Excerpt from "The Last Gun Ship - History of USS Mullinnix DD-944"
A Historical Novel By Frank A. Wood
Shortly after sighting Chacachacare Light on 16 February, Mullinnix stationed the special sea detail. Steaming passed Diegos Island abeam to port, then Five Islands abeam to starboard, she slipped into the port side of Pier 2, US Naval Base, Port of Spain, Trinidad, British West Indies (BWI). The engineers let the fires die out under Boiler 1B and Mullinnix began receiving fresh water and telephone services from the pier.
At 0801, Rear Admiral E.C. Stephan, Commander South Atlantic Force, US Atlantic Fleet, called informally on the Commanding Officer of the Mullinnix. Later that morning Commander Anderson departed the ship to pay a formal call on Admiral Stephan as well as Capt. D.A. Sooy, Commanding Officer, US Naval Station, Trinidad, BWI.
BT1 A.J. Bell, MM3 A.R. Alterio, and BM2 D.P. Cutlip were the unlucky mates that were elected to temporary duty as shore patrol. Trinidad’s cornucopia-like offerings to stimulate a sailor's many senses made shore patrol duty hard to appreciate let alone accept.
Trinidad has all the things you'd expect from a Caribbean island - sun, rum, sea, sand, rum, plus friendly locals, rum, music, parties, and ample opportunities for relaxation in rich natural surroundings with rum-based drinks. "Rum" was the key! The city is bordered by the Gulf of Paria on one side and the Northern Range on the other, providing both mountain and sea views. The mish-mash of architectural styles can seem rather ugly at first sight, especially downtown, but look closely and you can spot many fine nineteenth-century buildings along with quaint "gingerbread" houses, so named because of their intricate fretted woodwork.
Thanks in large part to its natural harbor, Port of Spain was made Trinidad's capital in 1757. The downtown area is the oldest section of the city, and despite its run-down appearance is the shopping and entertainment center of the capital. Within the compact grid of streets surrounding broad Brian Lara Promenade/Independence Square and bustling Frederick Street, shops jostle for space with old Spanish warehouses, bars, shops and the paraphernalia of the docks.
The city was preparing for the annual carnival that celebrates the beginning of Lent. 'Caribbean Carnival's' principal components were calypso, steelpan and playing mas (masquerade). In Port-of-Spain these elements were harmoniously structured to form a five day ritual pageant beginning with the King & Queen Contest, followed by Panorama, Dimanche Gras, J'Ouvert and finally the Parade of the Bands.
On a candle-lit terrace overlooking Trinidad's bay, and where, in the cold smell of broken ice stained with rum and bruised fruit, weeks at sea could disappear with the ease of raising a glass to your mouth.
Following their instincts, FTG3 Jim "Jimbo" Larson and his buddies found what they were looking for. The pub's name was 'The Head'. It had peeling paintwork around the front door and sagging drainpipes at the corners. A small courtyard was incased with a rusting wrought-iron railing. As they approach the open gate they could smell a nauseating stink coming from the base of a giant bougainvillea. A remnant from last night’s party.
They quickly found an empty table in the corner, sat and ordered rum and cokes all around. The cheap rum tasted and looked like monkey piss. The upside, it was only $5 a quart. The side of the structure faced the sea and framing their table was a large window – no glass, no blinds, no curtains. Frankly, it was a large opening in the wall with a hurricane shutter latched to the overhanging roof. The sky was blue, the Caribbean bluer. About a mile out in the lagoon was a coral island, a tiny white raft bearing a few toy palms. It was underlined with a streak of emerald. Possibly the tension of the surface of the sea kept it afloat.
"It don't get any better than this." drawled Larson in his southern twang while taking a long pull on his drink.
"What the fuck over, this shit you ordered tastes like week-old bug juice that went sour." Responded FTGSN Lamburt.
"Ya'know what I mean?"
"No...What da' you mean?"
"Go screw yourself Lamburt!"
Laughter erupted as the sailors continued putting the hurt on the quart of rum. Another bottle mysteriously was set in the center of the table without anyone ordering. WTFO?
The man, a fisherman, was friendly enough. The crew drank beer and rum he paid for. They listen, in silence, as he spoke of huge fish caught in the warm waters of the Gulf Stream, the nightly celebrations and cook-outs on the beach, and the women. Oh, how he talked of the women.
The monkey piss, as it turned out, was in fact high-octane rum. Larson knocked back half his drink with one gulp and subsequently ordered a bottle of gin.
The old man warned, "Put the clear on the brown, you wake up with a frown".
Laughing, Larson returned, "What about brown on top of clear?"
"You wake up pissing beer. Or you wake up with a lost ear." said the man.
"We're sailors old man, we can put clear on brown, brown on brown, clear on clear. It doesn't matter."
Standing up the old man said, "Have fun tonight boys and take care and remember what I said."
