View of "Reflets De La Cote D'Azur" in Cannes, France
Post marked from USS Mullinnix DD-944 on 10 November, 1959
Cannes looked just like this postcard when Mullinnix visited although the beaches were empty this time of year. The harbor was choked full of beautiful yachts and schooners.
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Excerpt from "The Last Gun Ship - History of USS Mullinnix DD-944"
A Historical Novel By Frank A. Wood
Near Cannes, France, at the foot of the Vallauris hills is Golfe Juan, with its seaside resort atmosphere of relaxation and well-being. The feeling of a peaceful village and ancestral spirit combined with the excitement of renowned Cannes nearby is endearing. A seaside resort city with two marinas, Golfe Juan is an ideal location for liberty with a beautiful harbor, sand beaches, and a seaside filled with lively shops, restaurants, and bars.
Golfe Juan, somewhat overshadowed by its famous neighbors, still had a lot to offer the fleet's sailors. The public beaches were excellent, clean and relatively un-crowded and the private beaches were significantly cheaper than in Cannes or Juan les Pins. The beaches were lined with palm trees and the view across to Cap d’Antibes was fantastic.
The town was concentrated around its two ports, Port Camille Rayon and the old port. The main road was lined with late nineteenth century villas and excellent restaurants. Nounou and Tetou are two of the most well-known restaurants in France, both are located on the beach and specialize in Bouillabaisse. Numerous restaurants and bars were to be found around Port Camille Rayon as well, one of the best marinas in France.
Golfe Juan's main shopping area was located on the other side of the railway which runs just inland behind the seafront. The Avenue de la Liberte ran parallel to the sea and is where the crew found major shops and other businesses. There were some excellent small food shops in the streets running of the main square where the post office and bus station were located. Hotels in the town center offered excellent prices and made Golfe Juan a good place from which to explore the coast.
Just a mile inland and set in an amphitheater of hills, Vallauris is known throughout France and the world for the production of ceramics. Potters have been in Vallauris since Roman times but the industry was in decline until it was rejuvenated by Picasso in the fifties. The artist, who was living in Golfe Juan at the time came to Vallauris to try his hand at pottery. In just a year, Picasso produced over two thousand pieces, many of which can be seen in Vallauris’ main museum.
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After the sun had worked its way off and having left Bill "Bull" Frasier and Mansen at the last bar, BM3 Benson and Sam "Stretch" McDonald realized they'd both been suffering from a severe case of lack-of-nocky. They therefore decided to do something about it.
The little hotel was on a tiny cobbled street. By daylight it displayed none of the slightly sinister romance offered to its patrons during the evening. The evening light had receded into a single strip of purple and red clouds on the horizon and the place was beginning its nightly bloom.
They entered a low-ceilinged room, with dark oak timbers spaced out every couple of yards. To their left was a small front room, a bench along the walls and small tables scattered about, just big enough for pints and ashtrays. The bar filled the center of the room - rough wood stained dark with spilled ale and nicotine. About half a dozen larger tables were rearranged on the right, and small groups of men were seated at those, some eating, most drinking. Girls were sitting at the corner table. Alone!
"I think we may have found what we've been look'n for," said Bull. "Let's hope your right," muttered Mansen.
Mansen looked at the nearest woman with striking blond hair that curled up just at her shoulders. She was thin, long-waisted, and appeared to be about thirty, with a bony, intelligent face. Eyes more green than blue.
The other may had been a peach in her day. But today she was the shape of an apple, her cheeks nearly as bright red. Her eyes were narrow, slanted, and so deeply set it was hard to guess their color. He’d dump her on Bull, thought Mansen. Bull'd breathe heavy over anything in a skirt; 'Ms. Apple' would be no exception.
Mansen slid into the chair nearest the blond. Her eyes were her most remarkable feature, immense; the irises brown speckled with green, translucently clear under the strongly curved brows. Her face was slightly on the rough-side of pretty, deeply etched with lines across the forehead and running from the narrow nostrils to the corners of the mouth. It was a face of a tortured life of brothels, poverty and filth. But no one coming under the gaze of those remarkable eyes could call it plain or ordinary.
As by command, Bull occupied the remaining chair. Using her professionalism, Ms. Apple nestled up close to him, looking at him with melting eyes. The moment he looked into her face he was claimed by it. Good ole' Bull was never one to waste time. His lean body trembled with anticipation. Black-haired and buxom, she smelled slightly of bleach. Her voice was a smoky drawl, her mouth a purple scar. She oozed a damage-me sex appeal.
