USS Mobile, LKA-115: Sailors, Marines and Shipboard Water Closets

We’d been underway for a couple of days headed for NORPAC amphibious training. Mobile had her full compliment of Marines(250) on-board and was transporting them to southern Alaska for mountainous maneuvers.

I was this evening’s Duty Section Engineering Department Petty Officer, as well as Repair Division’s Duty H.T. I just made my rounds, seeing to it that the sweepers had done their jobs before I went up to the ship’s nightly movie. No sooner had I settled down in front of the movie screen with my soda, kipper snacks and crackers, Mobile's 1MC blares out, "Duty HT, lay to the bridge."

I had a bad feeling it was another distress call from troop berthing. Each night, since we’d been underway, the Marine on watch down in troop berthing would call for the Duty HT to come down and unclog their water-closets in their compartment's head. As always, it was just before the evening movie went down, and the head was always a stinking mess. I grabbed, Mendez, my duty gopher, and immediately, he started pleading and whining, trying to get out of our latest detail. "Follow me!" was all I said.

Up to the bridge we went, and sure enough it was the troop berthing head again. Troop berthing holds 250 Marines. It’s situated centerline-amidship, is as wide as the ship, and is at the bottom of the ship(7th deck), below the waterline. You enter troop berthing at the aft bulkhead of the compartment, go down a couple long ladders and your standing on the keel(bottom) of the ship. Continue to walk to the compartment's forward bulkhead, past the 250 racks that are stacked six high, you see two more long ladders, port and starboard, leading up to the shower and head. These two separate compartments are purposefully situated several feet above the ship’s waterline for drainage purposes. When you go up the long port ladder, you’ll be standing on the landing leading into the head. Open the door and your standing in the head.

The forward bulkhead of the head held four plugged urinals, plum full of Marine excrement. To the right of the plugged urinals, were four water closets, three of which happened to be full to the brim with the same brown smelly stuff. The last water closet was still functional and occupied. A line of five or six noisy Marines were rooting for it’s occupant to hurry and evacuate his bowels. What a stinking mess! I noticed that the wash basins had crap in them! These Marines had been awfully busy today. And were these boys ever happy to see Mendez and me. Hooping and hollering. Cussing and carrying on as they were. I ignored their taunts as best I could, and told them, "No problem Marines, we’ll have you Marines fixed up in a jiffy!" I looked over at Mendez and saw that he was about to faint. "We’ll be back as soon as we can. First we have to get some gear!"

I could have passed this little ditty on up to Chief Little. It would've been the proper thing to do. He even hated Marines worse than he hated me. But he was a total jerk, so I chose not to get him involved. Besides, I had a more fun and interesting plan. Up to the Carpenter Shop I went.

Meanwhile, I had Mendez open the small access panel next to the door to the head and run a 1-1/2" fire hose up through it. I brought back a ton of stuff from the shop. A pair of 5,000volt rubber electrician gloves, a Mark V gas mask, a partial bucket of okem, several wooden DC plugs, one 1/8" 7018 welding rod, a 24" pipe wrench, and a 4"clean-out plug with a custom made 1-½" female swivel adapter I’d up made earlier.

When I returned, I saw where Mendez had lost his lunch on the landing by the head’s door. After I made sure I had enough hose to work with, I told him to stand by at the bottom of the ladder, guard the fire hose and wait.

The Marines thought I was pretty funny looking, wearing the gas mask and gloves. I assured them I’d have them fixed up in a jiffy and proceeded to empty two of the porcelain bowls. I ‘bout puked in my mask, but I was a man on a mission. What the Marines did was toss in oranges, apples, pop cans and rolls of toilet paper, just to see if they would flush. When that didn’t work, the Marines then filled the bowls up the rest of the way to the rim with various shades and textures of excrement. As soon as I emptied their crud on the deck, I packed okem into the turd chute and tapped in a DC plug nice and tight. I did this to two of the four bowls. Keep in mind that the puckey filled urinals and sinks utilized the same four inch drain manifold as the water closets; these I left alone and untouched. I replaced the 4 inch drain manifold's clean-out plug with the fire hose adapter plug, and attached the 1-1/2"fire hose to it.

One Marine was still occupying the last bowl. I didn’t bother him or the other five of his Marine brethren still waiting in line. I excused myself for a moment, stripped my mask off and called Mendez up the ladder. I told Mendez to man the fire plug, and his eyes got big as the smile on his face, "When you hear me beat on the bulkhead with this wrench, charge that hose with everything it's got and then, get lost! I’ll be right behind you so don’t get in my way!" As Mendez left, I closed the hasp on the head door and twisted a welding rod in place as a padlock. "BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!", went the pipe wrench. Down the ladder rails I slid shouting, "MAKE A HOLE!!" At about the same time I ran over a Marine, 150PSI of salt water forced its way up into the head via a 1-1/2" firehouse. I heard this muffled, "BUH-BOOM!" and some garbled screaming and yelling on my way out of troop berthing.

The movie was nearly over when I sat down. I guess I must've smelled a little rank, ‘cuz these guys gave me funny looks as they got up and left the movie. I kept waiting for the ship’s 1 MC "Flooding Alarm" to go off, but it didn’t. So I left the movie and cautiously made my way to the Carpenter Shop to see if there was any fallout yet. The Sounding/Security watch showed up an said he’d heard what Mendez and I did in troop berthing. I admitted nothing of the sort. "Mendez must be on drugs. Don't listen to him!" says I. "Go back to your watch before I place you on report!"

The aftermath was kind of amusing. The two bowls I had plugged up, stayed on the bulkhead. The only casualties during this exercise were the last two exploding porcelain bowls, and the sitting Marine. When his pot exploded, he tried to jump over the water closet door, and in the process of escape, scraped his legs all up jumping over the shitter's door. The sinks and urinals got cleaned out, but the opposing bulkheads needed cleaning now. The Marines standing in the head got a free mud bath and refreshing shower courtesy of the Mobile's Repair Department . Even the deck and all of the Marine gear and laundry in troop berthing, from the second rack down, got a free salt water wash job. A ton of water a minute that can spew out of a 1 ½" fire hose pumped up to 150p.s.i. Who knows who, how or when that fireplug got shut off.

Not one gripe reached my ears. Not a single warning or threat. Not even a peep from HTC Little. The two broken bowls weren’t replaced till after we returned to San Diego. But best of all, there were no more complaints or repair calls from troop berthing during the rest of that cruise. Another satisfied group of happy campers, compliments of the USS Mobile!

USS Mobile, LKA-115: Navy Oxygen Breathing Apparatus(O.B.A.) Training

After my arrival and indoctrination aboard the USS Mobile, I was given the honor of bringing the ship’s company up to date on their damage control qualifications. What better way to become the most popular guy on the ship than to show the Damage Control training film documenting the USS Forrestal flight deck fire of 1967? For two weeks this thirty minute video showed before our nightly ship’s movie. Each crew member was required to sign a statement that they’d seen the movie. Our captain also required the movie be shown to all of his officers.

What had happened to the Forrestal, can happen aboard any ship at sea. Conflagration is a ship’s worst nightmare. If the fire is not put out, the ship will burn, sink and perish along with a lot of good men. 134 men were killed and 62 were injured in this fire. Those that weren’t killed by the fire or explosions, were mostly casualties of smoke inhalation. Many men were found dead, as they were trying to improperly use the Navy Oxygen Breathing Apparatus(O.B.A.)

The mandatory movie didn’t make me popular with the crew, but it got the point across. Every sailor is a fireman, no matter what their specialty, and every man needs to know how to don and operate an O.B.A.

