Between working on damage control equipment, avoiding HTC Little, and making sure my guys did their jobs; I had a long day. We were coming up on a pay period, so that meant everyone was pretty much broke. So after ‘knock off ships work’ I lounged around the carpenter shop for an hour or so, and waited for chow to go down. I couldn’t afford to eat elsewhere. Once I got chow out of the way, I proceeded to the berthing area to get a shower and relax a bit. The ripe locker room smell of Engineering berthing was enough to convince me to clean up and get the hell off of the ship for the evening, broke or not. After a nice Hollywood shower, I dug around in my locker for some smelly water to splash on my cleanest dirty civie shirt, and to my surprise, I found a nice wad of loose bills and change I’d squirreled away in a sock. Beer Money! What a deal, damned near twenty-five bucks!
After getting all duded up, I went on a search for someone to drink with, but all of my friends had already hit the beach. So I set out on my own. More beer for me! Mobile was tied along pier 5 at the 32nd Street naval base. Getting off of the Quarter Deck was a real boost to my spirits. The warm evening, salty air and hot money burning a hole in my pocket renewed the spring in my step. I didn’t have any gas to drive my bus around so I opted to hoof it to the bar. The EM club was closest and the beer was cheap, but every time I’d gone into that place, some drunken squid would try to put some whoop ass on me. Not tonight, I just want to mind my own business and have a good time. I could visit the Western Club (a.k.a. ‘The Cow Barn’) and drag some pudgy Westpac Widow around the dance floor. Maybe later, I wasn’t drunk enough for that yet. The night was still young and I really wasn’t up to speed yet for that loud Buck Owens crowd.
There are a ton of bars strung up and down National City’s Miracle Mile, but I was tired of walking and settled on this hole-in-the-wall establishment, not too far from The Cow Barn. I didn’t catch the name, but it looked like your typical city dweller, tiger pit. You know the kind of dive that tests your six senses. A little stinky, glitzy, and somewhat foreboding. Where people go to get drunk and they don’t want to know your name. Just right!
As I saddled up to the padded horseshoe bar, the sinister looking greasy barkeep gave me one of those ‘you really don’t belong in here, don’t start anything, hurry it up and get out of here glances.’ I asked him for a pitcher of beer and the smart ass asked me if I’d like to have a glass to go along with it. "Only if it doesn’t cost extra", said I. Well at least the beer was as cold as my welcome, and this pitcher was a big nice big one. Before I got to swallow down my second glass of foam, I heard this familiar crusty sort of whine coming from around the other side of the horseshoe shaped bar. There was this island of mirrored shelves that held all of the bottles of booze and It blocked my view of the other side, where other patrons were sitting. But that familiar whiney sound, sounded a whole lot like Mobile’s very own little, HTC(Head Turd Chaser) Little. HTC Little, was a first class prick(his true rating.)
Chief Little had just reported on board Mobile, replacing, HTC Holdgrapher, another real first class prick. There were a lot of fine Chiefs that had crossed the quarter deck of the Mobile, but those guys never made it to R-Division when I was aboard Mobile. HTC Holdgrapher, spent most of his Navy career behind a desk until he got sent to the Mobile. ‘R’ division showed the shining example of his knowledge and leadership; It was a wreck under his direction. The officers thought he was tolerable. But his men either usually avoided him, or hated him enough that they wanted to toss him over the side while we were underway. He never walked the weather decks at night. The thing I liked most about HTC Holdgrapher was that he retired shortly after I came aboard Mobile.
HTC Little, was a dandy replacement part for Holdgrapher. I don’t know where Chief Little came from, but he had this nasally, New England accent. As a replacement, we could have done worse, but as our luck would have it, it was hard to see how. Chief Little was a runt both physically and mentally(I never measured him, but he had to be buying his uniforms in the children’s section at the P.X.) Chief Little was a suckass around the officers. He was a real salty, fatherly type to our new green division officer, but most of the time he acted like he hated his own men. That’s ok, because we hated him back.
Chief Little had a real knack for inventing nicknames for the men in ‘R’ Division. The Hair lip, The Spick, The Crip, The Lurch (I was The Lurch), O’ Fuzz Nuts, That Pretty Boy, The Jesus Freak, The Doper, That Squirrel Bait, The Hillbilly, and Laurel and Hardy, this is how he addressed us(What a motley sounding crew.) It's no wonder that as with HTC Holdgrapher, HTC Little didn’t dare walk the weather decks at night. If it weren’t for HT1 Braun and HT1 Watkins holding things together, the whole division would have went AWOL.
