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I don’t feel much like pontificating today, this day being related to two major WWII battles of significance.

Consider for a moment the men who went towards the sounds of the guns over the Pacific in 1942, and across and over the beaches of Normandy in 1944.  Did they calculate the risk, take a poll, or “test the water?”  Nope, it was the throttle to the firewall into the wind and past the bow into history, as well as out the door, or down the ramp.  Orders.  Following orders of the President of the United States and the officers appointed above them.

Some still are here to maybe tell the tale.  Many are not.  Some left 65 years ago, a legacy of courage, others 63 years ago.  No offspring, no telling stories around the fireplace in response to “What did you do in the war, Grandpa?”  Just silence, echoing into the future of things not done, of families not raised, but the sound of freedom is the outcome of their deaths.

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What to discuss? How about the t-shirt?

The postal clerk had some rock music magazine he kept in his post office, up in the forward passageway. Often, on my daily messing and berthing inspections, I’d pass by and stick my head in to check the current status of the stowage of the place, which could range from neat and nearly empty to packed pretty full of large orange mail bags waiting to leave or to be sorted.

I paged through said magazine one day and noticed an article about concert shirts, which included one that said “Attila the Hun – Middle East Tour.” I commented on how I liked that one, particularly (if you caught it last week) since I had been posting sayings from “Leadership Secrets of Attila the Hun” on my stateroom door during the cruise.

Very shortly before I was to leave the ship in Bharain and fly home, the PC3 handed me a folded up white t shirt. I unfolded it to see it was nicely hand lettered with “Attila the Hun Middle East Tour – Oct 89 – Mar 90.”

On the day I detached, the ship was also sailing to return to CONUS. I stood on the pier, watching my ship, my exclusive home for the last 5 months, single up, then take in all lines. As the 1MC passed the word “UNDERWAY! SHIFT COLORS!” I opened my shirt to reveal the “concert” shirt to the line handlers amidships, where the PC was.

For fear of the marker lettering running, that was the one time the shirt was worn, and only briefly. I changed out of it before I went to the airport and stowed it away for safe keeping.

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The XO’s work day while deployed. Maybe not much fun, but the stuff that makes the Navy run.

Up at 0500. Roll out of the rack and crank out a bunch of push ups. Do it quietly, for on and FFG, you have a roommate.

Save, shower and dress. “Wash” khakis with long sleeve shirt, sleeves rolled up (down for a ‘bad” day to prevent flash burns). Cotton sweat socks, combat boots. Check for obligatory Buck knife on belt, securely in it’s case. Chief Mac said you need to be ready to be over the side. Wise thought.

Head forward, push several buttons on the door to Radio Central’s cypher lock, step in, scan the space for the smiling faces of the radiomen on watch. Listen for “normal” nosies. Grab large mass of paper in the XO’s message box. Leave Radio, aft a few feet to the ladder, down a deck to the Wardroom. Get a cup of coffee, sit down at the table and begin sorting traffic into the piles for level of priority. Pen action dates and action position on the messages as necessary.

Get up, retreat to the stateroom, turn on the Z-248, start up the AW-SHOOT program and enter items of importance into the database. Select “print” and watch the print outs for “ALL” (mine), OPS, CSO, Supply, ENG and AIR spew forth. Separate them and hang the “ALL” one on my clipboard. Punch and file the action messages in the tickler notebook.

Head down to the Wardroom to eat breakfast. It’s about 0630 by now. Finish eating, take a walk to the Bridge and see how the day is shaping up. Check with the Quartermaster of the Watch and ask the Officer of the Deck how things have been going.

Back to the stateroom to grab the clipboard of all things important. Hear “Quarters. All hands to quarters for muster, inspection and instruction! Fair weather parade!” be passed. Head down to the main deck, then forward to Combat Systems berthing. Walk through, visually noting the general cleanliness of the space. Make notes for Officer’s Call as necessary. Continue the tour of the other berthing spaces, for and aft, repeating the process. Head forward and up to get to the Bridge and then aft of the Pilot House.

