Excerpt from "The Last Gun Ship - History of USS Mullinnix DD-944"
A Historical Novel By Frank A. Wood
The early light of 26 March sparkled off the ocean and shone through the portholes onto the mess deck tables like spotlights on a stage as Mullinnix passed Mar Chiquita light to enter the harbor of Mar del Plata, Argentina. She moored portside to a commercial in the company of USS Van Voorhis, USS Taussig, USS Hartley, USS Lester, and USS Spikefish.
With ozone from another storm building out over the ocean, the Commanding Officer of Mar del Plata Naval Base made an official call on Radm Stephan, COMSOLANT, Arriving with him were the Commander Destroyer Force Argentine Navy and his official party. As protocol dictated, Captain Anderson left later in the morning to return their official call followed by Radm Stephan who called officially on the Mayor of Mar del Plata.
The Mullinnix was the show ship in this small port known as “Ciudad Feliz”, hosting 3700 visitors during 2 days of visitation.
Located in the Province of Buenos Aires, it is the most important seaside resort in Argentina. Long beaches, dunes, cliffs and ravines help make it a water lover's paradise. The nightlife in Mar del Plata was hard to beat, with pubs, dance clubs, casino and gaming saloons for those looking for everlasting noise and entertainment. This paradise had only been born a few years earlier.
The Revolución Libertadora, a combined military and civilian uprising, overthrew the Peron presidency on 16 September 1955. In Mar del Plata, as in other places of the country, the Navy supported the rebels and the Army remained loyal to the Government. The naval base outskirts and some points of the city were subjected to heavy shelling from the sea, before the loyalist forces could be dispersed. The action was executed by the cruiser ARA 9 de Julio, former USS Boise CL-47, and other ships.
Boise was a Brooklyn-class light cruiser, commissioned 12 August 1938. Her original armament included 15 6-inch and 8 5-inch guns. After earning eleven battle stars in WWII she was decommissioned on 1 July 1946. She was sold to Argentina on 11 January 1951 along with her sister USS Phoenix CL-46. Boise remained in service with the Argentina Navy until 1978, when she was decommissioned and towed to Japan for scrapping. ARA General Belgrano (ex-Phoenix CL-46) was sunk during the Falklands War by the British submarine HMS Conqueror S-48 in June, 1982.
The tango - the vertical expression of a horizontal desire, in a musically synthesized dance form, was the Argentinean samba. Couples dancing the tango meet in a close embrace and dance seemingly violently across the floor. In Mar del Plata, walkways were filled with tango dancers, artists exhibiting their work, and street merchants of all types. Clubs, with velvet-covered back rooms and sultry bars, oozed the tango rhythm. Historical alluring bars, founded by artists and musicians, pulse with the experience, the heartbeat, the very essence of tango.
Couples, having never met, would embrace at first sight, closer and more intimately than many lovers ever do. From somewhere the tender tones of a violin mix with the dramatic and yet soft touch of the bandaneon played, forming beautiful and lyrical songs that spoke of the everlasting affection for the barrio and the pain of lost love, the two themes most essential in a tango. With names like Bar El Chiko, Tina's Starfish, Ruby Bobby's, and Bird On The Wing, tango was the erotic dance that men and women performed as foreplay.
They were quit the trio, seaman all three. Their mothers knew them as Trent Robert Longfellow, Albert Bosie Cramer, and Lloyd Justin West. Mullinnix knew them as “The Owl”, “Alphabet”, and “Beater”.
Longfellow was bread, born, and raised in western California, near Bakersfield. Third generation Okie, his grandparents having fled the dust bowl. He was bulky boyish-looking with piercing blue eyes hidden behind Navy-issued coke bottle glasses - owl-like. Crude even by Navy-standards - crude when crude wasn't called for. His dungarees and boondockers going the way of disintegration. He gave off a smell of carelessness and hopelessness. His face usually hidden by a dirty white hat or ball cap. He was known for his ferocity when fighting. His accumulated rage, brought on by the broken home of his youth, burned inside him like the orange glow in the heart of a boiler.
Albert Bosey Cramer (ABC - e.g. Alphabet) on the other hand, was from the West Texas oilfield country around Midland. He had deep blue eyes and a mane of sandy blond hair. He looked like a future rock star. His words flowed out like oil from a can. A born bullshitter, the bullshit flowing like molasses on a hot sunny afternoon, sticking to anyone who would listen indiscriminately. He saved the best for the women. Cramer chased girls so hard the skin on his eyeballs would peal back.
Then there was West. Lloyd Justin West, from someplace in Missouri. He had IQ to burn, but what he needed bad was ChickQ. He'd spent his life hitting into double plays with women. He wore wire-rimmed glasses hooked lopsided over uneven ears and an ever-present Pall Mall drooping from corroding teeth and flakey-dry lips. His hair looked like it had been combed with an eggbeater, hence the nickname. He was the "before picture" in a body building advertisement. Some said he was one can sort of a six pack.
Individually they were a hand full. Together they were a Captain's Mast waiting to happen.
As sailor's chance would have it they stumbled, literally, into the Bird's Nest. Low ceilinged, with dark, rough-hewn beams low enough to cause a tall man trouble, plaster walls, and a wood floor gone dark as pitch with decades of constant use. Tables ran along the left wall, a bar ran along the right. A stage and dance floor hugged the back wall. The room was three-fourths full of women except for several locals seated at the farthest two tables, drinking from glass pint mugs.
