Duty Van Breakdowns Cont'd.

Intrepid fellow Submarine Blogger Bubblehead from the truthfully named blog The Stupid Shall Be Punished has asked for your best duty van stories.

The duty van was always a chance for a huge screw up.

I actually got to be the duty driver in Charlietown during middie ops one year without a whole lot of problems (except for the Korean gas station owner who insisted that he could take a GSA gas card BEFORE I pumped a full tank and them matter-of-factly told me that his station didn't take them. Ironically, the only reason we were in the vicinity of the Weapons Station was to get a part for the CHOP so that the most official trip of van was paid for by yours truly while the GSA card carried the crew around the town on liberty for a week.)

Then we pulled into Rosie Roads and had the duty van ride from hell across the island to San Juan. And guess where the COB decided to make the one pick up stop in SJ? You got it. The Black Angus. (I kept wondering why we were going to a steak house!)

But, by far the best tale of the duty van was in Britain on Her Majesty's Secret Service (OK, so it wasn't so secret but were were in the UK.) FT1 Sureshot had been deigned as worthy of the international driving license and was very meticulous about the rest of us riding around in his rental van. We get to the last day of liberty and everyone is in a hurry to get a few last things done before we pull out and then IT happened.

FT1's preparation for international driving had left out one small bit about making a left hand turn and we had a wreck. Damage wasn't too bad but I immediately figured all of the passengers would have to stay with the van as witnesses thereby eating up the last few hours of freedom. But, as soon as the door opened, one of our JO's jumps out, looks at the driver and says, "Good luck, I'm outa here." So's I figure, if the LT don't have to stay for the bobbies, why should I? And just like that, liberty was saved. I guess the MWR fund took care of the damage.

Celebrate Chaplains' Day

Faith, combat and the sea come together sometimes in life and reveal the true nature of men.

On Feb. 3, 1943, the USAT Dorchester, a converted luxury cruise ship, was transporting Army troops to Greenland in World War II, escorted by three Coast Guard Cutters and accompanied by two slow moving freighters. On board were some 900 troops, and four chaplains, of diverse religions and backgrounds, but of a common faith and commitment to serve God, country and all the troops, regardless of their religious beliefs, or non-belief. The Four Chaplains are: Rev. George Fox (Methodist); Father John Washington (Roman Catholic); Jewish Rabbi Alexander Goode; and Rev. Clark Poling (Dutch Reformed).

At approximately 12:55 a.m., in the dead of a freezing night, the Dorchester was hit by a torpedo fired by Nazi U-boat 233 in an area so infested with German submarines it was known as "Torpedo Junction." The blast ripped a hole in the ship from below the waterline to the top deck. The engine room was instantly flooded. Crewmen who were not scalded to death by steam escaping from broken pipes and the ship's boiler, were drowned. Hundreds of troops in the flooded lower compartments were drowned, or washed out to the frigid waters, where most would die.

In less than a minute, the Dorchester lost way, and listed on a 30-degree angle. Troops on deck searched for life jackets in panic, clung to rails and other handholds, saw overloaded lifeboats overturn in the turgid water, leaped overboard as a last desperate hope for life. Many with lifejackets drowned when the life-preservers became water-logged. Of the 900 troops and crew on board, two-thirds would ultimately die – most of those who survived, had lifelong infirmities and pain from their time in the icy waters.

Dorchester survivors told of the wild pandemonium on board when it was hit and began sinking. Many men had not slept in their clothes and life vests as ordered because of the heat in the crowded quarters below. There was panic, fear, terror – death was no abstraction but real, immediate, seemingly inescapable.
The Four Chaplains acted together to try bring some order to the chaos, to calm the panic of the troops, to alleviate their fear and terror, to pray with and for them, to help save their lives and souls. The chaplains passed out lifejackets, helping those too panicked to put them on correctly, until the awful moment arrived when there were no more life jackets to be given out. It was then that a most remarkable act of heroism, courage, faith and love took place:

Each of the Four Chaplains took off his life jacket, and, knowing that act made death certain, put his life jacket on a soldier who didn't have one, refusing to listen to any protest that they should not make such a sacrifice. They continued to help the troops until the last moment.