Little Chief was usually drunk on his off duty hours, and with regularity, he’d be bleeding at the eyes each morning at muster. If you were one of his underlings, you didn’t want to be around the guy ‘till after lunch. Then he’d be happy for an hour or so, till his lunch wore off. Yes, the little guy liked his booze.
Anyway, back in the Tiger Pit, I had just inhaled my first beer and I working on the second when I come to realize that I’m sitting in the same bar with HTC Little. This matter of fact has really got me sucking down my brew! I don’t want to see this little S.O.B., especially when I’m on the beach trying to relax. And from the sound of his voice, the Little Chief is already three sheets to the wind. As for myself, down the hatch! Glug, glug, glug!
I’m about half way through my pitcher when HTC Little wheels around the bar, still wearing his rumpled, khakis, chief’s uniform . The little jerk was on the way to the head when he spotted me, " Lurch! Howz it goin’ ya squid!" As he passes me, he jabs me in the ribs with his thumb for good measure. Then the sinister looking bartender eyes me and says, "You know that little turd?" I didn’t have a snappy answer, so Mister Sinister sez, "Get him out of here! Yer buddy’s worn out his welcome here, and he’s about to get decked by the guy he’s been slobbering on for the last hour. I mean it Buddy, get lost! Take him outta here!"
I felt hurt, insulted and I was still thirsty, so I pointed at my pitcher to show I wasn’t yet ready to leave, but Mr. Sinister went for it as if he were going to dump it out, but I got to pitcher first and started to slug it down(guess I didn't need that glass after all. I got it sucked down at about the same time the Little Chief came wandering out of the head. By the look on Mr. Sinister’s face, I could see it was time to leave. I glanced at my wristwatch, hell it wasn’t quite 1900 hours yet! What a drag! I told the Chief Little it was time to go, but he resisted my efforts and called me a bunch of bad names. So I grabbed him by the arm and drug him out to the sidewalk like I had a mad little dog on a leash.
As I tried to hail him a cab, Chief Little began acting pretty stupid. He kept running in circles, growling and trying to stomp my foot to get away from me. Eventually a cab pulled up, so I opened the door and I threw Chief Little into the backseat. Before I could get the cab fare out, the Little Chief got out on the driver’s side and proceeded to stumble around in the middle of National City’s, Miracle Mile. Great! Were having fun now. After a couple of near misses of my own, I catch up to Chief, drag him back and tossed him into the car again before we both got run over. This time I'd climb into the cab and sit on him so he couldn’t hit on me or escape.
Now I’m pissed. I’m headed back to the ship way too early and I’m burning up the last of my beer money on a cab I’d never normally ride in. The Little Chief wasn’t too happy either with me squishing him into the car seat. The cabbie, on the other hand, thought the whole damn thing was pretty funny and couldn’t wait to see the expression on the Marine sentry’s face as we pulled up to the gate at 32nd Street.
I had my I.D. out, Chief Little didn’t need to show his ‘cuz he was still in the uniform of the day. The Marine did salute us, but he stared pretty hard. I don’t think he didn’t really wanted to have anything to do with us. Thankfully, he let us proceed. The cabbie is what probably save our asses from Shore Patrol involvment, he probably took the edge off of our tense situation with the way he was laughing his butt off.
Now the real fun begins. Our cab driver won’t drive us on the pier ‘cuz he says it’s not legal. And as it just so happens, the Mobile is tied up at the very last berth at the very end of the pier. Now I’m really, really pissed! But in a sense, that’s ok ‘cuz the Little Chief is really, really, really pissed also.
I was deaf to threats of death, Captain’s Mast and going to the brig. I’m a man on a mission now, besides, after all of the beer I'd chugged down, I really had to pee. "Chief Little, we're going back to the ship!" I had to drag him out of the cab, he now wanted to stay in. Little Chief was kicking and screaming at me. The cabbie was still laughing at us. And now the Quarter Deck watches of the ships along the pier were starting to hoot and holler at the Chief and me. I jerked him out of the cab, and with the hold I had on his wrist, he couldn’t get away from me.
I wasn’t paying much attention to what the Chief was doing, just dragging the little ankle-biter along as best I could. Then I felt this sharp sting up the side of my head. He jumped up and sissy-slapped me! I’m sure Little Chief thought it was a K.O., but I was still standing, and now I was starting to laugh, along with the Q.D. watches that were cheering us on. This caused Little Chief to elevate his anger level even further. He reached out with his size six shoe and kicked me right in the shin. "OUCH!!" This stopped me from laughing, and I let go of the little prick, but kicking me also elevated my anger level. He tried to run off, but I ran faster. I picked Chief Little up by the neck and crotch, tossed him on my shoulder like a seabag and started running towards the Mobile with the little bastard.
