The difference between a fairy tale and a sea story, in most cases, is that one begins “Once upon a time …” and the other starts with “Now this is no s*** …” I realize that censoring the word isn’t at all sailorly but around here what’s sauce for the goose, and so on and so on, though I want no inferences made later when I quote someone directly.

Anyway this really did happen nearly 40 years ago and it’s true to the best of my recollection, although four decades of intermittent retelling may have altered real events somewhat.

Right out of boot camp I sailed in the USCGC (US Coast Guard Cutter) Rush, call sign WHEC723, which at 378 feet is one of ten of the biggest, fastest, and most heavily armed ever to fly the Coast Guard ensign. The war was on and the ship had returned from Viet Nam only a couple of weeks before, where among other duties she provided offshore fire support with a one-gun battery.

The day after I came aboard we cast off from the dock in Alameda, California for ASWEX (Anti-Submarine Warfare Exercises) in the Pacific near Hawaii. I never had been to sea in anything bigger than my uncle’s 18-foot fishing boat, catching grouper in the Gulf of Mexico around Padre Island, so I was ill prepared for the adventure, and strictly speaking quite ill in fact, and spent a great deal of time the first couple of days at the rail.

By the time we got to Hawaii, however, I had my sea legs, and we docked in Pearl Harbor and had weekend liberty before heading out to do battle with enemy submarines. I was billeted on the deck force – chippers and painters, deck swabbers, bridge watch standers and so on, but my GQ (General Quarters or battle station) assignment was as trainer on the 5-inch gun.

For anyone not familiar, five inches is the diameter of the shell fired by the gun, so this was a hefty bit of artillery. It is the trainer’s job to crank a wheel to turn the gun from side to side so the barrel is facing the right way, while the pointer who sits on the other side of the gun moves the barrel up and down, and also has the trigger.

We took a few practice shots before getting down to the submarine hunt, and I have to say that sitting right next to the gun’s breach when 30 pounds of Cordite exploded not two feet from my head was quite the shattering experience. I didn’t so much hear the noise as feel the shock of it to the pith and marrow of every bone in my body.

Then we went into hunt mode and hunkered down to Port and Starboard watches, meaning six hours on and six off at our GQ stations. I spent many early mornings trying to sleep on the metal deck of the gun mount, my foul weather jacket snug about me, and my sound-powered phones on, not so as to hear if the gun captain said anything, but to keep my ears warm. It’s amazing how cold it can get on a bare metal deck even around Hawaii.

In that fashion we hunted enemy subs, and frequently made sonar contact with subs that were hunting us. Ever and anon the alarm would sound, I would jump into my metal seat and light off the mount, which I did by throwing a nasty looking power switch in front of me by my feet, and then we would swivel the gun around to make sure it worked, and wait to see what became of the contact sonar made with the enemy. Usually the sub outran or out maneuvered us after a couple of hours, and we stood down and I hunkered down on the cold but quiet deck again.

But then for three days we chased one particular contact, and I never was sure if we were catching up to him or if he was coming back round to harass us at some ungodly hour in the night, but I clearly recall thinking that 3 am was no fit time EVER to waken someone from sleep, however cold and rubbish it might be, and make him crank up a gun left over from World War II.

Did I mention the Coast Guard gets a lot of Navy hand-me-downs? Our gun came off a decommissioned aircraft carrier. In any case, I had no idea what we would do with a deck gun, regardless how huge or old, against a submerged opponent, but that wasn’t my lookout – ours not to reason why and all that.

Then one late morning when I was out of the gun mount and getting some much needed rack time, we caught up with the annoying little beggar who had been dogging us and nailed him!

Apart from the deck gun, a couple of mortars for star shells, a half dozen heavy machineguns and so on, the Rush had 12 torpedo tubes, six port and six starboard, mounted to the second weather deck.

No one told me, oddly enough, that part of our mission was to test a new torpedo, and that was what the gunnery lads fired at the enemy. Its mission, the fancy high tech torpedo’s, was to race down to where the submarine was, come within a hundred yards, register the hit electronically – the shooting solution as they say now – deactivate its engine, and surface for pickup and reuse.

That was the plan, but the torpedo had other ideas. Again for those not familiar, even a torpedo without a payload of explosive is quite a hefty device, over a half-ton of engine and machinery, a mini-submarine in fact with a velocity of 40 knots or more.

This one had, for the time, the latest sonar, heat, metal and motion detecting equipment available – a target seeking underwater missile. All the torpedo’s systems worked except its communication, the part that says the drill is over, your job is done, time to quit.