My own Section Four Fire Party didn’t exactly worship me either, but you can bet that they were never bored with any of the training evolutions I came up with. I trained them as best I could and drilled them as I felt they needed it. I never duplicated a fire drill. I exposed each of my men to each piece of Damage Control equipment onboard the ship and required each man in my charge to demonstrate it’s usage. Section Five Fire Party also knew the quickest way to navigate their way around the ship due to the never ending variety of the drills we exercised.

When our other LKA sister ships tied along our side would have a fire drill, we’ve called away the “Rescue and Assistance Detail” to render assistance to their stricken ship. More often than not, we’d be on the scene of their casualty before their own Damage Control crew would be. That was a giant feather in our cap.

Anyway, we had training many times before on the O.B.A. , but I wanted some extra special training for my guys. Today we were going to have everyone in the Fire Party light off an O.B.A. This training, if it went well, would replace our duty section D.C. drill. Earlier in the week I got with the duty corpsman and asked him if he could come up with something to gas out the Carpenter Shop with. Nothing to hurt anyone, just something to get their attention during the training evolution. He said he’d talk to the ship’s doctor and maybe come up with some sort of plan. A couple of days later, our corpsman said he was all set for the show. He was so anxious about it, he even had me a little spooked since he wouldn’t clue me in on any of the details. He assured me though that no one would die from the experience.

Well, our duty day arrived. I had all of my guys mustered in the morning and warned the guys of the O.B.A. training session following the evening meal. Our corpsman acted really obnoxious and kept hinting to the guys about how something bad might happen during this evening’s training evolution. I told the corpsman to clam it up and reminded the guys that they’d all better know their O.B.A.s inside and out since tonight's training session would be special. All day long these guys hounded me about O.B.A.s and tonight’s exercise. When I wouldn’t tell ‘em about what was going to go down, they’d walk away shaking their heads mumbling.

With evening chow out of the way, I had the Section Five Fire Party muster in the Carpenter Shop along with any other interested personnel seeking O.B.A. refresher training. We emptied each repair locker on the Mobile of their stock of O.B.As and returned to the Carpenter Shop. Meanwhile, our faithful corpsman had a Bunsen burner setup inside of a large stainless wash basin, setting on our workbench. He says to me, “You’re really going to enjoy this!” He had me wondering.

I had the men don their O.B.A.s, fit up their face masks and check ‘em out for air leaks. Having done so, I had them remove their masks and had them tucked into their O.B.A. harness, at the ready. Now all these guys needed were the chemical canisters that slid up into the bale assembly of their O.B.A.s. This canister(when operating properly) scrubs out the CO2 of your breath and acts as a re-breather, producing oxygen needed to breath. Once the canister is in place, a lanyard needs to be pulled to activate the canister and you have to make sure the cotter key is at the end of the lanyard or else the thing won’t light off and you won’t have air to breath.

We had about twenty guys dinking with their O.B.A.s, including a couple of officers I hadn’t counted on. It was getting kinda cramped in that little Carpenter shop. The more the merrier! Then there was a knock on the shop door. I opened it to see our ship’s doctor standing in the passageway wearing a bright yellow Nuclear/Biological(Big Bird) jumpsuit and gas mask. In his rubber glove covered hands, he’s holding a wooden box with skulls and crossbones adorning it in plain view. He sat the box on the workbench and tells me and the corpsman to done our gas masks. Needless to say, the guys wearing the O.B.A.s were getting a little anxious and started asking me when I was going to hand out the O.B.A. canisters. I gave out the canisters, had them loaded into the O.B.A.s, but don’t don your masks or pull the canister lanyards till the Doc gives the word.

The Doc had to be sweating his butt off, wearing that Big Bird suit, but he was very methodical as he and the corpsman poured that special clear liquid into the beaker. Then the corpsman placed the beaker on the burner and the Doc tells him to let him know when 45 seconds lapses. The Doc then measures out a dose of green powder from a little brown bottle he’d retrieved from that skull box. “Forty-five seconds Doctor!” The Doc then poured the powder into the beaker and nasty looking green foam started overflowing from the beaker and doused out the burner fire.

“GAS!” The Doc yells! Then I reached over and turned out the lights in the shop... All I could hear were hearts pounding, breaths of muffled anguish peppered with colorful swear words from the twenty men wearing the O.B.A.s.

After a short period, I flicked the lights on and inspected the survivors. Other than the extra wide eyeballs bulging out of their face masks, everyone learned how to properly don and operate an O.B.A. An experience I’m sure that they remember to this day, thirty years later.

The Ship's Doctor wanted to do it again to his com padres in the wardroom, but it was so much work. After cleaning up the mess and disposing of the canisters, I just had to pass.

I asked the Doc what the “Gas Potion” was. "Vinegar and lime Kool Aid."

dz

USS Mobile, LKA-115: Ship to Ship Bombardment

The USS Mobile was preparing for the ‘Bell Nugget’ exercise that would eventually take us to Juneau, Alaska, for the Forth of July celebration. One of the jobs that the carpenter shop had to accomplish before this cruise was to perform maintenance checks on each inflatable life vest we had on board the ship. There were two ways to inflate these lifevests. One way was to pull a lanyard attached to a small CO2 bottle. If the vests didn’t inflate or inflate completely after the initial charge, there was a mouth piece built in that would allow you to inflate it manually. We collected at least 500 of the goofy things and threw them into a big pile on the carpenter shop deck. Each vest was removed from each belted pouch, then we made sure each vest had a police whistle, a working D-cell lamp, and a sealed cylinder/cartridge of CO2 of the proper weight.

I had my guys remove and weigh all of the little CO2 cartridges for each vest then insure each vest had a full bottle attached. They weighed an empty bottle for tare then added one ounce (I think) for a full charge. I couldn’t believe the amount of light CO2 bottles we ended up with. A couple of hundred at least. Even some of our replacement bottles were too light to use. It took the guys two or three days to get this all done, on top of their regular work load.

We were supposed to vent the CO2 off of the rejects, then trash the light bottles. I made sure we collected each and every light CO2 bottle and I put them under lock and key. Meanwhile, I took a couple of sample bottles and headed aft to the shipfitter shop. I test fit a bottle inside of a close fitting 5' length of black iron pipe, then threaded one end of the pipe so I could stuff a cap on the end. I drilled a hole in the center of the pipe cap and welded a sharpened stub of rod in place for a firing pin. Voila’, a "CO2 Mortar Tube" for fun and games!

The first couple of tries, the thing didn’t work. Which wasn’t too good for my image since I was drawing a small crowd onlookers. I sharpened the stub a little more and tried to bend it towards the point where the bottle’s lead seal would impact. The third time I dropped a bottle down that tube, "Swoosh!", that little sucker did fly! None of the onlookers, or myself, saw where the little bottle went. I pulled the cap off to make sure the pipe was empty and sure nuff it was gone. I gave it one last try for the crowd’s enjoyment, and we lost sight of it also. "Oh well guys. That’s all I have. See you later." Off to the carpenters shop I went, with mortar tube in hand.

I found a yellow can of spray bomb and sprayed the heck out of those bottles till I ran out of paint. We had black and some red spray bombs, so we got all of the painting done before evening chow. The paint was pretty much dried, so after chow Goss, Blankenship and I headed back to the Mobile’s fantail for firing practice.

Mobile was sitting at the head of the pier with her pointy end facing the beach. Several tin cans were behind us on both sides of the pier, but our main objective was the LPH 3, USS Okinawa. At 600' long, she should be easy enough to hit, trouble was that the sun was in our eyes and we didn’t have much luck seeing those bottles fly. The bottles would fly past(but not always) the length of a tin can. However, we could see the little splashes in the water through a set of binoculars we’d borrowed. We were pretty sure we were on target after about ten rounds.

We had a lot of fun taking turns with our new toy. And once the sun had set, we could see the bottles glint in the sun at the top of their arc. Pretty cool! We had Eight to ten squids taking pot shots at the Okinawa before we were done.