Boy, with the crowd cheering me on now and the pitcher of beer kicking in, I felt as though I was going in for a touchdown or something. The Little Chief was quiet now, except for the gurgully grunts he made in count with my stride. "Ye-ha! We’re going for the gold! I’m the champion of the world!" We made it past an LST and almost made it up to a destroyer before I tripped on an expansion joint in the pier. Little Chief and I were both flying through the air in slow motion, or so it seemed. We hit that concrete pier pretty hard. Uh-Oh! The laughing had stopped.
There was nothing but silence now. The O.O.D. from a ship nearby, called down and asked if we were alright. After I stumbled to my feet, I said, "We’re just finer than frog hair on a foggy day, Sir!" Yeah right, by looks of the Little Chief, it’d be a dead frog. He really didn’t look so good. Little Chief was out like a light. He wasn’t moving, except his chest was still going up and down some. He was bleeding like a stuck hog from his head. Maybe that was a good sign, since it meant his heart may still be pumping blood. Still clutched in his fists was half of my civy shirt he'd managed to rip off of my back. I took that piece out of his hands and wrapped it around his bleeding head. "Now he looks like a real little pirate!", I thought to myself. I stuffed his hat in his shirt pocket and sort of stood him up. Nope he wasn’t dead yet. Dead folks ain’t this warm and sweaty are they? Then I noticed I was covered in bloody road rash from the spill on the concrete pier also. I began saying prayers for both of us now.
I had the Chief under the arms in a nut to butt bear hug, sort of walking him along the pier. Kicking his feet to keep him in step, we had to be a sight. I wished someone would start up the laughing again. Nobody did. Man that was one long walk. Little Chief started mumbling as we started our climb up the Mobile's ladder tower. That was a good sign. Right?
Well, we made it up the series of ladders, across the gang plank, up to the Mobile’s Quarter Deck. Thank God, "A" gang’s, Mr. Hunt had the Q.D.! I held up my I.D. and asked for permission to come aboard. We really must have been something to see. Although mere words may not have described our appearance, the look on Mr. Hunt’s face was sure saying a lot. Mr. Hunt asked me if the Chief were dying or drunk. I said, "I hope not and yes, very!" Mr. Hunt told me to take him up to his rack. Then I asked for another hand to help carry the Chief Little. Although Mr. Hunt allowed us to cross the Quarter Deck, He refused any assistance ‘cuz he didn’t want us bleeding on the whites of his watch standers. Besides I managed to bring him this far under my own power. "You'll make it alright. Goodnight Bohnenkamp."
Great! Three more steep ladders to climb with little Mr. Rubber Legs. To heck with it, "Sorry Chiefie, seabag time!" With that I tossed him over my shoulder and proceeded upward. When I finally burst into the chief’s berthing, I saw this naked fat chief shaving his mug in the head. "Chief! Could you tell me, where’s Chief Little’s rack is at?" The fat Chief showed me the way and I dumped the Little Chief in his bottom rack with a thunk and covered him with a blanket off of another guy's rack. With the fat chief still standing there, I tucked Chief Little in snug as a bug in a rug and squeezed his hand saying, "We let them Jarheads have it tonight, didn’t we Chief?" I patted his arm and stood to leave, but the Fat Chief blocked my path wanting to hear the whole story. I told him he’d be hearing our Little Chief brag for months about this one, "Just let him tell you the story Chief. I'd hate to ruin it for him chief." Then I got the hell out of there.
Next morning at Quarters, Chief Little was a no show. LTJG Lewright told us that Chief Little would not be with us for the next few days due to injuries sustained from an incident last night. Good God he wasn’t dead! I was sweating that big time, what a relief. Later Mr. Lewright took me aside and asked me what went down. I told him it was kind of like a car crash, but we used Jarheads instead of a car. He rolled his eyes back and just walked off. No further questions. I guess he didn’t really want to know all of the gorey details.
It was three days later before Chief Little showed up for morning muster. His head was all wrapped up in white bandages. He had his little hat perched up on top of the mound of bandages like a cherry on a hot fudge sundae. What a sight. He looked damned miserable; so it boosted the morale of ‘Repair’ division’s men without fail for weeks to come. He was still his old growly self though, a little weak yet from his ordeal, but he was still a little jerk.
HTC Little never once said a word to me, about that fateful evening. Nor I a word to him. People made up different stories about the incident. I just stuck to the original story. "Us Squids stick together when there are Marine asses to be kicked!" Yea, right!
