in his effort. In their discussions,
Chris learned the ensign graduated from the academy in ’71, married shortly after graduation, had one
daughter and chose to remain in Maryland following his graduation. His wife was from Maryland and
evidently the daughter of a successful attorney who ran a large law firm in Baltimore. After the Navy,
the ensign planned to pursue a law degree and join his father-in-law’s firm. Chris asked him why he
didn’t go into law school straight from the academy and complete his enlistment as a member of the
JAG Corps. The ensign explained it had been his original plan but he didn’t do well on his LSAT test.
He opted to become a line officer and try again in the future.
The conversation and comedy helped the two-hour watch pass quickly and Chris returned to his
compartment to change into his denims. He found Mazzarelli in his bunk wearing headphones
listening to his portable cassette player. Chris could see the top of his head turning from side to side
as he went from strumming his air guitar to beating the drums while he lay there. Chris nudged the
replacement who looked up and removed the right headset in order to hear Chris speak.
“Hey, what’s up?” Mazzarelli asked.
“Nothing, what are you listening to?”
The kid reached down, grabbed the empty cassette case and held it up for Chris to see the cover.
It was the album pilfered from the PX.
“The Stones kick ass. This has got to be one of their best albums,” Mazzarelli said. “Too bad I
don’t have any reds on me. They would really do the trick.”
“Tell me, Mazz, I know why I chose the Navy, but why on earth did you?”
“Well it was either jail time or service time. I chose service time and the Navy seemed to be the
best choice for me. I certainly wasn’t going to pick the Army or Marines and get my ass shot off. The
Air Force wouldn’t give me the opportunity to travel so I picked the Navy.”
“Why was your other option jail time? Let me guess, you were caught dealing, right?”
Without any remorse in his voice he said, “Yeah, that’s right. How did you know?”
“Lucky guess.”
“I was caught selling pills to the son of a cop. My dad is a member of the Huntington town board
so he pulled some strings with the DA and judge and I got offered the option of jail or service time.
Which would you have chosen?”
“That’s a no-brainer, but if I were you I’d cool it with the drug references. You know they will
arrest you just as quickly here as they will on the outside and you never know who may be listening.”
“Okay, I hear you and I’ll try to be more careful.”
“Don’t do it for me, do it for yourself,” Chris said climbing into his rack. “Yeah, got it,” Mazz
said in a more earnest tone than before.
Chris muttered, “Yeah, you heard me but I highly doubt you listened” as he grabbed his copy of
The Idiot, opened to chapter one and began to read while the Bee Gees’s “How Can You Mend a
Broken Heart?” played in the background. The combination of the music and Dostoyevsky prose was
a ponderous combination and within several minutes his eyelids slammed shut.
He wakened the following morning to reveille to find himself already dressed. He went to the
head to wash up and brush his teeth. When he returned to his bunk Mazzarelli was waiting for him.
“Going up to chow?” Mazzarelli said.
“Yeah, want to join me?” Chris asked.
“Yeah, sure,” he said happy as a puppy welcoming a treat.
“How did your first watch go?” Chris asked the replacement.
“It went okay. We had one problem, with a guy named Schoenberg, though.”
“What was the problem?”
“He was so shitfaced he collapsed on the gangway and couldn’t get up by himself. We had to
pick him up to get him on board because he was blocking the gangway. He weighed a ton and it took
four of us to move him. Once we got him on board, he kept stumbling around so Chief Billings told
me to escort him to his compartment. There were a couple of times I thought he was going over the
side because he couldn’t walk a straight line and kept walking into and leaning over the guardrail. I
was amazed he made it down the stairwell without falling.”
Mazzarelli told the story as the two walked up and into the mess deck where they met Carey,
Diehl and Harriman. They sat down for breakfast and Chris recounted the story to them. Schoenberg
appeared on the mess line.
Diehl yelled out, “Hey, Schoenberg! Heard you really tied one on last night! How ya feeling?
Want a beer?”
Schoenberg grumbled to himself and as was his brusque manner yelled back while giving him
the finger, “Fuck off, Diehl,” which effort caused him to wince as he reached for his head to dispel
the pain.
“He will be a bitch to deal with today,” joked Chris. He queried Harriman, “So did you have a
good time last night?”
“We got pretty tanked at the club and then went into town. We went to a shit kicker’s bar called
The New Mexico Club. They had one of them mechanical bulls.”
“Did you ride it?” asked Carey.
“Yeah, we all tried but were so plastered none of us lasted more than a minute. Farleigh got so
sick from the ride he blew lunch all over one of the waitresses. Man, she got pissed and refused to
serve him anymore. So we left and went to a place called the Copacabana. Farleigh could barely
walk a straight line and slipped and stepped into one of them ditches on the side of the road. He stank
like shit the rest of the night.”
“Speaking of Farleigh, I haven’t seen him or Diaz yet. Have any of you guys seen them?” asked
Diehl concerned about his shipmates.
Harriman said, “I left both of them at the club. They had picked up a couple of bargirls and left
with them once the club closed. That was the last time I saw them.”
“Well, they better make it back in time for muster if they plan on going back ashore this trip,”
Carey warned.
After breakfast, they headed up to the forecastle to await the call for muster. They mingled about
looking for their friends without any luck until Chris spotted them on the pier running towards the
quarterdeck to board the ship.
“Looks like they made it back just in time,” said Chris. Ten minutes later Farleigh and Diaz
came out on deck and continued to dress as “All hands muster on station” was announced.
Jordan barked at the members of the Division to fall in where Farleigh and Diaz hastily finished
dressing. After roll call and colors, the ensign raised his clipboard and read the Plan of the Day.
“There will be a stores detail at ten hundred hours and each division is to assign four
crewmembers to assist in the detail. I have assigned misters Columbo, Brown, Edwards and Hill to
the detail. Please report to the quarterdeck once they pass the word. We have received a memo from
the Office of the Commander-In-Chief of the U.S. Naval Station, which I am to read to you.
“As representatives of your country,” he began reading, “you are reminded we are here at the
permission of the Philippine government and that at all times while on liberty you must conduct
yourselves in a distinguished manner. As ambassadors of our nation, you are to respect the rights and
property of the people of the Philippines at all times. This command has received recent reports of
acts of vandalism committed by U.S. military personnel upon Philippine property. Those responsible
will be apprehended and will face adjudication in accordance with the Uniform Code of Military
Justice. Future acts of this nature will not be tolerated and will be dealt with in the appropriate
manner. This command reminds you to be proud of the opportunity to represent the admirable
qualities and ideals your country has to offer and by doing so you can be assured your country can be
proud of you.”
The ensign went on to itemize the tasks scheduled for the workday and closed by ordering
Mazzarelli to report to Chief Whitman in the mess deck for Temporary Active Duty as a mess hand
following muster.
“Boatswain’s Mate Jordan, please carry on.”
“Very good, sir” said Jordan and saluted the young ensign who quickly returned the salute.
Jordan disseminated the work assignments. Chris was given the chore of cleaning and waxing
the forward passageway leading into their compartment, which was a job he could easily complete
before having to report for the stores detail. Jordan dismissed the Division once he finished assigning
the work crews and they all headed off to their respective workstations to gather their tools and begin
the day’s work.
Mazzarelli sidled over to Chris as the Division fell out. “Fuck me, why did I have to draw mess
duty?” he said.
“Sorry about that, Mazz, but if you hadn’t reported on board it would have been me, so I guess
you can understand why I’m really not that sorry. From what I understand, they select someone from
each division with the least seniority for mess deck duty. Since you reported after me, you drew the
short straw. Don’t get too worked up about it. It’s only for ninety days.”
“Might be less if I have anything to do with it,” he boasted then walked off towards the mess
deck.
Chris just watched him and slowly shook his head, bewildered at Mazzarelli’s obstinacy. As
Chris continued to walk to gather his pail and mop he met up with Farleigh and Diaz who had been
talking with Diehl. Farleigh was laughing and Diaz stood alongside him smiling while Farleigh told
the tale of their evening’s festivities. By the time he reached them Farleigh was wrapping up his story,
but was eager to repeat it when Chris approached.
“Oh man Columbo, you fucking missed one hell of a time last night!”
“We got the general idea from Harry during breakfast. From what he told us you got so shitfaced you missed much of it yourself.”
“Oh yeah, you can say I was pretty fucked up, all right,” bragging about his level of inebriation.
“But we scored some unbelievable local talent. Twins!” he said proudly.
Diaz interjected, “Yeah, but a lot of good you were in handling them. This sad ass kept stumbling
all over the place. When we got to their apartment he fell over their coffee table knocked over their
pole lamp, busting the bulb, throwing the room into complete darkness and put his head through the
wall. He was out cold for a minute. His date felt sorry for him and put a wet towel on his head and
gave him a sympathy fuck. Ten minutes later she comes into the bedroom where I was with her sister
saying he passed out on her and would we mind if she joined us.”
Chris exclaimed laughing as he spoke, “You lucky son of a bitch! You got your double header
after all!”
“Oh yeah, man, it was unbelievable.” They spoke some more and broke up as Jordan
approached.
Chris headed to the forward passageway where he swept and mopped the deck. He would stop
on occasion to let others pass through and when the floor was completely dry, he applied liquid floor
wax and polished it to a glossy shine with a large industrial floor buffer.
Soon after finishing and stowing away the cleaning gear, the word was passed for the stores
detail to gather at the quarterdeck. He helped carry on the supply of food stores and stow them below
in the refrigeration compartment.
They finished shortly before lunch and Chris, Hill and Brown Brown took five minutes to enjoy
a cigarette and a brief bullshit session. Brown Brown reached into his back pocket and pulled out his
wallet.
“Hey, did I ever show you guys a picture of my baby girl?” he said as he extended the wallet
exposing the photo for them to see.
Chris looked at the picture and saw a young black woman lying in a hospital bed holding a young
infant in white swaddling clothes. She was an attractive young girl about nineteen years of age. With
big round eyes and large Afro she resembled Diana Ross. Posing for the camera her perfectly white
teeth beamed against her ebony complexion as she smiled proudly clutching the infant to her bosom.
From what he could see of the child, it had a full head of curly hair but its face looked like it had been
beaten with a mallet, as newborns tend to appear soon after their excursion through the birth canal.
Chris said, “They’re both beautiful man.”
“That there is the most beautiful girl in the world,” he said grinning with pride.
“What’s her name?” asked Hill.
“Aretha,” he said, “because she is the queen of our souls. We named her after the Queen of Soul,
Aretha Franklin.”
“I didn’t know you were married, Brownie,” said Chris.
“Oh no we ain’t married yet. We gonna get married in two years when I get discharged. Lydia
wanted to wait until she turned eighteen and finished high school.”
Quickly doing the math Hill exclaimed, “You’re fucking with us...she is only sixteen years old!
Isn’t that statutory rape age?”
“Not in Michigan, bro. Sixteen is the age of consent.”
“From the looks of her in the picture I guessed she was older,” Chris said.
“Yeah, she ripened early,” laughed Brown.
“She not only ripened early, she bore fruit too,” joked Chris.
“Yeah,” answered Brown pensively. “What about you Columbo? You gotta honey waiting for
you at home?”
“Me, no, not anymore,” Chris sullenly replied as the question made him retreat inwardly.
“What happened, you dump the bitch?”
“No, Brownie it was the other way around. She got tired of waiting at home for me while I was
at school. I thought I was being noble when I suggested she go out with her friends while I was away.
I believed she loved me enough to trust her. It never occurred to me it would lead to her finding
someone else.”
“Man, that’s cold!” Brown said sympathetically. “Sounds like you still have feelings for the
bitch.”
“Crazy to admit but, yeah, yeah, I still love her. I think I always will.”
“Man, if you still feel that strongly about her, you should look her up when we get back and bitch
slap some sense into her.”
Chris would never have raised his hands to Cassie. The ease with which he recommended such
a course of action diverted his mind from Cassie and made him think of the cultural and sociological
differences existing between Brown and him. From his suggestion, he immediately, if not erroneously
concluded most black men probably treated their women in such a manner when opposed or angered.
He reasoned the high divorce rate and abandonment so prevalent in the black community was a result
of this sort of behavior and mentality. No longer wanting to discuss the matter Chris simply tried to
dismiss it by feigning acceptance of Brown’s advice.
“Yeah, maybe I should.”
As lunch was announced and Chris headed toward the mess deck, he thought how he often felt
uncomfortable around his black shipmates when they gathered in numbers, but had little difficulty
speaking and joking around with each individually. Their mannerisms and speech patterns were alien
to him. He observed blacks from urban areas were far more boisterous when in groups than those
from rural regions, and tended to be emboldened to the extent they became defensive and
confrontational when approached. They spoke rapidly and often shouted over one another. He
wondered how it was possible for them to hear and even understand each other. He could not discern
if this type of behavior was natural, ingrained by their environment or role-playing to gain
acceptance. He had little interaction with blacks in his community and those who attended his school
never behaved in such a manner. Then again, there were only three blacks in his graduating class and
one was a woman, so it was impossible for them to gather in large groups.
He had a basic understanding of why he couldn’t relate to his black shipmates and realized that
any prejudices he may have had were the result of media portrayals of the New York City Race Riots
of 1964 and those in Watts in 1965. Malcolm X and the Black Panthers mobilized the African
American population militantly and Martin Luther King did so spiritually to combat the social
injustices their race had endured since the advent of slavery and even after its abolishment. It was an
entire race demanding freedom from persecution and social inequities. They united in spirit and
purpose, developed their own subculture, which though homegrown evolved into one foreign to white
America. They resisted white America’s vain attempt to have the African-American transformed into
atypical white Americans or into the African-American’s idiomatic nomenclature of “Uncle Toms”
and “Oreos.” They were unique in skin color and history. They shared a common bond of repudiation
by the white American majority.
Chris empathized with them, sympathized with them, but was detached from them. On board ship
they could live together, work together, laugh together and fight together, but apart from the ship they
seldom fraternized with each other. The blacks went out with the blacks and the whites went out with
the whites. He didn’t want it to be that way but it seemed the way the two races preferred it. Brown
never asked Chris to go along with him on liberty and Chris never asked Brown to accompany him.
Outside of their prurient desires for women and alcohol, their disparate cultures impeded socializing
outside of their working environment. It was a dichotomy he could not resolve as he loaded up his
plate of noodles with creamed chicken and peas and carrots.
They sat and lunched together and once finished, Chris and Hill reported to the foredeck where
Jordan assigned them the job of grinding down the foredeck and ready it to for a coat of red lead
paint. Hill operated the electric grinder and Chris a paint scraper. Chris went on the hunt for signs of
rust and paint blisters and started to whack and scrape away at the flaking paint. Hill would go over
the areas Chris determined needed tending to and lightly ground the area sending a spray of bright
yellow sparks across the gray deck. Chris then applied the red lead to those areas Hill ground down.
They knocked off at 16:30 hours and surveyed their work. The foredeck looked like it developed a
severe case of acne. They returned their tools to the paint locker and headed to the fantail for a quick
smoke before going below decks to shower and prepare for liberty call.
The boisterous cacophony of curse words, loud music, combative scents of aftershave and
cigarette smoke inundated the compartment, and permeated the air as they descended the stairwell. At
the bottom of the stairwell, Chris found Farleigh in a headlock by Little Brown. He was pulling out
Farleigh’s hair by individual strands.
“He loves the Navy, he loves it not,” with each pluck as they playfully wrestled at Little
Brown’s locker.
The brothers danced in lock step to “Pusherman” on the starboard side of the compartment while
the duo of Diaz and Diehl pretended to be playing along with their air drums and air guitar to “Smoke
On the Water” on the port side.
As soon as Chris finished his shower he changed into his civvies and headed to supper with
Diehl, Farleigh, Hill and Harriman. There they feasted on Salisbury steak which because of its gristly
texture was sarcastically referred to as “Mystery Meat,” mashed potatoes with gravy, peas and
carrots, yellow bug juice and strawberry Jell-O topped with whipped cream topping.
Following their meal they headed off to the fantail to await liberty call. Once the word passed,
they departed the ship and made the fifteen-minute walk to the Enlisted Men’s club to tank up and lay
the plans for their assault on Olongapo. They found the bar packed with enlisted men from other
ships, standing three deep at the bar clamoring for service from the bartenders, so they sat at a table.
A petite Filipino waitress dressed in black go-go boots, black sequined miniskirt and white blouse
came to the table.
“Hi, my name is Mili, can I take your order?”
“Let’s start off with five pitchers of beer and five shots of tequila. That okay with you guys?”
asked Diehl.
They all agreed. The five-piece band on stage was cranking out the melody of “Proud Mary.”
Flanking them on both sides of the stage were two large birdcages with go-go girls attired in bikinis,
handling feathered boas and gyrating along with the music. To the left of the stage was the band’s
banner, which displayed their name, the “Deft Tones.” The dance floor was void of dancers because
with exception of the go-go girls and waitresses it was akin to a giant stag party. Mili soon returned
with the shots and beer, which they quickly gulped. Chris told Mili to bring another round of shots.
“Okay, anything else, you want?”
Farleigh eagerly responded, “Yeah, honey would you sit on my face?”
Diehl interjected, “Farleigh you truly are a pig.”
They continued to banter with each other emptying their pitchers of beer and shot glasses of Jose
Cuervo tequila. Within an hour each of them had polished off two pitchers of beer apiece and five
shots of tequila. They reached their first destination of inebriation. Farleigh’s eyes glazed over, Hill
kept resting his head on the table, Harriman had his head arched back with his mouth agape.
Diehl repeatedly lisped the phrase, “Ain’t this great!”
Chris kept surveying the table trying to stop the merry-go-round. Around 19:30 hours Chris
asked, “What do you guys say we shove off?”
Each of them anxious to consummate the evening by consummating it with a woman responded
with a resounding “Aye, aye!”
They left the club and staggered to the post gates mockingly saluting the Marine guards as they
passed, “Request permission to go and party?” Hill asked while saluting.
Farleigh chimed to the guards, “Request permission to get laid?” Amused, he burst into a hyena
like giggle.
As they crossed the bridge Chris appraised the vestal virgins in their dugouts lined up in the
river parallel to the bridge. Chris focused onto one strikingly attractive girl in the middle of the virgin
armada. She looked at him and held up her chicken-wire basket.
“Hi, sailor boy. Can you spare change?”
He could not take his eyes off her. As were all the rest she had tight white chino pants amplifying
her firm tight buttocks and thighs. Her skintight t-shirt accented her hips and slender waist and her
long glistening black hair ended just above her melon shaped breasts. In the evening twilight, he found
her smile enchanting.
He stopped and said, “Hi, little one. What’s your name?”
Alluringly she replied, “Bibi, what’s yours?”
“Chris. You pretty girl, Bibi. How old are you?”
“Sixteen,” she answered and again asked, “you spare change for Bibi, Chris?”
“Yeah, how about moving closer?”
“Okay,” she said putting down her coin basket, and while standing paddled closer.
Emboldened by the liquor and overwhelmed with the urge to be with this enchantress, he flung
one leg over the rail of the bridge and climbed over it. He motioned her to come closer and conveyed
his intention to jump down from the bridge into her canoe. He lowered himself holding onto the rail
balusters and dangled over the river above her dugout. His crewmembers stopped to watch his antics
with amusement and howled with laughter.
Bibi cried out, “You crazy man!” and began to paddle away from the Sailor leaving him
suspended above the river “Stynx.”
Chris realized he was in a precarious predicament. Glancing at the shoreline he spotted what
appeared to be a crocodile’s head and eyeballs protruding above the water and decided to shimmy
his way back up to get a toe hold and climb back onto the bridge. He climbed over the rail and was
greeted by a small crowd who stopped to see if he would succeed or fail.
Diehl came over to help Chris. Stifling down his laughter, he patted him on the back and said,
“Man, you are fucking nuts!”
Others passing by commented, “Hard core crazy, dude” and “That took some balls, man.”
Farleigh suggested Chris was out of his mind.
Although in retrospect he thought his actions bordered on the cusp of lunacy, Chris accepted
their remarks as a sign of admiration and acceptance. They gathered themselves together and resumed
their journey into town.
When they crossed the bridge, they hailed a jitney and climbed in. Farleigh told the driver to
take them to the Burmese Bar as he heard from other crewmembers it was a spot for hot chicks. It was
just a short drive past the Cave where Chris met Layla and as they drove by he wondered if she was
working. The driver stopped in front of the Burmese Bar and each of his riders paid him the onedollar fare. They walked across the makeshift plywood bridge across the bingo ditch ignoring its fetid
aroma, onto the sidewalk, and into the club. There was a bar on each wall extending to the rear of the
building and a wide staircase in the center leading up to the second floor. Dancers on platforms
behind the bars were swiveling their bodies to the beat of “Witchy Woman.” U.S. servicemen and bar
girls filled the room. Since they could not find room at the bars, they proceeded up the staircase.
Waiting to greet them at the top was a statuesque woman standing with her hands clasped in front
of her. She wore a bright red sarong with gold lame binding running from her Mandarin collar to the
hemline at her feet. The sarong exposed her curvaceous figure and her jet-black hair was done in an
up do, and held in place by two long hairpins with golden accents dangling from their ends. Her
hairstyle promoted her full face and long slender neck. The contrast of her black hair, pale white face
and brilliant red dress bestowed this middle-aged mamasan with regal self-assurance. Chris looked
at the woman almost in reverence and as he approached her in his continued stupor felt compelled to
express his devotion by crawling on his hands and knees to her feet and bowing his head as though he
were going to kiss them. She didn’t flinch.
“Please get up.”
He complied somewhat abashed although the alcohol he had consumed to this point had
minimized his embarrassment, reached for her, took one of her hands in his, raised it slightly, and
bowed to kiss it.
She smiled. “Welcome, Joe, to the Burmese Bar. Here you can enjoy life’s pleasures to your
heart’s content,” she said as she extended her right arm and with her palm upright and fingers pressed
together bided them enter as she slowly swung her arm in the direction of the swinging doors. “Please
let me know if you desire companionship for the evening or if there is any other service that we may
provide.”
“Will do,” Farleigh said eager to get inside as they five proceeded on to the entrance.
Hill said, “Pretty suavay, Columbo.”
“She looked like an empress standing there. Seemed the appropriate thing to do.”
They passed through the double doors and greeted by the amplified sounds of “Your Mama
Don’t Dance.” Couples were on the dance floor situated at the front of the building. The bar was to
the right and the bandstand on the opposite side in the front corner adjacent to the dance floor. They
found an empty table and seated themselves. Harriman waved to one of the barmaids. She
acknowledged him and after she collected payment from the table she just served headed to their
table. She and all the other waitresses were wearing skintight white mini-shorts with white tank tops
and vinyl black sash belts. The waitress arrived at their table with a flock of five girls.
The girls sat themselves down pairing up with the crew seated at the table. Harriman ordered
five bottles of San Miguel beer and five shots of tequila for his mates and five champagne cocktails
for the girls. The girls were dressed in form fitting sarongs with Mandarin style collars and piping
terminating at the mid thigh hemline. All were attractive and each had those familiar gold caps, which
glistened when they smiled. The party danced and drank for about two hours. After a couple of hours,
Chris started to reminisce about Layla and wanted to see her. He excused himself from the group and
told Diehl he was heading on to the Cave to see if he could find Layla. Diehl joked with him and
cautioned Chris about falling in love with the local talent.
Chris entered into the familiar confines of the Cave Bar. The bouncer was at the entranceway
with his M-16, the bar was again crowded, the music was deafening and the dance floor was a
writhing mass of bodies. Chris managed to find a spot at the bar and ordered a San Miguel beer. He
turned around, leaned back, rested on his elbows and looked around to try to find Layla. He couldn’t
spot her so he turned around to get his beer and thought, Schmuck, what did you expect? For this girl
to be pining for you? Who the fuck do you think you are? Do you seriously want to get involved
with a prostitute?
He thought it foolish of him to continue in this pursuit and gulped down his beer. As he turned to
leave, there she was standing in front of him. She was wearing that parochial schoolgirl plaid skirt,
white blouse, plaid vest, white leggings, black patent leather shoes. Her hair was in two ponytails
draped over each shoulder, her olive eyes glistened and appeared to be tearing up but she was
smiling from ear to ear exposing the gold cap on her top right bicuspid.
“Chris, you came. I am so happy to see you. I heard your ship had come yesterday but I didn’t
see you last night. It make me sad. I thought you butterfly me!” she said as she placed her hands along
her hips, playfully stamping her foot, swaying her hips and tilting her head to one side.
How cute she looked. Chris said, “Layla, what a nice surprise to see you here,” which was a lie
because he actually hoped to see her. Considering her profession he found it odd she was alone. He
continued, “I had duty last night and couldn’t come. Butterfly you? What’s that mean?”
“You know butterfly. You fly flower to flower,” she said making a motion with one hand
hovering over the palm of the other and repeated the gesture several times.
It finally dawned on him what she was poetically conveying. She and other women were the
flowers and he was the butterfly, flitting from flower to flower.
“You know Philippine girl no like butterfly. Other day girl cut throat of guy who butterfly on
her.” She didn’t say it menacingly or as a warning but was educating him about the culture. “I miss
you, Chris, so much and am so glad you come back to me.”
As she hugged him, he placed his cheek on the top of her head, detected the fragrance of
lavender in her hair and hugged her back. “I am happy to see you too. I thought you butterfly me,” he
added knowing full well she must have had a couple dozen other guys in his absence.
“Oh no, me never butterfly you. You best guy.”
He gave her the benefit of the doubt as it appeased his ego to think she favored him. Perhaps she
was a one-guy girl, although that probably meant one guy from each ship and while each was out to
sea, she would remain loyal to the one in port. What though would she do if all her paramours were in
port simultaneously? If the others were like Farleigh and the rest, chances are it would not be an
issue, as they would be searching for the next flower to propagate.
Chris didn’t see any reason to seek out the affections of another. Layla pleased him in several
ways. She was tender, caring, pleasant company and great in bed. Chris was aware these girls
engaged in the world’s oldest profession and were looking for a way out from their surroundings.
They surreptitiously tried to get American servicemen to fall in love with them, marry them and return
with them back to the States. Some Americans may have done so, though Chris knew of none who did.
Could he or would he fall prey to her affections suspecting she might have that ulterior motive? He
thought not. He would merely welcome her affections and do his best to return them in kind. He
would be an ambassador of love to her and do what he could to make her life a little less burdensome
and in return, she would make his life a bit more pleasurable.
He bought her a watered down cocktail and he had another beer. They slow danced to “Neither
One of Us.” As they did, Chris could sense the blood begin to rush to his loins. She placed her hands
flat upon his chest, and while he was holding her close, she rubbed her lower abdomen along his
crotch. His penis expanded with each caress of her body. When she felt him rigid against her
abdomen she pressed even harder, causing his cock to stand at attention in his pants and revealed both
the size and shape through the fabric of his trousers. She gasped in excitement. They each felt an
urgency to leave the bar as soon as possible and get down to the act of making love. He paid the
mamasan her ten-dollar bail money and they left the bar.
As they left, he turned in the direction of her apartment. She grabbed his arm and told him she
had moved to a better apartment and guided him across the street and back up in the direction of the
Burmese Bar. Along the way, they passed by a small market with stalls that were still open. Chris
stopped at a vendor selling jewelry and looked at some of the gold women’s bracelets on display in
the glass case.
She said excitedly, “Oooh, Chris you want to buy bracelet for girlfriend?” and squeezed his arm
anticipating he would say yes.
“You’re my girl,” he said to her and continued to say, “but sorry, Layla, I was thinking about
buying something for my sister back home.”
Although dejected she understood and didn’t press the issue. He pointed to a gold chain bracelet
with a heart shaped pendant in the middle of the chain and asked, “How much for this one?”
The vendor took the bracelet out of the case and placed it down on a black velvet pad saying,
“Fifty dollars.”
“How many carats?”
“Twenty-four carats,” the vendor declared.
Chris picked up the bracelet and looked for the engraving that would normally designate the
number of carats. Since he could not find it, he said, “I don’t see any designation on this bracelet. I’m
not sure it is real gold. I tell you what I’ll give you twenty-five dollars for it.”
They haggled for a few minutes and Chris figured he would end it by simply walking away. The
vendor not willing to lose a sale over a gold plated bracelet acceded to Chris’s offer. He placed the
bracelet in a small velvet bag and handed it over. After paying the twenty-five dollars, Chris put the
bag in his pocket and taking Layla’s hand in his strode off.
They walked two more blocks and turned right. It was dark and Chris started to feel a bit
nervous in these surroundings. She sensed this and told him not to worry because her apartment was
on the next corner. They came to a two-story building of cinder block construction. It was a
nondescript structure, which in the states could have been mistaken as a small commercial building.
She put her key in the lock, opened the door and walked in. He followed behind her.
To his right was the kitchen with white ceramic tile floor containing a small dining table with
Formica top and chrome banding running around the outside edge of the table. The chairs were also
chrome construction with vinyl covered seat cushions reminiscent of his family’s kitchen table in their
1950s Brooklyn apartment. There was a gas stove and aluminum sink surrounded by pink Formica
counter top. In the back of the kitchen was a small white refrigerator. To the left was a living room
with a couch, love seat, coffee table and pole lamp with three conical lamps. She started to head
down the hall to her bedroom and he followed as though she were a bitch in heat. She stopped him
from following. She explained her family was visiting and invited him to sit on the couch for a
moment.
Five minutes later she emerged from the bedroom followed by an elderly woman whom she said
was her grandmother, an elderly man who was her grandfather, and another woman he presumed was
her mother. The woman was holding an infant in her arms and he could not imagine whose child it
was. Seconds later two other children between seven to ten years old came out followed by a man
who she introduced as her father exited the room. Chris was taken aback by this procession and
further stunned to see the father spread a blanket down on the kitchen floor where all seven lay down
upon.
“Layla, this isn’t right. I don’t feel comfortable evicting them from the bedroom.”
“No need to worry. They know who I am and what I do to survive.”
Chris shrugged it off as the booze in his system along with his anticipation of making love with
her diminished his concerns about the family on the kitchen floor.
“Do you want to take shower?”
The drinking and dancing throughout the hot and humid night had caused sweat to bead up on him
like the morning dew.
“Yes, if you will join me.”
“Of course I will silly guy.” She escorted him to the bathroom at the end of the hall. He started to
unbutton his shirt and after she prepared the shower said, “Let me do that for you.”
She slowly unbuttoned his shirt and withe her palms pressed upon his nipples and chest spread it
over his shoulders. She put her lips to his chest and began to kiss it tenderly gradually lowering
herself to her knees while continuing to kiss and rub her face against his exposed flesh. She looked up
into his eyes as her fingers deftly undid his belt buckle. She undid the button on his pants and held the
top of them as she unzipped his fly with her right hand. Once again, she spread his pants with her
hands gently pressing her palms and fingers upon his loins. She pulled his pants down to his ankles
and proceeded to do the same to his shorts.
He was boiling with excitement waiting what was to come next. His penis was at attention and
was so long and erect he could have draped laundry on it. She grabbed it with her right hand and
manipulated his balls with her left as she kissed his gorged purple helmet. She just inserted the tip in
her mouth and licked the underside with her tongue. He moaned with rapture. Removing her hand
from his cock and testicles, she gently prodded him to sit down on the toilet so she could remove his
boots, pants and underwear.
After she undressed him, it was his turn to undress her. He turned her around and reached over
her shoulders to start to undo her blouse. He brushed her hair aside, kissed the nape of her neck, and
worked his way around to her right shoulder. She instinctively tilted her head to the left knowing he
would work his way from her shoulder back to her neck and ear. He gently bit the lobe of her ear and
moved his mouth to its entrance where he breathed heavily into it while darting his tongue inside. She
moaned with pleasure. Once he finished unbuttoning her blouse he pulled it off her together with her
vest and let them fall to the floor.
His hand went to her breasts, slowly rubbing her nipples with the palms of his hands in a
circular motion, and on occasion, he would gently squeeze each nipple between his thumb and index
finger. She sighed deeply with each pinch. She tilted her head up, he brushed the hair from her
shoulder and resumed kissing it. He moved to her neck leaving small love bites as he progressed. He
worked on her left ear and moved his hands back over her shoulders to the clasp of her bra. He
unhooked it with the skill of a pickpocket and pulled the straps over her shoulder. She maneuvered
her arms to allow the bra to fall to the floor.
He moved his hands under her arms, moved them to her abdomen, pushed both hands down to
slide under her skirt and panties, and gradually forced them over her hips making them fall to the
floor. With one hand, he continued to caress her breasts, with the other he reached down into the
silkiness of her pubic hair, and further into the crevice he was intent on entering. He stroked his finger
between her labia and with each stroke felt her getting moist. She moaned with each caress and
reached behind her to grasp the pole, which was his cock, nestled between the crack of her buttocks.
He slid down to his knees and continued to rub her crotch with the side of his hand while the
other rolled her leggings down. He gently nipped her butt cheeks. She was writhing with pleasure. He
finished undressing her, stood, turned her around and kissed her passionately, first with only his lips
and when their lust caused her mouth to slightly open he thrust his tongue into her mouth where they
squirmed against each other like snakes making love.
They stepped into the shower and continued to kiss passionately while the warm water pulsated
against their bodies to the rhythm of their fevered embrace. She lathered a soft sponge with soap and
washed his manhood to the point where he nearly spilled his seed. He washed her and frequently
paused at her vagina to insert his fingers. She was delirious as was he. They finished their shower,
toweled each other off, and used the respite to recharge their batteries for the actual love making that
was to ensue.
They gathered their clothes and she led him into her bedroom where he found a king sized bed,
dark veneered bureau with a large mirror attached, and two night tables. She pushed him onto the bed
and went to the bureau to get her bottle of baby powder. He enjoyed it when she pampered him with
powder and massage during their last encounter. She had him roll over onto his stomach and she
powdered his back. As she lay straddled across the base of his buttocks, he felt her pubic hairs tickle
the base of his ass as she leaned back and forth applying the powder to his back. She had a firm but
gentle touch to the point he feared falling asleep. When she finished his back and legs she had him
turn over and straddled his loin while she rubbed powder onto his chest and shoulders.
His penis once again began to inflate as it lay between her labia like a hot dog in a moist warm
bun. He wanted to enter her and rolled over taking her with him. He lined up his penis using only his
hips and slowly inserted it in her. As he pressed deeper and deeper inside, her moans of pleasure
rose. When he pressed down and had his cock into the hilt she let out an impassioned “Ahhhhhh.” He
started to pump his hips slowly at first. As his lovemaking continued she wrapped her legs around his
and thrust her pelvis up to meet each thrust trying to swallow all of him inside her. Her arms clung to
his neck and back and she began to dig her fingernails into his flesh. He could feel her losing control
and would soon climax. The alcohol he consumed throughout the evening enabled him to postpone his
ejaculation. She groaned intensely. Her body went rigid. The muscles in her vagina tensed up
squeezing the imprisoned cock against its damp walls as she arched her back enough to lift the both of
them from the surface of the bed whispering, “Ooohh...Ooohh... Ooohh,” as she did.
At the culmination of her climax, she went suddenly limp. She caressed his back and gazed
deeply into his eyes. Her left hand stroked the side of his face. She kissed him dropped her head back
down onto the pillow.
“You are my best lover ever! Now I be your best lover ever!”
She pushed his shoulder up and had him roll over onto his back. Again, she straddled him and
kissed him on the lips. She moved down his chest kissing and licking him. When her breasts were at
his genitals, she rubbed them against his hard member. Her mouth proceeded to his erection and while
she held it in one hand, she ran her tongue up and down its underside. She inserted it in her mouth and
began performing fellatio on him while simultaneously stroking him.
When he was harder than a lead pipe she stood up over him. Although she was short in stature,
she looked like the Colossus of Rhodes standing over his groin. She squatted down extending her
knees to the side and inserted his member as she squatted down upon him. She began to bounce up
and down careful to not lose her grip on him. Periodically she would stop and slide her hips back and
forth nearly causing him to exit her but she would stop at the point his helmet nestled with her G-spot.
This drove her wild each time yet she remained under control and continued to perform this same
maneuver. He was a tool in her shed. She manipulated him inside her like a puppeteer in a moist sock
puppet. Occasionally she would stop, lean back, run her fingers through her hair with abandon and
moan with delight.
What seemed like a half hour had passed and Chris could not contain himself any longer, “I’m
going to cum,” he declared ecstatically.
“Go ahead baby. Give me your cum. I want you cum inside me. Yes... Yes...Yes!” He exploded
at the third “yes” and as he was releasing his seed inside her womb her whole body quivered in
ecstasy. They were spent. They had emptied all their passion upon each other. She collapsed upon his
chest. As she lay there, he felt his penis slowly go limp and gradually withdraw from its wet sheath.
While his damp cock lay up on her drenched pussy he felt a cool wind rush across its wet surface and
heard the fart like noise it made as the air within her love tunnel gushed out. She put her hand to her
mouth and started to giggle.
“So sorry. I pass wind through pussy hole.”
They both giggled at that.
“You wonderful lover, Chris. I came four times.”
Her statement astonished Chris. No girl he ever laid with said anything like that to him. He was
never certain if he ever brought any woman to climax. This time he felt confident he had. He knew her
bodily responses were evidence of her climaxing. She was to into the act to have faked her reactions.
He was flattered yet his ego bolstered. He remained modest, however, and simply said, “I’m glad to
have brought you pleasure. You know Layla if we continue like this I might just fall in love with you.”
She coyly responded, “Please do.”
They continued to embrace and fell asleep with her lying on top of him with her head on his
chest. Chris was pleasurably awakened in the morning, to the sight of the top of her head at his loins.
His morning wood was like a telephone pole.
“Make love to me,” she said. “I want you come inside me again before you go.”
Chris found that to be a funny turn of the phrase and was more than happy to oblige since she had
managed to arouse the beast with her talented tongue. He stood up at the side of the bed and
maneuvered her to enter her doggy style. She was wet from anticipation and he easily slid into the
moist sanctity of her love canal. He could see them both in the mirror on the bureau. The sight of him
making love to her and the sounds of her passionate response enhanced his pleasure. He would slip
out of her and slowly enter back in causing her to moan with each excursion and re-entry. She started
to accelerate her motions and moved back and forth furiously breathing like a long distance runner
nearing the finish line. At the moment he ejaculated she pushed back forcing him deeper saying, “Yes,
yes, yes!” She rose and turned her torso releasing his spent member to give him a passionate kiss.
After that Chris quickly got dressed knowing he had to return to the ship and preferred not to
have breakfast with the family of the prostitute he just fucked. He reached in his pocket to discover he
had only fifty dollars left and handed it all to her.
“Here take this, buy yourself something nice.”
“Oh no, Chris, that not necessary, Layla your girl.”
He squirmed. “I know you are, Layla, but I know you can use this for something more important
than I would. Please take it.”
She didn’t put up much of a fight, took the money, kissed him on the cheek and asked if she
would see him tonight.
He said, “Maybe, I’ll see. I might have duty.” He was lying to her. He didn’t have duty. He
recalled what he had said to her earlier about falling in love with her and feared he might cross a
threshold destined for disaster. It was 06:00. He would have to hustle to get back to the ship and
change in time for muster. He kissed her on her forehead and told her to tell her family he was sorry
for inconveniencing them. He quickly walked to the door looked at the family members lying on the
blanket spread on the kitchen floor.
Her grandmother resting her head on her joined hands stared at him as he walked by. Chris
smiled awkwardly at her, gave her a quick wave goodbye and exited the apartment.
As he briskly walked through the streets beginning to stir and fill with other servicemen heading
back to the base he questioned himself: What the fuck are you thinking? Fall in love? Don’t let your
dick control your mind. Can you imagine bringing her back to the States and introducing her to
your family? Hi Mom and Dad, I want you to meet Layla—the whore I met in the Philippines and
decided to marry. He had to put the night and these thoughts behind him.
It was a twenty-minute hike to the base gates and another fifteen minutes to the Alava pier and
his ship. He crossed the gangway and greeted by Ensign Woods of Fox Division and Yeoman
Gleeson. Chris went through the boarding ritual and raced to his compartment to change. He had five
minutes to don his uniform and report for muster. He and Jordan were the only two in the
compartment.
”Get your ass in gear and topside, Columbus,” Jordan said as he locked his locker and
proceeded to his mustering station.
Undressed and dressed in two minutes time he raced up to the forecastle and arrived just as the
announcement for muster blared from the PA system. The colors and mustering ritual concluded and
the crew dispatched to conduct their daily chores. It was another routine day for the crew.
Chris met up with Diehl, Farleigh, Hill, and Harriman at mess for lunch. They reminisced about
the events of the prior night and how wasted they had gotten and of Chris’s trapeze act on the bridge.
They all agreed it was a crazy stunt.
The rest of the day was typical work; smoke breaks, work details and knockoff. Three quarters
of the crew prepared to go on liberty after knockoff. Although Chris had liberty, he decided he would
not be one of them. For one he had given Layla almost his entire bankroll and secondly he needed to
get his head straight about this relationship so he opted to allow for a cooling off period. His party
crew of Diehl, Farleigh, Harriman and Hill were going back ashore but he decided for that evening
and for the remainder of their stay in Subic he would remain on base, utilize its facilities, write some
letters, take in some movies, read his books and vegetate. At lights out, he lay in his bunk reflecting
on the previous night he spent with her. There was a stirring in his loins as he recreated the image of
Layla riding his cock like a broncobuster in a rodeo. He used this image to pleasure himself and soon
after fell sound sleep.
Payday was two days later and Chris elected to leave the base one evening simply to do some
souvenir shopping. He didn’t venture far into town because many local artisans had booths set up
right across the bridge from the post gates. He stopped at the first booth he came to and bought a pair
of hand carved teak elephant bookends for his brother and a teak candy bowl carved in the shape a
palm leaf for his mom.
Chris came to another booth displaying knives. As a boatswain’s mate he would occasionally
have to handle ropes of varying types and would sometimes have to cut them. Nearly every member
of the Division owned a Buck knife but him so he decided to purchase a knife for himself. He spotted
a hunting knife similar to one his father assembled years ago. The knife Chris purchased was the same
size as his dad’s. It wasn’t nearly as intricate as it had a balsa wood handle as opposed to the clear
silicone handle of his father’s knife. His knife had a blunt pommel whereas his father fashioned his
pommel in the shape of an eagle’s head and had two zirconium chips embedded in it for eyes. The
quality of the steel of Chris’s blade however was also inferior to that of his father’s. The price tag of
five dollars was the primary factor in his purchase. After Chris paid him, the vendor sharpened the
knife on a whetstone, demonstrated its sharpness by shaving a section of his forearm with it, inserted
it in its leather sheath, wrapped it in newspaper and handed it over to Chris.
The remainder of the week went routinely as the ongoing war of Sailor versus oxidized metal
raged on.
VI
BACK ON THE LINE
ON WEDNESDAY AT 14:15 HOURS THE SHIP deployed back to the coast of Vietnam, pausing to
anchor in the harbor channel long enough to take on ammo. At 16:14, the barge began to lift and place
the palettes of five-inch ordnance and cordite powder casings aboard the deck at the fantail. By 17:20
hours, the ammo handling detail was completed and the ship set course for Vietnam.
Traveling at an average speed of twenty four knots the Lawrence arrived off the coast of South
Vietnam some sixteen miles east of Da Nang by 06:00 Friday. It was there the ship held the first of
many of its underway replenishments for this deployment when it pulled alongside the USS Cacapon
(AO-52) at 07:45 for refueling. The Cacapon was a U.S. Cimarron class fleet oiler commissioned in
1943 and had seen action virtually every conflict the U.S.had engaged in since. She earned the Navy
Unit Commendation award for her service during the Korean War. The scars of time were evident
alongside her hull. She was riding high in the water, as her holding tanks were significantly depleted
by the unquenchable thirst of the fleet she was servicing, revealing large patches of rust along her
gunwales and below her waterline.
By 10:29, the Lawrence was once again on station at Point Angela off the coast of Quang Tri
Province of South Vietnam. Material condition Yoke was set and Readiness Condition was elevated
from IV to II. Following arrival on station the ship approached the USS Newport News and made the
first of a number of motor whaleboat transfers for this deployment and once the motor whaleboat
detail finished, the Lawrence launched the first of many salvos for this deployment firing ten HEPD
projectiles.
Chris had the forenoon watch so he was on the bridge the morning the ship arrived at Point
Angela. From his position on the bridge, he recognized the area as the ship had been there before.
While on lookout he would witness the occasional sea snake venture to the surface for air. It was a
calm morning. The seas were calm. The blue sky was unblemished by clouds, the sun’s rays
penetrated deep into the deep blue sea while the ripples upon the surface caused the light to emanate
down in silky white threads. The temperature ranged in the mid to upper 80s and their was virtually
no wind except the breeze created by the ship traversing back and forth like a caged tiger. There were
no further fire missions that morning, so while the ship prowled on station six hundred yards off the
beach, the bridge watch crew, while remaining diligent, bantered once again over the sound powered
telephones about the debauchery they engaged in and of the women they fornicated with.
As the ship slowly turned its bow to the beach Chris heard and saw the results of a splash in the
water about five yards off the starboard bow directly below him. He looked down scanning the deck
and didn’t see anyone topside and looked out in the vicinity of where he had heard the splash and saw
the circular ripples and residual air bubbles break the surface. He reported the splash to the bridge
and soon after Ensign Wellman stepped out onto the bridge wing.
“Where did you see this splash?” he asked.
Chris responded, “Right over there, sir,” and pointed to the general area which was now twenty
yards off the beam as a result of the ship’s slow turn. “You can still see some of the bubbles rising to
the surface there, sir. Before reporting it I looked to see if anyone might have thrown something
overboard but no one was on deck at the time. Sir, when you consider our proximity to the shore
could it have been a mortar shell? I mean it made a thump sound like something solid had fallen into
the water.”
“I honestly don’t know, Mr. Columbo, but I think just to be on the safe side we will take her out
a little further off shore.” The ensign barked his command to turn left rudder twenty degrees to hasten
the current turn and maneuvered the ship to a point one thousand yards off the beach. The remainder of
the watch passed uneventful.
When his watch was relieved he proceeded down to the mess deck along with the rest of his
crew for lunch consisting of chicken noodle soup, tuna salad, potato chips, bug juice, and for desert
puddings with a dollop of whipped cream. Chris made a chicken salad sandwich with two pieces of
white bread some lettuce and some sliced tomatoes. They sat with Polanski and Finnegan from
Operations.
Rhodes asked Polanski if they had just gotten off the watch to which question he responded,
“Yeah.”
Rhodes asked, “Any idea what we shot at this morning?”
Finnegan answered, “They said it was some artillery sight, or mortar emplacement that has been
shelling those poor bastards at the Marine base nearly every night.”
“Did we knock it out?” asked Flynn.
Chris interjected, “You know this morning I reported a splash in the water about five yards off
our bow. We were damned close to the beach at the time and probably within mortar range. If it was
a mortar shell fired from that same position I would say no, we didn’t hit a goddamned thing.”
Polanski said, “We have no way of telling unless there are patrols and spotters in the area. We
just fire at the coordinates given and trust they are right. Mortars are mobile. I know if I were them I
wouldn’t stay in one place long enough to be discovered and targeted.”
Just as Polanski completed his sentence George Hughes from engineering walked by their table
and Polanski reached out to stop him. “Heard about your run in with Ensign Nussbaum.”
“Yeah, that limp-wristed motherfucker’s been on my back ever since he came aboard. He’s
actually been busting everybody’s balls in the Division. If he keeps it up he just may have an
accident.”
Looking at Hughes, Chris assumed his appearance had something to do with the issue. Although
his t-shirt was tucked in it was spattered with grease smudges. His long, waxy hair though shaved
over his ears fell below his ear lobes and he had to keep sweeping it back to keep it from covering
his face. His golden brown goatee imparted a fierce and angry look on his face, and his hands and
fingernails were so filthy they looked as if they had black nail polish. He was a Hell’s Angel in Navy
denims.
“Well, good luck to you, George,” said Polanski.
“Yeah, thanks,” Hughes said as he continued on to the scullery. Farleigh asked, “What the fuck
happened to him?”
Polanski explained, “Nussbaum put him on report claiming Hughes intentionally bumped his
shoulder into him in a passageway. He’s going to be called before the mast for insubordination.”
“Well did he?” asked Farleigh.
“Did he what?”
“Did he intentionally bump into him?”
“Don’t really know, but if I had to guess he probably did. Jimmy Wilson was with Hughes when
it happened, which is how I heard about it, and he told me he was going to testify for Hughes at the
mast hearing.”
Rhodes interrupting said, “I had quarterdeck watch when this Nussbaum first reported on board.
I overheard him talking with Ensign Stafford. Apparently, this guy is straight from the academy.
During their conversation, he mentioned to Stafford about being the son of some congressman in
Florida, which would explain how he probably got into the academy, because if you look at him he
just does not look like officer material. If you asked me, he looks like a clerk in a woman’s shoe
store. He’s on board not more than six days and it looks like the guys in his division hate him already.
Probably has some sort of Napoleonic complex.”
Chris sought to impart some of his ROTC teachings. “The Navy tries to engrain leadership traits
in all their prospective officers. They want to see an officer display traits like, bearing, courage,
decisiveness, dependability, enthusiasm, initiative, judgment, knowledge, loyalty, tact, unselfishness
and a few others I can’t recall. Some of these traits come naturally to most. Others seem to lack them
or their personality interferes with them adopting some. Nussbaum could be one of the latter.”
“Did they teach you that at ROTC?” asked Farleigh.
“Actually, they did,” answered Chris. Continuing, he added, “There were guys in my battalion
that you could tell would be good officers. They were personable, intelligent, possessed a good sense
of humor and had a certain charisma that made you respect them. Others made you wonder what the
fuck they were doing there, because they just seemed too meek to be considered leadership quality. I
questioned what the others in their class must have been like if the Navy considered that type
leadership quality. I imagined leadership abilities for those wasn’t the principal criteria for selection
into the program and that intelligence of the candidate superseded all other considerations.”
“Then they really fucked up selecting you on both scores didn’t they Columbo? You probably
blew your interviewer,” joked Diaz drawing a chuckle from the rest seated at table.
Chris joined in the laughter. “Funny, Diaz, but my interviewer and I had something in common...”
He paused for effect. “We both fucked yo’ momma!” This drew a chorus of laughs from the table.
“Hey, be careful Columbo,” Diaz said hesitatingly. “Only I can fuck my momma!”
The group finished their lunch and dropped their trays off at the scullery where Chris handed
Mazzarelli his tray. “How you doing in there, Mazz?” He could see Mazzarelli wasn’t his usually
energetic self. His t-shirt was full of stains from the remnants of food from the dirty trays, which he
transferred to his shirt by constantly wiping his hands on it. Mazzarelli fumbled with Chris’s tray and
utensils and accidentally dropped them onto the deck as he clumsily tried to hasten grabbing them to
transfer to the dishwasher.
“Okay.”
Chris had personally experienced and witnessed the effect Quaaludes had when he hung around
Screwy Lewy’s at home and suspected Mazzarelli was on some form of barbiturate. “Hey man, be
careful,” Chris said with concern, “you’re going to get yourself into a world of shit if you don’t watch
out.”
“What’s it to you?”
“You’re like a homie brother to me and I don’t want to see you fuck things up for yourself, that’s
all.”
“Don’t worry about me, man. I can handle it,” he boasted. “But thanks anyway,” evincing some
level of kinship with Chris.
The line was starting to back up behind Chris. “Talk to you later,” he said and headed aft to the
fantail for an after-dinner smoke.
Chris went down to his berthing compartment to catch up on some letter writing and get some
sleep because he would have the first watch in the forward magazine later that day. He showered
plopped down onto his bunk, broke out his copy of The Godfather, and started to read. After two
chapters, his eyelids got heavy and he fell asleep. He slept through dinner and awakened at 22:22
hours by the roar of the five-inch gun above as it launched its explosive cargo to the mainland.
The thunderous rhythm of the gun beat on for fifteen minutes. With each eruption, the
compartment quaked and loosely hung garments and objects rattled after each explosion. Checking his
watch he figured he would just get dressed and head up to the mess deck and grab a cup of coffee to
sustain him through his watch. Several members of the crew were still lingering in the mess decks
having just watched the night’s movie “They Shoot Horses Don’t They,” that was yet another
reminder of a passionate evening of kissing and petting spent with Cassie at the local drive-in.
Farleigh and Diehl strolled into the mess decks to get coffee a short time after. They sat quietly for a
while and Chris felt his chair vibrate and watched the little ripples in his cup emanate from the center
with each discharge of the ship’s guns. At 23:45 Diehl stretched his arms above him and said they
should head on down to relieve the watch.
Once down in the magazine Jordan their watch leader told Chris and Diehl to man the projectile
loaders, Farleigh, and Harriman to the powder bay. No sooner had they gotten on station the order
came to load the conveyor system with high capacity projectiles. As they had only arrived on station
that morning, the holding bins for the projectiles were full.
To get access to the shells Diehl slid the metal restrainer up and out of the channel securing it in
place and revealed the top row of shells. Chris reached up as high as he could and grabbed the nose
cone of a shell and slid it out far enough to enable him to get a hand beneath it while holding the nose
of the shell with his other hand. The seventy-pound projectile caused him to grunt and exhale as he
suspended the shell and carefully lowered it to a cradled position. He walked the shell over to his
conveyor loader on the starboard side, lifted it up, placed it in its holder and pushed in the locking
mechanism to secure it in place. Diehl performed the same function for his loader on the port side.
Chris went back to grab another and another and kept repeating the process trying to keep pace with
the rate at which the gun was firing. He was starting to tire, his arms were becoming like rubber
bands. When at last there came a brief respite.
A lull occurred following a mechanical failure in the gun mount and Jordan announced, “Check
fire.” Chris hunched over placing his hands on his knees trying to compose himself and catch his
breath.
“Jeez, there’s got to be a better way.”
An idea struck him as he stared at the empty deck before him. Why not place a supply of
projectiles on the deck below the loader beforehand? All he would then have to do is bend down pick
up the shell and place it in the loading drum. By moving a supply of projectiles closer to the loading
drum rather than taking them individually off the rack he would be able to load the drum much faster
and transfer the bulk of the work to his legs as opposed to his arms. He took advantage of the check
fire to accumulate the ten shells he would need to fully stock the drum. Jordan asked him what he was
doing and when Chris explained it, he saw the sense in it allowing him to proceed. Chris suggested
Diehl might consider doing the same, which he did.
After the gun crew resolved the problem in the gun mount, they resumed their firing mission.
BOOM, the drum rotated, Chris bent down picked up a projectile and loaded it into its cradle.
BOOM, Diehl’s drum rotated, he bent down, picked up a projectile and loaded into its cradle.
BOOM, the drum rotated at Chris’s loader, he bent down picked up a projectile and loaded it into its
cradle. At each break in the firing mission, Chris and Diehl replenished their supply on the deck.
Diehl commented that this is working out much better than anticipated. Chris agreed.
The firing mission continued and accelerated to frenetic pace causing Chris to push a projectile
into its cradle too hard. The excessive force of the bottom of the projectile striking the back of the
cradle caused it to bounce out of the cradle before he could push the nose upright. The shell fell
towards the deck littered with the backup of upright shells.
Pictures in a flipbook of his life literally flashed before him. He was in Brooklyn as a child
walking with his mother and sister down 15th Avenue to buy ladyfingers at Ebingers. He was hunting
grasshoppers with his BB gun in the vacant field across his first home on Long Island. He was playing
lion tamer with Bosco the family dog. The family vacation to Howe’s Caverns, his baseball career
from Little League through High School, the interception he returned for a touchdown ninety-five
yards in peewee football, his junior prom, days on the beach, Cassie—and a host of other events. He
pictured all his friends, all his family and all of his past loves. He watched as the shell crashed down
toward the nose cone of the shell below it and blurted out the only thing he could think of to say, “Oh,
shit!” His mind raced with more memories rushing to the forefront and tried to recall every moment
before the great flash appeared sending hot jagged metal into his body reducing it to chopped meat.
He watched as the nose cone of a shell split while the other continued to fall onto the deck producing
a loud bang that echoed throughout their metallic cave.
“What the fuck was that?” Jordan bellowed.
Relieved and embarrassed Chris responded, “I dropped a fucking shell. I am sorry to have to say
it but happy as all hell that I can. One of the shells nose cones is cracked.”
Jordan radio-telephoned to the gun mount reporting the watch had found a defective shell in the
rack of shells. Chris was thankful Jordan covered his fuck-up. “Thanks, Jordan, for covering my ass,”
he said.
“Don’t mention it, Columbus. Just don’t do it again. We might not be so lucky next time. But hey,
this is your mess—you get to clean it up. They want the shell ditched overboard. Take it topside and
toss it over the side.”
Chris gave a wry smirk because Jordan whether deliberately or not had gotten his name wrong
again and said nervously, “Yeah, sure. No problem. ”
He reached down, clutched the damaged shell in his arms and headed topside. When he got to
the stairwell leading up to their compartment, he slung the shell onto his shoulder, grasping the nose
portion with one hand and the handrail with the other, and proceeded up the stairwell. He still didn’t
feel safe yet thinking this shell might explode at any moment taking his head with it. He navigated up
the second stairwell from his compartment to the first deck turned down his passageway through the
light lockers out onto the weather deck where he dropped the shell into the pitch black sea.
Man that was close. Thank you, God, for letting me and my mates live, he thought as he looked
to the heavens with re-discovered religion. Taking in one more deep breath, he returned to his post in
the magazine.
As soon as he returned, the all clear was given and the gun resumed belching its bellicose
payload towards the coastline. Their watch lasted four hours throughout which the guns fired
continuously with only intermittent pauses releasing a total of one hundred and twenty six rounds the
bulk of which was fired from the forward mount Chris helped load. He estimated personally handling
one ton of projectiles throughout the firing mission. With his arms aching, he was most anxious to hit
his rack, grab some sleep and recharge his body. When his relief appeared at 04:00 he charged up the
stairwell straight to his rack and climbed in without removing his clothes. Sleep came quickly but
lasted briefly.
****
Reveille sounded at 06:00 and at 06:20 the Division mustered in their berthing compartment due
to rain. Ensign Stafford read the Plan of the Day and dismissed them for chow. Chris trudged up to the
mess decks for his daily ration of powdered eggs, bacon, home fries, toast, juice and coffee. Once
finished several gathered outside the mid ship hatch for a morning smoke and briny air. The rain had
subsided but remained overcast. The sea was choppy, which meant a storm was approaching.
A call to man the motor whaleboat passed over the 1MC at 07:15. Chris watched Big Brown
maneuver the boat through the two foot chop alongside the USS Windham (LST 1170), which lay
about four hundred yards off their port side. He could see Big Brown was exchanging mailbags with a
crewmember of the Windham who was on a platform at the bottom of a sea ladder angled down along
the exterior hull of the vessel. Big Brown skillfully maneuvered the boat away and headed on back to
the Lawrence with the welcomed cargo. Once the motor whaleboat was secured and hoisted up the
engines started to turn with greater force and the ship steamed off for its appointment with the USS
Suribachi (AE-21). The Suribachi was an ammunition supply vessel named after Mt. Suribachi a
dormant volcano located on Iwo Jima that gained notoriety for the bloody World War II battle
involving the Japanese and U.S. Marines and immortalized through Joe Rosenthal’s famous photo of
Marines raising the American flag following its capture.
At 08:34 the re-arming detail was set, by 08:55 the Lawrence was steaming along the portside
of the Suribachi. The re-arming detail is an all hands detail meaning every crewmember that wasn’t
on the bridge, galley and engine room watches was required to participate. Each division was
assigned a station at particular sections of the weather deck. First Division’s area spanned from the
forward passageway to the mess deck hatch. Junior line officers and CPOs supervised the line like
taskmasters overseeing a chain gang. Chris noticed Brown Brown, Langston and Wilson were missing
from the line.
Chris related his observation to Diehl asking, “Where the fuck is Brown Brown and the rest of
the brothers?”
Diehl irritated responded, “Looks like they’re ‘skating’ out of another detail.”
Boatswains Mate 1st Class Holcomb emerged from the galley hatch with Brown Brown having
hold of him by the sleeve of his t-shirt and shoved him in line between Chris and Diehl.
“Nice try,” said Diehl, “where did he find you?”
“That motherfucker found me in the reefer deck,” Brown said laughing. “I gotta find a better
place next time!”
“Were Wilson and Langston with you?” asked Chris.
“Yeah, but the brothers booked when they saw Holcomb.”
