Brigade Boxer

By Captain M. W. Newman '71, USN (Ret.) 

No one ever accused me of being any sort of an athlete.  I was too skinny to play football in Texas and too uncoordinated to play either basketball or baseball.  In High School, to round out my resume for the Naval Academy, I ran track.  I was slow but could run for days and days so I competed in cross country and in the mile run.  I was slow but looked good on the track.  We taped our socks up so they wouldn’t fall down around our ankles before we finished the race.  I finished every race I started and ALMOST won one.  My pals always cheered me on with cries of “finish Newman, finish.”

Arriving at the Naval Academy in June 1967, I found the climate very much like my home in Texas - hot and humid.  From day one, we did lots of marching and running which did not bother me at all.  In fact, I was one of the very few Plebes who actually gained weight that summer.  When you start out at six one and 120 pounds, you only have one way to go - up.  We were introduced to the Physical Training program which included lots of swimming, a physical fitness test (push-ups, pull-ups, etc.), a mile run for time AND boxing.

Being more of a lover than a fighter, boxing was totally foreign to me.  At some point during Plebe Summer, the entire company went to boxing class in Macdonough Hall.  A couple of Marine Captains were in charge, and they told us to pair off by height and weight.  As it turned out, the last two guys unpaired were Mike Zurfluh and I.  All I knew about Zurf was that he was from Seattle, Washington, only stood about 5’ 6” and had a very flat nose and I thought funny looking ears.  One of the Marines said, “You two freaks fight each other.”  We got our boxing equipment which consisted of really big gloves and protective head gear.  These items had been used by every class of midshipmen since Admiral Dewey was a plebe and they smelled something AWFUL!  After each boxing class, it took two days of hard hand scrubbing to get the stink off.  But this was our first experience so we suited up and got ready for our turn in the ring.  With my height advantage, I felt confident that I could keep Zurf away from my vital areas and punch around on him at will.  It didn’t turn out that way.  When the Marine rang the bell to start our match, Zurfluh came at me like a shot and hit me at least a thousand times before I could even get my hands up!  It was a massacre. 

I did survive somehow; I think God made Zurf show some pity on me.  I was helped out of the ring and Zurf was signed up then and there for the Brigade Boxing Team as a lightweight.  Then and only then did Zurf let it be known that he had been a Golden Gloves champion in Seattle!  The teaching point for that first boxing class was to watch out for short guys with flat noses and funny looking ears.

When the academic year started, we began formal PT classes.  I made Bs and Cs in most of them except the mile run where I always made an A and in the drown-proofing and the tower jump where I also excelled (no strength or coordination required for either).  When it was time for boxing class again, we had all learned to negotiate a non-aggression pact with whomever we were matched up.  This worked well as long as the Marine instructor didn’t catch on.  When he did, he made the offenders stay in the ring until one or the other drew blood.

The first two years, I passed boxing by securing a mutually agreeable partner and a non-aggression pact with just enough hits to make the Marine happy.  My third year I reported for my last boxing class confident that I would once again be able to slide on through.  I was still six one but I had filled out somewhat so I easily found a suitably sized partner.  Unfortunately, this guy was some sort of over achiever and wouldn’t even discuss a non-aggression pact.  I was a little worried about the outcome since we were going to have to fight three one-minute rounds to complete the course, but I did have a height advantage on my “opponent” (not a pact partner) and he was no heavier.  Then the fight started.

When the bell sounded, this guy came after me like a house-a-fire!  He was beating the stuffing out of me, but I manage to stay away from him for a full minute.  While another pair was fighting, I tried to regain my composer.  I could barely lift my hands with the huge, smelly gloves on them.  Then one of the Marines came over to me and said: “You’re getting the crap beat out of you.”  I replied, “Yes, Sir, yes, Sir, three bags full.”  I was amazed by his powers of observation.  Then he asked, “Don’t you know he’s a left hander?”  As far as I was concerned this guy could be four handed he was hitting me so fast and hard.  Then the Marine explained, “I bet he’s never fought a lefty either.  Just change up on him.”