“Officer’s Call!” The department heads, or their available fill in, report, with a salute (if we’re covered) “All hands present or accounted for” in turn. Hand out department specific tickler sheets produced by the much maligned management tool. Ask status of items below the “Line of Death.” determine if arbitration or harsh, one way conversation is necessary, depending on how ling the action item has languished below the appointed date of achievement. Scan the Plan of the Day, discuss work or operational issues of importance. Dismiss the department heads and the Command Senior Chief.

Head below two decks, knock on the CO’s Cabin door and enter. Report all hands present or accounted for from the departments. Inform the CO fo the days plan, and discuss any messages that had come in over night needing action. Let him know when the draft responses to any “P4s” (“Personal For” the captain message traffic) might be ready for his review. Spend a little time discussing other scheduling matters. Request he not use the entire small arms ammunition training allowance today, so I might get a chance to fire a few rounds off the Bridge Wing.

Head back to the Stateroom, commence pretending to do paperwork, knowing they will soon (if they haven’t already, stacked up at my door) arrive with all manner of questions to be answered. Make sure the “Memo from the XO” paper hanging on the cork board on the Stateroom door is not too out of date with the “Leadership Secrets of Attila the Hun” saying of the day. If it is, grab the book off the desk and copy a new one for posting. If not, get to work digging through the “IN” basket.

At 1000, “XO’s Messing and Berthing Inspection!” is passed. Get up, head to one of the berthing compartments and review the cleanliness with the petty officer in charge of the compartments. Make sure the head area is cleaned well, looking around behind things, in things and using a mirror to inspect those out of the way areas. Make sure the laundry is being taken care of, and ask if there are any hinderances to getting the deep cleaning done. After checking the berthing areas, inspect the Mess Decks, Galley and Scullery areas for proper sanitation. Check the temperatures of the scullery equipment on the final rinse section to make sure the eating utensils will be safe for the next meal.

By now it’s getting close to lunch (1130). Spend the few free minutes wandering the far ends of the ship, making sure things are stowed and cleaned up.

Lunch time. Enjoy a little conversation, check watch for upcoming “local apparent noon” time. excuse myself to shoot a sun line at “LAN.” Invite the officer who have yet to have completed their Surface Warfare Officer PQS to come along. Hear one say “I’ll be up in a few minutes, XO!” knowing he doesn’t get it yet….

ON the Bridge Wing, watch the Sun in the sextant rise, rise, rise, then hang in place and then just begin to move down. Call “MARK!” to the Quartermaster of the Watch. Plot the sun line on the chart, stow the sextant in the Chart Room and head back to Radio to get another handful of traffic. Back to the Stateroom to review and sort the new stack of paper. File as necessary.

At 1300, “Turn To!” is announced to get the Ship’s company back to work. Continue on for me.

And that’s the first 8 hours of the day. More next week.

Hey, I’ll keep doing this until someone tracks back! But, I’ll keep doing it anyhow.

So last week, SteelJaw Scribe posts “Reflections – Sympathy for an HT” discussing a unique condition where biology, man made items and the environment all conspired to make for a most fragrant setting on his carrier, just prior to the visit of a VIP.

This day, I add a story I heard, just after arriving aboard to become the Engineer Officer.

USS CONOLLY (DD-979) was on the annual UNITAS XXIV (1983) cruise, part party cruise, part show the flag, and part actually conduct maritime operations with the navies of the countries of Central and South America. She was the flagship for the group of ships that fall, and therefor carried Southern Command, RADM Clint Taylor, USN. ADM Taylor was berthed in the Captain’s Inport Cabin, while the CO occupied the At-Sea Cabin just aft of the Bridge, on the starboard side.

So, one dark evening, somewhere in the Pacific Ocean, south of the Panama Canal (I believe) ADM Taylor had a call from nature and proceeded to the head in his cabin.

Several decks below, in the bowels of the ship, where the “upper deck” types fear to tread, were the components of the forward sewage system, made by Jered. There was a duplicate set of parts, arrayed similarly, aft in the engineering spaces, to handle, under normal conditions, the “effluent” from the after three Enlisted Berthing compartments and Officer’s Country. The two systems were connected, forward to aft, by a pipe so waste could be transferred to the other systems for disposal, in the case of an equipment casualty. The sewage system placed aboard the SPRUANCE Class destroyers, as well as the similarly built hulls of the TICONDEROGA Class cruisers and KIDD Class guided missile destroyers, in the manner of conserving water, used a vacuum system to draw the by products of the human digestive system to a holding tank, where it was ground up and incinerated.