****
By 08:59, the first transfer line was on deck. Chris grabbed hold of his part of the transfer line
and together they pulled hand-over-hand on the line attached to the span wire that would support the
saddles the palettes of projectiles dangled from. The two ships doing about twelve knots were
separated by forty yards. The hydrodynamic force of the water passing between the two ships caused
the sea chop to nearly double in size from two to four feet as the wakes of the two vessels crashed
into each other and occasionally the line would be engulfed under water whenever the line slackened.
It became a tug of war between the line handlers and the force of the ocean requiring the line handlers
to pull even harder to assure the line would traverse the distance between the two moving vessels. By
09:11, the span wire was connected and by 09:16, the first load of projectiles laid on the helo deck.
The last load of projectiles hit the deck by 09:40 and by 10:21, the last load of spent powder casings
returned to the Suribachi. Once all lines were clear, the ship slowly turned clear of the Suribachi.
Chris and all the others as part of the re-arming detail formed a bucket brigade to pass the projectiles
from the helo deck to the forward magazine. They had completed striking the ammunition below decks
in twenty minutes.
Twenty minutes later the ship was on station behind the Cacapon. At 10:41, the refueling detail
was set. Once again, Chris and the remainder of the crew had to handle the line transfers between the
two vessels. The refueling completed by 11:07 and all lines cleared by 11:15. Lunch for the crew
was piped shortly thereafter. Chris would have the 12:00 to 16:00 bridge watch so he had just enough
time to grab a bite in the mess deck before relieving the watch. The muscles in his arms were still
sore from the early morning’s magazine watch, and the replenishment details. The tray of hamburger,
coleslaw, potato chips, ice cream and milk felt light as a feather in his hands as he headed to the
dining table. He was tired because in the last twenty-four hours he realized he only had about four
hours of sleep.
Chris’s 12:00 to 16:00 watch passed uneventfully but he was anxiously awaiting his relief so he
could shower and get some sleep before his scheduled Cinderella watch on the bridge. Once relieved
he headed on down to his bunk showered and waited for mess call. After supper he returned to his
bunk for some long awaited shut-eye. The guns were silent for the remainder of the evening so he
slept uninterrupted until Harriman awakened him at 23:30 hours to relieve the watch.
Chris dressed, sped to the mess deck for a quick cup of coffee and up to the bridge. It was a
calm night, the ship was slowly patrolling its assigned station, the sky was clear. The ship and crew
were now on six-hour watches. Chris’s first watch station was as the EOT operator. At 00:05 hours,
Mount 51 commenced firing. By 01:00, Chris following their usual rotation found himself as the
starboard lookout.
As he stood on the bridge wing he saw the Newport News silhouetted by the ambient light laying
off their starboard side about five hundred yards away. He could see muzzle flashes emanate from the
cruiser’s eight-inch guns and heard their explosive blasts as the sound waves passed unabated across
the open water. A muffled explosion unlike gunfire came from the direction of the Newport News,
followed soon after by a faint ringing of bells. He peered through the binoculars at the neighboring
ship. Emergency lights lit the forward turret hatch. A number of people scurried pulling a fire hose
towards the turret. Chris reported to the bridge what he was witnessing. Ensign Wells the OOD came
out on the bridge wing with his binoculars.
The CIC received word of an explosion on the Newport News. Ensign Wells ordered the
messenger to report this event to the captain and within fifteen minutes, the captain and the XO were
on the bridge with binoculars in hand. The captain stepped out onto the bridge wing with his
binoculars and knocked Chris aside into the external bulkhead railing causing his left bicep to ram
into the top of the wall. The bulkhead railing wasn’t at all forgiving as it was a solid sheet of steel
with a steel shelf welded on top and it was the lip of the shelf that Chris was pushed into causing
enough discomfort to have to rub it to dispel the pain. This was the second time the captain had done
this to him. Chris was a bit irritated that the captain never even offered up an “excuse me.” The
captain re-entered the bridge, radioed over to the Newport News, and asked them if they needed any
assistance. Chris could hear the voice of what he presumed was the captain of the cruiser thank him
for his offer but felt they now had things under control.
The captain and XO remained on the bridge for the next half-hour observing the Newport News
and gathering what little information they could. In the interim, Mount 51 continued to hurl its deadly
cargo ashore, while Chris observed through his binoculars trying to spot any secondary explosions in
the gun’s line of fire. Between rounds, he would turn his attention back to the Newport News and
occasionally spot crewmembers carrying stretchers to and from the turret. He reflected on his recent
experience in the forward magazine and realized how lucky he had been and how unlucky his brothers
aboard the News were. He didn’t know any of them but it didn’t diminish the grief he felt for them,
their crew and families.
Up to this point in his tour, he experienced this war from a safe distance. It had been an ongoing
series of work details, drills, and firing missions far from the battle lines in the relative safety of the
ship. With the exception of the B-52 payload’s annihilation of a stretch of jungle, he never bore
witness to the personal destruction caused by the war until now. His opposition of the war had
subsided during the past two months as he resigned himself to the fact he had no other choice given
his present environment and felt he just had to make the best of an unalterable situation. However,
here was visible evidence of its futility. Young men his age were dying and their deaths caused not by
enemy gunfire but rather by some freak accident.
After the captain and XO departed the bridge Ensign Wells stepped out onto the wing.
Chris greeted him, “Terrible morning, sir.”
“No doubt,” replied the young officer who was no more than two years Chris’s senior. “What
have you seen going on over there?” gesturing to the News.
“It looks really bad. I’ve seen them take a number of litters out of the turret.”
“Yes, we heard the explosion resulted in quite a few casualties. Do you know anyone on board
her?”
“No, sir, and am glad I don’t. I have lost some friends here already from this fucked up war and
don’t care to lose anymore,” Chris said without regard for the consequence of expressing his opinion.
“I understand.”
Shit, thought Chris, a sympathetic ear. “Tell me, sir. If you don’t mind my asking, what’s your
opinion of our presence here?”
“Personally, I am not in favor of the war, but it’s not my place to question the why’s and
wherefores. We all signed up for this job and it is our duty to perform it to the best of our abilities. It
is the old story of the chain being as strong as its weakest link. We must maintain our resolve or we
will break.”
“The North Vietnamese and Viet Cong have a chain of their own, sir, and in spite of all the
damage we seem to inflict on them they keep on coming. Whose chain do you think is stronger, sir?
They are fighting for their survival, for the unification of their nation, for a political ideal. They have
a common bond of hatred for us. What do we have to fight for? A belief that if the South falls all the
surrounding countries will fall to communism as well? I think our continued presence here could in
the end help foster that inevitability. I think we need to draw a distinction as to whether we as a
nation would rather be feared because of our military might or revered for our humanitarianism and
respect for people’s intrinsic right to choose their own form of government and future.”
The ensign responded, “The issue here is that people of the South are not being given the option
of selecting their government. The North is trying to impose its own government upon them and
employing hostile means to do so.”
“With all due respect, sir, they have been fighting here for over thirty years. If it had not been for
the French attempt to re-establish colonial rule here and oust Ho Chi Minh’s provisional government,
the country wouldn’t have been partitioned. Diem would not have usurped control of the South
through fraudulent elections, succeeding regimes would not asked for military support, and the Gulf of
Tonkin wouldn’t have occurred. Aren’t we trying to impose rule here also based on a theory? You
would think that having been a colony once ourselves our sympathies would have been for the
indigenous population.”
“Well I’ll say this for you, you know your history.”
“C’mon Mr. Wells, we’ve been living through this war for the past eight years and there hasn’t
been a day gone by without news about it appearing in the papers or TV, nor has there been any lack
of exposes on how and why we became involved.”
“Do you plan on teaching history when you leave the Navy?”
“I have no idea of what I am going to do, sir,” said Chris. “Right now I just hope to get out
alive.”
“If we all do the jobs we’re assigned then I see no reason why you won’t.”
“Well, sir, the guys on the News were doing their jobs too.”
****
The barrage from the Lawrence ended slightly past 02:00 hours. At muster, Ensign Stafford
informed the Division of the tragedy aboard the News. He asked for a moment of silence to honor
those lost in the mishap.
Following muster and breakfast, Chris and the others reported to their work details. Since the
crew was on six hour watches they would try to get some sleep whenever possible. It wasn’t always
possible though to get six hours of sleep everyday because of replenishment details or calls to general
quarters conducted during a section’s downtime. After Chris finished his work detail and ready to
knock off, a special replenishment detail was set at 12:08 to take on some unique cargo. A highline
transfer was made with the USS McCain, another guided missile destroyer and part of their task
force. He joined the line and together they hoisted over nine palettes containing mini-radios.
These mini-radios were part of a psy-ops mission the U.S. was conducting in an attempt to break
the spirit of the North Vietnamese. The radios were fixed to receive a single frequency U.S.
intelligence broadcast its clandestine station on. They broadcast from a Navy EC-121 aircraft an
electronic warfare plane. The plane flew off the Vietnam coast and because of its mobility; the
communist north could not track the source. The proximity of the aircraft made its signal overpower
local stations. The goal was to deceive the listener into believing they were listening to a station from
within North Vietnam and broadcast by elements opposing the regime depicting the communists as
cruel and illegitimate. They would air dramatic content to keep the listener engaged and tuned to its
programming. Hoping to have captivated an audience, they would interject news and propaganda.
The Lawrence and other ships in the task force were to drop the radios packaged in buoyant
waterproof containers along the coast of North Vietnam. The incoming tides were to wash them
ashore and where they would hopefully be found by local residents. This required ships to get close
to the shoreline for this tactic to be effective. It also required that any inhabitants walking along the
beaches would find and use them. This intrusion into hostile territory meant the crew would be called
to general quarters more often, further disrupting their watch routines and further curtailing rack time.
Chris and his section had the First Watch in the forward magazine when general quarters were
set at 19:34 hours. Since their GQ station was in the forward magazine none of them had to leave
their station. Three other members of their division augmented their ranks when Harriman, Armstrong
and Rhodes arrived. There they sat as they could hear and feel the engines increase in strength and the
ship gain speed.
Jordan had not received any directives as to which projectiles to load so they stood relaxed on
station. Chris sat in the powder casing hold as directed. He broke out his copy of The Godfather sat
up against an empty bulkhead and started to read. Harriman read his Avengers comic while Jordan,
Rhodes, Farleigh, Armstrong and Diehl played poker. GQ was relaxed at 21:52 and Condition III was
set.
Harriman, Armstrong and Rhodes left the magazine. Reading had made Chris sleepy. Since it
was impossible to secure a full night’s sleep most on board grabbed shuteye wherever and whenever
they could. This was one of those times. Chris used a powder casing as a pillow, while lying down
on the hard deck and fell asleep. He was awakened an hour later by a kick from his relief. Up the
ladder he went anxious to grab sack time in the comfort of his bed only to be rousted from his bunk by
the General Quarters alarm thirty minutes later. Back down to the magazine he went and there he sat
until 01:47 when the order to load HEPD projectiles came down from the gun mount. Between the
two gun mounts, they fired a total of fifteen rounds and by 01:53 secured from General Quarters.
Rhodes expressed his displeasure, “Motherfucker. Was that even worth the effort?”
Chris returned to his rack awakened a few hours later by the pitching and rolling of the ship. He
could feel the prow of the ship shudder as it heaved up only to slam down back into the sea as the
crest of the oncoming waves forced the bow out of the water. One would think this ship’s behavior in
these seas would facilitate sleep as rocking the cradle does for infants, but the magnitudes of the
pitching and rolling had the opposite effect as Chris once rolled right out of his bunk from the forces
exerted.
Reveille was at 06:40. After muster, Chris headed topside for some fresh air and some
breakfast. The port and starboard side deck hatches were open and the light locker curtains drawn
back so he could see the conditions outside. He walked over to the portal and gawked at the sight of
the gray skies and seas as he spanned the horizon. Wave heights were eight to ten feet and white caps
abounded atop each wave. The spray off the waves was horizontal and the smell of salt filled the air.
He extended both arms and pushed against each bulkhead to support himself. The horizon kept rising
and lowering with each roll of the ship and was occasionally obscured by the top of the doorway as
the ship tenuously rolled. The exterior decks were wet and much of the spray generated reached into
the interior. Carey joined him in the light locker.
“Getting pretty rough, eh?” said Chris.
“Yeah, they say we’re on the rim of typhoon ‘Lorna.’”
“Can’t imagine what it looks like in the center if it’s this bad on the outer rim.”
Chris closed the hatch and the pair proceeded on to the mess decks for breakfast. Those yet
seated were shuffling their feet along and walking at a slant with each roll of the ship as they tried to
maintain their balance and control of their trays. A tray slid from a table and crashed to the deck
beside Chris as he sat with Carey, Farleigh, Diehl, Harriman and Little Brown. He secured the tray
with his left hand, consuming his meal with his free right hand and read DGUTS the ship’s newsletter,
a daily publication printed by the supply department and runoff on a ditto machine. It would contain
relevant news stories, a brief column prepared by the XO, ship’s missions, the weekly mess menu,
and other relevant news pertaining to crewmembers such as birth announcements. That unique
perfume smell of the solvent reminded Chris of elementary school. This issue contained a memoriam
to the lost crewmembers of the Newport News. The XO’s column praised the actions of the ship’s
crew and advised them that the tragedy that occurred on the News should act as a sobering reminder
that all should remain vigilant and attentive in the performance of their duties.
Following breakfast, Chris headed off to perform his daily work assignment and up to the bridge
when it was his time to relieve the afternoon bridge watch. By then the ship’s storm evasion course
put them in calm seas. When he arrived on the bridge, a dense fog engulfed the ship. The surrounding
water had a mercurial trait. The low visibility detail was set which meant an additional lookout had
to stand watch on the forecastle. Little Brown sent Farleigh down to get SN Thompson as he was the
assigned lookout for the low visibility detail. He appeared on deck in foul weather gear about fifteen
minutes after Farleigh went to get him. Chris could see him amble to the ship’s bow where he stood
as if it was a punishment. Once he got to the prow he plugged in his sound powered telephones and
turned aft facing the bridge. The messenger of the watch gave him a radio check to assure they had
good communications. He responded, gave thumbs up, and continued to face aft shielding his face
from the spray.
Little Brown was perturbed at Thompson’s actions and he bolted out onto the bridge wing
yelling at him, “Turn the fuck around, dickhead!” while making a circular motion with his hand.
Thompson slowly complied with the directive and spoke into the phone; Chris was the sound
powered telephone talker at that point in the watch and heard Thompson say, “Tell that asshole to
chill the fuck out. They ain’t nothing out here!” Chris thought it best to not relay the message, but
believed it symptomatic of the fatigue the crew was feeling.
The storm and fog would only provide a brief respite from combat operations but not from
conducting ship’s work. Between watches, the crew set to tasks of cleaning, repairing and general
maintenance. The ship had been back on the gun line for only nine days and within that time frame
they refueled eight times, re-armed four times, replenished food stores once, conducted three motor
whaleboat transfers, three helo details and called to General Quarters sixteen times for firing
missions and radio drops. On average, General Quarters lasted about two and one half hours so in
total they lost approximately forty hours of sleep within those nine days. They had fired three hundred
ninety four rounds and those missions attributed to damaging and destroying eleven designated targets.
Chris and most of the crew were unaware of any of these statistics, but they were starting to feel
the effects of their ordeals. Several crewmembers had sustained injuries resulting from fatigue,
carelessness or perhaps intentional. Curiously, Ensign Nussbaum was one of those injured suffering a
lacerated scalp after falling down a ladder from the main deck to the forward fire room. Chris
wondered if Hughes made good on his prediction or was it simple coincidence. He leaned toward the
former.
While mustering at quarters Ensign Stafford passed the word that he posted a new Watch,
Quarter and Station Bill on the Division’s bulletin board and advised everyone to review it and learn
of their re-assignments.
Chris checked the board on his way to breakfast and discovered his GQ station changed. He was
now to report to the signal bridge during General Quarters where he would man the Target Designator
Transmitter, or TDT for short. He had no idea what a TDT was nor why he was re-assigned but
assumed dropping the projectile may have been a factor. Perhaps Jordan relayed the events of that
evening to Ensign Stafford and taking into account the Newport News tragedy, he probably made the
move as a safety precaution.
It truly didn’t matter to him as he would now be out of that hole, in the fresh air and able to
witness their missions firsthand as containment in the magazine afforded no visual perspective. If the
ship struck a mine or hit by a torpedo those below decks had little chance of escape. At least topside
if they took a direct hit you could visually assess the extent of damage provided you survived and
were still functional and take whatever actions necessary to assure continued survival. Ensign
Stafford’s GQ post was also on the signal bridge as well along with Diehl and Harriman.
It wasn’t long before Chris had his chance to witness the ship in action. Early Sunday morning at
00:20 hours the ship set General Quarters. He rolled out from his rack and quickly threw on his pants,
denim shirt and shoes, grabbed his ball cap and raced up the stairwell followed by the others in his
division stationed at the upper decks. Up the ladder to the passageway, up the stairwell to the bridge,
out on to the bridge wing and up the ladder to the signal bridge he went. There Ensign Stafford met
him.
“Grab a flak jacket from that storage bin,” he said pointing to it. “And grab a pot helmet and
sound powered phones.”
Chris did as ordered as quickly as he could. “Okay, now plug your phones into the receptacle
here on this stanchion,” he said as he guided Chris to his post.
Atop the stanchion was a set of handlebars and above the handlebars was a protective canvas
bag covering the TDT. The ensign removed the cover under which was an oversized set of
binoculars. He flicked a switch alongside these binoculars and removed the lens covers.
He explained to Chris that the equipment was actually a night vision scope electronically
connected to Fire Control Radar. Chris was to search for muzzle flashes, patrol boats or any possible
threat. Whenever he spotted anything of that nature, he was to call attention to it by announcing it
aloud and through the phones. He was also to depress a button on the handlebar once he aligned the
target with the cross hairs. The ensign explained by doing so the unit would send a signal to fire
control radar providing the relative heading and distance to the target. If Fire Control radar could
lock on to the signature of the target, it would relay those telemetries to the gun mount. A rush of
excitement raced through Chris’s body about his new role. He would now play an active role in the
defense of the ship as well as have some ability to protect his own ass.
It was a clear warm still night. The passing typhoon washed the air clean. The new moon phase
extinguished the moon’s glow and the stars glimmered like tiny diamond chips on black velvet. He
peered through the rubber-cushioned eyepiece. An eerie lime green glow extinguishing all other
colors filled his vision. The device gathered and amplified available light, which made it easy to
discern objects at considerable distances and the strength of the one hundred powered lenses made
the objects seem within arms reach of him.
Scanning the surrounding area he spotted the two other ships in their complement. Thanks to the
device, he could see their hull numbers. The numbers 787 were visible on one and 15 on the other.
The 787 belonged to the USS Keyes (DD-787), one of the Navy’s oldest destroyers. She had her keel
laid in 1944 and launched in 1945. She earned her battle stars in the Korean War serving as destroyer
escort for the USS Boxer (CV-21) during the assault on Inchon. Number 15 belonged to the USS
Berkeley (DDG-15), another Adams class guided missile destroyer like the Lawrence but launched in
1961 making her one-year younger. All the ships were running dark, that is they had no running lights,
all topside hatches closed and the black overlapping canvas drapes of their light lockers were drawn
closed to prevent any interior light from escaping. Whatever lights on were red lights on the ship’s
bridge, the red lights of the helm, EOT, navigation plotting table and the sweep of the bridge
radarscope. When his eyes became acclimated, he stared in the direction of the Berkeley. It took some
time but he was able to distinguish her mast against the backdrop of ambient light appearing along the
western horizon. Had he not known of her presence she would be nothing more than a shadow in the
dark veiled from discovery.
He looked again at the vessel through the scope to discover he could make out every minute
detail and remarked, “This is one fucking remarkable apparatus!”
Diehl seemingly uneasy asked, “Does anyone know where the hell we are?”
Seaman Holtzman from the ship’s navigation department, who was also stationed as a lookout on
the signal bridge, said, “We’re in the Tonkin Gulf about fifteen miles off the coast of North Vietnam.
Ensign Stafford confirmed Holtzman’s statement and said, “That’s right, men, and that’s all the
more reason for all of you to be alert. Keep sharp eyes peeled for prop wash. There could be torpedo
boats in the area.”
All the lookouts responded simultaneously, “Aye, sir.”
Chris could hear the speed and heading change orders given below and felt the power of the
engines as the ship coursed through the sea at twenty-five knots. The wind whirred as it rushed
through his helmet. Peering through the scope, he could see the shoreline rise in the distance.
Seaman Flynn as the sound powered telephone talker in the bridge passed the word, “Sir, CIC
reports J-Band radar detected bearing two five zero degrees.”
“Very well,” replied the XO as Officer of the Deck. He knew of the electronic countermeasures
they were employing. These countermeasures would diminish the effectiveness of the land-based
radar. They did so by deceiving the enemy’s radar by having the ship’s return signal create separate
targets or have it appear and disappear in random patterns, reducing their ability to accurately
pinpoint the ship’s location.
About one hour into the mission, he sensed the ship slowing down and turn. The ship opened fire
from both her gun mounts at 01:22. They ceased firing three minutes later. The XO ordered the EOT
operator to increase speed to twenty-seven knots and the helmsman to make course 070 degrees. At
that exact moment, Chris could see muzzle flashes from the shoreline and moments later witnessed an
air burst well off the port bow.
“Air burst zero-one-five degrees off port bow approximately five-zero yards,” he calmly
announced via the sound powered telephone.
Seconds later Diehl reported, “Splashes in the water at zero-six-zero degrees off port beam
approximately one hundred yards.”
Chris locating an artillery site through the night vision scope as it fired announced, “Muzzle flash
at zero-three-zero degrees,” and pressed the button on the handlebar once he was able to center the
target in the cross hairs.
“Mount 52 reports foul bore, sir,” announced SN Flynn.
Target coordinates were switched to Mount 51. The gun crew turned its bore towards the area
Chris was focusing on with the night scope and opened fire again with a repeating retort.
Chris heard two swooshing sounds come from amidships as the ship released two rounds of
chaff employed to shroud the ship from further radar detection.
Flynn reported, “All unnecessary personnel evacuated Mount 52, sir.”
“Very well,” replied the XO.
The shore fire ceased and the ship was beating a fast retreat from the area.
The crew remained at General Quarters while the ship headed further out to sea as the gunnery
mates worked to clear the bore of their gun. At 02:39, the bore of Mount 52 was cleared through the
muzzle and the projectile tossed overboard. Once the threat of unintentional detonation was resolved,
the ship secured from GQ at 02:42.
The scheduled watches were relieved and the remainder of the crew slipped into their racks for
what amounted to a catnap because at 03:45 the General Quarters alarm once again sounded. Again,
everyone scrambled to dress and race to their GQ stations. They waited on station as the three ships
maneuvered to the coordinates of the next firing mission. By 04:38, the ship reduced speed and turned
course for its final run. At 04:40, both gun mounts on the Lawrence and those on the companion ships
commenced firing peppering the countryside. The bombardment lasted three minutes after which the
formation turned east simultaneously launching chaff to cover their withdrawal. It was 05:00 when
they placed sufficient distance between the ship and any retaliatory threat to warrant standing down
from quarters.
Chris put his equipment away secured the scope and headed to the main deck. He checked his
watch knowing he had the forenoon watch and decided to go to the mess deck to grab some coffee and
breakfast. Harriman and Diehl joined him.
Mazzarelli was sitting alone at one of the dining tables with his elbow on the table and his hand
supporting his head. He was staring at and stirring a cup of coffee. Chris grabbed a cup of coffee of
his own and joined him.
“Hey, Mazz,” he said convivially hoping it might induce a like reply. All he could muster was a
curt “Hey.”
“You okay man?” Chris asked.
“I want out of this fucking outfit! You know I never wanted to be here in the first place.”
“I know and honestly neither did I, but we’re here nonetheless. You have to learn to go with the
flow Mazz and just try to make the best of the situation. It’s the only way you are going to retain your
sanity. When you think about this in the long term the time we are spending here is merely a blink of
an eye in comparison to a lifetime.” Chris was shocked to hear those words come from his mouth.
This was advice he probably should have taken himself when his father had given it to him when he
was brooding about college and what followed.
Diehl and Harriman arrived at the table and Diehl using his pet name for Mazzarelli said, “Good
morning, Mozzarella, what’s up?”
Mazz didn’t respond and wasn’t given time to when the CPO stood by the table and told him to
start setting up for the morning meal.
“Morning, Chief!” Diehl said enthusiastically. “What’s good on this morning’s menu?”
“Everything’s good, smart ass,” responded the chief as he turned to resume to his job of
overseeing the mess deck.
Diehl turned his attention back to Chris and asked, “So what’s Mozzarella’s problem?”
“He doesn’t want to be here,” Chris replied.
“Like you and I do?”
“Precisely what I told him. He’s just nervous in the service.” Chris went on to explain, “I don’t
know how much you know of his reasons for being here, but since he saw fit to tell me I guess he
wouldn’t give a shit if you knew.”
“Knew what?” asked Harriman as if he were just wakened from a deep sleep.
“Mazz was given a choice between service or jail time by a judge back home.”
“For what?” inquired Diehl.
“Possession with intent to sell,” Chris said.
“Oh is that all?”
“What do you mean is that all? I could see being flippant if it was a matter of selling weed but it
was pills he got nailed for dealing and to a cop’s son no less!”
“I just meant that at least it wasn’t for being a thief. If there’s one thing I can’t stand it’s a thief.”
Changing the topic Harriman advised, “They’re opening up the chow line.”
The three got up and feasted on French toast with maple syrup, bacon, re-constituted eggs, reconstituted milk, re-constituted OJ and a second cup of coffee. After breakfast, Diehl and Chris went
out to the weather deck for a morning smoke and Harriman retired to his rack. “Relieve the watch”
passed through the 1MC by the BMOW. Chris and Diehl fattened and rested headed to their watch
station on the bridge.
By 09:30, Chris could see the ship was trailing well behind a column of others and at 10:04 the
word was passed to set the special replenishment detail. Once he was relieved Chris took his place
along with the other line handlers. They didn’t begin to make their approach until two hours later. At
12:00 they pulled alongside the USS Manatee (AO-58), which was, another WWII era vessel
engaged in this conflict. The spanning wires connected forward and aft four minutes later and the rigs
connected four minutes after. Another spanning wire connected amidships, across which they
transferred movies. The ship finished gulping the 127,515 gallons of naval distillate one hour and
fifteen minutes later and once all lines were clear proceeded up the column to meet up with the USS
Nitro (AE-23).
At 13:24, they secured the refueling detail and set the re-arming detail, so all line handlers
remained on station decked in their orange life vests. They were alongside the Nitro by 13:28, the
spanning rigs were connected by 13:50 and by 14:33 the last load of ammunition was pulled aboard
and on deck of the Lawrence. With all lines cleared by 14:56 the ship accelerated to catch up to the
final vessel in the column, which was the USS Kansas City (AOR-3) one of the Navy’s more modern
replenishment ship. While the re-arming detail struck the ammunition below, the ship made its
approach and pulled along her side by 16:37. The transfer rig was connected at 16:49 and by 17:07
the last load of mini-radios was hauled aboard. The final replenishment detail secured at 17:27.
It was a long and arduous day for the crew of the Lawrence. Chris’s body and mind were feeling
the effects of the last sixteen and one half hours of non-stop activities. Everyone seemed to be a bit
testy and the level of bitching and griping amongst the crew seemed to elevate in frequency and
severity. They bitched about the food, the work details, the watch schedule, the ship’s laundry, the
stink in the berthing compartments, the stink in the heads, the stink of their shipmates and they bitched
about some officers. The captain was the focal point of most of their griping today.
While out with the line handlers Chris would hear comments such as “What, is he trying to kill
us?”
“That cocksucker must be bucking for commendation from CINCPAC, busting our asses like
this!”
“That motherfucker better not be on the fantail after dark!”
Chris thought, Christ we’re only out here eight friggin’ days. If it keeps up like this these guys
are going to mutiny. After the detail Chris went below to shower and wash the ocean spray from his
body, then changed into a clean set of denims before evening supper. He had the midnight to 06:00
Cinderella watch in the forward magazine and was anxious to grab some sleep after dinner.
At 23:15 hours, GQ was sound. Up to the signal bridge he scampered. The ship completed its
firing mission on targets within North Vietnam and retired from the area to its holding position in the
Tonkin Gulf at 00:33.
And so, the chess game continued. The ship would conduct its bombing runs and make miniradio drops each day during the early morning hours as part of President Nixon's Operation
Linebacker, the first continuous bombing effort conducted against the North since 1968 and the
cessation of President Johnson's strategic bombing campaign known as Rolling Thunder. The ships in
the task unit would spend several days in a general region holding station and move to another
quadrant of the gulf to avoid detection by the North Vietnamese. Several days later, the ship recorded
its position in the deck log as Lat 20° 03N Long 106° 49.6E. Those coordinates would put the ship
approximately thirty-five miles south of Hai Phong Harbor; one of the world’s most heavily fortified
harbors. Hai Phong was the primary entry point for ships carrying weapons supplied by the Soviet
Union and the People’s Republic of China to North Vietnam.
Chris was on the bridge for the 18:00 to 24:00 bridge watch and was set to be relieved when at
23:45 hours the call for General Quarters rang out. Chris climbed up the ladder to the signal bridge
and got himself and his equipment prepared. The waxing crescent moon supplied enough ambient light
for Chris to discern contours of the shoreline and realized they were in a different location than the
previous nights. In addition, he could see the lights from the distant city along the horizon. Ensign
Stafford confirmed they were just outside Hai Phong harbor, and urged them to be diligent because
there was high probability of swift patrol boats in the area.
The ships began their stealthy run towards landfall and when at their predetermined ranges
altered course to clear the target lines for guns. They opened fire at 00:40 firing twenty-four rounds
after which they retired from the area. They secured from GQ at 01:02 and called back at 02:20.
Chris could tell they were further north than before because the city lights, which were
previously northwest of them, were now due west. He was looking through his scope when he heard
what seemed like a whisper in the sky. He quickly pointed the scope skyward and jumped back
startled after seeing a plane’s wing and familiar chevron streak across his field of vision.
“Holy shit” he said.
“What is it?” asked the ensign.
“I just spotted the U.S. insignia of a plane through the scope. From what I could tell it had to be
pretty low.”
“Well CIC didn’t report anything,” said the ensign.
“I suppose they picked up his VFR squawk,” remarked Chris recalling the training he received
in CIC while on the USS Wasp during his summer cruise. Chris however knew U.S. aircraft in hostile
territory would turn their transponders off to avoid detection and identification by enemy radar. It
would then be impossible for CIC to tell if it was friend or foe either. So it unnerved him to think CIC
failed to pick up this aircraft in its radar or knew of the plane and neglected to inform others that it
was in the vicinity. If the former was the case, he wondered what else might they miss.
They were in their attack run when Chris spotted the plane but were still some distance from
their firing coordinates. As Chris gazed toward landfall, he witnessed a number of flashes spray out
from the ground. They were explosions from the payload dropped from the aircraft, which had just
flown over their position. Suddenly he noticed tracer bullets from the distant horizon soar into the
heavens like a hyphenated orange tendril lashing up. Then another and another trail and then several
more whipped at the blackness above. A large white shimmering dot appeared on the landscape and
climbed high into the night sky to its apex where it ultimately exploded causing the white dot to
expand in size and vanish from sight. Still another shot up illuminating the night sky several degrees
north of the previous one. Then a third and a fourth illumination climbed high into the sky. It didn’t
take a rocket scientist to know these were Surface to Air Missiles launched by the North Vietnamese,
and the hyphenated tendrils were hot metal tracer bullets fired from anti aircraft weapons. Chris was
awestruck by the surreal sight. He reported each instance of shore fire though it wasn’t necessary as
everyone on the bridge had the same view of the fireworks before them. The ship made its turn, fired
at its assigned targets sending another twenty-four projectiles via airmail to an unsuspecting target
and made a 180° turn withdrawing from the firing zone without receiving any reprisal from shore
batteries. The crew secured from GQ at 03:40.
****
During the next two days, the ship’s routine of replenishment details and firing missions
continued. The crew continued to bitch and moan during the details but executed their duties
professionally and efficiently. There were still those who chose to skate through those details,
increasing the anguish of those left to pick up the slack created by their absence. It wasn’t a joke any
longer to the members of the crew who participated in the details. Many of them began to view the
absentees as derelict in their duties to the extent they now ratted on those missing by inquiring of the
petty officers supervising the whereabouts of such and such individual. The petty officers being
alerted of the missing persons would inform the ship’s Master at Arms who would conduct a search
of the ship and ensure those caught took their place on line.
The ship’s Master at Arms was SH1 Bill Watts, a sizable black man who worked as a cook in
the galley. He was an affable fellow who was always joking around with the crew as they passed
down the chow line. It was obvious to any casual observer Watts had a closer relationship with his
black shipmates and they didn’t hesitate to take advantage of their relationship with him whenever
they could. When Watts caught Diaz trying to skate out of the latest re-arming detail, which he often
tried to do, he made a remark about been caught again.
“Goddamnit, that SOB always manages to find me and never any of his soul brothers!” he said
attempting to deflect criticism from his own transgression.
Farleigh was sympathetic to his buddy Diaz and told him, “You don’t blend into the shadows as
well.”
Armstrong, another white crewmember said, “You may have a point, Diaz, but that doesn’t
excuse the fact you always try to skate out of these details.”
“Fuck you, Armstrong,” was Diaz’s singular reply while he passed a shell on to his waiting
arms.
Armstrong chose not to respond, took the shell and passed it into Chris’s waiting arms.
After the detail, the smoking lamp lit and most of the crew went to their compartments for some
sleep. Chris lingered on the starboard side of the main deck for a smoke. When CIC reported an
unidentified radar contact an announcement was made over the 1MC, “Clear all topside spaces, all
topside watches don battle dress.”
In compliance with the directive, Chris immediately tossed the cigarette over the side and
entered through the forward doorway. As he entered into the passageway, the hatch to the auxiliary
compartment slowly swung open in front of him. He put his hand on top of the hatch, which was about
shoulder height, and kept it there as the hatch was opening. A black hand reached up to the top of the
hatch for support. Chris immediately recognized those long pointed manicured nails. The hand rested
atop his and the person to whom the hand belonged to muttered a nervous, “Aw shit!”
As Brown Brown emerged from the compartment and noticed Chris, he displayed a broad grin,
but unsure what Chris’s attitude might be about discovering his hiding place said uncomfortably,
“Hey, man.”
Chris echoed, “Hey, man.”
Brown Brown sought Chris’s complicity in not revealing his hiding place by bargaining with
him and asked, “Hey, man, how about doing a brother a solid and not mention to anybody you found
me here and I will owe you one, okay?”
While Chris stood there, contemplating his response, he looked inside the compartment and
watched as Watson and Langston emerged. Chris liked Brown Brown’s ebullient spirit from the
moment he met him. Brown Brown had always been friendly with him whenever they were together.
He didn’t have the same relationship nor enjoyed being in the company of the other two as he did with
Brown Brown, but to maintain their bond he said, “No problem here, man.”
“Okay, we’re cool then,” said Brown Brown as he extended his hand inviting Chris to give him
a hand slap.
“We’re cool,” Chris said returning his hand slap.
Langston and Watson each slapped five with Chris and as they did, said, “Thanks, man,” and as
the three headed below Chris dogged the hatch and followed.
****
Following the evening meal of meat loaf with brown gravy, broiled potatoes, green beans, salad,
roll and rice pudding Chris, Diehl, Farleigh and several others from the Division remained in the
mess deck as they decided to watch a movie. They got some popcorn grabbed a table and spent the
next hour and sixteen minutes ogling Jane Fonda playing the role of a prostitute named Bree Daniels
in the movie “Klute.” Their watch would be in three hours so they could squeeze sack time in before
having to relieve the Cinderella watch.
Their plan fell apart at 21:20 because they arrived at the stairwell to their compartment the call
to General Quarters was passed. They ran up the adjoining stairwell to their GQ stations and quickly
donned their helmets and flak jackets.
Those members of the crew who weren’t performing physical activities or active in the
operation and navigation of the ship during the first half hour of General Quarters, had a tendency to
relax on station. After dozens of missions, they were accustomed to the lengthy interval between
being called to GQ and the actual firing mission knowing it took time to traverse the course from their
holding stations to their assigned firing coordinates. The crew on the signal bridge would take
advantage of this time to discern where the ship was located and what area of North Vietnam they
would be targeting by grilling Holtzman who became their local news source due to his intimate
involvement with the ship’s navigation.
“So where are we now and where are we headed, Holtzman?” asked Diehl.
“Don’t know exactly where we are but I know we’re headed to someplace called Tiger Bay.
Our target is a supply area in some town called Hai Binh. There is an island we will get pretty close
to and it is supposed to have shore batteries at their southern- and northernmost points.”
“Thanks for the heads up!” Diehl said.
Once again, the ship made several course changes while maintaining speeds of twenty-five knots
and at the usual one-hour mark slowed to sixteen knots and changed course to three zero nine degrees.
Before they could open fire, they found themselves the recipient of hostile fire coming from the island
Holtzman spoke of earlier.
Chris ducked instinctively as an airburst appeared directly over the ASROC deck. Several more
airbursts and splashes appeared off the port quarter. Incoming fire increased in intensity and
decreased in proximity. Chris reported splashes within several yards of the port bow. He could see
the forward gun mount was elevated and aimed at about ten o’clock relative to the bow. He heard a
loud crackling explosion to his left and when he quickly turned his head saw the last flickers of the
airburst then witnessed and heard the staccato of the hot lethal shrapnel hissing as it shot into the
water below. Another crackling explosion came from astern seemingly above the helo deck. He
spotted a muzzle flash coming from the northern point of the island and peered through his scope
while the ship’s gun mounts continued the barrage on their designated targets.
As taught he incrementally scanned the general vicinity of the muzzle flash. A white haze
emanating from the right edge of the scope implied another shot fired from the island. He scanned
right and located the source. They were within a mile of the island’s shore and from that distance, he
could make out minute details like the leaves on palm trees through the scope. He now saw
movement. People in cone hats were scurrying about an area fortified with sandbags and to the rear
were cases of what he presumed to be munitions. At last, the actual gun itself was in his crosshairs.
He reported, “Sir, I’ve spotted shore artillery and enemy personnel bearing two-niner-five degrees!”
Chris neglected to depress the button on his sound powered telephone and repeated the information.
Fire control told him to light up the target by pressing the button on the TDT. He did and once
Mount 51 finished firing on its original coordinates redirected itself to its new target. It roared fired
back on the artillery sight. While looking through the scope Chris saw the explosion well off to the
east and behind the ammo crates. He relayed what he saw to fire control. “Impact four zero yards
right and behind target,” he said. The gun made the slightest adjustment and began to rapid fire. Chris
could still see the gun emplacement and noticed the gun barrel had almost no elevation. He quickly
glanced at Mount 51 and saw it too had no discernible elevation, which indicated because of their
proximity these two opponents were firing at point blank range at each other.
He resumed looking through the scope as both guns resounded fire. From his perspective through
the lenses, the world was erupting all around the bunker. Trees were exploding, dirt launched
skyward, and bodies were tossed into the air like rag dolls. Massive secondary explosions appeared
in the background. The shore battery went dead silent.
“Multiple secondary explosions two-eight-zero degrees!” he reported, “Direct hits on shore
battery! Target destroyed!”
Engagement with the shore batteries lasted twenty minutes with the Lawrence emerging the
victor. At 22:40, the ship retired from the area quite a bit faster than it entered. Ensign Stafford heard
sonar report to CIC through his sound powered telephone and announced in solemn amazement to the
crew on the signal bridge, “Sonar reports recording a total of ninety-two subsurface explosions!”
“Christ that was unbelievable!” said Diehl.
“Too danged close for comfort,” Harriman added.
While they retired from the area, several officers appeared from the bridge and began to perform
a damage assessment. To Chris’s knowledge, they didn’t perform inspections of this nature after
previous missions. They searched the main deck first, helo deck, ASROC deck, and ultimately the
signal bridge.
Ensign Stafford asked LTJG Neville, “What’s going on?”
“We’re doing a damage assessment.”
“Why, were we hit?”
“Nothing serious. The helo deck has a nice sized dent in it and paint stripped away, from an
airburst,” he said and as he began to walk away he inadvertently kicked something which made a
metallic clatter when it rolled upon the deck. He reached down, picked up a piece of metal
approximately three quarters of an inch long, and with many jagged facets. “Remarkable,” he said.
“What’s that?” asked Ensign Stafford.
“It’s a piece of shrapnel,” he explained. “Anybody injured up here?”
“No, sir” was the group’s response.
“Good, good. Remarkable and fortunate no one was injured. Carry on!” he said as he turned to
climb down the ladder to the bridge.
Those left behind began to scour the area by sweeping their feet along the dark deck.
“Found another one!” said Holtzman.
“Me too!” said Diehl.
Chris came upon an area of the bridge and when he swept his foot across the deck heard the
sound of metal rattling across it. “I got a bunch more here!” he said stooping to pick up the five pieces
he discovered. Chris turned to Diehl.
“Remarkable? What a fucking understatement! It’s a goddamned miracle no one was hit!”
The ensign asked everyone who found shrapnel to hand it over telling them they would have to
be analyzed to determine their origin. Chris handed what he found to the ensign but after doing so
thought, he should have kept a piece for himself as a memento and reminder of how lucky he had
been. He had now evaded death twice! The Fates had been kind to him thus far, how long they remain
kind would have to be determined.
They remained at GQ as the ships in company maneuvered to the next firing mission. At 00:16
the guns opened fire and ceased fire at 00:18 after expending another thirty rounds. Lookouts reported
counter batteries but evidently directed at one of the other ships, as there were no airbursts or
splashes anywhere in the ship’s vicinity. With GQ secured Chris and Diehl assumed their positions in
the bridge for the Cinderella watch. They would remain on the bridge until General Quarters was
again set at 03:20 and remained at their GQ stations until 05:04. They returned to the bridge to
complete the remaining fifty-six minutes left on their watch.
The call for sweepers came over the 1MC as they proceeded to the mess deck for breakfast.
They were consuming their morning meal and speaking about the early morning’s fire mission with
PO2 Richard March and SA Keppinger of U Division, two sonar men seated at the adjoining table,
and overheard Chris and Diehl talking.
March remarked, “It must have been pretty scary out there this morning. I know we picked up
quite a few explosions on sonar.”
“Yeah, we heard. It got pretty hairy up there for a while,” Diehl said.
Chris added, “We found about twelve pieces of shrapnel on the signal bridge after our first
mission and Lt JG Neville said the helo deck took an indirect hit also.”
Holtzman carrying his tray of powdered eggs, home fries, toast, powdered OJ, cinnamon bun and
coffee stopped between the two tables and said, “You know I found another fifteen pieces of shrapnel
sweeping the deck before.”
“Jesus,” said Diehl.
“I told you it was a fucking miracle no one was injured,” said Chris.
“Let’s hope we don’t go anywhere near that island again,” said Diehl.
“Well from what I saw we at least won’t have to worry about that gun again,” Chris said
attempting to allay concerns of his shipmates.
“What did you see?” asked Keppinger. Chris related the scene he witnessed in detail to an
attentive audience and when he finished they rejoined with phrases like “Man, that must have been
awesome to see!” and “Good for those motherfuckers” or just plain “Shit.”
Little did the crew know they would in fact again pass close to the southern coastline of the
island later in the day. They finished their meal, proceeded down to their darkened compartment and
joined the others in slumber before they would be needed to conduct another detail, stand watch or
called again to General Quarters.
****
General Quarters sounded at 21:40 while Chris was standing the first watch in the forward
magazine. Back up to the signal bridge where they again witnessed a considerable amount of hostile
fire in the form of air burst and splashes close aboard to their starboard bow. Sonar reported eleven
near miss explosions during this latest mission. They again remained at their GQ positions while the
ships maneuvered to their new coordinates in preparation for another bombing run. They were in
position and commenced firing at 00:42 hours. They ceased fire two minutes later after unleashing
forty more rounds of HE-CVT projectiles at a ferry transport facility. Shore battery fire was returned
within minutes from three separate coastal defense sights. Electronic countermeasures employed by
the ships succeeded confusing the Vietnamese radar, as the return fire didn’t appear anywhere close
to them.
Several more days elapsed. The ship and crew were entering into their fourth week of
deployment of Linebacker I operations. Much was demanded of the crew during these past three
weeks and they continued to perform all tasks set before them in spite of fatigue. They managed to
avoid serious injuries and or damage to the ship. They were getting their three square meals each day
and enjoying an occasional hot shower. They had reached the midpoint of this deployment and were
counting down and looking forward to their scheduled R&R in Hong Kong.
Nothing out of the ordinary had occurred during their next several firing missions. The ship
would fire on its targets and the Vietnamese fired back. But the firing mission conducted on the
evening of October 17 would present a situation they had not encountered before. Condition One was
set at 20:40 hours and when topside Chris could see the ship was extremely close to the shoreline.
The ship maneuvered making its bombing run. The moon had set and the night as dark as a mountain’s
heart.
Chris scanned the waters from port to starboard and well ahead of the ship’s heading through the
night vision scope. He could see a number of small boats well ahead of them.
“Sir, there are a number of small craft approximately eight miles dead ahead!”
“Very well,” the ensign’s said as he raised his binoculars to confirm Chris’s report. Chris
continued to observe these craft as the ship steamed towards them and was able to determine they
were junks, dozens of them under sail. At twenty-five knots the ship would be upon them in a matter
of minutes.
The ensign keeping watch on the small flotilla ahead remarked, “They appear to be small fishing
craft.”
Diehl chimed in saying, “Christ we’re heading right at them!”
“I don’t think we have much to concerned about,” said the ensign, adding, “they appear to be
non-combatants.”
“What?” Chris asked as a statement more than a question. “There is no such thing here! They
could be equipped with ship to shore radios spotting for shore artillery, or have small arms or RPGs
or loaded with explosives!”
The ensign didn’t respond but Chris could see from his countenance that he adopted Chris’s
suppositions. The OOD announced the XO was assuming the conn and the ship continued to steam
directly towards the center of these small craft. He ordered the helmsman to turn five degrees to port
in order to avoid the craft dead ahead. By doing so, he gave the craft a wide berth and continued to
redirect the helmsman weaving the ship through the numerous boats without incident each time
creating ample space between the ship and the small craft. Once they cleared the small boats they
reduced speed and commenced firing sixty rounds of HE-PD rounds at a civil defense installation
ashore. The batteries shifted to their second target and the two guns again released their furious
assault of another sixty HE-PD rounds on another CD site. They experienced no counter-battery fire
throughout the mission. Condition III was set once the ship retired from range of shore battery
installations and the crew retired to their bunks or watch stations. At 05:00 hours, they went to
General Quarters again and during the next hour and one half fired two rounds of Willie Peters and
another twenty-six rounds of HE-PD shells at a truck convoy. Chris and the rest of the off-duty crew
assembled in the mess decks for breakfast.
As usual, they recounted the events of the previous evening’s mission. Polanski had sat with
them during their morning meal and when the subject of the sampans was mentioned said, “You know
CINCPAC issued an order to ram all non-combatant vessels impeding the course of any naval vessel
during combat runs, which means the XO countermanded the order.”
“I for one am damned glad he did!” remarked Chris. “Suppose those ships are carrying contact
mines or other forms of explosives? We ram one, we end up with a huge hole in the bow and down
we go. It was a ridiculous order to adhere to.”
“That’s military intelligence, for you,” said Diehl.
“That is a contradiction in terms,” Polanski said jokingly.
“Does make you wonder whether these guys at the top truly consider some of the consequences
of their decisions,” Chris said with concern.
“My guess is they don’t truly care about the consequences or what you think. Damned the
torpedoes, full speed ahead!” said Diehl gesturing with his arms as he said it.
“I believe the XO understood the consequences and I hope he will continue to do so in the
future,” Chris said.
“So where the hell we headed now?” Diehl asked Polanski.
“We’re headed off of Hon La Anchorage to take on food stores, then south to Hon Gio Island for
a boat transfer.”
“No rest for the weary,” remarked Diehl.
They finished their meal and mustered on station. Since they knew of the forthcoming detail, they
mulled around the fantail waiting for word of the detail and at 09:38 heard the announcement to set
the Vert Rep Detail. They started to take on food stores at 10:28 from the USS San Jose (AFS-7) and
the helicopter delivered its last palette of supplies at 11:24. While the detail struck these supplies to
the reefer deck the ship maneuvered clear of the replenishment ship and proceeded to Station Charlie
near Hon La Anchorage. Soon after arriving there, the ship departed to Hon Gio Island and conducted
a boat transfer with the USS Davis (DD-937) at 17:27 hours. The captain’s gig returned with the
commander of destroyer squadron twenty aboard and he was accompanied by Lt JG Quinn who
would be the ship’s new Navigation Department head and Ensign Peele who would be the new OC
Division officer. The squadron commander completed his visit and by 18:23 returned to the Davis,
which served as his command center. The gig returned with three bags of mail for the crew.
Chris went below to await mail call. He received a letter from his sister and another from his
mother. He read them and rested up before dinner. He would have the first bridge watch that night,
which meant he had slept a total of four hours within the last twenty-four. These hours were becoming
the norm for the crew.
The routine continued unabated for the next week until a squall suddenly hit the area granting
them a brief rest. Surrounding seas increased to eight to ten feet tossing the ship around like a rubber
duck in a tub. Chris happened to have the afternoon bridge watch when the squall hit and his respect
of nature’s powers swelled. Wave crests broke over the forecastle and the resultant spray reached as
high as the windows on the bridge, which were thirty feet above the waterline whenever the ship
headed into the waves. The seas at one point became so severe a sea ladder broke off and was lost at
sea. The conning officers spent most of their watch maneuvering the ship to maintain stability and
station. They suspended firing missions because the guns couldn’t be stabilized to assure accuracy.
Whenever the ship turned and found it in a trough crewmembers would bounce from bulkhead to
bulkhead as they walked through the ship’s passageways and mess trays had to be held in place with
one hand to prevent them from sliding to the deck. It even took effort to sleep as the centrifugal forces
imposed by the rocking of the ship made it difficult to lie still while prone in their bunks. The squall
and battering lasted nearly six hours.
For the last two weeks of this present deployment, with the exception of one day, they were now
in safer waters along the coast of South Vietnam, patrolling a station 8,000 to 10,000 yards off the
mouth of the Cua Than An river just north of Da Nang. From their location, the ship would provide
artillery support to various elements of the ARVN forces. They remained at Readiness Condition III
maintaining a six-hour watch schedule. Since they were no longer part of the task group operating in
the hostile waters of North Vietnam as part of operation Sea Dragon the crew could now get at least
six hours of sleep each day because they were no longer called to General Quarters.
The only inconvenience they endured was when the coils to the ship’s evaporator motors failed
which resulted in water rationing. Crewmembers could only shower within specified hours and to
conserve water they took Navy showers. The ship didn’t have the facilities on board to repair the
evaporator coil. The carrier USS Oriskany (CVA-34), however, having a machine shop, would
repair it. While waiting for the repair, the Lawrence served as their plane guard. It took three days to
complete the repair and install the coil.
With coil repaired, they were detached from the carrier task group 77.4 and on October 31 at
14:25 made course for Hong Kong. During those two weeks, the ship and crew had conducted another
six boat transfers, three ammunition replenishments, four refueling details, twelve helo details, one
stores replenishment and thirty-six firing missions expending another 1,030 rounds. It was
approximately six hundred ten nautical miles from their current position to Hong Kong, and at an
average speed of twenty knots, it would take about forty-eight hours before they reached their
destination.
Once clear of the war zone the readiness condition of the ship and crew was set to IV. They
would now be standing four-hour watches and since the ship would soon be assuming a diplomatic
role as a representative of the government and naval power of the United States in a major foreign
port, work crews would be busy during the next several days making the ship presentable. Which
meant they would give the ship a good saltwater wash-down, scrape and paint the weather decks,
clean their compartments, swab and wax the main passageways and polish all the brass fixtures
onboard. The crew eagerly complied understanding once in port they would have the whole week off
to do as they pleased when they didn’t have the duty. They talked and made plans about what they
would do during their forthcoming liberty. Most of the crew discussed sightseeing and shopping,
while others planned to travel to Macau to do some gambling. Farleigh and Diaz weren’t going to
deviate from their liberty ritual of getting drunk and laid. The anticipation grew with each nautical
mile they traversed.
Chris was on the morning bridge watch on their second day en route. The ship was cruising
close to the shores of Hainan Island, which was part of the People’s Republic of China. As the sun
rose from the eastern horizon, its illuminating presence began to reveal the land to the west of the
ship. From his perch on the port side bridge, he could see small islands appear through the morning
mist blanketing the coast. He marveled at the exotic beauty of the solitary limestone islands, which
emerged as the morning sun caused the mist to evaporate and raise the curtain of fog. These narrow
islands stood tall like sentries raised from the depths and as more became visible, they seemed to
create an impassable maze between the sea and landfall. Among the backdrop of these green crested
islands, he would spot an occasional junk under sail, the sight of which transported him back in time
and visually confirmed the mental images he had concocted reading Tai-Pan some years back.
Chinese tapestries were coming to life before his eyes.
The ships reminiscent of the Orient’s ancient past were about one hundred feet long with
battened sails. There was one large pentangle shaped mainsail amidships with another smaller shaped
jib sail at the bow and an even smaller sail at the elevated stern. The brown wooden battens were
clearly visible against the contrasting off-white color of the canvas sails. From a distance, they
appeared as though made of rice paper. The shape of their unpainted wooden hulls curved from stem
to stern with the stern rising much higher than the stem. They moved gracefully upon the sea slowly
rising and falling as the gentle winds serenely pushed them along the jade sea. Some of these junks
were close enough to view without the aid of binoculars. Chris could see individuals standing at the
tillers, which controlled the long rudder of each of these ships and spotted an occasional deck hand
tending to the lashings on deck or consuming what he suspected were bowls of rice.
Lieutenant Junior Grade (LTJG) Neville stepped out onto the bridge wing and joined Chris
observing these ships as they cruised along the coast.
“Quite a sight, don’t you think Mr. Columbo?” asked the young lieutenant who appeared to be
equally enthralled as Chris at the sight of these junks.
“Yes, sir,” he replied. “Seeing these junks makes me feel as though we passed through a time
portal. I never would have imagined at this date and time they would still be sailing these types of
ships any longer. Some of them don’t appear seaworthy. If you take a closer look you can clearly see
through sections of their hulls.”
“Well they are an ancient and traditional culture and these vessels are vestiges of their maritime
traditions. I can’t fault them for continuing to use ships of this type, they’ re not only economical but I
think there is also something mystical about sailing these waters on those ships,” said the young
officer as he peered through his binoculars at the pair of junks the ship was gradually passing. He
changed the subject and asked Chris, “So what are your plans for your R&R here, Mr. Columbo?”
Chris welcomed the chance at having a civil conversation with this young officer and said,
“Well, sir, I don’t know how many opportunities I will ever have to travel to this region again, so I
would like to tour the city and see as much of the sights as possible. But before do, I have to pick up a
camera and I understand this is the place to get one.”
“Do you have a brand in mind?” he asked.
“No, sir, I wouldn’t know one from another.”
“Well I’m sort of a photography buff, so I might suggest you look at several SLR cameras. You
might want to consider a Leicaflex, or one of the Japanese models such as Canon or Nikon.”
“Thanks for the advice, sir. I will try to remember that when I go shopping. At my pay grade,
price will surely be a factor.”
“I am sure you will find one reasonably priced here. You know, we have a PX in Hong Kong.
You might want to look there. At least you will be assured of getting genuine merchandise.”
Hong Kong was a duty free port where someone might buy top of the line stereo equipment,
watches, cameras and custom made clothing to name but a few items for far less than in the states.
However, because of the cheap labor market in Hong Kong, it was quite possible to purchase items
appearing genuine but in actuality were cheap imitations. Manufacturers in Hong Kong were
notorious for duplicating patented products, as well as the packaging and selling these counterfeit
products in local shops as genuine merchandise.
Word spread through the military grapevine and through publications such as Stars and Stripes
alerting military personnel of instances where manufacturers would not honor their warranties
because of invalid serial numbers. To avoid buying counterfeit merchandise it was best to shop in
reputable and trusted stores. The Post Exchange was one of them. Chris was pleased to receive this
information. He thanked the young lieutenant and resumed his duties as port lookout while marveling
at the scenery.
VII
R AND R: HONG KONG
THE FOLLOWING MORNING ENSIGN STAFFORD announced the ship would enter the port of
Hong Kong around 10:00 hours. The Sea and Anchor Detail would be set just before entering the
harbor and the uniform of the day would be dress whites. The crew would not man the rails for
entering port but except for those assigned to the sea and anchor detail would muster on station.
Following the Plan of the Day the ensign read the XO’s article from the ship’s newsletter:
To all members of the crew. We will soon be entering the British territorial port of
Hong Kong. I wish to remind everyone that as members of the United States Navy you
are representatives of our great nation and its people. While you are being granted this
opportunity to enjoy the fruits and labors of your arduous journey you are required to
comport yourselves in a manner befitting ambassadors of the United States of America.
While on liberty you are to honor and respect the laws of the Hong Kong government
and the rights and customs of its citizens at all times. I hope you will enjoy your time
ashore as you all have deserved this respite.
Once dismissed from muster those members of the Division who had eaten breakfast went below
to change into their whites. Chris had not had breakfast and he along with Diehl, Farleigh, Diaz and
Harriman headed off to the mess decks for chow. They discussed plans for their time ashore.
Farleigh remained as constant as the North Star and said, “Man I can’t wait to get a hold of one
of these Asian chicks. I heard their pussies are slanted.”
“You are some piece of work, Farleigh,” Diehl remarked. “Where did you get the idea their
anatomy would be different from other women?”
Farleigh snapped back, “Because their eyes are slanted you dumb fuck!”
Diehl just shook his head in disbelief and muttered, “You truly are an idiot.”
Chris sat dumbfounded as well and wondered if Farleigh was joking or could he possibly be that
stupid. “Lieutenant Neville told me there’s a PX in Hong Kong.”
“So what?” Farleigh said.
“I want to buy a decent camera so I can record memories of this place,” Chris explained.
“Good idea. Mind if I tag along?” asked Diehl.
“Yeah, me too,” said Harriman.
“Count me in too,” said Diaz.
“Fine with me,” said Chris.
“Don’t any of you guys want to get laid?” Farleigh asked.
Diaz calmed Farleigh down and told him, “Man, we’re going to be here for seven days. You’ll
have plenty of time to dip your stubby wick, Farleigh.”
“Yeah, I guess you’re right,” conceded Farleigh. “I’ll go with you guys.”
“Cool, we got our crew,” Diehl said.
Chris had a copy of the ship’s newsletter, which contained the addresses for the USO and PX, so
now they knew who was going and where they were going; the only remaining variable was how to
get there. They finished and proceeded on down to their lockers where they would change and await
the call for muster.
After he changed into his whites Chris headed back topside to the fantail for a smoke. The ship
had just begun to enter the harbor using the West Lamma Channel located on the western side of Hong
Kong Island. Lantau Island the largest of the Hong Kong islands was to the west with Hong Kong and
Lamma Islands to the east. Just as they would in Subic Bay a harbor pilot who possessed knowledge
of the channels and harbor came aboard to guide them in.
Chris stood on the fantail with Carey and Brown Brown. The ship was amidst a number of
islands. Some of them were inhabited and others were just barren rock resembling large warts on the
water’s surface. Interspersed along with these islands were container ships, junks, sampans and a
variety of other small craft. There weren’t any pleasure craft amongst these ships so everyone afloat
in these waters was plying a trade. Brown and green mountains rose sharply from the water’s edge
and the coastline seemed barren of sandy beaches. As the ship neared the harbor entrance, the
mountains grew in stature and color.
“So what you guys gonna do here?” Brown Brown asked.
“Rest and relax,” dead panned Carey in his usual self assured manner. “Okay, that’s cool,”
Brown Brown answered. He turned to Chris and said, “And how about you, Columbo?”
“Do and see as much as I can. What are your plans Brownie?”
“Eat!”
Chris looked at him and smiled. “Eat, that’s it?”
“Yeah man, E-A-T. I’m gonna feast on Chinese, especially those fishy tacos.”
“I think you’ll have a hard time finding a Mexican restaurant here,” said Chris.
“No man, I mean poontang. Those fishy tacos them Chinese girls have between their legs.”
Chris now fully aware of Brown’s remark grinned and said, “I might try some, too, yeah. Just
gotta find a place approved by the board of health.”
“Yeah, good luck with that!”
