USS MULLINNIX DD-944

           Home Port
Norfolk, VA 1958              

There is nothing like sunset at sea after a long days' work. The crew stared out at the horizon, the sun a faint yellow smudge hovering over the water, watching the smudge disappear completely tucking in behind the blue of the water. The fantail was a favorite hangout. Mates could gather to shoot-the-shit, smoke a fag, and generally relax as the wind brought the sweet smell of the open sea twisted together with the acrid stack gases like a nautical barber's pole.

This was generally the point of the day in which sea stories were at their zenith. Sea stories differ slightly for fairy tales. A fairy tale usually starts with, "Once upon a time... Whereas a sea story begins, "This ain't no bullshit!"

By midnight patches of fog slid along the surface of Mullinnix like the skin of a ghost ship. Ship's speed was reduced to 5 knots while fog signals sounded, fog lookouts were stationed on the bow.

There isn't anything like fog to make the eight-to-midnight watch feel like eternity. Only one thing worse – standing the midbitch (0000-0400 watch)...in the fog. As they were relieved, sailors slowing made their way to the mess decks one-by-one to wind down a bit, smoke one last smoke, share a laugh or two, and eat midrats (midnight rations) – food served at midnight for ongoing and off-going watch standers. Usually leftovers and whatever the cooks were experimenting with that night. Ongoing got the good stuff, so to speak. Off-going got what was left after the little boy shot at it.

One Henry O'Malley Jones, Seaman Apprentice, sauntered onto the mess decks wiping the fog's moisture from the back of his neck, spotted his buddy grapping a tray and silverware and yelled, "Hey RP, what’s for chow?"

Robert Paul Nixon glanced down the steam-table and yelled back, "Looks like horse-cock again! That Mux famous cylindrical sirloin!" Nixon was, of course, referring to the legendary tube steak served regularly on all Navy ships.

"Not fillet of mule-tool again! You’re shittin' me right?", grimaced Jones.

"I wouldn't shit you Jonesy, you're my favorite turd! Besides, it beats the hell out of that mystery meat masquerading as bologna they had the other night. You talk about bad, that stuff would kill maggots!"

Nixon, as miscreants go, was a fairly harmless character, a holdover from an earlier era who believed washing stolen and counterfeit money at horse-tracks was honorable work suitable for a family man. His rate was that of BM3. He had a body with joints hinged with paperclips and movements that looked like they were controlled by an invisible puppeteer on dope. When not answering to RP, he answered to his nickname Gunkie. This lanky tall drink-of-water from Iowa was a regular slash-hound on the beach. The crew never could figure out how he did it with his dorky Buddy Holly looks. Rumors had it he"d sit in bars licking his eyebrows with his tongue.

After filling his cup with blood-red bug-juice, Nixon sat at one of the empty tables to wait on his buddy Jones. They had met on watch a couple months ago and had become fast friends. Jonesy was a dinosaur. If you walked him through a puddle of water he'd leave a three-toed footprint. He'd recently lost his chevron and quite frankly didn't give a shit. He flowed with the tide.

Jonesy sat down with a grunt across from Nixon almost spilling his coffee. When he sat he had the posture of a man sitting on a shitter. He rubbed his little, round chin. His eyes were sky-blue, the size of dimes, and they stayed riveted on Nixon's tray. His facial skin was translucent, with nests of blue-green veins at the temples, his nostrils thin, as though the air he breathed contained an offensive odor. He smiled so infrequently that his shipmates wished he would stop it.

Still staring at Nixon's tray, "Where'd you get that peanut butter and jelly sandwich? I didn’t see them up on the line."

"I must’ve got the last one. When you get relieved on time it's kind of like the Methodists beating the Baptists to all the white meat at the local diner back home", answered Nixon.

"Right, the sorry son-of-a-bitch that was supposed to relieve me was 10 minutes late. Standing the midshitter is bad enough but when you don't get relieved on time that sucks big time, you know?