In order to effect the transfer, valves would be realigned to close the “downcomers” from the berthing areas and open the pipe to the other tank. A charge of air would then be used to push the mass to the other tank.

So, on this dark (and I don’t know if it was stormy) night, HT2 Mergner (so I’m told) was to transfer sewage from the forward system, to the aft….but it seems one critical downcomer value wasn’t in the closed position.

As the Admiral stood, in front of the toilet and preparing himself to use the facilities, the air charge not only entered the forward tank, and the aft running pipe, but the line to the Inport Captain’s Cabin head, propelling a significant volume of “material” from the toilet to the overhead, and some of it managed to find it’s way all up the Admiral’s back, as he stood in his white t-shirt and khaki trousers.

I’m sure there was no way to have a lookout plan the “discharge” in such a timely manner, but the net result was it found it’s unwitting, surprised, and according to reports from those who were there, unwilling, target.

The story went on to say the Admiral, attired as mentioned just above, and with slippers, stepped onto the darkened bridge of his Flagship, and, in a loud, commanding tone, demanded the presence of the Auxiliaries Officer IMMEDIATELY! The AUXO, LTJG Steve (for this tale the last name is slipping my memory), was summoned by the Officer of the Deck and then had a one way discussion with the Admiral, while trying not to laugh out loud.

And so, on that dark night in the Pacific in 1983, a sea story was created. It is, too this day, speculated that the entire event may not have been caused by an accidental misalignment of valves, or oversite, but only one petty officer knows that answer for sure.

Tracked back @ SteelJaw Scribe

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The “sea story:”

Back in the day when we could neither confirm nor deny the presence of nuclear weapons aboard naval vessels, we used to regularly practice the protection of things that might or might not have been aboard. It mattered not if they were or weren’t from the crew’s standpoint, it was s skill necessary to be regularly flexed and so it was.

The calling away of the drills were mandated to be stated the same as though it was an actual “event” when an intruder might get aboard, so when the word was passed “Away the Security Alert Team, Away the Backup Alert Force” it always sounded the same. This was different from the other exercises on the ships, which would be prefaced on the 1MC (General Announcing System) with “THIS IS A DRILL!” to let us all know to be professional, yet not damage gear or ourselves in the response.

So, one fine day, on an unnamed vessel in an unnamed port at a major Naval Station, at the approximate time the drill was run daily, the word was passed on the 1MC, setting feet into motion and sending adrenaline coursing through the veins of young men, who, having first reported to the small arms lockers, were then equipped with 1911 .45 cal pistols, Remington 870 12 gauge shotguns and M-14 7.62mm rifles, and, I might add, at least two magazines for each weapon, and yes, the magazines were loaded with live rounds.

The response to the crew, if not a member of the SAT or BAF, was to “stand fast,” in other words, stay put right where you were. It would help separate the good guys from the bad guys, had the need to give pursuit and engage arisen.

However, on this particular day in either late 1979, or the middle of 1980, the Main Propulsion Assistant, being one of the citizens of the Engineering Department, made the judgment call that this, was in fact a drill, and, he being the important Naval Officer that he was, not to mention on who made the ship move through the water and caused electricity to be generated, deemed himself above the fray and trouble, since the SAT and BAF we doing something for the “Upper Decks,” so he walked on and did not stand fast.

Heading aft on the main deck, port side, and near the mess line, he encountered a member of the security forces, armed with a 1911, an imposing weapons of considerable power at close range. When challenged by the second class petty officer, a Quartermaster by trade, the officer proclaimed his self appointed right to continue to his work area, as he had important business of the ship, and therefore, the Navy to execute.