“Well don’t eat anything that will spoil your appetite for Lydia,” Chris warned.
“Oh no need to worry bout that. She’s my lifelong buffet.”
“Cool for you,” Chris answered.
“Set the Sea and Anchor Detail,” blared over the 1MC followed by “Muster on Station.” The
three boatswain mates headed forward to the forecastle complying to the order. BM1 Holcomb
barked the order to fall in. Jordan was up forward as part of the Sea and Anchor detail along with
Hill and Carey. Jordan was to operate the windlass, and Carey and Hill were responsible for
releasing the anchor locks. As the ship steamed northeast into Victoria Harbor Chris could see a
shipyard and offloading piers with a multitude of cranes for loading and offloading cargo in the
distance. When they got closer, he spotted the remains of a large vessel well off to the left of the
shipyard. It lay at an angle on the seabed. Two charred and rusted stacks and masthead jutting from
the water was the only visible portion. It was the Queen Elizabeth I, the largest luxury liner ever
built and one of the worst maritime disasters ever recorded. He recalled learning of the disaster
earlier in the year, as news of the fire and sinking of the ship appeared in newspapers and television
news broadcasts.
The ship began to turn to starboard revealing the vista of the city of Hong Kong. To the right
Chris could see a mixture of commercial buildings ranging from three to thirty stories tall. They were
a blend of architecture ranging from neoclassic to more modern boxed girder type buildings. Running
along the coast was a promenade buffering the buildings along the coast from the harbor’s edge. It
was laden with buses, cars, people and rickshaws. Large neon light signs adorned the rooftops of the
buildings. They were in English and some included their Chinese counterparts. There were ads for
Coca Cola, Panasonic, Hitachi and Canon, and further elevated and well behind those was a sign atop
the Hong Kong Hilton hotel. As his line of sight progressed further east taller structures rose from the
ground dwarfing those before them. Though they seemed identical in style and design, those in the
background appeared taller than the buildings before them as they encroached up the hillside. They
were narrow white structures of thirty to fifty stories high which were high-rise tenement buildings
similar to the projects seen in the Bronx but with smaller footprints.
Many small boats were in the harbor. There was the customary junk and a number of other
smaller craft similar in design but motorized ferrying people across the harbor. A larger elongated
ferry with smoke billowing from its single stack was traversing the harbor. The first deck was painted
dark green and the second was all white. Attached along the hull between the first and second decks
just below large square windows were white life rings. Adjacent to the smokestack and on each deck
were two raised gangplanks. He would soon learn this boat was the famous Star Ferry. A tugboat
moved past them in the opposite direction towing a barge with twelve shipping containers stacked on
it.
While in formation, he continued surveying the surroundings. He estimated the harbor to be two
miles in width at its narrowest point. Peering to the left, he set his eyes upon Kowloon peninsula. The
plumes of smoke rising in the distance indicated the presence of smokestack industries in that area of
Hong Kong. The area was developed with many buildings resembling square transistors rising from
the ground none of which were greater than five stories tall. Further to the left, he spotted the landing
docks for the Star Ferry as another was pulling away from its berth. Just to the right of the docks
stood a clock tower attached to a two-story building. A large sign spelling “Cables” in English and
the Chinese equivalent adorned the top of the building. The presence of rail tracks and trains
identified the building as a rail line. Moored to the bulkhead along the exterior walkway of the station
were several small boats. The building also contained a few small shops along the water’s edge. To
the right of the station were several taller structures one of which was the famed Peninsula Hotel and
further to its right was the more modern Sheraton Hotel. A Boeing 707 with the iconic Pan Am logo
on its tail descended directly ahead of them and well off to the east as it approached for its landing at
Kai Tak airport situated at the northeastern section of the peninsula. Hong Kong Island appeared to be
the more affluent area and Kowloon the impoverished stepchild of this port of call.
The ship reduced speed as it approached its mooring location. As it slowed it began to turn to
starboard and reverse course. When it completed its turn, the cavitation caused from reversing the
engines made the deck below Chris’s feet vibrate. Jordan received the order to unleash the anchor as
soon as the ship’s forward motion stopped. He ordered Carey and Hill to release the anchor locks.
Hill held the lock while Carey struck the pin out with the sledge. Carey dislodged the pin but the lock
was wedged to the chain by the tension of the combined weight of the anchor and chain rode. Jordan
engaged the windlass to back up the anchor and ease the tension. A small turn of the anchor windlass
enabled Carey and Hill to separate the anchor lock from the chain. Once the anchor was free, he
received the order to lower it to the waterline. The chain growled as it slowly emerged from the
anchor locker below and out the hawse pipe with the one-ton fluked anchor dangling below. Carey
signaled to Jordan when the anchor reached the water.
“Anchor is at water’s edge, sir,” Jordan bellowed.
Receiving the order to lower the anchor to the bottom, he increased the speed of the windlass.
The growl turned into a roar as more and more of the chain slithered out of its hole like a steel snake.
With the bow of the ship pointed in the opposite direction, the flowing current caused the ship to drift
backwards. The anchor planted the chain became taut bringing the ship to a dead stop. When the
officers on the bridge determined the ship’s anchor held they had the word passed to secure the detail.
Ensign Stafford addressed the Division reiterating the XO’s message adding his own personal
wishes that they enjoy their time in port. He advised them once they installed the sea ladder liberty
for Sections II, III and IV would commence. The motor whaleboat would serve as their transportation
to and from Fenwick Pier at every half hour. Water taxi service to either side of the harbor would
also be available for a fee. He ordered Langston, Thomas, Flynn and Roberts to assist BM3 McLane
with the sea ladder then dismissed the Division.
Normally, military personnel on liberty were required to wear dress uniforms when in major
foreign ports. The volatile political nature of the Vietnam War altered that policy. Military personnel
could wear civilian attire to avoid becoming easy targets for aggressive anti-war factions. Once they
dismissed from muster Chris went below to change.
The compartment burst with energy and enthusiasm. Music filled the air. The brothers were
listening to “Papa Was A Rolling Stone,” Rollie Rhodes was playing “I Just Want to Make Love To
You” and Little Brown had his cassette player blasting “Trouble No More” at full volume. It was
musical mayhem and a wonder to Chris they could hear anything at all. He found Mazzarelli preparing
to go ashore and asked him if he wanted to join Chris and the others explaining their plans once
ashore. He thanked Chris for asking and said he had other plans. Chris could only wonder what they
might be, but suspected they involved drugs. Hong Kong in the past had been and remained a major
port for opium shipments. Chris knowledgeable of Mazzarelli’s despondency could only caution him
to be careful and hope he would heed his advice.
Showered, Chris heard the announcement for liberty call as Diaz passed by his locker.
“C’mon let’s go, we’re burning daylight.”
“Okay, I’ll be right there,” he said as he hurriedly dressed. His haste and heat within the
compartment caused him to sweat profusely.
He reached into his locker and retrieved the money he would need on shore. Chris had been
frugal with his pay and poker winnings managing to squirrel away a bankroll of eight hundred dollars
in anticipation of their trip to Hong Kong. He would stretch his savings as best he could and take
advantage of the bargains available in Hong Kong. Along with a camera he compiled a wish list of
things including, stereo equipment to replace the cheap carry box hi-fi turntable his parents had
bought for him when he left for college and as many other items he could, with his limited funds. He
took three hundred dollars from the sock he had hidden it in, pushed in the shackle of his Master lock,
turned the tumbler and raced off to meet his friends.
He met them on the quarterdeck, which had been dressed out with the canvas awning and roping.
The motor whaleboat had already departed. Several water taxis called “walla wallas” were
alongside the ship waiting for passengers. Receiving permission to leave the ship Chris and his party
began to descend the ladder to their boat. As Farleigh stepped off the ship, he wisecracked to the
quarterdeck watch.
“See ya later, suckers.”
Seaman Apprentice Benedict, the messenger of the watch, responded to Farleigh, “Be a good
little boy, Farleigh, and run along.”
At the bottom of the ladder a short Chinaman in a straw cone hat wearing blue pajamas and
straw sandals greeted them. His stovepipe pants stopped well above his ankles exposing his cue stick
legs. The years on the water had taken their toll on the old ferryman. His prune-like face was the
color of ocher. He sported a long gray Fu Manchu mustache that mingled with the pointed beard
below his chin and a picket fence grin. In spite of his years and frail appearance, he had the agility of
a macaque as he darted around his boat.
“One dahrah,” he said holding out his tiny calloused hand.
Chris fished out a dollar bill from his pocket and handed it to him then steadying himself by
grabbing onto an overhead pole, stepped onto the top of the gunwale and down into the boat.
It was an old wooden boat, possibly older than the ferryman. It was twenty-five feet in length
with a broad fantail and beam. The shape of the hull was similar to a junk’s but the bow was more
rounded. Lashed around its hull for protection were old car tires. The lacquered finish revealed the
dark hue of the teak used in its construction. There was a green vinyl covering providing shade and it
was supported by a grid work of aluminum pipes spanning from side to side and held aloft by posts
attached to the gunwale. In the middle of the boat was a box housing the puttering engine and ahead of
the engine were rows of benches secured to the deck. At the fantail was a raised tiller the ferryman
used to steer the boat.
When he reached his twenty-passenger capacity, he waved off the next passenger and muttered in
Chinese as he untied the boat and pushed off. What may have been muttering to him was more like
shouting to those within earshot.
“What the hell is eating him?” Farleigh asked.
“Like I speak Chinese?” responded Chris adding, “I can’t imagine what could be bothering him.
He just made twenty dollars. That’s probably more than he usually makes a week.”
“You think so?” was Farleigh’s response.
Diehl joined the conversation saying, “Jesus, Farleigh look at him. He’s wearing pajamas, he
doesn’t look like he’s bathed in months and lucky if he has more than ten teeth in his mouth.”
“Nobody ever got rich being a Sailor. Hell look at us!” said Harriman.
The old man shifted the lever at the engine and the boat started moving forward making putt-putt
sounds as it slowly chugged along on its way to Fenwick pier.
The trip to the pier took ten minutes. They climbed out onto the landing platform and up the
concrete steps. It felt good to be on dry land. Spotting the signs for the USO and Navy Post Exchange,
they walked to and entered the non-descript four-story building. To the left was a doorway leading to
the USO, to the right was a door housing the Navy Federal Credit Union, and directly ahead of them
were double glass doors with the Navy insignia painted on each panel above the Post Exchange
lettering. This PX wasn’t as large as the one in Subic. It was eighty feet wide and forty feet deep and
had four aisles on the left and right sides running perpendicular to the center aisle at the entrance of
the store, which led directly to counters at the rear of the store.
Once inside Chris spotted cameras on display at the back of the store and immediately headed to
them. When he reached the counter, he discovered a number of shipmates mulling around that section
of the store. With only three clerks behind the counter and the number of potential customers, he
reasoned it would be awhile before one would get to him.
He turned to Diehl and the others and said, “This may take me a while guys. If you don’t want to
hang around and wait I’ll understand.”
Farleigh, the ever-horny gnome said, “Okay, I’m out.”
Diaz said, “There ain’t anything I want to get right now so I’ll go with you Farleigh.”
Harriman decided to go with them as well.
“I’m staying,” said Diehl.
“Okay thanks, Diehl. We’ll catch up with you guys later,” Chris said. “Yeah, okay, see ya later.
Let’s go guys, let’s go get wasted,” urged Farleigh and the three left the store.
“Thanks again for staying, Diehl.”
“No need to thank me, I’ve got some shopping I want to do too; besides it’s too fucking early to
start drinking.”
Together they peered at the items in the counter and displays on the wall. Diehl was looking for
a watch and Chris for the moment concentrated on the cameras. Finally, a clerk approached Chris.
“Need some help?”
“Yes, thanks. I’m looking for a durable 35mm camera that is easy to operate, will accept other
lenses and most of all reasonably priced.”
The clerk showed him several brands and models. After a long thought process Chris decided
upon the Minolta SRT 101 SLR camera and standard 55mm lens as the sturdy feel, simplicity of use
and the one hundred ten dollar price tag met his conditions. He also purchased three rolls of film,
protective case and decorative strap.
Diehl had bought himself and his father each a Seiko watch for one hundred fifty dollars.
They left the store with their booty and stepped into the USO. A petite young Chinese woman
greeted them as they entered. “Welcome to Hong Kong” she said. The speech patterns depicted of the
Chinese in the Charlie Chan series was accurate. They had difficulty with the English pronunciation
of the “El” and “Wuh” sounds often exchanging them with the “R” sound. She typified the term China
Doll. She had a round face and perfect complexion. Her dark eyes were round and stood out like
black pearls in a pool of milk. She had a cute nose and her smile revealed a perfect set of teeth,
which glistened between her ruby red lips. Her pitch-black bangs and hair draping down the sides of
her face lent symmetry to her visage.
“Yes, thank you. We would like some information about the sights to see and things to do here in
Hong Kong,” said Chris.
“Oh there is much to see and do here. Please help yourself to the maps and pocket guide there on
the counter,” and extended her right arm holding her palm up and fingers closed as though she were
modeling at a car show.
They grabbed some of the material and asked what she suggested they do first. What mattered
most to them, given their length of stay, was a way to see the most in the shortest span of time for the
least amount of money.
“I suggest you start with ‘Double Decker Bus Tour.’ You will see quite a bit of city for little
cost.”
Chris asked, “What are the main attractions in Hong Kong?”
“You must visit Victoria Peak. Very beautiful there. Should also eat dinner at Floating
Restaurant in Aberdeen. Can get there by bus or taxi. Many Sailors go to New Territories to border.”
“Border?” asked Chris.
“Yes, border with China.”
“Oh, right,” Chris, said as he had forgotten Hong Kong and Communist China shared a border.
“Is there anything else you might suggest?”
“Oh yes much more to do. We have many beautiful temples and many shopping. Hong Kong good
place to shop,” she said now starting to butcher the English language, as her command of it seemed to
wane as she spoke.
“What about night life?” asked Diehl.
“Nightlife?” she said hesitating in thought. ”Oh yes, of course, you mean bars. Wan Chei have
many bars. Kowloon too have many bars. You need take Star Ferry or water taxi to get there. Very
cheap.”
“Okay, very good,” said Diehl and asked her, “How do you say ‘thank you’ in Chinese?”
“Shay shay.”
“Okay, shay shay, Jeannie,” said Diehl peering at her black and white etched name plate pinned
to the lapel of her jacket.
“Shay shay,” Chris said clumsily bowing his head to her as he had seen done in movies
involving the Orient. “By the way, we need to change money, here?”
She again extended her arm as before pointing across the hall to reveal the contents of door
number three. “Across hall at Credit Union will change dollars for you.”
“Thanks again, uh, shay shay again,” said Chris bowing like a buffoon. “You welcome,” she
said bobbing her head while offering a big smile.
As they left the USO Chris remarked, “Wasn’t she a cutie? I hope there are more like her
walking around here.”
“Yeah she was attractive,” he answered. “Let’s just hope they’re also cheap. Cheap and
attractive, a perfect combination.”
They changed their U.S.dollars for Hong Kong dollars. Chris cashed in one hundred dollars of
the balance he had in his pocket. At an exchange rate of five point sixty-five Hong Kong Dollars to
one U.S.dollar, his money parlayed into five hundred sixty-five Hong Kong dollars. The
denominations of the currency were; five hundred dollar bills, one fifty, one ten and one five-dollar
bill. Each denomination was larger than the next in length and width with the five-dollar bill being the
smallest. Unlike U.S.currency, the colors varied from one denomination to the next. Though the
variable sized bills were one method to distinguish denominations, it was confusing to the uninitiated
tourist.
Chris would have to learn to recognize the difference to avoid mishandling his money. Besides
varying in size, each denomination differed in colors as well as imprints, and issued by separate
banks. The bank notes issued by the Hong Kong and Shanghai bank contained a picture of the bank’s
building on the back of each note. The face of the five-dollar bill in addition to identifying the bank
and denomination contained a picture of a woman languishing. Judging from her attire and seductive
pose Chris assumed the woman depicted was certainly not the Queen of England. She looked
emblematic of a woman from Thebes or ancient Greece. Her characterization also appeared on the
face of some of the ten-dollar bills as well, though in not such a sultry pose. Two of the hundreddollar bills were issued by The Chartered Bank which although had the same red and white color
scheme had different designs than those issued by the Hong Kong and Shanghai Bank. The Chartered
Bank one hundred dollar bill had a picture of the bank’s building on the face along with what
appeared to be the official Hong Kong emblem and on the right side was a transparency, visible when
held up to a light source. The back of the bill contained an image of the Kowloon pier with
commercial liners and other ships in the harbor with Hong Kong Island in the background.
Since he was unaware of the price of things in Hong Kong, he wondered how long these slick
crisp bills would last. The money looked and felt waxy like funny money. The crispness of the bills,
the slickness of the paper and the varying sizes made them clumsy to handle. They didn’t fold well
like U.S.bills nor were they easy to dispense when wadded together. Chris would have to be cautious
with his money, particularly after a few drinks.
Diehl opened the brochure for the double decker bus tour and read the details. “This doesn’t
look too bad. At fifty-five Hong Kong dollars, it’s cheap too. According to the brochure, the tour
starts at the Star Ferry. Now how do we get there?”
Chris opened his map and quickly found the Star Ferry pier knowing it was West of their
location. “The ferry is on Connaught Road. We can walk there or take a bus, though it looks like a
healthy hike. I vote for the bus, what do you say?”
“Why walk when we can ride?”
Tracing along the map he said, “Well Connaught intersects with Harcourt Road which intersects
with Gloucester which is this road right here,” and pointed to the road just beyond the fence.
Diehl noticing a bus coming to a stop grabbed Chris by the arm and skipped off in its direction.
“Let’s go,” he said as his skip turned into a sprint and the two raced off to the bus no more than two
hundred feet ahead.
As a British territory, Hong Kong followed the same traffic laws as England and drove on the
left side of the road. Unfamiliar with the traffic laws they looked left rather than right and not seeing
any vehicles raced into the street. A screech of tires came from their right. Had the cab driver not
brought it to a sudden stop each would have been dead in their tracks. Chris raised his right arm and
placed it down on the hood of the cab attempting to brace against the impact. Fortunately, the cab had
ceased moving and a loud clattering poured from the driver’s mouth. They could only imagine every
word he emanated referred to them as stupid sons of whores, or crazy bastards or some other
synonymous expletive.
Chris could only muster up a “Sorry!” and an idiotic bow as the pair continued sprinting across
the street.
“Shit that was fucking close,” said Chris.
“That could have been the shortest liberty on record,” Diehl joked.
“Would we have been considered war casualties? Flash dideet dideet dideet...Seamen Bobby
Diehl and Christopher Columbo were killed in action earlier today by a crazed Hong Kong cab
driver,” said Chris.
They climbed aboard the bus and Chris asked, “How much?”
“Twenty cent.”
Chris reached into his pocket and not realizing handed him a hundred dollar bill intending to pay
for both of them.
The driver railed at him in Chinese while waving the bill around. Chris didn’t need a translator
when he realized the bill the bus driver was waving around was a hundred dollar bill, and assumed
he either didn’t have enough to make change or simply didn’t want to. He apologized, took back the
bill, exchanged it with a five and put two fingers up.
The driver calmed down and shook his head up and down taking the bill from Chris and
dropping it into a slot at the top of a glass well attached to a stanchion next to his seat. He pressed a
few buttons releasing several coins into a dispensing tray on the bottom. Chris reached in and took his
change. The driver muttered some more Chinese, bobbed his head and made a dismissive wave of his
hand as if to say, “now get the fuck to the back of the bus you heathen dogs.”
The two Americans took a seat amongst the busload of locals. Everyone on was conversing and
the combination of all these Chinese speaking simultaneously made Chris dizzy.
He said to Diehl, “Sounds like a turkey farm in here.”
“Kinda. It’s all Chinese to me.”
Now settled into their seats, Chris reached into his bag and took out the box containing his new
camera. He removed it from the box and one roll of film. He opened the back of the camera as the
clerk in the store demonstrated and took the roll of film out of the cylindrical container. He opened
the instructions for the camera spread it on his lap, placed the camera upon it and began to read the
instructions explaining how to load the film. He aligned the sprockets of the film onto the sprockets of
the advance wheel and closed the back. Next, he reached into the bag for the package containing the
NICD battery and loaded it into the bottom of the camera as detailed in the instructional diagram.
Finally, he took out the case and strap attaching them to the camera. He adjusted the ASA setting,
turned on the camera, raised it to his face, and peered through the eyepiece. Looking through the
eyepiece, he saw the bayonet angled high in the viewfinder and the round circle through which he
would have to align it with, by adjusting the F-stop. He fiddled around with other controls on the
camera, focused the lens and snapped a picture of Diehl.
“Say ‘Cheese’!”
“Nice camera,” Diehl said, retrieving his Kodak Instamatic from his pocket. “This one has
served me pretty well, easy to lug around and takes decent pictures.”
“Nobody ever accused me of being practical,” joked Chris. “I wanted a versatile camera which
would accept different lenses. This feels sturdy and is easy to use so it seemed like the best deal.”
“No doubt, good luck with it,” said Diehl.
The bus made several stops and at last arrived at the Star Ferry. They exited the bus and
surveyed the area. There were taxis and buses on each side of the road. In the middle of the road was
a line of rickshaws with Chinamen wearing pointed straw hats standing or squatting alongside them.
They saw several occupied rickshaws towed by these men known as “coolies” coming down the
road. Chris snapped pictures of the rickshaws, coolies, and the entrance to the Star Ferry.
Spotting the double-decker buses they headed off toward them. They came upon a booth
displaying the advertisement for the Big Bus tour. A middle-aged woman was hawking the tour
handing out brochures to everyone who came within arms-length of her. Another younger Chinese girl
was in the kiosk selling tickets. They got on line and waited their turn.
Reaching the ticket window Diehl said, “Two please.”
In a commanding tone she answered, “One hundred dollar.”
Diehl asked, “I thought it was fifty-five dollars each?”
Chris aware of his limited budget nudged him whispering, “What the fuck you doing? Why do
you want to pay more?”
His irrational unease about paying an additional eighty-eight cents was quickly put to rest.
“Ten percent discount U.S. Sailor.”
“Oh, cool,” said Chris, and turning to Diehl said, “Let me see your forehead. Oh yeah there it is
plain as day.”
“What is?”
“Swabbie,” he said motioning across his own forehead.
Diehl snickered asking the clerk, “How long is tour?” as if dropping the preposition made his
English more comprehensible to her.
“Three hour.”
“A three hour tour, a three hour tour,” sang Chris mimicking the theme song of Gilligan’s Island
adding, “Let’s hope the tour doesn’t turn out the same way,” he added.
“I wouldn’t mind being stuck on this island with Ginger,” said Diehl.
“I always had a thing for Mary Anne. She had a Catholic school-girl quality and I think was
secretly a sexual time-bomb waiting to explode.”
“When does tour start?” asked Diehl again leaving off the preposition again trying to make his
English more Chinese.
“You go first bus there,” she said pointing to it. “It leave fifteen minute.”
Chris and Diehl paid their fares and she handed them two tickets each. “What for second ticket?”
asked Chris as he adopted Diehl’s version of Pigeon English.
“For Peak,” she answered.
When they reached the bus, Chris stopped to take a photo as Diehl climbed aboard waving to the
camera. Chris followed and handed the tour guide dressed in a knee length purple skirt, purple jacket
with gold piping and cream blouse his ticket.
Using her hole-punch, she notched their tickets at the Star Ferry stop, handed it back to them, and
said in a British accent “Welcome, my name is Mary Anne,” causing the pair of Americans to turn and
look at each other, “and I will be your tour guide. Please proceed up the stairs to your left and find
yourself a seat, as there are still a few seats available. We will be leaving shortly.”
As she spoke, she stepped back swung her right arm in the direction of the stair and demurely
bowed her head and shoulders allowing them to pass.
“Well I found Mary Anne, all we need do now is find Ginger,” Chris joked and added, “Bizarre
don’t you think?”
“Perhaps irony will favor us with good fortune this day,” said Diehl. With the bus filled, the tour
would begin. The engine started and as it pulled away from curbside the guide began her
presentation..
“Good afternoon ladies and gentlemen, my name is Mary Anne and I will be your Big Bus tour
guide on this excursion. Please know this tour will last approximately three hours. If you wish, you
may disembark at any of the nine scheduled stops to tour the areas on your own and re-embark on any
of the following buses but you must present your ticket to do so, therefore please take care not to lose
it. Everyone, however, must disembark at the Victoria Peak station. There we will ride the tram up to
the peak. The tour will remain at the peak for thirty minutes where you will be free to experience the
view, shop and grab a bite to eat, after which you may continue the tour with me if you wish or
proceed with the tour on any of the ensuing buses.”
After laying down the ground rules, she continued.
“The area of Hong Kong we are now in is known as Central. We will be passing through other
sections of the city known as Sheung Wan, The Admiralty and Wan Chai a favorite haunt for Sailors
ashore,” a fact she might have added for the benefit of Chris and Diehl. She continued, “The street we
are presently traveling upon is Connaught Road Central. To your left is the Old Hong Kong Club
building. The monument in the square in front of it is the Cenotaph. It is a memorial commemorating
the city’s dead in both world wars.”
After the bus completed a right turn onto Jackson Road she continued, “To the right you can see
the Supreme Court building constructed in 1912 and with its arches and columns makes it one of the
finest examples of Neo-classical architecture in Hong Kong. Across the street to the left you can see
the old cricket field and Hong Kong Cricket Club clubhouse constructed in 1851.”
The streets they drove through were bustling with people. Some wearing coolie hats toted
deliveries hung from a length of bamboo carried upon their shoulder. Double-decked trolleys filled
with people, which the tour guide referred to as “Ding Dings,” traveled along Connaught Road. Chris
would take pictures of every point or location she cited and others he found interesting. The
surrounding architecture of the area known as Central was predominantly European done in the neoclassic architectural style with curved archways, Grecian columns, concrete balustrades, and domes.
It was evident the city was undergoing a transformation as more modern buildings appeared amongst
the older structures. Ongoing construction was visible everywhere as the bus proceeded along the
tour. Noticing bamboo scaffolding surrounding these construction sites Chris commented on how
primitive these people continued to be. He soon learned from their tour guide that bamboo scaffolding
was used not only because it was cheap, flexible, lightweight and exceptionally strong, but more
importantly it was used in accordance with the principles of feng shui to ward off evil spirits.
On nearly every street they drove through, they could see dozens of large neon signs with
Chinese and English lettering strung high above and across the streets. There were advertisements for
Tissot and Omega watches, Breton Bespoken Tailor, the Golden Palace Massage Parlour, the
Honeycock Restaurant, Emperor Jewelers, Shing Po Rose Garden Nightclub to name but a few. Chris
had no idea what most others were advertising unless they contained the outlined shape of a naked
woman.
As the bus moved along, their guide continued to highlight the historic structures along the route
citing names and dates of construction. She pointed out the general post office built in 1911, the
Central Police Station built in 1864, the Central Magistracy built in 1913, the Catholic Cathedral of
Immaculate Conception completed in 1888, the Governor’s House erected in 1855.
The tour continued to Sheung Wan via Queens Rd Central. There again she provided a narration
of other structures and locations of general interest as well as their historic background. Chris was
impressed with her exhaustive knowledge of the city. They stopped at the Central Market, which
existed since 1842, later rebuilt in western marble in 1895, and later reconstructed in the Bauhaus
style popular in the early 1900s making it the most modern market of its time. When they reached the
Western Market at Bonham Strand West several tourists alighted and several others got on carrying
Chinese artifacts they purchased on the strand. On display in the streets and windows of these shops
along the strand were Chinese tea sets, incense burners, jade and ivory carvings, furniture, silk
sarongs and dresses. According to Maryanne the strand built in 1851 was then and still remained an
area where merchants from various regions in China peddled their native products.
The bus moved along passing the Ko Shing Theatre, proceeded down Hollywood Road and
stopped at the Man Mo Temple built in 1847. Several other tourists exited the bus and immediately
began snapping photos. Chris and Diehl had been taking pictures from their seats on the bus and Chris
checked to see he had thus far taken twenty photos. Diehl was already on his second cartridge of film.
They were about halfway into the tour when Chris said, “I’m getting hungry. I hope we get to the
peak soon.”
“I hear you. My stomach has been growling for the past hour.”
A few tourists hopped on board at the temple and the bus resumed on its course down
Hollywood Road to Arbuthnot Road and the Hong Kong Zoological and Botanical Gardens where it
again stopped.
“Do you want to get out here and tour the zoo or do you want to continue on?” Chris asked.
“I’ll get out if we can eat the animals,” he joked.
Chris laughed and agreed to continue with the trip and a more opportune moment to exit and eat.
The next stop was the Peak Tram Terminus. Maryanne instructed everyone to disembark and
follow her to the station.
“Please gather around.” The entourage formed a circle around her waiting for her to speak. “We
will be taking the tram up to the peak in a few moments. Please present your ticket when asked.
Before we do, I would like to give you a brief history of this world famous tram.”
She began detailing the specifications relating to the tram explaining it traveled up an incline of
forty-seven degrees to an elevation four hundred meters above sea level. At a speed of three point
seven kilometers per hour, it would take five minutes to convey the maximum one hundred twenty two
people the one point three kilometer distance. Her dissertation continued providing the history of the
tram, which dated back to 1888 and indicated that before its construction residents of the peak rode
up and down in sedan chairs carried by coolies.
She closed by saying, “In a short while you will appreciate what an ordeal that was for the
carriers. Now that you possess knowledge of the tram it is now time to experience it for yourselves
so off we go.” She waved her arm above her head while turning in the direction of the station.
The touring lemmings including Chris and Diehl followed closely behind. The station was an
inconspicuous structure of two peaked roofs and one large clock adorning the entranceway. They
shuffled through the crowd controlling entrance line, had their tickets punched and climbed aboard.
The tramcars were a cross between a passenger train and bus. The seats were wooden benches with
backrests. Chris sat along the window and Diehl beside him. Nothing seemed unusual to them as the
car sat motionless. The doors closed and it started to move along at a snails pace. It made a sharp turn
left, then a right and began its ascent. Chris felt his weight press back onto the hard wooden bench and
when he glanced out the window, he began to feel disoriented as the surrounding landscape was at a
tilt. The distortion became more pronounced as the tram passed buildings erected upon the hill.
Slowly they proceeded up the mountainside, stopping along the way at some of the intermediate
stations. The trip to the top took ten minutes.
After they disembarked, Chris took a picture of the tramcar and length of track they had traveled.
Maryanne once again asked they gather around her. She explained the tour would return down on the
tram at 2:15 and all those who wished to continue on the tour with her should meet exactly where they
were presently standing at least five minutes before departure. Concluding her announcement, she told
everyone to enjoy the view and avail themselves of all the amenities present.
Chris and Diehl entered the ground floor of the Peak tower to find a number of souvenir shops.
They checked out several storefront windows with crowded glass shelves exhibiting inventories of
identical items in varying sizes. On display were carved wooden ashtrays, carved wooden dragons,
carved wooden Buddhas, carved wooden shot glasses, glass ashtrays, glass dragons, glass Buddhas,
glass shot glasses, nickel-plated ashtrays, nickel-plated dragons, nickel-plated Buddhas, nickelplated shot glasses, brass ashtrays, brass dragons, brass Buddhas, brass shot glasses, jade ashtrays,
jade dragons, jade Buddhas and jade shot glasses. Virtually every item had Hong Kong emblazed
upon it. Chris eventually entered one and concentrated on the racks of postcards. He bought a package
of twenty four by five inch postcards for one Hong Kong dollar and Diehl followed suit.
Hungry, they searched for a place to eat. Their search revealed that there was a Chinese
restaurant on the ground level, a coffee shop on the second, the Tower Restaurant on the third and the
Peak Café in a separate building. They chose to eat at the Peak Café located to the right of the tower.
The café was a single story pitched roof building with red clay shingle built in the style of an old
English stone cottage. In it was a cafeteria offering a broad array of food from malted milk shakes and
sandwiches to fried chicken or pork ribs with assorted trimmings for fifteen Hong Kong dollars. The
dining area was outdoors in a large veranda. They grabbed their trays and utensils and proceeded
down the serving line. Chris ordered an open roast beef sandwich, mashed potatoes with gravy and
green beans. Diehl had pork ribs, baked beans and cole slaw.
“We traded one chow line for another,” quipped Diehl.
“Pray this food doesn’t contain the same secret ingredient,” Chris joked back.
“Plenty of protein in those cockroaches.”
They got their drinks, paid the clerk at the register, found an empty table and sat down. From
where they sat, they had an unobstructed view of the Tower. It was a unique structure of several
stories with differing geometric shapes. The lower section was two-story square structure. Rising
through the roof of it were two oval shaped towers housing the elevators and stairwells. The towers
supported a large oval shaped tapered structure with large viewing windows at each end of the oval
on two separate levels. Another three rows of viewing windows were located in the center of this
structure.
As they were eating Diehl said, “Hey there’s Polanski, Henning and Ludens,” and stood calling
out for them to join them. Henning spotted Diehl, nudged his touring partners and pointed to them.
With trays full, the three joined them at their table.
“Hey fellas, how’s it going?” asked Henning.
Diehl answered, “Okay. Funny running into you guys here. Just goes to show how small a world
it is.”
“So what have you guys been doing?” Chris asked.
Ludens answered, “We walked around Connaught Rd. and some other streets for a while.
Polanski wanted to buy a suit and we went into a few tailors along Des Voeux Road. They were
expensive there. Someone on the street said we would find cheaper tailors in Kowloon, so we took a
ferry over and found one alongside the train station.”
“Did you buy one?” asked Chris.
“He got three, Ludens and I bought two,” Henning said.
Noticing they had no bags Diehl asked, “What did you do with them?” Diehl asked.
“They’re being custom made,” Polanski said and explained, “The tailor took our measurements,
we selected the material and he’s going to sew them. We have to go back tomorrow for a fitting and
he said they would be ready the day after that.”
“Really, that fast? How much is he charging you?” asked Chris.
“Believe it or not two hundred and fifty Hong Kong dollars for three vested suits and three
shirts,” Polanski said equally amazed yet smugly pleased with the deal.
“What, no pants?” joked Diehl.
“Two sets of pants, it’s an unbelievable deal,” said Henning.
“No shit!” exclaimed Chris, “What is that about forty dollars a suit? You’re getting about three
suits for the price of one in the states.”
“Yeah, not bad, eh?” Polanski said.
Chris answered, “No, it sounds like a great deal. So great I think I’ll get a couple myself. How
do you know if the quality and workmanship is any good?”
Diehl quipped as he gobbled down a rib, “If the sleeves of the jacket fall off they will suck on
both counts. If not, then it’s the deal of the century!”
“How did you guys get up here, by bus or taxi?” Ludens asked.
“Neither. We came up by the tram as part of a tour,” Chris said.
“Where’s Farleigh and Diaz?” asked Polanski.
“No idea, but my guess is they’re in some club already shit-faced. “They couldn’t wait to hit the
bars here. We’re going to try and meet up with them later tonight,” said Diehl.
Henning asked, “You guys going to Wan Chai after this?” and stated, “We have been hearing it’s
a wild place and a haven for Sailors.”
Chris responded, “Yeah, we’ve heard the same thing. We’ll probably meet up with them there. If
we all heard about Wan Chai rest assured Farleigh and Diehl heard the same.”
After gobbling down their meal, Diehl checked his watch and said, “We better get a move on if
we want to explore this area and rejoin the tour.”
“We don’t have to go back with the tour. We can hang out here for a while and catch the next
bus.”
“That’s right, I forgot.”
“Have you guys already walked around here?” asked Chris.
“Only briefly, when we got out of the cab,” explained Henning, “from what we’ve seen so far
it’s an incredible view of Hong Kong.”
Chris and Diehl waited while the radar men finished their meals, shared their initial impressions
of the city, discussed Chris’s new camera and several other topics they thought interesting enough to
discuss.
Hennings commented, “I have to say that I am impressed at how clean the city is considering four
million people live here.”
Ludens added, “It had better be. They’ve already experienced Bubonic plague once here. I am
certain that’s why they’ve posted warnings everywhere about littering. The fine is five hundred
dollars.”
Diehl explained they had passed sections of the city, which looked like absolute ‘shit-holes,’
with people living in small huts with rusted tin roofs, lacking electricity, running water, and toilets.
Although he had yet to see any, Chris was aware a sizeable portion of the population lived on
sampans and asserted the sanitary conditions on those boats must certainly be deplorable and without
proper sewage disposal and treatment the surrounding waters would surely be polluted.
Finishing their meals, the five left the restaurant and walked to the Peak building and observation
tower. They went to the elevator and took it up to the top of the building.
It was an inspiring view. With absolute clarity, Chris could see the metropolis of Hong Kong
Island, the harbor, his ship, Kowloon and parts of the New Territory as well. He started snapping
photos and noticed the counter indicated he had taken twenty-six photos on a roll of film, which was
supposed to yield only twenty-four. He rewound the film until he heard it snap from the advance reel
sprockets, removed the exposed film and loaded another roll. As he walked around the observation
deck, he took more photos of the area and his companions. They had made one lap around the tower
and decided they had seen enough of Victoria Peak and would continue with the rest of their tour.
“We’re going to head out to finish our tour,” Chris told Polanski. “We’re going to go too,”
Polanski replied then said, “we’ll look for you in Wan Chai tonight.”
“Cool. We’ll catch you later,” Chris said.
The tram ride down was yet another different experience for the two enlisted tourists. Since the
tram ran up and down the mountain, the seats remained pointing up the mountainside so they faced
uphill as tram went downhill.
When they got to the last station at Garden Road they hopped out to catch the next Big Bus.
Waiting for the next one to arrive they sat on the curb and had a cigarette.
“What do you suppose Farleigh, Diaz and Harriman are up to?” asked Chris.
“Probably their second case of beer by now!” joked Diehl.
“I’m glad we decided to do this instead,” said Chris.
“Me too. At least we’ll have something to remember about this place besides the names of the
bars.”
A few more people were gathering at the bus stop as it approached. The pair stood and waited
while the bus emptied. They stepped into it and greeted by another lovely guide wearing the same
uniform as Mary Anne. Rather than a short pageboy hair style she had hers pulled back and tied in a
bun with what looked like chopsticks sticking in her hair.
“Hello, my name is Ginger and I will be your tour guide,” she said.
Chris and Diehl turned and looked at each other in amusement and started to laugh.
She looked puzzled at their response and Chris noticing her perplexed look said, “Please, we
meant offense. It’s a private joke that would take time to explain. You would have to be a fan of
Gilligan’s Island to understand.”
She still looked puzzled but composed and told them seats were available on the upper deck,
courteously bowed and waved them on with the same arm gesture Mary Anne performed earlier.
“This is Twilight Zone weird,” said Chris.
Diehl responded, “Yeah, what are the odds! Maybe we should go to Macau and press our luck
there.”
“Let’s not get crazy. It’s not like we scored with either of them.”
The tour headed back to Queens Road while Ginger announced the points of interest in her
British accent. They stopped briefly at the Hung Shing Temple for photos.
While there she explained, “The temple was built along the original shoreline of Hong Kong
Island. Its present location one half mile from the water is a testament to the amount of land reclaimed
from the harbor.”
As a temple it seemed quite small in comparison to western churches although it was just as
ornate as the other temples they had seen along the tour, with the same calligraphy laden columns,
clay tile roofing and images of dragons along the peak of the roof. The smell of incense wafted from
its open doorway and suspended from the overhead beams were dozens of cone shaped incense
spiraling to a point where the cindering ends released fragrant smoke to the sky.
Chris took several shots of the temple and had Diehl take some of him both outside and inside
the temple.
They got back on the bus and headed off to yet another temple known as Pak Tai Temple for
another photo op session. From there the bus made its way to Wong Nai Chung Road and drove by the
famous Happy Valley Racetrack built in 1845 for the amusement of the British people residing in
Hong Kong. The bus headed south to Hennessy Road turned right and down Causeway Road to
Victoria Park up Yee Wo Street to Tai Hang Road and stopped at Aw Boon Haw Garden otherwise
known as Tiger Balm Gardens.
She explained it was the Aw Boon Haw family, who amassed their fortune by creating and
distributing the heat rub ointment Tiger Balm, that had the eight-acre garden built. The garden
adjacent to the Haw Par Mansion built in 1935 was originally for their private use but later opened to
the public as a theme park in the early 1950s. It was one of three such gardens within Asia. She then
announced they would remain at the park for thirty minutes and anyone who wanted to continue on the
tour without visiting the park should disembark and join the tour parked just ahead of them.
The pair exited and walked along a concrete wall lined with street vendors and beggars and
turned at the entranceway into the park. Entrance to the park was free. To enter they had to pass
through a gazebo like structure of Oriental design with a curved and patterned indigo roof. The
supporting columns were deep red and the fascia cream colored.
As Chris passed through the gazebo, his eyes focused on a large wall of intricate designs and
sculptures of dragons, a phoenix and a crane. The vividly deep blue, brown, yellow, purple, red, and
green colors seemed to explode off the wall. At the center were several large rectangular openings,
which curiously was the entrance to the Haw Par Mansion garage. The garden curled up the hillside.
A grotto or cave appeared at every turn containing more colorful sculptures and figurines each
depicting either a legend or proverb of Buddhist lore. There was the Cowherd and Peasant Girl, the
Lion Dance, the Wedding of the Pig and the Rabbit, the Eighteen Layers of Hell, and a number of
others, some grotesque some humorous some sexually explicit but all were exceedingly vibrant in
color and intricate in their design and construction. Pagodas of all shapes and sizes appeared
throughout the twisting garden. The largest of these pagodas was at the top of the garden. It was an
imposing white pagoda seven stories tall bearing the name “Tiger Tower.” Chris was drowning in all
this color and legend.
“Can you believe this place?!” Chris said to Diehl as they walked along.
“Every bit of surreal,” he said.
“There’s a picture at every angle you look. I’ve gone through another roll of film here alone. I
have no idea what I’m looking at and quite a bit of it is bizarre, but it’s intriguing nonetheless,” said
Chris.
They had reached the Tiger Tower, which offered a view of the mansion and garden below, the
harbor that lay beyond it to the south and the surrounding hillside. In glaring contrast to the lavish and
elegant mansion below Chris pointed out enclaves of stilted shanties erected in various sections of
the surrounding hillside and noticed the lengthening shadows.
“I guess we should be heading back to the bus,” he said.
“Sure thing. We’ve gone as far as we can go and I don’t imagine there’s much left to see here. I
must admit we certainly got our money’s worth today.”
They were the last remaining passengers to arrive at the bus and found Ginger standing alongside
by the door. She boarded the bus right after them and instructed the driver to leave. He closed the
door, put the bus in gear and pulled away. He made a few turns to get them back onto Tai Hang Road
and sped off towards the waterfront. They turned onto Ye Woo Street, which according to their guide
put them in the Causeway Bay region of Hong Kong, another district significantly enlarged through
land reclamation projects. Victoria Park was one of the beneficial results of this reclamation done in
the 1950s. She announced they would soon be entering the Wan Chai district as the driver turned right
onto Lockhart Road.
It had started to darken and the neon street signs were coming on. As they did, they imbued the
streets with the same electricity powering them. People parading along the sidewalk filled the dingy
littered street.
Chris asked, “How in hell are we ever going to find them? There must be a hundred clubs here!
Where do we start?” and he started to read the signs they passed, “The Ocean Bar, the Pussycat Bar,
The Mermaid Bar, The Neptune Bar, the Chicago Bar, San Francisco Topless Bar. Oh look they have
a Cave Bar here too!”
Diehl said, “I guess we’ll have to stop in each and every one for a drink to find them!”
Chris laughed. “Who knows where they’ll find us if we follow that plan? He continued to read
the signs aloud, “The Butterfly Topless Club, H.K. Delight Discotheque, Popeye Bar, the 83 Bar, Hot
Pants Topless.” He stopped when the bus stopped at the corner of Lockhart and Luard Road an
intersection appearing to be the heart of the action. Chris told Diehl, “I don’t see any reason for us to
continue with the tour do you? We’re only going to be coming back this way anyway.”
Diehl agreed and the two hollered out to the bus driver to let them off there. Ginger was kind
enough to translate their request to the driver and as they scurried down the tiny spiral stairwell of the
bus she said, “Thank you for joining our Big Bus tour. We hope it has been a most pleasurable
experience and that you will be kind enough to recommend us to your friends.”
Diehl stopped alongside her and said, “You know what would really make this trip
pleasurable?” and just after he asked her, grabbed her by her arms, pulled her toward him, planted a
big kiss on her lips and just as suddenly bolted out the door of the bus letting out a big “HOOHOO!”
She glanced at Chris with a stunned look as he walked by her. He shrugged his shoulders and
smiled. With a bemused look, she put her hand to her lips that curved in a whimsical smile. Chris and
Diehl would be the only two who had reason to exit the bus there and the only two who did.
Chris patted Diehl on the back once he caught up to him.
“That was a fucking funny stunt! She must have enjoyed it, because she smiled as I walked past
her.”
“I just couldn’t resist. Well, where should we start?”
“I’m feeling a bit hungry from all that walking,” said Chris, “Let’s grab a quick bite and get
something in our stomachs if we intend to start drinking.”
“Okay.”
They headed down Lockhart road in search of some fast food. Walking along they passed by
doorways with people sitting in them consuming Chinese food out of white paper boxes. They came
across an elderly man eating fried chicken and stopped to ask him where he got it. He babbled in a
loud voice seemingly upset about being disturbed while he was dining.
Unable to communicate verbally Chris took another approach. Pointing to the chicken, then
pointing to himself, he rubbed his belly.
“Yom, Yom. Where get?” he asked appearing as though he were chewing while he waved his
arms.
The old man understood and pointed with his chopsticks across the street and down the road.
“Shay Shay.”
The old timer laughed revealing a Midtown Tunnel grin rattling off Chinese believing Chris
mastered Cantonese during their brief encounter.
Crossing the street they headed in the direction the old timer pointed. They came upon a window
behind which a number of waxy looking ducks with their necks and heads still attached hung on
display. Beneath the ducks was a large cauldron containing a boiling liquid with frothy flotsam
floating on top. Between the cauldron and window, were piles of chickens’ feet with toenails and
looked terribly unappealing to both of them. Beside the feet were rows of pork skins, pork feet and
pork snouts. The longer they gazed at these items the less hungry they became. A door to the left of the
window led into a small dining area filled with locals seated at round tables with white Formica
tops. They were feverishly working their chopsticks digging out long strands of noodles or gobs of
rice with bits of pork. Some spit the bones of the pigs’ feet back into their bowl of rice after sucking
the fat and meat from them. Others were audibly slurping the last vestiges of broth from the bottoms of
their bowls. After watching them eat, Chris had little regard of the Chinese dining etiquette. The
delicious aroma, however, exuding from the doorway was so intense it incited Chris’s hunger. He
could taste the air and make a meal of it alone.
“Shall we try it?”
“I don’t know this place looks like they might be serving up ptomaine,” Diehl said uneasily.
“Well, ‘to-mein’ sounds almost like a Chinese delicacy, doesn’t it?” joked Chris making a
bucktooth face and applying an oriental tone to the word ptomaine. “How bad could it be if the locals
are eating here? C’mon, when in Rome...Where’s your sense of adventure? Isn’t that why you joined
the Navy?”
Diehl didn’t argue as his hunger was getting the best of him too. They walked into the noisy
dining area, to instant silence. The patrons and workers stopped whatever they were doing. The shop
full of mannequins simply stared at the pair of Americans. Somebody said something loud enough for
all to hear, and a chorus of laughter followed. Reanimated and enjoying their private joke, they
resumed devouring their meals chatting amongst and over themselves. It was an uneasy moment for
the pair but they persevered and strode to the counter.
A clerk wearing an apron with brown smudges all over it greeted them. Beneath it, he wore a
white tee shirt grayed from age, and on his head an embroidered black silk beanie with colorful
designs of dragons circling around it. The counter he stood behind had trays of a variety of Chinese
fare. Chris looked at the offerings on display. There were rice cakes, piles of skewered round grayish
white balls and piles of fried skewered balls. Another tray contained fried pork rinds. In addition,
there were skewered shrimp of all sizes displayed. Chris had never seen such large shrimp before.
“What you like?” the clerk asked in pigeon English.
Chris looked up at the Chinese menu on the wall behind the counter. Besides the Chinese
characters, the English equivalent appeared below the calligraphy and the price to the right. Chris
concentrated on the price and saw several items for twenty-five Hong Kong dollars.
“How is number three the chicken and chips prepared?”
“Good..It prepared good.” The clerk responded.
“No, I mean how is it made?”
“It made good...very good,” was his firm reply.
“Okay what we seem to have here is a failure to communicate.” Diehl snickered invoking the
line from Cool Hand Luke.
“I mean how is chicken cooked, fried in oil or broiled?”
“Oh!...It cooked good!”
“I’m sure it’s good, but how is it prepared, deep fried?” and Chris motioned with his hand as
though he were holding a piece of chicken and dropping it in hot oil mimicking that frying sound. The
crowd behind them was getting impatient.
The clerk was getting impatient and attempting to end the discussion, he said, “Yes. Good,”
making the same motion and sound as Chris.
Chris conceded it didn’t warrant continuing deciding to eat the chicken no matter how it was
prepared.
“Okay, okay give me number three,” he said holding up three fingers as he spoke.
“Okay, you pay twenty-five dollar.”
Chris paid the clerk who yelled his order to the cooks in the tiny kitchen beside the cauldron. He
handed Chris a ticket, motioning him away towards the cooks.
“You give.”
Before moving on Chris chose to ask one more question. “By the way, how many pieces come
with the order? One? Two? Three?”
“Free,” he brusquely said.
Diehl now had to order and asked, “How is fish with chips prepared?”
“Good,” answered the clerk.
“Fuck me! Are we going to go through all that again?” Chris exclaimed.
Diehl was merely joking with the clerk and Chris, and ordered the number seven “fish with
chips.”
“Okay, number seven. You pay twenty-five dollar.”
“What do you have to drink?” Diehl asked the clerk.
“Coca cohrah or Chinese tea. You want coca cohrah you pay more.” Diehl looked at Chris and
knowing what he was about to ask Chris said, “I’ll have the tea.”
Diehl ordered a Coke and tea.
“Okay you sit, we bring.”
They went and handed the cook their tickets. The cook scooped up slices of potatoes frying in a
wok, grabbed a black plastic basket lined with a paper napkin at the bottom and dumped them into the
basket. With his tongs he took out three legs from a deep fryer put them in the basket with the fries and
handed it to Chris. He repeated the same process for Diehl’s meal. They took their baskets and found
an empty table.
The table full of nicks needed a good cleaning. The wooden chairs they sat on and the table were
rickety. Dining there would be like eating on a ride at an amusement park. The chair would rock and
once settled the table would rock in another direction as they alternatively placed their forearms on
the table.
A young girl came by and set down two ceramic cups without handles, a white teapot, Diehl’s
coke and two rolled up damp wash towels on a small plate. She bowed slightly at the waist after
placing down the tableware, smiled and walked off.
“I would ask for ketchup, but I’m afraid my food would get cold before bridging the
communication gap,” said Chris. He grabbed one of the tiny legs in his basket, smelled it, and liking
the smell ripped off a piece of meat. “Oh man, the clerk was right. Cooked good!” he said not waiting
to swallow and gave the thumbs up sign. He immediately took another bite.
Diehl did the same with his fish exclaiming his was tasty as well. The chips were round potato
slices deep-fried with the outer skin still on and both found them extremely tasty as well. They
devoured their dinners and left the restaurant satisfied from the simple but tasty repasts. Down
Lockhart Road they went in search of their friends.
Stopping briefly in front of the Ocean Bar with its name appearing within a guitar shaped neon
sign above its door Chris asked, “Do you have room for a cold one?”
“I think I can manage. Let’s pop in here and see what’s going on.”
Walking into the ground floor club, they found only a few patrons sitting at the bar and several
seated in booths. None of them were crewmembers of the Lawrence yet all were Caucasian. “Smoke
On The Water” was playing on jukebox and a four-piece band was setting up on the bandstand.
Several bar girls stood talking to the bartender. They dressed as though they were attending a
wedding reception wearing high heels, tight form fitting taffeta mini dresses in bold red or solid black
that revealed nearly their entire legs with deep V cut strapless tops. The bar was dark with black
walls and with overhead lights illuminating the booths and bar. A mirrored ball strung down from the
ceiling over the dance floor and the reflected light sprayed around the dance floor and bandstand as it
twirled around.
“What do you think?”
“I could use a beer,” Diehl responded.
The pair headed to the rectangular bar and sat themselves down. The bartender walked over to
them.
“Evening, mates,” he said in a strong Australian accent. “What’ll it be?”
“How much for a bottle of San Miguel?” asked Diehl.
“Two dollars,” said the Aussie.
“Okay, we’ll take two,” Diehl said.
“Comin’ right up!” he said as he turned to retrieve two bottles from the fridge situated in the
middle of the bar and adjacent to the squadron of bar girls.
Chris peered at the girls eyeing them and talking amongst themselves. They giggled and fidgeted
about. They were making out their batting order and deciding who would be first to bat with the
Americans. The bartender came back with two cold bottles and glasses then pouring them created
perfect heads on each. Diehl paid for the first round of beers.
“You fellas off that destroyah in the harbor?” he asked as he took Diehl’s money.
“Yes, we pulled in this morning,” Diehl said.
“How long you in for?”
“One week,” Chris answered. “What’s your name?”
“Sam,” he said, “and what might your names be?”
“I’m Chris and this sorry ass next to me is Bobby.”
“Please to meet you fellas. Hope you enjoy your stay here.”
“It’s been fine so far,” Chris said.
“So where ya headin’ off to next?” Sam asked.
“Back to the line,” Diehl said.
“The line?”
“The gun line off Vietnam,” Diehl said.
“Oh, you boys seeing a lotta action?”
“Yep,” the pair said together.
“Well you stick around I’m sure you will see action of a different sort here!”
“Listen, Sam, we’re trying to find some of our friends. Have there been any other Americans in
here today?” asked Chris.
“Yes. We’ve had a couple stop in throughout the day.”
“We’re trying to find three in particular,” Chris said and began to describe them. He began with
Farleigh thinking, of the three his appearance was more distinct and easier to categorize and identify.
“One of them is fairly short with curly black hair and speaks with a bit of a lisp.”
“No can’t say I recall seeing anyone like that.”
“Okay, thanks,” said Chris.
Sam finished making small talk and moved on to serve his other customers. He walked by the
clutch of bargirls, said something to them, and cocked his head in their direction.
“I guess they weren’t here,” said Diehl.
“We’ll finish our beers and move on.”
“Yeah, no problem,” Chris said and observed two of the girls approaching. “Tuna at two
o’clock.”
As the girls approached, they spoke secretly cupping their hands over their mouths as they spoke
in each other’s ear. They appeared to enjoy a private joke as they stalked towards their prey.
“Hi Joe!” said the girl in the red sequined dress as she pressed herself towards Chris.
The other in black veered behind Chris and latched onto Diehl.
“My name is Sari,” the girl in red said placing a hand on Chris’s shoulder and her other on his
thigh just above his knee, “what’s your name?”
Chris briefly turned to Diehl and noticed the girl who approached him had grasped him in a
similar manner although a bit more brazenly as she had her hand high up his thigh just below his nuts.
“My name is Chris.”
“Ooh, that’s nice name,” she cooed and gently squeezed his thigh with her petite fingers.
The long days and nights at sea without female companionship fomented lustful desires in many a
Sailor and Chris wasn’t immune to those sensations as his manhood stirred and stiffened. The beer
bubbled in his throat and after clearing it said, “Sari, that’s a pretty name for a pretty girl.” She was
pretty, her pale white complexion and unblemished skin looked like living porcelain, except for a tiny
beauty mark just above her left eye. Unlike the other girls in the club, she had short black hair cut in a
pageboy style with bangs. The ends of her hair brushed along the nape of her exquisite neck and up
along the side of her oval face just covering her ears. Her ruby red lips were thin and slightly
dimpled at each end. Her pug nose had a slight upturn to it and her Asian eyes oozed eroticism. She
had some meat to her shoulders and her low cut dress revealed supple collarbones. Her breasts
pushed together displayed the forked road of her cleavage. She had not one ounce of fat on her and the
curvature of her hips augmented the slenderness of her waist. Her legs were perfect and the high heels
she wore accentuated her athletic calves. Diehl’s girl was also attractive but Chris felt that between
the two his would definitely win the beauty contest.
She corrected his mispronunciation of her name stating, “No, it’s Sarree, S-A-Ehrl-Ehrl-Y.”
Chris mulled over her spelling a moment and exclaimed, “Oh! Sally! I’m sorry, Sally.”
“Yes, Sarri. You want Sarri be your girlfriend? You buy Sarri a drink?” she asked and while
pressing for an answer, slowly slid her hand further up his thigh and gave him a gentle squeeze.
He fidgeted on the barstool to create a path for his penis to grow down along his pant leg rather
than bore straight out through his zipper as it engorged with blood from her carefully orchestrated
caresses. He was getting nervous realizing this girl was definitely a pro and he a novice at this game.
He ordered her a drink, but knowing he had limited funds to spend for the balance of the evening
decided he wouldn’t fall prey to her charms.
Diehl on the other hand was beaming from ear to ear as his girl was slowly but actively rubbing
his crotch up and down. He had bought his girl a drink too. As Diehl poured the remainder of the beer
into his glass Chris asked him if he would like another.
“Oh God, yes!” he said which Chris knew was more of a preference to having his cock
manipulated than it was at having a second beer. Chris motioned Sam to bring two more beers and
two more drinks for the girls.
“Honky Cat” was now playing on the jukebox and the band was about set up. They were tuning
their guitars over the music as the club began to fill with patrons and bar girls. The place looked and
felt like it was preparing to rock the night away. The two Americans were on their second beer and
the girls on their third drink. As the floorshow was about to begin, Chris turned to Diehl and asked if
he wanted to leave.
“Are you kidding? You want me to leave in the middle of a hand job? Give me a few more
minutes, I’m almost there.” Diehl turned his attentions back to his partner, planted a kiss on her and
nuzzled his mouth up to her ear.
Chris noticed she now had grasped Diehl’s cock and was literally jerking him off. Diehl put his
arm around her pulling her toward him and started to bite her neck. He let out a low moan as she
finished with him. “Whew!” he said as he leaned back upon his barstool.
Sally sensing Chris was getting impatient to leave didn’t want to let go of her captive. She
started to run her index finger along his ear and placed her hand in his crotch cupping his testicles. He
jumped back at her boldness but offered no protest.
While she started to strum away at his organ the emcee jumped on the stage grabbed his mike
and announced that the Ocean Bar was pleased to introduce straight from Manila the Pecos Bill Band.
The lead guitarist thanked the emcee, welcomed the crowd to the Ocean Bar, and immediately began
to break into the James Gang’s “Walk Away.”
Chris thought the title apropos and wanted to walk away from Sally’s clutches to continue the
search for his shipmates. He asked Sally if she wanted to dance and she agreed. “Look after my stuff,”
he told Diehl.
He took Sally by the hand and headed for the dance floor with the rapid clicking of her heels
following behind. She let go of his hand and wrapped her arms around his waist quick stepping
behind him. She never lost touch with him the entire time they were together. She always had one
hand either on his shoulder and only released his thigh with her hand when she consumed her drink.
The dance would finally separate them or so he thought. As they danced, she still managed to maintain
contact with him in one way or another. She at times would place her hand on his shoulder or grab his
belt buckle or rub her groin up against his knee as they danced. She was working hard to get him to be
her boyfriend for the evening but as attractive and as sexy as she was, he felt it was time to move on
before she bled him dry of his pocket money.
The band finished the song and broke into the introduction for “Brown Sugar.” Although Chris
was a fan of the Stones, he wanted to leave the bar. He thanked Sally for the dance and started to exit
the dance floor. She grabbed his arm with both hands imploring him to stay and continue dancing. He
said he was sorry explaining he had to leave and meet his other friends as they had arranged. She
would not let go but he continued to walk off the dance floor. His strength was no match for her and
while she resisted pulling on his arm and leaning back, she kept giving ground by shuffling her feet as
he towed her off the floor. Ultimately, she gave up and followed him back to his seat. When he got
back to his seat he grabbed his bags and said, “C’mon Diehl, let’s go.”
Sally pouted, rotating her shoulders back and forth, and playfully slapping Chris on the arm said,
“You break Sarri’s heart. You know you stay Sarri sucky-fucky you all night. Sarri number one fuck,
all Hong Kong.”