The pairing complete, financial arrangements were finalized. Blondie slipped quietly from her chair, and came across to Mansen, laying one long, snake-like arm around his neck. He wasn't that far behind Bull. Why wait? His eyes crawled towards the stairs, then up one step at a time. She understood. In her profession, why wouldn't she.
She oozed up the stairs at a snail's pace. Mansen followed two steps below, realizing quickly she could have opened a jar of pickles with her ass. Bull and Ms. Apple followed. Slipping into the nearest door, Blondie quickly undressed. Moonlight seeped weakly through the window, lighting up her bare breasts.
He approached her and crouched down beside her. She looked at him, her eyes sparkling strange green in the pale moonlight, both mocking and expectant. He lifted her head and she raised herself up on one elbow, slipping her other arm around his neck. Her mouth was very close to his and he felt her warm, still-labored breath. He kissed her and she fell back, taking him with her. They moved apart for a moment and looked at each other with the first deep, happy, slightly surprised look of lovers. He kissed her again and felt her breasts pressing against his chest. He slid his hand under her T-shirt and she let him stroke her nipple for a moment, but then she stopped him, alarmed, when he tried to slip his other hand under her shirt. "Wait, wait," She whispered, glancing around. "What was that noise?"
The rooms had paper thin walls. Ms. Apple was a screamer, with multi-orgasmic. But there was more. Something in the background, deep and dark - but growing. Then the odor. At first Mansen thought it was smoke from the monkey-meat grill outside.
The lamp, an earthenware bowl filled with oil with a floating wick, had smashed to the floor in the next room, spraying oil. Flames leaped up, feeding on the spilled oil and the scraps of paper and other debris. In a flash it was eating through the wall.
FIRE! FIRE! Somebody screamed from the hallway.
Mansen and Blondie jumped back away from the flames already licking at their feet. The fire was between them and the door. "What'll we do?" she yelled. Her face was a devilish mask of black shadow and flickering red light. The fire was cracking and popping, the smoke and sound attracting Bull's attention.
"Hold it down over there you animal!" yelled Bull.
The smoke was turning the air gray and the flames were starting to run along the dry wood beams of the ceiling towards Bull’s room.
"It's a fucking fire you stupid prick!" screamed Mansen.
"Som-bitch", cursed Bull, finally realizing what was happening. Ms. Apple shrieked in a tongue Bull couldn't understand but he recognized the emotion - shear terror.
The fire spread down the walls, dropping embers that ate at the floorboards, opening gaping, black charred holes that would suck up the fresh air and turn it into bright flames devouring everything that just moments before had been solid. With flames at his back, Mansen picked up a chair and flung it at the door, knocking it off its hinges. The pair leaped through the doorway with smoke rolling along the ceiling and chasing them down the stairs.
Bull and Ms. Apple, still half naked, had only a few more seconds than Mansen and Blondie as the fire was literally exploding from room to room. Still cursing, they flew down the stairs as if their lives depended on it.
Downstairs, the bar was in complete chaos as the room was rapidly filling up with smoke from the top down. The fire had already consumed enough of the electrical wiring that the lights were off. The only light was from the orange monster crawling down the stairs. As pieces of the ceiling started to give way, two of the ceiling fans came crashing to the floor, barely missing a couple sailors trying to chug the last of their beers. Girls were screaming, sailors were cursing, and dogs were barking as the room emptied. Mansen, Bull and the girls spilled out into the night along with the rest of the bar crowd.
Sirens were approaching fast but it was too late. The old dry timber that was used to construct the structure was like candy to a room full of first graders. It was over in a matter of minutes. With a final gasp of life, the entire building imploded, sending flames, cinders, and bellowing smoke high into the night air.
"Fuck me," Bull said.
"Fuck all of us you mean," said Mansen. Adding, "That is as close as I ever want to come."
"That's a no-shitter."
The local fire brigade pulled up and scrambled to find a water source. The fire was passed its peak. The only thing they were going to be able to do was stop it from spreading to other buildings. With most of the excitement over and the crowd thinning, Bull concluded, "that is one piece of ass I'll never forget, no matter how long I live."
"Let's get out of here Bull." He didn't say it out loud, but Mansen was shook - bad. He felt as if he would shatter from the horrendous tear that had suddenly made him brittle. He wanted to get drunk and suck down a bottle of rot-gut rum and scream at the night. Bull had it right, "fuck me..."