Then, as the ship sank into the raging sea, the Four Chaplains linked hands and arms, and could be seen and heard by the survivors praying together, even singing hymns, joined together in faith, love and unity as they sacrificed their lives so "that others might live."

The few survivors testified to the selfless act of the Four Chaplains:
"The ship started sinking ... and as I left the ship, I looked back and saw the chaplains ... with their hands clasped, praying for the boys. They never made any attempt to save themselves, but they did try to save the others. I think their names should be on the list of 'The Greatest Heroes' of this war," testified Grady L. Clark.

"I saw all four chaplains take off their life belts and give them to soldiers who had none ... The last I saw of them they were still praying, talking and preaching to the soldiers," attested survivor Thomas W.Myers Jr.

The Chaplain's Medal for Heroism is a decoration of the United States military which was authorized by an act of the United States Congress on July 14, 1960. Also known as the Chaplain's Medal of Honor and the Four Chaplains' Medal, the decoration commemorates the actions of the Four Chaplains who gave their lives in the line of duty on February 3, 1943.

Because the medal has only been authorized posthumously, and only for one action, it is generally considered a commemorative decoration not intended for wear on a military uniform. The medal also does not appear on any military award precedence charts, although it is considered to be ranking just below the Medal of Honor. The Chaplain's Medal for Heroism could technically be awarded again, if Congress ever bestowed the decoration for future acts of heroism involving military chaplains. Can you think of any Chaplain's action that would have qualified for this medal?

Remember Pearl Harbor

ALWAYS REMEMBER

Let it never be said, that we don't remember.
What Submariners have done, since that day in December.
The sun shown bright, on that Pearl Harbor morning.
When the enemy attacked, with little or no warning.

The Tautog was there, with no time to think.
And splashed one Japanese plane, right down in the drink.
She sent twenty-six ships, to the depths of the sea.
And came to be known, as the "Terrible T."

The Sealion at Cavite , was the first to be caught.
She was moored to a pier, but bravely she fought.
Two bombs exploded, through the hull they did rip.
And many brave submariners, died in their ship.

There were many proud boats, like the Perch and the Finback.
The Kraken, the Haddock, the Scamp and the Skipjack.
We remember the Halibut, Blenny and Darter.
And never forget, Sam Dealey in Harder.
Cutter and Seahorse's, torpedoes ran true.
She targeted the enemy, and sank many Marus.

And although the enemy, was quite filled with hate.
"Red" Ramage and Parche, showed many their fate.
"Mush" Morton and Wahoo, never backed down from a fight.
Fluckey and Barb, entered Namkwan Harbor one night.
Many airman were saved, by O'Kane and the Tang.

Some owe their lives, to Seafox, Tigrone and Trepang.
We remember the honorable, boat called Barbel.
Before she was lost, she gave the enemy hell.
The Sturgeon, the Trigger, the Pollack had heart.
The Torsk, made the last two frigates depart.

Nowadays the cold war, seems to be a big factor.
And submarines are powered, by nuclear reactors.
The proud names are still there, the Tautog did shine.
But her hull number by then, was Six Thirty Nine.

Many boats gave their all, with heroic namesakes.
Like Thresher, Scorpion, Nautilus and Skate.
The Seadragon, Swordfish, Richard B. Russell and Dace.
Have all stood out to sea, and heard the enemies trace.

We remember "Forty-One For Freedom," whose patrols couldn't fail.
The George Washington, Andrew Jackson and Nathan Hale.
Now the Alaska and Nebraska , and other Tridents are here.
They patrol the deep oceans, so aggressive nations have fear.
There are new boats on the line, called Cheyenne and Wyoming .
They will all do us proud, like the old Gudgeon and Grayling.