His penis pulsated even more, but he resisted her blunt charm. He reached into his pocket,
counted out twenty-five Hong Kong dollars and handed it to her feeling she earned at least that much
for exciting him as she did.
“I am sorry Sally, your offer is most tempting but we made other commitments. I will come back
tomorrow, okay?”
“Okay, I be here.”
He kissed her on the forehead, put some change on the bar for Sam, gathered his things and
exited with Diehl.
“By the stain on your pants it looks like you had a good time,” joked Chris.
“Oh shit yeah! Cost me fifty Hong Kong bucks, though!”
“I’d say that was reasonable.”
“Are you sure you want to leave? Your girl was hot!”
“I know but I didn’t bring enough money to cater to my carnal desires and these electronics,” he
said raising the bag containing his camera gear. “Tomorrow’s another day. Besides she said she was
number one fuck in all of Hong Kong. How will I know if I don’t try all the rest?”
They walked down Lockhart Road stopping in every bar they passed looking for their friends.
Occasionally, they met other shipmates partying in some of the clubs and asked if any had seen
Farleigh, Diaz or Harriman. Some said they saw them in the Neptune Bar. Others said they saw them
at the San Francisco Topless Bar. Seaman Fred Branson of B Division began to laugh as he told them
Farleigh was so out of control drunk he slipped and fell ripping and pulling his dance partners dress
nearly off as he reached to use her for support. Diehl laughed at the story and commented about being
sorry to have missed it. Branson continued to laugh as he described the scene of the girl slapping
Farleigh silly with one hand while she held up her dress with the other as he lay on the dance floor.
Chris and Diehl continued their search for their friends stopping into the Canadian Club, the
Cave, Butterfly Topless Club, Popeye’s, the Chicago Bar, the 83 Club and a host of others.
Sometimes they would stop and have a draft but most often, they just walked in looked around and
walked out. As they cruised the street, they were hustled by seductively clad girls standing outside
some of the clubs. Chris tried to take photos of some of them and each time he tried, they shunned the
camera hiding their faces with their hands. He thought it curious they weren’t shy about standing in the
street half naked yet shy about having their pictures taken. It was getting late in the evening when they
spotted Polanski, Ludens and Henning across the street. Chris whistled and called out to them. They
crossed over and joined up with them.
“How are you guys doing?” Chris asked. By now all five of them had good buzzes going.
“Okie dokie,” chuckled Henning.
“How long have you guys been cruising the neighborhood?” Diehl asked.
“What day is it?” Polanski answered bringing his watch to his eye teetering like a reed in the
wind.
Ludens was the only married member of the entourage and was the more composed and most
sober of the three told them they had been bar hopping for about three hours.
“We too, I mean us too,” said Diehl.
“Have you run into Farleigh or Diaz or Harriman in your travels?” Chris asked.
“Yeah we spotted them about an hour ago,” said Ludens.
“Diaz and Harriman were carrying Farleigh between them. The little shit could barely walk.
Diaz told us someone popped Farleigh in the mouth, because he tried to pick up some girl in a bar and
groped the hell out of her but she turned out to be some Brit’s wife. They said they were taking him
back to the ship.”
“Okay, mystery solved. I guess we don’t have to worry about them anymore and party on. What
do you say, Diehl?”
“Right on!” he yelled raising his right fist in the air while his head teetered about.
“We may have to carry these three home tonight,” Ludens said.
“If we have to we’ll throw them into a rickshaw. Where were you guys heading?” Chris asked
and added. “We’ve stopped in most of the clubs here along the strip.”
Ludens responded, “We met a few of the guys from OE and Supply who said they had heard the
Neptune Club was a happening place. We were headed there when you spotted us.”
“I don’t think we stopped there, do you mind if we join you?”
“The more the merrier!” Ludens said.
They walked down the street to the Neptune Club. The large neon sign strung across the street
made it easy to find. A bouncer greeted them at the door together with two bargirls handing out free
drink cards. The Americans mulled outside the door indecisively prompting the girls to entice them
inside with a free drink card. Assured of a free drink they headed into the club, which was located in
the building’s basement, carefully walking down the narrow steps.
As was the case with nearly all of the bars they visited the walls were dark with black velvet
wallpaper. There were black vinyl upholstered booths along all the exterior walls and a large
rectangular bar offset to the side. The bar was nearly full with one or two empty stools. A sizeable
delegation of Sailors from the Lawrence comprised the crowd at the bar and a number of others
seated at booths. Nearly all were accompanied by a bargirl. People rhythmically moving to the sevenmember band playing “Bang a Gong” jammed the dance floor. Colored lights were flashing about the
bandstand, two female background singers in tight fitting white shorts and tight white muscle shirts
were suggestively undulating their hips to the beat.
The five Americans circled around looking for an empty booth. Chris saw Brown Brown and
some of the soul brothers seated at a booth. He had a girl flanked on each side and he had his arms
draped around both. “Hey Columbo, how you doing brother?” he yelled to Chris.
“Good, man. See you’re doing fine!”
“Yeah, bro. We is having a grand time, ain’t we ladies?”
They giggled.
“Yeah soul brother, big time fun!” said one of them.
Chris noticed each of the girls held their drink glasses with one hand and their free hand firmly
situated in Brown Brown’s groin.
“Looks like they got things well in hand!” Chris said.
“Ha, ha, ha! Good times, bro, enjoy ’em while we can.”
“Have a good time, guys,” he said noticing Diehl wave him over to an empty booth they found.
He could see bargirls already flocking around the booth like gulls trailing a fishing trawler. The guys
made room for the girls at the booth. The seating arrangements ended up alternating boy then girl
around the table. Chris took one of the remaining bargirls by the hand and offered her a seat. She
eagerly complied and he sat next to her at the end of the booth.
A waitress attired in a sleeveless white Grecian tunic with gold lame borders along the short
hemmed skirt with a gold rope belt cinched around her waist and gold colored sandals with
crisscross lacing running up her calves came to the table to take their order. They presented their free
drink tickets, each ordering bottled beer and the girls each ordered watered down tea cocktails for
themselves.
“What’s your name?” Chris asked his escort.
“Juri,” she said leaning in his ear.
Recalling his previous encounter with Sally he repeated what he thought was the proper
pronunciation. “Okay, Julie, yes, I am Chris,” he said.
“No, Juri,” she said correcting him. “J-U-R-I.”
Chris found his mistaken pronunciation twice in the same day amusing and smiled privately.
“Juri. That’s a pretty name. A pretty girl like you deserves a pretty name,” he said re-employing
a similar line he had used on Sally earlier in the evening. He looked her in the eyes and could tell she
wasn’t Chinese. Her eyes were more round and her complexion was slightly darker. She wasn’t
Filipino either. He asked, “Where are you from?”
“Bangkok, but for now live and work Hong Kong.”
As were most of the girls around the table, she was exotically attractive. She wore a solid black
sarong with gold piping and a large dragon embroidered in gold thread that coiled around and up the
right side of her dress. The sarong ended at mid thigh and her legs were shapely and smooth shaven
beneath her nylons. Her face was oval and her tapered lashes highlighted her dark brown eyes. She
had a pointed nose and enhanced by her full pink glossed lips. Her chin had a small dimple and her
neck swanlike. At about five feet four inches, she was taller than the others were and she was well
proportioned. To him she was yet another example of Oriental beauty.
They spoke a while longer and the band continued to play. They broke into “Love Potion No. 9”
and he asked her if she would like to dance. She said yes and together they stepped out onto the dance
floor. They danced through the balance of the band’s set and sat down to quench their thirst. Juri
wasn’t as forward as Sally and seemed quite content to spend the evening dancing, talking and
drinking. She was demure and attentive. He treated her as if he were on a date. Overall, it was a
pleasant evening without the sexual tension. He was relaxed and enjoyed the pleasure of her company
and she seemed equally gratified treated as an equal rather than a sex toy. Chris had consumed a sixpack of San Miguel beer through the evening but never felt near drunk. He would sweat profusely
after all the dancing and would make frequent calls to the head all of which helped dissipate the
effects of the alcohol. Juri tenderly wiped off his brow, face and chest with paper napkins after each
dance session. Before the night was done, there was a pyramid of them piled in front of him.
They partied until the bar closed at 2:00 a.m. The Americans said goodnight to their escorts and
departed. They walked the short distance to Fenwick Pier and caught the motor whaleboat back to the
ship. It was a long day and Chris welcomed the opportunity to grab some sleep.
****
At the sound of reveille, he slowly awakened to his usual morning wood and thought of the day’s
itinerary while he waited for his erection to wither. He decided he would like to spend the day on the
mainland in Kowloon, see a tailor about some custom made suits, do some souvenir shopping and
perhaps visit the border. He would run his ideas past his mates at breakfast.
At last, he was flaccid and arose from his bunk, took a quick shower, put his working blues on
and sprang up to the mess decks. He filled his plate with bacon, pancakes, and two eggs over easy,
toast with butter, cinnamon roll, orange juice and coffee. He sat with Diehl, Diaz, Farleigh and
Harriman. Farleigh sported a swollen lip looking haggard and hung over. They all exchanged their
stories of the prior day and discussed plans for their second day in port. Diaz and Harriman had the
duty so they would not be joining them on the day’s excursion. Chris offered up his plan of the day to
which Diehl was amenable. Chris suggested that Farleigh consider drying out, defer from drinking
and join him and Diehl. He had no counter plan and agreed to go along with them. Chris turned to
Polanski seated at the adjoining table and asked if he were going back to the tailor today for his fitting
and if so would he object if he joined him. Polanski said he was and welcomed his company but if
they didn’t make the same boat he instructed Chris where he could find the tailor.
After muster, Chris and the rest changed for another day of liberty ashore. It was payday and
Chris became two hundred forty dollars richer now that he had Hostile Fire and Foreign Duty pay
added to his base pay. After collecting their money, they gathered on the fantail to await liberty call.
While there, Chris noticed three sampans along the side of the ship. The coolies on board were
preparing to paint the ship’s hull. Since this port was an R&R port of call, the crew would have
limited work details. Local contractors now performed the routine maintenance such as painting
while in port. These laborers literally worked for coolie wages, in fact they would not be paid in
currency at all but with the four brass bars Chris had seen stowed in the Boatswain’s locker while
playing cards the first night he reported on board. Chris had asked Jordan about them then and learned
they were barter to pay these laborers when they reached Hong Kong.
The crew gradually started to depart the ship in small groups after liberty call. Chris, Diehl,
Farleigh, Polanski, Ludens and Henning jumped on a walla walla water taxi destined for Kowloon.
The fifteen-minute ride took them to a landing alongside the Star Ferry pier by the Kowloon Canton
railroad terminus building. They found a currency exchange center in the railroad depot where they
converted their American dollars. Polanski had said the tailor was on the promenade along the
waterside of the railroad terminal. They passed by the clock tower, walked along the water’s edge,
and came to a row of open aired stores. A few booths down they came to the tailor’s shop with an
electric sign, which read “Rajah Bespoke Tailor.” The shop had no front window or wall and was
just three walls lined with racks filled with skeins of fabric stacked atop one another. There appeared
to be a changing room behind a white sheet hanging down a doorway at the rear of the shop.
The tailor spread his arms wide welcoming the group into his shop as he bowed his head while
backing into his store beckoning them in. He recognized Polanski, Ludens and Henning and told them
their suits were ready for fitting. He turned them over to his assistant. Once he relieved himself of
these customers, he turned his attentions to Chris, Diehl and Farleigh.
“You want tailored suit? I number one tailor all Hong Kong. I give you good suit at good price.
You pick material, you pick style,” he said as he hurriedly handed each of them a manila folder with
pages torn from GQ magazines to select from. “We make good suit chop-chop, very cheap cheap. You
pick style from here,” he said pointing to the folders. “Then you pick fabric and color from there,”
motioning to the wall fabric.
Chris said, “By cheap-cheap I assume you mean price rather than workmanship.”
“Yes. Very good price, very good suit,” he said. “You get two pair pants with suit and I include
five ties, you pick from rack or I make special for you.”
“This deal is getting sweeter by the minute,” Chris said to Diehl. Farleigh wasn’t interested in
purchasing a suit so Diehl and Chris leafed through the pages while the tailor went to supervise the
fitting of their other traveling companions. Chris only had need of suits for special occasions such as
weddings and funerals. Any suits he presently owned his parents bought. When it came to formal
wear, he really hadn’t developed his own fashion sense. He would have to rely on the pictures he
was perusing of the suits as worn by the models. They were all handsome young men, each looking
meticulous in their perfectly fitted clothes, and wondered if he would look as well in his. He decided
to buy one American style and one British style three-piece suit. The only choice left was the fabric
and colors. He selected a charcoal gray pinstripe in a wool blend for the three-piece suit and a navy
blue polyester material for the American style suit. The tailor took his measurements and priced out
the suits. In total the two suits and ties would cost two hundred fifty Hong Kong dollars. Chris
haggled with the tailor managing to shave fifty dollars off the total price, and arranged to be back in
two days for a fitting.
With their business concluded, the group moved on to the Star Ferry pier. Rather than go to
Nathan Road and souvenir shop they decided to take the tour to the Red Chinese border instead. They
went to the tourist center located at the Star Ferry, purchased their tickets and boarded their bus.
It was twenty-five miles from Kowloon to the border town of Shenzhen, China and would take
one half hour to drive there. The bus drove up Nathan Road and made several twists and turns to get
to the outskirts of Kowloon. Once on the outskirts of Kowloon Hong Kong took on another dimension.
Thousands of tin roof shanties in close proximity to one another blanketed the surrounding
hillsides. Pots hung over smoking fires in the front yard kitchen where families sat around eating
bowls of rice. The shanties were no more than twenty square feet in area with some offering little
privacy or protection as they had only three sides. TV antennas atop several of them implied they had
electricity. The scenery was exactly as portrayed in the “World of Susie Wong” and Chris, now
seeing how these people lived, found the mudslide scene all the more credible. He considered
himself blessed by the privilege of birth.
They traveled deeper into the New Territories passing tiny villages and farmland. Terraced rice
patties abound the region and tending them were Hakka women in their wide black tasseled circular
hats. The countryside was bucolic. Cows and oxen grazed in the pastures, farmers on the road walked
along their oxcarts laden with vegetables. The green flatland with patches of woodland juxtaposed to
the brownish hues of the adjoining hills created living landscape paintings. He snapped photos as the
bus twisted through the hills and farmland trying to capture the essence of the peaceful surroundings.
They reached the border park at about 11:30 where they entered the all-inclusive administration,
cafeteria, rest stop, and souvenir mall. The back of the mall was comprised of large glass windows
through which Chris could see a wide concrete walkway leading to an observation deck at the end.
On the way to the walkway they stopped into a small food stores shop, bought four six packs of cold
Red Star beer and carried it with them through the mall to the walkway and out to the observation
platform.
Positioned around the platform were high-powered binoculars like those atop the Empire State
Building. Chris deposited fifty cents into the slot of one and looked out to Communist China. Without
the aid of the binoculars he could see that just past the observation area was a chain link fence and
beyond that was no man’s land approximately one mile in width. The strip of land buffering the
territories was barren except for a narrow river running along the opposite side. Through the glasses
he could see a chain link fence with barbed wire strung atop it on the Communist Chinese side of the
river. Scattered along the Chinese side of the fence were lookout posts every quarter mile where
armed Red Chinese soldiers stood vigil.
“It looks pretty dismal over there, don’t you think?” Chris said as he invited his friends to look
through the binoculars. “Judging from the way the fence is constructed it is apparent they’re more
interested in keeping people in rather than keeping folks out.”
Ludens said, “From what I’ve heard they already built tunnels all along the border in preparation
for an invasion should a conflict ever arise between Britain and China.”
“Get out!” Chris replied. “That’s just red menace fear mongering. You realize the Brit’s only
leased Hong Kong from China and under the terms of the lease will relinquish control back to them in
1997. So why on earth would they make preparations to invade Hong Kong when they’ll get control
lawfully?”
Ludens conceded Chris’s point, yet in spite of making that statement Chris still felt a bit uneasy
being there. He could not attribute it towards Ludens remark or the bleakness of the location. It was
the perception of a despondent population numbering in the hundreds of million which seeped into his
mind. He took photos of the region and was miffed with himself for not having purchased a more
powerful lens, so he could capture those longer-range images in greater detail.
They stood observing the border, casually drinking their beers, and discussing matters like
political science as it related to Red China and the Western political systems for another twenty
minutes. Henning was mimicking the firing of a rifle at the guards on the opposite side making powpow sounds. The rest stared along the border as if they expected to see someone attempt to cross and
shot in the process.
“My stomach is gurgling,” said Polanski. “Let’s get a bite to eat at the cafeteria and then head
back.” He expressed what most were thinking. As they walked back they passed near a tattered
looking Chinaman dressed in blue shorts, a blue button down shirt, a threadbare and rumpled gray
safari style sports jacket with stuffed pockets, and open heeled black slippers. He was standing at
attention keeping his arms straight down his side. With squinted eyes, he smiled at the group as they
approached revealing one surviving incisor and lifted one arm at the elbow to get their attention. His
skin was the color and texture of brown parchment. The straw coolie hat angled upon the crown of his
head revealed the short gray hair surrounding his amphitheater like bald spot. He sported a long gray
Fu Manchu mustache and beard. Chris estimated him to be a century old.
“Hey old timer, what can we do for you?” Chris asked him.
The old gent pretended to be taking a photo by raising his hands to his face and clicking a
picture.
Chris easily interpreted the gesture and said, “Oh, you want your picture taken! I guess you
aren’t concerned about someone capturing your soul on film. Okay, sure.”
They would each take a turn and stand alongside the old timer while someone snapped their
picture with their respective camera. Polanski went first and after the picture was taken the old man
put his hand out looking for payment.
“Aha, that’s your scam, eh!” laughed Chris.
Chris went last. He took a cold beer, handed it to the gentleman beggar, and posed alongside him
as they toasted each other with cans in hand. Diehl took the picture with Chris’s camera. Chris gave
him a five-dollar Honk Kong bill motioning to him to keep the beer. The old man graciously accepted
it having stood in the hot sun all morning long and raised the can to Chris and bowed repeatedly
rambling on in Chinese while grinning from ear to ear.
The group of Americans went into the cafeteria for a quick lunch after which they browsed the
souvenir shops. Before boarding the bus, Chris stopped at a street vendor selling books and images of
Chairman Mao. Intrigued by Chairman Mao’s “Little Red Book” he purchased an English version for
five dollars. It was a palm-sized book with a bold red soft leather cover.
The book contained quotations and poetry of the leader of the Communist Revolution and
Communist Party of China. It covered a number of themes ranging on his thoughts about the
Communist Party, the role of the People’s Liberation Army, the role of party members, thought and
work processes essential to the growth and modernization of the nation, the principle of unity among
the people and Party, the concept of selfless communism, the creation and role of cadres to help solve
the nation’s problems, the need to educate the nation’s youth, the role of women, the development of
Chinese culture and art, and the need for continuous self-improvement. Chris purchased this book not
because he sympathized with the socialist doctrines, but he felt it would be a unique memento of the
excursion and an act of individualism on his part. It would be an expression of his free will, an
exercise in free speech and a statement refuting the establishment’s dictums about the ideal
sociopolitical conditions. During the ride back, he tried to read it but found it to be too pedantic for
his liking.
After they arrived back to the Star Ferry terminal, they walked to Nathan Road to shop for
souvenirs. While walking down crowded Nathan Road a cadre of children tugged on them begging for
money and street hawkers passed out business cards for tailored suits, massage parlors, bars,
jewelers and fortune tellers. Occasionally, they entered shops in which the proprietors were more
persistent at peddling their wares and low prices. Most shops carried similar merchandise and every
one of them had open storefronts with their displayed inventory spilling out onto bins into the
sidewalk. There were carvings of all sorts, bracelets, wooden jewelry boxes, cosmetic cases, back
scratchers, buddhas, dragons, t-shirts, record albums, and silk robes which the shopkeepers referred
to as “Happy Jackets.”
Chris decided to buy a pair. He stopped at one of the stores and bought a pale blue silk robe
with black lettering along the lapels for his sister and a heavier black robe seemingly made of burlap
with black Chinese lettering on both plackets and in a large red circle on the back of the jacket for
himself. The shop owner told him the symbols meant “long life,” an expression considered to be a
statement of profound respect and affection. He bought an intricately carved chess set for his brother,
which he successfully bartered down paring one third from the proprietor’s original asking price. The
trick was to offer one third of the price and work up to a figure the purchaser felt comfortable paying.
If the proprietor failed to meet his desired price, he would simply walk away only to have the shop
owner cave rather than lose the sale. It was an animated and entertaining way to shop.
By the time, they finished each amassed several bags laden with merchandise. Before long
lugging their bags full of merchandise became burdensome so they chose to return to their ship and
stow their purchases. They headed back to the Star Ferry pier, grabbed a water taxi back to their ship.
It was late in the afternoon and getting near dinnertime. On the ride back, Chris leafed through his
Guide to Hong Kong.
“What do you guys think about going to dinner at the floating restaurant in Aberdeen?” as he
pointed to the picture in the guidebook. “Yeah, that looks like it could be interesting,” said Diehl.
“What about you Farleigh, are you interested?” Diehl asked him.
Farleigh had been silent all day as he was still hung over from his previous night ashore and the
motion of the walla walla bouncing along the waves imparted a greenish hue to his face. Chris could
see Farleigh was about to erupt and gave him room to maneuver to the rail. He raced to it and blew
chunks into Victoria Harbour. When he finished, he wiped his mouth with his sleeve.
“Sure, I’ll go.”
Chris had a beer left from the border and since he could not take it on board offered it to
Farleigh, “Here, Farleigh have some hair of the dog, and wash out that taste.”
“Thanks,” he said and gulped it down.
“How about you guys? Diehl, Farleigh and I are going to go to the floating restaurant for dinner.
Why don’t you come along?” Chris asked. “Yeah, that sounds good,” said Polanski.
Henning and Ludens agreed to go too.
“Cool. Then let’s meet at the quarterdeck about 5:30.”
“By 5:30 you mean 17:30 hours don’t you?” said Henning.
“When did you become such a lifer?” Chris joked. The cast and stage was set for their next
excursion ashore.
The group boarded the ship and lugged their bags of booty to their compartments for stowage.
Chris arrived at his bunk to find a letter from his sister. He opened his locker, created space in it and
packed his souvenirs away. Mazzarelli was sitting on his bunk next to his and leafing through a stack
of albums he had purchased while on shore. “Hey, Mazz, how’s it going?” he asked.
“Okay,” he said.
“Quite a collection of records you got there.”
“Yeah, they were dirt cheap. I couldn’t resist.”
“How many did you buy?”
“I got twenty-five albums for one hundred Hong Kong dollars.”
“Not bad. Let’s see what you got there.”
Chris leafed through them. The albums were obviously pirated and not copyrighted. The jackets
were unlike the cardboard sleeves found in the states. They were simply color-photocopied
duplicates of the original album covers printed on standard paper and folded so the album would sit
in the fold. The plastic wrapping holding the jacket together was also not the shrink-wrap elastic
plastic, but was crinkly like the packaging used to store Hostess Cup Cakes. “Pretty flimsy jackets.
They don’t look like they would provide protection from handling and bending of the album. Do you
have any idea of the quality of the audio on these?” Chris asked.
“The ones they played in the store sounded okay.”
Chris continued to leaf through Mazz’s collection. He bought Jethro Tull’s Thick As A Brick and
Aqualung, The Rolling Stones’ Exile On Main Street, Sticky Fingers and Hot Rocks, The Who’s
Tommy, Santana’s Abraxas, Led Zeppelin’s Led Zeppelin III and a number of others, none of which
Chris had in his own collection back home having sold them.
“Nice selection you have here, Mazz. Enjoy them.”
“Yeah, thanks,” he said and asked Chris about his day ashore.
“Listen, Mazz, we’re going back ashore and plan on having dinner in Aberdeen at some floating
restaurant, do you want to come along?”
“Thanks, but I can’t. I have to work the dinner meal tonight.”
“Well how about after you knock off? Do you want to meet up with us in Wan Chai, because I
am sure we will wind up there after dinner?”
“Thanks again but I had something else planned,” he said.
Chris felt uneasy as he could see Mazzarelli was hesitant and vague about discussing his plans
with Chris for the evening. Chris concluded from his evasiveness and what little he had known about
him that whatever his plans were it involved drugs. “Whatever you do be careful,” warned Chris in a
paternal tone.
“Okay, Dad!” mocked Mazzarelli.
****
Chris would not have to meet up with his travel mates for another thirty minutes, so he decided
to read his sister’s letter.
Her letter distressed him as it contained information about Cassie. She explained how she met
Lauren one day in town and when she asked how Cassie was, she broke down in tears. She explained
how Cassie had done nothing but bring heartache and misery to her parents but would not furnish
details. Chris’s sister learned from their mom’s friend, Evelyn, the actual details one day while
Evelyn was visiting their mother.
Evelyn was a German immigrant and close with Cassie’s parents, attending all of the German
functions together. Evelyn informed Chris’s sister and mother that Cassie had taken a job at a factory
after school and hooked up with a man seven years her elder. This fellow had a criminal record,
which Cassie chose to ignore. To the annoyance of her parents, they struck up a romantic relationship.
Cassie would sneak out of the house to be with the man who had a Svengali like hold on her. It wasn’t
long after Cassie became pregnant with his child. Her parents refused to accept any responsibility for
the child. Her love interest, who was already married, refused to provide any support for his
illegitimate child. Left on her own she chose to give the child up for adoption.
Chris’s heart wept for Cassie upon reading this news. She succeeded not only damaging him but
herself and her family as well. Had she only remained with him, none of this would have happened.
The fates had been harsh to them both.
He put away the letter and went up to the fantail with Diehl and Farleigh. The coolies were still
working alongside the ship cleaning up from their day’s work. A water barge was alongside to supply
the ship with fresh water. They met up with the three operations specialists and boarded the motor
whaleboat to Fenwick Pier where they caught the bus to Aberdeen.
The ride to Aberdeen took them through Happy Valley and along the surrounding hillsides. The
road weaved its way through the hills to the southern portion of Hong Kong Island. The scenery was
lush with palm trees and other tropical foliage. The shadows of night were rapidly creeping in. The
distance between Wan Chai district and Aberdeen was only about three miles but the combination of
stops and all the twists and turns, the drive took twenty minutes. The Aberdeen stop ended at a dead
end circle in a rather obscure location of several apartment buildings. From there, they spotted the
dock from where they would have to board a boat to ferry them to the Tai Pak Floating Restaurant.
Thousands of sampans tied up alongside one another littered the harbor. Families living on these
sampans would traverse neighboring boats to arrive at their own. The smell of fires burning and
meals cooking filled the air. At the entrance to the dock was a well-lit arched neon sign with Chinese
lettering. They had to walk along a catwalk leading to a floating dock with several sampans moored
alongside waiting to ferry patrons across the harbor to the restaurant. Even at a distance of onequarter mile the size and intricate design of the restaurant was an impressive sight. It was one hundred
feet in length with two decks and two distinct pergola roofs atop it creating an ambience of a three
story-floating palace.
Chris, Farleigh and Diehl crossed over one sampan to get to their ride. Their captain was an
elderly Chinese woman dressed in blue pajamas and pointed coolie hat. Her face was like crumpled
brown paper bag and the few brown teeth in her mouth looked like stalagmites and stalactites flashing
in the darkness as she barked in her native tongue. Chris thought she sported a beard but was merely
hair fuzz from a large wart on her chin. Once they sat down, she untied the sampan and began to row
away from the dock using the tiller as an oar. She kept talking in Chinese to her fares as she rowed.
“Hey, Farleigh, I think she has the hots for you!” Diehl joked.
“Maybe, but she isn’t as hot for me as your mama is!”
As they approached, more and more detail of the restaurant became visible. The exterior was
bright blue with intricate golden designs embossed within panels along the exterior. The wooden
framed windows spanning the length of the restaurant had golden corner patterns and the red columns
and borders helped augment the green tiled roofs and bright blue walls. The octagonal pergola roofs
sloped down and gradually curved up at the eaves and terminated at each corner with a dragonhead
carving.
The old woman deftly navigated the sampan alongside the barge’s gangway and the three Sailors
alighted. The ferry ride was free but they tipped the old woman ten Hong Kong dollars apiece. She
took the money and placed it down her pants for safekeeping.
Chris said, “I’m glad we didn’t ask for change!”
Two large cylindrical red columns each adorned with an abstract Oriental cloud pattern and an
entwined dragon bordered the entrance to the restaurant. A middle-aged woman in a tight fitting fulllength black sarong greeted them as they entered. “Welcome to world famous Tai Pak floating
restaurant. How many in your party?”
Diehl told her there were six including the three on the next boat and as it pulled up he pointed to
the sampan and said, “That’s them.”
The group now assembled the hostess said, “If you will please follow me.”
The interior of the restaurant was more opulent than the exterior. They stood in a large foyer,
which led to a wide staircase. Two dwarf-sized statues of lions adorned with gold fur and large blue
eyes were beside each balustrade of the stairwell. A souvenir shop was on the left and adjacent to it
was a door leading into an expansive dining room. Another dining room was to their right. Their
hostess led them up the stairs to a landing. The wall at the landing was alive with a mosaic mural,
which extended from one end of the wall to the other. It was a depiction of an ancient Chinese scene
with men dressed in brightly colored silk tunics standing on the decks of junks sailing up rivers.
Pictured along the shores were lavishly dressed men and women and images of horsemen in military
garb. It was a colorful representation of early commerce along the Pearl River. She then escorted
them up another short flight of stairs to the second floor.
At the top of the second flight, the hostess directed them through a doorway opening into a
massive dining hall comprised of about thirty circular dining tables each capable of seating ten
individuals. Along the wall at the entrance were autographed photographs of celebrities and
politicians who frequented the restaurant throughout its twenty-year existence. Some of the more
notable photos were of William Holden and Jennifer Jones, William Holden again with Nancy Kwan,
Yul Brynner, Dwight D Eishenhower and Richard Nixon and Queen Elizabeth with the Duke of York.
The hostess escorted them to a table at the far end of the room. As they were sitting down, she
asked if they would like something to drink and to a man, they all responded Tsing Tao beer. She
relayed the order to the server at her side. Another server placed moist towels and small bowls on
the table. The bowls contained what Chris believed to be lemon tea as it was brown like tea and had
a slice of lemon floating in it. The hostess passed out menus to all the diners and explained the dinner
could either be family style in which they could order one package including soup, appetizers and
several assorted dishes or if they preferred they could order a la carte and select from an assortment
of live sea food which they could choose for themselves. They would have to select fish and mollusks
kept in tanks on the first level at the rear of the barge if ordering a la carte.
Since they were all quite hungry, they opted to dine family style. She excused herself affording
them time to survey the menu and make their selections. As she left one of the servers delivered the
cold beers. It didn’t take them long to consume them and ordered another before they could decide on
what to eat. After some negotiating, they compiled their meal. To start with, they would all have the
corn and crabmeat soup. The remaining meal would be prawns fried in garlic and scallions, steamed
rock lobster, steamed grouper with ginger and snap peas, spring rolls and pork fried rice.
Chris never heard of prawns before and wondered what in the hell they ordered. He asked the
hostess when she came to take their order what in fact were prawns. She explained they were shrimp.
Why not just call them shrimp? he wondered. Chris realized there were no forks and knives on the
table. They would have to use chopsticks to eat their meal. This wasn’t going to be like one of his
Chow Mein dinners he ate back home with a fork, but an honest to goodness Chinese dinner in a
famed restaurant where a number of famous people had frequented.
“I hate to admit this guys, but I’ve never eaten with chopsticks before. How do you use these?”
he asked.
“I dunno,” said Hennigan.
“Me neither, never used ’em. Every Chinese restaurant I’ve eaten at back home had silverware
settings,” said Polanski.
“I know!” Farleigh boasted as he grabbed his set of chopsticks. Wielding one in his hand he
made a stabbing motion saying, “You stab the fucking food like this.”
They all laughed knowing he could not have been serious.
Ludens, the eldest and experienced with chopsticks, demonstrated how to properly use them.
“You place the chopsticks in the cleft between the thumb and index finger like this and support it
stationary by your ring finger.” They followed his instructions as he continued. “You take the second
chopstick and hold it by the tip of the thumb, index and middle finger.” They again copied his
direction. “You then open and close the top stick with your thumb and index finger, like so,” he said
as he opened and closed it repeatedly to further demonstrate their proper use.
They grabbed their sticks and began to practice. Chris glanced around observing others in the
restaurant. The dexterity they exhibited reaching into their plates picking up tiny morsels of food
without ever dropping anything made it look easy. One gentleman was using the chopsticks like a
shovel as he devoured a bowl of rice held up close to his mouth.
The question asked by Chris was, “How in hell could we eat soup with chopsticks?”
Fortunately, when the soup arrived it included a small ceramic spoon. The soup was delicious
with large yellow kernels of corn and healthy chunks of crabmeat in a creamy broth. Next came the
spring rolls, which were easy to eat, as no utensil was required. The servers brought out the
remaining dishes and set them upon the table. The shipmates passed the dishes around so everyone
could take their portions. When Chris grabbed the plate of prawns he marveled at their size and the
fact they still had their heads and legs still on.
“Where on earth did these come from? These are mutants. Is there a nuclear reactor near here?”
He grabbed his plastic chopsticks and attempted to pick a prawn from the plate. When he applied
pressure with the movable chopstick, he spun the prawn around causing it to skirt over to the opposite
side of the table. “Get back here!” he chortled as he rose from his seat to reach for the prawn that got
away, to the amusement of his shipmates.
Farleigh skinned his prawn and proceeded to dip it into the bowl of brown liquid. One of the
servers spotted him doing so and said, “Oh no! For wash!” as she made a gesture, wiggling her
fingers implying they were to be dipped into the bowl to wash them. They had a roaring laugh to the
bemusement of Farleigh.
“Yeah, ha ha, motherfuckers!” he said red-faced.
Chris having corralled his prawn removed the head and skin again in awe of its size. “You know
I use to cook lobsters in a restaurant back home nearly this big,” he said.
Diehl had a mouthful of the prawn in his mouth and garbled something that sounded like,
“Fuckin’ delicious!”
They feasted, they talked, they joked, they took photos of one another and the table, and they
enjoyed this respite from war. This was precisely what R&R in Hong Kong was intended to achieve.
It was a chance to escape from the stress of combat. It was a chance to relax and recharge their
batteries. It was a chance to nurture the bonds of friendship. When the meal was over and the bill
presented the six divvied up the cost and tip in equal portion. The total bill came to five hundred and
fifty dollars Hong Kong or one hundred dollars U.S. of which one hundred ten was the bar tab. At a
cost of U.S. sixteen dollars and fifty cents, it was a great bargain for the amount and quality of food
and alcohol consumed, and the memories created.
They thanked their hostess and servers for the wonderful meal and experience then went below
to catch their ride back to the island. Before departing, the restaurant Chris wanted to take a little tour
of the first level. In particular, he wanted to see the tanks the hostess had referred to earlier in the
evening.
Off to the right and rear of the barge they came upon an area containing a number of glass tanks
scattered about the deck which held a wide variety of live fish, crabs, mollusks, lobsters, shrimp,
prawns, cuttlefish, and other sea life that Chris could not identify. There were tanks of abalone and
“geoduck” clams that were no more than six inches in length with siphons extending from one end
rivaling a horse’s penis. They were similar to the steamer clams he prepared at his part time job back
home but because of their immense size looked prehistoric. It was like touring a public aquarium,
with species of shark, grouper, snapper and triggerfish swimming in their respective tanks.
Three middle-aged men were working in that section. Two were fishing. One used a net and the
other was hand lining over the side. He watched as the netter caught and gathered small spearing and
emptied his catch directly into a large tank on the deck. Witnessing this scene, he began to question
the wisdom of having dined on seafood. He believed any fish drawn from these waters must be laden
with coliforms as the occupants of the sampans littering the harbor were literally littering the harbor
with feces, urine and trash. Getting queasy, he suggested they leave.
They grabbed the next sampans back to the dock and hailed a taxi to take them to Wan Chai. The
taxi normally could seat five including the driver but for this journey, the cab would carry six
passengers and the driver. Farleigh sat on the Diehl’s lap; Chris and Polanski squeezed into the front
seat.
It didn’t take long for the pressure exerted by Farleigh on Diehl’s abdomen to have an effect. The
long and loud flatulent beat a rhythm against the taut leather seat as the foul wind burst forth.
“Jesus!” exclaimed Henning, “what a stink!”
The taxi driver started to rail in Chinese at Diehl.
“What your farts don’t stink?” Chris asked the driver while Chris himself unleashed his pent up
gas.
Moments later Ludens passed his gas and others followed suit.
“Don’t anyone light a match!” cried Polanski as he joined the choir of gas passers.
They laughed, gagged and howled hysterically during the ride while the cab driver continued to
rant in Chinese. The more they laughed the more they filled the cab with their melodious and odorous
wind.
“Guys, we have to stop before the driver passes out and crashes into a wall!” roared Chris
while he let go of another rumble of ass air.
Another roar of laughter and another roar of assholes ensued. “For Christ sakes! Open a fucking
window,” screamed Farleigh.
The cab driver’s eyes began to tear but the laughter was so contagious he joined in as well after
he farted.
“This guy deserves a good tip!” said Chris.
“Yeah, tell him not to eat at the Tai Pak!” exclaimed Farleigh and then he expelled another one.
With each burst of laughter, the pressure exerted on each person’s abdomen facilitated another
release of methane into the cramped cab. They would fart in tandem, they would time individual farts,
they would try to form words with their farts or they would try to name the tune of someone’s fart. It
was an on going cycle of fart, laugh, make a joke, laugh, fart, laugh, make a joke...and so on. They
laughed so loud pedestrians they passed could hear them and drowned out the music playing on the
taxi’s radio. Chris’s side hurt from laughing so hard. They farted and laughed throughout the twentyminute ride to Lockhart road and continued to laugh as they spilled out of the cab in front of the
Neptune Club. Chris and Polanski paid the cab fare for the group along with a tip. Polanski bid the
cab driver farewell by ripping off another.
They mulled around outside of the Neptune Bar recovering and collected their free drink card
from the hawkers standing outside. Down the stairs, they went with several of them continuing to
unleash their barrage of gas. They walked into the bar and found a number of their shipmates already
there enjoying the music, alcohol and hostesses.
Chris spotted Brown Brown once again sitting in the same booth he occupied the prior evening.
He was sitting with FTM3 “T-Bone” Wilcox and SN James Wilson from Fox and G Divisions. Each
of them had their Chinese hostesses at their side sipping their cocktails.
“Hey, man,” Chris said to Brown-Brown, “back for more I see.”
“Yeah, bro, man can never get enough poontang,” laughed Brown. “Well, enjoy yourselves,”
said Chris.
“Always do!” replied Brown Brown as he turned his head to place a kiss on his escort’s neck.
She coyly smiled and reciprocated turning her head and started to apply a “Wet Willie” to his ear.
“You’re busy, I’ll talk to you later,” Chris said as he headed off to a vacant area of the bar to sit
with Diehl and Farleigh. Polanski, Henning and Ludens joined them several moments later. Along
with other Lawrence crewmembers, the bar had a fair contingent of British and Australian locals.
Their boisterous demeanor indicated they had been drinking for some time. The same band that
played last night was into their set and playing “Knock Three Times.” Couples were swaying and
dancing to the rhythm of the music.
It didn’t take long for the unescorted hostesses to make their way to the group of Americans at
the bar and pair up with them. A petite young girl wearing a bright red mini-skirted form fitting taffeta
dress with a single taffeta strap running over her right shoulder to the right breast line stood before
Chris and bubbly addressed him. “Hi, Joe, my name is Miri, what yours?”
“Well, Miri, it isn’t Joe but Chris.”
“My name not Miri but Millie,” she said struggling to make the “el” sound.
“Oh, Millie!” he said correcting himself, and she acknowledged the correction by shaking her
head up and down. “Well, Millie, that happens to be my mom’s name too!”
Their names and complexion were the only things she and his mom had in common. Her skin was
smooth and white as silk. She had dark brown round eyes and long thin meticulously manicured
lashes, angling upwards. Her long black hair shimmering in the light, flowed down along the sides of
her face, and ended in the small of her back. She had a button like nose and red ruby lips. She was
about five feet tall and the tightness of her dress revealed the contours of her firm body. The high
hemline of her dress revealed mannequin legs. Her black high heels accentuated the exquisite
curvature of her calves and firm thighs. “You’re a beautiful girl, Millie!” he said.
“Thank you, you too very handsome,” she said stroking his face. Now on the clock she asked,
“You buy me drink?”
“Okay, what would you like?”
“Rum and Coke.” He signaled the bartender and ordered their drinks. “Would you like to
dance?”
“Very much,” she said and grabbed his hand and led him to the dance floor just as the band
broke into “Get Off of My Cloud.” She moved with grace and the sultry moves of her petite frame
exuded sex. They finished the dance and she led him by the hand back to the bar. Chris paid the
bartender and she began to sip her drink through the narrow swizzle stick twisting her upper torso left
and right while looking directly into his eyes. He smiled at her and she smiled back. He thought,
Okay, she’d do for the night, deciding he would bed her before the evening was done. The group
partied further on into the night.
At around 22:30 hours the group of drunken Aussies to the right of Chris became more unruly
bumping into him with increased frequency. They spoke loud enough for him to overhear a portion of
their conversation.
The larger gentleman in a strong Aussie accent said, “Look at that jigaboo over there. We should
teach that motherfucker to stick with his own kind.”
Chris didn’t know who they were specifically referring to but knew it was one of his shipmates.
Surveying the nearby tables, he spotted Brown-Brown seated at his booth. T-Bone and Wilcox were
dancing, leaving Brown-Brown alone with his escort straddling his lap with her back to the bar. She
appeared to be servicing him where he sat.
Chris leaned over to Diehl who was in a lip lock with his escort. He tapped Diehl on the
shoulder saying, “Excuse me. Didn’t mean to spoil your fun but I think we have a situation brewing
here.” He explained what he had overheard and alerted the rest of his party of what he suspected was
about to happen.
In a few short moments, his suspicions proved well founded as the three Aussies approached
Brown-Brown’s table. He watched as one of them moved the table aside with relative ease and the
trio stood in front of Brown-Brown.
“Hey, boy, what do you think you’re doing here?” the large man asked. “Trying to have a
pleasant evening with my girl here,” answered Brown. “She ain’t your girl and she ain’t your type,
nigger!” said one of them as he pulled her off him.
“Here we go,” said Chris.
Brown-Brown stood up and was immediately pushed back down into his seat. “Fellas, what is it
to you what I do here? I am here trying to have a nice relaxing evening and I ain’t done nothing to you,
unless she happens to be one of your sisters or daughters,” wisecracked Brown-Brown.
The large man grabbed Brown by his shirt with two hands and lifted him up to his feet. The man
to his left launched a punch into Brown-Brown’s stomach causing him to double over. The man
released Brown pushing him back into his seat.
“We suggest you finish your drink mate and move on, if you know what’s good for you.” Chris
felt compelled to go aid his shipmate and walked to the table.
“What’s going on here?”
“This don’t concern you, mate. Move on!” said the larger of the three.
“This is my friend, mate, so I believe it does concern me.”
“He told you to move on, mate,” said one of the Aussies, who as he spoke reached to push Chris
out of the way with his left hand.
Chris swatted his hand away as it was extended. The other two turned their attention to Chris as
he and their mate squared off.
Without further provocation, the Aussie tried to land a haymaker on Chris and swung at his jaw.
He saw the punch coming, ducked to avoid it and succeeded in returning a right into the Aussie’s
lower rib cage around his liver. Once he landed his punch his combatant hunched over from the force
and location of the blow. Suddenly, his wrestling training kicked in. Before the Aussie could recover,
Chris maneuvered behind him and wrapped his arms around his midsection. One of his associates
was about to come to the aid of Chris’s foe and intercepted by Brown-Brown who charged the
instigator. Brown-Brown tackled the man burying his shoulder into his side and smashed the Aussie
into the edge of the bar where the side of his head smacked into the wooden armrest.
The girls at the bar began to scream in fear.
Meanwhile, Chris, having a firm grip on his sparring partner, executed a suplex move. He
arched his back lifting the man off the ground and the arching of his back continued to lift him in a
semi circle with the intention of smashing his head on the ground. He executed it perfectly. Chris
heard the thud and crack as his foe’s head struck the hard linoleum tiled floor. Chris rolled away from
him and saw his opponent motionless on the floor. As the third Aussie began to charge at him, Chris
could feel Diehl and Henning brush along his sides as they rushed the assailant pushing him back onto
the table he had pushed aside. The table broke under the weight of the three men.
Chris turned to Brown-Brown who had his assailant pinned along the bar. He had his forearm
across the man’s throat. The man struggled trying to free himself of Brown-Brown’s grasp. BrownBrown grabbed a full mug of beer from the bar and smashed it on the side of the Aussie’s head
shattering the glass. The spurting blood and beer ran down the side of his head. Brown-Brown
delivered a knee into the Aussie’s groin area. The man immediately hunched over, fell to his knees
and Brown-Brown launched a flurry of rabbit punches to the back of the man’s neck. Once the
sizeable man fell to the floor Brown-Brown kicked him repeatedly in the face grasping the edge of the
bar for support.
Chris glanced back at his opponent lying dormant on the floor. Blood oozing out of the back of
his head began to puddle. Diehl and Henning had dispatched the third assailant and were pummeling
him with fists, kicks and chairs as he lay in a fetal position trying to ward off their attack. All the
while the band was playing “Street Fighting Man.”
Whistles blowing, girls screaming, glasses shattering as the fight started to spread throughout the
bar. These Aussies evidently had friends coming to their aid. Fortunately, there were far more
crewmembers of the Lawrence there than longshoremen and when someone yelled out the ship’s
motto, “DGUTS!” the crew responded. Chris reached for Brown-Brown and began to pull him away
from his opponent.
“C’mon before you kill him!” Chris hollered as he grabbed him by his shoulder. He moved away
from his motionless opponent. “We gotta get out of here before the cops and Shore Patrol arrive!”
Chris told him. Brown-Brown acknowledged Chris’s advice and nodded. As Chris and Brown
headed for the exit they grabbed Diehl and Henning and succeeded in convincing them it was time to
leave. The four raced for the doorway passing the bouncers who were heading down into the bar to
diffuse the situation.
They emerged from the bar and raced down the street. When they put a significant distance
between them and the melee they left behind, they slowed to walk to avoid looking conspicuous. A
police siren wailed as the car raced down the street towards the direction they had come from.
“Maybe we should duck inside?” Diehl said.
“Fine by me,” said Henning.
Chris agreed and realizing they were standing outside the Ocean Bar said, “Yeah, let’s go in
here.” He opened and held the door for his companions.
They found a vacant booth and sat down. There was a six-piece band with horns and two female
backup singers on stage. They were playing “Doctor My Eyes” as the dance partners on the floor
bounced to the beat. Chris recognized one of them as Sally who he had met the day before. She looked
stunning on the floor wearing a black sarong with a hemline ending just above her knees. As she
danced he could see her entire left leg was exposed by a long slit ending just below her hip. The
tightness of her dress magnified the shape and firmness of her breasts. She moved gracefully on the
dance floor. He nudged Diehl pointing her out to him.
“Cool, I hope her friend is here too. I wouldn’t mind getting another hand job.”
“You guys were in here before?” asked Brown-Brown.
“Yeah, yesterday. Diehl got a hand job at the bar and I played with that one there,” said Chris as
he pointed her out to Brown-Brown and Henning.
“Ooh she’s a fox!” said Brown-Brown.
“Hands off man, I saw her first,” joked Chris.
“Yeah, I hear you man. Look, I want to thank you for helping me out back there, Columbo. That
was some move you pulled on that guy.”
“No problem,” answered Chris, “those guys were dicks and deserved everything they got.”
“I want to thank you two for taking care of the other one who came at me,” Chris said to Diehl
and Henning.
“Hey man we’re all brothers here. Seeing how you helped Brown-Brown we knew you’d do the
same for us so we figured we’d get your back,” said Diehl.
“I hope I didn’t kill him,” said Chris. “That guy was out cold and bleeding all over the floor.”
The thought of possibly having killed someone whether intentionally or accidentally made him
extremely nervous. He held out his hands to find them shaking.
“Don’t lose any sleep over it,” said Brown-Brown as he slapped Chris on the back, “because I
don’t think he would think twice about you if it were you laying there.”
“Shit, I thought you were going to kill that dude you were stomping at the bar,” said Chris.
“I might have if you hadn’t stopped me.”
“Well I am sorry about the whole goddamned affair,” said Chris. “Their issue was you being
black. The whole thing was uncalled for.”
“Welcome to my world. Let me buy you guys a drink,” he said waiving the barmaid over.
The band finished the song and their set and the dancers began to exit the dance floor. Chris
looked up to see Sally walking alone towards his table. As she approached and walked alongside his
table, he reached for her and called her name, “Sally!” She turned and saw Chris with his hand raised
attempting to get her attention.
She immediately recognized him and said, “Hi. You come back to see Sari? How nice!”
“Yes. Yes I told you I would,” he said obviously lying to her but still welcoming the chance to
be with her again however fortuitous this meeting came to be. “You look beautiful tonight in that
dress, Sally. Will you sit with me?”
“Yes, of course, you silly and thank you for your kind words. I wear dress especially to please
you,” she said now lying to him. “I be right back. I go get my bag.”
“Can you bring some of your friends with you to be with my friends?”
“Oh yes, I get them all number two girlfriends.”
“Wait, I want number one girlfriend!” said Diehl.
“No, no I number one girlfriend and I be his girlfriend tonight,” she said jokingly pointing to
Chris.
“Is Lillie here tonight?” asked Diehl.
“Yes, I get her for you, okay?”
“Okay,” said Diehl and as she left to recruit some girls, he clapped and rubbed his hands
together anticipating a repeat performance of the previous day.
Sally came back with Lillie, Nellie and Frenchie. Lillie remembered Diehl and maneuvered to
sit with him. Sally joined Chris. Frenchie and Nellie whispered amongst themselves. They were
deciding who would get the soul brother. Frenchie did. Their table was set and everyone appeared
satisfied with their escort. They ordered drinks for the table and broke into individual conversations.
Chris turned to Sally, “It’s good to see you again.”
“It good to see you again. You make me very sad when you leave me yesterday. But now my
heart soar like a hawk at your return.”
“That’s very flattering,” he said, “considering you barely know me.”
“I know your heart,” she said. “You have good heart. You treat me nice and with respect.
Besides, you very handsome man.” She kissed him on his cheek. “You stay with me tonight you get
big reward.” She then forced her hand down the back of his pants and then under his shirt and up his
back. “Ooh, you have strong back, but very tense.” She was right about him being tense, the incident
at the Neptune Club had quite a bit to do with that. She tried to allay his tension by slowly running her
well-manicured nails up and down his back. Her massaging tactic was having an effect on him and as
she continued he started to put the bar room brawl behind him as he could only concentrate on her
touch.
“Please don’t stop! That feels soooo good!” he moaned in her ear.
They partied and danced into the early morning. The long day was starting to wear upon the
revelers and sexual urges began to stir within Chris’s loins. He asked Sally if she wished to spend the
night with him.
“Yes, very much so,” she said breathlessly as she ran her dainty fingers through his hair.
“Where can we go?” he asked her.
“I know hotel, very close. Not expensive and room have own bathroom,” she said.
“Fine, I place myself in your tender care,” he said kissing her on the cheek. “Well fellas and
ladies, I am going to call it a night. It has been a long and most interesting day. Sally and I would like
to bid you all adieu. I will catch up with you guys tomorrow.”
“Go for it, man,” said Brown-Brown.
“Peace,” said Henning.
“Night, Chris,” said Diehl, “see ya in the morning.”
Chris and Sally rose from the table and left the bar. She guided him to a seedy looking building
further down Lockhart Road. They entered the dimly lit foyer and found an attendant sitting at a small
desk. She spoke to him in Chinese and he handed her a key.
“Okay, she said you pay him one-hundred twenty dollar for room, okay?”
Chris paid the attendant.
“We room 410,” she said taking his hand in hers and guided him to the stairwell. As they walked
along the hall a sweet smoke saturated the hallway. “What’s that smell?” he asked her.
“Smoke of the poppy,” she told him. “Would you like some?”
“No, thank you,” he said graciously declining the invitation.
“Good, I am glad you say no. You be no good to Sally if you did.”
They entered a phone booth sized elevator at the end of the hall. He stood with his back to the
rear of the elevator and she with her back to him. She had to press into him to allow the door to close
and pushed the elevator button. The slight pressure of her body against his, the anticipation of what
would soon occur caused his manhood to stir, and an erection ensued. She could feel it crawl up the
small of her back as his penis rose to attention in his trousers.
“Ooh, you give me massage too,” she joked pressing harder against him. He wrapped one arm
around her, brushed her hair away from her neck, inhaled her vanilla scent, and began to kiss the side
of her neck. She responded by sighing and running the palm of her hand along his cheek. The elevator
stopped at their floor and they exited. They walked down the dark hallway and found their room.
She unlocked the door, opened it, stepped inside, and turned on the light holding the door open to
allow him to enter. He walked in to find a queen size bed with two end tables and a six-drawer
bureau on the wall opposite the foot of the bed. To the left of the entrance was another door to a small
bathroom with a tub. She motioned him to have a seat on the bed and once he obeyed, she walked
over to him, placed her hands along both sides of his cheek, bent down, kissed him on the forehead
and told him to wait there. She went into the bathroom and opened the tap to the tub. She remained in
the bathroom for several minutes and emerged wearing a white robe she found hung behind the door.
Grabbing his hands in hers she encouraged him to stand up. When he did, she began to unbutton
his shirt, pulled the shirttails out from his pants, slid her hands up over his shoulders and slowly
removed his shirt kissing his chest and nipped at his nipples. Once she had his shirt removed, she
unbuckled his belt, pulled it out of the loopholes of his pants, unbuttoned his trousers and slowly
lowered his zipper. She ran her arms around him rubbing her palms along his side, down onto his
buttocks and pulled down his trousers and underpants. As she did so, she knelt down and deliberately
ran her check across his abdomen and along the bottom of his penis. She assisted removing his pants
and raised her head up to look at him again brushing his genitals with her hair and chin. She pushed
on his abdomen suggesting that he sit back down on the bed so she could remove his boots and socks.
Now that he was completely naked, she took him by his hand, escorted him into the bathroom
and motioned him to step in. He dipped his toe in to find it was nice and hot. He stepped into the tub
and once acclimated to the temperature sat down in the hot bath. She nudged him to sit forward,
removed her robe, followed in after him and knelt down behind him. She bathed him by wringing
water from the washcloth making it run down his back, his arms and down his chest. He nearly fell
asleep. They didn’t exchange a word as they sat in the tub. When she finished bathing him, she got out
of the tub and held out a towel indicating she would now dry him off. He stepped out of the tub and
she gently patted him dry.
Now facing her he gazed at her naked body. He found her exquisitely constructed, with well
rounded hips, narrow waist, firm round breasts with rose colored nipples, soft supple shoulders and a
long tapered neck supporting her exotically beautiful face. He had to kiss her and he did pulling her
close to him. Their lips met and she sighed passionately returning his kiss with lustful desire. They
embraced each other for several more seconds. She again grasped his hand and led him from the
bathroom and onto the bed.
He sat down and pulled her towards him once again kissing her deeply. He moved his lips
kissing her softly along the edge of her cheek to her ear where he stopped to gently nibble her ear
lobe, evoking a deep sigh from her. While he kissed her, his hands ran down the small of her back to
her buttocks and moved his mouth to her breasts. He suckled her nipples moving from one to the other
as he reached with his right hand along the valley of her buttocks and finally arrived at the wet patch
between her legs. She moaned, spread her legs slightly and rocked when his fingers found and
caressed her damp crevice from behind. Her breathing was becoming more rapid and deep. Her
moans were more audible and sensual. She reached down, cupped his erect penis with both hands and
began to slowly tug on him hand over hand. Her touch was driving him mad and his manipulation of
her was bringing her to frenzy.
He shifted himself on the bed. She lifted one leg and the other to straddle him, maneuvered her
hips to align the head of his stiff penis and slowly descended upon it letting out a moan of pleasure as
he penetrated deeper into her well lubricated chasm. Her hips began to writhe in and out and round
and round. She kissed him passionately as she maneuvered him inside her, moaning and squealing
with each thrust. During the next several minutes the frequency of her thrusts began to increase and his
manhood continued to increase in girth and length. At last, she raised herself up to a point where he
nearly spilled out of her only to have his member once again find that small indentation causing her to
go wild as she pushed against the head of his engorged organ. He could feel her excrete as she leaned
back panting. Unable to contain himself any longer, he too reached orgasm spewing his seed deep
inside her. This was in more than one way a heavenly climax to his day.
They lay together for the better part of thirty minutes with him still entrenched within her. Her
head resting upon his chest she gently caressed his nipples and chest with her fingernails and said,
“That was wonderful. “You give Sally much pleasure.”
“It was equally good for me, Sally. I don’t know if we can top that but I am willing to try if you
are.”
“Oh, yes,” she begged, “please do it to me again!”
Her eagerness got his juices flowing again and he could feel himself stiffen inside her. “Oooh
yes,” she purred as it lengthened within her.
They made love another two times before finally succumbing to fatigue. In the morning he woke
with her head nestled on his shoulder and one arm draped across his chest. He smelled her vanilla
scented hair. She felt nice next to him as if they were perfectly fitted puzzle pieces. He rubbed her
shoulder and she began to stir.
“Good morning,” she said.
“Yes, waking up next to you makes this a very good morning.”
“You very sweet” she said, kissing him on his cheek, “and you number one lover too!”
“Sweetheart if they had baseball cards for women like you yours would be the equivalent of
Honus Wagner.” He didn’t expect her to understand and she clearly didn’t brushing it off matter of
factly. “How much do I owe you, Sally?” He was feeling a bit uncomfortable as he had not negotiated
the price for her services in advance.
“Everyone pay two hundred fifty for night,” she said, “but because you show Sally such good
time I only take two hundred, okay?” He was relieved to get a discount, because when he reached into
his pocket he discovered he had only two hundred thirty Hong Kong dollars left from the previous
day. He paid her and finished dressing. Checking his watch, he realized he had about an hour before
muster. Once dressed he escorted her out of the building, thanked her for a memorable evening, said
goodbye and raced off to Fenwick Pier.
He got to the motor whaleboat just as the boat crew was readying to depart. They waited for him
to board and cast off. Chris met up with Henning on the whaleboat. He was sitting there wearing a
toothy grin.
“Oh what a night!” he exclaimed.
“You can say that again!”
“Oh what a night!” Henning echoed.
“Did anything happen after I left?”
“Not much, Brown-Brown left shortly after you. Oh, T-Bone and Wilcox showed up looking for
him. They said the cops and Shore Patrol showed up at the Neptune Bar.”
“Did they mention anything about an ambulance? Was anyone taken to the hospital? I mean I’m
worried that I seriously injured that guy. Is anyone pressing charges?”
“They didn’t say anything about that.”
“They said they were on the dance floor when the fight broke out and when they got back to their
table they found it occupied by three guys nursing wounds,” he said chuckling.
“Well I guess I can take some comfort in the fact he was conscious,” Chris said a bit more
relieved.
“That was some move you pulled on him. Where did you learn that?” asked Henning.
“I wrestled some in high school,” explained Chris.
“Judging from the way you took him down you must have been pretty good at it,” he said.
“I only wrestled four matches as a freshman and lucky to have won them all. My school was a
wrestling powerhouse. We would have a couple guys win the county and state championships just
about every year. The varsity coach was responsible for the program’s success. He was a U.S.
champion but a crazy S.O.B, and he made sure his wrestlers became just as crazy as him. I didn’t care
for his methods so I never pursued it after my freshman year.”
The motor whaleboat pulled alongside the sea ladder and the returning crew reported aboard.
Chris had just enough time before muster to get to his locker, change into his work clothes and have
his breakfast. His section had the duty and after yesterday’s activities, he welcomed the opportunity to
remain on board. He had the detail to clean the compartment’s head and showers. When finished he
was to report to the paint locker. He finished his cleaning detail by 1100 hours and headed up to the
paint locker.
As he passed through the mess decks, he saw Mazzarelli slumped at a mess table and went to say
hello to him. Chris at first thought he was sleeping but his skin color wasn’t right. He shook him trying
to wake him only to have him fall to the deck. The man was choking on his own tongue!