The following morning Jimbo, looking like he'd been road hard and put up wet, rolled out of his bunk - literally, onto the deck. Larson was six feet of brawn, tall, broad-shouldered, with a noble head, strong chin and corn-yellow hair which flopped over his blue eyes. He had lines in his face deep enough to hide a cigarette butt and had a deep resonant baritone. He was alive like a bottle of wine - the day you open it, the wine will taste different than any other day you open the bottle. Jimbo possessed a healthy disregard for rules. Not coincidentally, it was a trait shared by most of his shipmates.
Gunner Joseph Wilkerson, hearing the commotion, leaned over the edge of his rack, blinked, smiling "Hey Jimbo, what the hell happened to you last night? Looks like you went to shit and the hogs ate ya."
"Give me a fucking break Wilkerson. I’m dying here!"
Glancing at those who were listening, "There's a story here boys. Isn’t there Jimbo?"
Larson shook his head, looked up through blood-red eyes and shot back, "You wouldn't believe it if I told you."
"Yea we would Jimbo. We'd believe anything you told us." Shouted FTSA Larry Nord.
Added Gunnersmate second class Ted Stanley, "Come on Larson, spill your guts!"
Amidst the applause, "They threw me out of the bar last night. I don’t mean they ask me to leave politely and escorted me to the door and told me to have good evening. Fuck no. Four security guards chucked me out of the front door like I was a horseshoe."
Swallowing back a dry heave attack he continued, “Then they wanted to kick my ass in the vacant lot next door.”
"What happened next?"
"Well, I backed down from the fight, 'cause I don't know how many of them it would have taken to whip me. But I knew how many they were gonna use. Then they were going to call the local cops, 'cause we broke some chairs on the way out the door. I told them 'hell no' I’m not pay'in for 'em."
"Why not? You brakee you payee, that's the rules." said radioman Sheppard.
"I refused to pay for it, because "we" broke it over "my" shoulder. Sorry sons-of-bitches."
"Wait a minute." Broke in Stanley. "Back up a second. What did you do in the first place to get thrown out?"
"You remember the day before we arrived, the Captain had a big article about Trinidad in the Plan-of-the-day?" Groaning, "Fuck, my head hurts!"
"Cut-the-shit Jimbo and finish your damn story!"
"In the article it explained how proud these people are of their country and that the country's well known motto is "Together we Aspire, Together we Achieve.""
"So?"
"Well, Lamburt can tell you we drank a shit-pot full of rum." Adding, "Hey Lamburt I guess that old man was right huh?"
"What do you mean?" answered Lamburt
Rubbing his temple, "Put the clear on the brown, you wake up with a frown."
"Come on Larson, I’ve got the fucking duty in a few minutes!" wailed Sheppard.
"Anyway, needless to say we were wasted. We ended up at this little bar called the Floridita. We were drunk when we got there, and commenced to get drunk all over again. Long story short, I crawled up on the bar to give them the Navy's version of their country's motto."
"What! What did you say?"
"As I was tipping over onto the floor I screamed 'Together we Drink, Together we Fuck!' Then they were on me like stink on shit!"
Through the outbreak of laughter, "Holly shit, what'd you expect? They’d give you a fuckin' medal?"
The following day, Radm Stephan returned to the ship, calling officially on the CO as well as Captain Sooy. The ship broke the Rear Admirals flag and fired a 13 gun salute. Old Jimbo's head beat with each belch of the barrels.
After 2 days in port, liberty's side-effects started to appear. At 0015 on the 18th, a disturbance in the 2nd division compartment resulted in W.C. "Willy" Whidden receiving a fractured nose, D.R. "Cross" Crossman with laceration over his left eyebrow, and L.T. "Harp" Harper with contusion on his nose and abrasions to his right hand and arm. Surprisingly, there were no witness that could recall much at all when ask by HMC Summers while treating everyone's wounds. Sailors will be sailors.
The parade of dignitaries continued with Mr. James E. Asper, State Department Public Information Officer, reporting on aboard on 19 February. Followed by His Excellency, Sir John Beetham, Governor of Trinidad, making an official call on RADM E.C. Stephan, COMSOLANT. The Mullinnix rendered honors and fired a salute of 17 guns when His Excellency departed later in the day.
On 21 February at 1645 Mullinnix stationed the special sea and anchor detail under a sky of purple streaked with fire, underway for Rio de Janerio, Brazil as flagship of Task Force 86. Steering course 270 at a speed of 20 knots, the crew’s emotions were thick with memories of Trinidad and they tried to keep an empty place in the center of their mind, not thinking the thoughts they were thinking. To no avail, they were headed to Rio, the land of what sailor's dreams are made of. Jimbo Larson's head had cleared. His, with most of the crews, thoughts laid over the horizon, they were headed back to Rio.