Next day a couple of us took a walk down the pier to see if we could find any incriminating evidence. Sure enough, there were a couple dozen little bottles spotted laying around on the pier and probably at least a hundred or so laying around on the Okinawa’s flight deck. No one wanted to go check for sure. It took us two more days before we finally ran out of ammo.

dz

USS Mobile, LKA-115: Jarhead Swim Test

This happened on the USS Mobile in 1977.

During one thirty day cruise to Alaska, we had a full complement of Marines on board. It's kind of a pain when they're aboard.   Marines had little to do at sea except stand in line for chow and clogging up the heads.  I got along fine with them most of the time and enjoyed giving them tours of the ship, if they were interested. Occasionally we’d come up against a real knothead and we’d have to set them straight. After all, while we’re onboard and steaming, we have home court advantage. This episode was more like a training evolution.

With the Engineering berthing area smelling like a ripe football locker room, and the mess decks crowded with an overabundance of movie goers.  HT2 "Snake" Snedeker and myself decided to kick back in the carpenter shop with a cup of fresh coffee and some tunes. We were doing a little work on a flag box project for an upcoming retirement. We hadn't gotten much accomplished when FN Ronnie Blankenship barged in on us. During his Sound/Security watch, Blankenship ran into a bit of trouble with an American Samoan Marine sentry. The deranged Marine wouldn't allow Blankenship into the cargo hold to make his soundings.

"Can you guys help me out?" asks our faithful Fireman.

Well, we reached the aft cargo bay in record time and way down deep, on the seventh deck, was the offending grunt. Just like Blankenship said, the stupid jarhead kept waving his fixed bayonet Poodle shooter at us!  He would not allow us entry into the cargo hold.

Snake and I conferred with each other and came up with a plan. I told Ronnie to go chase up the duty electrician, whilst Snake and I dropped and dogged the hatch leading down into the Marine's cargo hold.

Ronnie returned with IC3 Stanley Powell, now the stage was nearly set.

I opened the scuttle and Snake called down to the grunt asking him if he had changed his mind, but he wasn't being cooperative. Snake told the grunt he'd better know how to swim.... Boom! Down went the scuttle.  Snake and I boogied back up to the main deck.

Next, Stanley Powell, killed all the lights and electricity to the cargo hold. We had Blankenship notify DC central and main control to ignore the loss of firemain pressure 'cuz we were flushing and testing fire plugs back aft in the ship.

Powell and Blankenship came back down to the cargo hatch/scuttle.  In order to maintain water-tight integrity, the boys kept our little Marine buddy company by sitting on the hand wheel of the scuttle.

LKA’s had some handy features. Port and starboard of the four cargo hatches on the main deck are sets of large hand wheels. From here one can remotely operate the de-watering eductors located in each of the four corners in each cargo hold. It's really a beautiful system and hard to appreciate unless you witness its operation first hand like our Marine sentry was going to shortly.

In theory, If we were to maintain 150 p.s.i. on the firemain, we could de-water each flooded cargo hold at 4,000 gallons per minute! That's a lot of salty water, but we're not really dewatering, we're just testing fire plugs, remember? If this cargo space were full of water, you would feel a lot of heavy rumbling, and it would be relatively quiet. But when the water level drops below the level of the eductor intakes, each eductor intake sounded like a cross between a bathtub drain and Niagara Falls... maybe louder! Everything shook like a dog poopin’ razor blades.   Snake and I could feel the rumble we'd created, seven decks below.

The bat cave darkness of the cargo hold also added a spooky element to the scenario. As soon as we got all four eductors running hard, we reversed our steps and secured the impromptu dewatering exercise.  The noise and vibration was bound to draw attention.  It took us all of 15 minutes to turn the thing on and off.  Then back down to deck 6 #3 cargo hold we went.

Depending upon your viewpoint(above or below the hatch); this training exercise took no longer than 15-20 minutes to complete, or as in the case of one overly gung-ho American Samoan Marine, it was an eternity to endure.

After securing the eductors, each of us squids grabbed up a dogging wrench and prepared to debrief our studious sentry. Blankenship and Powell said the Marine had been pounding pretty hard on the other side of the hatch, and they were having a heck of a time holding the handwheel shut. No sooner had we loosened the dogging bolts, the grunt flung open the heavy hatch, bounding up the ladders two steps at a time.

When everything was secured and the lights and juice turned back on, we all went our separate ways. FN Blankenship returned to his sounding-security

watch . Later on he came back to the carpenter shop and showed us a nice big piece of the Marine’s bayonet he’d found at the bottom of the ladder. It was soon turned into a souvenir key fob.

Life on Mobile was good again.


dz

USS Mobile, LKA-115: Sounding and Security Watch or Things that go Bump in the Night.

As I remember, we were on our way up to Alaska for a NORPAC operation. We were several days at sea when I was pulling a 2000-2400 Sounding/Security watch. It was a real walk in the park for me 'cuz I enjoyed wandering around the ship when everyone else was kicking back or getting sack time. To me Mobile was an engineering marvel. Everything had a designed purpose and she required relatively few sailors to complete her assigned tasks.

Scuttlebutt I heard that there was quite a bit of racial problems aboard Mobile prior to my tour on board. The tension on the ship was still great the crew just seemed to hate each other for no apparent reason. When I first came aboard, I couldn’t find a dogging wrench anywhere except to be used as weapons and kept under pillows in the crew's berthing spaces. It was rumored that people were stabbed in there racks in the not too distant past. Guys in ‘Repair’ Division preferred the top or bottom racks to sleep in, since the middle ones left you vulnerable to an attack while you slept. Being the new guy I had to sleep in a middle rack.

So anyway, here I am trying to finish up on my S/S watch. I'm on my way down to the seventh deck, reefer compressor room. The area I'm in is a small room filled with refrigeration compressors. My purpose is secure this area, and to mark off a check off list as to the condition of this reefer equipment, making sure its running up to snuff. It's awfully noisy, so I don a pair of ear muffs just to hear myself think. Just forward of this compartment is a passageway abeam of the ship. At each end of this passageway(port and starboard) are ladders leading out of the space. Forward of the compressor room passageway are the cold storage freezers and dry storage compartments. Each of the Ship's stores are under lock and key.

Like I was saying, I'm trying to hurry through my little assignment, 'cuz I'm on the last leg of my watch, it’s about 2320, and I've still got to climb the mountain of ladders, up to the bridge, for my watch relief. If I hurried, I might be able to make it up to the mess deck in time for some pie and a glass of milk! But then I heard this rattling of a ladder. I stuck my head outta the door and see this little Philipino cook opening one of the big reefer doors. All seems well, so I tend to my own business. But not long after wards, I hear this blood curdling scream! It sounded like one of them hysterical, screaming women getting murdered just like in a slasher flick. Then the screaming seemed to travel up the ladder and out of ear shot. Man was my heart pumping pure adrenalin! The hair on my neck was standing on end!

I did what any brave S/S watch would do; I locked myself into the compressor room! I had a 14 inch pipe wrench in one hand and a billieclub in the other. I wasn't going down without a fight. I tried to call out to the bridge and D.C. Central on the sound powered phone in the compressor room. Either it didn't work or nobody was answering their phones tonight. After a few moments that seemed an eternity, I cracked the door open to see if I could spy the dead body that I was sure was there. What I saw didn't really look promising! Nothing but luncheon meat and sliced cheese scattered about the green tiled deck. Where's the body and blood? Hmmmm. I was going to miss mid-rats if I didn't shake a leg. So I swung the compressor room door open and hit the forward bulkhead with my back, ready to cream anything that moved. But the only things moving were the unlatched reefer door that kept banging against the bulkhead as the ship listed and the spooky, foggy mist pouring from out of the opened reefer doorway. I didn't care for this at all! I can't convey how creeped out I was. I checked out the passageway to make sure I was alone and latched the reefer door in the opened position. Then I proceeded to check out the reefer room. A big aluminum was tray lying on the deck. Not long ago there had been a variety of luncheon meats and cheese neatly laid out upon it in an attempt to nourish the oncoming watches at mid-rats. As I stepped over this mess, I was ever so aware of my surroundings.