Said LT, regardless of his rank, within moments, found his nostrils in close quarters with the business end of the .45, and a QM2 uttering the words “HALT, (insert vulgarity here)!” for the LT and those in the vicinity to hear. I might also mention, between the moment of the brushing aside of the direction to stop the first time, and the more pointed command, a magazine of 7 rounds had been inserted into the pistol, the slide had been pulled back and released, causing a live round to be stripped from the top of the magazine and enter the chamber, presenting a condition commonly known a “locked and loaded.”

In a moment of exceptional clarity, the LT indicated his desire to “stand fast,” having reconsidered the level of prioritizing he had early assigned to his work with Engineering Department.

In the aftermath of this “situation,” both the LT and the QM2 had lectures on procedure, for one did not understand it was not his command prerogative to override Navy wide guidance for his convenience, and the other for executing the steps towards the use of “deadly force,” which for those who have stood the watch, know the implication of inserting the magazine on such a drill….

Tracked back @: Yankee Sailor

Sorry…I’m late and you’re not. I let the day run away, and spent some time tweaking the story of the USS BONEFISH, which 5 other blogs, three from SWOs and two from submariners have been so kind as to post. <a href=”http://lubbers-line.blogspot.com/”>Lubber’s Line had added a picture of the BONEFISH on fire, with the crew on deck at sea. The link took me to several pictures of that tragic day. I will dispute the credited photographer, as he is listed as being from COMSUBGRU 7. The angles of the shots could only have been taken from the CARR. Never the less, it gives me hope that I may be able to track the video down.

I noticed someone has listed the link in a submariner’s forum board. I greatly appreciate that and hope many learn of that day and see the professionalism of all involved.

Sea story? Short and too the point: The last time I saw my shipmate of two commands, he told me “I’m tired of being responsible for things I can’t be in charge of.’ His next comment was he was getting out. That was 1987.

Yesterday, I get added as a shipmate in Navy – Together We Served by him. I go to his profile and find out he got part way out, became an MIUW and Military SeaLift type and retired as a 4 Striper! Good for him!

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Today is “Pork Chops” for lunch and Sea Stories. Oh, post your trackbacks here. Not at Yankee Sailor…You guys are overloading his blog.

So, there are “pork chops” and plain ol’ “chops” and sometime just “lamb chops.”I spent 9 months in Newport getting my “PME” (Professional Military Education), courtesy of the Goldwater-Nichols Act, passed in 1986. One of my fellow students was a Supply Officer named Diane. She was pretty bright and we both were headed to Charleston after our school. I promised I’d give her a tour of the frigate, as she was going to the USS SIERRA (AD-18), which was, despite it’s important mission, not very “warlike.”

My two “chops,” LT Wayne Aiken and the “lamb chop,” LTJG Reich, were both excellent officers and the type of chops who knew their only reason for being was to keep us in parts and groceries. They were good at it and also good to the Supply Corps Manuals, so they kept us straight. They lacked one thing to “round them out,” that being the newly approved warfare “pin” for their staff corps community, the Surface Warfare Supply Corps Officer (“SWSCO” – called “swiss-co”).

I regularly asked the two men how far along they were in their completion of their qualifications. The “regularly” given answer was “XO, we’re too busy for that!”

Then, when I had been aboard for the better part of a year, Diane finally called to take me up on my offer of the tour of the ship. I obliged, seeing the opportunity. The day she was to come over and have lunch and then get her tour was when the Captain was on leave. That day at lunch, I sat at the head of the table, with my guest, the LCDR Supply Officer from the destroyer tender, sitting next to me, while the two supply officers sat at the other end of the all too short table for this day, as Diane had completed her qualifications, and was wearing her SWSCO pin on her working uniform. I certainly made a point of complimenting her on her accomplishment and noted how I believed it would be a big plus for her career, while Wayne and Jim sat quietly eating. They did, however, renew their interest in making progress towards getting their SWSCO done after that day.

Well, maybe you had to be there, back in the day of male dominated combatant wardrooms, to fully appreciate the foil I was using that day.

Tracked back @: Yankee Sailor

Sea stories? You want “sea stories?”

Once upon a midwatch clear….(to be continued later today). The topic? VERY large formations doing “TIC TACs.”