"Ya, I know", answered Nixon through a mouth full of sandwich. Bar none, my least favorite watch is the balls-to-four. All decent sailors should be in their racks sleeping."

Laughing, Jonesy quipped, "That’s why we're here on the mess decks at mid-fucking-night 'cause we ain't decent!"

"Hey boys, what's so damn funny?"

Jonesy and Nixon looked up from the next bite of mystery as Jim "John" Johnson joined them in the empty seat next to Nixon.

"Hey Johnson. Just pissin' and moan'n about these stinkin' watches we have to stand. They work us all day then make us stay up half the damn night on these shit-eaten watches."

Johnson dropped his fork, bent over to pick it up and spotted a cockroach heading aft. 'Smack', with the sole of his boondocker, "damn man, these roaches are getting so bold they wouldn't run from a damn E-9!"

"So what's the word from the bridge?", quizzed Nixon.

"You mean besides that dickhead Lieutenant Jacobs? Man is that guy a piece of work or what?"

Those that knew Johnson knew the man couldn't say more than three sentences without the fourth being the introduction to a joke. Like all sailors, he'd wrap a piece of truth inside a sea story. Born in a small town in western Montana to a pair of hard working parents, Johnson loved the wind and spray in his face. He predicted he may never go back home. Tall and thin with bad acne and a craggy beard, he was one of those people that intrude in your personal space, making you feel claustrophobic. His face combined weakness and strength of purpose in equal measure. The beaklike nose above thin red lips, the small eyes black like lumps of coal twinkling when he talked, you just knew what was coming next.

"That Jacobs reminds me of a joke.", his mouth twisting into what could pass as a small smile. A smirk maybe.

"No shit!" laughed Jones.

Johnson didn't miss a beat as he continued on, "Well, snarled the pompous Lieutenant to the bewildered Seaman, "I suppose after you get discharged from the Navy, you'll just be waiting for me to die so you can come and piss on my grave.'

"Not me, Sir!" the seaman replied. "Once I get out of the Navy, I'm never going to stand in line again!"

"John, that's about as old as the hills on my granny's chest and twice as dusty. Man, you need to get some new material."

"Fuck you guys, you wouldn't know a funny joke if it snuck up behind you and bit you in the ass!"

"If you’re done screwing around, how close are we getting to Norfolk?"

"We're getting damn close. First light more than likely. I can't wait. Kiss that no good bean-town goodbye forever. Liberty there was only good for a bunch of schoolmarms. Norfolk is a sailor town, built for sailors by sailors."

Time could be glacial on a tin-can at times. These short moments of personal relaxation and satisfaction were cherished dearly, making standing watch almost tolerable.

The fog bank played nautical tag until morning, 5 May. Barely visible through the morning haze 5 miles away, the Cape Henry Light was sighted at 0952. Johnson had been correct, only off by a couple hours.

The crew's spirits rose as she slipped through Thimble Shoals Channel for the first time. They could taste home port. The ship entered Hampton Roads, slipping past the seven month old Hampton Roads Bridge-Tunnel which opened on 1 November 1957, at 1149 with smiles displayed on more faces than not.

"Hampton Roads" is the historic name for the five-mile wide, last ten miles or so of the James River before it empties into Chesapeake Bay. Chesapeake Bay is an ocean estuary, the lower end of which is about 15 miles wide, and Hampton Roads is about 15 miles from the Atlantic Ocean. A line from Old Point Comfort to the west end of Willoughby Spit, comes close to demarking the point where Hampton Roads becomes Chesapeake Bay; and the Hampton Roads Bridge-Tunnel also crosses close to that line.

The Captain assumed the conn as the ship and her crew entered the Elizabeth River Channel. At 1222 Mullinnix was moored starboard side to fellow Forrest Sherman USS Manley DD-940. Manley had just returned from repair work at the Naval Shipyard in Philadelphia on 29 April.