“Chief, come quick!” he shouted. “Mazzarelli’s in trouble!” Chris turned him on to his back and
without any formal training tried to administer CPR. As he could recall from seeing videos he was to
clear the airways by tilting the victim’s head up, pull the jaw slightly forward and breath into the
victim’s mouth while holding his nostrils shut.
Chris started to administer CPR and after several breaths Chief Lucas arrived and pushed Chris
aside. “Let me take over, go find Doc Brunel,” he said.
A small crowd started to gather around the scene. Chris forced his way through the gathering
crowd and fearful of his friend’s predicament yelled, “Give them some air, guys move back!”
Sickbay was slightly aft of the mess decks in the main passageway. He banged on the door and yelled,
“Doc, are you in there? You’re needed on the mess decks. Mazarelli is choking. I think he’s
overdosed!” He turned the doorknob and found it locked. He sprinted to the quarterdeck, to inform the
OOD about the situation and have him page the medics.
Lieutenant Dickenson had the morning’s quarterdeck watch and as Chris raced up to him
shouting his name, he raised his arm to halt the onrushing boatswains mate.
“What’s all the commotion about, Mr. Columbo?” he asked.
“Sir, Mazzarelli is choking on the mess decks. I think he’s OD’ing. Chief Lucas is giving him
CPR. I need to find a corpsman. Neither of them is in sick bay.”
“None of them is on board. They both went on liberty this morning,” said the lieutenant. “There
is a duty corpsman on board the Holt, though.” The lieutenant picked up the walkie talkie and hailed
the quarterdeck of the Holt, which moored nearby the day before, and spoke with their OOD.
Chris returned to the mess deck to inform Chief Lucas about the corpsman situation. When he
arrived Chris was relieved to find Mazzarelli conscious and breathing on his own although
laboriously. He was still prone on the floor and had an ice pack placed behind his neck to keep him
stimulated.
Senior Chief Hospital Corpsman Johnson from the Holt arrived five minutes after Chris with a
stretcher, his medical kit and a small tank of oxygen. He made his way through the crowd and asked
the chief what had happened.
“The man was unconscious and not breathing. He was choking on his tongue and Mr. Columbo
here began to administer mouth to mouth. I stepped in and continued respirating him. He just regained
consciousness. We believe this man may have overdosed on some narcotic.”
The corpsman began to check Mazzarelli’s eyes, pulse, blood pressure, throat and nose. He
asked, “How are you, son?”
Mazzarelli could barely speak; he attempted in vain to answer the corpsman. The corpsman
quickly decided to supply oxygen to the stricken Sailor, place him on the stretcher and rush him to the
British Army hospital in Kowloon. “Give me a stretcher Team Chief,” ordered the corpsman.
“Smith, you and James help the corpsman with the stretcher.”
The pair of boiler technicians lifted the stretcher and carried Mazzarelli to the quarterdeck. They
lowered him down the sea ladder and placed him into the awaiting motor whaleboat. The corpsman
asked LT Dickenson to contact the British Army hospital and have them supply an ambulance at the
Star Ferry pier. Once the corpsman was on board the motor whaleboat, Little Brown had the boat
cast off and sped off in the direction of Kowloon.
With all the excitement over, Chris reported to the paint locker as ordered for his work detail.
Farleigh had paint locker detail. “Fucked up shit with Mozzarella, eh?” Farleigh said to Chris.
“Yeah, he’s a lucky son of a bitch, though. He could have died. It looks like he’s going to get his
wish and get drummed out of the Navy.”
“For sure,” agreed Farleigh.
Chris said, “You know I wasn’t excited about being called into service either, and resisted it at
first, but I have to admit it hasn’t been that bad. I mean although our days on the gun line are grueling,
we have been more fortunate than those fighting in country. Most of the officers on board are good
eggs, we get three square meals a day, the chow is fairly edible and we have visited some exotic
places, as well as seen and done some wild and crazy things. Life at home in comparison maybe far
more comfortable but it is far less exciting.”
“Lifer,” was Farleigh’s one word response.
Chris laughed at the thought. “Let’s not get crazy, Farleigh.” He asked for his paint chipper and
wire brush.“See you later, Farleigh,” he said and headed off to find Jordan and get his work
assignment.
****
He worked, broke for lunch, worked some more, knocked off, showered and had supper.
Following dinner he returned to his compartment grabbed his stationery and sat down to write a letter
home. At 2000 hours, he went back up to the mess decks with Farleigh, Diehl and Harriman to watch
the movie “Carnal Knowledge” starring Jack Nicholson, Anne Margaret, Art Garfunkel and Candice
Bergen. Following the movie, he stepped out on the deck for a smoke after which he returned to his
bunk. Since he had the Cinderella Watch on the Quarterdeck and knowing his section had liberty the
next two days he chose to remain awake and finish his letter home realizing he would have plenty of
down time in the next forty-eight hours if he needed to catch up on sleep.
The next two days in port would be lackluster in comparison to the first several days. One
morning and afternoon of liberty was spent sunbathing and swimming at the beach in Stanley on the
southern shore of Hong Kong island.
Stanley was a sedate community where a number of expatriates of Britain, Australia and the
United States chose to reside. The sandy beach curved around the inner portion of the cove. The
isolated two-story granite block Murray House with its shuttered windows, which was the old
governor’s quarters, stood majestically on the western edge of the beach. The street bordering the
beach had a small strip of bars and cafes where they quenched their thirst and hunger. Across the
street from the strip was the Stanley Market where they offered all manner of souvenirs and gifts.
Chris and his friends had nearly the entire beach to themselves as only a few other people chose
to avail themselves of the sun and sand. Even fewer ventured into the water. Their intention was
simply to rest and relax on a sandy beach. Toward that end, it was a fruitful day. They returned to
their ship later in the afternoon to shower, change their clothes and grab a bite to eat. At dinner, they
formulated their evening plans and decided they would concentrate on the bars and strip clubs located
in Kowloon. Chris said he had to go for a fitting at the tailor and after the fitting would like to visit
Mazzarelli in the British Army hospital. Diehl, needing to be fitted, also said he would go with him;
Farleigh and the others opted not to go. They decided after visiting Mazzarelli they would meet up
with them at Club Boss.
Before leaving the ship, Chris went to sickbay to get the address to the British Army hospital. He
knocked on the door and entered. There he found HM1 Hayworth sitting at his desk typing.
“What can I do for you, Columbo?”
“Hey, Doc, I was wondering if you heard anything about Mazzarelli and if you knew where the
hospital they took him to is located because I would like to go visit him.”
“Yes, I visited him this morning. He is in stable condition and damned lucky to be alive. They
told me at the hospital they must have removed about 10,000 poppy seeds from his nasal passages. I
heard from Chief Lucas that he has you to thank for saving his life.”
Chris humbled by the medics comment said, “I don’t know about that. The Chief was the one
who gave him CPR.”
“Yeah, but you were the one who found him in that condition and the first to administer to him. In
my opinion, he should be grateful for your quick response.”
“Thanks, but I think anybody there would have done the same had they found him in that
condition.”
“But again you were the one that did and I’m not sure many of the bozos on board would have
had the brains or composure to do what you did.”
Chris appreciative of the doc’s praise, but not wanting to make anymore of it asked, “So can you
tell me where the hospital is and if he can have visitors?”
“Yes, he can have visitors. He’s in the British Army hospital in an area called Kings Park. It’s
on Wylie Road.”
“Wylie Road,” repeated Chris. “Thanks, Doc.”
“You’re welcome,” said the young medic, and as Chris turned to leave he said, “Oh,
Columbo...”
Chris stopped and turned.
“Well done,” he said wanting to make his point about Chris’s intervention on Mazzarelli’s
behalf.
Chris simply nodded and left. He met Diehl and the others on the fantail. They left the ship
together, took a walla walla taxi to Kowloon and split up at the pier with Diehl and Chris heading off
to the tailor. Farleigh, Harriman and Diaz went off to Club Boss. The tailor was standing outside his
shop and seeing them approach spread out his arms as they neared.
“Ah welcome back to Rajah’s world famous tailors, my young American friends. Your suits are
ready for fitting. If I can have your tickets I will get them for you.”
They handed him their receipts and moments later the tailor came out from the back of his shop
with their suits.
“You go try on in there,” he said pointing to his changing booths.
Chris tried on his charcoal gray suit and vest first. He was the first to exit the changing booth and
the tailor ushered him to a box adjacent to three vertical mirrors. Chris looked at himself in the mirror
and turned to check out the fit. He was pleased with the look of the suit and rather than seeing a Sailor
he saw a lawyer or stockbroker. He lifted his arms to the side and extended them in front of him. The
tailor was busy adjusting the hem of his pants chalking the hemline. He asked Chris to lower his arms
and turn. Chris could feel the tailor run his hands over his back and pull on the material at the
shoulders.
“Need take out,” he said.
The tailor made marks on the jacket starting from his shoulders and down the sides of his back.
When he finished, he helped Chris remove his jacket to check the fit of the vest. The tailor pulled on
the material along the button line.
“Need take in,” he said motioning Chris to turn again. He pleated the excess silk fabric at the
back of the vest and made several more marks. “Turn please, and take off vest.” The tailor stuck his
hands down the waistline of the front of Chris’s pants and asked him if they felt tight.
“No,” Chris said.
“Good fit, no want tight. Turn please.” The tailor now checked the seat of his pants. He made a
couple of marks on the seat of his pants. “Need to take out a little bit. Okay we finished this suit, you
go try on the other.”
Chris stepped down and Diehl stepped up. While Chris, changed Diehl had his fitting and when
Diehl was finished with his first suit he had his second suit fitted while Diehl changed. A half hour
passed before they were finished.
The tailor gave them back their receipts and said, “Suits be ready tomorrow. You come back
tomorrow afternoon for them.”
“Okay, we will see you tomorrow,” said Diehl and off they went. They jumped into a cab at the
Star Ferry pier and asked the cab driver if he knew about the British Army hospital in Kings Park on
Wylie Road.
“Yes, yes, I know,” he said.
“Well that’s where we want to go,” said Chris.
They arrived at the hospital fifteen minutes later and walked into the entrance. Seated at a desk
was a middle-aged nurse dressed in the traditional white uniform with the traditional white nurse’s
cap.
“Evening, ma’am, we are here to see our shipmate, Mazzarelli. We have been told he was
admitted here,” said Chris.
“Yes, let me see,” she said fingering through a box of index cards. “Ah here. Mr. Mazzarelli is
in room 204. You can take the lift just around the corner down the hallway there.”
Chris thanked her and they headed off down the hallway. They found the room or ward as it
were. The rectangular room held ten beds with five on each side. There were three patients in the
ward. Chris spotted Mazzarelli sitting up in the last bed on the left having supper.
“There he is.”
The vinyl tile muffled the sound of their footsteps and Mazzarelli wasn’t aware of their approach
until he spotted them out of the corner of his eyes as they neared. Noticing them, he put his knife and
fork down and placed his arms down along his sides.
“Wow, this is a nice surprise.”
“You’re my homeboy and our shipmate and we were concerned about you,” said Chris.
“Thanks, guys. Doc Hayworth was here today. Other than you two he is the only guy to come and
see me.”
“I know he was here. He told me where to find you. So, how are you doing?”
“I’m okay. Feel a bit tired but other than that I am okay.”
“You are truly lucky, Mazz. Doc told me they removed about 10,000 poppy seeds from your
nose. Opium? You snorted opium? What the fuck were you trying to do? If you were trying to kill
yourself you nearly succeeded.”
Diehl added, “Yeah, if not for Chris here, you may have been on your way home in a body bag
right now.”
“How’s that?” asked Mazzarelli unaware of Chris’s role in pulling him back from the brink of
death.
“He found you OD’ing in the mess decks and started to give you CPR, you stupid motherfucker,”
said Diehl obviously irritated. Chris raised his arm to calm him down. “Sorry, it’s just that I just
don’t get what prompts people to do what he did, and then be so nonchalant about it. Yeah,
Mozzarella, you are one lucky fuck. Lucky but stupid nonetheless.”
“I don’t feel that lucky,” he said sadly and then added, “they’re sending me back to the States in
a couple of days.”
“How is that not lucky?” said Diehl. “You’re going home and we’re staying here!”
“They’re sending me home to go through a drug rehab program,” said Mazz.
“So?” said Diehl incredulously. “At least you will be in the States, out of harm’s way and the
lunacy here!”
“You don’t understand,” Chris interjected, “he wants out of the service entirely. It doesn’t look
like he is going to get his wish.”
“Who the hell ever does?” said Diehl.
“You know, Diehl is right,” said Chris. “You will be Stateside where you won’t have to deal
with all this bullshit. If I know you, and I think I do, because you are so much like those I hung with
back home, they won’t rehabilitate you one bit. Be prepared though. If you resist, they will
dishonorably discharge you. I hope you understand the stigma attached to that.”
“I am counting on it,” said Mazz.
“It’s your life, man,” said Chris. “You live it as you will.”
Mazzarelli didn’t want to continue this discourse on his life’s choices and changed the subject.
“You guys going out on the town after this I suppose?”
Diehl said, “Yeah, we’re going to meet up with Farleigh, Harriman and Diaz at some club in
Kowloon.”
“Talk about needing rehab, that Farleigh could use some intensive alcoholic rehabilitation,” said
Mazzarelli.
“You might be right there,” Chris snickered. They chatted for a while longer. Diehl wanting to
leave nudged Chris in the ribs. “Okay, we can leave if you want.”
“Well, thanks guys for coming to see me. Have a good time.”
“No problem, Mazz. Take care of yourself and good luck to you. I hope everything works out for
the best,” said Chris.
He shook his hand and turned to leave but Mazzarelli would not let go of his hand until he had
the opportunity to simply say, “Thanks, Chris, for what you did.”
“Forget it. I’m glad to have been able to help.”
Diehl didn’t shake Mazzarelli’s hand but simply waved to him and said, “Goodbye, Mazz, and
good luck!” He then turned and walked away with Chris.
As they were leaving, Chris glanced at the other two patients nodding to each as he walked by.
“Jesus Christ!” he muttered and quickly turned his head forward in order to avert eye contact
with one who had his head wrapped in bandages.
“What is it?” asked Diehl.
Whispering, Chris said excitedly, “Don’t look but I think that patient with his head wrapped is
the guy from the Neptune Bar.”
Diehl’s turned his head.
“I told you not to look!” Chris again whispered exasperated with Diehl.
“How can I identify him without looking?”
“Yeah, you’re right. Is it him?”
“Really can’t be sure but it may be. Do you want me to ask him why he’s in the hospital?”
“Are you fucking crazy?”
Diehl figuring he busted Chris’s balls enough said, “I wouldn’t make a big deal of it. He did
smile and nod at me when our eyes met, so I don’t think he made any connection.”
“I guess he was too drunk to recognize anyone from that night,” Chris said quickening his pace
anxious to exit of the ward.
As this wasn’t an often-visited location, they had to wait outside the hospital for some time
before a taxi approached. They smoked a cigarette and discussed the irony of spotting Chris’s
opponent and of Mazzarelli’s plight and future prospects.
“It sure was ironic to find that Aussie in the same ward as Mazzarelli. When I think about seeing
him and the oddity of meeting those tour guides I sense some sort of mythical ethos pervading this
place. Small wonder why they call this the mysterious East,” mused Chris.
The degree of irony increased ten fold when a taxi pulled up. As they approached the cab, two
men exited it. Chris and Diehl immediately recognized them as the other Aussies from the Neptune
Bar. One with a large shiner and bandage wrap on his head was the individual who Brownie fought
and the other was the one Diehl and Henning teamed up on. To avoid recognition and further
confrontation they both did an about face waiting for the two Aussies to walk away from the cab.
Chris and Diehl jumped into it once they headed off to the hospital entrance.
“Shit, it gets weirder with each passing minute!” quipped Chris with a nervous laugh.
Diehl trilled the theme from the “Twilight Zone” and trying his impression of Rod Serling
continued to say, “You are now entering a world where logic and reality are devoid from the physical
universe.”
Chris laughed. “This is stuff best conjured up by the likes of Edgar Allen Poe.”
“I guess you were right about that being the guy. They must be visiting him in the hospital.”
“Where you want go?” shouted the cab driver.
“Club Boss, Mandarin Plaza, Tsim Shah Tsui,” Diehl told the driver. The cab driver flipped the
flag on his meter and sped off.
****
They arrived outside the Mandarin Plaza, which was a nondescript boxlike commercial building
of five stories. There was a large neon sign with black letters on a white background, “Club Boss,”
attached to the building above the entrance to the club. They entered the building and followed the
signs down two flights of stairs. A tall slender Chinese hostess dressed in a form fitting off white
sequined dress with a Nehru styled collar stood by a large Japanese style door with smoked glass
panels.
“Good evening, gentlemen,” she said alluringly. “Welcome to Club Boss, where we cater to
your most secret desires.”
“Really?” said Diehl. “Can you get me back home to the States?”
She snickered at his joke.
“That I am sorry is not something we can provide. We can however provide you with earthly
pleasures to help relieve your stress from being so far from home,” she said as she sensually moved
from behind hostess’s table. Diehl gulped ogling her figure, beauty and demeanor. This woman was
good at her trade of luring men into her web.
“How much?” Diehl asked feebly.
“Fifty Hong Kong to enter,” she said managing to make her statement sound arousing.
“Okay,” said Diehl and the pair of Americans reached into their pockets and fumbled through
their bills to pay the cover charge. Diehl paid her and then Chris handed her his payment. As she took
his money, she seemed to purposely caress the back of his hand with her long lithe fingers. Chris
could feel an erection coming on. As he walked past her to enter, he surreptitiously aligned his cock
with his zipper.
They walked through the smoked glass paneled doors and into a dimly lit foyer with another pair
of large wooden doors with golden dragons carved on each one. They passed through them and found
themselves standing on a landing with stairs on each side leading down into a large well-lit room
with a circular bar in the center. From their elevated position Chris gazed around and could see
several go-go dance cages in the center of the bar area and each was occupied by a topless dancer
gyrating their bodies to the rhythm of the live music. There was a hallway beyond the bar to its left
and Chris noticed one patron walking into it and another emerging. Each had a scantily clad girl
clasping an arm of their benefactor. Two dance floors separated by the centralized bar were on each
side of the room. Surrounding them were tables in each corner of the room and alongside the dance
floors. A four-piece band was playing “Spill the Wine.”
Chris spotted Farleigh, Diaz and Harriman sitting at the bar. “There they are,” Chris said
pointing in their direction as they walked down the stairs.
Farleigh spotted Chris and Diehl making their way towards them and raised his arm as they
approached.
“Hey, you finally made it.”
Farleigh had a good buzz on as the booze worsened his lisp. He was sitting sideways to the bar
on a stool and had his right arm draped over the shoulder of a petite young girl seated on the adjoining
stool. Her expression revealed her discomfort by Farleigh’s grasp.
“Meet Pixie,” he said slurring the “x” in her name as he bobbed around in his seat like a
spinning top whose energy was depleting. Farleigh reached out to put his left arm on Diehl’s shoulder
to welcome him and in doing so like a top losing its center of gravity fell off the stool. He would have
bounced face down onto the floor had it not been for Diehl’s quick reaction steadying him.
“Well you didn’t waste any time,” Diehl said laughing as he helped Farleigh back onto his
barstool.
“Meet Pixie,” he repeated as he groped her shoulder and pulled her towards him attempting to
bring both their foreheads together. She tried to resist but he was too strong for her.
“Hello Pixie,” Chris and Diehl said.
“Hello,” she said demurely exchanging the “els” with “ars” as Farleigh turned to the bar to gulp
down more of his beer.
Diaz was also with a young girl. He turned to Chris and Diehl and asked, “So how was
Mozzarella?”
“He was doing ok. He said they were going to release him in a day or two,” Chris said.
Harriman being true to form and remaining faithful to his girl back home wasn’t with a bargirl.
He asked in a surprised tone, “They’re going to let him come back on board?”
“No, he said they were shipping him home for rehab and processing. He’s probably going to be
dishonorably discharged,” Chris said.
“Good!” remarked Diaz.
“What’s good about that?” Chris responded. “It’s a blemish that will follow him all his life. He
won’t be eligible for any veteran’s benefits and it will probably be hard when he tries to find a job.”
“Well I guess he’ll be self-employed then,” said Diaz wryly. “That motherfucker will probably
end up dealing drugs.”
“Who knows? You may be right,” Chris said. “I just feel bad for the guy. He reminded me of so
many people I know back home who are just aimless vacuums. They were sucking me down with
them too, which is why I got the hell out of there before they could. I was concerned for them as
well.”
“You’re too much of a bleeding heart,” Diaz said sarcastically.
Diehl had ordered two beers and handed one to Chris. They clinked their bottles saluting one
another and joined the party. Chris glanced around the club and realized they were the only
Caucasians in the place. Everyone was an Asian in a business suit or white shirt and tie and each
accompanied by a young girl attired in a nightie. This was evidently a club popular with Asian
businessmen. He felt out of place but hung out and partied the night away. Every now and then, a girl
would come by in a silk nightie and Chris would exchange a dance for a drink. He had to be frugal
with his dwindling pocket money. He still had to pay the tailor and he and Diehl had planned one
more night ashore. He nursed his beers and danced until midnight. By then Farleigh was
uncontrollably drunk.
“I think we ought to get you back to the ship, before you hurt yourself or fall into the harbor,”
Chris said.
Farleigh could barely speak. He acknowledged his inebriation by muttering, “Uh huh,” as Chris
flung Farleigh’s right arm over his shoulder and grabbed his wrist to support him while grasping
Farleigh’s belt at the small of his back. Diehl flung Farleigh’s left arm over his neck and the pair
helped escort Farleigh from the club leaving Diaz and Harriman behind.
After leaving the club, the group walked serpentine to the pier as Farleigh staggered left and
right. Along Mody Road Farleigh stopped, turned and peered into the window of a kitchen. The sight
of the ducks strung up by their necks and the chickens feet splayed out in the bowl triggered a
response from him.
“Poor Daffy,” he said and proceeded to release a torment of bile and undigested food all over
the storefront window. “Take that!” he murmured with a giggle.
“Ohhhhh! That was pretty rank, Farleigh!” cried Diehl. “And thanks for not getting any on me!”
Chris and Diehl gathered Farleigh and once again helped him to the pier. When they arrived,
they sat him down on a bench and waited for the next water taxi. One approached several minutes
later and tied up at the dock. Chris and Diehl raised him from the bench and helped him down the
concrete steps to the water taxi. They paid their fares and the taxi put putted towards the two Navy
vessels moored in the harbor.
“Number four,” Chris told the old Chinaman and held up four fingers to inform him of the ship’s
number. Ten minutes later, they tied up at the Lawrence’s sea ladder. The ladder wasn’t wide enough
for Diehl and Chris to assist Farleigh up so Chris picked him up over his shoulder and carefully
negotiated his way from the water taxi onto the deck of the sea ladder. He slowly climbed up the sea
ladder with Farleigh draped over his shoulder.
The quarterdeck watch of Ensign Nussbaum and Schoenberg greeted them.
“Request permission to come aboard,” Chris said presenting his salute. “Permission granted,”
said the ensign. Farleigh regained consciousness for but a moment as Chris was walking away.
He saluted the ensign and said, “Seaman Farleigh requesting permission to come aboard,” and
spotting Schoenberg added, “hey, Scumberg. Eaten any bales of hay lately?”
Schoenberg had been shipmates with Farleigh long enough to understand this was Farleigh’s
comical macho banter that they often engaged in with each other and dismissively grinned at the
remark.
The young ensign had a different reaction.
“Halt!”
Chris stopped.
The ensign pulled Farleigh’s head up by his curly hair and said, “This man is drunk and
disorderly and has been insubordinate to a senior petty officer of the U.S. Navy!”
“You think, sir?” asked Chris mockingly amazed at the ensign’s perceptive power.
“Consider yourself on report, Farleigh,” barked the ensign.
With the brief encounter over Chris continued to carry Farleigh along the portside walkway to
the ladder leading to their compartment. He carefully negotiated the ladder down to the compartment
with Farleigh still flung over his shoulder. Diehl followed behind as Chris brought Farleigh’s
motionless body to his bunk. Chris stooped down to relieve himself of the dead weight and together
he and Diehl assisted Farleigh into his bunk. He immediately began snoring.
“Whew what a load he was,” Chris said relieved to now stretch his arm and rub his shoulder.
“Can you believe Nussbaum put him on report for joking with Schoenberg?”
“The guy is a dick and has been since he reported on board,” said Diehl.
Chris said, “You know, I don’t believe the time he fell down the ladder was just an accident. If
he doesn’t loosen up he may end up walking off the fantail some dark night.”
“Maybe,” said Diehl. “I’m beat and gotta hit the sack.”
“Yeah, me too,” said Chris. “See you in morning.”
Reveille and call for sweepers seemed to occur only moments after Chris fell asleep. He stirred
from his bunk, stretched his arm and shoulder, which was still sore from carrying Farleigh, and
changed into his dungarees. Since his bankroll had been considerably depleted and he had just enough
money to pay for his suits, to get his pictures developed and one more day ashore, he was glad to
have the duty. He had his morning meal and reported for muster where Jordan assigned him to his
work crew. After dismissal from muster, liberty call was announced. The Chinese laborers alongside
in their sampans were completing their contracted work of painting the Lawrence’s hull. It was a gray
day and the clouds obscured the sun’s rays. The flat water of the harbor took on a mirror like quality.
Jordan, in his raspy voice, barked for Chris, Diehl, Harriman and Rhodes to follow him. The
work crew went down into their compartment and forward into the boatswain’s locker.
“Rhodes, you and Columbus grab one of these here bars and take it topside to the starboard davit
amidships. Diehl you and Harriman take one too,” he ordered.
He bent down and using his legs lifted his end onto his shoulder with a grunt. He estimated the
overall weight of the bar to be about three hundred pounds. Rhodes bent down at the center of the bar
positioning his shoulder under it, slowly rose to a standing position and shimmied himself to the end.
They shuffled out through the boatswain locker hatch and back to the ladder well. Together they
maneuvered the bar off their shoulders, wrapped their arms around the bar and secured it in the nooks
of their elbows so they would be able to get a handhold of the ladder with a free hand.
As Rhodes started up the ladder the weight of the bar shifted back towards Chris. He struggled
to maintain control and had to maneuver himself to the end where he was able to better grasp it. He
puffed and grunted aloud with each step up the ladder well. It was slow going but they succeeded in
getting the bar out of their compartment. They would have one more ladder well to negotiate before
exiting to the weather deck where they would be able to relieve themselves of their burden.
Once they reached the davit, they placed the bar down onto the deck. “Motherfucker!” Chris
whined. “What a bitch that was!”
“That wasn’t too bad,” boasted Rhodes in his Southern drawl.
“Oh no? You know what, you can take the ass end of the next one.”
They went back down to the boatswain’s locker and took their second and final bar. Chris
insured Rhodes would be responsible for the rear portion of the bar by not making the first move and
with an open palm invited Rhodes to take what would be the tail end. Rhodes reluctantly did so.
When they began to ascend the second ladder well Rhodes begged Chris to hold up and rest a bit as
he started to lower his end to the deck.
Chris placed his end down turned to Rhodes and jokingly paraphrased his earlier comment.
“Not too bad, eh?” Rhodes responded by placing his hands on the sides of the ladder well,
bowed his head and breathed heavily. Chris saw and understood Rhodes had problems negotiating the
first ladder well and was concerned he might cause injury to himself and Chris up the second and
said, “I’ll take the bottom up this one.”
Rhodes was happy to switch and gratefully said, “You don’t have to ask me twice. Thanks.”
They switched places on the ladder well, Rhodes lifted his end and Chris his. Once again, they
slowly maneuvered up the ladder with the eight-foot long four-inch diameter brass bar. It took the
work crew one half hour to complete this task.
Once they finished offloading the bars, the crew had to clean the compartment and head. Chris
had the afternoon quarterdeck watch and after his cleaning assignment remained in the compartment to
change into his whites.
While changing Mazzarelli came down into the compartment. As he approached, Chris said in a
welcoming tone, “Hey, Mozzarella! Glad to see you’re out of the hospital and feeling better.”
“Thanks, I’m glad to be out of there too.”
“So what’s going on?”
“They’re sending me back to the States. I had to come back here to get my things.”
“Damn, Mazz. I am so sorry things worked out this way for you, but from what you’ve said to me
this is what you wanted all along, isn’t it?”
“Yeah, it is,” he said in a forlorn manner.
“You don’t sound too happy about it, though.”
“It’s not so much being discharged from the Navy that’s bothering me. It’s having to go home and
face my dad and family.”
Chris reflected on his shipmates dilemma and thought, Well, asshole you should have realized
the consequences of your actions beforehand. You’re lucky to still be alive and thankful about
that. Chris empathized with Mazzarelli and understood how the rash decisions of youth might
adversely affect one’s future, as his own impulsiveness helped create his current circumstances.
“Maybe you can avoid disappointing your folks by trying to get into a drug rehab program and finish
your enlistment in the Navy.”
“Either way they will be disappointed,” he said sullenly.
“Perhaps, but at least by going into rehab you will show them you’re aware you have a problem
and want to do something about it. I’m sure they would be supportive, as any parents would. Besides,
do you realize you nearly died? Even if you don’t act for their sake you should at least do it for
yourself.”
“Well, it’s a long flight back and I’ll have plenty of time to thing about what I’m going to do.
Look, I do appreciate your advice and have appreciated your friendship these past few weeks,”
Mazzarelli said and began unpacking his locker. He emptied all his clothing into his sea bag and
reached down into the bottom of his bunk. He took out the albums he had purchased during his short
stay in Hong Kong and turned to Chris. “These won’t fit in my sea bag and I don’t think they’re going
to let me through customs with them anyway so I want you to have them.”
“Thanks, Mazz, but are you sure you want to give them to me?”
“I know what you tried to do for me on the mess decks plus you have been about the only friend
I’ve had since I came on board, so I thought you deserved to have these,” he said extending the pile of
albums for Chris to take.
“Thanks again, Mazz. I hope things work out okay for you back home. Maybe we can get together
when I get back to New York.”
“Yeah, cool. Let me give you my address.” he said taking out a stationary pad and pen from his
locker.
While Mazz wrote, Chris rearranged his locker and made room for the counterfeit albums.
Mazzarelli hurriedly tore his address from the stationery and handed it to Chris. Chris took it folded
it, pulled his wallet out from his back pocket and placed it inside.
“Okay it’s a deal, I’ll call you as soon as I get back to New York,” Chris said and they both
went about their business changing into their dress whites. Chris waited for Mazzarelli to finish. “I’ll
walk you out.”
They arrived at the quarterdeck where two members of the shore patrol were waiting. They
came aboard with him and were to escort him to and from the ship. They would take him to the airport
and see he boarded the plane. He turned to Chris and they clasped their right hands as though they
would arm wrestle, pulled themselves together and patted each other on their backs.
“Take care of yourself, Mazz.”
“You too. Be careful and try not to get yourself killed. Hope to see you back in the Big Apple.”
Mazz then turned to the shore patrol and said, “I’m ready.”
Chris watched as they shoved off and gave a final wave to Mazzarelli.
As the boat carrying the native Long Islander headed towards the shore Chris started to think
about home and wondered what things would be like once he returned there as well. He imagined not
much would have changed. His friends from Screwy Lewy’s were probably still adrift in a sea of
booze and drugs. His best friends from high school were nearly finished with college and would soon
be out in the world embarking on their careers and starting their families. His immediate family
would be the same as they were when he left. He didn’t think his life would be much different either
from when he was last there. Cassie would still be out of his life, which still anguished him. He had
no real passion in his life that would direct him to pursue any particular career. Nothing about his
future seemed to inspire him so he started to feel a bit depressed. To assuage his depression he
thought he should direct his attention elsewhere and since there was enough time before he had to
relieve the watch he headed to the mess decks for a quick lunch and friendly conversation with his
shipmates.
He met up with Farleigh, Diehl, Polanski and Henning. They recounted the events of the prior
evening and of Farleigh’s run in with Nussbaum. They then ripped into Nussbaum’s character and
leadership skills, or what they believed to be the lack thereof. They discussed Mazzarelli’s plight and
as they often did talked about life at home. Chris was glad to be able to leave the table to stand his
watch. He left them in the mess decks and reported to the quarterdeck to stand as Messenger of the
Watch.
His watch ended he headed to his compartment and changed into his dungarees. The crew had
knocked off work for the day. Chris grabbed his stationery and pen from his locker, lay down in his
bunk and began to write a letter home. “If You Don’t Know Me By Now” was playing in the
background but otherwise it was fairly quiet in the compartment. Chris wrote to his mom and dad,
conveying the sights and experiences of his visit to Hong Kong, omitting the more carnal and violent
aspects. He said he had taken four rolls of pictures of Hong Kong and was anxious to get home to
show them.
After finishing his letter, he headed up to the mess decks for supper after which he watched the
sunset from the weather deck and admired the skyline as darkness fell causing the city lights to glisten
on the darkened water of the harbor. In spite of the constant activity within the harbor and shoreline, it
was quite tranquil. He remained on deck smoking and chatting with an occasional shipmate until
movie call and then sat down with Diehl, Farleigh and a bag of popcorn to watch “Summer of ’42”
starring Jennifer O’Neill and Gary Grimes. After the movie, he went back out onto the weather deck
for another smoke and then down to his bunk to finish his letter writing. He had just finished writing
his letters by lights out and soon after fell into a deep sleep.
****
Following muster, Chris met up with Diehl at breakfast and discussed what to do with their last
day of liberty. They had to pick up their suits at the tailor but didn’t want to lug them around all day
so they decided to pick them up later in the evening. Chris opened up his travel guide and turned to
the map of downtown Hong Kong Island. He suggested, since they had yet to ride in one, they take a
rickshaw ride to the Zoological and Botanical Gardens. From there, they could proceed to the
Bonham Strand to check out the shops and after that work their way downtown to Queens Road. They
could finish the day by taking the ferry over to Kowloon, have dinner at the Peninsula Hotel and after
that pick up their suits. Diehl agreed with Chris’s itinerary. Diaz and Farleigh would not join them but
would continue their drunken debauchery in Wan Chai.
After changing into civilian clothes, the four shipmates took the whaleboat to Fenwick Pier. Diaz
and Farleigh headed off to Wanchai and Chris and Diehl hopped on a ding-ding to Central. When they
got to Central, they walked to Connaught Road to hire a rickshaw. Before setting off, they took
pictures of each other sitting on the rickshaw. Then they had the rickshaw puller take pictures with
both of them seated in the rickshaw. Chris tried to explain how to use his camera to the old Chinaman
but the language barrier was too great so he aligned the F-stop, focused the camera then showed the
old timer how to aim and click the camera.
“Okay, Joe,” he said.
Once the photo ops were complete, they boarded the rickshaw and headed off up the hill. The
old man strained to pull the weight of the two passengers and rickshaw up Pedder Street.
Seeing the effort it took the old man to pull them along, Chris said, “Shit, this guy might have a
heart attack pulling us up this road. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea. If he dies, what’s to stop us
from rolling backwards downhill? Do you see a brake anywhere in here?”
Diehl snickered at Chris’s unease. “What do you want to do? Get out and push?”
The old timer finally reached Des Voeux Road where it leveled off. He took a few seconds to
compose himself, crossed the road when traffic allowed only to be faced with another incline up to
Queens Road Central. The old man strained and slowly made his way up to Queens Road.
“I think we could have walked here faster,” remarked Chris.“We should give this guy a break
and get off here. What do you think?”
When they reached Wyndham Street, Diehl looked up the lengthy incline and said, “Yeah, let’s
get out.” Pointing to Wyndham Street he said, “It’s a hell of a long way up this stretch of road.” He
then yelled to the old man, “Whoa, partner! You can let us off here!”
The old man stopped and looked at them and kept nodding his head, rattling on in Chinese, while
he pointed up the stretch of road set before him seeming to imply he was game and capable of meeting
the challenge presented by the hill.
“It’s okay, old timer. You’ve done enough,” Diehl told him. “We’ll get out here.”
The old timer hesitated and complied by lowering the front of the rickshaw allowing them to
exit. The rickshaw ride was only ten Hong Kong dollars but they felt the old man’s effort was worth a
little extra and paid him double the fare. He smiled and bowed repeatedly to them after taking their
money, probably relieved not to have to take them any farther.
They waved goodbye to him and pressed on up Wyndham Street. “Tough way to make a living,
wouldn’t you say?” Chris asked.
“Yeah, I know some plow horses that have it easier.”
It was a slow trudge up the street for them without having to pull a rickshaw. They soon came to
the entrance of the gardens on Albany Road. They walked through the Memorial Gate and up the stairs
to the bronze statue of King George VI where they stopped to take some pictures. Chris climbed onto
the platform and pretended to shake hands with the metallic king. His actions brought a mixture of
giggling and sneering from the locals in the area. From there, they walked past the fountain and into
the aviary. Aside from the screeching and bird warbles, it was eerily quiet. In the midst of this busy
metropolis was an oasis of tranquility. The gardens had a broad array of colorful and curious looking
birds. Chris snapped pictures of many of the more colorful and odd-looking species.
From the aviary, they went on to the mammal enclosures across Albany Road. The mammals in
captivity were mainly monkeys and apes such as gibbons, tamarinds, orangutans, lemurs, marmosets
and macaques. Again, Chris took photos of the unique species or of those playing with themselves or
ass picking their partners. In all they spent about an hour and a half walking through the picturesque
park. When it came time to leave Chris examined the map to find the best route to Bonham Strand
West and noting the distance suggested they take a cab, which they did.
They walked the narrow street of Bonham Strand West window-shopping. When they came upon
a porcelain trader Chris went in and purchased a hand-painted candy bowl and teapot for his mom.
They passed by tea stores, dried food stores, furniture stores, curio shops, incense shops and Chinese
apothecaries. Chris found these pharmacies most unusual because of the odd things they displayed for
sale such as rhino horns, dried beans, dried ginger root, dried sea horse, dried snake, bull testacles,
to name but a few.
“Is there anything they won’t use?” Chris remarked.
“You have to think these gimmicks work or why else would anyone patronize these places and
keep them in business all these years?” commented Diehl.
Chris saw a collection of glass bowls for sale and asked the shopkeeper about them. Rather than
explain, the shopkeeper gave him a brief demonstration by taking a wad of paper and, pretending to
light it while in the palm of his hand, placed the bowl on top of the paper.
“Holy shit! When I was a little kid I walked into our apartment in Brooklyn and found my mother
lying down on her bed naked from the waist up.” Chris said at this revelation.
“Wish I’d been there for that!”
“Shut up. On her back were several glasses a neighboring woman had placed on her with tissues
burning inside of them. I was too young to understand the concept then, but now I do. The burning
tissue exhausts the oxygen in the glass and creates a suction action. When I asked her what she was
doing she explained to me it was an old Italian remedy to remove bad humors.”
“Could be a tradition Marco Polo brought back and it stuck,” said Diehl.
“Quite possible. How else to explain the similarity, between two divergent cultures?” Chris
thanked the store owner for his time and they continued on their tour.
Walking by a small kitchen the aroma lingering in the street triggered a response from Diehl.
“All this walking has made me hungry. How about you?”
“I could eat. Do you want to stop here?” Chris replied.
“This looks like it’s as good as any.”
They walked into the restaurant and found a small dining area with rectangular tables. Situated in
the center of the tables were circular pots containing a steaming broth over a small gas stove. A
middle-aged woman was standing at the hostess podium. There were several diners already eating
within and Chris watched as one deftly picked up a piece of meat with his chopsticks and placed the
meat in the boiling broth. The woman seemed quite eager to help the two Americans and vigorously
welcomed them inside. She didn’t speak any English and grabbing two menus from her station
escorted them to an empty table as she continued to babble. No matter what she may have been saying
it seemed to Chris she was shouting. Her shouts seemed directed at one of the cooks standing behind
the glass counter near the kitchen area. He emerged from behind the counter and approached their
table wielding a large carving knife.
He was an older man wearing a white apron smeared with bits of meat and blood. Diehl sat with
his back to the kitchen so he could not see him approach.
Chris said, “You had best turn around in case this guy wants to take your head off.”
Diehl spun his head around fixing his eyes on the man and raised his arm placing his hand on the
back of the chair preparing to move quickly should the need arise. The man walked to the side of the
table said something to the old woman who bowed her head repeatedly and walked off towards the
counter.
“Herro,” he said.
Chris pointing to the knife, jokingly said, “Hello, are you here to kill us?”
Aware of the discomfort elicited holding the knife he said, “Oh so sorry.” He hurried back to the
counter to put it down. The old woman followed behind him holding two teacups, a teapot and two
moist towels on a plate and placed them on the table. “Hello, welcome to Best Imperial Hot Pot
kitchen.”
“Shay shay. We’re happy to be here,” said Chris.
“Oh you speak Chinese?” the man said with a smile.
“No, I’m sorry I do not. Those are the only two words I know.”
“Well they good words to know,” joked the man. “You want something to eat, yes?”
“Yes, yes we do. What do you suggest we have? I have never been to a place like this before so
I am not sure what’s good to have.”
“It all good,” he boasted, “you pick from menu and we bring.”
Chris and Diehl scanned the laminated menu only to find it written in
Chinese, although there were pictures accompanying the description.
Diehl pointed to a picture of a round basket with several dumplings. “What’s this?”
“That dim sum, very good.”
“How much for dim sum?” Chris asked, “And what is this?” he said pointing to a photo of a
plate with strips of meat arranged in a circle with some green vegetable piled in the center.
“Dim sum is ten dollar. That meat platter and scallion. Very good,” he said.
“And what kind of meats are on the pratter, uh platter?” asked Diehl immediately correcting
himself.
“Chicken, steak, beef tongue and ram.”
“Ram?”
“Yes, ram.”
“I think he means lamb,” interjected Chris.
“Oh, okay. How much for platter?” Diehl asked.
“Twenty dollar. You want?”
Chris and Diehl looked at each other and nodded in agreement. “Okay, we take two dim sum and
two meat platters,” said Diehl holding up two fingers.
“Very good,” the man said and relayed their order in Chinese to the old woman standing
alongside him. She jotted the order down on her pad and rather than walk back to the kitchen turned
her head, shouted the order to the kitchen, took their menus from them and walked off.
“Okay, you enjoy,” said the man. He walked back to his post behind the counter, where he
proceeded to take the meats for their platter out of a freezer, and began to slice the portions
comprising their meal.
Chris lifted the lid of the teapot and looked inside to see chopped up bits of tea leaves steeping
in the water. “They don’t use tea bags here,” said Chris as he replaced the lid and poured the tea.
“Do you want some?” he asked Diehl.
“Fuck no. I don’t trust the water here. I am going to get a Coke if they have any.”
Chris took a sip of the green liquid in his cup and looked around the restaurant, which was about
ten feet by forty feet. Once again, there was a tiny altar set up in the shop with a figurine of a
Chinaman dressed in red robes with a golden headpiece adorned atop its head. Several sticks of
incense burned in a bowl in front of the figurine as an offering, which was a common sight in all the
stores, they visited. He again watched the other diners consuming their meals to learn the appropriate
dining method. The diners placed the meat into the boiling broth for approximately thirty seconds.
Some of the meat would curl up. After cooking, they would remove the meat and place it into a wafer
thin pancake along with a slice of scallion. They would roll the pancake up and dip it into one of
several sauces accompanying the meal and bite into it.
“Well the prices seem reasonable, let’s hope the food is fresh and as good as they say,” said
Diehl.
“This is yet another first for me. I’ve never eaten in a hot pot restaurant, never had dim sum and
never had beef tongue,” confessed Chris.
“Me neither. Let’s hope the meats are actually what they claim to be and not horse meat, rat
meat, dog meat or any other unappetizing meats.”
“Your remarks remind me of a Chinese restaurant back home that was closed down by the health
department after they found remnants of dead cats in their trash receptacle.”
“Fucking gross!” Diehl exclaimed, “Thanks a lot! Are you trying to make me lose my appetite?”
Chris laughed and seeing the old woman exit from the kitchen with their tray said, “Well here we
go.”
She arrived at the table, placed the tray she was carrying down at the end of the table and
distributed the cane baskets, chopsticks, two ceramic chopstick rests, and several small dishes with a
variety of sauces.
“Do you have any Coke here?” Diehl asked her.
“Coke? Ah coca cohra, yes!” she said.
“Good. I would like a Coke,” said Diehl.
She finished setting their table and bowed her head incessantly as she backed away from table.
After she left, the butcher arrived at the table with their platters of meat and pancakes.
“Shay shay,” said Chris to the cook and proceeded to ask him about the varieties of dim sum
found in their baskets while the old woman popped open a bottle of Coke and placed it in front of
Diehl without a glass or straw. “What do you call this?” pointing to a dumpling of translucent dough
with what looked like an embryo inside.
“Har gow,” he replied, “it prawn and water chestnut.”
“And what is this?” Chris asked pointing to an open dumpling with smashed stuffing and orange
dot on top.
“That shoo mai. It ground pork and carrot. You like, they very good!”
“Okay, they look good, shay shay,” said Chris and with that the butcher cook walked away. The
two Americans to the amusement of the other patrons in the restaurant fumbled with their chopsticks,
as both were still unaccustomed to dining with them. Chris would pick up the har gow only to have it
constantly slip from the grasp of the sticks. Frustrated, he applied the Farleigh method. “Fuck it,” he
said spearing it with one of the sticks, and dipped it into the hoisin sauce. He popped it into his
mouth, took a bite and with his mouth full mumbled, “Mmmm, man this tastes soooo good!”
Diehl consumed his with a bit more ease than Chris and agreed. They devoured the dim sum in
short time and moved on to their meat platters. Their repast was simple, delicious, filling and best of
all inexpensive. They paid their bills, thanked the hostess and butcher cook, bowed to the other
patrons in the restaurant as they walked out waving goodbye.
“Okay, I feel rejuvenated after that,” said Chris.“What say we move on and head back to
Central?”
“Lead the way, my friend.”
Chris looked at the map and saw the trolley car wasn’t far from their location. They walked
down Winig Lok Street turned down Man Wa and jumped on a trolley which ran along Des Voeux
Road. One stop later, they arrived in the heart of Central Hong Kong, which was the central business
and commercial hub of Hong Kong. They walked around the area to find more upscale businesses
with window displays. Many of the pedestrians walking the streets were in either suits or shirts and
ties. On occasion, they would see a coolie carrying the typical packages tied to a bamboo pole they
toted on their shoulders. The only places of interest to Chris were the Cenotaph, Chater gardens, the
old cricket club and other structures of neo classical architecture. He took several photos of the area
but quickly became bored with the surroundings, as it seemed to remind him of midtown Manhattan.
“What do you think?” asked Chris hoping to hear him espouse the same opinion.
“Not much here of interest to me,” Diehl said.
“Yeah, I have to agree with you. What should we do, move on over to Kowloon?”
“Fine by me.”
They took the Star Ferry across the harbor to Kowloon. Chris dropped his rolls of film off at the
Fotomat kiosk outside of the Star Ferry pier. He had a couple of frames left on his current roll so he
snapped some pictures of the ferry with Hong Kong Island in the background and of the train station
building. In all he had four rolls of film to be developed and with twenty-four exposures, there would
be a total of ninety-six pictures. The clerk told him they would be ready for pickup in two hours,
which suited their timeframe just fine. He pocketed his receipts and the two began to walk towards
Nathan Road.
They intended to shop one last time for souvenirs they may have not noticed during their last
visit. They met up with other shipmates from the Lawrence along the way. Two of them were SA
Keppinger and PO 2nd class March from U Division. They stopped to talk and related what each had
been doing with their last day in port. When the two sonar men explained they had gone to a
bathhouse for massages Chris and Diehl each remarked they might do the same. They inquired as to
the location of the bathhouse, and agreed to meet later in the evening at Ned Kelly’s Last Stand pub
for a drink and live jazz music.
“Do you want to go get a massage?” asked Diehl.
“A massage sounds like it could be pretty relaxing,” Chris responded, “Let me see if I have
enough money.” As he reached into his pocket he asked Diehl to keep an eye out fearing someone
might run by and grab the money from his hand as he counted it. Chris left fifty dollars in his
footlocker and after purchasing the bowls and teapot for his mom and their meal and transportation
costs he saw he had about two hundred and fifty U.S. dollars left. Deducting the forty-five dollars he
needed for his suits, the fifty he would need for dinner at the Peninsula and the ten for his film he
figured he had more than enough and agreed to go for a massage. “I’m good money wise. When do
you want to go? Now, or after dinner?”
“No time like the present,” Diehl eagerly replied.
“Fine, let’s go.” Chris took out his map and got his bearings. The bathhouse the sonar men spoke
of was on Carnarvon Road. “Okay, we are here, Humphrey’s Ave. Carnarvon Road crosses
Humphrey’s so we have to head up this way,” he said pointing in the direction they had to go. They
reached Carnarvon Road, looked left and right for the Golden Bliss Bathhouse sign. Diehl spotted the
sign to the left and across the street about midway down the road.
The pair entered the door and read the business posters on the entrance wall. The Golden Bliss
massage parlor was on the third floor. They rode the closet-sized elevator to the third floor and exited
into the hallway in which only one of several neon lights flickered overhead.
“Now where?” said Diehl. They turned right, walked down the hall, came upon several metallic
gray doors without any signs on them so they had to turn back, and walked in the other direction. At
last, they found a sign announcing their destination. Chris slowly opened the door, which led into a
small waiting room with a desk and several folding chairs along one of the walls where two young
girls sat clad in robes. A young woman sat at the desk doing her nails. She put down her manicure set
and looking up said, “Welcome. You wish hot bath and massage?”
“Yes. How much for hot bath and massage?” Diehl asked her.
“Hong Kong fifty dollar. You want?”
“Yes.”
“Okay, Joe, you pay me and Lulu and Mimi will take you back.”
They paid the fee and she barked to the two girls seated in the lobby. The two women rose and
whispered to each other and approached the two Americans. They crossed each other’s path so it was
apparent they had whispered who each one had wanted to service. As they walked, they acted coy
swaying their shoulders back and forth, which caused the robe of Chris’s masseuse to part slightly
revealing her nakedness. She took him by his hand bowed slightly and waved for him to follow her.
Diehl’s masseuse did the same.
They entered through another door into a larger room which had white cloth draped along the
wall on the left from ceiling to floor. The bottom half of the windows were painted black to deter
prying eyes from the building across the street while the top half allowed sunlight to enter. In the
center of the room were several large wooden oval tubs with white linen sheets draped around them.
Mists of steam rose from the hot water contained within them. One of the tubs was already occupied
as the sheets were drawn around it. To the right of the tubs were stalls with white linen sheets hung
from the ceiling and each stall contained a massage table.
Chris’s masseuse led him to a stall on the left and grabbed a robe from a table and a pair of
straw sandals. “My name is Mimi. What your name?” she asked him. He answered her and she
instructed him to remove his clothes as she pulled open the sheet to his changing station handing him
the robe and sandals. “Okay, Chris. You undress here.”
He placed his bags on the bench, quickly undressed and put on the robe. The robe was tight at
his shoulders and barely covered his stomach and genitals. When he moved, the helmet of his penis
would protrude between the robe’s ends. The sandals didn’t fit well either as half of his heel
extruded beyond the back of the sandal. He giggled to himself recognizing these articles weren’t
designed to fit Westerners like him but more for the smaller Asian man. After he hung up his clothes
and secured his valuables, he opened his clothing stall and walked out.
She innocently giggled when she saw the fit as well, took him by his hand and led him to one of
the tubs. Diehl emerged from his booth and was led to the same tub. Mimi pulled the draped sheets
around to insure privacy. Chris climbed the one step of the platform surrounding their bath and
removed his sandals. Mimi reached up to his shoulders and slowly removed his robe where he stood
naked for all to see. Chris dipped his toe in the tub to judge the temperature and found it hot but
manageable. She guided him into the tub and told him to squat. She disrobed and followed him in
placing herself beside and facing him.
Diehl and his masseuse joined them in the tub on the opposite end. Mimi had knelt beside Chris
and the top of her head came to the top of his shoulder. She grabbed a large sponge from a rack on the
side of the tub dunked it in the warm tub and began to apply it to his back squeezing the water from it
so it ran down his back. It was soothing. The two masseuses performed this bathing ritual in chorus to
the oriental music echoing throughout the room. They moved from the backs of their patrons to the
shoulders and arms, on to their chests, then moved to the other side to repeat the process. Mimi
placed her hand on the small of Chris’s back and pressed upon it indicating she wanted him to move
forward. When he did as directed she moved behind him and continued to apply the sponge to his
right shoulder and arm. In order to do so she had risen to her knees, which made the nipples of her
breasts and abdomen press upon his back. The sensation caused him to get an erection.
“Uh oh. Look out. My sea snake might be heading to the surface for air,” Chris joked.
Diehl laughed and said, “I got a boner here, too. This is the life, eh?”
“Navy life would be great if we could get this kind of treatment on board ship. Eh, buddy?”
“Good enough to consider making it a career!”
The girls continued to bathe them. Mimi reached around Chris every so often, ran the sponge
down his chest, and on occasion reached low enough to bump into his hardened member.
“Oops!” she would coo whenever she did.
This bathing ritual lasted for fifteen minutes. During their bath, they heard the sheets drawn from
the adjoining tub and what seemed like two men speaking English in hushed tones and the volume
becoming less distinct as they shuffled towards the massaging tables. Chris thought one of the voices
sounded familiar. When the girls finished bathing them, they exited the tubs, put their robes and
sandals on and beckoned Chris and Diehl to step from the tub holding their robes open for them to put
on as well.
Mimi escorted Chris to his massage table. She asked him to disrobe again and lay on the table
face down. As he did, he could overhear the patron in the adjoining stall pleasurably moaning,
“Ooooh, aaaah, ooooh, oooh, that’s good, yes don’t stop, harder, yeah right there, push harder, yeah.”
Then he could swear he heard him say, “I am going to cum.”
Chris turned his head towards Mimi with a surprised look as though the two of them had
uncovered a deep dark secret. She placed a towel over his bottom and said, “Behave.” Then she put
some scented oil on his back, climbed up on the table with him and straddled his buttocks. She began
to rub the oil up and down his shoulder blades and up to his shoulders where she would squeeze
them.
“Oh yeah, that feels sooooo good,” he sighed. From his shoulders she moved back down to the
small of his back and around the sides of his waist again squeezing as she pulled her hands back up to
his back and again to his shoulders, neck and out to his arms. She had to lean forward as she
massaged his arms and in doing so he could feel the nipples of her breasts press upon his back and
thought, Holy shit, she’s naked! He began to feel his manhood stir again and wished there was a hole
in the table by his loins to allow passage for his erection. She continued to massage his back for
another five minutes and he thought he would fall asleep. She maneuvered herself around to face his
legs and began to work on them. Occasionally she brushed his testicles when working the inner part
of his thighs and let out an “Oops,” as a pretense for the incidental contact. Chris heard the sheets
drawn from the adjoining stall and turned his head. Since the sheets from his stall weren’t fully
closed, he could see between the crack. What he saw and who he saw induced another “Holy Shit”
moment. He quickly shook his head in disbelief and squinted his eyes to get a laser like focus. It was
Ensign Nussbaum and his masseuse wasn’t a young woman but rather a young man! Chris thought to
himself, Motherfucker! Ensign Nussbaum is queer! Wait until Diehl hears about this!
Mimi finished up on Chris’s back and got off the table. She asked him to turn over raising the
towel from his buttocks as he did. He completed the maneuver and when she placed the towel down
his erection had created a little pup tent.
She laughed coyly saying, “We will have to do something about that.”
She climbed back up onto the table straddling him once again and poured some more scented oil
on his chest. She wiggled her bottom so his erection would flatten out and actually nestled between
her labia. Once again she started to perform her massage on him but as she did she simultaneously
pumped her loins and began to slowly dry hump him! He did his best to restrain himself but her
actions were exciting her to the point she could not restrain herself.
As he lay there being serviced, he gazed at her face. She was petite and cute. She had short black
hair cut in a pageboy style. Her face was round and she had a small pug-like nose. Her skin was
unblemished and milky white. He could not see her eyes as she kept them closed as she catered to her
own carnal desires as well as his. Her breasts were small and firm and her ruby red nipples quite
protruded. She stopped massaging him and merely pressed down on his chest pushing her loins into
him. Watching her excitement caused him to get much more excited and as the seminal fluids rushed
from his testes his penis began to pulsate. She could feel his penis pulsate within the folds of her
labia and as it rubbed across her clitoris and she pressed her loins down harder upon him to abet and
trigger her own climax. As she did she panted feverishly and ended in a long exhale. When she
finished she opened her eyes, raised her hands to her forehead pulling her hair back.
“You like our happy ending?”
“Like? No, I loved it. That number one massage!” he simply said. She composed herself, curtly
said, “Okay, we finished,” hopped off him and put her robe on.
Chris sat up, wiped himself off with the towel, found his robe and sandals put them on and
walked to the dressing stalls. He waved her over and as she walked over to him, he reached into his
pants pocket took out fifty Hong Kong dollars and handed it to her. “Thank you, Mimi. That was a
wonderful experience.”
“You very welcome. It nice for Mimi, too!” She took the money from him, bounced up to kiss
him on the cheek, and said in a songlike manner, “Bye, byyyyyyeeee!”
Chris quickly dressed and met up with Diehl in the lobby of the massage parlor. Both of them
grinned from ear to ear.
“That was out-fucking standing!” beamed Diehl. “Now I understand why they used the word
‘bliss’ in the business’s name.”
They exited the building joking and laughing about their experience in the parlor. Chris was just
about to relate to Diehl of seeing Nussbaum in the massage parlor with a young man, but stopped
himself. Should he reveal Nussbaum’s sexual secret with Diehl? Did Nussbaum actually engage in a
homosexual act with his masseuse, or had he reached a conclusion based on innuendos. Chris
snickered to himself at the thought of the word “innuendo”; in-your-end-oh. What would exposing
Nussbaum achieve? Chris thought if it became public knowledge amongst the crew, it could destroy
the officer’s career. In spite of the officer being a bit of prick, he had not done Chris any harm nor had
he busted his balls in any way.
Homosexuality was an offense subject to the probable persecution by the crew and judicial
prosecution by the JAG Corps. The man would be dishonorably discharged from the Navy. Of all the
branches of service, the Navy was the one that bore the brunt of most homophobic jokes. It seemed to
stand to reason it would, when you consider a ship is an environment of men living together in tight
quarters for extended periods. Men of that persuasion would view it as a target-rich environment.
Chris decided he would take the high ground and keep the secret to himself, besides it wasn’t likely
that Diehl would even believe him. The fact that Nussbaum wasn’t just a Jewish Nazi but also
secretly a Gay Jewish Nazi would stay in Chris’s back pocket. He brushed aside the notion.
“Well what do you say we go to the Peninsula Hotel and have a nice juicy steak dinner?”
Diehl said he was hungry from blowing his load and off to the Peninsula Hotel they went.
The Peninsula Hotel was the most prestigious hotel in Hong Kong in spite of it being located in
Kowloon. Built in 1928 at the juncture of Nathan and Salisbury Roads the rooms on the southern side
offered one of the more spectacular views of Victoria Harbor and Hong Kong Island. The hotel was
seven stories tall with a circular drive leading up to the main entrance and back down to the street. A
large water fountain decorated the entrance as it lay in the center of the arched driveway. Two wings
jutted out from each end of the main building surrounding the driveway and fountain on three sides. A
large wrought iron fence with gold filigree separated the building from the street. They approached
the entrance and as they did Chris began to feel a bit awkward about the way he was dressed. He felt
he would stick out like a sore thumb amongst the elitist society believed resided there. They didn’t
encounter any resistance at the entrance and in fact were warmly greeted by a doorman dressed in a
long green overcoat and red hat with swirled gold piping similar to those worn by members of the
French Foreign Legion.
“Good evening, gentlemen,” he said as he opened the door granting them access.
The main door opened into an expansive and elaborate lobby extending left and right of the
entrance with dining areas on each side. Twenty square shaped columns rising twenty feet high
topped with bronze colored rosettes, which matched the design and color of the beams running the
length of the lobby supported the framed ceiling. The exterior walls had large arched glass windows
running floor to ceiling. The chandelier and ceiling lights caused the polished white marble floor to
glisten. There was a humming of voices that echoed throughout the lobby coming from the dining
areas as waiters wearing Mandarin styled black satin hats, dressed in crimson red jackets with an
Oriental collar, gold cloth buttons, and golden dragons embroidered on each side were serving the
diners.