In the meantime, link your best, current, or currently best posts!

There we were, the leadership of the ship massed on the bridge, late in the evening, on a clear (on the surface), but moonless night. A Carrier Battle Group (CVBG) comprised of us and escorts and the USS SARATOGA (CV-60), if memory serves me well, had “joined up” with the Standing Naval Forces, Atlantic (STANAVFORLANT), consisting of several frigates and destroyers from the Continent, and one of our ships so assigned as her deployment) and their supporting oiler, in this cycle, courtesy of the Royal Navy.

For what ever reason, the British Admiral of STANAVFORLANT was in tactical command of us all and had ordered us into a large circular formation, of three concentric circular ranges. We, being a Fat Ship (USS MILWAUKEE (AOR-2)), in company with one carrier and at least one other oiler (the Brit) were assigned a “point” station (a fixed bearing and range from the guide ship of the formation) and were on our way through traffic to get there.

Shortly before arriving on station, the, as we called it back the, PRITAC (primary tactical) radio crackled to life and a very long coded signal was clearly sounded out in all its phonetic glory from ATP-1, a standard signal book used by we and our allied nations. I can’t tell you what it was, but it had a change of station component, followed by the alteration of the axis of the formation, followed by a course change. The signal was passed as a “delayed executive” type, meaning a separate command would be sent to execute the directions at a future time.

As Officer of the Deck (OOD), I diligently plotted the new changes on a Maneuvering Board, calculated our course and speed to the new station assignment and showed it to the CO. He concurred and I briefed my Junior Officer of the Deck (who was conning the ship, too) on what to do when the signal was executed.

I recall we arrived in our station on that moonless night, nestled among the combatants, who would patrol the seas to keep us and the CV safe from enemy attacks, and we reported “Alfa Station” smartly as we ordered speed reduced to match the guide’s speed. Within moments, PRITAC came to life once more and, spewing forth a fairly long string or letters and numbers, followed by “Standby, EXECUTE!”

The JOOD clearly announced the the Helmsman and Lee Helmsman the rudder and engine orders for us to slip, ever so relatively to our new station, with a new axis on the formation (I think it was almost a 180 degree axis change to match the reversal of the formation’s course. And the 40,000 tons of steel and people and liquid cargo commenced to swing crisply (well, as best we could imitate a destroyer with less HP per ton). Now consider this “M” with new “A” in both the forward speed and the rudder standard (15 degrees) input, while traveling about 15 kts. As we smiled in the dim red glow of the low level illumination of the bridge equipment, several of us, the CO and XO and OPS, as well as I on the bridge wing, noted the relative movement of the running lights of the other ships of the formation would indicate they were not in a bold course change to the right, they were more like, well, to put it plainly essentially still headed the same direction they had been going before the long, but…you guessed it, not wholly ordered signal.

A new voice was heard over PRITAC, with a distinctly English (the Queen’s not American), sending a new communication and, but the “call up” portion of the message, only addressed to our call sign. The “we’re real Surface Warfare experts” aura fading. No, evaporated, as the words sunk in “(MILWAUKEE), Your movements are not understood.” Being the practiced crisis management experts we are resulted in the almost instantaneously blurted out comment by several of us “KEEP THE RUDDER ON!” We then realized of the extensive signal sent, only a portion of it was directed to be carried out, and there were other portions yet to be executed. Those parts are pretty obvious.

The speed increase and right standard remained on, as we cut a 360 degree wake into the black water, before resuming the station we were not supposed to have left yet. The CO said to keep the speed on, but to report “Alfa Station” to the Officer in Tactical Command (OTC), we did and after “Roger,” the remaining portions of the long signal, to include the new course change, so all we had do was put the rudder back on and head for our new station.

At least it was a dark and windy night….

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The “story” will appear a little bit later today…

Here “it” is:

It was a dark and stormy night (no, really!) and I had very recently been graced with the much toiled after “OOD(F)” (Officer of the Deck, Fleet Operations) letter, which was the “upgrade” from the prior check point in career development of the “OOD(I)” qualification. Now, I was placed in the watch rotation with the officers who were allowed to manage the moment to moment movements of the ship with other ships in formation. A big moment in a young surface warfare officer’s career. With the authority also came the responsibility of that duty as well.

