Excerpt from "The Last Gun Ship - History of USS Mullinnix DD-944"
A Historical Novel By Frank A. Wood
Wilmington was a port city in coastal southeastern North Carolina. It made sense with its exoticism, adventures, sunshine, and above all its less rigid regulations, more inclined to ignore sailor's antics while on liberty.
The hotel was a leftover from an earlier time, constructed of pink stucco, set back in the deep shadows of large elm trees and fringed with purple neon. A wooden balcony ran along the entire length. Through the open windows, the heady scent of jasmine wafted up from the hotel gardens.
The bar's interior, The White Horse Cellar, was a magnificent throwback to the grand government buildings of the nineteenth century; aged mahogany and walnut panels, a marble floor, and brass chandeliers.
Kramer had headed into town on his own. The other BMs he typically ran with had the duty. McGhee and left earlier with his sidekick Smythe. He thought he’d grab a bite, have a few drinks, and head back early.
The White Horse Cellar was obviously old, with a smoky interior and old oak walls set with horse-racing memorabilia. The bar was carved of heavy dark wood. The staircase was remarkable. The balustrades were carved oak panels decorated with scrolls of acanthus foliage, each newel surmounted by a heavy oak pineapple. The unpolished wood was heavily scarred.
Kramer saw him at the bar. It wasn't a bar for coffee drinking and it was too early for the winos. Perfect time for sailors. A sleepy bartender patrolled at the far end of the bar. His shadow cast by lanterns flickered on the wall. The sailor's cigarette smoke hung in the air like damp cotton.
"Anybody sitting here?" asked Kramer.
"Naw."
"What you drinking?"
Nodding towards the bartender, "he knows."
The bartender shifted a toothpick in his mouth with his tongue and poured the whiskey in a glass and drew a mug of draft beer.
"I'll have the same," said Kramer. "What's your name, bud?"
"Standish. Martin Standish."
"What ship?"
"Gunner on the Randolph."
Standish was 'uncle Roger' drunk. His voice seemed to pitch into a different register, as if they were on a ship blasted by a wave.
"Use to be on the Laffey, but now on the Randolph."
"Laffey? We've been in the Med with her. Now, that ship has a history, let me to tell you, hell of a history," said Kramer.
"I know," answered Standish. "I know...I was there..." his voice trailing off.
"You were where?" asked Kramer.
“I was there.”
After a couple rounds, they ordered food from the guy behind the bar. He was a little nasty-looking for a man who worked as a bartender, let alone a cook. His fingers were nicotine stained and his teeth were the same. Where the stains were missing, black decay filled in between his teeth like dirt washed down from a hill.
Standish said, "Two hamburgers, hold the hepatitis."
"What?" the man said.
"Wash your fuckin hands. I think that's nicotine, but for all we know it could be from you sticking your finger up your ass."
Kramer couldn't but help laugh out loud. Bartender mumbled as he submitted the order.
They made a good hamburger but the French fries tasted as if they had been put out on the drain-board and pissed on the night before and left to dry. They both wondered how a place could make such a good burger and shitty fries.
"Okinawa."
"What?" asked Kramer.
"Okinawa. I was there..." With a faraway look in his eyes, "When I came home from Okinawa I had a million dreams. Now I only want to keep my sanity."
"You want to talk about it?" asked Kramer.
His memory would come back in glancing blows, when he'd had too much to drink. He was like all drunks everywhere, desperate to escape from his remorse, ready to fight his way out - taking it out on whoever would listen.
And so the story began...
"It was 16 April '45. How could I forget? How could any of us forget? We were assigned to radar picket station 1 about 48 clicks north of Okinawa. We were immediately in a shit storm. We helped in repulsing an air attack and downing 13 fucking aircraft. And that...that was only the beginning..."
Standish lit a cigarette, ordered another round.
"The next day, they launched an air attack with some 50 fucking planes, like a two-cunted cow pissin' on a flat rock - the sky was full of them. At about 0830, a dive bomber was doing reconnaissance on us. We opened fire. The chicken shit dropped his bombs and hauled ass. Even before we were done cheering, four more of those mother fuckers broke formation and made a dive at us. One of my 20 mm crews blew two of those assholes out of the sky."
Kramer was speechless. He'd never heard shit like this before in his life.
"Then my buddy McBeevey, nailed one of those deuce bags trying to strafe us on the port beam."
"Fuck me," is all Kramer could manage.
"Then my own gun mount hit another one of those sonuvabiytches on a bombing approach on the starboard beam. The fucker exploded his bomb in the water, wounding my third class with shrapnel. Fucking cocksuckers. Thank God for our damage control guys - they put out the flames like nobody's business.
"I know this is all true but, damn man..." said Kramer.
