USS MULLINNIX DD-944
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Trinidad 1962
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Trinidad (Unknown Date)
Excerpt from "The Last Gun Ship - History of USS Mullinnix DD-944"
A Historical Novel By Frank A. Wood
Mullinnix Trinidad Vistor's Guide (PDF)
It had been since March 1959 that Mullinnix and visited this beautiful port city. Time, as the old saying promised, had indeed marched on. Kevin Bostic and Barry Lister had both moved on with their careers and lives. The story of them finding and saving Master Chief Smalls from the voodoo worshipers however, still lived on during bullshit sessions, hot cups of joe, and smokes on the fantail. Chief Smalls had retired and later died. Rumor had it he'd drank himself to death.
FTG2 Howard McGee had been transferred to an oiler with its one and only 5" gun mount. He'd bitch about it the whole time, saying the FTGs were born to be on fighting ships not support ships. Though he never said it out loud, the real truth was he was going to miss his old pal Brian Smythe. McGee was scared to death they'd never see each other again.
Having been promoted, Brian Smythe was now the 2nd class FTG in Main Battery Plot. He didn't much care, and was having trouble deciding, whether to make a career out of this shit or not. The Mux just wasn't the same without his mate McGee. Ah, the times they had had. Smythe chuckled out loud, remembering the one-legged woman in Antwerp, Belgium. Would he ever again have a friend that he was as close to? Probably not.
The Navy's Enlisted Men's Club held a stage show starring "Yul Brunner". Limbo dancers thrill the audience with a flaming limbo backed up with the Navy orchestra from Mullinnix. Rum and cokes were 15 cents each. The British ship HMS WHIRLWIND's crew joined the crews from Mullinnix, Lester, and Picuda at the performanced.
Among the bars and small shops ran a maze of streets and alleys barely wide enough for a car, let alone a herd of drunken sailors. Heat waves shifted in transparent rippling ribbons. The city center consisted of a few unremarkable shops and pubs clustered around the harbor with one or two main thoroughfares. From his bar stool, Smythe could peer down the narrow street. Brothels, madams, pimps and the underworld of an occasion opium den mingled with this city's version of high society. The street was deserted. Well, not quite deserted. Three ladies of the night were gathered under a streetlamp about a half block down. If McGee had been with him, two-on-three would have been 'the-plan-of-the-day'.
The blow came from his left side and Smythe was a hair late warding it off. The man's fist struck him on the side of the jaw and he immediately buckled to his knees. A flurry of stars danced before his eyes but he didn'’t pass out. Mullinnix sailors didn't pass out. In a dazed stupor, he stood, shook his head.
Fully anticipating the man's lunge, Smythe reached up and grabbed the man's wrist with both of his hands. He immediately spun to the side while shoving his wrist up and jamming his open palm backward toward the ground. Smythe then backed into the man a step and dropped to one knee. The thug anticipated the attempted judo-like drop and hopped to the side, but Smythe had him in a pain-inducing wristlock and could snap the bone with a flick of his hands. The angered man flailed with his free arm to strike Smythe, but his blows lacked any leverage, only bruising him on the back.
In response, Smythe rose to his feet and drove the heavier man backward with another twist to his hand. The man gasped in agony and flailed at Smythe uselessly with his left arm. But the searing pain was too much and he finally staggered back. He crashed into the bar, then fell to his knees incapacitated. As long as Smythe maintained his grip, the burly thug was helpless.
An object tumbled through the air at them, smashing Smythe in the chest, cracking his ribs and knocking the breath out of him and forcing him to lose his grip on the thug. Free, the man on the ground stood up to charge after Smythe. Only Smythe was no longer there, having ducked outside, and around the bar's outside wall. The thug stumbled toward the outer wall, then stopped when he detected footsteps behind him. He turned in time to see the fist of BT2 Rocker strike his temple just beneath his hair line.