So take time each day, and think of the past.
Then toast the new Seawolf, for she's quiet and fast.
Let it never be said, that we don't remember.
What submariners have done, since that day in December.
The sun still shines bright, every Pearl Harbor Morning.

But never forget, the enemy attacks without warning.

By John Chaffey of SSN639, SSN687, SSBN619

Obama Shuts Down Norfolk Navy Base

I got a call today from an irate retired Master Chief that still works onboard Naval Station Norfolk. It seems that early liberty was called today for all hands at about 1430 so that the base would be clear for Air Force One to deliver the President to a campaign stop at Old Dominion University for Democrat candidate for Governor, Creigh Deeds.

The Master Chief had a few choice comments for shutting down the entire base for BHO to come politicking: "How much money was wasted today on politics when Chiefs are about to be Rif'd out of the Navy?"

Now, I love a good early liberty just like the next guy but why did they have to get rid of the entire base so Obama could fly in to the old NAS field? Were his handlers afraid he'd run into a couple of salty blueshirts? Did they have to shut down I564 too when all he needed was to go 5 miles down Hampton Blvd?

Just don't tell the hard charging sailors of Subron 6 that their favorite watering hole across from ODU, Friar Tuck's is off limits until after his highness departs; then you will have a riot on your hands.

I'd have to classify this situation as All Slack, No Attack.

WWII Memorial Needs Update

I recently had the chance to go to DC for a conference and I ran across the World War II Memorial. While this memorial is a somber structure that conveys the sacrifices made by the American people, it lacks a certain focus.

The only thing missing is the fleet boat conning tower emerging from the middle of the reflecting pool. Maybe there needs to be a Submarine Memorial in Washington. Any suggestions?

Where is the Bull Dolphin?

In the last few weeks, I have run across the retirements of some senior sailors that were recognized as the most experienced members of their fields.

The "Bull Frog", the Senior SEAL retired from the Navy last month while the "Ancient Albatross", the Senior Officer Aviator, retired from the Coast Guard.

Both of these items got me to thinking about whether or not the Submarine community recognizes its senior members. The Subvets make a big deal out of the Holland Club for those submariners with more than 50 years of qualification but is there really a recognition for the senior most Submariner on active duty?

The Coasties really get into this kind of thing. In addition to the Albatross, they also have the Ancient Mariner (Gold & Silver) for the longest serving Cuttermen and the Ancient Keeper for the senior most member of the boat service. The even wear the antique style headgear.

So is there a Bull Dolphin?

CPO Standards

The following email is making the rounds and I thought it would make good reading for anyone from the old navy.

Never forget this, a Chief can become an Officer, but an Officer can never become a Chief.. We have our standards!

Recollections of a WHITEHAT.

"One thing we weren't aware of at the time, but became evident as life wore on, was that we learned true leadership from the finest examples any lad was ever given, Chief Petty Officers. They were crusty old bastards who had done it all and had been forged into men who had been time tested over more years than a lot of us had time on the planet. The ones I remember wore hydraulic oil stained hats with scratched and dinged-up insignia, faded shirts, some with a Bull Durham tag dangling out of their right-hand pocket or a pipe and tobacco reloads in a worn leather pouch in their hip pockets, and a Zippo that had been everywhere. Some of them came with tattoos on their forearms that would force them to keep their cuffs buttoned at a Methodist picnic.

Most of them were as tough as a boarding house steak. A quality required to survive the life they lived. They were, and always will be, a breed apart from all other residents of Mother Earth. They took eighteen year old idiots and hammered the stupid bastards into sailors.

You knew instinctively it had to be hell on earth to have been born a Chief's kid. God should have given all sons born to Chiefs a return option.

A Chief didn't have to command respect. He got it because there was nothing else you could give them. They were God's designated hitters on earth.