As I went deeper into the reefer to investigate, I was ever so sure that beneath this thick fog was either a dead body or some sort of boogie man. "Something" made a grown man scream like a little girl! To my relief, everything seemed in order, except for the big mess on the deck out side of the reefer. The hair on my neck was starting to settle down. As I was on my way out of the reefer, I noticed several cardboard signs hanging from these large metal containers. One sign said 'chocolate', another 'maple nut','vanilla', etc. There were two stacks of three of these rather large and long aluminium containers. They were about two by two by seven feet. Like I said, each had it's own ice cream flavor sign attached to it. Well I figured if I was going to go through all of this business of being scared to death, late for my watch relief and then miss midrats... by golly a five gallon bucket of ice cream would be a nice reward.

It looked like it might be a hassle to remove the lids of these containers. So I went for the one marked "Neopolitan" since it was part way opened up. I had to clamber over some stacks of frozen boxes to reach into the "ICE CREAM BOX" of my choice. So as I reached for my five gallons worth of frosty reward, I had to push this black plastic looking material out of the way to obtain my prize. Holy! Cow! Cub Fans! Inside the black sack was this Popsicle looking old dead guy!! His eyes and mouth were open, his tongue was sticking out of his toothless lips and he needed a shave badly! It was about this time I decided not to make the Navy a career choice. After I picked myself off of the deck, I locked up the reefer and compressor rooms. Then I high tailed it up to the bridge, eleven decks above me, for watch relief.

Huffing and puffing as I reached the bridge, I tried to calm myself. Still blinded by the white lights in the outer passageway of officer's country, I couldn't see my hand in front of my face as I stepped into the red lights of the bridge. Although I couldn't see anyone, It sounded as though every one on the bridge was going to bust their guts for all the laughing that was going on! Now this is really odd 'cuz were in "God's Country" here. No one ever plays grab ass or jokes around on a U.S. Navy bridge when the ship is underway. Tonight was to be an exception though. It seems as though word got out that the Chief Commissaryman left specific orders with the duty mess-cook, that ice cream be served at mid-rats this evening. Then it dawned on me that those "ice cream" boxes in the reefer contained the remains of old Navy veterans that were to be buried at sea in ceremony within the next couple of days.

As for that little Philipino cook? He never ever went down to the reefer decks again. I guess we fooled him!

dz

USS Mobile, LKA-115: My First Section Five Fire Party Drill (Or how I met the C.O.)

My tour of duty on the USS Mobile was a definite eye opener into Navy life for me. My first impression of was anything but hopeful as she sat in the water, holding a 10 degree starboard list at Pier 5, 32nd Street Naval Station. She was in bad need of a coat of paint. Polaroid snap shots of sailors restricted to the ship, wallpapered the Quarter Deck. Most of the black gang was either U.A. or restricted to the ship. I was more nervous than a cat in a room full of rocking chairs, when I reported aboard Mobile for the first time.

I came aboard Mobile a week or so early just to visit and see what she looked like. It was after working hours when I came aboard. I couldn't scare up any HTs (Hull Maintenance Technicians,) I did find a few A-Gang sailors in their aft shop. While talking to these sailors, a fire drill was called away for the Section five fire party. After about ten minutes or so, three of the four guys I'd been talking to got up and left without a word being said. I thought it strange and asked the other remaining sailor why they took off. He said they were headed to the fire drill. The fire drill?!? Shortly after hearing this, I said good bye and headed to the Q.D. From there I could see a non-rate screaming at a hand full of sailors on the port side, forward cargo hatch. They had a fire hose out, but no other Damage control gear was in view. It wasn't a pretty sight at all, and they resembled the Chinese Fire-Party from Hell. I had enough education for one day, so I headed back to the USS Dixon, my current ship.

My next day on the Dixon was a day of dread. My visit to the Mobile was a definite eye opener. I had never witnessed such an unsatisfactory damage control evolution before. I wanted desperately to speak with my Dixon Fire-party Scene Leader, HTC Ezell, and get his input. He coached me and managed to work out a plan, he assured me I could pull it off.

After transferring to the Mobile I was assigned as Duty Section 5 Fire-party Scene Leader and Engineering Department Petty Officer. The same damned duty section I saw in action two weeks earlier. How lucky can a squid get? When I mustered the Sec. 5 Fire Party for the first time, I was missing five or six men out of thirteen! And no one seemed to care (My CPO and LPO each said, "Don’t make your problem, my problem. You deal with it.") I was on pins and needles all day. I've never lead men as a Fire-party Scene Leader before. I had barely a clue as to what I had to do, but what was I going to do about the missing men? Chief Ezell told me to stick to the plan and I couldn’t fail. Or at least my butt would be covered.

After ship's work knocked off I notified the O.O.D. of the when and where our Duty Section's fire drill would be held. I also made mention that I would give him a written request that we should go to "General Quarters" and muster our "Ship's Augmentation Force" if I could not muster a complete Fire Party, in full battledress, at the scene of the casualty, during the first three minutes of the drill. Well, the O.O.D. scoffed at me and said I must think he's nuts. I then quoted some NAVSHIPSREGS to him then told him I was prepared to relinquish my damage control duties to him alone, and that my dress blues would be ready for the Captain’s inspection. That zero took an instant dislike to me. He told me if he went down because of this, he’d be standing on my shoulders.

An hour later the drill went down. "Ding-a -ling-a-Ding!", Rang the Quarter Deck bell. "Fire! Fire! Fire!", Shouted the 1 MC. "Fire in the forward cargo bay access trunk, port side at, frame 46. Away the Duty Damage Control Fire party!" This was basically the same drill as I witnessed weeks earlier (I wanted to be able to see the port Quarter Deck.) I wasted my time in opening repair #2, the closest repair locker to the scene where damage control gear was stored. I guess I was the only one on-board that knew of it's existence. The Ex-Scene Leader found a red helmet w/o a liner and proceeded to simulate a nozzle man on a two and a half inch fire hose. It didn't matter to him that the hose wasn't unfaked from the hose rack. To him it was a big joke anyway. Three more guys did show for the drill. They were each subbing for guys that had already hit the beach. None knew what they were suppose to do. So far, this drill was looking pretty sad and getting worse. Hell, I didn't even have an electrician to secure power to the space. This Damage Control team was missing a total of nine men. After three minutes had lapsed, I sent a messenger to the O.O.D. with a pre-printed message requesting "G.Q." be sounded and an all hands on deck muster, so I could have some men to work with. "Ding! Ding! Ding! Ding!", went the ships bell. "GENERAL QUARTERS!! GENERAL QUARTERS!! All hands man your battle stations!", shouted the 1MC. Then to really confuse the crew, "Muster the 'Augmentation Force', main deck, port side, aft cargo hatch!" None of the ship’s crew knew what "Augmentation Force" meant (And for you that don’t know, it’s any living creature left on board ship. After 3/4s of the ships crew having already hit the beach for liberty call, the crew was pretty thin pickings.)

They sure as hell didn’t know where their "In-port" G-Q Battle Stations were. This crew didn’t know what to do. After a few more tense moments, some of the crew started mustering at the aft cargo hatch.

No one seemed to want to get involved with my fire drill. A few of my fellow mates looked more than willing to abandon the ship though. The clock kept ticking. Nothing was happening. Thank God this wasn’t the real enchilada. I did felt a lot of eyes on me. My first messenger never came back. Now I was short ten men. I sent another messenger aft to bring back ten bodies to cover my losses, but he got lost also. The only members left at the scene was a big dummy with a clipboard(me), a goof-ball with a worthless fire-hose wearing a red helmet w/o liner, and this scrawny, pathetic looking, wide eyed mess cook fearing his deportation to the Philippines.