The thug shook off the blow from Rocker and staggered to his feet with a short knife, which he'd been preparing to plunge into Smythe's back. Rocker whipped his left arm forward midair, knocking the thug's knife to the side before tumbling into him with his full weight into the man's chest. The pressure on the thug's chest was unbearable and the wincing man gasped as he tried to suck in air. Rocker's right fist beat out the cry, crashing into the side of his neck and knocking him out before another warble left his mouth.
Smythe, listening, quickly realized that all was quiet inside the bar. The cracked ribs vacuumed the breath out of his chest in long, uncontrollable wheezing rushes that left him powerless and gasping.
A face peers around the corner, "You OK?"
"Barely", wheezed Smythe. "Thanks for the help."
"Not a problem. We've got to stick together in these shithole towns or we'll all be in trouble."
Holding out a hand as best he could, "Smythe. Brian Smythe."
Grabbing Smyth's hand, "Rocker. BT2 Rocker. Most just call me 'Rock'."
"Can I buy you a drink Rock?"
Smiling, "Yea, I'll let you do that."
"OK, let's get the hell out here, find someplace that actually likes a sailor and his money."
The two cut over a couple streets to one of the main drags with outdoor cafes and art deco restaurants whose scrolled purple and pink and green neon burned in the mist like smoke from marker grenades. The humidity-laden air made rings around the gumdrop-shaped lampposts. The street was lined with palms, Ceiba trees, and casuarinas. The dark sky was awash with stars.
"What ship are you on Rock?"
"DD-944."
"The Mullinnix? Are you shitting me? That's my ship!"
"Nope. Just got assigned before this cruise."
"Damn man. What a small world."
They walked through an open-air market: plywood stalls; hats, woven placemats, T-shirts, coconut purses; mahogany carvings; statues; fresh snapper and grouper; figs; fried fish and cracked conch.
"Hey, Mr. Sailor, You belong 'dis?" barked one vendor. "He da one," answered another.
"Rock, I got to ask, what's your first name?"
"Howard."
"Howard? Now I know you're shitting me?"
"Nope, that's what my mamma named me. Why?"
"No reason, just curious is all." Was this God's way of replacing Howard McGee?
The ornate hand-painted sign, swinging from a rusting steel rod, read 'The Mermaid Chair'. Behind the barman's shoulders, nestled atop a mirrored display of the world's liquors, sat the chair itself. Oversized and painstakingly carved from multiple species of trees, it was painted with a rainbow of colors and sailor's dreams and imaginations. The two back legs were the scaly torsos of twin mermaids bending forward at the waist, their upper bodies acting as arm rests. The front of the armrests were two pairs of magnificent breasts begging to be caressed by the occupant. The faces slightly raised, with sensual smiles, the jeweled-eyes twinkling in the dim light. Their hair flowed down in gently waves to form the front legs. The high-back was a sun and a moon, with almost human features, competing for attention while a waterfall of stars and lesser celestial bodies cascading down to a smooth shallow pool that was the seat.
The assault on the senses was overwhelming - loud laughter and bold glances, the whirl of color against the dull background of the aging walls, the musky hot blend of female sweat overlaid by cheap perfume. All were moving to the boisterous sounds of the band. Surrounding the dance floor was a trail of small tables filled with people drinking - the girls "ice tea" while most of the men and sailors drank beer or whiskey straight up.
"What'll you have?" ask Smythe.
"Whiskey", answered Rock.
"Barkeep, two whiskies and make it the good stuff," ordered Smythe.
Hoisting their drinks, Rock said, "We have a saying: When two sailors fight, it is the bar that suffers!" Laughing, "Here's to us!"
"To us..." Smythe responded.
Ceiling fans fluttered and the music fell outside into the street. Moths found their way to the fan lights, their wings throwing gigantic shadows across the tables and floor. Smythe glanced at Rock's face as it flickered with the reflection of the ceiling fan and moths overhead. Like an old celluloid movie. "Howard? 'Howard' Rocker? Really?" he thought. Smiling, this cruise may not be so bad after all.
To be continued...
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