We had been very busy unrepping (under way replenishing operations) most of the entire day light hours of that day out in the Atlantic, north of Puerto Rico somewhere. For a “fat ship,” that meant most of the crew was on deck, or at some attention mandating duty throughout the operations of passing “beans, bullets and black oil” to small (and big) boys alike. The Captain, at this time, Cecil Hawkins, spent most of his time in the port bridge wing chair and the XO, CDR David Martin, in the starboard bridge wing chair, watching the respective sides of the “main battery” of the ship, coordinating with the OOD for ship handling, the rig captains for hooking up, the other ship for stuff they needed, the supply officer to make sure the ships got the stuff they needed, etc, etc, etc. Even during a clear, sunny day, it’s a tough day, particularly mentally.

In the watch rotation, it was my turn to take OOD for normal steaming after we secured from UNREP stations, and late. The sky was almost black, for the cloud cover was solid and about 1000-1500 ft high. If the moon was full that night, it still mattered not, as we were stuck beneath the canopy of dense moisture. The CO and XO had departed the Bridge area and headed below to get some sleep, as time marched towards midnight.

We had been off to the side, with the designation as the formation guide (meaning everyone formed up on us, we just stayed on the ordered course and speed), so we had little maneuvering to worry about. Then the tactical radio crackled to life, giving us a coded message to take a station within the main formation of the aircraft carrier and the surrounding escorts. Guidance from the “standing orders:” Call and notify the Captain. Once I was certain the order was received and understood by my watch team, I picked up the sound powered phone and called the CO. He had had time to get to sleep, so this call (obviously) woke him up. He acknowledged my notification of our change in status in the formation.

We dutifully computed our course to get to the ordered station, and had plotted the formation stations of the other vessels. We would have to weave between a few ships to get inside the protective screen. Not bad, even at night, when equipped with such modern conveniences as RADAR, and the visibility, at surface level being pretty unrestricted. Get the bearing by visual observation, then check the range via RADAR and begin to move.

We were several miles out, so the move to station would take some time. Part way to the formation, the PRITAC (Primary Tactical, later TFTG TAC) spewed forth another message to the entire force in company: “Extinguish Navigation Lights.” OK…it was still a dark, but, the stormy part you could argue, and we had to now navigate by RADAR alone. Challenging, but not hair raising. Once more, call to inform the CO….Once more, in a sleepy voice, he responded that he understood we were now running in complete “darken ship” mode.

We steam on, a tired crew below, and the rest of us on watch. Again, the radio spoke: “EMCON ALPHA.” Emission control condition “A.” All electronics in the “off” position….on a dark, and maybe stormy night….still steaming in a 40,000 ton replenishment oiler towards an aircraft carrier, and her small boys in concentric rings about the capital ship.

Call the CO….

We got into station, no paint was scraped, no lives were lost, maybe some hair went gray (or grayer for the older watchstanders) and I was eventually relieved by the on coming ODD several hours later.

The next work day, one of the lieutenants came to me and gently whispered to me, while standing close to me and out of earshot of anyone else and said: “If the CO didn’t trust you to make good decisions, he wouldn’t have signed you OOD(F) letter.”

At one level good guidance, based on the long day the entire crew had had, but certainly OODs never really had free reign to do what they wished with the ship, even on some dark and stormy nights at sea.

The customer base is overactive this week, which is a good thing, but, cuts into blogging time.

Besides the superior trackbacks you readers might send, I refer you to a post I wrote after finding a comment on another blog. The title: “How to Bury a Hero” by (then) HM3 James Pell.

In the spirit of the movie “300,” some reminder from a modern day Spartan on how to lay your comrade to rest.

James, last I could track him down, made HM2 (Petty Officer Second Class Corpsman), but his email address wasn’t working. About 6 months ago, a friend of Marine LCpl Antoine Smith sent me an email after finding the post linked above, asking how to get a hold of James, so she could thank him. I sent out a few queries and was able to get a lead for her.

It’s all about connections and relationships, when you peel all else away.