It kept going, this overzealous dreadnaught, and slammed hard into the submarine’s port tailfin. Then because it didn’t explode but merely bounced off, it got angry and smacked her again, twisting the boat’s port side screw. Exasperated perhaps at not getting the fiery, destructive and gallant end it was designed for, the torpedo struck the fin once more, but then gave up and deactivated.

The submarine, our annoying nemesis, now battered but by no means bowed, surfaced and sent really, really annoyed radio messages to the Rush. I wasn’t yet a radioman but I can imagine the terse and barely constrained rage of those communications.

But I wasn’t thinking about that when I was rousted out of my cozy rack and sent on deck. The master chief bo’s’n’s mate, also the gun captain of my watch who also had been rousted untimely, set us to work lowering a companionway ladder for the benefit of the crew of the crippled New Zealander submarine now tied alongside.

The ladder was a collapsible aluminum staircase with a platform near the waterline when extended, but just a compact collection of metal at the first weather deck gunwale at any other time, and seldom if ever had been used, the ship being so new, so it took a while to get the thing dropped and secured.

When we had nearly done, the chief and everyone else disappeared and I was by myself, dutifully checking, per the chief’s order, that all the tholepins at the ladder’s top were belayed.

And so it was that I, a boot seaman apprentice on his first voyage, stood alone on the non-burning deck when the Kiwi submarine captain, red of face and stormy of visage, stomped upward toward me, apparently prior to his scheduled time if indeed there was one for such a visit, and demanded of me –

“Where the bloody hell is your captain?”

The bo’s’n chief chose that moment to reappear, as I gaped, unable to speak, and with great relief and gratitude I pointed to him, my jaw working but no sound emanating.

Upon our return to Pearl, all hands were instructed, cautioned, urged, ordered NOT to get in the way of any New Zealander sailors whilst on well earned liberty, and as far as I know none of us did. But I had to laugh when I saw the red painted Kiwi design that the gunner’s mates stenciled on one of the port side torpedo tubes.

The Rush has a new gun now, a more modern 72-mm automatic last I checked, and she’s berthed in Honolulu instead of Alameda.

But I’m willing to bet the Kiwi stencil still is there on the torpedo tube, though few will know why.

That is all.

Devlin out.

photo credit: pyzam.com

Today in the United States we celebrate Veterans Day, which commemorates the bravery and sacrifice of the men and women who have honorably served in the military. To all veterans, past and present, we offer our deepest and heartfelt gratitude for standing strong, guarding our shores, risking your lives and when called upon, making the ultimate sacrifice.

Because of You, Unknown Soldier

By Courtney Tanabe

Because of you, I am here

Because of you, I am able to live freely

Yet I do not know you

And I have not done anything for you

But there you stand, ready to fight

And there you are prepared to die

For me

You’ve fought before

And you’ll fight again

For someone you don’t know

So thank you Unknown Soldier

Fighting for me

I’m here because of you

And I owe my future to you

This is a special day on this website because as some of you may already know Devlin O’Neill served his country faithfully as a member of the United States Coast Guard. The USCG  can trace its roots back to 1790 and the dawn of this country. Their motto is Semper Paratus, which is Latin for “always ready.” Since coming to know Dev I consider him my brother and can state first hand he is still a Guardsman and is always ready. Always ready to lend a helping hand when needed. Always ready to listen when you need an understanding and compassionate ear. Always ready to offer kind words when appropriate and honest, hard words when required. Dev is always ready to aid any person, be they friend or stranger, in troubled times or times of joyous celebration. In finest Coast Guard tradition, Devlin O’Neill is and remains, ALWAYS READY.

Gwen and I wish Dev a Happy Veterans Day, and Gwen, Dev and I wish all veterans a meaningful and reflective observance of this day.

~Michael

The inimitable Chross picked Poppy’s blit bit ‘Disobedience’ for his Spankings of the Week today. Saying that she is pleased about this happening is a gross understatement, but she is English and trying very hard not to be overly enthusiastic about it – with absolutely no success at all. I have been telling her for a while now that Chross would notice her sooner rather than later, though you all realize that, like most girls around here, patience is not her strong suit.

In any case I am thoroughly delighted that her talent has been recognized and notice taken. Still I’m going to have a heck of a time getting her to sleep tonight, wound up as she is like a three-dollar watch. That’s all right. I’m up to the task and if worse comes to worst I have The Voice. I hate to use it on a Friday night but what has to be has to be.

So congratulations on this milestone, Poppy, and may there be many more!

-Dev

“Stanley, I don’t believe you’re going about this in the proper manner.”

“I hate to disagree with you, Ollie, but this young lady cadged my cup of tea practically right from under my nose and she needs a jolly good hiding, so bog off and find your own girl. Hmf!”