We had Chiefs with fully loaded Submarine Combat Patrol Pins, and combat air crew wings in my day...hard-core bastards who remembered lost mates, and still cursed the cause of their loss...and they were expert at choosing descriptive adjectives and nouns, none of which their mothers would have endorsed.

At the rare times you saw a Chief topside in dress canvas, you saw rows of hard-earned, worn and faded ribbons over his pocket. "Hey Chief, what's that one and that one?" "Oh hell kid, I can't remember. There was a war on. They gave them to us to keep track of the campaigns." "We didn't get a lot of news out where we were. To be honest, we just took their word for it. Hell son, you couldn't pronounce most of the names of the places we went. They're all depth charge survival geedunk." "Listen kid, ribbons don't make you a Sailor." We knew who the heroes were, and in the final analysis that's all that matters.

Many nights, we sat in the after mess deck wrapping ourselves around cups of coffee and listening to their stories. They were light-hearted stories about warm beer shared with their running mates in corrugated metal sheds at resupply depots where the only furniture was a few packing crates and a couple of Coleman lamps. Standing in line at a Honolulu cathouse or spending three hours soaking in a tub in Freemantle, smoking cigars, and getting loaded. It was our history. And we dreamed of being just like them because they were our heroes. When they accepted you as their shipmate, it was the highest honor you would ever receive in your life. At least it was clearly that for me. They were not men given to the prerogatives of their position.

You would find them with their sleeves rolled up, shoulder-to- shoulder with you in a stores loading party. "Hey Chief, no need for you to be out here tossin' crates in the rain, we can get all this crap aboard."

"Son, the term 'All hands' means all hands."

"Yeah Chief, but you're no damn kid anymore, you old coot."

"Horsefly, when I'm eighty-five parked in the stove up old bastards' home, I'll still be able to kick your worthless butt from here to fifty feet past the screw guards along with six of your closest friends." And he probably wasn't bullshitting.

They trained us.. Not only us, but hundreds more just like us. If it wasn't for Chief Petty Officers, there wouldn't be any U.S. Navy. There wasn't any fairy godmother who lived in a hollow tree in the enchanted forest who could wave her magic wand and create a Chief Petty Officer.

They were born as hot-sacking seamen, and matured like good whiskey in steel hulls over many years. Nothing a nineteen year-old jay-bird could cook up was original to these old saltwater owls. They had seen E-3 jerks come and go for so many years; they could read you like a book. "Son, I know what you are thinking.. Just one word of advice. DON'T. It won't be worth it."

"Aye, Chief."

Chiefs aren't the kind of guys you thank. Monkeys at the zoo don't spend a lot of time thanking the guy who makes them do tricks for peanuts.

Appreciation of what they did, and who they were, comes with long distance retrospect. No young lad takes time to recognize the worth of his leadership. That comes later when you have experienced poor leadership or let's say, when you have the maturity to recognize what leaders should be, you find that Chiefs are the standard by which you measure all others.

They had no Academy rings to get scratched up. They butchered the King's English. They had become educated at the other end of an anchor chain from Copenhagen to Singapore . They had given their entire lives to the U.S. Navy. In the progression of the nobility of employment, Chief Petty Officer heads the list. So, when we ultimately get our final duty station assignments and we get to wherever the big Chief of Naval Operations in the sky assigns us, if we are lucky, Marines will be guarding the streets. I don't know about that Marine propaganda bullshit, but there will be an old Chief in an oil-stained hat and a cigar stub clenched in his teeth standing at the brow to assign us our bunks and tell us where to stow our gear... and we will all be young again, and the damn coffee will float a rock.

Life fixes it so that by the time a stupid kid grows old enough and smart enough to recognize who he should have thanked along the way, he no longer can. If I could, I would thank my old Chiefs. If you only knew what you succeeded in pounding in this thick skull, you would be amazed. So, thanks you old casehardened unsalvageable sons-of-bitches. Save me a rack in the berthing compartment.. "

Life isn't about waiting for the storm to pass. It's about learning to dance in the rain.