The USS Mobile was a ship in distress! Then came the moment of truth. I knew I was going to have to take a big bite of this shit sandwich I’d just made, yet I didn't have a clue as to what would really happen. I was about to meet the guy who would know how to deal with the problem, real soon.

Shortly after the G.Q. alarm stopped, I looked aft to the port Quarter Deck, and here was this real tall guy in khaki pants, a grandpa tee-shirt, shaving cream over half his face and the biggest damned golden draped hat you ever did see. Emerging from the ship’s superstructure was, Mr. MOBILE himself, Captain Sprunk. As the full bird was making his inquiries with the O.O.D., I saw the O.O.D. then point his spindly finger in my direction. Even though I was shaking like a dog shitting razor blades, I had to maintain the composure of Sgt. Rock. Anyway, this big bird was headed right towards me. I gave him a cordial salute. He returned my salute and asked me how I was doing (he was even toned, and sounded like a very nice man) and he asked me if I would please explain why his ship was brought to General Quarters. I told him my story, and he thanked me! The Captain thanked me! And he told me that I did the right thing(he didn't shake my hand though), then he saluted me and went back to the O.O.D. and secured us from our drill and General Quarters.

And that was the beginning of my tour of duty on the U.S.S. Mobile, LKA-115. I was right about having to have to take a big bite of this shit sandwich I’d made. And I did. Mr. Lewright, my Repair Division officer was besides himself with me (It wasn’t to be the last time I’d cause him to have hissy fits.) I ended up having to bring everyone inboard, up to date on their Damage Control qualifications. I sure made a lot of friends in a hurry. Or at least my name got around fast.

With the exception of Pearl Harbor, Chief Ezell said he couldn’t recall of another time in American history, where a U.S. Navy ship had went to General Quarters while in a home port.

Just another funny sea story for his goat-locker buddies I guess.

dz

USS DIXON, AS-37: "CAPTAIN! IT'S A RUSSIAN SUB!"

This Sea Story was told to me by a fellow shipmate HT2 "Wally" Wolner. I had been recently transferred to the Mobile, LKA-115.

One summer evening of ‘76, I (Wally)was kicking back in the 56A pipe shop office. Just got back from the mess deck with a full belly, and I had my feet propped up on the desk, fulfilling my section three duty obligation. I noticed fellow HT3 Harry Brannan running around in circles from the pipe shop, to the carpenter shop, then over to the foundry, then off to the tin bender shop. He was up to something secretive.

Harry was a wild one. Prior to his hitch in the NAVY, he was an infantryman in the USMC(our sister service) and did a tour in Vietnam. Harry liked our chow, our warm cozy racks we climb into each night and our vast number of water closet accommodations. Goodbye C-Rats. Hello Navy!

Anyway, Harry was always up to something. And this duty night Harry had a timber that he’d taken down to a five inch diameter, by four to five foot long wooden pole. At one end of the pole, there was a foot long taper that went down to a couple of inches in diameter, and he planed off a one inch flat spot, the length of this taper. In the tin shop, Harry fashioned a strip of stainless to cover the flat spot of the taper(I mean this was an in depth project and Wally was real slow to catch on to his antics.) Then Harry started pounding a bunch of these huge spikes into the other end. Harry was grinning like a poo eating opossum, all the while as he was building this goofy thing. Wally asked him what he was up to, but Harry wouldn't let Wally in on the secret. "The heck with him. I just went back to the office, drank coffee, smoked butts and waited for the night’s movie to go down."

Till Harry started filling the deep sink up with water, Wally hadn’t a clue. Harry was now dipping the spiked end into molten lead in the foundry shop, then he’d run over to the deep sink and plop it into the water to see how it'd float. Then he’d add more lead to the spikes, then back to the sink. "It dawned on me that he was trying to get the thing to float upright on its own, and he was making it look a lot like a miniature periscope." Wally asked Harry about it and he said, "You're on the right track, but this wasn’t just any periscope, it was going to be a Russian Two-Man, Spy Submarine, Periscope!" Well Harry was different the most normal human beings, and this proved it.

After getting it to float right, he buffed that stainless strip till it gleamed sort of like a periscope lens. He painted it haze gray, and slopped some flat black splotches all over it, just like the big boats alongside. But as an added touch, he painted Red Stars on each side of the fake lens. "It really looked kinda cool sitting there in there in our deep sink. Okay what now?" "Wait till tomorrow, Wally." was all Harry would say.

Next morning after quarters, Harry clued the pipe shop crew in on his evil plan. Three of the pipe shop sailors went down to the inboard SSN, tied along the starboard side of Dixon. Half a dozen more pipe shop sailors were posted against the rail on the Dixon’s main deck, admiring the fine morning they were having and counting the seagulls as they flew by. They were standing just above the SSN’s non-rated topside watch, where all of the action was about to begin.

The pipe shop boys down on the SSN, were waiting their turn to receive clearance from the busy non-rated topside watch. Clearance was needed before they could enter the boat to work. Meanwhile they busied themselves with loud scuttlebutt concerning the Russian Spy Sub, sighted at sea, just off Point Loma. "Yeah! Did you see the way that Coast Guard cutter tore outta here earlier?" said one sailor. "Yeah! But I bet those three choppers from Coronado find it first!", Chimed in his comrade. When the guys figured that the sub’s topside had heard enough of their B.S., back up to the Dixon they went, to fetch the tools they’d forgotten back at the shop. The hook was set! I like a good fish story. Except for our Chief and our LPO, the whole pipe shop gang was now assembled, main deck, starboard side, on the USS Dixon. Just admiring the seagulls and those hard working sailors below.

At the starboard waterline of DIXON, air bubbles coming out of NSRO would continually roil the water in between the camels that separated Dixon, from the sub tied alongside. The bubbles also created a beneficial current in the water. And when no one else was paying attention, Harry dropped his periscope over the side. We all thought it was stuck in the mud on the bottom, 'cuz it took so long to surface, but surface it did! As it bobbed up and down, it twirled, ever so slowly. The Russians commenced to spying and carrying on their dastardly mission.

"Topside!! Ahoy down below!!", we all yelled and pointed. "It’s a Russian sub!!", "My God!! It’s a Russian sub!", over and over. It was all pretty funny.... till the topside non-rate smacked the security alert button at his podium. Then the squirrel bait drew and racked his side arm, placing a well aimed bead on the periscope. We were all holding our breaths collectively. Hatches slammed shut, alarms were blaring on our ship and each of the subs. Sailors on a mission, were running all over the Dixon with weapons drawn, all locked and loaded. This was not a drill! Everybody froze, except that damned Commie periscope, and the sub’s topside watch, who was kind of dancing around, jumping up and down; doing his best Barney Fife routine.

Then the alarms stopped, and it got really quiet. No shots had been fired. A few moments later we heard the hatch on the sail of the inboard boat, bang open. Then we saw this golden hat rise out of that black turd. And the head beneath it yelled down below,"Topside, are you the reason we’re having this security alert?" The topside looks up and screams,"Captain! It's a Russian Sub! It’s a two man Russian sub, right there Captain!!" The sub Captain glared at the offending periscope bobbing around in the water, then he looked over at us, all smiling and happy. Instantly, he became three shades more red than before. "Topside! You are one Dumb Ass! Secure that pistol into your holster!" Then he threw his golden/glittery hat at the topside, but it forlornly bounced and slid off of the sub’s deck into the drink and now was being chased by a Russian sub's periscope! "Secure us from Security Alert! Once you have been properly relieved, fish that periscope out of the water, grab my hat and report to me in my stateroom below. On The Double Topside!" The submarine’s captain gave us one last wicked sneer, then disappeared down into the sail.