Straight through the lobby, Chris could see a hallway and a Christian Dior storefront with large
perfume bottles and dresses on display. Alongside the Christian Dior store was a jeweler selling
Piaget watches. The place reeked of wealth and power. Dressed in his light blue corduroy slacks,
cowboy boots and V-neck pullover he started to feel more uncomfortable.
“Maybe this isn’t the place for us,” he said to Diehl peevishly.
“Don’t be silly, they all put their pants on one leg at a time like us and our money is just as good
as theirs,” said Diehl defiantly.
“Yeah, but the money in their pant pockets weighs far more than ours.”
“Fuck it, let’s go get a table, I’m dying for a steak.”
They approached the maitre d’ who was dressed in a black tuxedo. “Two for dinner please,”
said Diehl.
“Are you guests of the hotel?” he asked surveying the two Americans up and down in a
condescending manner.
“Uh no, we are not,” said Diehl.
“Regardless, there is a dress code in this establishment. All patrons must have a dinner jacket,”
he said searching for a reason not to seat them.
“I am sure you have dinner jackets on hand we might wear,” Diehl said impatiently, knowing
some of the finer establishments have jackets on hand for just such occurrences.
He realized Diehl would press the issue and to avoid creating a scene waved to one of the
servers. The server came over and he snapped an order in Chinese to him and instructed the two
Americans to follow the young man. He brought them to the coatroom alongside the front desk and
spoke to the hatcheck girl.
She opened the half door and beckoned them to enter. They did and she led them to a rack of
dinner jackets. Diehl managed to find one that barely fit him. Chris being twenty pounds heavier than
Diehl had problems finding one to fit comfortably. He had to settle for the best fitting one although it
felt as if it was going to split in the back. The sleeves also ended well above his wrist.
“Fuck I feel like an ass in this!”
Diehl looked at him and began to laugh himself saying, “Yeah, you look like a whale in a
bologna skin!”
They walked out to the lobby dining room. Chris tried to shrug his shoulders upward to shorten
his arms and kept tugging on the end of the jacket sleeves. He stopped when he heard the material
begin to rip realizing it was to no avail. He began to laugh at how comical he must look to all those
around him. Chris was a modest man and often displayed a self-deprecating sense of humor and found
this occasion to be one of those times.
The maitre d’ himself managed a wry smile when he saw Chris, but remained cordial. “Very
good, sirs. I will escort you to your table.”
He sat them at a table at dead center of the dining room. Chris believed he did so for the
amusement of all the patrons seated around them. He handed them their menus and asked if they
wanted a cocktail to begin the evening.
Diehl said, “Yes, Jeeves, I will have a rum and Coke, please.”
“Make mine a Johnny Walker Black and soda, with a twist of lemon, thank you,” said Chris.
“Very well,” he said and briskly left them to their table.
They opened and scanned their menus. Diehl kept his elbows on the table with his hands
elevated and clasped above them. Chris tried to do the same and heard another tear in the fabric.
He started to laugh. “If I eat too much I am going to bust out of this jacket.”
Self conscious about his appearance he glanced around and spotted an occasional diner staring
and smiling. He placed his arms down along his side. He would have the Oysters Rockefeller as an
appetizer, house salad and rib eye steak with a baked potato. Diehl elected to have the prawn
cocktail, house salad and porterhouse steak with garlic flavored mashed potatoes.
The server brought them their drinks and took their dinner order. Another server brought a basket
of bread sticks, rolls, butter and a cruet of olive oil. The two Americans raised their glasses to each
other and reached across to clink their glasses together.
“To a safe journey home,” toasted Diehl.
When Chris reached across for the toast he heard and felt another tear in the right shoulder of his
jacket and began to laugh some more.
“Hey man, that was a serious toast,” Diehl said as if Chris’s laughter hurt him.
“No, it was a good and sincere toast. I am laughing because my jacket ripped some more.”
They began to devour the breadbasket and quickly finished their cocktails. They opted not to
have another fearful they would run up a sizeable liquor tab. Considering their limited resources, they
needed to balance between extravagance and frugality, if that were at all possible in that environment.
They laughed and joked about events of the day. Their salads arrived and they inhaled them in short
order. The server with a tray approached and Chris could here it sizzling. He placed the steaks down
before them. They ordered a couple of beers to wash the meal down.
Chris took a deep breath over his steak and found the aroma intoxicating. The meat was so
tender he could have cut it with a butter knife. It was full of juices and the horseradish sauce on the
side enhanced its flavor even further. The baked potato was the size of a football and the sour cream
and chives made it far more delicious. The crisp green beans cleansed his palette between helpings of
steak. The perfectly chilled liter of Heineken beer had the proper amount of head on it. Chris was
stuffed. He patted his stomach.
He said laughingly, “I may have to get my suits altered after this meal.” Diehl laughed at the
comment and waved the server over signaling to bring the check. The server handed him the check.
“What’s the damage?” Chris asked.
“All total it comes to eight hundred ten dollars,” said Diehl.
“EIGHT HUNDRED TEN DOLLARS?” Chris panicked.
“That’s Hong Kong dollars,” Diehl said amused at his friend’s excited state adding, “that
includes a ten percent gratuity. Let’s see, at an exchange rate of five dollars sixty five cents that
equates to about one hundred forty U.S. dollars total. Since our dinners cost approximately the same I
suggest we simply divide it between us.”
Chris was relieved about the final cost although it came to about twenty U.S. dollars more than
he originally allocated and agreed. They placed their cash into the folder, collected their belongings
and exited the dining area.
When they reached the maitre d’ Chris rattled off the only Italian sentence he knew, “Eeyo louie
dico tootay me ameche con vengano manjade qua.” He quickly broke into a most muscular pose by
flexing his muscles and pushed his arms forward. Upon doing so, he resembled the Incredible Hulk
because the back of his jacket split right down the seam from the top of his back to the small of his
back and both arm sleeves ripped from the shoulders.
Diehl was startled and amused by his friend’s action, and broke out into a boisterous belly
laugh. They turned and raced to the coat checkroom to return the coats, or what was left of them,
removing them as they sped off and could hear a roar of laughter coming from the dining area they just
left. They quickly exited the hotel at the Nathan street entrance to their right.
Diehl finally stopped laughing long enough to ask Chris, “What the fuck did you say to him?”
“I said I was going to tell all my friends to come and eat here!”
“Ha, ha. That’s a laugh here in Hong Kong!” pausing a few seconds and with a haughty laugh
bellowed, “You don’t have any friends, my friend!”
Chris laughed along with him pointing to Diehl’s beet red face. “You look like a blood filled
pimple ready to pop!”
“Whew, that was a pisser!” said Diehl now exhausted from laughing so hard.
****
They arrived at the tailor and he greeted them with his arms wide open. “Oh, welcome my
friends. Good to see you. Your suits ready. Want you be happy. Try on before you pay.” He went into
the back and came out with their four suits.
Chris went into one of the changing rooms and put on the European suit first as it would fit more
snug than the American suit. It felt good and thought they probably should have picked up the suits
first before they ate and avoided looking silly.
He came out of the changing room and the tailor said, “Ah feel good? It look good on you,” and
he started to fidget and tug on the back spreading the fabric across his back with his palms. “You
turn.” He ran his fingers along the lapels and pulled down his jacket sleeves. He tested the fit of the
slacks by sliding the four fingers of both hands between his waist and waistline of the slacks. He kept
commenting, “Good, good,” with each test he performed. “Okay you try other slacks now.” Chris
went back in to put the second pair of slacks on and Diehl went through his fitting. They finished their
fitting and he said, “Okay, you pick five ties now.” They selected their ties and settled their bills.
“You want dress shirts? I make chop-chop.”
Both declined. He had put the suits on hangars, wrapped them with suit covers and handed them
over saying, “Thank you very much. You come back next time in Hong Kong. You go home America
now?”
“No, not yet,” said Chris.
“Okay, you be safe and kill those communist dogs.”
Chris was surprised at the tailor’s remark and tilted his head perplexed about how to respond.
He only said, “Shay shay.” Then, “So long, buddy.”
On their way to the water taxi Chris went to the Fotomat to collect his pictures. He handed the
clerk his four tickets and the clerk handed him four thin bags.
“No charge,” said the clerk.
“What? Why no charge?” and he opened the first bag only to find blank negatives. “What the fuck
is this? Why aren’t there any pictures in here?” He ripped open the remaining three bags to find
nothing but the same contents as the first. “Where are my pictures?” he said growing angry at each
passing second.
“Sorry, no pictures. Film not exposed, that why no charge.”
He was stunned with disbelief uttering to himself, “What the fuck did I do wrong? Ninety-six
pictures and not one developed! How could this be?”
“Man, that sucks,” said Diehl hoping to console his friend. Chris started to get angry with the
clerk believing he had fucked up developing his pictures. After all, how could he have screwed up all
four rolls of film? “You fucking Mongol!” Chris roared and started to push on the tiny kiosk trying to
knock it over onto its side. He was so enraged the kiosk did rise off the floor causing the young clerk
inside to stumble.
Diehl tried to calm Chris down afraid the police might be alerted and intervene. “Whoa, dude!
You’re going to get yourself arrested. You don’t know if they fucked up or not!”
Chris was exasperated. “All four rolls? How is that possible? All those memories obliterated!
When am I ever going to come back here?”
Diehl tried to make a joke by saying, “Maybe you’ll re-up!”
Chris turned and looked incredulously at Diehl. He got the joke and appreciated Diehl’s attempt
to console him. He smiled at his suggestion and let out a deep sigh, looked down at the blank
negatives he was holding and said, “Maybe!”
“Lifer,” Diehl said.
Chris smirked turned to the clerk who backed away from the window fearing Chris would accost
the kiosk again. “Sorry,” was all Chris could say. He turned to Diehl and said, “Let’s get the hell out
of here!”
They hopped on a walla walla to return to the ship to stow away their suits, souvenirs and
cameras. Chris sat quietly staring out into the dark waters still disconsolate about his ruined photos.
Once they put away their bags they departed the ship once again hopping onto another water taxi
destined back to Kowloon and Ned Kelly’s Last Stand Pub, where they would spend their remaining
free time in Hong Kong pounding down beers and listening to live jazz music. The next morning the
ship would leave Hong Kong and back out to the open sea.
****
At muster, Ensign Stafford read the Plan of the Day. While standing at muster, Chris heard him
call out his name, “Columbo!”
“Yes, sir!”
“You are being assigned to mess duty, report to Chief Petty Officer Lucas when we break
muster.”
Chris sighed and responded in a disappointed tone, “Aye-aye, sir.”
With Mazzarelli no longer a part of First Division Chris was now the least senior member and
according to tradition he became the obvious replacement. His general quarters station would not
change but he would not have to stand bridge watches.
When they broke ranks, Diehl sensing Chris’s dismay just patted him on the back and told him,
“Hey, man, don’t look so glum. We all had to do it. It will be over before you know it and back
chipping paint with the rest of us.”
Chris managed a brief smile and said, “You know I had a part time job while I was in high
school working in the kitchen, cleaning pots and pans, and doing some food prep. It’s like turning the
clock back in time and starting all over again.”
“Lots of people would like a do-over. You’ll survive this.”
“Thanks for trying to cheer me up.” Diehl was right; lots of people would like a do-over. This
was essentially why Chris was there in the first place.
Chris reported to CPO Lucas as ordered. “Hi, Chief. Ensign Stafford told me to report here for
mess duty.”
“Welcome to the mess decks, Columbo, and the important job of feeding the crew. Let me show
you around and explain what your daily duties will be.” The Chief showed Chris the scullery where
the crew after finishing their meal returned their trays, plates and utensils and how to operate the
dishwasher. “This will be your station during meals. You will stack the plates and utensils in these
racks, take this spray to rinse the rack down, push it onto the conveyor belt and press this here green
button. Once they come out you should stack the plates and bowls here, sort the silverware into these
cylinders and restock them back on the chow line after the meal. When the meal is over you will mop
the mess decks. Any questions?”
“No, Chief, it’s all pretty simple,” Chris answered quietly, thinking For simple minded people.
“Follow me,” the Chief said and led Chris over to the liquid dispensing section of the chow line.
He showed Chris how to refill the coffee pot, the bug juice and milk dispensers. “You will have to
refill these dispensers when necessary. This is where we keep the boxed milk. The bug juice powder
and coffee grounds are stored in the galley.” The Chief continued with his indoctrination and turned
Chris over to SH1 Watts for additional instructions and assignments.
Watts was a black man from Philadelphia. He was a jovial spirit in spite of the playful abuse he
always received from the crew about the quality of food. He always managed a witty retort to those
barbs like, “It all turns to shit anyway! So quit your bitchin’!” Or “If you don’t like it why not just
order out?”
“Glad to have you here, Columbo. Hope you work out better than the last guy. Just do as I ask
and we’ll get along just fine. Don’t and I will fuck you up,” he said waving the butcher’s knife he was
holding.
“No problem,” said Chris.
“Heh, heh. That’s what I thought you’d say,” said Watts looking at the knife.
Of course Chris knew Watts was playing with him. Since word spread of Chris’s intervention in
Brown Brown’s attack, most of the brothers on board gained respect for Chris and treated him
accordingly.
“So, what do you need me to do now?” asked Chris.
Watts took a potato peeler from a drawer and held it up to Chris. “Take this, this here bucket,”
he said pulling a five-gallon pail from under the counter, “and a bag of potatoes off that stack to the
scullery and fill the bucket.”
Chris grabbed the twenty-pound bag of potatoes, placed it in the bucket along with the peeler
and headed off to do as ordered. He sat there peeling the potatoes comparing it to an Abbot and
Costello movie scene in which they were on KP. The half hour it took to fill the bucket lasted far
longer than the scene.
By then, the ship was underway and headed out of Victoria Harbor. Stepping out for some fresh
air, he looked towards the bow at the open water before them and wondering what lay ahead.
VIII
TAIWAN ON
CHRIS WORKED IN THE SCULLERY FOR LUNCH AND spoke with many of his shipmates as
they returned their trays. During one discussion, he learned the ship wasn’t heading back to the Gun
Line but rather to a place called Kaohsiung, Taiwan, for repair work to both gun mounts. The high
volume of rounds fired required replacement of the barrels and breeches as they were in less than
optimal condition. To date the ship expended 3,284 rounds, which was the equivalent of one hundred
fifteen tons of high explosives. The number and frequency of hang fires, which is a delay between
triggering of the powder canister and discharge of the projectile, had risen during the latter weeks of
their deployment. For that reason the gun mounts were to be overhauled at Kaohsiung where the Navy
maintained a naval base by treaty with the Chinese Nationalists.
At smoke breaks, Chris would stand on the port side walkway relishing the scenery. The ship
was passing along the eastern coastline of Communist China along which hundreds of limestone
islands jutted from the sea creating a maze of water between them. A thin veil of fog silhouetted those
islands farther in the distance. The only other vessels cruising these waters were large two-masted
junks. He was gazing upon another Chinese scroll painting brought to life, the harmony of which was
disturbed by the rumbling sound of the ship’s engines. He regretted not having his camera to capture
the moment.
The ship made the four hundred six nautical mile journey in thirty-one hours. The sea and anchor
detail was set as the ship entered into Kaohsiung harbor at 1000 hours. The ship moored one and one
half hour later portside alongside the USS Bryce Canyon (AD36) a Shenandoah class destroyer
tender. Nested to the starboard side of the ship were the USS Cochrane (DDG-21) and the USS
Keyes (DD-787). The tender dwarfed these vessels in size. The crew worked until knock-off.
Material conditions IV and Yoke were set and liberty call for sections II, III and IV announced as
well as dinner for the crew. Chris’s section had the duty and he welcomed having to remain on board
as he had seriously depleted his bankroll in Hong Kong. After he finished up with the dinner meal, he
went out on deck to survey the harbor. It was a busy harbor with a number of tenders and
replenishment ships moored there. Large cranes aligned the port. The sound of metal grinders
reverberated between the steel structures and the spray of sparks appeared everywhere he looked.
The port seemed dingy and somber in comparison to Subic Bay and certainly lacked the esthetic
scenery of Hong Kong. He took an immediate dislike to Kaoshsiung.
Content to stay on board, he took advantage of the time to write letters and postcards to friends
and relatives, or take in a movie on the mess decks, read one of his books or join in a game of cards.
He took a shower and wrote out some postcards and while doing so, was entertained by the Stylistics
coming from Brown Brown’s cassette player. Brown Brown came by and they chatted for a while.
After he finished writing out the postcards, he went topside to drop them in the outgoing mail slot and
grab a quick smoke. Chris found Farleigh sitting on the fantail and asked him why he had not gone
ashore.
“Thanks to that shit Nussbaum, I had to go to Mast for being insubordinate to Scumberg.
According to the captain, being shit-faced drunk wasn’t a legitimate excuse so he took one day of
liberty away from me. That Nussbaum is a cock sucking asshole.”
“Justice is blind.” Chris chuckled to himself recalling that afternoon in the massage parlor. Chris
finished his smoke, flicked it overboard, went down to his bunk, and read until lights out. Langston
awakened him at 05:00 for duty on the mess decks.
When Chris arrived on the mess deck, he found the hallway entrance draped in plastic. He
pushed aside the plastic and stepped into the mess decks. His footfall made a crunching sound as he
applied weight on it and looking down saw carcasses of dead cockroaches scattered throughout the
mess decks. The sheer number made the deck look like it was carpeted. Chief Lucas and SH1 Watts
were seated at a table having coffee.
Chris walked over and remarked, “Holy shit, what happened here?” The Chief explained they
had the mess decks fumigated overnight.
“Do you think you got them all?”
“Goddamn hope so,” said Watts. “Columbo go get a broom and shovel and sweep this shit up.”
Chris did as ordered and by the time he finished, he had one third of a large plastic garbage bag
filled. Remembering seeing large beetles, worms and other varieties of insects at food stores in Hong
Kong, he thought the contents of this bag would make one hell of a feast for some Chinese family.
Watts and his crew of food servicemen prepared the morning meal and Chris made sure all the plates
and silverware were ready and the dispensers filled. The crew had their breakfast of grits, pancakes,
eggs and bacon. No one bitched about finding roaches in their food.
He spoke with some of his friends as they came to the scullery and asked each about their
evening ashore. Diaz and Harriman said they had a good time and had no problem finding service
bars. Harriman got drunk and Diaz got laid. Ludens and Polanski said the city was absent the
character and culture of Hong Kong. Unlike the British Territory of Hong Kong, few of the residents
spoke English. They described it as an industrialized city of high-rise office and tenement buildings.
They found shopping strips scattered about and streets filled with night markets and vendors selling
their wares. Polanski said he bought a twenty-four carat gold necklace for a reasonable price. Both
planned to return that evening. When Chris said he was considering going ashore they suggested he
join them. He welcomed the invite and agreed.
Another workday was done and liberty call announced. After Chris finished cleaning up the
mess decks, he returned to his compartment to shower and change. On the way, he met Ludens and
Polanski in the passageway. They were already in their street clothes. He told them rather than hold
them up he would meet up with them and asked where they might be.
“We’ll be at the Sea Dragon Club,” said Polanski. “Walk straight down the road outside the
main gate until you cannot go anymore and then make a right. The club is right there on the corner.”
“Cool, I’ll meet you there.”
After Chris finished with his shower, Rollie Rhodes walked by his bunk. “Y’all going ashore?”
“Yeah, want to join me? I’m supposed to meet up with Ludens and Polanski at a place called the
Sea Dragon Club.”
“Yeah, I was there last night. Hell, I’ll go back. The beers were cheap and there were plenty of
girls there too. We’ll meet you at the quarterdeck.”
Chris didn’t bother to ask whom he meant by “we,” it didn’t matter to him who went. When he
finished dressing, he went to the quarterdeck and met up with Rhodes and Harriman. The trio left the
ship and walked out the base and down Fa Siung Road to the club. There were a number of clubs
along the road and each had sailor-bait in their mini-dresses loitering outside of them luring
customers inside. At each club, the girls would grab and tug at the arms of Chris and his companions
and try to pull them into their lair. Chris would kindly refuse, telling them “maybe later.” After a
thirty-minute walk, they arrived at the nondescript four-story building.
The ground floor housed the office for the Shore Patrol. A club called the Blue Room for E-6
ratings and above was on the second floor. A nightclub with a dance floor and walk-up bar was on
the third, which is where the three met up with Ludens and Polanski. There were others from his ship
there as well. Chris ordered three glasses and a pitcher of beer that cost one dollar and fifty cents.
They found an empty table and sat down to have their drinks and plan their evening. Partying at the
local clubs along the strip was always an option and since several of them had done so the previous
night they weren’t enthusiastic about going back tonight. Someone suggested a movie.
“That would be different,” said Chris.
After a brief discussion, it was unanimous. They polished off their drinks in no time and walked
downstairs. Polanski spoke with one of the Shore Patrol guys and learned there was a movie theater
on Jhong Jhou 3rd Road, which was back in the direction of the Navy pier. They walked back from
the direction they came and again accosted at each bar passed by the same girls they refused before.
Chris heard whistles blowing from behind them, turned his head and saw two members of the
Shore Patrol racing up across the street. He turned and looked up the street in the direction they were
heading. He could see a group of men fighting outside one of the clubs.
“Shit, there’s a brawl going on up there!” he said.
From his present position, the streetlight provided enough light to see what was happening. He
could see about eight or nine black men engaged with three white men. Two black men were holding
one guy while two others punched the one held in his stomach and face. Two others were pummeling
and kicking another white male while he was on the ground and the remaining black combatants
seemed to have their hands full with the third white guy. He towered above his assailants but was
finally overcome and tackled to the ground.
Silhouetted arms flailed while screams echoed down the dark street as the bar girls slapped and
clawed at the combatants. The Shore Patrol arrived on the scene and using their nightsticks poked and
beat those assailants who had the advantage of numbers. One of the attackers fell to the ground
reaching for his left knee after being struck by a nightstick. Once the Shore Patrol intervened, all but
the crippled mugger broke off their assault and raced off up the road. They turned right around the
corner disappearing from sight. The Shore Patrol didn’t pursue them but remained with those
assaulted. Chris and his group crossed the street to get a better view and idea of what happened. Most
important was to find out if any involved were from the Lawrence.
When they reached the scene Chris was relieved to see none of those involved in the fight were
from his ship. The three victims of the assault were standing and the remaining assailant seated with
his back up on the wall. He was grabbing at his leg in obvious pain, and screaming at the two Shore
Patrol members who happened to be white.
“You honky motherfuckers! You broke my fucking knee! You goddamned bastards!”
A bar girl kicked him in the side while she screamed something in Chinese. One of the Shore
Patrol pulled her away from him. The black man remained belligerent thrashing his arm at the girl
while she separated from him.
“Get this fucking cunt away from me, you fucking cocksucker!”
Chris could see the individual that was restrained received a good beating. He was bleeding
from his nose, mouth and right eye and stood with his right arm cradling his rib cage. The lead Shore
Patrol member was asking him questions about the fight wanting to know how it started. He wanted
the three men to go with him and fill out a report. The other two members of the Patrol each grabbed
the obstreperous black assailant by an arm and pulled him up. He hopped on one leg still suffering
pain in his other. They placed his hands behind him, handcuffed him and escorted him away holding
him up by his arms as he limped along. The victims of the attack followed behind. No sooner had they
left and without hesitating the bar girls turned their sights on Chris and the members of his party. They
clutched at their arms trying to get them inside. Chris and the others resisted their pleas and continued
on to the theater.
“Man, that was crazy! Why in hell are people on the same team fighting each other?” remarked
Chris.
Rhodes said, “You are just too fucking naïve, Columbo. Niggahs and whites will always be
going after each other.”
Chris might have expected that reaction from Harriman because he was from the deep southern
city of Birmingham. Rhodes was from Virginia, which although was part of the old Confederacy
seemed to be a bit more progressive and liberal. Surprised at Rhodes response Chris said, “I never
took you for a racist, Rhodes.”
“I ain’t.”
“Then why call them ‘niggers’?”
“Because, those guys deserved to be called niggahs. C’mon now, nine against three!” he
exclaimed asserting the sheer advantage of numbers created an arrogance in those possessing the
advantage. Rhodes was implying that honorable men would not employ those tactics and those who
would were essentially cowards and less than real men, which opinion was the prevalent southern
plantation view of the “Negro race.” It was clear to Chris that in spite of the enactment of the Civil
Rights Act there was still much to be done to bridge the gap between the races.
They found the theater, paid their admission and entered into the theater. Just like cinemas back
home they had a concession stand, where they sold candy, popcorn and soda as well as other local
concoctions.
Chris spotted a pail filled with bamboo stalks. A clerk operating a machine alongside the pail
took a bamboo stalk and placed one end of it in the top of the machine and a large paper cup at a
spout at the bottom. Placing the stalk into the top, the machine growled and consumed it. Green liquid
spilled out of the spout into the cup. The mangled shards of crushed bamboo exited from a slot below
the cup and into a waste pail. The clerk handed the cup to a young man along with a serving of fried
pork rinds. Chris could not identify the candy in the boxes as the labels were in Chinese. Several had
pictures of their contents and others had transparent plastic revealing the contents within. Another
section of the display contained green leaves wadded around areca or better known as betel nuts.
Chris decided he would try a glass of bamboo juice, so he ordered one glass and a small bag of
popcorn. He took a sip of the pale green liquid and found it sweet and refreshing. Refreshments
purchased, the group entered the theater.
Chris was amazed at the size of the theater. From outside it was unimposing but inside it was
cavernous. The group looked around for seats and had to settle for the last row in front of the
projection booth.
“There must be at least five hundred people in here!” remarked Chris.
“Maybe a thousand,” said Ludens equally impressed by the audience.
“Never seen any movie thee-ate-er this big back home,” said Rhodes.
A sea of black hair lay before them. None of the Americans had any idea what the movie was
they were about to see. They didn’t know if it was an American flick or whether it would be in
English. The lights dimmed and triumphant music started to play. The screen parted and the entire
audience except the Americans rose to their feet. Not wanting to offend anyone the five crewmen
stood as well. Chiang Kai Shek in uniform standing on a balcony appeared on the giant silver screen.
A division of soldiers with rifles at right shoulders marched below him in formation swinging their
left arms along their sides in perfect unison. They were goose-stepping and slamming their feet to the
pavement with each step. Cut to tanks speeding through hilly terrain with cannons firing. Above them
jet aircraft flying in formation streaked towards the nearby mountaintops. The scene dissolved to an
armada of ships coursing through the sea. Jump cut to an assembly line where Chinese men and
women were assembling rifles. On it went flashing vistas of the coastline, mountain ranges, farm
fields, and cityscapes to name but a few.
It was apparent to Chris that since the entire audience had stood the background music played
was the national anthem of Taiwan. He thought it peculiar to stoke nationalistic fervor in a venue of
this sort. This was quite unlike the States. The National Anthem or visuals of America’s war machine
didn’t precede movies at home. The only instances where they played the National Anthem was
before ballgames.
The music ended, the screen went white and the opening credits and theme music soon followed.
The credits written in Chinese calligraphy scrolled over running water. The camera panned out to
focus on a young Chinaman dressed in ancient garb made of silk kneeling along a creek. He was
holding the reins of his horse, which was drinking beside him. The horse shook its head and neighed.
Immediately the young man leapt to his feet, pulled out his samurai sword and held it upright with two
hands. Three men dressed in peasant clothing wielding swords jumped from the surrounding
shrubbery to ambush him. A frantic sword fight ensued. The young man was a skilled swordsman and
succeeded in holding his three assailants at bay. They formed a circle around him and he repelled
each attack. The speedy, herky-jerky movement of the actors bordered on comical to Chris.
One of his assailants lost his blowsy pants and stood there in what appeared to be a large diaper
when the samurai deftly sliced through the thief’s sash after his blade cut through the assailant’s
sword. The attacker quickly backed up, tripped over his pants and ended up landing on his buttocks in
the creek. The samurai soon dispatched a second attacker flicking his sword in a way, which caused
the attacker to release his sword in the direction of the third attacker. The flying sword traveled
between the legs of the third attacker and lodged into the trunk of the tree behind him. When the
samurai turned his attention to the third attacker the robber whimpered, dropped his sword, placed his
hands together and prayed for his life. The audience laughed so Chris presumed he said something
amusing. The samurai spoke with his three attackers as they composed themselves. He gathered their
weapons and listened to them jabber on. He laughed, returned their weapons to them mounted his
horse and ordered them to lead him to their camp. Walking away from the camera the surrounding
woods swallowed them.
On and on it went. None of the Americans watching the movie could ascertain what any of the
actors were saying but it became apparent they were watching an Oriental adaptation of Robin Hood.
There was the beautiful equivalent of Maid Marian, although she was equally adept at swordplay as
the young samurai. During one of her fight scenes one of the antagonist’s henchman threw a chair at
her. She raked her sword through the air at the chair. When the chair landed upright it stood for a few
seconds until the component parts of legs, and backrest suddenly fell into a woodpile on the floor.
The henchman stood there wide eyed in amazement and raced off in fear. There was also the
equivalent of the sheriff of Nottingham. An archery contest was held to which the samurai attended in
disguise. In the end, they dispatched the sheriff and the samurai got the girl. They kissed in the final
scene, embraced cheek-to-cheek facing the camera and the screen faded to black. The large audience
broke out into applause as the lights came on. The Americans shuffled out of the theater standing tall
amongst the mass of bodies surrounding them. Since they were close to the pier, they decided to
simply call it a night and return to their ship.
****
The next several days were uneventful for Chris. Work was progressing on the guns. With the
aid of the cranes aboard the Bryce Canyon, the gunners mates had removed the barrels for both
mounts. Damage Control personnel were conducting fire drills each day. Food stores were loaded.
His friends in First Division were busy doing maintenance to the decks and equipment. Electronic
technicians performed preventive maintenance on ship’s radar and sonar systems. Machinist mates
were overhauling and tuning the ship’s engines. Boiler technicians were busy servicing the ship’s
boilers. Everyone had his job to do and everyone did his job during the day. Evenings was time to
unwind. On the seventh day in port, the crew was paid and Chris now felt he had enough money to
buy some gold jewelry and possibly female companionship for the night.
That night he went ashore with Diehl, Farleigh, Diaz, Harriman, Ludens and Polanski. Once
again, they walked along Fa Siang Street passing by several clubs before settling on a club called the
Red Dragon Bar. Diaz and Farleigh grabbed two of the girls who were standing outside the club.
They entered into a large bar with booths along the wall at the door where they entered. There was a
large dance floor to their right where several couples were dancing and a walk up bar along the right
wall where a covey of girls mulled about. On stage was a five-piece band playing “Love Me Two
Times.” As soon as the group entered, several girls scurried over. Five girls approached the four
unaccompanied patrons. One of them pushed the fifth away. The group headed to one of the booths
large enough to accommodate them all. The squadron of bargirls began to quicken their pace as the
group neared the booth. They started to pair off. Chris had his arm grabbed by the one who shoved the
other aside.
“Hello sweetie,” she said, “you buy drink then we dance?”
Chris was nearly gaping at her. She stood five feet tall. A tight fitting white sarong embossed
with white orchids embroidered on the bodice compacted her voluptuous figure. Her long straight
black hair draped down over her shoulders. Her face was perfectly symmetrical with a petite nose,
luscious lips surrounding her tiny mouth; perfectly manicured eyebrows bordered her large brown
Asian eyes. Her skin was like silk. Even her ears were perfect. He thought she was gorgeous.
“Well hello, beautiful. Aren’t you a pretty sight to see here?”
“Oh, thank you,” she said playfully slapping his arm.
They were the last couple to sit in the booth. He invited her to sit first and watched as she slid
into the booth causing the slit in her sarong to spread open, which exposed her leg up to her upper
thigh. When she settled in she tapped her hand down on the bench signaling him to sit beside her,
which he did. A waitress dressed in a red mini-dress came to the booth and took their order. The
Sailors had bottles of San Miguel beer and the girls had the house cocktails, which were supposed to
be rum and Coke but more likely just Coke.
“What’s your name?” Chris asked her.
“Fifi.”
“What your name?”
“What part of France are you from?” he asked sarcastically.
“No, I am Chinese, dummy.”
He knew she didn’t catch on and simply answered her question.
“My name is Chris.”
“Where you from?”
The small talk continued as she sipped on her drink through the swizzle stick and he chugged his
beer. He replenished his and as the night progressed, had two to every one of hers. They danced for a
while and he said he had to go to the men’s room.
“You want me come help and hold it?” she said playfully.
“Yeah, why not!” he said eagerly not realizing she was only joking.
He took her by her hand and towed her along down the dark hallway. He entered into a large
bathroom still holding her hand. Standup ceramic urinals lined the opposite wall. Another Sailor was
already in there relieving himself. Chris went to a urinal and nodded to his urinal neighbor who was
just finishing up. Chris saw him peer over his shoulder watching Fifi walk up alongside Chris. The
guy smiled, shook his head, and his member. He gazed as she unzipped Chris’s pants, turned and
walked away. She found her way through the slit in his underwear, pulled out his penis and stood
there as he tried to pee. Her touch caused his penis to immediately become erect. Excited as he was
he could not pee.
She became impatient “Well!” she said angrily shaking his cock up and down while she held it
between her thumb and forefinger.
“I can’t pee with a boner. Maybe you can help my boner go away,” he said forming a circle with
his right hand and motioning as though he were masturbating.
“Oh you like that wouldn’t you? That cost you, lover,” she said defiantly.
He wasn’t ready to pay for just a hand job and told her never mind. She let go of his member and
left the restroom. Looking up to the ceiling he let out a deep sigh. Loosing his erection, he concluded
his business and returned to the booth.
He sat down beside her and she turned to her associate next to her and whispered something to
her. They both giggled and Chris assumed she was recounting what just occurred in the john. They
talked a bit more and the conversation turned to shopping. He explained he was interested in buying a
gold bracelet and asked her if she knew of a place nearby. She said she did and would take him if he
liked. He agreed thinking it would be good to have an interpreter just in case the merchant didn’t
speak English.
She led him through the ash gray streets to a night market near the club. She held his hand and led
him past several jewelers. They stopped by one and he inspected the items on display. She liked one
in particular and called his attention to it. He pointed to it and asked to see it. The jeweler handed it
to him speaking in Chinese.
“He said very good quality gold.”
Chris liked the look of the interlocking double links. It had some weight to it and luster. “How
much?”
She asked the jeweler who answered her. “One thousand six hundred yuan.”
Chris knew the exchange rate was forty yuan to one U.S. dollar so the cost of the bracelet was
forty dollars. The price seemed reasonable. “This 24-carat?”
She again relayed his question and the jeweler’s response, “Yes, pure gold.”
“How can I be sure?” Again, she interpreted for him. “He give you certificate.”
“Okay, I take. Will he take American money?”
“Yes, he take,” she said without asking the jeweler.
Suspicious she answered without asking him, Chris, nonetheless, took out his money counted out
forty dollars and handed it to the jeweler. The jeweler placed the bracelet in a case, stamped the
certificate of authenticity, wrote out a receipt for payment and handed them all to Chris, with only the
bracelet in a flimsy paper bag. Chris placed the receipt and certificate in his back pocket. He thanked
her for helping him and asked if they could spend the night together as he told her she was too
beautiful to part with. There was no mamasan to report to because the girls worked independently.
They received a piece of the bar tab, tips and whatever else they could hustle on the side, including
prostituting themselves.
“It cost you twenty-five American for one time fuckee and fifty American for whole night.”
Since he had just gotten paid he figured why not get laid too. “Okay. I’ll let you know after first
fuckee if I want to all night. Any clean hotels nearby?”
She suggested the Marriott down on Ci Jin Beach but said it was too far to walk and they should
get a taxi. She hailed one down and instructed the driver where to go. It was a fifteen-minute cab ride
to the hotel.
The hotel appeared to be new. The lobby was small but well lit and clean. The room cost forty
dollars for the night. Chris paid the clerk and together they entered the elevator and proceeded to his
room on the fifteenth floor. The room was well appointed and had a queen size bed. There were two
lounge chairs and a desk with a chair. Three large paneled windows offered a view of the city
stretching out to the North.
He put the bag down on the night table and went to her. He placed his hands on her cheeks,
brushed her hair back cradling her ears between the crux of his thumb and forefinger and kissed her
on the lips. She responded. Her lips were soft and tasted a bit like watermelon. Continuing to kiss
her, he moved over to her right ear and began to nibble on her earlobe. He gave her a wet Willie by
running his tongue within the creases of her ear.
She pulled back saying, “Uuugghhh.” She was either not accustomed to having that done or
thought the act repulsive. He stopped and went back to kissing her on the lips. Before long, their lips
parted and he inserted his tongue into her mouth. She complied and did the same to him. While he
kissed her he slowly moved his hands down to her shoulders, down the side of her arms and around
to her breasts. The pace of her breath quickened as he did. The next part of his ballet was to remove
her dress, so he moved his hands up to the top button of her dress on the collar and began to flick
open each button as he moved down. He completed unbuttoning her dress, pushed it back off her
shoulders and let it fall to the ground. She remained in her bra and panties standing in front of him.
She wasn’t wearing any nylons. He looked at her and thought, My God, how exquisite is this
creature. Not a blemish on her milky white skin. She looked like a porcelain doll with bigger tits.
She unbuckled his belt, undid the button on his pants and pulled down his zipper. She removed
his v-neck shirt pulling it over his head. He slipped his pants off, removed his shoes and socks and
helped her lay on the bed. He knelt on the bed kissing her toes and feet and slowly worked his way up
her calf to her thigh, to the flesh at the top part of her panties, up to her navel, he cupped her breasts in
his hands fondling them over her bra. He kissed the exposed portion of her breasts continuing up her
chest to her neck and stopped at her lips. He suddenly had to leave.
“Excuse me but I need to use the bathroom.” He kissed each of her eyes, her nose and again on
her lips and raced into the bathroom closing the door behind him. He was in the bathroom for ten
minutes and anxiously wanted to finish so he could resume with Fifi. When he finished, he opened the
door to find she had bolted. He saw the bag was still on the nightstand but had moved. He reached in
and pulled out the case. When he opened it, his heart sank.
“That fucking bitch! She fucking ripped me off!” He dressed hurriedly hoping to catch her in the
lobby.
He didn’t see her in the lobby. He described the girl even though the clerk behind the counter
checked them in no more than twenty minutes earlier. He asked the clerk if he noticed her leave. He
said he saw her get into a taxi parked in front of the hotel. Chris thought, Shit what do I do now? He
paced and thought some more and formulated a plan. Would she dare go back to the bar to find
another hapless soul to prey upon? He jumped into a taxi and told him to take him to the Sea Dragon
EM Club. He paid the cab driver, hopped out and walked into the Shore Patrol office.
“What’s the problem?” asked the PO 3rd class Shore Patrol at the desk.
“I just got ripped off by some bitch that works at the Red Dragon bar! I didn’t know what to do,
so I came here to see if you can help,” he said nervously, as he was unaware whether they had any
authority in these matters.
“That shit happens here all the time,” the SP said. There were two other members of the Shore
Patrol in the lobby when Chris entered. The PO 3rd class told them to go with Chris to the Red
Dragon and check it out. The three servicemen walked up the street and came to the Red Dragon Bar.
When they walked in Fifi was sitting in a booth with several other bargirls. He was surprised to find
her there.
“That’s the cunt who stole my sister’s bracelet,” he said.
“Before we go there can you describe it?” asked one of the Shore Patrol.
He did and realized he had the Certificate of Authenticity in his pocket and receipt to prove he
purchased a bracelet and showed it to them.
It wasn’t common for the Shore Patrol to enter these clubs unless there was some disturbance.
They patrolled the streets but only entered the clubs to break up a fight or remove some unruly
drunken serviceman when asked by the proprietors.
Fifi began to fidget to try to get out of the booth but could not as she was blocked on both sides.
“That’s the cunt that stole my sister’s bracelet!” He paused for a moment and looked at her wrist.
“And that’s the bracelet!” he said pointing to it quite surprised she had the audacity to wear it.
She denied taking anything, claiming he had given it to her as a gift.
“Balls! You got balls, you lying bitch!” Chris bellowed causing the entire bar to turn their heads
at the drama playing out. One of the Shore Patrol restrained Chris telling him to calm down.
“Now that’s not what he says, young lady. Take it off and turn it over, now please. If you don’t I
will have to arrest you.”
She realized she wasn’t going to win this argument and removed the bracelet. She threw it onto
the floor, stuck her tongue out at Chris and waved him away with the back of her hand.
Chris picked up the bracelet, blew her a kiss and gave her the finger as he walked away. The
three exited the bar. Chris thanked them for their help, walked back to his ship and crawled into his
bunk.
****
When the watch came to wake him, he was already up and dressed. He proceeded up to the mess
decks to begin his day. While he was pouring himself a cup of coffee he saw PO 2nd class Finnegan,
looking glum, dressed in whites, cradling and staring into a cup of coffee.
He sat down across from Finnegan. “Hey man, are you okay?”
Acting a bit startled Finnegan quickly raised his head and began to nod, “Oh yeah. I’m just tired
from my watch.”
“I see blood on your shirt. What happened?” Chris asked.
“Oh, this...yeah I had TAD (Temporary Additional Duty) with the shore patrol. We were busy
all morning long breaking up fights. There were several groups of Sailors and Marines marauding
around the strip. They went about mugging other Sailors. This blood is from one of the guys attacked.
He was stabbed in the rib cage.”
“Really!?” said Chris. “Was he white and his attackers black?”
“Yeah, he was. Why would you ask that?”
Chris related the incident of several nights ago.
“Every one of the fights we responded to was black on white attack. They seemed to pick on
guys who were either alone or outnumbered.”
“This is a fucking ridiculous situation here, don’t you think? I mean we’re all far from home,
involved in a war most of us don’t want to be involved with, but we still have to have each other’s
back. Not stab each other in the back!” remarked Chris placing the emphasis on the word stab.
“Yeah, like they say, fucked up beyond all recognition. I gotta go and change,” Finnegan said and
he rose from the table and left.
“See ya,” said Chris.
He sat sipping his coffee until he heard Watts bark, “Columbo! I need you to go down to the
reefer decks and bring me up a case of eggs.” Chris put his coffee cup in the scullery, took the keys
from Watts to the walk-in and went below as ordered.
During the breakfast break, Harriman asked Chris how the rest of his evening went.
“Don’t ask,” was his brief response.
“But I already did ask,” he said.
Chris embarrassed about being played for a fool recounted the events of his evening with Fifi.
“Oh, that’s fucked up. But at least you got the bracelet back,” he said sympathetically.
Changing the subject Chris asked him how his and the rest of the guys’ night went.
“I got one helluva headache. We all got pretty plastered barhopping down the strip.”
Chris related Finnegan’s account of his night and asked Harriman if he saw anything similar.
“Now that you mention it, yeah, we did see one,” he said.
After he left, Chris continued work in the scullery. He kept thinking about how screwed up things
seemed. The U.S. was trying to extricate itself from this conflict. It seemed as though the tide was
turning in favor of the Allied Forces. The ship’s engagement in Operation Linebacker as well as the
air campaign had inflicted severe damage on the North Vietnamese Eastertide Offensive. After losing
half of his tanks and artillery to the Allied response the North replaced the legendary General Giap,
who led the Dien Bien Phu victory, as commander of the offensive. Peace talks, however precarious,
were continuing and President Nixon, running on a slate of ending the U.S. involvement in the war,
was elected in a landslide victory. So the troops engaged in-theater had reason to be optimistic this
conflict might soon conclude. For that reason alone, he felt it absurd for the troops to be fighting
amongst themselves. Perhaps he was naïve; he liked to think he could rely on the better nature of man,
in spite of news to the contrary which seemed to dominate the times.
He finished up in the scullery and went out on deck to have a smoke before making his runs to
the reefer deck. Again, the crew was busy at work. The new barrels were mounted and the gunnery
mates were testing elevation and rotating the guns. The deck was repainted. He assumed the ship
would soon be leaving.
When the afternoon meal was complete, Chief Lucas assembled several members of the food
service crew for a work detail. He escorted them onto the tender where a palette of boxes awaited.
The boxes contained linoleum tile needed to replace the existing floor tile on the mess decks. Once
all the boxes were brought on board he ordered Chris to retrieve two paint chippers and two propane
torches so he and SA Dixon, who also had mess duty with Chris, could remove the existing tile. Chris
returned and received further instructions from the chief about how to best remove these tiles.
Demonstrating, he lit the torch and heated an area of the floor liquefying the glue beneath. As the tile
softened and bubbled up, he pried it up using the paint chipper as a lever. Chris and Dixon began the
process. They managed to remove half of the floor tiles before having to prepare for the evening
meal.
The next morning after breakfast, they finished removing the tiles and began to lay down the new
tile after lunch. The Chief demonstrated how to best cut the tile to fit around the circular table and
chair posts. Once again they would use the torches to make the tiles pliable where they could be cut
with shears. Laying of the tiles was a process that moved faster than removal. The Chief noticing
much of the deck completed before the evening meal asked the two to remain after supper to complete
the job.
Dixon stated he had liberty and preferred to spend his last night in port ashore if possible.
The Chief excused him although the smirk on his face indicated his frustration with Dixon. “How
about you Columbo? I know your section is off too.”
“I’ll stay and finish the job, Chief. I have no plans.”
“Good man. I appreciate your effort.”
After the dinner meal and with the cleanup complete, Chris resumed work on the deck. He
managed to finish the job in less than two hours.
The chief came by just as Chris was finishing up and surveyed his work. “Thank you, Columbo.
Good job.”
“No problem, Chief, I am pleased you are pleased.”
“Okay then, if you would just clean up and put away the tools you can go about your business.”
Chris found the chief to be an affable fellow and liked him so he was glad to help him out,
besides it filled some of his spare time. He returned to his compartment grabbed his copy of The
Godfather and read until the desire to sleep overcame him.
At 07:30 in the morning of November 20th the Sea and Anchor Detail was set. The ship
prepared to get underway. By 08:30, they would be exiting the port city of Kaohsiung and steam
south.
IX
THE DMZ:
FIRE UP THE GRID
GENERAL QUARTERS! GENERAL QUARTERS! All hands man your battle stations. Set Condition
I throughout the ship! Secure all watertight compartments!” piped throughout the ship. Then the short
loud alarm bursts rang out. Chris, who had been swabbing the mess deck following the noon meal,
immediately dropped his mop, raced up the forward passageway, up the stairwell to the bridge and
CIC, out the port hatch to the flying bridge and up the ladder to the signal bridge. He pulled his flak
jacket from the holding bin, donned his battle helmet and sound powered phones and although it was
the afternoon took the cover off his night vision scope. Those crewmembers closer to their GQ station
than Chris were already on station; others who had to travel farther than he did arrived shortly after
him. Ensign Stafford reported the signal bridge manned and ready once the last crewmember reported
ready.
The ship had only just departed Kaohsiung and was 750 nautical miles from the gun line, so
setting GQ was merely a drill preparing for things to come. Once they were on station they simply
relaxed and chatted for the hour they had to remain on station. They would inquire of the young ensign
if he enjoyed his time in Kaohsiung and Hong Kong or if he was aware of their final destination.
Ensign Stafford walked around the signal bridge and would have private conversations with each of
those crewmembers from his division stationed on the signal bridge for GQ.
When he came to Chris, he asked, “Did someone steal your razor, Mr. Columbo?”
Chris smiled and said, “Oh this, sir, no. I thought I would let my beard grow out. I have never
worn a beard before and thought I might give it a shot and see how it looks. What do you think so
far?” he said turning and lifting his head so the red-bearded ensign could get a better look.
“Looks like it will come in very nicely.”
“I have to get accustomed to the itch,” Chris said scratching his neck.
“You will get used to it in due time. It was the same for me when I grew mine.”
“So, how are things going for you on the mess decks, Columbo?”
“The work isn’t as glamorous as chipping paint,” he joked, “but I am managing.”
“I haven’t had the opportunity until now to tell you, but I heard about how you helped Mazzarelli
on the mess decks. I want to commend you for your helping to save his life.”
“Thank you, sir, but all I really did was find him in that condition.”
“Maybe so, but your quick response helped save a life. I am just as anxious for your temporary
duty in the mess decks to end, as I welcome having you as part of First Division.”
“Thanks again, sir. I look forward to it also. I can’t help but feel a bit detached from the guys,
like I was no longer part of the crew.”
“Don’t let it bother you. Just follow your orders and perform the jobs they assign to you and in
no time at all you’ll be back with us.”
That was one of the friendliest conversations Chris and the ensign had had since he reported to
his stateroom when he first came on board. He was pleased the ensign had taken the time to
compliment him. It made him feel appreciated.
They secured from general quarters at 16:32 hours and Chris returned to his mess deck duties.
The ship steamed along relentlessly throughout the day and night. At noon the following day,
Condition II Watch Stations were set. During Condition II the crew would be on a six-hour watch
rotation, so everyone would be on watch for six and off for six. During those six hours off it was up to
the crew to rest and have their meals. The weather decks were off limits to unauthorized personnel.
Now assigned to the mess decks, Chris didn’t have to stand watch. While he was working and
cleaning up, he heard the loud booms and felt the ship shudder as the forward and aft guns test fired.
Then he heard the staccato reports of the .50-cal machine guns, as they also were test fired.
At 15:40 hours, Condition III was set and lowered to IV just before the evening meal. The crew
remained on four-hour watches until Condition II was once again set at 05:45 hours the following
morning. At 07:22 hours, both the call to set the helo and re-fueling details came over the PA system.
Chris would now find himself on the weather deck pulling line from the USS Ponchatoula (AO148). As the helicopter hovered over the helo deck delivering its six passengers, the refueling detail
pulled and tugged the fuel hoses over. Chris was impressed at the choreography of the detail. The
ship could multi-task with great efficiency. With the refueling and helo detail completed by 08:35
hours, the ship began to maneuver clear of the Ponchatoula and head to its assigned fire support
station.
When the ship arrived at the appointed fire support station, it soon began to slowly unleash a
slow and steady barrage of gunfire from both its gun mounts. The opening salvos lasted for more than
one hour. He could not help but wonder what the targets were. His duty in the mess deck would keep
him out of the loop. Before this, he felt actively engaged in the ship’s combat operations and could
witness it firsthand. Now all he could do was hear and feel what was transpiring above deck. He
would have to rely on third party accounts regarding the ship’s activities.
At the evening meal, he spoke with Polanski and learned the ship had been conducting grid-firing
missions. Spotters ashore assessed the effectiveness of the ship’s bombardment and reported one
large secondary explosion.
With a tone of sarcasm Polanski said, “Not bad after one hundred thirty-five tries.”
Later in the evening while laying in his bunk about to fall asleep he heard the gun mount above
his compartment, begin its bellicose roar. He checked his watch. It was 23:00 hours. At this point of
his deployment, he was accustomed to the sound above and succeeded to fall asleep.
When he awoke at 05:30, the guns were silent. He was on the mess deck by 06:00 to prepare for
the morning meal and as he began to eat his breakfast, the guns resumed firing. This continued for
several days and only briefly interrupted by the frequent re-fueling or re-arming and helo details. The
ship’s readiness condition changed to III. The crew remained at six-hour shifts but only one third of
them would now have watch, one third would have work detail and the remaining third would stand
down to rest. Several days passed without any fire missions as the ship prowled its area offshore
around the Quang Tri region of South Vietnam. Senior Officer Present Afloat, or SOPA, would
maneuver the ship from one fire support station to another like a piece in a chess game.
****
Thanksgiving Day was like any other at sea except for the turkey dinner. Holidays were an
illusion of normalcy for those involved in combat. Some of the crew set up Christmas lights on their
bunks. Fake miniature Christmas trees popped up in a few berthing compartments. These sights
tantalized the crew and served as visual reminders of the lifestyle left behind on the opposite side of
the globe. The ship offered thanks to the enemy by pounding the interior with fierce barrages
throughout the holiday.
Between firing missions the ship took time away from the gun line to refuel with the USS
Sacramento (AOE-1), while again receiving more passengers via helicopter. They broke away from
the Sacramento having received 43,936 gallons of distillate fuel. Two days later, the ship took on
ammunition from the USS Flint (AE-32) by helicopter. No sooner had the ammunition been stowed
away by all hands then the underway replenishment detail was set once again to receive more fuel,
this time, from the USS Taluga (T-AO62). It was like shopping in a grocery store. The replenishment
ships cruised along a straight course and their customers like the Lawrence formed two lines trailing
behind. At times, the formation traversed the open waters three abreast with the replenishment ships
in the center and warships on each side simultaneously receiving their supplies. When it was the
Lawrence’s turn it moved up alongside the Flint. When it finished its detail with the Flint it moved up
the aisle to the Taluga.
With its magazines and fuel tanks full, the ship continued to patrol off the coast at readiness
condition III. For the next several days, the ship’s guns would be silent. The crew was on six-hour
watches and could walk and work above decks. News obtained by the crew through the Armed
Forces Network and the Stars and Stripes paper reported the U.S. withdrawal from Vietnam was
progressing on schedule. At this waning point of American involvement only 16,000 troops remained
in country to advise and assist South Vietnam’s military forces. Peace talks in Paris were at a
stalemate. These news events however had little impact on the ships and crews, as their missions
remained unaltered. They were to continue to interdict with the flow of supplies from the north and
provide fire support to the South Vietnam forces still engaged in battle. It was a brief respite for the
crew of the Lawrence. Within four days, the ship resumed its assault against enemy installations.
Chris would talk to his friends in CIC and First Division to get status reports of what the ship
was firing upon and whether their efforts yielded any results. Henning told Chris spotters ashore
reported the ship hit some munitions depots resulting in several large secondary explosions and
destroyed several artillery installations.
When he listened to Henning speak he sounded as if they were winning the war single handed,
but Chris knew and felt different. In spite of all the bombing missions, he believed his ship and the
many present there would have no discernible impact on the result of the war. With U.S. troops
withdrawing combined with the fragility of President Thieu’s regime and the unwavering
determination of the North Vietnamese Politburo government, Chris believed it would only be a
matter of time before the South was overrun and assimilated by the North. He believed the significant
loss of life, expenditure of time and money would be pointless in the end, and all their effort would
be for naught. He felt nothing good had come from their presence there until he spoke with Diehl.
One evening after dinner and after the afternoon watch had been relieved Chris met up with
Diehl in their compartment.
“So what’s new? Did we pound them into submission yet? I mean are we going home soon?”
Chris asked sarcastically.
“Funny you should ask. I was on the bridge at the helm when a call came over the radio. We
could all hear it from the overhead speaker. Some guy at an outpost called for any ship in the area. He
said they were under attack, receiving heavy mortar and RPG fire and in danger of being overrun. The
XO was on the bridge at the time and responded to the call asking for their position. He checked the
coordinates on the map and said we were in a perfect position to provide fire support. He had CIC to
provide those coordinates to fire control. He told the caller we were ready to provide suppressing
fire and he should direct their fire for effect. No sooner did he patch the caller into fire control the
guns started. It was incredible! We could hear the whole thing over the radio. Once the first shells
landed, the caller adjusted the coordinates. Mount 51 adjusted slightly and fired again. Then the caller
said one was right on the mark. He kept telling them to adjust fire thirty yards to the left, back twenty
yards, and with each shell that landed he reported direct hits. After a while, he yelled, ‘You’ve got
’em on the run! Keep it up! They’re dropping their weapons and retreating.’ He kept yelling, ‘Thank
you. Thank you. You saved us!’ When the dust settled they sent out a patrol to assess the damage and
said we killed one hundred twenty of the enemy and destroyed five active artillery sites.”
“No kidding! I’m sorry I wasn’t there for that.”
Chris felt proud his ship accomplished something beneficial by saving the lives of those
servicemen. It was regrettable to him they had to take lives to save lives but what else could they do?
He was always sympathetic to the plight of the grunts ashore.
It wasn’t long ago, during their previous deployment along the line, that he witnessed a firefight
in the jungle along the beach. He happened to be on watch that evening and was the port-side lookout.
The ship had its bow pointed toward the beach and seemed to be only about five hundred yards off
the beach. The position of the ship and his perch on the port-side wing of the bridge gave him a
perfect vantage point to watch in shock as the tracer bullets zipped through the night sky in search of a
warm body to tear into. He felt sorrow for those placed in that deadly situation and respected their
courage. He was glad to learn his ship rescued those soldiers in the outpost, and disappointed that he
didn’t have an active role in their salvation. Had he not been assigned to the mess decks he would
have been alongside Diehl.
****
Another week on the line passed. It was midway through the typhoon season, although the
weather had been relatively calm. After completing an afternoon firing mission, the refueling detail
was set just before the evening meal at 17:52 hours. The ship was to rendezvous with the USS Santa
Barbara (AO-28) and refuel. A low pressure weather system approaching caused the sea to swell.
Wave crests rose between eight to ten feet. Whitecaps dotted the surrounding sea. The angry waters
corrugated the horizon.
With these deplorable sea conditions, the conning officer had to be more diligent to safely bring
the ship alongside the Santa Barbara. From his detail position along the starboard walkway, he
watched as the wake of both ships collided together. The wakes augmented the already existing crests
and the sound of their splashes echoed between the two metallic hulls as the two vessels thrashed
their way into each oncoming wave. The first line finally came across one half hour after the detail
was set. Chris and his shipmates pulled and pulled the line attached to the cable. The line spanning
the two ships would go slack whenever the turbulent waters forced the ships closer together. As the
cable entered the water, the pressure exerted by the resistance of the water made it increasingly
difficult for the line handlers to pull the cable across. Chris recalled the tug of war in the movie
“Mighty Joe Young” and thought the fifty line handlers situation a far greater challenge than those six
or seven strong men assembled to try and best the giant ape. The two ships got perilously close at one
point but in doing so aided in the coupling of the fuel line cables and hoses one half-hour later. The
decks were wet and so were Chris and his shipmates. Deeming conditions unfavorable to continue,
the conning officer ordered they break the rigs and detach the fuel hoses. In breaking the rigs a cable
whipped around and tore a large gash in PO 2nd Walsh’s leg. He was the third casualty thus far of
this deployment, though not the last. The next day during a re-arming detail an empty projectile case
hit HTFN Michaels on the head knocking him unconscious.
Yet another monotonous week on the gun line passed interspersed with more re-arming, refueling, vert repping of food stores, helo details, motor whaleboat launches, firing missions, pot
washing, deck mopping, pot scrubbing, toilet cleaning, mail calls, sweeper details, GQ drills,
steering and casualty drills. During one of the helo details Ensign Stafford left the ship bound for
temporary active duty in Da Nang. He would rejoin the ship there five days later.
The ship dropped anchor in Da Nang around 18:00 hours. After the evening meal concluded,
Chris stepped out topside. The ship had anchored just outside the mouth of the Han River. To the east
lay a hilly isthmus known as Ban Dao Son Tra. Chris walked around the ship to get a view of the rest
of the harbor. The sun hanging low in the western sky imbued the area with an orange hue. To the
south, he could make out a sandy beach bordering the harbor and ran up to the western edge.
Mountains rose in the distance and the land between the mountains and harbor was flat and
uninspiring. Many of the crew was topside relaxing on deck. Some took pictures and others just
gathered to shoot the breeze. It was a pleasant night and peaceful evening. The ship lay at anchor for a
couple of hours without any activity while darkness quickly consumed the light as the sun descended
behind the distant mountains. The surrounding colors began to gray.
While Chris was topside, Big Brown, Little Brown and SA Armstrong came out onto the deck
wearing flak jackets and helmets. Big Brown and Little Brown were wearing the typical green nylon
pistol belts and each had a holstered .45-cal pistol. Armstrong had an M-16 rifle.
“Where you going Armstrong? Kill some gooks?” asked Diaz jokingly. “Fuck off, Diaz,” said
Armstrong. He was repeatedly twitching his shoulder as if he had a tick.
“Hey, Little Brown, where you going?” Diaz called out.
“Naval support facilities. Not that it’s any business of yours, Diaz,” Little Brown wisecracked
as he and Big Brown prepared to lower the motor whaleboat.
“Hey, while you’re there how ’bout pickin’ up a couple of cases of cold beers?” quipped Diaz
back at him.
They lowered the motor whaleboat with Big Brown in it. Little Brown and Armstrong climbed
down the rope ladder and joined him. Big Brown started up the motor while Armstrong and Little
Brown unhooked the two cables from the stern and bow. They pushed off and headed off into the
sunset. It was a full moon and the sun’s reflection lit the surrounding area.
Time passed and in the distance, Chris could see the motor whaleboat returning. He looked at
his watch and concluded they were away nearly two hours and now heading back at higher speeds
than when they left. As they got closer, he noticed a fourth passenger on board and when they got even
closer he saw Ensign Stafford with them.