Taking a long pull on his beer, "Oh, it only gets better," Standish said. "About 15 minutes later, we blew another shit bag approaching the port side out of the sky. But the sonuvabiytch banged against our deck before crashing into the sea, shooting fucking aviation fuel from its damaged engine everywhere. About three minutes later, another Jap approached from port and fucking crashed into one of our 40 mm mounts, killing three of my men, destroying a 20 mm gun and two of our 40 mm guns, and setting the fucking magazine on fire."
"Mother fucker," mumbled Kramer. "Bartender, another round here. Make it two."
"Immediately afterward, another Jap made a strafing approach from stern, hitting my 5"/38-gun mount, and disintegrated as its fucking bomb blew up the powder magazine, destroying the gun turret and spreading fire everywhere. I was damn lucking to get out of there alive. Then another cock sucker, coming in from astern, also hit the burning gun mount after my guys set the bastard on fire. At about the same time, yet another Jap dropped its bomb and jammed our rudder 26° to port and killing several more guys - bodies everywhere. Then, two more planes hit us from port."
His eyes were ringed with purple cutting down to his mouth. He looked as tired as a person could look without being dead. Kramer was past speechless. He chugged his shot and beer both, ordered another. "Make it two."
"Finally, some of our Wildcats from USS Shamrock Bay took some of the heat off of us by taking some of those cocksuckers out. Making others run away. Chicken shit assholes."
Kramer recalled reading somewhere that as long as someone living still remembers one's name, one was never truly dead. What did a man do who had nothing to lose but his fear?
"But then they came back at us again. Oh, did they come. One of our own Corsair's forced the first one to overshoot us, and then shot the sorry fuck out of the sky. Then another one headed our way to strafe us but one of my gunners nailed his ass but then the fucker cart-wheeled into our mast before falling into the sea. Hell, even a Corsair hit our radar antenna and crashed into the water. We heard later the pilot was picked up by LCS-51."
Standish put an unlit cigarette in his mouth. Kramer ordered another, "that all?"
"No," answered Standish. "Another Jap came from the stern and dropped a bomb that exploded off our port side, but then a Corsair nailed his ass. The same Corsair tried to hit the next Jap plane, but the lucky fucker dropped his bomb and hit another one of our 40 mm gun mounts, killing the entire gun crew...Jackson, Dogwood, Mac, Bees - all gone..."
Kramer choked on his beer, "That's twenty pound crazy in a five pound bag!"
Standish stubbed out his cigarette and threw it on the floor. Lit another and in a sudden fury, he flung the glass of whiskey against the wall behind the bar.
"You OK Martin," asked Kramer.
"No. Yeah. I think. I don’t know what to think most of the time."
His mouth went dry, his scalp tightened. When he tried to swallow, his breath caught like a fishbone in his throat.
"You just have to let it slide and say the short version of the serenity prayer. Sometimes you just have to say 'fuck it'", offered Kramer.
Standish continued, "The Corsair lined up behind two more Japs approaching from our bow, took out the first one, and was shot down by the other. But we got the mother fucker. My guys shot that asshole out of the sky and into the drink. At the same time, our other 5" 38 shot down another Jap approaching from starboard."
Standish pounded is latest shot and drank his beer long and hard. Kramer felt the story winding down. He looked Standish in the eye until he met his gaze. Only then did Kramer say, "You feel better?"
"We survived the best of what the Japs could throw at us. We got hit by four bombs, six kamikaze crashes, and strafing fire that killed 32 of my shipmates and wounded 71 more. After it was all over, our assistant communications officer Lt. Manson asked Captain Becton if he thought we'd have to abandon ship," Standish said with a shallow laugh. "You know what the skipper told him?"
"No, what?"
"Hell No! I'll never abandon ship as long as a single gun will fire. Best CO I ever served with."
Standish lit a cigarette, watching the red tip glow in the window reflection.
"You know Kramer, you start out your Naval career with no experience and a lot of luck. You hope you end up with a lot of experience and a little of that luck left."
"Martin, I think you passed the test on both counts with flying fucking colors."
Kramer popped the aspirin into his mouth and swallowed, chasing it with a new shot and beer chaser. Standish made a face.
"How can you do that?"
"Practice, at a certain point in life, aspirin becomes a major food group," laughed Kramer.
Standish managed a genuine smile. Two hours and far too much beer later, Kramer went to find the head.
"That war shit about wore me out," said Kramer. "I think I might head back to the ship. You?"
"What the fuck. Yeah, let's go. I've had about enough war shit myself." His smile was a as thin as a paper cut.
On the way down the hill they walked two abreast in the cobblestone street, drunk and laughing and talking like sailors who knew they would separate at dawn and not speak to each other ever again.