“Turn To, commence ship’s work.” Life was good aboard Dixon. No one in the Pipe Shop caught hell. And no one knows where the periscope ended up at. It’s probably sitting on a nice fireplace mantle somewhere.

Harry Brannan, a legend in his own time, and now he's our hero for all time!

dz

USS DIXON: Our friends the "Coasties"

This is no s***, and it happened around 1974 on the USS Dixon. Designated AS-37, she was a nuclear submarine tender. Basically Dixon was a floating factory designed to service the material needs of SS diesel/electric, SSN nuclear fast attack and SSBN nuclear ballistic guided missile submarines. If was broke, most generally you could have it repaired alongside or on board Dixon.

The Hull Maintenance Technician(my rating) credo is "We can fix anything except the break of day, or a broken heart!", and that’s a strong statement coming from a bunch of dumb hammer mechanics. We had a large whimsical cartoon beneath the plexiglass of the pipe-shop office desk. It was a picture of a fat ol’ sow (DIXON) laying in the mud with a litter of piglets(Subs named Gurnard, Swordfish, Snook, Pintado, etc.) sucking on her teats.

On board Dixon, we had the best food around, soft beds, Hollywood showers, an excellent medical staff, weapons repair, instrument repair, carpenters, Shipfitter/Pipefitters, laundry, optics, fleet machine shop, foundry, movies, barber, tin benders, Ship’s store, electronic technicians, electricians, small boat repair, divers and on and on.

The divers we had are main characters in this sea story. Our ship’s divers were usually camped out at the foot of the pier, working off of their diving barge. The work they accomplished was a vital part of our repair operations and security. When the divers were between work orders, they trained and trained some more. Some of the training they did do was very beneficial to the Dixon’s Repair Department Annual beach party picnic.

Three hundred yards or so to the west of Dixon’s starboard side was the U.S. Coast Guard station at Ballast Point. The Coasties had a couple of old cutters and a couple of small boats attached there. Coasties kind of kept to themselves and rarely socialized with us common sailors that much. They would come calling on the Dixon with regularity though, wanting us to repair or make a part for one of their decrepit cutters or boats. Yea, then, we were their buddies. We’d feel sorry for them, and we’d help them out as best we could. No strings attached, no paperwork involved, then we’d send them on their way.

Then one fine day our ship’s divers started harvesting their fish, lobster and crab traps for the up and coming Annual Repair Beach Party. Timing was perfect for the Coasties. Those fine fellows showed up on our pier as the divers were finishing salting and icing down the last drum of fresh seafood. "Poaching", was the word they used. "Illegal Contraband" were a couple more. So "five", fifty-five gallon drums of San Diego harbor’s finest seafood was confiscated by those knotheads. Back to Ballast Point they went. It seems as though the Coasties had been watching our divers at work for sometime, and they too were contemplating having a little beach party of their own. So bold and brazen were they, that evening they made a huge bonfire and had one heck of a beach party shindig at our ship’s divers expense. A fair amount of the Dixon’s duty section kept a watch on the Coasties’ beach party through the "Big Eyes" on our signal bridge. Meanwhile, our beach party was postponed. Scuttlebutt got around. The whole Dixon crew was pissed at the Coasties. Word had it that our old man wanted to use Ballast Point for a shore bombardment exercise, but our guns wouldn’t train that low. The X-O passed the word for everyone to stand down, especially our divers. The situation was being resolved, supposedly.

That very evening, as luck would have it, one of the Coasties old cutters came back limping into port in need of more Dixon bailing wire and band-aids, so they could get back to their patrol. These Coasties had no idea what evil deed their mates had pulled on the Dixon's divers while they were out at sea. They had troubles of their own. The broken cutter’s greasy Coastie mechanics weren’t allowed across our Quarter Deck without being in a clean uniform-of-the-day. The second visit the Coasties made, their men were all told not to come back until they had shaves and regulation haircuts. Then the broken cutter’s Engineer accompanied his men to the Dixon Quarter Deck on their third visit, and was told to clear the gangway until he removed his unauthorized vehicle from the Dixon’s pier. The Coasties were really miffed with our O.O.D., but still had no idea why Dixon’s hospitality had dried up. They took off in a huff and were gone for quite some time. The broken cutter Coasties busted the Ballast Point beach shindig, and in short order had "four and one half"-fifty-five gallon drums of San Diego Harbor’s finest seafood, all iced down, loaded on their flatbed truck and delivered to the foot of Dixon’s pier. Our beach party was back on.

We helped the broken Coastie cutter out and got them underway. A day later, and a half a barrel short of seafood didn’t seem to matter to our crew. Our beach party was as good as our last, if not better. There was great food, drink and times to be had by all who attended. Sometimes things do have a way of working themselves out.

The Coasties never regained the popularity they’d once had with the Dixon. We were usually out of whatever they needed, or our equipment they needed service of, was usually down for repairs. So with regret we’d direct them over to the U.S.S. Sperry pier (our older sister tender,) there the Coasties had always been given the cold shoulder.

dz

USS DIXON: Barnacles, Brine and Other Substances

I remember a time back in 1975/76 when the Dirty 30(USS San Anofre), a floating dry-dock stationed at Point Loma, had an SSN out of the water for various repairs, then along came another SSN for emergency repairs.

I don’t recall the names of the boats, but they were of the same fast attack class(just because they're of the same class, don't make them the same.) The one boat already on the blocks had to be pulled out and taken alongside the Sperry temporarily. The newly damaged boat would take her place in the floating dry-dock. That was the "Plan of the Day".

Scuttlebutt was that our stricken SSN had collided with a sub, of another nationality while on maneuvers in the Southeastern Pacific. The other guys couldn’t submerge because of their damage so they had to limp back to wherever they had to go on the surface. Our boat could be submerged, but her damaged outer hull made too much noise in the water to continue her patrol, so they brought her in for emergency repairs so she could continue on her way.

After the yard tugs drug the first one boat covered in zinchromate (yellow primer and was it ever so purrty) along side the Sperry, they drove the cripple into the Dirty 30 well deck. Both boats were of the same class so they didn’t have to reset the cradling blocks. Right? Wrong! The cripple was a newer sub that had some critical design upgrades. The major difference was that it was some 20' longer, because of the added electronic apparatus she had. So half way through the Dirty 30's de-watering evolution, the boat fell off of it’s cradle blocks and dug a really big hole, and buried itself into the side of the Dirty 30's ballast tank with a lead-filled diving plane. The boat shifted the center of gravity of the dry-dock and had everyone thinking that the whole enchilada was going to capsize (I bet the boys in the sub had a real sinking feeling.)

It was all grommets and elbows from then on. Everyone in Dixon's Repair Division had their liberty canceled until both of these boats were gone! Dixon and Sperry (both sub tenders) had three shifts working on both boats now. This was a real cluster-f***. Even so repairs were being made in quick order.

One seriously funny thing did occur though. Dixon's Repair Division Officer, Commander Collins, allowed his personal office coffee mess to be lowered down in the well deck of the Dirty 30 for our use. It was such a fine affair. That sucker held several commercial grade Bunn coffee makers, and all of the accouterments needed for making tea and hot chocolate. Each piece of it, custom made out of the finest stainless steel and labor of love our Dixon’s sheet metal workers could muster. This monstrosity had to weigh in at 300lbs.

Then the real trouble began. There were some valve alignment problems between the sub, dry dock and the pier. Of her umbilical power supply, sewage, and fresh water hook ups; the sewage was not flowing so well. So the sailors on the broken sub had to tinkle and dump in the Dirty 30's head ‘till the problem was resolved otherwise you got flapped in a big way. Meanwhile pressurized air was leaking by a valve on the boat and it kept building up in her sewage lines and holding tanks. Pressure in the sewage line kept building up all night long Too bad a very important valve on the pier happened to be closed, instead of open.