“Lookout, Columbo!” yelled T-Bone Wilcox pushing him aside.
T-Bone was wearing a flak jacket. Bill Carey from First Division accompanied him was also
wearing a flak jacket and battle helmet, and carrying an ammunition box.
“Here!” T-Bone said.
Carey stopped and flipped open the lid to the box. T-Bone reached in and grabbed a grenade
pulled the pin and tossed it into the water alongside the hull.
“What the hell is going on?” Chris asked.
“We got word there were sappers in the water. They may be attaching mines to the hull.”
The grenade exploded beneath the surface with a muffled boom and sent a spurt of water into the
air. They continued forward stopping every ten feet to drop another, then another, and another.
“Can you believe that?” said Chris. “We’re about a quarter mile off the beach. These sappers
must have incredible sets of lungs to swim so far underwater, unless the VC has scuba gear! How in
the world could they swim that distance without being noticed?” In spite of Chris’s skepticism of
sappers working below he recognized the VC as a resourceful adversary and was a bit apprehensive
at the prospect of the danger being real.
“Well, they could have come from one of the small boats out here,” said Farleigh.
“Maybe...maybe,” said Chris nervously as he scanned the surrounding waters for any small boats
in their vicinity. The only small boat he saw was the motor whaleboat as it pulled up alongside the
ship. Along with Ensign Stafford, Chris could see a pile of mailbags sitting on the deck of the boat.
The ensign climbed up the ladder and boarded the ship.
“Welcome back, sir,” said Chris.
“Glad to be back,” he answered.
As soon as the motor whaleboat was hoisted, the sea and anchor detail was set. Fifteen minutes
later, the anchor was hoisted and the ship again was underway bound for the gun line.
They would be on the gun line for two more days conducting six firing missions and two
underway replenishment details to refuel and re-arm. At 04:00 hours of the third day, the ship
departed the gun line en route to Subic Bay. During their eighteen days on the gun line the ship
conducted thirty-four fire missions, eighteen replenishment details and expended seventy-six tons of
high explosive ordinance.
The crew returned to readiness condition IV. They were now free to work and roam above
decks, smoke and socialize on the fantail after hours, listen to music, bullshit and joke with each other
or read and write in solitude. Chris continues to marvel at the beautiful sunsets, dolphins and flying
fish escorting the ship along its course to the Philippines.
That first night in transit to Subic Bay he returned to his bunk to find several letters and a
package. He scooped up the letters to see who they were from. One was from his father, another from
his sister, one from Rick and one from Cassie. He felt weak in the knees when he saw the name
“Cassie Rieger” as the return address. Until now, he had not thought of her for weeks. He stopped
dwelling on the past and his exploits in Hong Kong and Taiwan made him concentrate and focus more
on the present.
He was excited about receiving her letter and speculated why she might have written to him. He
fantasized and hoped she would have realized how much she truly loved him and wanted to resume
their romance. He would save her letter for last. When he checked the name on the package he was
surprised to see it was from Tony Amato.
Tony Amato was one of the regulars that patronized Screwy Lewy’s on a nightly basis. Although
her last name was Amato her friends affectionately called her “Tony TT.” The TT added to her name
was short for “Two Tons.” She was an oversized girl, weighing about two hundred fifty pounds and
possessing a vivaciously bawdy sense of humor. Her hearty laugh was infectious. She had been in the
same graduating class as his friend John and had a big crush on him, explaining why she became a
regular at the bar.
He gathered the package and letters and took them out to the fantail to read in the fresh air.
Brown Brown and the soul brother crew gathered out on the fantail listening to James Brown. Diaz,
Farleigh and Diehl were also there. Diaz and Farleigh were swapping punches to each other’s arms
when he approached them.
“Hey, what do you have there, a USO package?” said Farleigh, who then turned to punch Diaz
hard on his right bicep.
Diaz flinched some and answered Farleigh back. He hit him so hard Farleigh stumbled back.
“Ow...Ow...that one hurt!” he said timidly, reaching for his arm. “Why don’t you two clowns
knock it off,” Diehl said paternally, “One of you is going to get pissed off and who knows what after
that!”
Farleigh was eager to discontinue swapping punches after absorbing Diaz’s latest blow. He
rubbed his arm and sidled back over to join his three mates.
“So, let’s see what’s in the CARE package,” Diehl said.
Chris took his bowie knife out and cut the tape securing it. He opened it to find an envelope and
a round blue canister with Christmas tree ornaments, snowflakes and candles painted on it.
“Cool. Cookies or cake? Let’s have some,” said Farleigh trying to goad Chris into sharing his
sweets with them.
Chris took out the canister and pried open the lid. It was a dark cake sealed in a plastic wrap.
“A fruit cake!” said Diehl.
“Shit, I hate fruit cake,” said Chris. He was a bit disappointed with the contents but appreciative
of Tony T T’s gesture.
“Shit, that looks like the same cake I got last year,” said Diehl.
“That’s probably because it is!” Diaz interjected, jokingly adding, “don’t you know only one
fruit cake exists in the world? People who receive it don’t want it and then they re-gift it to somebody
they don’t like!”
“If that’s the case then, here you go, Farleigh,” Chris said laughingly as he handed him the cake.
All but Farleigh chuckled. “I don’t want it either,” he said giving him back the cake.
“I’ll give it to Watts, maybe he could find some use for it,” said Chris placing the lid back on
and the canister back in the box.
“I see you got some mail too,” said Diehl.
“Yeah, my dad, my sister, my friend Rick and one from my ex-girl,” said Chris.
“Cassie?” Diehl asked surprisingly.
“Yeah. I am equally surprised.”
“Maybe the girl came to her senses and is begging you to take her back.”
“I’ll soon find out,” he said as he fanned the envelopes in the air while backing away.
All of the mooring chocks were occupied by someone seated on them so Chris walked back to
the bulkhead of the first deck and sat down resting his back upon it. He elevated his knees, opened the
envelope and held it while resting his forearms on his knees and began reading his letters. He started
with his dad’s.
His father’s letter was dated the 23rd of November. Mail didn’t always move swiftly through the
military post office. His father hoped he was well and had a safe and happy Thanksgiving. In the
letter, he reminisced about his Thanksgiving away from home during WWII. His father said he knew
how it felt to be separated from family during the holidays but suggested Chris make the best of it as
he had to. He went on about the family’s Thanksgiving plans along with tidbits of information
regarding certain members of the family together with anecdotes about his dog. He closed as he
always did by expressing his pride in what his son was doing and continued to remind him how in
time Chris would come to agree with his father that this experience would make him more of a man.
Somewhat offended by this comment, Chris thought, What are you implying Dad? That I wasn’t a
man before?
Now feeling aggravated Chris tore open his sister’s letter. She conveyed information about
school and how she and her friends had volunteered to be Candy Stripers at the area hospital. She
wrote about some of the more irascible patients she had to deal with, but wrote that overall, she was
enjoying her experience. She said she missed him and hoped that he would be home soon. In her
postscript, she informed him that he might be getting a letter from Cassie, because Cassie had
telephoned her to ask for his address. He loved his sister. They weren’t the atypical, bickering
siblings. He always tried to help her when she was troubled and felt protective of her. Hell, he
wasn’t far removed from being a teenager himself and knew the primal urges, which lingered in a
man’s loins. He hoped and prayed she would not submit to lustful desires as Cassie had.
Now calmed down he gently opened Rick’s letter. Rick conveyed his wish for Chris to be safe
and well. He had been getting involved in the real estate market in Los Angeles and was doing well.
Jerry Nickels, one of their high school friends, had just gotten his law degree and had moved to LA.
Jerry was representing Rick in his real estate transactions. Whenever they closed a deal they
celebrated by scoring large quantities of cocaine and partied throughout the weekend. There would be
consequences to his behavior though as his wife left him. The abundance of California beauties
helped ease her departure. Another classmate of theirs, Helen Pierson, had also moved to L.A. She
found a career making porno movies, the first of which Rick produced. Wow was the only thought
Chris could muster reading this news.
Tony TT’s letter was upbeat. He could almost hear the tittering of her laugh through the words
on the paper. Her handwriting was beautiful. She wrote about the crowd at Screwy’s and about all the
crazy drunks who hung out there. Rita, the seventy-year-old drunken divorcee, was still trying to
seduce the young studs in the bar by sitting there in her brassiere and running her hand up and down
the thigh of any man who sat next to her. Jackie the weathered old-timer carpenter continued to remain
inebriated from the moment he awoke and continued to sit at the bar and make his familiar
“burrrbburrburrb” sound by forcibly exhaling, which caused his lips to flap. Tony TT went on to let
Chris know she was on a diet and in four months managed to lose fifty pounds. The gang now called
her “Tony T.” Good girl, he thought. She wished him well and hoped to see him home soon. She
apologized about the cake and claimed it was the best type of cake to send long distances without
spoiling. She continued to say, “Do what you want with it, eat it or use it as a stepstool.” Her letter
cheered him up.
He was up to the piece de resistance, Cassie’s letter. He placed it up to his nose to see if
contained any scent of her. The only scent he picked up were the vapors of SN Andre’s fart who was
sitting next to him.
“Fuck, Andre! Did you get any on you?” he exclaimed as he slid himself further away from the
stench.
Once again he lifted the envelope to his nose, sniffed it, but could not discern any hint of
patchouli scent. He formed his hands in the shape of a steeple as if he were praying with the envelope
between his hands. Maybe he could spiritually influence the contents within. He took a deep breath
and opened the envelope. It was one folded page and written on both sides.
She explained how she came to hear from Evelyn, their mothers’ mutual friend, that he was in
Vietnam. She hoped he was safe. Much of her letter was devoted to her own situation, about having
the baby and giving the baby up for adoption. Hoping to find salvation and direction, she said she was
immersing herself in the Jehovah’s Witness religion. She said her sister missed him, her mom missed
him, her father missed him and even her aunt whose hedges he once cut missed him. She never said
she missed him. At the close of her letter, she did tell him she was sorry for hurting him. She said
how it was a difficult decision for her to make and after having made it there was a period she
regretted it, but believed in the end it what was best for both of them. Near the end of their
relationship she had cheated and lied and didn’t want to continue doing that to him. She didn’t want to
cause him any more pain, and she didn’t want to feel any more guilt. She hoped he would understand
and hoped they could remain friends. She closed by writing, “May Christ Be With You and Keep You
Safe. Cassie.” It wasn’t what he had hoped to read. He folded the letter slowly with one hand, his
hands went limp, his neck went limp as he bowed his head down. He just sat there, lifeless, devoid of
emotion.
“What? Somebody die?” SN Andre said in a jovial tone.
Chris didn’t know how to respond to his inquiry. Andre was a feeble dimwit. He was a socially
inept individual from the backwoods of West Virginia with a moonshiner’s mentality. He could have
been a character from “Deliverance.” Her letter drained Chris’s spirit and he didn’t have the energy
to pop Andre in the mouth.
“No, Andre, nobody died,” he sighed as he stood up. He collected the package, “Do you want
this fruitcake?”
“Fuck, yeah!” he answered excitedly. Chris handed the package to him and slowly walked away
muttering to himself, “No, Andre, nobody died. I simply had my heart broken, once again, by the same
person.”
From a distance Diehl noticed his friend walking away with his head down and immediately
knew Chris was distressed. He left Farleigh, Diaz and Harriman and strode quickly to catch up with
Chris.
“Judging from your reaction I gather you got bad news from home?”
“Well, not bad news, just not the news I hoped to hear,” replied Chris.
“I gather it was Cassie’s letter that upset you.”
“Yeah, you gather right.”
“Sorry about that. But hey, we’re going to be back in Olongapo in a couple of days and you can
turn your attention to Layla,” he said trying to cheer Chris up, and mimicked the sexual act by pumping
his hips forward and back. Chris smiled at Diehl’s attempt. “Why don’t you join us in the
compartment? We’re going to get up a poker game. What do you say?”
Chris didn’t want to let his friend down after his effort to console him and agreed to participate.
“Where’s the cake? Did you ditch it overboard?”
“I gave it to Andre.”
“That hick ain’t gonna eat it! He’s gonna fuck it! He’s gonna bore holes around it and stick his
dick in it and fuck it!” Diehl joked and once again pumped his hips back and forth as they walked
forward.
“You can be one crazy SOB,” said Chris, grateful to Diehl for trying and succeeding to elevate
his spirits.
They played cards for several hours. When finished, Chris was up fifty and Diehl was down
twenty-five. Jordan was the big winner raking in one hundred fifty dollars of his subordinate’s money.
“Heh, heh. Always a pleasure!” he said in his gravelly voice as they left the table.
“Yeah. Thank you guys. I’ll put this money to good use in Olongapo,” teased Chris.
Diehl smiled at Chris. “Feeling better, are we?”
Chris smiled back at him and waving his arm as he left the table said, “Thanks, pal, and good
night.”
****
Chris worked the morning meal and when it was finished, Chief Lucas told him to report to
Ensign Stafford’s stateroom.
“Okay, Chief. Any idea what he wants?”
“It might be to give you your quarterly review.”
Chris quickly finished up in the scullery and walked up the passageway. He like the rest of the
crew was only wearing a white T-shirt, which had stains spattered on it from working in the scullery.
As he walked to the ensign’s stateroom, Ensign Nussbaum approached from the opposite direction.
Chris saluted him as they neared. Nussbaum returned the salute and stopped in Chris’s path about five
feet from the ensign’s stateroom.
“Look at you, Sailor. Your uniform is filthy. If you don’t want me to put you on report I suggest
you immediately go to your rack and change.”
“But, sir, Ensign Stafford wants me to report to his stateroom,” said Chris trying to explain the
urgency.
“All the more reason. Now move, Sailor!”
Chris had no option but to obey “Aye, sir.”
He saluted the officer turned and rushed back to his rack to change his shirt. That son of a bitch!
If he only knew I knew his secret, he might not be so quick to bust my balls, he thought to himself.
Maybe, I should have revealed myself to him in the massage parlor. Perhaps the ensign would be
more flexible towards him and the rest of the crew had he been made aware someone knew of his
predilection. Chris threw his soiled T-shirt into his laundry bag, opened his rack, took out a clean
one and quickly put it on. Because there were some recent thefts from crewmembers racks he made
sure to lock his bunk. He raced up the stairwell, down the passageway, through the mess decks, down
the amidships passageway to the ensign’s stateroom and sharply knocked on his door.
“Enter.”
Chris stepped into the stateroom, stood at attention, saluted the officer and said, “SN Columbo
reporting as ordered, sir!”
The ensign seated at his desk returned the salute. “You’re late Columbo, I sent for you fifteen
minutes ago. What took you so long?”
Chris explained his encounter with Nussbaum in the passageway and wondered if the ensign
would accept his alibi.
“I see. At ease, Columbo. Have a seat,” he said pulling and pointing to his bunkmate’s desk
chair.
“Thank you, sir,” Chris said as he sat down.
“In case you are unaware, we have to critique and evaluate the crew’s performance every
quarter.”
“I know, sir. As executive officer I had to do the same for the members of my ROTC drill team.”
“That’s right. Yes, I do recall you were once an Officer In Training.
It’s unfortunate you didn’t continue, I think you might have made a fine line officer.”
“That’s kind of you to say, sir, but at I had hoped to become an Airedale.”
“A naval aviator, eh? What happened? Why didn’t you pursue your goal?” the ensign said.
Chris was unsure as to how much background he should divulge to the young ensign so he
omitted the part about lamenting over a lost love and his ultimate demise. He simply reiterated his
change of heart regarding the war and confessed to sleeping through his flight physical after binge
drinking at a party the night before.
When Chris finished the ensign just arched his eyebrows and said, “I see.” With pleasantries
now out of the way the ensign continued: “Well, Mr. Columbo, since you were assigned to First
Division during the last quarter your evaluation was my responsibility. What I am holding in my hand
is your Bupers Form 1616-2.” He handed Chris a copy. “You will see we are required to evaluate
several major traits and relative standards of those traits. You are being evaluated on the following:
Professional Performance, Military Behavior, Leadership and Supervisory Ability, Military
Appearance and Adaptability. In addition, we have to provide a description about the tasks assigned
to you and a narrative as to how well you performed those tasks. Please review the form and whether
or not you agree with the comments sign in the space provided. Do you have any questions?”
“What if I don’t agree with any part of this evaluation?”
“As I said, whether you agree or not you must sign the form.”
Chris mused to himself Catch 22 is real! There is little recourse for anyone’s plight in the
military. Chris looked at the form. Each trait was gradated from high standards of performance to
inferior standards of performance. Each gradation was further subdivided into high and low levels of
observed performance.
As far as his professional performance, the ensign had checked the high level of the box under
“Highly Effective and Reliable, needing only limited supervision.”
His military behavior, which was the measure of how well he accepted authority and conformed
to the standards of military behavior, was checked off in the low level box under “Willingly follows
commands and regulations.”
Since he wasn’t a petty officer his leadership and supervisory ability was checked as “not
observed.”
His military appearance, measuring his neatness in person and dress, was checked off in the low
level box under “Conforms to Navy standards of appearance.”
His adaptability trait, which was a measure of how well he got along and worked with others,
was checked off in the high level box under “Gets along very well with others and contributes to good
morale.”
He took no exception with the ensign’s observation relating to his traits, figuring what would be
the use of contesting the ensign’s opinion.
The job description was self-explanatory and listed all the tasks performed during bridge
watches, and all the tasks performed in maintenance of those areas assigned to First Division’s care.
He read the narrative section of his evaluation: “Seaman Columbo is highly competent and has
produced viable results with little direct supervision. He has been cooperative in assisting the Chief
Boatswain Mate execute the tasks and duties assigned to the Division. He is an intelligent and
forthright individual and shows significant potential. He has the ability to complete any task assigned
in the quickest, most accurate and professional manner possible, should he desire to do so. However,
SN Columbo occasionally pauses between delegation of responsibility and acceptance of that
responsibility in order to determine its worthiness or significance. Seaman Columbo gets along well
with others, is well liked by all who come in contact with him and his sense of humor helps promote
good morale. Seaman Colombo’s appearance can be among the best in the Division but lacks
consistency.”
Chris finished reading his evaluation and thought it a fair representation of his performance.
Overall, it was neither a bad nor a sterling evaluation. He deemed it average, similar to those he used
to receive on his report cards as a child. His studies came relatively easy to him back then and took
little effort on his behalf to obtain good grades. In spite of getting good grades every single one of his
teachers always commented that Chris was capable of much more should he endeavor to apply
greater effort.
“May I have a pen, sir?”
The ensign gave him a pen from his desk. “Any questions or objections?”
“No, sir. I think you were quite fair.” He signed the form and asked, “Will that be all, sir?”
“Yes, you may go. And by the way, the beard came in nice.”
“Thank you, sir, it has grown on me,” which prompted a chuckle from the ensign, though Chris
made the pun inadvertently. He then stood and saluted. After the ensign returned his salute, he
departed his stateroom and returned to the mess decks to resume his duties.
On Tuesday morning, the ship reached its destination shortly after morning meal.
X
GANG BANGING
IN SUBIC BAY
THE SHIP MOORED PORTSIDE IN A NEST OF THREE ships and tied up to the starboard side of
the USS Katmai (AE-16) an ammunitions replenishment vessel they had rendezvoused with several
times while on the gun line. Another ammunitions ship, the USS Nitro (AE-23) was on the interior
moored along the finger pier. The ship tied up-bow out and because its stern was pier side, the
gangway spanned from the stern to the pier. Chris learned during muster that the ship would have a
Christmas party later in the week. The time and place was yet unknown. The crew would receive the
details once all the arrangements finalized. All crewmembers were invited to attend.
As usual, the crew was busy sweeping, cleaning, polishing, scraping, grinding, painting,
repairing, training and drilling throughout the workday. There were always select few who viewed
skating out of job details as one of their primary functions. Between the afternoon and evening meal
Chris and a small detail, which actually shrunk in number as the detail went on, loaded food stores
from several palettes left on the dock. Those individuals who skated from the detail started out by
carrying cases or cartons but on their way back from the reefer deck managed to slip away and hide,
which explained why there were fewer participants at the end than when the detail started.
The day went by quickly. Because Chris had duty, he had to stay on board when they announced
liberty call. That evening he wrote letters responding to those he recently received, except Cassie’s.
When he finished, he hung around topside with Farleigh, Diaz, Diehl and Harriman. The conversation
somehow turned to baseball. Diaz had learned some of the guys in engineering, weapons and
operations were arranging a softball game for Sunday afternoon. Chris loved baseball and asked how
he could get in the game.
“Are you any good?” Diaz asked him quizzically.
“Folks at home seemed to think so,” Chris said confidently and remembered what Mr. Balboa
his math teacher had written in his yearbook.
Mr. Balboa, in addition to being a fine instructor of trigonometry, was also an umpire and
worked behind the plate for several games Chris pitched. Chris had Mr. Balboa sign his yearbook in
which he wrote: To one of the best pitchers ever to graduate from Lindenhurst High School, best of
luck. I am looking forward to seeing you in the Big Leagues. He might have pursued a career in
professional baseball had he not injured his elbow pitching the opening game of his senior year.
“If you want to play go ask Mckeown in engineering,” Diaz said.
Chris thought this could be a fun-filled stay in port when factoring in the Christmas party, a
softball game and overnight liberty in Olongapo with Layla. He was anxious to get ashore and see
her.
“I will. What about you? Are you going to play?”
“For sure.”
“I didn’t pack a glove,” Chris said.
“Some guys like me have their gloves, so you can borrow one when you have to play the field.
The ship also has a sports equipment bag with gloves you could use.”
“Cool,” said Chris thinking Man, the Navy thinks of everything! Chris assumed playing ball
when in warm weather ports was something of a ritualistic pastime for many of the crewmembers,
which would explain why Diaz and a number of others packed their gloves.
****
Heavy rains continued throughout the night and into the next day. On rainy days, the crew would
scrub down their living quarters, heads and workspaces. Some topside activities such as refueling
would proceed as usual. At knockoff and following dinner, Chris had prepared to go into town with
Diehl, Farleigh, Harriman and Diaz. The deluge continued unabated from the previous night.
When Chris looked out the open hatch and saw the downpour he opted out of going ashore.
“Fuck it guys. I’m staying here,” he said.
Harriman and Diehl came to the same conclusion. The rain didn’t deter Farleigh nor Diaz, come
hell or high water Diaz was going to get laid and Farleigh was going to get blasted. Chris, Diehl and
Harriman decided to take in a movie on the mess decks instead. That night’s feature was “A Man
Called Horse,” starring Richard Harris. Each of them had seen the movie before in the theaters back
home but it wasn’t as though they were at a Cineplex with multiple theaters. When they arrived on the
mess deck the crowded tables were an indication many others on board chose not to venture out into
the wet night.
They managed to find three seats together, sat down and Harriman went to the mess line to load
up coffee filters with popcorn. Chris and Diehl had to shoo off anyone who wanted to sit in Harry’s
vacant seat.
“Sorry, Harry’s sitting here. He’s up getting popcorn,” they had to say repeatedly.
Seaman Dixon sat in Harry’s seat in spite being told not to. He was a brash, cocky black man
who either wore his hat askew over his Afro with the brim curled up or when hatless kept his pick
lodged in it.
When Harriman returned cradling three large coffee filters filled with popcorn in his arms, the
six-foot-three gentle giant said calmly, “I believe you are in my seat, Mr. Dixon.”
“Who said this seat is yours? I don’t see your name on it, motherfucker!” Dixon said almost
challenging Harriman to do something about it and loud enough for the Mess Deck Master-at-Arms,
SH1 Watts, to overhear as him.
Watts came right over to the table. “Hey, Dixon!” he said forcefully. “Get up and move!”
Dixon begrudgingly obeyed the larger black man and as he shuffled to the aisle said, “Man, why
you always sticking up for these honky sons a bitches!”
“That was his seat,” Watts told him. “I was standing right here when he got up to get popcorn.
Find youself another seat.” When Dixon was clear of the table Watts nudged him on. Since he could
not find a vacant seat, he left the mess decks talking to himself and waving his right hand in a
dismissive fashion as he walked away.
“Thanks, Watts,” said Harriman.
“Yeah, thanks,” said Chris obviously disturbed by Dixon’s behavior.
“Eh, no problem. That uppity niggah’s gonna get his comeuppance one a these days!” he said.
Chris jerked his head back a bit surprised at Watt’s comment.
“Enjoy the movie, boys,” he said and walked off.
They did enjoy the movie after which they went below and played poker with several others
from the Division. Chris won another forty, Diehl got back his losses from the other evening and
Jordan cleaned up again.
****
The next morning the rain forced them to muster at quarters. At muster they learned the Christmas
party was scheduled for Friday evening at the Oceans II Club on Magsaysay Drive. The dress code
was either civilian or military. The party was to start at 19:00 hours. After muster they cleaned and
polished the same things they cleaned and polished the day before to keep busy. The monsoon rains
made Chris wonder if he would ever get into town and reunite with Layla. Oddly enough, he missed
her and looked forward to spending time with her again. He spoke with Diaz and Farleigh during the
day about their night in town. They said Olongapo was like a ghost town as the heavy rain kept many
away. They went into several bars and could have had all the girls to themselves. However, most of
the girls kept their distance from them because they were so wet, the water dripping from their clothes
would form a puddle wherever they stood or sat. Diaz went on to say the rank odor from their dank
clothing made them even less appealing to the girls. They ended up going back to the EM Club and
drank the night away.
Later in the afternoon, the rain subsided to a mere drizzle. Chris was getting excited about the
prospect of getting into town; however, the downpour resumed just at liberty call. He would spend
yet another night on board ship.
The rain stopped by the following morning and the sun shone bright. The tropical heat helped dry
the water soaked pier. The puddles formed in the depressions of the pavement along the pier shrank in
size with each passing hour and rise in temperature. He would have to see her that evening, because
the party was the next night, he had the duty the day after and Sunday afternoon was the softball game.
He could see her again Sunday night after the game but he would like to make those arrangements with
her in advance. Chris planned to meet up with Diehl, Harriman, Diaz and Farleigh at the EM Club
after he finished with his duties on the mess decks.
After evening mess, he showered and trimmed his beard. He agreed with the ensign. He liked
how the beard looked. He kept it short. He trimmed it off his neck to just beneath his jaw and trimmed
off the high points on his cheeks trying to emulate the look of Steve Reeves as Hercules. When he
finished, he examined his face in the mirror and said to himself, “Yeah, perfect. If I could only have
his body too!”
As he dressed to “Papa Was A Rolling Stone,” he spotted the velvet bag in the corner of his
locker containing the bracelet Layla helped him pick out the last time he was in Olongapo. He
decided he would give it to Layla as a small token of his affection and gratitude for how well she
treated him in the past. He knew she liked it because she had said so when he purchased it. He put the
bag in his pocket, finished dressing, splashed on a little cologne and combed his hair. He clipped on
his watch, took one hundred dollars from his money sock, put it in his wallet, locked his locker and
raced up the stairwell, as excited as a teenager going on a first date.
He met up with Hennings and Polanski on the quarterdeck. They were also going to the EM Club
so they left together. It was the first time since they were in port that Chris was able to venture more
than twenty feet from the stern of the ship. He could now see the other vessels moored along the piers.
There were several destroyers moored abreast along Alava pier and further down was a massive
carrier.
It was the USS Saratoga (CV-60) a Forestall Class Super Carrier three football fields in length.
The crew numbered over 5,000 strong. With such a large complement of seamen in port competing for
the attention and affections of the women of Olongapo Chris thought the odds of seeing Layla
diminished.
The skies were darkening and as the trio walked towards the EM Club, along the way they came
upon several large groups of black servicemen wandering or simply hanging out. On one or two
occasions the trio had to form a single line to circle around the group, being careful not to bump or
brush into any one, concerned even such insignificant contact would be seen by those in the group as a
provocation. The loud laughter and banter of these groups always diminished every time the trio
circumnavigated them and replaced by muted whispers. Outnumbered, Chris felt on edge and at times
threatened when they encountered these mini gangs. Hennings and Polanski would later admit to
feeling the same as Chris.
Polanski said sighing in relief as they walked up to their final destination, “Well we made it
unscathed.”
Henning said, “I know what you mean. For a while I was beginning to feel uncomfortable.”
“There’s trouble brewing, here,” Chris said. “Tell me what’s the point congregating in such
large numbers, if not to start and finish the trouble started? I mean they could be in the club dancing or
in town doing whatever they want. Why hang out on the streets of the base?”
“Safety in numbers?” queried Polanski.
“I would say it is more strength in numbers. Who would and why would anybody need to gather
in packs in a place considered friendly confines? They are just trouble looking for trouble,” Chris
said.
The EM Club was packed. They stood three deep at the bar. Couples jammed the dance floor
and all the pool tables were occupied.
“Let’s try to find Diehl and the others, maybe they got a table.”
The club was so large it took them fifteen minutes to find them seated at a table in the rear
section of the club. The round banquet tables in that area were large enough to accommodate ten to
twelve people so there was room for Chris and the two radar men to sit. There were four pitchers of
beer on the table of which two were empty and the remaining two nearly empty. Diaz whistled and
waved to get the attention of the waitress.
“Jesus, some crowd tonight,” said Hennings.
“Didn’t you notice the Saratoga moored at the end of the pier?” Chris said. “I mean, I spent a
summer cruise on the Wasp a few years ago and she was small compared to her. The Wasp had a
complement of twenty five hundred. The Saratoga must have twice that!”
“Probably,” said Polanski and after a brief hesitation added, “and they’re all here!”
Diaz ordered another four pitchers. Chris asked the waitress to bring another two for him,
Hennings and Polanski. They drank, they smoked, they joked, they laughed, they danced, and those
with cameras would take pictures of the group at selected intervals to document the various stages of
their inebriation. When they’d had their fill, they left the club together and went out the main gate to
Magsaysay Drive and the Cave Bar.
The lyrics “Smoooke on the Waaaater...Fire in the sky,” greeted them as they walked into the
bar. Another packed house! The place was large enough that one could always find an empty table or
two. They spotted one on the opposite side away from the bar and to the left side of the bandstand.
While they walked around the dance floor Chris’s head swiveled back and forth like a spectator at a
tennis match, trying to see if he could spot Layla. She wasn’t at any of the tables in the bar area, she
wasn’t on the dance floor. He thought, Maybe he would not find her there after all. Maybe she had
the night off! Maybe she was already shacked up with some other Sailor or Marine! Maybe she
found a job at another club! Maybe she went off to college! Maybe she got married!
He began to realize he was starting to obsess about her and had to stop himself. “Get real buddy!
You are obsessing over a prostitute!” he had to tell himself. She ain’t here, big fucking deal! This
place is like a sardine bait ball and you are the predator. Pick out another one, he thought.
But then as he walked past a table, he saw her. Her back was to the dance floor and she was
being chummy with another, plying her trade. Their eyes met. She looked at him and tilted her head
wrinkling her nose and eyes as if she thought she was looking at someone familiar but could not place
the face. He simply smiled at her, raised his hand to his brow as though he were tipping his cap to
her, nodded his head and turned to continue onward.
Moments after he heard her call out, “Chris? Chris? Is that really you, Chris?”
He turned around.
“It is you!” she said thrilled by the sight of him. She sprung up from her seat. Her companion
reached and tried to grab her to stop her from leaving but she ripped away from his grasp and ran to
Chris. She jumped up on him, flung her arms around his neck, wrapped her legs around his waist and
began to kiss him all over his face. She stopped, placed her hands on the side of his face saying, “I
didn’t recognize you with your beard,” then began to stroke his beard.
The patron she abandoned for Chris rose from his seat and walked over to reclaim Layla. Chris
noticed him walking towards them and sensing trouble placed his hands under Layla’s armpits and
helped her dismount him. Holding her off the ground, he set her down by his side.
The patron she abandoned was a tall black muscular man. He stood about two inches taller than
Chris, but Chris outweighed him by twenty to thirty pounds.
“C’mon back here, girl!” the patron demanded.
“No, don’t want you. I want my number one guy here,” she said patting Chris on the chest.
“You have a drink that I bought for you that you haven’t touched. Now get your ass back in that
chair!” he said, his voice rising in anger.
“Hey, man, calm down. I’m sorry about your drink, but as you can see she isn’t interested. If it’s
a matter of the price of the drink, I’ll reimburse you,” Chris said reaching into his pocket for the three
dollar cost of the drink. “You know there are a hell of a lot more girls here for you to choose from.
Besides, she and I have a bit of a history together. Do you really want to get into a brawl over three
bucks and one of a hundred girls?” Chris was ready to respond in any manner his opposition chose to
although he preferred an amicable settlement.
He swayed, looked up and down and said, “Keep the fucking bitch and keep your money.”
As he left, he turned to face Layla. To tease her he asked, “Who’s the butterfly now?”
“I just doing my job,” she said pretending to be hurt. “Oh, Chris, I knew your ship came in. I
wait and wait and you no show. I thought I might not see you again or that you no want to see me,” she
said tilting her head to one side.
She looked like a naughty little schoolgirl. She had her long black hair parted down the middle
and ponytails on both sides of her head tied with red ribbon bows. She wore skintight white hip
huggers and a tight fitting top, which stopped, just below her breasts, which left her midsection
exposed. She had a red sash tied about her hips and a red scarf. To him she looked like a vanilla and
chocolate popsicle with cherry syrup and he was anxious to taste the sweetness her lissome body
offered.
“I wanted to see you too. I had duty the first night in and then the rains kept me away, but I am
here now and very happy to see you,” he said placing his hands on her bare arms. She rushed towards
him again and pressed her chest against his while she wrapped her arms around him to squeeze him.
“I can’t wait to make love to you,” she murmured.
Those eight little words gave him an anticipatory hard-on. “Why don’t we go sit down?” he said
placing his arm around her and began to escort her to the table Diehl and the rest secured. She kept
both arms around him as they walked.
“I see you found her,” said Diehl.
“Yeah, for a minute I thought I might have to defend her honor.”
“We know. We were watching,” said Farleigh.
Chris and Layla sat down. Chris got the waitresses attention and ordered a San Miguel for him
and a “Shirley Temple” for her. Chris turned to Diehl and said, “You know there is something about
this port call. I feel something ominous lurking in the air.”
“How so?” Diehl asked.
Chris reminded him of Dixon’s behavior at the movies, the unsettling encounters on the way to
the EM Club and the most recent event with Layla’s previous customer.
Diehl said, “The wise man in the storm prays God, not for safety from danger, but for
deliverance from fear. It is the storm within which endangers him, not the storm without”
“Emerson? You’re quoting me Emerson?” Chris said with a laugh. “Yeah, I guess you’re right.
So what you’re really telling me is, ‘With the past, I have nothing to do; nor with the future. I live
now.’”
“Yes, Ralph Waldo was a wise man,” chuckled Diehl. “Enjoy the moment, Carpe Diem.”
Chris smiled at his friend and turned his attention back to Layla as the drinks arrived. He paid
the waitress, gave her a tip and handed Layla her drink. “Here you go, sweets for my sweet,” he said
sensing he was going overboard, but feeling a sudden loss of control. “So do you like the beard?” he
said hoping for an affirmative response.
“It look good on you, makes you look strong. But I not particularly like beards,” she said trying
not to offend him.
“Why don’t you like beards?”
“Well,” she said lengthening the word, “because it scratch down there,” she said pointing
towards her loins.
Oh my God, he thought, there have been bolder men than I who have explored this woman’s
body! The thought of performing cunnilingus on her or any prostitute for that matter was verboten, offlimits, taboo, a definite no-no. Yet, he had made love to her a number of times without using a
condom and to this point had not experienced any signs of STDs. Would he dare cross that line to
please her? He would or would not cross that bridge when he came to it. The band started to play
“Let’s Stay Together” and Chris asked her if she would like to dance.
“I do anything you want,” was her provocative reply.
They danced and talked for the next two hours. “Do you want to leave?” he said.
She whispered in his ear, “I wanted to leave soon as I saw you. I want to make love to you.”
Boing! He had an immediate erection. With a dry mouth he bade farewell to his shipmates, rose
from the table and pulled her chair out.
She stood up and said, “Night-night,” wrapping her hands around Chris’s arm. He paid her exit
fee and then they walked to the apartment she lived in when he was last there. While they walked, she
clung to his left arm with both hands and never let go until she had to reach in her bag to retrieve the
keys to her front door.
“Is your roommate in?”
“She moved out. I have this place to myself right now. I looking for another, because it hard for
me to pay rent.”
“Sorry to hear that you have had to struggle.”
“It been hard but I manage.” She fumbled with the key.
He took it from her, “Let me.”
“Thank you, I am clumsy in love,” she said.
Wow, he thought, taken aback from hearing her statement. But he managed to dismiss it and not
respond. He wasn’t going to tell her he loved her. He enjoyed being with her and she seemed devoted
to making him happy, but her career choice was a difficult hurdle for him to overcome. He recognized
life’s circumstances compelled these girls to engage in the oldest profession and cognizant they saw it
as an opportunity to escape poverty and destitution. They would latch on, seduce vulnerable
servicemen and coerce marriage proposals thereby becoming American citizens. Forlorn over a lost
love made him vulnerable but not desperate.
“You hungry?” she asked.
Back home after nights out on the town he and his friends generally finished off the evening with
a trip to the local diner. They would consume an early breakfast and call it a night. He said, “I could
probably eat something if you will be joining me.”
“I make us, ham and eggs, okay?”
“Sure.”
“Please sit,” she said pulling out a chair from her kitchen table. She opened the tiny refrigerator
and from his angle noticed it was quite bare. A quart of milk, a quart of OJ, a package of eggs, a loaf
of bread, a stick of butter on a plate, a container of cooked rice, a small cooked ham and some small
bottles of a local drink. She took out the ham and sliced a few pieces from it. “You like scramble or
fried?”
“Fried is fine.”
There was a cast iron skillet sitting on the stove, which looked like it had seen quite a bit of use.
She applied some butter to the pan, and cracked two eggs over the skillet once the butter melted. She
added the ham and began to sing a song he could not recognize.
“You have a lovely voice, Layla,” genuinely impressed by her vocal command.
“Thank you,” she said. “I sometimes sing with a band, to make some more money.”
“Really? That’s nice. We are only going to be here for a few more days. Will you be singing
with the band by then? I would like to come and see you perform.”
“The band in Manila. I go once or twice a month to see my family and sing then.”
“Oh, that’s too bad, I would have enjoyed watching you perform.”
“Not worry, tonight I will perform for you and you alone,” she said as she scooped the ham and
eggs onto two plates and placed them on the table. He understood the innuendo and started to get
aroused again. She turned to the refrigerator took out the bread and orange juice, poured two glasses
and took out two slices of bread. She took out two butter knives from a drawer, two forks and two
cloth napkins to set the table.
They quickly devoured their meal, as both were equally anxious to devour each other for
dessert. He helped her clear the table and washed the dishes, while she went to change. When he
finished, she came out in a short silk black robe. She removed the bows from her ponytails allowing
her hair to drape over her shoulders. “We take shower together now, and then go to bed,” she said.
After they finished making love, he realized he had to get back to the ship, he tapped her on the
buttocks and said, “Sorry, honey. Although I would like to stay, I have to get back to the ship.”
“No, don’t go,” she said as she snuggled atop him. “You stay, we make love all day.”
“Temping offer, but I have to go,” he said as he gently moved her off him and slid off the bed. He
stood and gazed upon her as he began to dress. She turned on her side and cuddled the pillow his
head lay upon, breathing in his scent. She looked beautiful prone on the bed half clad with the sheet
draped over her lower body, and her wistful hair covering part of her face as she lifted herself to rest
up on her elbow.
“When I see you again?” she asked.
“I can’t tonight, or tomorrow, but I hope we can get together on Sunday.”
“Sunday? No, Sunday not good for me. My friend Brenda getting married to Marine on Sunday. I
be in Cabanatuan all day and night,” she said with sadness and disappointment in her voice.
He knew the ship would depart on Tuesday morning. “Then it will have to be Monday night,” he
said looking around for his shirt and through the bedroom doorway saw it on the floor in the hall
outside. He retrieved it and pulled it over his head. Reaching into his pockets for money to give her
he felt the velvet pouch containing the bracelet he intended to give to her.
“I want you to have this,” he said and sat on the bed.
She sat up and held out her hand. He placed one hand under the back of her hand, placed the bag
in her palm and gently closed her fingers around the bag.
She pulled open the drawstring and poured the contents of the bag into her awaiting palm. She
gasped and recognized the bracelet. “Oh Chris. You bought this for me?” excited to receive this from
him.
“Yes,” he lied.
“You do love me,” she said as though all her apprehensions about him had been disposed.
Not wanting to hurt her, he lied again, “Yes.”
Again, he reached into his pocket to give her some cash
“Here, take this too. I know things must be difficult for you here. I know you can use this.” He
counted out fifty dollars.
She rose to her knees and walked upon them to him. “I no want your money. I want only you,”
she said throwing her arms around his neck and kissing him lovingly.
“Me too, but take it anyway.” He didn’t have to ask her twice. “I have to leave now.” He kissed
her, stood up, waved to her and left her apartment. It was getting late and he would have to sprint
back to the ship to get there on time.
Their daily routine continued. At knockoff, the crew was animated and eager about the
impending ship’s party. The current duty section was split in two leaving only a skeleton crew on
board. They would be relieved in two hours by those allowed to attend the party. Food and drink
would be compliments of the U.S. Navy, so the crew who chose to attend bypassed their customary
stop at the EM Club. By the time Chris, Diehl, Farleigh, Diaz and Harriman arrived, the party had
already begun. The party was held on the second floor of the club. The band had not yet begun to play
as the guests were still arriving.
Chris’s group entered through the doors of the sparsely lit hall. To their left was the bandstand
where a four-piece rock band was nearly finished setting up. A large dance floor was spread before
and straight across was a long bar with two bartenders busy taking care of the early arrivals.
Interspersed amongst the crew and around the bandstand was about fifty bar girls in tight fitting miniskirts.
There were several banquet tables lined up to their right. Servers with ladles in hand were
standing by a series of buffet trays. Plastic knives, forks, spoons, napkins, paper plates and plastic
glasses were laid out on the first table. Chris and his mates walked along the tables to inspect the
offerings. There were trays of penne a la vodka, brown rice, baked potato and yam quarters, string
beans with sliced nuts, green salad, bread rolls, and at the last table was a roasted pig. It had not yet
been carved. The huge swine lay on a large section of plywood with its legs folded, as a dog would
lie upon its stomach. Chris estimated the pig to be between one hundred fifty to two hundred pounds.
The hoofs, ears and tail remained on the pig. The crisp outer skin glistened under the warming lights
above it. The eyes remained open and a large apple embedded in its mouth. He had never seen a
whole roasted pig nor had he ever eaten meat prepared in such a manner. Up to this point, he had only
had pork in the form of chops, bacon, glazed hams, boneless pork loin roasts and pork sausage. He
was at first repulsed by the sight but the aroma wafting around it was irresistible and made him
salivate. He looked up at the server standing by with a large carving knife in one hand and sharpening
wand in the other.
“No need to cut it,” Chris joked. “I’ll take the whole thing.”
Beyond the banquet tables, were large wooden booths with tables and high backed benches
lining the exterior wall. Adjoining them were large circular banquet tables with wooden chairs
surrounding them. Some of the tables and booths had occupants. They found a booth and sat down.
Chris offered to retrieve the first round of beers and Harriman volunteered to go with him. They
walked over to the bar and he nudged his way in toward the bar.
When he reached the bar, two bar girls flanked him. The tall one at his right said as she ran her
fingertips down his right arm, “Hi sailor boy. You buy me drink?”
He turned and looked her up and down. She looked like she was wearing aluminum foil. The
tight fitting silver lame bodice dress clung to her body like paint. Her breasts were ample. From the
neck down, she was divine. Above the neck, she was not. The aboriginal features of her face didn’t
compliment the rest of her. He didn’t want to offend her and simply said, “Maybe later.”
He succeeded in getting the attention of the bartender and ordered ten San Miguel beers. The
bartender popped the caps off and placed them on the bar in front of him. He passed five to Harriman.
He tipped the bartender, grabbed the remaining five bottles and wiggled his way away from the bar.
“That was close,” he said to Harriman as they walked back to their friends.
“I’ve seen battered women who looked prettier than her,” joked Harriman.
The hall was starting to rapidly fill up. The chow line had formed, the band began to play,
couples danced, and the noise level increased. Loud laughter and merriment swelled and echoed
throughout the hall. The officers present were in their khaki uniforms and occupied a table across the
hall from them. Chris and his mates got on the chow line. He filled one plate with the pasta, potatoes,
beans and rice. Atop the plate, he placed two rolls and pats of butter. He wrapped his utensils with a
napkin and placed them in his back pocket. On his second plate he piled on salad and dressing. The
server cut a sizeable chunk of pork with crispy skin still attached and placed it on top of the salad. He
held the plate up to his nose, inhaled and imbued his lungs with the mouth-watering aroma. They ate
as if it was their last meal on earth washing it down with gulps of beer.
The party was in full swing now. They would take turns to get up and dance to work off the
satisfying meal, leaving a residual force to retain ownership of the booth. The officers walked about
the hall stopping at tables to chat with the occupants. The band had played for an hour and took a
break. When they returned one of the band members took hold of his microphone.
“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. Welcome to the Oceans II Club. We are the ‘Dee Lites’
and pleased to be here to entertain you. But now for your viewing pleasure we would like to
introduce the exotic, the erotic, Cleopatra!”
The band began to play. The music had a Mideastern flair. Suddenly, a young belly dancer
emerged from behind the bandstand. She glided along onto the dance floor. She was holding veils in
her hands and with her arms spread looked like a butterfly circling the floor. She finally stopped and
began her act. She thrust the lower part of her torso forward and quickly jerked her hips left and right
sinuously raising her arms above her head intertwining them as she did. Then with her arms above her
started to bend various parts of her body creating a vertical wave. She clasped castanets in her hands
and clicked them together keeping tempo with the background music. On an on she went and glided to
the outside of the dance floor passing along the tables bordering the floor. She stopped periodically
and gave lap dances to some of the guys who had their chairs turned towards the dance floor. She
even gave LTJG Richards a lap dance. The crew howled in laughter and approval as he grabbed her
sides and tried to prevent her leaving. She pretended to slap his face as she broke from his grasp. He
was grinning from ear to ear. Yeoman Gleason ran out onto the dance floor, placed an empty bottle of
beer on the floor and put a few coins on top of the bottle. He tried to get her to perform the same trick
they had all witnessed at the Cave Bar, months earlier. She would not comply, but wiggled her finger
in a no-no manner.
She disappeared behind the bandstand only to re-emerge, but this time she had a large yellow
and white snake draped across her shoulders. She continued to dance with the snake and the snake
seemed to know exactly what was demanded of it as it slithered around her upper torso and down
around her waist. She extended one leg coaxing it. The snake’s head now behind her soon emerged
from between her loins. The image of the snake as it revealed itself from her crotch caused the crowd
to roar in laughter. From the side she looked hung like a horse. The snake continued on its path down
her leg. She eventually grabbed the snake and when she had full control, lifted it over her head and
back down to her shoulders. They all applauded and laughed as she bowed and raced off the dance
floor.
Some of the guys went up for second helpings of pig. The beers kept coming and the night’s
revelry continued unabated. Chris and the others at his table had a good buzz on when Ensign Stafford
came by and sat with them. The ensign had been imbibing good portions of alcohol himself and by the
time he joined them was three sheets to the wind.
All the occupants of the booth greeted him with, “Evening, sir.”
“How you boys doing? Having a good time?”
“Yes, sir,” was the entire group’s reply.
Diehl asked, “How about you, sir?”
The drunken ensign spread his arms out creating the gesture of “what do you think?”
“Damned good time!” he said enthusiastically.
Just then a young Filipino came by the table.
“Hello,” he said, “allow me to entertain you!”
“Go ahead, let’s see what you got!” said the ensign.
The young man had a cord wrapped around the fingers of one hand, which he began to unravel.
When he finished, he displayed its length by holding it diagonally in front of his body and tilted his
body to the side as a point of emphasis. Then he straightened up and began to wad the cord in his left
hand. The group sat and watched and wondered, Okay, so what? The boy held the wadded string to
his nose and quickly snorted one end of the string up his nose.
“Oh, gross!” yelled Farleigh.
The boy continued with his act and you could tell by the actions of his jaw and throat he was
maneuvering the cord down his nasal passage to his throat. He opened his mouth, pulled out the other
end and alternately tugged on both each end flossing his nasal passage.
“Ugh!”
“Fuck!”
“Gross me out!”
He slowly ended that part of his act by pulling the cord through his nasal passage and out of his
mouth.
“Pretty goddamned disgusting,” Diehl said.
“It would be worse if he snorted it and pulled it out of his ass! Don’t you think?” joked Chris.
The entire table bellowed in laughter.
“What else can you do?” Diaz said.
The young man raised his index finger, signifying he had more skills to display. In the palm of
his other hand he had several sewing needles nestled. He took one, held it out in front of him, and
rotated his upper body so that all could see what he was holding.
“What are you going to do now? Knit a sweater?” asked Farleigh impatient with this crude
performer.
The young man lifted the pin to his neck, pinched skin between his fingers and pushed the pin
through the flap of skin.
“OHHHHH!” shouted the group in unison as they all pulled back in revulsion at the sight of this
man skewering himself. He wasn’t yet finished as he stuck another pin through the other side of his
neck. The table reacted as they did before.
“OHHHH!”
“That’s got to hurt!”
“See what a college education can do for you!”
When he finished, he removed the pins and took a bow. Nobody applauded. He held his hand out
seeking payment for his performance.
“You’re kidding! You want us to pay you for grossing us out?” shouted Farleigh.
Diehl took out a dollar from his pocket. “I’d say that was worth a buck.”
Chris followed his lead, as did Harriman, Diaz and Ensign Stafford. Farleigh refused to pay this
guy anything. The young man walked off to gross out the next table.
The party ended at midnight. Some of the partygoers continued to party the night away and went
off to bar hop along the strip. Some visited the opium dens. Chris had enough. He was tired from his
long night with Layla and the day’s activities. He said he was going to head back to the ship.
Harriman chose to go with him. The rest of their party remained in Olongapo. Chris fell into a deep
sleep as soon as his head hit the pillow.
He woke with a small hangover and popped a couple of aspirins.
Liberty call was held following morning meal. The ship and crew observed weekend liberty.
During weekend liberty schedules they would perform their early morning clean-up details and knock
off early. Liberty would commence at 09:30 hours on the weekend. Chris didn’t have to work the
afternoon meal. At those times, the mess cooks would lay out luncheon meats and bread. Any one who
wanted to eat was free to make sandwiches.
Chris wanted to leave the ship during his lunch hour and go to the PX to buy a pair of sneakers to
wear at the softball game. He met up with Harriman, told him he was going to the EM Club for lunch
and then to the PX to buy a pair of sneakers. Eager for company he asked Harriman if he wanted to
join him. Harriman said he would. They left the ship in their working uniforms.
They found a vacant table in the corner of the club just outside the kitchen. Soul brothers
occupied all the tables around them and amongst them was Dixon from Fox Division. There was a
mixture of both Sailors and Marines.
The waitress came by and took their orders. Each ordered a bottle of Boone’s Farm wine and
submarine sandwiches. She came back in ten minutes with their wine and glasses. She said she would
be right back with their meal. Chris unscrewed the cap from his bottle of wine and held the cap to his
nose.
“Ahhhh. Smells like a good week,” he said.
By the time the waitress returned with their sandwiches they had emptied half their bottles and
asked her to bring two more. They talked and Chris learned more about Harriman and his home life.
They shared stories and kidded around with each other.
By the time they were emptying their third bottle of wine the group next to them must have
consumed their fourth or fifth bottle. Without any provocation, a Marine turned to Harriman and began
to bark some nonsense to him.
“I don’t know what you are talking about,” Harriman told him.
The Marine stood up from the table and walked the two steps necessary to close the distance
between him and Harriman.
“I said, what you say about my brothers here?” and as he asked him he poked his finger at
Harriman’s eye.
Harriman turned his head to avert his finger, which didn’t stop the Marine as he moved his hand
along and kept trying to poke Harriman in the eye.
The Marine asked him again in a louder voice, “What you say to my boy here?”
“I didn’t say anything to your boy!” Harriman responded, seemingly agitated by the Marine’s
actions.
Not satisfied with Harriman’s answer the Marine continued until Harriman stood up.
Chris sat there in disbelief and said, “Hey, man, what are you trying to do? He didn’t say a word
to your friend.”
“Stay out of this man!” barked the Marine.
Harriman backed away from the table to avoid any confrontation, but he would not succeed. Five
Sailors and Marines immediately surrounded him. Chris sat watching wondering what to do. The
Marine continued to taunt Harriman and pushed him.
Chris knew he had to do something and stood up placing himself between the Marine and
Harriman.
“What are you doing? He didn’t say anything! We just came here for lunch and have been sitting
here quietly. We don’t want any trouble. We were just about to finish our drinks and leave.”
A tall black Sailor standing next to the Marine felt emboldened by the weight of numbers and
without saying a word shoved Chris.
“Come on man, knock this shit off, please?”
The Sailor said, “Yeah, I’ll knock it off. I’ll knock your fucking head off.” He again pushed
Chris and took a swing at him.
Chris saw the punch coming and leaned back to avoid it. He had now lost his patience and his
cool, charged at the Sailor and grabbed him by the shirt. Chris now enraged easily lifted his opponent
up in the air and continued to run forward. With a sudden crash, he burst through the swinging doors,
which led into the kitchen with his opponent scrambling to free himself from Chris’s hold. Screams
from the women in the kitchen rang out in terror as the pair rushed through the door. When Chris
slammed the man against the wall opposite the door a loud “BAM!” echoed in the tiny kitchen alcove
as the man’s back and head hit the wall.
Still in control, Chris threw the man down on the floor where his head hit the wall to their left.
Chris filled with rage pounced on the man bludgeoning his head with his fists. Unrelenting he was
oblivious to the Sailor’s back up. They were trying to pull Chris off him. Someone broke a bottle
over his head, and then another. One even tried to use the remnants of the broken bottle to cut his face.
His beard provided an effective line of defense. Then Chris felt someone trying to pull his bowie
knife from its sheath. By now, he had dispatched his opponent who lay limp on the floor. Chris,
hunched over, grabbed the hand groping for his knife and because he was in a perfect position
executed a hip toss flipping the Marine on top of the Sailor on the floor in front of him. Chris dropped
an elbow into the mouth of the Marine and felt it sink into his mouth as his bicuspids folded back from
the force of the blow. He now began to pummel the Marine while those behind him punched and
kicked him.
“That’s enough!” he heard someone yell. “Let me through!” Then he heard the voice immediately
behind him yell, “Knock it off!”
Suddenly they stopped hitting him and he felt a pair of hands grab him from his underarms and
pull him up. He discontinued his assault on the Marine and complied with the request to stop. Chris
stood erect and stepped aside from his two victims on the floor with his back to the wall. He turned
and confronted by a sizeable black man dressed in a suit. Chris was stunned to see a host of black
males standing in a semicircle behind him. They were all bouncing, swaying, pointing and swearing
at him.
The man in the suit said, “I’m the manager here, what’s going on?”
“I really don’t know what happened or why it happened. My friend and I were just enjoying our
lunch when he was attacked for no reason whatsoever.”
The crowd behind the manager heard Chris’s explanation. They dismissed his explanation as a
lie and became more vocal.
“We gonna kill that honky motherfucker.”
A few seconds after Chris spoke someone from the second row of the mob reached over and
broke a bottle over his head.
Chris could see the manager was powerless to stop them. “That’s it! I have to get back to my
ship!” Chris said and swam his way through the crowd. He almost made it through. When he exited
the kitchen, someone grabbed him by the arm spinning him around and “WHAM!” he took a shot on
the jaw.
The blow knocked Chris back towards a table, which he used to steady himself extending his
arms. With his arm grabbed again, he turned and received another blow to the jaw. He stumbled back
to the billiards area of the EM Club. Chris circled one of the pool tables to separate himself from his
attackers. A contingent of the mob rounded the corner in pursuit of him. He looked for something to
use to defend himself and keep them at bay.
POOL BALLS! He picked up a billiard ball in each hand and called upon his pitching skills.
“Fastballs, nothing but fastballs,” he said to himself. He unleashed the first at the closest assailant.
“SMACK” right between the eyes and down he went. He transferred the one in his left to his right,
spotted another and flung it at him. The assailant tried to block the eight ball with his hand, but
Chris’s fastball was just too fast. “THUMP,” right in the sternum. The attacker clutched at his chest in
pain.
Chris needed to reload. Having to reach for some more billiard balls afforded one of the
marines the opportunity to outflank him. Chris didn’t see him. The Marine grabbed a cue stick, raced
towards Chris from behind and “THWACK!” Chris could feel the stick break across the back of his
neck. Severely outnumbered and outflanked Chris decided to play possum and slumped to the floor
into a ball. Several of the attackers surrounded him and as he lay there in a fetal position covering his
head, they repeatedly kicked and beat him.
All the while he could hear them yell, “Kill the motherfucker! Kill the mother fucker!” He didn’t
know if it was the drink or adrenaline, but he didn’t feel any pain from the blows raining down on
him. In some ways, he thought it felt quite like getting a forceful massage.
They beat on him for a couple more minutes when at last the Shore Patrol stepped in and with
their batons, batted the assailants off him. While two of them held off the mob, a third knelt down to
Chris and placed his hand on his exposed shoulder.
“Hey, buddy. Are you okay?” Chris sensing the worst was over uncovered his head and looked
up to see the Shore Patrol above him.
“I think so,” said Chris unsure of the damage done.
“Just stay there. There’s an ambulance on the way to take you to the infirmary.”
“Ambulance?” Chris started to check himself for blood concerned he might have been stabbed
without realizing it.
“Take it easy and stay still.”
“I’ve got to get back to my ship.”
“Be cool, I don’t want you to get up. These guys might start up again!” he warned.
Chris understood. He let out a deep sigh and placed his head on the deck waiting for the
corpsmen. The ambulance arrived five minutes later pulling a gurney behind them. They went directly
to Chris forcing the crowd to separate and give them passage. They asked the Shore Patrol what the
problem was and he told them that his injuries were the result of a fight.
One of the corpsmen approached Chris, “Are you all right? Does anything feel broken? Do you
feel any pain around your spleen or kidneys?”
“Can I sit up?”
“If you feel up to it I suppose you can.”
Chris sat up and cradled his bent knees with his elbows. He rubbed his jaw, “I might have had
my jaw broken,” he said.
“It is pretty swollen,” said the corpsman. “We are going to take you to the infirmary for X-rays
and the doctor can check you out.”
“What about my friend, Harry? What happened to him?” Chris asked. “Your buddy is fine.”
“Oh, good, good,” Chris said shaking his head up and down, and began to stand up.
“Are you sure you don’t want us to wheel you out?”
“I’m okay. I’ve received worse beatings in my life,” he said with false bravado.
That wasn’t true. Chris had been in several fights in his life but never lost one until now. Then
again, he never encountered such lopsided odds. The corpsman steadied Chris after he stood. He
placed Chris’s left arm over his shoulder and grabbed it with his left hand. He placed his right arm
behind Chris’s back and began to escort him through the crowd and out of the club.
Chris sat in the back of the ambulance. The two corpsmen hopped into the front.
“Hey, can you turn on the siren?” Chris asked in jest.
The corpsman who helped him said, “That’s for emergencies only, buddy.”
“What went on in there?” asked the other corpsman.
“Damned if I know,” he said, proceeding to fill them in on most all of the details.
Both corpsmen were white and they began to tell Chris incidents like this had increased ten-fold
since the Saratoga arrived. They told him a white Sailor had his chest-slashed open and found
dumped in some shrubs. Fortunately, he survived the attack. There were a number of gang assaults on
base and in Olongapo reported during the past week. The common denominator was these incidences
involved gangs of black servicemen attacking white servicemen.
Chris was upset at hearing these tales. He knew the answer but asked the naïve questions
anyway, “For Christ sakes, why? Why in the world are we fighting amongst ourselves?”
“Revenge,” was the corpsman’s brief answer.
Chris thought, Revenge, he is right. It was clear to him that the black population oppressed for
over two hundred years was granted equal civil rights only eighteen years ago. In spite of the passage
of the Civil Rights Act, the larger segment of the black population remained socially and
economically deprived. They remained in the ghettos of the larger cities and living conditions there
were light years apart from the ones he enjoyed back home. The Black Panther movement struck fear
in the hearts and minds of the white majority. The young in the ghetto idolized and emulated such
groups. In unity, there was strength and power. Chris understood the cause and effects of the situation
but the idealist in him thought it senseless for someone to inflict harm on a complete stranger without
any direct cause. Harry didn’t threaten or pose a threat to those individuals in the club. They
threatened him because they wanted to diminish him. They attacked me because I rose to defend
him.