Manley was laid down on 10 February 1955 at Bath Iron Works in Maine and the fifth Forrest Sherman Class Destroyer, commissioned on 1 February 1957 and sponsored by Mrs. Arleigh A. Burke, wife of then Chief of Naval Operations, the principal speaker at the commissioning ceremonies, and with Commander William H. Rowan in command.

On 4 December 1957, Manley had set sail for a tour with the Sixth Fleet accompanied by the USS Gearing DD-710, USS Robert H McCard DD-822, and USS Vogelsang DD-862. Manley practiced simulated antisubmarine warfare attacks with the squadron while in route but was diverted on 11 December through heavy seas toward the Azores where an aircraft had been reported down, In the early morning hours of 12 December the destroyer was broadsided by a tremendous wave, killing two, injuring several others, and impacting heavy damage to the galley, radio and radar rooms when she suffered flooding. Enduring northwesterly gusts up to 80 knots, Manley battled through heavy rain squalls and mountainous seas toward Lisbon to arrive at night on 13 December for emergency treatment of the injured and repairs to the vessel. She moved to Gibraltar on the 18th and underwent voyage repairs in the Royal Dockyard of Gibraltar until 4 January 1958, then headed via Bermuda for Norfolk arriving on the 15th. Eventually, she entered the Naval Shipyard in Philadelphia for more permanent repairs. Four months later on 29 April, Manley returned to Norfolk and resumed her role as the flagship of DesRon 4.

As suspected by many of the Navy's top brass, the Forrest Sherman ships were indeed tough as nails and salty as they come.

It had a ring to it. "Home Port".



The crew had only a few short days to be introduced to their home port before heading to Guantanamo Bay, Cuba on the maiden shake-down cruise. On board time was spent in preparation of this cruise including a major inspection by COMDESRON 26 on 7 May that included general quarters, abandon ship, emergency assistance party, and duty damage control party drills.

Liberty, for the married members of the crew, was focused on finding suitable neighborhoods, housing, schools, transportation, and making arrangements for moving families to Norfolk. For the single sailors, it was time to develop relationships with the local taverns, strip clubs, and females of the species.

First stop, 'The Strip'. That magical piece of real estate startling both sides of Hampton Boulevard between the D&S Piers entrance and the main gate of NOB. This 3 or 4 blocks of sailor-heaven provided virtually everything one could want or desire. One-stop shopping for cold beer to topless dancers to seamstress services. From whiskey to tequila to raunchy waitresses to the occasional 2nd fleet widow, sometimes in the same body. From TV rentals to gaudy clothes on credit to a variety of choke-and-pukes that served up marginally acceptable meals. Close enough to catch a cheap cab-fare back to D&S entrance or, as required, crawling-distance back to the ship.

This area of Norfolk was a stereotypical sailor town complete with seedy bars, tattoo parlors and strip joints. Joints with sing-song names such as Lovey's Krazy Kat, Bells Bar and Naval Tailors, The Big "O", The Victory, Old Bill's, and Little Italy.

For less than one crumbled Andrew Jackson you could get drunk, laid or an acceptable to both parties alternative, play pool until your lungs filled with chalk dust, fall in love, play jukebox standards until your head throbbed, fall out of love, beat a jukebox within an inch of its musical life, and pledge your undying devotion to ladies that would make the 8:10 to Yuma take a dirt road.

These establishments had only one class of clientele – sailors. The proprietors catered to sailors and they didn'’t care if they ever had a civilian as a customer. Most preferred they didn't saying it would ruin their reputations. Riff raff from the seven seas passed, at one time or another, through these hallowed entrances. Places shipmates met, drank, fondled a woman or two, drank till drunk, and dragged themselves back to their ship.

Dark, smoky joints with yellowed photographs of ships that had been decommissioned and towed to the scrapper, places where big-busted, hard as nails peroxide blondes drew beer in chipped mostly clean mugs, tables with ship's names and hull numbers carved in them, barmaids that would let you pin your newly issued stripes on her panties and give you kiss that would sucked the tonsils out of your throat. These were oasis for ship's crews to hangout, all within walking distance of the mooring lines.