At approximately 5 minutes into morning Quarters muster; as on-going and off-going shifts were assembled beneath the bulk of this submarine . The weak link in the problem sewage system became breached. An eight inch corrugated, rubber/steel belted, sewer hose had all it could take. We heard this ungodly loud KA-BOOM! that emanated from above. About 900 gallons of the rankest, raw sewage came raining down on our parade, from about forty-five feet up. Down into the well deck below it did go! Everyone broke ranks and ran like hell. But it did no good. I’m standing there, like everyone else, covered head to toe in mother natures finest.

Everyone was cussing and thoroughly displeased. Then I looked over at Commander Collin's cherished coffee mess. Burners were all on full bore cooking up the meanest, nastiest, smelling coffee you ever did see. I guess everybody(soon to include me) booked to the showers and neglected to shut the thing down. So it just sat there and cooked.

Commander Collins finally came over to survey the damage. The Commander thought the whole ordeal was pretty funny 'till he saw his beloved treasure covered in deep smoldering piles of submarine shaped excrement. In quick order, the coffee mess managed to find it’s way off of the Dirty 30, into the bowels of the nuclear cleaning room on USS Dixon, for a thorough decontamination. It was never to return to the well deck of the Dirty 30.

The crippled sub was on her was repaired and on her way in 72 hours. "Dixon-Ready for Service"

dz

USS DIXON: Have It Your Way!

Being an HT sure ain’t the most glamorous job in the Navy, but it does have its rewards at times. On board the USS Dixon, I became a Nuke Pipefitter in the 56 alpha shop, an insulation specialist in the 57alpha shop, and Nuclear Biological Decon qualified Investigator on the in-port fire party. I could weld, braze, fabricate raw materials into finished products as well as perform vital functions on the best Damage Control team I’d ever seen. Now these are the high points of my accomplishments. The bad part was that I was still a turd chaser.

And turd chasers(as with all sailors) always have to do their part by taking their turn in the barrel. Case in point was the 750 gallon sewage holding tank job order on the USS Sculpin SSN 590. How I can remember the name and numbers after thirtysome long years is beyond me, but here’s how this one episode went.

There were large ball valves that would close the flow off to the holding tank when it became fulls full, then at the opportune moment a sea valve was opened and the tank was filled with compressed air forcing the sewage to be emptied into the sea. Well this tank had become sluggish. The sewage drain pipes leading into the holding tank had nearly closed shut from the heavy accumulation of calcium deposits from seawater flushing, and who knows what else that ran down those pipes. Our job as HTs was to open the pipes up so they were operable again. Drain snakes were useless on this calcium since it was harder than concrete, so we had to cut it out with the high pressure hydro-blaster. The hydro-blaster was similar to a pressurized car washer, but the pressure was much, much greater. I recall the water pressure could be regulated to a maximum 8,500 PSI. This rig had an accessory kit where if applied with the right pressure, tips and abrasives, it could cut through several inches of steel, or lop off your hand/leg without a problem. We're only concerned with cutting a path for extra large turds today though.

Getting to the pipes we had to clean meant crawling right into the sewage holding tank and forcing a charged high pressure hose and cutting nozzle up into these drain pipes. This meant stripping some poor bubblehead’s lower rack down, and removing the high pressure manhole cover beneath his mattress. Fat sailors would not fit, and tall sailors(I’m 6' 4") had a heck of a time snaking down into that hole.

Although the tank was thoroughly flushed out with bleach and detergent, the smell of ammonia was overwhelming to say the least. We wore airline breathers, overalls, rubber boots and gloves, but that was a futile effort at staying clean and didn’t mask the smell one bit. Louisiana Cajun, HT3 Peter Auzenne, was first to take a turn in the barrel. With an air chisel and paint scraper, he knocked out as much of the calcium out of the pipes that he could reach. We’d spare each other every 30 minutes or so. I went next and got to try the hydro nozzle first.

One HT was in the hole, another acted as communicator for the guy in the hole to another guy standing by on the sound powered phone, who in turn was talking to the guys on deck operating the mechanics of the hydro-blaster. There was no safe, fast way to shut this puppy down. Time flys fast when you're having fun and it seemed as soon as I got started, the pressure was cut off and it was someone else’s turn. I managed to get one of the three pipes cleared out.

Then as I started to get out of the tank, a warm stream of liquid substance drizzled all down by back. It was coming out of a pipe behind me. I started screaming an hollering for my buddies to go an get the culprit that was using the SECURED urinals. They just stood there and laughed at me. When I got out of that hole, I was ready to kill someone. The suspect urinal was the one the Chiefs used. When I reached the head no one was to be found, but the plastic SECURED sign was left dangling from its dog chain that once blocked the urinal’s usage. Oh, Well. This guy from Alabama was up next. He gets into the tank. We fire up the blaster, and then after a few minutes he starts hollering too. Now he’s getting a golden shower before he even gets started! Now I can see the humor! Now I'M standing there like a dummy and laughing MY butt off. I went up to the head again and the chain is still swinging, but no culprit again!

The heck with this nonsense. We started the blaster up again and let Alabama finish his pipe out then took a break for lunch. No one appreciated us standing in the Dixon chow line. Even though we cleaned up a little, we still sort of stunk. Our noses were burnt out, so we had no idea how bad we did smell. It was fun in a demented sorta way.

When lunch hour was over, I grabbed a 15# CO2 fire extinguisher that was at the top of the accommodation ladder in the Dixon’s vestibule. Peter asked me, "What you need that for?" "Pay back." was all I said. It was Pete’s turn again. No sooner did he crawl into the hole the familiar warm stream started to flow. We were to late to try my plan out. And Peter was really hot now, he crawled out and refused to go back down into the hole. We stood around arguing, then I said the heck with it and donned my stinky overalls, airline mask and crawled into that stinkin’ hole. This time I took the CO2 bottle with me. To hell with the blaster, I’m gonna get this guy. I just sat there and waited. I didn’t wait too awful long and that all too familiar stream started to flow again. I stuffed the CO2 horn over the offending pipe and squeezed the valve for all it was worth till the bottle emptied out. 45 seconds was all it’d take. The flow of CO2 had stopped. Pretty white snow covered that pipe now. I had ‘em fire up the blaster again and finished clearing out the last pipe.

Meanwhile a mad O.O.D., foaming at the mouth, Chief was running around the Sculpin screaming and hollering all kinds of bloody murder. He was wearing what was once his finest set of polyester dress whites and all of his fruit salad. Now he was covered from kneecaps to cover, in this gritty, green/gray/black, stinky substance. Even his back was covered in the crud as he ran into the bulkhead behind him, in his attempt to flee the space. The Chief went topside and chewed on our hydro-blaster mates, but they just stood there and stared at the lunatic chief. Brave as they were, they in turn sent him our way.

As the stinky chief stood nose to nose with Petty Officer Auzenne, screaming and a hollering, Auzenne, went and checked the head in question. Sure enough, "Chief, I’m so sorry for what happened to you and your uniform. It seems as though somebody played a nasty trick on you and removed the "SECURED" sign from this urinal. I will report this offense to my CPO when I get back up to the shop."

After we finished the job, we cleaned up our work area as best we could and knocked off ship’s work. We let the night's duty section get rid of the offending CO2 bottle. It just goes to show, that sometimes stuff 'CAN' flow uphill!

dz

Adventures as a Navy Hull Maintenance Technician

Being a rated "Hull Maintenance Technician" is not as glorified sounding as the name might suggest. HTs evolved from ship’s Carpenters, Damage Controlman, Shipfitters and Pipefitters.