He had X-Rays taken of his jaw and waited in an examination room to meet the doctor and hear
the results. The doctor walked in within fifteen minutes and inserted the X-Rays onto the projection
glass. Nothing was broken. He told him to expect to feel sore for the next two to three days. Chris
should put some ice on it to keep the swelling down. He thanked the doctor and hopped off the table
and as he did saw his face in the mirror above the sink. He walked up to it to get a closer look. The
lower lip on the right side of his face was puffed up and the upper cheek swollen on the left side of
his face. Other than that, he felt fine. He walked out of the infirmary and grabbed a shuttle bus back to
his ship.
The hour he expected to take for lunch turned into four. When he crossed the quarterdeck, LT
Neville was there to welcome him. Word of the fight had already made its way to the ship. The
lieutenant told Chris that when the XO heard about the attack he went to the Provost Marshall’s office
and vociferously complained. He wanted the base to take action against those who started the fight.
“That’s all well and good, sir, but they won’t do anything. From what I learned this kind of shit
has been going on all week.”
“The captain wanted me to have you report to his stateroom as soon as you reported back on
board.”
“Yes, sir, will do.”
Chris bumped into Brown-Brown as he made his way up to the captain’s quarters.
“Man that was some fucked-up shit you stepped in there!”
“You were there?” asked Chris wondering if he was part of the group that encircled him.
“Yeah, man, we were sitting on the opposite side. We could see what was happening. When all
hell broke loose, I was going to come and help, but the Shore Patrol kept everybody away. They
wanted to stop a full-fledged brawl from breaking out. That was some nasty shit you pulled man, you
took out about four of them suckers when you grabbed that one guy!”
“So you were there?” Chris said surprised.
“Yeah, man, I told you I was!”
He and Brown-Brown got along okay and after Chris helped him in Hong Kong he had no reason
to think Brownie was part of the mob.
“Did you know Dixon was in that group?” Chris asked.
“Yeah, man, I saw him, too. I told him it was fucked up of him not to try and stop it.”
“And what did he say?”
“He said there was no way he could. He told them you guys were part of his crew. Them boys
from the Saratoga just made up their minds to kick ass on some white dude. Tag, you was it, brother.
Wrong place, wrong time.”
“You got that right.” He paused a moment looked down and said, “Well I have to go and see the
captain.”
“Okay, man. Give him my regards. Ha, ha. I’ll catch you later.”
Chris rapped hard on the captain’s stateroom door twice.
“Enter!” he barked.
Chris entered the stateroom, removed his cap, and stood at attention. “Seaman Columbo
reporting as ordered, sir.”
The captain and XO were the only people on board with a single room. The captain’s quarters
were located near CIC in the ship’s superstructure. A single porthole provided light and air. The
captain’s bunk was on the exterior bulkhead and alongside the abutting bulkhead was a small desk
and bookcase. Opposite his bunk were a small table and several chairs for dining.
“At ease, Mr. Colombo. Take a seat.”
“Thank you, sir.” Chris sat down in the empty chair.
“How are you feeling?”
“Like I did after most of my football games, sir. A bit banged up.”
The captain chuckled at Chris’s answer. “I am sure you do. Now tell me what happened.”
“Yes, sir,” and Chris recounted the incident to the captain.
When he finished, the captain became the “Consoler in Chief.”
“You know those boys who attacked you have probably come from different circumstances than
yourself,” the captain said.
Chris thought, Oh, here it comes. The bleeding heart sermon. He is going to offer excuses for
their behavior and suggest I understand their situation. He would not want me to offer up any
reprisal, seek revenge or have any bias against his black shipmates for enduring that beating.
Chris listened to the captain give him the exact lecture he expected. When he was finished, the captain
asked him if had any questions or concerns.
“Just one, Captain.”
“And what is that?”
“Let us assume this happened to your son. How would you feel then, sir?”
The captain was surprised at the question and the brashness of this seaman to even ask it.
“Truthfully, Mr. Colombo, I really don’t know.”
“Will that be all, sir?”
The captain seemed upset his speech didn’t placate Chris enough to satisfy him. “Yes, you may
go.”
“Very well, sir,” and Chris left the stateroom more upset than when he entered.
After his pep talk from the captain, Chris went to find Harriman to see how he fared after their
encounter. He found him on the forecastle with Jordan.
Jordan chuckled at the sight of Chris. “You took it on the chin, I heard.”
“That ain’t no lie,” Chris said rubbing his chin to emphasize the point. “From what I hear, you
gave as good as you got.”
“Don’t know about that, since I was the only one taken to the infirmary.”
“Well, you’ll live, at least a while longer,” joked Jordan, laughing. Chris turned his attention to
Harriman. “How did you make it out of there?”
“I just crawled up into a ball in the corner and let ’em hit me,” he explained.
“No harm done?”
“Nah, I’m okay. How ’bout you?”
“Like Jordan said, I’ll live. I do want to apologize to you, though.”
“For what?”
“For stepping in as I did. Nothing might have happened if I hadn’t intervened.”
“You really think that? I don’t. Those guys wanted a fight. You gave them one, for sure. I should
be thanking you for standing up like you did.”
“I would like to think you would have done the same for me,” said Chris.
“Maybe.” Harriman paused for a second, then added with a laugh, “Maybe if there were twenty
fewer guys!”
Chris laughed along with him, relieved he and Harry made it through their escapade without
serious injury. Chris suddenly realized he never made it to the PX and exasperated said, “Fuck, I
never made it to the PX to buy a pair of sneakers!”
“Take someone else this time,” Harriman said, which prompted them both to laugh.
“By the way, did the captain call you up to his stateroom, too?”
“No.”
Puzzled only he was called before the captain, Chris said, “I wonder why?”
Harriman made still another joke. “Maybe, because I don’t look as beaten up as you,” he said.
Chris playfully slapped him across the arm. “You’re a funny guy, Harry! Are you hungry?”
“Yeah, I am.”
“Me too. Do your want to go to the EM Club for round two?” Harriman laughed.
“Come on let’s head up to the mess decks. My treat.”
Chris spent the night reading. Diehl and several others played poker while others listened to
music. He went topside and walked around the deck for a while before hitting his rack. During his
walk, some members of the crew approached him telling him they were at the club at the time of the
fight. They corroborated Brown-Brown’s account about the Shore Patrol stopping others from
interfering. All of them praised Chris for the account he made of himself considering the numbers of
about twenty to one. It seemed he had gained stature and the respect of the crew in spite of losing the
fight.
The following morning, after breakfast and liberty call, he went to the PX only to find it closed
on Sundays. He thought, Shit, this means I have to play in my shoes! I’m going to look like an idiot
out there and will be slipping and sliding all over the place. Lacking the proper equipment, he
considered not playing at all, but he missed playing ball and thought it might be some time before the
opportunity would present itself again. Those who were going to play were to meet at the baseball
field by 13:00 hours.
Chris and Diaz went together. Diaz was decked out in his warm-up pants and a baseball jersey.
He also had a gym bag containing his glove and cleats. Chris wore his working blue jeans, t-shirt and
work shoes. They arrived at the field to find a number of the players tossing the ball around. Some of
them were already in the field taking grounders and fly balls. Chris found the equipment bag and
searched for a glove. He found an old Rawlings model similar to his at home, and walked out on the
field to warm up. Twenty-five guys showed up to play. Each team would play with a short fielder so
there would be ten fielders per team. So that everyone would be involved, the lineup included every
player on each team. Since there were twenty-five guys one team would have a lineup of thirteen
batters and the other twelve.
McKeown and Holcomb were the team captains. They chose sides as kids used to do with the
bat. One of the captains tossed a bat to the other who caught it with one hand. Then they went hand
over hand or split fingers up to the end of the bat barrel. The individual who controlled the last
portion of the exposed handle won the right of first selection. All the participants lined up and went to
the dugout of their respective captain.
Neither of the captains knew of Chris’s skill level at baseball, so it stood to reason why he was
one of the last players selected. He ended up on Holcomb’s team being his next to last selection. To
simplify matters they would bat in the same order selected with the captain batting first.
Holcomb’s team was designated as the home team. Holcomb was familiar with most of the
players on his team and knew precisely where to have them play in the field. When he had two spots
open, he simply asked a player of the positions remaining where they preferred to play. He didn’t
choose Chris to start in the field. He sat on the bench with Fred Branson and watched as his team
warmed up fielding grounders and fly balls.
Many of them appeared to be talented ballplayers; in particular, those who had the garb like
baseball pants and jerseys. Chris could judge the skill level of the player by looking at how well they
moved to the ball. Would a player crow hop to field a ball in front of them when applicable; did they
use a crossover step; did they charge the ball to create a better hop and opportunity to field the ball;
how fluid was their throwing motion; and how strong were their arms? From those few criteria, he
determined several of the players out on the field weren’t skilled athletically. Perhaps their ability at
bat would justify their starting before him. He would wait and see.
While they observed from the dugout Branson asked, “What happened to you?”
Chris assumed everyone on board had known what happened, because news on board ship
tended to spread like wildfire through the dry California countryside. In that respect, Sailors were
like chatty housewives.
“I guess you hadn’t heard. I got into a little tussle yesterday at the EM Club.”
“All I heard was that a couple of guys got into a fight with some SPs.”
“What?” Not only did word travel fast but just as in the old game of telephone news became
distorted. “That’s not how it went down at all!” Chris recounted the actual events to his bench mate.
When he finished Branson said, “Well that was fucked up shit, man. So, you’re okay?”
“A little battered and a little bruised, but other than that, yeah, I am fine and ready to play some
ball.”
The game started. By the fifth inning, Holcomb put Chris and Branson in the outfield. Chris
played in right and Branson as the short fielder. Chris went two for five. He hit one single and one
triple driving in two runs in the process. He had one ball hit in his direction, which made for an
embarrassing moment. He had to run to cut the ball off and when he went to stop, and field it, his feet
slipped on the grass causing them to fly out from under him putting him flat on his ass. His team made
a valiant comeback but ultimately lost the game 17-15. After the game many of the players elected to
head to the EM Club to quench their thirsts. Chris passed on the invitation to go along. For the time
being, he had enough of the club.
****
When Chris reported on board, he saw, OSSN Scolaro and SMSA McGowan on the
quarterdeck. As he approached them, he could see Scolaro sported a mouse over his right eye and
McGowan had a gauze bandage wrapped around his left elbow plus a blackened left eye. They were
talking to Ensign Wellman, the Watch Officer, and BM 3rd Class McLane, the BMOW. Scolaro and
McGowan were equally agitated. McLane was standing aside the ensign and the bruised pair.
Chris quietly asked McLane, “What happened to them? Were they attacked too?”
“Yeah. Apparently, McGowan bumped shoulders with some jarhead hanging around at the main
gate with a few of his brothers. The Marine went after McGowan. Scolaro was drawn into it when he
tried to separate the two. Kind of like what happened to you and Harry. I also heard J. T. Hooper
from engineering got attacked earlier this morning walking back from the EM Club.”
Chris was in disbelief. “Man, this shit has got to stop!”
“I agree, but I don’t think it will.”
Chris thought the same way McLane did. The Navy will not do anything about it. What could
they do? Increase the number of Shore Patrols? The logical thing to do would be to discipline those
responsible, but they seemed incapable or unwilling to apprehend them. Evidently, the Navy adopted
the attitude the captain had conveyed to Chris. The offended parties would have to swallow this shit
in sympathy and understanding; the offenders were only carrying out their frustrations due to the
prejudice they may have endured back home. This would all be swept under a big rug because they
had bigger fish to fry in conducting a war.
Chris waited by the quarterdeck for Scolaro and McGowan to finish their conversation with the
ensign. When they were finished Chris walked up to them and as they walked along said, “I see you
guys are victims too! Are you okay?”
They both responded glumly with a simple, “Yeah.” Scolaro added, “But I am pissed as all
hell!”
“I can understand that,” Chris told them, “You can expect a lecture from the captain as to why
you shouldn’t be angry, but forgiving instead.” Scolaro said, “Really? Is that the speech he gave to
you?”
“Yes it was.”
“And have you forgiven them?” asked McGowan.
“I don’t know how I feel. Part of me wants to be angry. Part of me does understand. What I don’t
understand is the insanity of it all and how this situation is being overlooked.”
“War is insanity. Ain’t it?” replied Scolaro.
“This one sure is,” said Chris. They reached the stairwells to their compartments. “Take it
easy.”
“You too,” said Scolaro as they split up.
Chris took a quick shower and changed his work clothes. He would write home and convey his
latest news. He had Carey take a picture of Chris with his Polaroid because he wanted to enclose a
picture of his fat lip and show them the damage inflicted on him wasn’t that severe. Finished with his
letter he went to the mess decks for a sandwich.
During breakfast the following morning, Chris learned from Diehl that BT 3rd class McKeown,
whom he had played softball with yesterday afternoon, MMFA Linton and BTFA Buckley had gone
into Olongapo after the EM Club. The three of them from Engineering got into a fight with some soul
brothers at one of the clubs on the strip. The trio had their liberty cut short by the Shore Patrol for
causing a civil disturbance. There didn’t seem to be any end to the lunacy! This war was making
everyone crazy!
“You know after all of this crap that has gone down lately, I am going to place more faith in your
intuitive powers,” joked Diehl.
Chris asked how liberty in town went for him and Farleigh.
“Same old story. We tried out another club called the Zanzi Bar. Farleigh got wasted and
disappeared for a while,” and beginning to chuckle continued, “I found him sitting on a sink in the
men’s room. When I tried to help him off the sink he wouldn’t budge. What I didn’t know was his belt
was caught on the faucet. I kept pulling on him and all that tugging and rocking made him URP.
Luckily, I was able to dodge his discharge and not get any of it on me.”
“Glad I missed it,” said Chris.
“So are you going back into town tonight to see your main squeeze?” said Diehl.
“I don’t know, yet. She has been sweet and good to me, if you catch my meaning, but at times, I
feel like I am being played. She told me she loves me, and without thinking, I told her I loved her too.
I haven’t been able to tell if it’s my cock or my heart that’s controlling me.”
“It’s the power of the pussy, my friend,” Diehl said trying to discourage his friend from getting
too involved and doing something, he considered rash.
“You are probably right. I’ll let you know later tonight. I’ve got to think on it.”
He did think about it throughout the day and by the workday’s end could not decide whether he
should see Layla once more. If he did see Layla again he feared he would succumb to her spell and
commit to a relationship he believed he wasn’t ready or prepared to enter. What did he really know
about her? Did she truly love him or was she simply looking to land an American husband to help her
escape. On that score, he could not be certain. All of their interaction was based upon the sexual
chemistry existing between them. Up to now, she had been selling it and he was buying it. Was that
enough to enter into a lifelong contract? His mind thought not. His prurient nature felt different. Which
would win, reason or desire?
After the evening meal, Diehl asked him, “So have you made a decision about going into town.”
“No.”
“No, you haven’t made a decision or ‘No’ you don’t want to go into town?”
Chris leapt from the fence. “No, I should not see her again. The fact I haven’t been able to make
a decision tells me I really don’t want to. I’m going to play it safe and stay away.”
“If you want my opinion, I think you are making the right choice not to see her, but the Cave isn’t
the only club in town and you know it will be our last night here.”
“But it would be too easy to fall into temptation. What was it T.S. Eliot wrote? ‘The last
temptation is the greatest treason: to do the right thing for the wrong reason.’”
Diehl said, “I get where you’re coming from. So what will you do tonight?”
“Just hang out, read, maybe see a movie, maybe jerk off all night thinking about her.”
“Okay then, we’ll talk tomorrow.”
“Sure, have a good time but be careful out there.”
“Will do,” he said as he went to join Farleigh and Diaz.
That night Chris did all four of those things he suggested he might do.
He slept soundly through the night.
XI
LONG DAYS &
SHORT TIMERS
THUNDER RUMBLED IN THE DISTANCE AS HE walked to the mess decks to prepare for the
morning meal. Soon the thunder of the ship’s guns would ring out. Today they would depart Subic Bay
for the last time, leaving liberty, lunacy and Layla behind. A hearty breakfast of French toast, sausage
links, bacon, scrambled eggs, OJ, milk and coffee would supply the crew the energy to perform the
tasks set before them. Polanski told Chris the ship would conduct a test-firing mission of the ship’s
surface-to-air Tartar Missile system soon after leaving port.
“That would be cool to witness,” he said.
“Well, I won’t, I’ll be in CIC,” said Polanski.
“I’ll tell you all about it when it’s all over,” Chris said in jest, but excited about the upcoming
test. He could add it to his extensive list of unique experiences he compiled to date.
He also spoke with Diehl while in the scullery. “Had a good time last night?”
“It was great, but tiring, I just got back to the ship in time to eat.”
“Where did you go?”
“We hit several bars and ended up where else, but, the Cave.”
“Then I made the right decision. Had I gone I might not have returned to the ship at all.”
“You know, she asked about you.”
“You saw her?”
“She saw us, and came by our table asking where you were. She said you told her you would be
seeing her last night.”
“What did you tell her?”
“I lied. I told her you were put on report and had your liberty pulled.”
“And she bought it?”
“She wanted to know what you did to be put on report.”
“And?”
“I told her you got into a fight.”
“It doesn’t matter anyway. We’re not going back and I’m not coming back. I just have to file her
away as a pleasant memory.”
“I’m glad to hear you say that.”
“Why is that?” Diehl didn’t answer immediately. He could have said something like, “You’ve
been a good friend and I didn’t want to see you fuck up your life.” But he said nothing. A thought
struck him.
“Nooo! Don’t tell me you fucked her?”
“Well, no. I would not do that to you. But I think Farleigh may have.”
“Really?” said Chris feeling both surprised and a bit wounded. “I am surprised she ended up
with that drunken gnome!” Chris tried to rationalize his disappointment and said, “Well, money
talks.” Then he added a line he recalled reading in The Godfather, altering it slightly: “It’s the
business she has chosen!”
****
After the meal and holding morning muster at quarters, the crew began to prepare to get
underway. The sea and anchor detail was set at 07:15 hours. The ship’s boilers came online and
shore power disconnected. By 08:00, the ship was ready to cast off and by 08:05 the ship was
steaming out of port. At 08:52, the sea and anchor detail secured and readiness condition IV set.
Soon after leaving port, the skies cleared to a vivid blue. The sea was placid and the flying fish
and dolphin were playing alongside the ship as it cut its way through the rolling waters. Immediately
after lunch, the call to general quarters blared throughout the ship in preparation for the firing
exercise. Chris assumed his lookout position on the signal bridge anxiously looking forward to the
missile launch. They remained at GQ for an hour before the exercise commenced in earnest.
Fire control radar had locked onto its target and was tracking an A-4 Sky Hawk Checkertail. Just
before clearance to fire, the pilot of the aircraft reported mechanical difficulty. He had lost oil
pressure to the engine and forced to eject. The captain quickly popped out of the bridge onto the wing
and called to Ensign Stafford. He informed the ensign what had just transpired and instructed him to
have his lookouts locate the downed aircraft.
The missile firing exercise had now transformed into a search and rescue operation. No one
could tell exactly where the plane would come down so they had to scour the entire horizon ahead.
Chris took his binoculars and scanned the skies from port to starboard and back again. He realized the
binoculars had limited field of vision and to find the speck of the plane in the sky using binoculars
would be difficult. He concentrated on locating the splash made by the force of the five-ton aircraft as
it entered the water, so he held the binoculars at the ready and relied on his keen eyesight.
“There!” he shouted and pointed after he spotted a large spout of water near the horizon. “I see
the splash, five degrees off the starboard bow.”
Chris, the ensign and all the lookouts directed their binoculars towards the location Chris
reported. When Chris raised his binoculars, he was able to spot the last remnants of the column of
water as it returned to the water’s surface.
Ensign Stafford said, “Good eyes, Mr. Colombo.” He leaned over the rail of the signal bridge
and called to the bridge. “Lookout reports observing splash five degrees off starboard bow.”
At sea level, the horizon extends in a circle eleven miles in diameter. The elevated signal bridge
extended the horizon to approximately thirteen miles. He estimated the range to the plane to be about
twelve miles.
The officers on the bridge now had the general vicinity to begin the search. The conning officer
ordered the helmsman to alter course five degrees to starboard. As the ship turned, Chris raised the
binoculars to his eyes. He hoped to spot a parachute. It would take about fourteen minutes to travel to
the crash sight Chris approximated as twelve miles. While the ship sped to the estimated location, the
lookouts on the bridge and the signal bridge scanned the ocean in hopes to locate the downed pilot.
Fifteen minutes elapsed and the ship was in the suspected area of impact.
There it was about one hundred yards off the starboard beam. The ship turned to begin its
circular search path when they neared the impact sight. Evidence of the crashed plane was visible as
millions of tiny air bubbles continued to break at the surface creating a sizeable light blue dot in the
dark blue surrounding waters.
“I got him!” Rhodes called out from his port side bridge wing position. The captain, the conning
officer and the XO spilled out onto the wing to observe. The conning officer ordered the lifeguard
detail to action.
Chris now aware of the pilot’s location turned to get a glimpse. Through the powerful
binoculars, he saw the trail of green dye the pilot released into the water. He followed the trail and
saw him floating there kept afloat by his life vest. His white helmet stood out in contrast of the dark
blue water. The motor whaleboat was quickly lowered and on its way to retrieve the pilot.
Diehl asked the ensign, “Sir, does this mean the ship’s crew gets treated to ice cream?”
The ensign only laughed at the question.
Chris asked, “What are you talking about, Diehl?”
The ensign responded for Diehl. “What Diehl is referring to is naval tradition,” he said.
“Whenever a downed pilot is rescued and pulled out of the water by a ship’s crew the pilot would
normally treat them to ice cream.”
Chris reflected a moment and said, “That could be quite an expensive tradition for the pilot.
Think about it. Imagine the cost if the Enterprise with 10,000 crewmembers rescued him. And what if
he was shot down twice and rescued again by the Enterprise?”
The ensign laughed again, “I imagine that would be one of the exceptions to the rule.”
Chris looked through his binoculars again and watched as Big Brown assisted the pilot from the
water and onto the motor whaleboat. The entire event, from crash to recovery, lasted forty-five
minutes. Within fifteen minutes of his rescue, a helicopter airlifted the pilot back to the naval air
station.
Shortly after the pilot’s departure, they secured from GQ and readiness condition reverted to
condition IV. Chris would not see a missile launch today, and hoped he would not see one in the
immediate future because it could mean, only one thing, and that was they were under attack from
North Vietnamese Migs.
For the second time during this tour of duty, Chris felt a sense of satisfaction; the ship and crew
had actually done something positive. They had rescued a pilot in distress, which was yet another
thing he could add to his growing list of first experiences.
For the remainder of the day, the crew conducted their normal at-sea workday. During the
evening, those not on watch in the engine rooms, sonar or CIC would enjoy the awe-inspiring sunsets
and lounge on the fantail. Chris caught up with Farleigh on the fantail. Smiling, so as not to offend
Farleigh by the use of the name he said, “Hey, runt. I hear you fucked my girl!”
“Your girl?” he said in surprise and recognizing Chris was joking didn’t take umbrage at the
name. “She was your girl, pal. She’s mine now. I think I am going to marry her.”
“Don’t forget to have me as your best man. After all, I was her best man too! What did she say
when she saw your dick? “Oh, it looks like a penis only smaller”?
Diaz, Diehl and Harriman seemed to enjoy the banter between Farleigh and Chris as they
laughed at each exchange. In the end, Farleigh admitted to not screwing Layla, because he was too
drunk. He said he collapsed on her couch and passed out.
“When I woke up in the morning she made me coffee and gave me a letter that she wanted me to
give to you. She must have written it while I was passed out.” He reached into his back pocket. “I
meant to give it to you earlier, but forgot.”
Chris was surprised to receive the letter and began to feel guilty about avoiding contact with her
his last night in port.
Farleigh said, “You know as far as I can remember, having been so drunk and all, she was a real
pretty girl.”
“I thought so too,” said Chris. He took the letter from Farleigh, opened it and began to read it in
front of them. “What does she say?” asked Diehl. Chris decided to read the letter aloud.
Dear Christopher: I was disappointed you could not come see me tonight. I am sad
also we never see each other again. For little time we spend together, I know we enjoy
each other very much and I could tell you are good man. I want you know I did not fuck
your friend. He pass out. If he no pass out I want you to know I fuck him only for money.
I did not fuck you. I make love with you, that is difference. I hope you be safe in Vietnam.
Love, Layla.
Diehl said incredulously, “Duh...I fuck him only for money? That’s the most fucked up love letter
I ever heard of!”
Chris had to agree with him. “I’ll admit it is strange. It is a completely different world here my
friend. What we view as strange behavior they see as necessary to survive. Yeah, it is quite a surreal
letter, but sweet too.”
****
They arrived on station off the coast of South Vietnam a day and a half later. Shortly after
arriving, they replenished fuel from the USS Ponchatoula (AO-148) early on a Thursday morning.
They also conducted a passenger transfer using a highline between the two ships as they cruised
along. A basket in which a person could sit in hung on the cable by pulley. Chris could only watch
and marvel at the nerve and level of trust it took of each of these men to dangle over the waters
rushing under them as they slowly traversed from ship to ship. They transferred six line officers from
the Ponchatoula to the Lawrence. He listened as each officer was piped on board. Of those who
made the transfer, the senior officer was the Commander of Destroyer Squadron Eleven. A lieutenant
commander, three lieutenants and a lieutenant junior grade comprised his staff. The Lawrence would
now be acting as the flagship for the squadron.
They were now patrolling the waters off North Vietnam three and one-half miles off the island
known as Hon La, at Readiness Condition III and would soon become an active participant in
Linebacker II Operations. Earlier in the month while the ship was moored at Subic Bay, the peace
talks between Henry Kissinger and Le Duc Tho collapsed because the North Vietnamese objected to
the sixty-nine changes South Vietnamese President Thieu demanded be made to the proposed treaty.
Following the breakdown in negotiations, President Nixon issued an ultimatum to the North
Vietnamese demanding they resume discussions within seventy-two hours. When the government of
North Vietnam refused to comply President Nixon ordered the commencement of Linebacker II
Operations.
Linebacker II Operations would be a bombing campaign of submission employing maximum
force against military targets in Hanoi and elsewhere in North Vietnam. The bombings would last
eleven days and nights and be conducted from the air by B-52 bombers and from the sea by naval
forces. The campaign began on December 18, three days before the Lawerence’s arrival at Hon La
Island. They would conduct the first of their many firing missions later in the evening.
The ship went to GQ at 19:00 hours. Darkness had set in. From his perch on the signal bridge
Chris observed as the ship made several course changes and could feel the speed changes made at
varying intervals of time during the next half hour. On its final course change, the ship reduced speed.
With a southerly heading, both guns were aimed to starboard and the ship commenced its broadside
bombardment. Chris kept a careful watch through the night vision scope fanning left and right. He
didn’t observe any secondary explosions nor did he spot any muzzle fire from the nearby shoreline. It
took ten minutes to complete the mission, with eighty-five rounds of ordinance expended by mission
end. No counter-battery fire was observed. At 21:14 hours, they secured from General Quarters.
As the crew at Chris’s GQ post were stowing away their battle gear, they made comments such
as;
“That was a piece of cake.”
“They should all be that easy.”
“I guess they weren’t home.”
Were these comments made out of courage or were they simply expelling the subliminal
nervousness Chris believed everyone felt whenever they went into the lion’s den? It was different
with each individual. Chris was always surprisingly relaxed during these missions. He didn’t think he
was braver than the next guy. He worried that in the absence of fear or anxiety his stoicism during
those moments stemmed from apathy and the only thing to be apathetic about during combat would be
of death. That train of thought disturbed him.
The ensign said when all the gear was stowed away, “All right men, get some sleep while you
can.”
Chris was happy to oblige.
****
The ship patrolled the area known as Station Whiskey some twenty miles off the coast for
several hours. At 04:00, the alarm for General Quarters rang out. By 05:12 hours, they commenced
fire and ceased fire at 05:40 hours. They fired eight white phosphorous projectiles, thirty-eight high
capacity projectiles and seventy-two high explosive point detonating projectiles. Once again, the ship
didn’t meet any resistance.
After GQ ended, Chris headed to the mess decks to ready for the morning meal. He met Polanski
coming out of CIC and as they walked down the stairwell Chris asked him about the previous
missions if he had any specifics about these latest targets.
“We had several targets,” Polanski told him. “Let’s see, there were two bridges, one ferry, a
couple of civil defense sites, a section of railroad, roads and a truck.”
“A truck? A single truck? Where in the world did we get intelligence about a single truck, and
how recent was their intelligence? I mean the truck has an engine, it can move!”
“Air reconnaissance, because we certainly don’t have any boots on the ground above the DMZ.”
“That’s the reason for my skepticism,” Chris said. “I can understand the use of air
reconnaissance for fixed targets, bridges, roads, supply buildings, shore defenses and the like. But for
a moveable target air recon would only be most effective if the aircraft were over the target during
the mission, right?”
“Yeah, that’s right. The intel came from an AQM drone aircraft.”
“A drone?”
“Yeah, a pilotless aircraft flown remotely, pretty cool don’t your think?”
“Shit, I didn’t realize there was even such a thing. What will they think of next?”
“Maybe someday they will carry the bombs rather than manned aircraft. That would save a lot of
pilots’ lives.”
“If only they could have invented drone ships, eh.? We wouldn’t need to be here then!”
Breakfast was ready and waiting for the sleep-deprived crew. The next watch section would be
served first. They would gulp down their hash browns, scrambled eggs, toast and coffee. When Chris
entered the scullery, the returned trays of those who had finished were piled in the window. He
rushed to catch up and clear the work area. Then came the next rush of those who would have the
work details for the day and finally came the third section after they had been relieved from their
watches. There were no underway replenishments scheduled, so those who could grabbed some shuteye. Those who could not worked.
Chris and the rest of the food servicemen worked a normal workday, as they didn’t have to stand
watch. They did however have to get their sleep in between their workday and the next GQ. After the
evening meal Chris hoped to head straight to his darkened compartment and sleep. Those hopes were
dashed when the General Quarters alarm sounded at 19:15 hours.
Back up to the signal bridge he ran and after getting ready waited and watched. The ship began
its approach to Hon Me Island and didn’t open fire until two hours after setting General Quarters.
When the ship opened the counter battery fire Chris checked his watch. It was 21:12 hours. The guns
released a flurry of fire and ceased one minute later. As Chris peered through the night scope, the left
side of the scope illuminated for a brief second. That flash would be the muzzle flash of shore
artillery on the periphery of the night scope. He would slowly turn the TDT and await another flash to
accurately locate the source. He would not find it.
They passed around the island of Hon Me and within the confines of what was termed Tiger Bay
situated between the island and mainland of North Vietnam. He lifted his head from the scope to try to
get a better sense of where he might concentrate his search. By the light of the full moon and the ship’s
southerly heading Chris could see Hon Me Island about seven miles off their port side and the
mainland seemed to be approximately the same distance. He could also see several smaller islands
between Hon Me and the ship.
Suddenly the ship began to slow. From past missions Chris knew the ship reduced speed just
prior to releasing a salvo. He directed the TDT in the direction the forward mount aimed but not a
shot was fired. The ship’s speed eventually declined to zero knots. They were dead in the water.
Chris said, “Holy Shit! Why in hell have we stopped? We stopped right in the middle of a killing
field?”
This was the first moment of combat where Chris felt extremely nervous. It was deadly quiet and
still. Moments later Diehl spoke into his sound-powered telephone. Remembering the albatross, he
recited the following:,
Day after day, day after day,
We stuck, nor breath nor motion;
As idle as a painted ship,
Upon a painted ocean.
“Oh, knock it off, would you please?” begged Chris. He understood the irony of their situation
and didn’t want to be reminded of the incident, nor of the poem, nor of the fate that befell the crew of
the ship in the poem. “You are making me nervous with that kind of talk.”
The ensign learned through his sound-powered phone the ship had lost all boiler pressure and
conveyed the news to those on the signal bridge.
Diehl feeling uncomfortable as well asked fearfully, “Well, when are they going to get them back
up? I mean how long before we have power?
They have to be able to see us with all this light! What are we supposed to do?”
Ensign Stafford recognizing their apprehension simply said, “Stay calm, boys. We’re going to be
fine. I don’t think they even know we are here.”
Chris exclaimed, “How could they not know? Even if they don’t spot us with their naked eyes
we must be on their radar!”
A few minutes passed and still no boiler pressure. Chris finally broke the silence. “This is too
fucking weird that they haven’t spotted us on radar and haven’t shot at us! Anybody believe in
miracles?”
The ensign sensed perhaps this was a trap. He presumed they weren’t firing at the ship because
he suspected Swatow patrol boats might be in the area. “Keep a sharp eye out for patrol boats,” he
ordered.
They all nervously scanned the surrounding waters with their binoculars. The night vision scope
would easily pick up the heat emanating from the engines of the patrol boats and the light from the
wakes they would create. But his field of vision from left to right was limited to two hundred seventy
degrees. He would not be able to see any threat coming from the stern. The ensign alerted the aft
lookout to also be on the alert for these boats. As the absence of any hostile fire seemed the result of
Providence, what occurred next would certainly require Divine intervention.
If being dead in the water and in the spotlight of the moon’s glow weren’t dangerous enough,
their predicament quickly become more perilous. The deck began to take on mustard colored hue and
the shadow cast by their bodies lost their definitive edge and began to quiver. Chris and the others
looked up to see what was happening. There were suddenly seven flares hovering about a mile high
and directly above the ship. They were slowly drifting towards the sea in a conical formation and the
closer they got the more illuminated the ship became. The flares alone should have been sufficient to
draw the attention of lookouts from there to Hanoi.
“Sweet Jesus!” exclaimed Chris. “Where in the world did these flares come from?” Because
they had not had a missile fired at them from above and the ship’s air defenses were inactive, he
concluded they had to come from a U.S. plane. “They must have been from one of our own planes!
Why on earth would he put us in danger like that?”
It was obvious to all that potential threats abounded from land, sea and air, which made
everyone more apprehensive. Now Chris could tell even the ensign was on edge over this latest
development as he paced to the edge of the signal bridge to inquire about the status of the boilers.
He said excitedly as he pointed up while looking down, “Do you see these flares? It would be
prudent to let engineering know what is going on around us and have them bring those boilers up
immediately!”
The ship sat there for nearly an hour when at last the boilers fired up. It seemed like an eternity.
Yet, in spite of it all not a shot was fired upon them. They began to move and gain speed as they did.
“Hallelujah, Hallelujah!” Diehl shouted. “Gentlemen, it was truly the hand of God that shielded
us from our adversary!”
“Amen, brother!” said Chris.
“Amen!” echoed Holzman.
Chris went back to peering through the night vision scope. Several muzzle flashes appeared from
several locations at the southern most tip of the island. He raised his head for a moment when
suddenly he saw and heard a splash ten yards off the port bow.
The ship’s guns turned their fire onto their designated targets on the mainland while the coastal
defenses on the island continued to fire at the ship. The starboard lookout reported an airburst well
off the starboard bow. Chris thought he had the shore artillery spotted and lined up the installation in
the cross hairs of the scope. He pressed the button sending the heading to Fire Control Radar. No
response from them while the guns remained targeted towards the mainland. When the ship completed
firing at its assigned target Fire Control turned and locked onto the target Chris had designated and the
forward gun mount turned and lowered its azimuth slightly. The ship’s guns began firing and Chris
watched through the night vision scope.
One explosive flash. Then another. And another. the intervals of the flashes were the same as the
shots fired from Mount 51. More shots followed immediately by rapidly successive flashes of white
light. He knew it had to be secondary explosions. The ship must have hit and destroyed a cache of
explosives to produce such a visual.
“Secondary explosions observed, bearing two four zero degrees,” he reported into the soundpowered telephone.
He could hear his report echoed to the conning officer by the telephone operator below on the
bridge. In the meantime, the ship’s guns continued firing unabated.
Diehl spotted muzzle fire coming from Hon Me Island through his binoculars and reported it to
the bridge, and again the telephone operator barked out Diehl’s report. Next, Chris heard him shout,
“Aft lookout reports airburst dead astern.”
The ship now trained its guns towards the island and sent a torrent of shells in the direction of
Diehl’s reported muzzle flash.
“Two secondary explosions reported sighted by the aft lookout!”
The mission completed and the civil defense sight silenced the ship sped out to the open sea,
having expended two hundred forty-six rounds. They secured from General Quarters at 23:59.
****
Chris and most others on board had not gotten much sleep during the past twenty-four hours.
When he got to his bunk, he didn’t bother to remove his clothing and quickly fell into a deep slumber.
He had started to dream about Cassie when the alarm for General Quarters interrupted him as the two
were about to make love in the dunes of Robert Moses Beach. It was 02:20 hours. At best, he and the
others managed to get two hours of sleep.
The ship opened fire on the North Vietnamese island of Hon Matt, which was thirty-six miles
south of their previous mission. Happily, they didn’t meet any resistance in response to the one
hundred twenty-five shells launched. The crew went to condition III at 04:00 hours.
Chris didn’t bother to return to his bunk following the mission, as he would only have to get up
within the hour to work the morning meal. He went to the mess decks and drank coffee along with
several other like-minded crewmen. They talked about the ship’s recent schedule. Their
conversations were more a bitching session about the lack of sleep rather than a dialogue. Breakfast
was served soon thereafter.
During a smoke break on the weather deck Chris could see the Chinese merchant vessel
anchored in the distance and knew his ship was back at the Hon La anchorage. Since the U.S. mined
Haiphong harbor and many other major ports of North Vietnam, the Chinese resorted to delivering
supplies at various points along the coast of North Vietnam. Hon La anchorage was one of those
locations. It was located slightly north of the DMZ, and due to its proximity to the DMZ supplies of
rice and munitions could rapidly be delivered to troops in the south. There was no mooring dock
there for ships to tie alongside. These supplies would be loaded onto sampans and transferred to the
shore. The North Vietnamese army would accumulate and store these supplies in caves peppering a
mountain located just along the shoreline. In an attempt to interdict the flow of supplies, the ship
would often fire upon the mountain.
While Chris was enjoying his smoke, the forward gun mount fired several shots towards the
shore and in particular to the side of the mountain. The ship was only three to four miles off the
coastline. From that distance and with clear visibility Chris had an unobstructed view of the
mountain, and watched. Suddenly the mountainside gradually expanded as if it were taking a deep
breath. Chris’s jaw dropped in amazement at the ensuing scene, as he saw the face of the mountain
tumble downward. It looked like an avalanche had just occurred. He connected the dots.
During lunch, he spoke with Diehl about what he had witnessed.
“Yeah, I saw it too. I was the port lookout at the time and the captain was standing beside me
when it happened. You should have heard him. He was like a kid in a candy store. When the side of
the mountain exploded, he literally screamed, ‘Yahzoo, right in the cave!’ He acted so comically
giddy; I nearly burst out laughing, but was too stunned by what I had just seen. Everybody else on the
bridge joined in the captain’s celebration by whooping and hollering also. We put a shell into a cave
loaded with explosives and detonated them. Yeah, it was absolutely incredible!”
Chris remarked, “That’s the funny thing about war. It can turn boys into men and men into little
boys, don’t you think?”
“It can also turn live ones into dead ones.”
“Yes, but there is nothing funny about that.”
The ship had chalked up another small victory of the larger conflict and left Hon La anchorage
later that afternoon. They rendezvoused with the USS Saratoga (CVA-60), the carrier that housed the
men who had beaten Chris and Harriman. It also served as quarters for John W. Warner, the Secretary
of the Navy. The helo detail was set.
Unbeknownst to Chris, a test of the flamethrower located at the ship’s stern was being conducted
while the helo hovered overhead. Chris was observing from his usual spot on the portside walkway.
Looking up, the bulkhead obscured his view and he could only see the top half section of the
helicopter as its rotor blades spun around. He could see the helicopter begin to rise and turn right, and
then he lost sight of it. Just then, he heard a loud “WHOOOSHHHHHing sound come from the stern of
the ship. A long flame projected from the stern and black smoke billowed from the fantail.
“Oh my God!” he shouted. “I think the helo crashed!” and he raced to the stern of the ship to
assist. When he arrived at the fantail, he could see the helicopter well off the stern as it hovered low
above the sea headed back to the Saratoga.
He was relieved to see everyone was safe. Another long flame spewed forth from the
flamethrower and another “WHOOOOOSHHHH.” Chris could feel the heat of the flame from thirty
feet away. That was the purpose of the flamethrower. It was there to furnish extreme heat as a
countermeasure to heat seeking missiles. The heat generated from the flamethrower would be much
greater than the heat from the ship’s exhaust stacks located amidships. Theoretically, the
flamethrower would draw any heat seeking missile to it and cause the missile to impale itself
harmlessly in the waters behind the ship. No one knew if this diversion tactic would be successful or
not as the situation for employing it had never arisen.
Chris didn’t see the sense in it. He thought any heat seeking missile would strike the ship at or
near the source of the heat, which would be the stern itself. In that event, the ship would probably lose
its transom and propellers, making the ship a sitting duck for subsequent attacks. He wondered which
bozo thought up this scheme and who were the bozos that approved its use.
The helicopter had landed upon the Saratoga and lifted off again. It headed back to the
Lawrence. Chris now watched from the fantail as the helicopter hovered above the helo deck. A
passenger wearing a flight helmet, flak jacket, waist harness and civilian clothes was lowered by
cable to the helo deck. Chris recognized him from news clips.
It was the Secretary of the Navy coming for a visit. Bill Carey and Brian Hill were on the fantail
along with Chris.
Chris commented to them, “Goddamn, it’s the Secretary of the Navy himself!”
He paused, reflecting on having someone of John Warner’s political stature on board and
assumed he might be able to get some rest after all. The SOPA, who was still on board, would
certainly not put the life of this man in jeopardy.
“Well I guess his being here means we’ll be able to get some sleep tonight,” Chris said.
Hill agreed.
Carey was more pessimistic. “I wouldn’t lose any sleep over that notion.”
As the crew ate their evening meal, the Secretary walked into the mess decks. “Atten hut!”
Everyone rose and stood at attention to greet his arrival.
Chris was in the scullery working as usual. He had no idea what was going on in the mess decks.
He heard the command for attention and through the side of the window leading into the scullery, he
could see a few shipmates stand, and then sit down after the “at ease” command. Rather than dine
with the officers in the officer’s mess the Secretary in a display of support chose to dine with the
crew during their evening meal.
The Secretary shook the hands of all those on the mess decks. When he brought his own tray
back to the scullery he addressed Chris and said, “How are you doing, son?”
“Fine, sir, welcome aboard,” Chris said.
“Thank you. I’m proud and pleased to be here. Now you take care and Merry Christmas.”
“Thank you, sir, and same to you.” That would be Chris’s first encounter with any dignitary.
****
After supper, he tried to get some sleep. The compartment reeked of dirty socks and soiled
underwear. While the ship remained in Condition III, only the red emergency lights remained lit. The
crew had to get their rest if they were to function safely and efficiently, although the amount of rest
they got was minimal. Their quarters would not be cleaned while the crew slept. Only the public
workspaces, passageways and toilets would be tended to during working hours.
Chris’s aspiration of getting some rest was dashed at 20:00 hours as the alarm for General
Quarters sounded. He sprang out of bed quickly dressed and raced to his station. While they were
getting ready for next mission, they grumbled amongst themselves.
“Christ, we can’t catch a break!”
“Man, I am so friggin’ tired!”
“I guess the captain is looking to score points with the Secretary.”
Ensign Stafford said nothing to ease their ruffled feathers. Chris thought perhaps he was of the
same opinion as they were and equally as tired. But as an officer he would not convey his emotions
aloud and bolster negative morale. The guns went off at 2107 hours and ceased two minutes later. By
21:09 hours, they stopped and at 21:28 hours, they secured from GQ.
“Son of a bitch!” Diehl said. “Was it worth waking us up for this?” He was voicing what
everyone was thinking.
Back down to their berthing compartments they went. Chris undressed and slid into his rack. He
seemed to fall asleep the moment he crawled into bed. Two hours later, while in REM sleep, he was
jolted back to consciousness with the alarm for General Quarters.
He and the others rushed to their feet to hastily put on their clothes. Everyone was bitching:
“You got to be kidding me!”
“Who do I have to fuck to get some sleep around here?”
Jordan would bark out, “Quit your bitching and get a move on!” Chris raced back up to the signal
bridge and finished dressing en route. By Chris’s watch, it was 23:15 hours when he arrived at his
post. He was yawning deeply as he donned his flak jacket and helmet. They stood at their post for
thirty-five minutes.
“Get ready,” said Ensign Stafford.
At 23:50 hours, the guns began to rapidly fire upon the coastline. By 23:52, they ceased their
barrage. Within those two minutes, both guns had fired eighty rounds. It was now Christmas Eve
morning. The forward gun mount began to briefly sparkle with every explosion as the exhaust of the
flashless powder casing exited the gun muzzle. At 00:07 hours the gun ceased firing. Ten minutes later
Chris was stowing his gear.
Without any further missions that day, Chris was able to sleep until rousted by the messenger of
the watch so he could work the morning meal. The Secretary of the Navy departed the Lawrence via
helicopter at 07:30 hours. He was flown to the USS Enterprise (CVAN-65) the Navy’s premiere
nuclear aircraft carrier. Once he departed, the ship maneuvered to rendezvous with the USS Mt. Hood
and USS Taluga for re-arming and refueling details.
Chris manned the bucket line to transfer projectiles from the helo deck to the forward magazine.
As the helicopter was delivering the palettes of ordnance and powder casings, the ship pulled
alongside the Taluga to refuel. The connection with the Taluga was made at 08:48 hours and the
helicopter lowered its first load of munitions to the helo deck at 09:05 hours. The crew was trying
their best to keep up with heightened activity demanded from them due to the simultaneous details.
They completed refueling and returning the spent powder casings from and to the Taluga at 09:43
hours and the last load from the Mt Hood hit the deck at 10:07 hours. The weary crew continued to
pass the shells forward and aft to the ship’s magazines. At the onset members of the bucket line
smartly passed shells on to one another at a rapid pace but as time passed their speed waned and
inattentiveness escalated. Several of the seventy-pound projectiles were dropped onto the deck
during the detail. The lighter powder casings on the other hand served as a reprieve to those in the
line. They completed stowing the munitions below at 11:00 hours. Chris’s arms were sore from
handling so much ammunition. After rearming the plates and trays he would handle during lunch
would seem light as a bag of feathers in comparison.
After lunch, the ship conducted another helo detail. This helicopter came from the USS America
(CVA-66) and delivered bags of mail. When the details and lunch were over, the tired and disgusted
members of the crew retired to their bunks to get some much-needed rest.
“BONG, BONG, BONG, BONG. GENERAL QUARTERS, GENERAL QUARTERS. ALL
HANDS MAN YOUR BATTLE STATIONS!” Christmas Eve would not be a silent night.
It was 21:00 hours when the ship went to GQ. It was 21:53 hours when both guns commenced
firing. It was 22:03 hours when they stopped firing. The ship turned and moved on to its next firing
station. At 23:07 hours, the both guns commenced firing. At 23:20 hours, they ceased firing. At 23:30,
they secured from general quarters. By the time, they stowed away their gear and headed below it
was nearly Christmas Day.
****
The crew received a Christmas gift early Christmas morning. Those who didn’t have the
Cinderella watch could sleep through the night until early morning reveille. There would not be any
replenishment details or firing missions the entire day. The ship would patrol Station Whiskey and
cruise back and forth and round and round. Many would take advantage of this stand-down and sleep
until they had to relieve the watch. They would have their morning and evening meals undisturbed.
That night after the crew had supper, Watts donned an unauthorized uniform. He appeared on the
mess decks in a bright red jacket and pants. The jacket had feathery piping running down the front and
round the ends of his sleeves and neckline and hem of the jacket. A large black belt circumnavigated
his ample waist. Atop his head rested a floppy red hat also lined with feathery white piping and a
little feathery ball at its tip. He sported a large white beard.
“Merry Christmas!” he bellowed as he entered onto the mess decks toting several mailbags over
his shoulder. “Merry Christmas, everyone.” The crew roared in laughter at the sight of the black Saint
Nick.
“Hey, Santa! Did you come down the smokestacks?” someone in the crowd yelled. They all
laughed again. The wisecracks began to pour out in machine gun-like fashion.
“Oh, let’s all join in a chorus of ‘I’m Dreaming of a Black Christmas.’”
An outburst of laughter followed. The captain, the XO and several other officers had joined in
the crew’s merriment. The war had ceased for the moment. Watts worked his way through the crowd
and placed the bag down on a table.
“I’ve brought goodies for you all!” he called out as he opened the first bag. The bag contained
Dixie cups of chocolate and vanilla ice cream and he would hand each crewmember a cup and
wooden spoon. Every man would have to maneuver his way through the crowd get his gift and move
on to allow the next one to receive his. After all the ice cream was passed out, he opened another
mailbag and started to call out the name of the addressee. Chris received a letter from his father and
another from his grandmother on his father’s side.
Chris shook the captain and XO’s hands and wished them a Merry Christmas. He did the same to
nearly everyone else present. The festivities went on for well over an hour. The crew would be
offered another treat that evening in the form of a movie. Tonight’s feature would be “Willard,” a
movie about rats gone wild starring Bruce Davison and Ernest Borgnine. Chris had no interest in
seeing the movie and went outside for some fresh air before heading below.
He read his letters, showered and went to sleep.
With the spirit of Christmas present now behind them the ship and its crew resumed their
wartime role. After breakfast, they conducted another rearming detail once again from the Mt. Hood,
this time highlining the palettes of munitions over from her.
The crew was counting down their remaining time on the gun line. They knew their deployment
as part of the Western Pacific Fleet was to end at midnight December 31st. Only five more days
before they would be heading home. Knowledgeable about their imminent departure the crew
performed their daily watches, conducted their replenishment details and endured the calls to General
Quarters each night and early morning. They didn’t encounter any resistance during the missions
conducted over the next several days. Chris wondered why the ship had not met any resistance or
received any counter fire during their most recent missions and inquired from his friends in CIC. He
learned the ship had been bombarding supply routes, supply depots, infantry camps, artillery
installations, radar installations, bridges, choke points, bridges and roads along the southern regions
of North Vietnam. With every subsequent mission, Chris and the crew were almost complacent in the
conduct of their assigned duties.
It was the evening of Saturday, December 30th. The ship would leave at midnight the following
day. The crew was called to GQ at 19:00 hours. Darkness had just set in. The ship was the guide in a
formation of three ships with the USS Cochrane (DDG-21) off the starboard quarter and the USS
Cone (DD-866) off the Lawrence’s port quarter. The COMDESRON still maintained his flag aboard
the Lawrence.
Before the formation began their bombing runs, Diehl commented about the prior missions and
believed this one would be similar.
“These last missions have been cake walks,” he said. “I sure hope this one will be too. I mean
considering how short we are!”
He wasn’t referring to their heights. What he was referencing was the length of time they had left
on the line. Soldiers and Sailors who were nearing their discharge or end-of-their-duty tours would
refer to themselves as “short timers” or “short.”
Ensign Stafford was aware of their mission’s destination and cautioned Diehl and the others to
not be nonchalant about the forthcoming mission.
“I am sorry to have to disappoint you, Diehl, but we are going back into Haiphong Harbor
tonight. So stay on your toes and alert at all times.”
The knowledge they were going into such a highly fortified position sent chills up Chris’s spine.
“Great, just great,” commented Diehl in frustration.
Miles offshore the ships began to make their run to their firing zones. As they got closer to the
harbor, the night vision scope enabled Chris to see a number of fishing vessels well ahead of them.
He reported his sighting to the ensign and bridge.
“TDT operator reports a number of fishing vessels dead ahead.”
That didn’t deter the ships from continuing their charge. Chris kept reporting the estimated
distance to these vessels as the fleet’s vessels neared the harbor. “Estimated distance to contacts two
miles!” Several minutes later, “Estimated distance to contacts one mile and closing! Estimated
distance to contact dead ahead five hundred yards!”
When they were almost upon them the XO ordered, “Steer five degrees to port!”
“Five degrees to port. Aye, sir!” said the helmsman.
The change in course was just enough to avoid ramming the boat. This was going to be close.
Chris went to the rail of the signal bridge and looked down into the boat as it passed along their
starboard side. He held up his right hand making the peace sign. His concentration was laser focused
on the small boat and the people within it and had not noticed the captain standing on the wing until it
was too late. When he did take notice of the captain, he was scowling at him.
Quickly looking back to the boat, Chris could see a man, woman and young child clinging to the
mast. When the boat reached the ASROC deck, he spotted someone throwing dogging wrenches at the
passengers on the boat, though he could not make out who it was. Chris began to feel ashamed for the
behavior of whomever was throwing those pipes and sadness for those aboard the boat as he watched
it flip over and spill its occupants into the dark sea from the force of the wake made by the vessel
twenty times its size.
The fishing boats were well behind them and the city’s lights shimmered in the distance. Closer
and closer they appeared. The ships in formation turned course and speeds periodically and at
varying intervals of time in order to confuse the enemy. The ships slowed; they were now prepared to
release their furious payloads.
The Cone and Cochrane were in close enough proximity for Chris to hear the muted explosions
from their guns. Chris peered through the night vision scope and observed muzzle flashes from a
number of different locations. He heard a large “BANG” coming from behind him. He immediately
turned his head in toward the sound and saw the residual flash of the airburst as the enemy shell burst
about fifty feet above amidships. He saw several more airbursts off the port side. He looked again
through the scope. A large ball of fire rose from the shoreline as a SAM was launched from a missile
site. Again, AA tracer bullets formed hyphenated orange lines from all areas of the city. Another burst
of muzzle flashes appeared in the scope. Seconds later, more explosions. Chris pressed the button to
the TDT although he could only direct Fire Control to the general vicinity of the source of the muzzle
flashes.
The gun mounts continued their barrage. Hostile fire ceased. Suddenly, Chris saw something
unusual which didn’t require the use of night vision. A bright speck of light was floating in the sky
above the city. It seemed to be heading in their direction but at a pace so slow that movement of the
object was barely discernible. At first he suspected it might have been a flare or helicopter with a
spotlight. He thought it had to be a helicopter with a spotlight because it finally stopped and remained
suspended high in the sky quite a distance away. He had yet to report it and wondered why CIC with
its sophisticated radar had not yet reported it to the bridge. He began to think it an apparition until the
captain noticed it himself.
“Why haven’t you reported that object in the sky?” he demanded.
He had no legitimate excuse or reason but tried his best to explain anyway. “Sir, that object has
been in the sky for several minutes. As far as I could tell it didn’t represent as much of a threat as the
shore batteries.”
When Chris and the captain returned their attention to the object it slowly faded away into the
dark sky.
The firing mission lasted only five minutes. The flurry of activity and the proximity of the hostile
fire made it seem like five hours. The ships turned again and began their retreat to the relative safety
of open water. When they had placed sufficient distance between them and the enemy they secured
from GQ.
Chris turned to Diehl and sarcastically said, “So what was it you were saying before?”
Diehl was obviously shaken by the experience. “Yeah, I take it back. That was too close and too
often too close.” He just stood there almost frozen in place.
Chris walked over to him and placed his hand on his shoulders. “Yes, it was hairy, but we made
it. Be cool,” he said, then inexplicably broke into an excerpt of a song from “West Side Story.” He
mimicked the actions of the characters in the movie by hunching down and bending both arms up and
down while snapping his fingers in rhythm. At the point where his arms became extended, and as he
stepped along, he sang, “Gotta Rocket / In Your Pocket / Be Cool!”
Diehl smirked. His friend’s silly action helped ease the tension. “You’re nuts, pal.”
“Aren’t we all?”
It was 21:16 hours when they secured from GQ. They had one more day left to their tour and one
final mission left to complete. Diehl went below. Chris didn’t feel sleepy as the adrenaline from the
mission pumped him up and went to the mess decks to grab a cup of coffee. He evidently wasn’t the
only one to feel energized. The mess deck was buzzing with conversation. They were talking about
the previous mission. Those fellows who were topside were trying to describe what they had just
seen to those confined to the interior during the mission. Chris sat down with Hennings and Polanski
who were also imbibing in their cups of java.
“That was unreal!” Chris said as he sat down. “Did you know that small boat we nearly hit
capsized?”
“Yeah, we heard the report over the telephone,” said Hennings.
Chris continued his tale. “Did you know that there was a family in that boat? When we passed by
I saw a man, woman and young boy desperately clinging to the mast.”
“Oh, that’s too bad,” Polanski said with genuine concern.
“War is hell,” added Hennings.
Chris conveyed all the details he could recall; from the captain scowling at him for making the
peace symbol with his hand, the unidentified individual who threw the dogging wrenches, the tooclose-for-comfort airbursts and the strange white speck of light. When it came to the speck of light he
asked, “Didn’t anybody see anything on radar?”
“No, I don’t recall any bogey being reported,” said Polanski.
“Where did it come from?” asked Hennings.
“From nowhere. It just appeared in the sky. At first I thought it was a helicopter, but I didn’t hear
anybody from CIC report any bogeys in the area.”
“It might have been chaff from one of our planes, because we did have bombers in the area,”
said Polanski.
“Of course, that’s probably what it was,” Chris said wanting to believe his explanation. He
certainly didn’t want his misjudgment and failure to report a potential threat stemming from an error
of judgment to cause any fatalities or injuries. Chris added with trepidation, “Well I guess we’re just
about out of the woods. Right?”
Polanski answered nervously, “Almost. I think we have one more mission later this morning.”
Chris said, “After the last one let’s hope and pray they don’t come as close this time.”
That was the end of their conversation as they each sat sipping their coffee in silence. Chris
decided he needed to lie down and left them without saying another word.
The caffeine sent his synapses into overdrive. He anxiously tossed and turned. When the effects
of the coffee started to wear off and sleep began to take hold of him the alarm for General Quarters
rang out.
He had kept his clothes on. All he needed to do was slip his shoes on and run up to his post. It
was 00:20 hours in the morning. The stations were manned and the ships poised in formation like
pulling guards on an end sweep began their approach. They passed the same fishing fleet they had
passed before although not as close. They were taking a different approach into Haiphong harbor. At
01:34 hours, they were in position and opened a chorus of fire onto the mainland. As they gave, so
they received. Airburst off the port bow, two airbursts amidships, airburst at water’s edge off fantail.
The hostile fire was relentless and the most concentrated they had ever received. It didn’t matter
where Chris pointed his night vision scope muzzle flashes were everywhere. He called out their
location at every sighting and pressed the button to the TDT each time he spotted a shore battery.
A constant series of explosions too numerous to count continued all around the ship. His blood
thick with adrenaline, Chris was near hysterical with excitement.
The incoming barrage was so intense the ensign ordered, “Hit the deck!” Chris was too excited
to obey. He remained at the TDT feverishly pressing the button at every blink of muzzle flash he saw
screaming, “How can we stop them if we don’t locate them and fire back?”
“HIT THE DECK!” the ensign yelled again.
The unrelenting sounds of detonating shells persisted.
Another bright flash and loud explosion occurred close by. Chris felt someone or something
painfully grab at his leg forcing him down. He hit the deck and rolled onto his back. He stared at the
clear speckled night sky as the staccato of menacing explosions gradually faded away.
“It’s all clear now,” someone heard him say.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
AL CAMPO IS A RETIRED MORTGAGE BANKING EXECUTIVE of thirty years and Vietnam
War Veteran having served aboard the USS Lawrence from 1972 to 1974 as a boatswain mate and
operations specialist. Before entering the Navy and starting his career in business he attended the
Universities of Missouri and Hofstra. Nowadays when he isn’t tending to his gardens or riding his
Harley, he is plying his acquired boatswain mate’s skills tying fishing knots on his boat the Moody
Blues along the southern shores of Long Island. THE FUNNY THING ABOUT WAR is his first
novel.
www.hellgatepress.com
Table of Contents
Preface & Acknowledgments
I. Bell Bottom Blues
II. In Transit
III. “Request Permission to Come Aboard”
IV. The Gun Line
V. Return to Subic
VI. Back on the Line
VII. R & R: Hong Kong
VIII. Taiwan On
IX. Fire Up the Grid: DMZ
X. Gang Banging in Subic Bay
XI. Long Days & Short Timers
About the Author