The lights hanging from the ceiling were confusing the moths. Burning sticks of incense so heady it would drop you to your knees. It was obviously to the three sailors that this was one of the local hide shops. They found an empty table, the wooden seats greasing and sticky with old beer.
They had just come from a small open-air establishment were they had grabbed a bite to eat. The food had been so hot they’d had to pour beer directly on their tongues to keep from bleeding.
Typically, the discussion was centered around the shortcomings of the Navy. As they sat, Beater was grumbling, "Hell you can't take a dump without somebody's permission when you are an E3."
Alphabet, having just about enough for one day, responded, "This might be the deepest conversation we've ever had Beater."
"Well, fuck, we're in 'Mardaplati' or however you pronounce it, in a rundown bar two miles from the ship with a firestorm in my mouth from that shit you called chow and it's pushing midnight, and I've had a lot of beer and haven't been laid yet. What do you expect?"
"I'd say it's time to get laid." Added The Owl
"My type is hard to fine", said Beater.
"I'll bet," answered Alphabet. "You can get beauty and brains if you're lucky, but beauty, brains, philosopher, and redneck are hard to come by."
Before Beater could respond The Owl said, "Hey you guys, look at that over there."
"Where?"
"At the bar, dumb-ass."
The trio looked, five women stood at the nosy end of the long hardwood bar. Overhead, hanging low, dark wooden fans turned swiftly, sucking up the smoke in cloudy cones. Most of the women in this part of town rolled into the bars, literally rolled - most had to have striped tops on to determine if they were walking or rolling. Many had some variation of a hatchet-faced acne-queen, so bony and brown they looked like overcooked chicken wings. But these five were cut from a different cloth.
As if hearing them, the tallest one turned, smiled. She was as hot as a windy August day. The only thing that could stop here legs was the floor. They'd go forever. She had Bacall eyes.
Her partner next to her turned as well. She must have been a beautiful young woman. Even now she was striking. She was about thirty-five, tall and moved with a certain grace, suggesting she'd been a trained dancer. She had glossy blue-black hair and her eyes were large with eye lashes that made Beater's loins burn with desire.
Their dresses were not designed to hide what sailors admired. The third one's hips rolled under her tight shorts as she too turned. She was richly furnished slick and angular, like black leather and glass. The last two were probably jailbait by US Standards. But they weren't in the US.
"I ain't jokin', they're smokin'," moaned The Owl.
Added Alphabet, "From their mountains to their prairies, they all must be one hell of a ride."
The three mused, what were these beauties doing in a place like this? There was only one way to find out. But before they could make a move, Ms. Tall walked towards their table, shoulders bare, as inviting as a freshly peeled peach. The three stared at her figure as she approached. Alphabet's eyes were drawn to the fine blue veins of her chest as she neared the table. As she hunched her bare shoulders forward to speak, her cleavage held his attention. He felt like he was diving into the top of her dress.
Her two friends placed their hands on The Owl's shoulders, the shorter one tilted her head sideways and pressed her mouth to his, using her tongue, threading her fingers tightly through the back of his hair. He could taste vodka and sweet syrup and orange slices and the tartness of crushed cherries in her mouth. He could even taste the coldness of the ice that had been poured into her Collins glass. She took a breath and bent down to kissed him again.
Her partner, turning, sat in Beater's lap, gently removed the Pall Mall from his lips and leaning, whispered in his ear, "You come here often sailor?" He felt the caress of her eyes. He could feel the suggestion of her derriere…a high firm invitation. An invitation that would be well worth accepting.
The jailbait twins were watching, getting ready for the physical demands of their night work. They adjusted what there was of their dresses.
Alphabet said, "This beer is talking to me."
The tall one responded in accented English, "What did it say?"
"You sure have pretty lips!"
She asked Cramer,"What is your name?"
"Cram...er...Al, Al Cramer. What’s yours?"
"Maria."
She sat down and put her arms around his neck. Her black eyes were alight with the night shine of tango. Her nipples were firm as cherry pits. It was obvious to Longfellow and West that Cramer and Maria had a mutual attraction - they wanted to fuck each other's brains out.
The Owl's love interest had sat down next to him. Her hand glided down the back of his neck, the nails leaving scorched earth as they went. She kissed like she was pulling snake venom for a recent bite.
Beater had manage to find out that the bundle of joy in his lap was Natasha. Here voice was low, but it cut like only a woman's voice can. "Do you want me?" She breathed.
Looking at his two buddies, Beater pleaded, "Boys, I'd love to have another round but I think the girls here having something else in mind. Don’t you?"
So as the moment would not be lost, Maria, standing, announced, "Let us all go!"
"Where?"
Smiling sensuously, she said, "Does it really matter Mr. Cramer?"
"What about your two friends?" said Longfellow, pointing in the direction of the jailbait twins.
Maria responded, "They will come with us. And they will watch."
"What the fuck?" mumbled West.
"Don't sweat it Beater," said Cramer, "They are probably members of the tongue-and-groove club."
"What's that?"
"Lesbians, you asshole. Let's go!"
Three sailors and five girls, out the door and into the night. A gentle drizzle falling through the dim orange glow of the street lamps. Alphabet through his arm around his buddy Beater's neck, laughing, "Welcome to the wonderful world of pussy Beater. Welcome indeed."