When the ships were made of wood and the men were made of iron, Carpenters were responsible for the watertight integrity and structural soundness of the ship’s hull, masts, spars, small boat repairs, and when some old goat would retire, they’d make ‘em a flag box as a going away present.

Then someone got the bright idea to make ships out of iron. So now we have to create Shipfitters (Metal-smiths, Tin-benders or Hammer Mechanics) to do metal working and repairs of the ship’s hull. This made the Carpenters jealous so the Navy started calling Ship’s Carpenters, "Damage Controlman." If a hull sprung a leak, let the DC man handle it. If the ship caught fire, let the DC man handle it (after all, all they’re good for anymore is making an occasional flag box for some old goat’s retirement party.)

Along with iron plate constructed hulls came pipes for containing and shipping, water, oil and gas. Then some smart-Alec came up with the idea of introducing indoor plumbing into ship’s construction. If the truth be known, it was probably some skylarking Boatswain’s Mate or Marine that read a picture of a new fangled water closet in a Sears and Roebuck catalog. At one time it was a very convenient to have so many places and ways to relieve one’s self. But with the advent of the water closet, no longer could a swabbie do his business over the rail, off a spar, down a hawser pipe, into the bilge or even on a coil of line. Now he’d have to run from one end of the ship to the other just to wait in a long line at the crew’s designated water closet, because some Boatswain’s Mate or Marine isn’t finished reading the Sear’s Catalog yet. Then when it did come your turn to use the water closet, the guy before you would leave you in haste with a big grin on his face, knowing the closet was now clogged with a big steaming heap that wouldn’t go down the pipe. So now they had to create a new fangled rating just to unclog the ship’s water closets, no one else would do it! The Navy’s Admiralty decided to call these new sailors, Pipefitters.

Pretty soon the Pipefitters had the run of the ship, from stem to stern, officer’s country to below decks. Pipefitters were the only snipes ever allowed into officer’s country, until the creation of electricity(we’re not going there today.) Unclogging water closets is all the Pipefitter ever did. For all of those emergency trips made into officer’s country heads, Pipefitters would go bald from all of the pats they’d get on their heads. Ship Captains looked favorably upon the Pipefitters for they were the masters of the water closet. Maybe the Captain called him a Pipefitter, but everyone else started calling him the "Turd Chaser."

The Damage Controlman, and Shipfitters must have complained the most. They were foolish for being so jealous of the Pipefitter, because when the Navy’s Admiralty tired of hearing of this all this discontent, they established "The New Navy." They wanted their sailors to have more fun. So one of the many new things they did was to combine these malcontent ratings into specialist "Hull Maintenance Technicians." In reality the Shipfitters, Damage Controlman and Pipefitters were all turned into professional "Turd Chasers." Of course, being a Hull Maintenance Technician didn’t sit well with the prima donna Carpenter types, because they had little time left to concentrate on making their little flag boxes.

Years later, a Newer Navy Admiralty conceded and allowed the whiny Ship’s Carpenters to have their Damage Controlman rating back as they broke ranks with the HTs. Rumor has it that their flag boxes were starting to smell like little aromatic water closets.

dz

NAVY RETIREMENT BONUS

The American Navy found they had too many officers and decided to offer an early retirement bonus. They promised any officer who volunteered for retirement a bonus of $1,000 for every inch measured in a straight line between any two points in his body.

The officer got to choose what those two points would be. The first officer who accepted asked that he be measured from the top of his head to the tip of his toes. He was measured at six feet and walked out with a bonus of $72,000.

The second officer who accepted was a little smarter and asked to be measured from the tip of his outstretched hands to his toes. He walked out with $96,000.

The third one was a noncommissioned officer, a grizzly old Chief who, when asked where he would like to be measured replied, "From the tip of my johnson to my sea oysters." It was suggested by the pension man that he might want to reconsider, explaining about the nice big checks the previous two officers had received. But the old Chief insisted and they decided to go along with him providing the measurement was taken by a medical officer.

The medical officer arrived and instructed the Chief to "drop 'em," which he did. The medical officer placed the tape measure on the tip of the Chief's johnson and began to work back. "Dear Lord!" he suddenly exclaimed, "Where are your testicles?" The old Chief calmly replied, "Vietnam."

dz

USS DIXON: New Zealand Squids

I had money in my pocket for a relaxing weekend liberty. I got off to a late start, because I stuck around for morning chow on the Dixon. Once I hit the Quarter Deck, I was flying towards the enlisted parking lot towards my ride.

I had just bought this 1949 Ford mountain school bus and was converting it into a sort of R.V. party wagon. Today I was just going to cruise up HWY 1 and camp for the night along the beach then come back to the ship late Sunday night. I had my camping supplies and an ice chest full of beer, so I was all set for the weekend. That ol’ Ford had a lot of potential and it was the most fun vehicle I’d ever driven to date. It was on a very short chassis. The only accessories it had were an air horn and a drivers seat. It still had the old flathead six with a non-syncro four speed, soon to be replaced by a stump pullin’ 425 Riviera engine and trans. At one time I suppose it held twenty or so passengers. At this time, it was a real mess, and it only held tools and a collection greasy looking auto parts for the up and coming engine swap.

As I was puttin’ down the Rosecrans to get off of the sub base, a strange looking species of sailors were standing in the road waving me down. These dozen or so guys were dressed in their best whites and wore these flat, pancake, brimless hats. I just had to stop and give them a lift. They didn’t know what to think of me or my bus. At first they must have though I was the public transit service, but they didn’t care what it was as long as it rolled them off of the sub base. As I was loading these blokes, I looked to the waters edge and saw this tiny little 200' - 300' minty green oiler, sitting low in the water and sporting a New Zealand flag. I told them boys to press their hands against the ceiling, use their sea legs and try not to get too dirty. I asked them if they wanted to go to the tourist traps, or the sailor traps. I thought they said they wanted the sailor traps(I couldn’t understand a single word they’d said, except for the"MATEY" part,) so I drove them downtown to that sleazy square on Broadway. They were so darned happy. I refused the bus fare they’d offered me, and once again welcomed them to America. Down the road I went.

I had a relaxing camping trip up at Laguna Beach Saturday. Drank a lotta beer, laid in the sun and went to browse a few shops. Then I headed back south on the coastal route searching for a spot to camp for the night north of Oceanside and did more of the same tourist stuff the next day.

Sunday night I found myself back in San Diego, and took in a new movie called the EXORCIST. That ‘bout scared me half to death. Not wanting to go back to the ship, I went down to Ocean Beach to camp out for the night. I nodded off and start dreaming of that spooky devil girl and woke up to the sound of the wind rattling the bus windows. After the second time I woke up, I said to heck with this nonsense just fired up the bus and headed back to the sub base and the safety of the Dixon.

As I drove by the dinky oiler, I had to wonder what kind of adventure those New Zealand squids had in San Diego. It had to be an adventure just crossing the Pacific on board that little ship of theirs, then end up in beautiful downtown San Diego for liberty call.

By the time I got back to the ship and got showered up, it was about time for breakfast. The hot shower and clean clothes felt good. Chow was great as usual and I still had some time to kill before morning quarters, so I went down to crew berthing and watched the local news on T.V. and I read through a discarded Sunday paper.

The newscaster eventually started talking about these visiting New Zealand sailors that went from bar to bar downtown, till they’d made landfall in a gay bar just off of the square near Broadway. They threw everyone out of the bar, trashed the place, drank their fill of free beer and liquor until the cops came to put an end to their party. Several of San Diego’s finest were slightly injured in the melee that occurred, and the sailors had finally managed to barricade the doors to prevent their capture. Eventually the sailors were routed from the bar after tear gas was employed by the police. The T.V. showed footage of the well worn sailors being released from a night in jail and then being loaded onto a bus for transport back to their ship. What a happy, adventurous crew they were!

dz