Two of my favorite people engaged in one of my favorite activities, something I never imagined I would see. (Thank you, Richard Windsor.)

Gwen, please note Mr. Hardy’s well polished oxfords, and also Mr. Laurel’s stylish spats. Her heels are quite chic as well so no footwear faux pas here.

Her shorts are quite becoming too, as is her look of absolute … glee? Can that be right?

Perhaps Stanley will need Oliver’s help with the jolly good hiding after all.

Its so not fair when a good girl plays the wickedest, naughtiest Cabbage Night trick on a big handsome man … the most mischievous, *awesome* trick in the world … a trick worthy of a smokin’ hot spanking … and she’s counting the days with that dreaded thrill you have when you know what’s coming to you and…

he gets the flu. LOL.  Nuts.  … Patience.  Where can I get some?  ;)

xoxo

(With apologies to E.A. Poe and to M. Anthony who really likes reading the original every Halloween.)

The Falcon

A Parody by Devlin O’Neill

Once upon a midnight beer-y, while I maundered, bleak and dreary,

Over a list I’d written of stuff to buy at the grocery store –

While I puttered, mused and muttered, stealthily there came a yapping,

As of Corgis briskly lapping, snapping at my chamber door.

“’T’is the neighbor’s dogs,” I grumbled, “snapping at my chamber door –

Only this, and what a bore.”

Glad indeed I wasn’t sober, for this was in late October,

Yet could the whirring fans not dry the sweat that dripped from every pore.

Vaguely still I felt the longing – longing deep, and deeper more,

Grocery list of no availing – thinking of my fond Adore,

Reaching for her, grasping, yearning, fearful not, yet still a-burning,

Burning for my fond Adore.

Then onto my terrace balcon’d flew a swift and eager falcon,

Brown and quill’d and talon’d, speedy messenger from foreign shore.

Grim he looked with eye of blackness, yet I knew no turning backness,

I braced the bird as though I had inkling as to what lay in store,

“Art thou come to give me tidings, tidings from most distant shore?”

Quoth the falcon, “Make her sore.”

“This is not an answer, surely! Make your meaning known more purely!

“What communication have you from the girl whose name I call Adore?”

Reached out did I very softly, yet my hand did he deplore,

Snubbed he too the bit of steak that I offered him from my private store,

“Speak, I pray thee, noble falcon! Tell me now what went before!”

All he said was “Make her sore.”

“Know thou not I see this clearly, as I hold her name most dearly,

“That ever and forever I would do as your cryptic words implore?”

And then the falcon, nodding merely, seemed to sigh and shrug most clearly.

“All right,” I said, “The task’s before, and go I to her chamber door.”

He flew away and left me calm, a gloried itching in my palm,

“Got it, Falcon – make her sore.”

The night before Halloween is known by various names around the United States and the world. Devil’s Night, Cabbage Night, Gate Night, Trick Night, Mizzy Night, Goosey Night (I love the sound of that!) to name a few, and growing up in Northern New Jersey we called it Mischief Night. The custom is for youngsters, usually teenagers, to play pranks and commit good-natured mischief in the neighborhood. When I was a young teen it was a favorite night for my friends, and the mischief we caused was mostly rained upon ourselves and in a form closer to mayhem than mischief, often resulting in fist fights. Throwing eggs at windows and cars quickly turned into food fights among ourselves. 

Shaving cream on a paper plate was stiff armed into faces with such force bloody noses were oftentimes the result. Flour socks (flour poured into a knotted sock which would leave a white mark upon its target) were packed tight and hurt like hell when someone took a full swing at your back or even worse at your head. Even at that early age I loved smacking a girl’s behind with my flour sock leaving a white mark on blue jean clad cheeks, which I could only hope one day would be replaced by my red hand print on the girl’s bare bottom.

My egg throwing days and ringing doorbells then running are behind me, but now I deal with a different sort of mischief. Being on the receiving end of bratty naughtiness by a very special someone in my life and also the cheeky girls on this blog.

So, thankfully my youthful dream did come true and I have replaced my flour sock and left a deeper mark by not only spanking naughty girls but affecting them in the most squirmy of ways. 

 ~Michael  

How’s this?   

We’ve hit the 800,000 visitors’ mark but we didn’t plan a witty, celebratory post ahead of time.  (Did we?)

Ummm, errrr … please stay tuned for a very clever celebratory message that I’m sure is being worked on by Uncle D. and/or Michael.  She said hopefully. 

xoxo

The new downtown location of the Devlin O’Neill Weblog office!  *G*