On E-3 pay you had to survive on living moment to moment. When with any given moment you may find your (next) true love by simply staggering into the head and find the clarion call, "For a good time phone Debbie 623-3794 Ocean View" written in fading ink on the wall above the urinal.

To some, the trip to Gitmo would be their first. To east coast salts, it would be like going back to their home away from home. To those that didn't belong in uniform, the trip would make or break them.

Seaman Apprentice John Gordon was a preacher's son from southern Oklahoma. His 'daddy' and his 'bible-totin' momma' had perfected the art of protecting him from the world and its numerous demons and dragons. The local constable, an ex-tin-can-sailor from WWII, had convinced John's parents that the Navy would watch over, take care of, and generally raised their son into a good decent man. No one could understand how nor why John's parents would buy into that line of crap, but the image of P.T. Barnum surrounded by a suckers-by-the-minute crowd came to mind.

Simply put, John wasn't a sailor. He was a land based square peg in the Navy's round hole. He was book wise but lacked common sense. He was intelligent but ignorant of the real world. When it came to the Navy's world, he was a babe-in-the-woods.

The day before Mullinnix left for Gitmo, John slid up next to GMG3 William 'Buck’ Perry. "Buck, you got a minute?"

"Sure", Buck piped as he lit a Marlboro with a Mullinnix-emblemed Zippo and flicked the cap shut. He inhaled on the cigarette, blowing the smoke out through is fingers.

Buck was a guy that nobody could really get mad at and stay mad at. A character? You bet. But he was the first person to whom a shipmate could take problems to. John knew that if you allowed Buck to have his share of fun at your expense, he'd solved your current crisis.

Looking around to insure no other ears were close John confessed, "To be honest Buck I don’t understand a lot of the language used aboard ship."

"No shit?"

"Just like that, what does 'no shit' mean anyway?"

"Your fuckin' kidding me right?"

"No."

"Come on John-boy. Did that dickhead Johnson put you up to this?"

"No, I'm serious."

Buck looked at the almost comical concerned look on John's face and realized he was dead serious. This tall thin kid with thick-lensed spectacles through which he peered at the world shadowed by thin untidy hair flopping across his scalp was in deep shit if somebody didn’t share a few basics with him and share them fast.

Shaking his head, "OK, what do you want to know?"

"Let's start with what you just said."

"What?"

"No shit."

"No shit what?"

"What does no shit mean?"

"No shit?"

"Yea, no shit. What does it mean?"

Smiling until his cheeks were aching Buck said, "It's a way of asking if someone is fuckin' with you. Sorry...kidding around with you."

"I don’t think I understand."

"Let me give you an example. Tell me something you think would be hard for me to believe. Anything. Just make something up."

John thought a moment then said, "Did you know my dad was a preacher?"

"No shit Sherlock?"

John's mouth twisted into a question but Buck continued,

If we would have been standing in Oklahoma having this conversation, I would have answered, are you kidding me, or something like that. But here on the Mighty Mux, I say 'no shit'. Understand?"

Slowly, in deep thought, "Yea, I think so."

"What else then?"

"What about shit-and-git?"

"Stop dickin' around…er…messing around and get out of there."

"Cut the shit?"

"Knock off the kiddin' around."

"Shit can?"

"Trash can."

"Monkey shit?"

"Red grease the guys use done in the hole." Buck was tiring quickly and returned, "Let me throw one at you. Stifling a laugh, "I wouldn't shit you, you're my favorite turd!"

John pulled at his ball-cap and scratched his temple, thoughtfully he answered, "must have something to do with the chow and how it messes up your insides?"

"Holly shit, Buck yelled I've finally met someone that was actually born on the midwatch – last fuckin' night's midwatch!" Adding, "that's enough for one day Johnny. Find me tomorrow after we leave port and we'll cover the world of 'fuck'!"

John stood there trying to smile but his smile never reached his eyes.

To be continued...

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