I tried to comprehend the significance of this advice while waiting for our round two.  We started off just like before with me getting the worst of it.  THEN I changed hands!  I jabbed once with my right then connected with my left hand on the tip of his chin as he stepped in.  Mr. Overachiever went down hard and lay spread eagle on the mat.  I had no idea what had happened until the Marine leaped over the ropes, picked me up by the waist and danced me around the ring.  He told me I had just made an A in boxing!!

Walking back to the Fourteenth Company area on the fourth deck of Bancroft Hall, all I could think about was how long it would take to scrub all the stink off my hands and head.  Weekend Liberty was only a day and a half away.   As I stepped into the Company area, all my classmates were there waiting for me.  The news had traveled faster than I.  They grabbed me, put a blue USNA b-robe over my shoulders and hosted me up on theirs for a triumphant ride around the area
It was my finest athletic moment – my only athletic moment actually.  Even my pal, Zurf, was proud of me, and he asked if I would like to do a little sparring after noon meal.  I declined.  The teaching point of this last boxing class was, of course: DON’T EVER GET BACK INTO ANOTHER BOXING RING AS LONG AS YOU LIVE.

Post Script:

I only saw Zurf one time after graduation.  He married his sweetheart and went to flight school.  Shortly before I deployed on my second cruise to Vietnam, I was invited to dinner by Zurf and his bride at their quarters on NAS Barbers Point, Hawaii.  Zurf was flying A-4s for a composite squadron stationed there.  Another classmate and company-mate, Marine Lieutenant George Rogers and his wife were also invited; and a grand time was had by all.  Some time later during the cruise, I learned that Michael Zurfluh had died in a training flight accident in the Hawaiian Op Areas.  The Navy had lost a fine officer.  The world had lost a true gentleman and a wonderful human being.

Extraordinary Ring Returns

By CDR Steve Martin '71, USNR (Ret.)

Steve M was a graduate of the United States Naval Academy, Class of '71. His parents were exceedingly proud (and singularly contributory) to his reaching that hard won milestone, and they further emphasized  that pride, support and love by  making a gift of his class ring to him. The inscription was simple and declarative, “Stephen <full name>, United States Navy, Aviation”; but he knew it really meant “love and well done, Mom and Dad”. Unfortunately, his ring was lost in a water skiing outing after Graduation, left lying somewhere at the bottom of The Grand Lagoon, Pensacola, Florida.

A few years later in 1974, Steve M  had completed flight training and was assigned to a fleet fighter squadron on the West Coast as “nugget” Naval Flight Officer. Life was good and he was home on leave in Pensacola to celebrate another warm Christmas/New Years holiday season with his family. The family tradition on Christmas Morning found his mom in her usual spot, doling out this year’s Christmas Largess.  She paused in the midst of the proceedings to fix her youngest son with a loving and somewhat sheepish look.  “We’ve got something for you”, she said. A small wrapped package changed hands and Steve M would up reading one of his secretary mother’s precisely typed notes that said,

“Merry Christmas!  I represent your Christmas gift, which has not yet arrived.  Because of the vagaries of long-distance purchasing, special order manufacturing, the fuel shortage, and the United States Postal Service, the delay has been beyond control. 

Now as to the gift – I have a 14K yellow gold, #65 finish, gold closed back, I am size 8 ½ and am set with a synthetic star sapphire.  I am inscribed, “Stephen <full name>, United States Navy, Aviation,” and I am to replace another that was hard-won and much revered.  Have you guessed what I am? I hope to be here soon.

Much love, Steve,

From Mom and Dad”

Of course, his dear parents were giving him yet Another ring. It arrived in registered mail a few weeks later at Steve’s West Coast address. The weight of a class ring once again tugged at his right ring finger, reminding him of his parents’ love and pride.

A stringent operational rule in the US Navy is “No Jewelry Worn during Operations” to avoid getting appendages damaged or lost in a jewelry related mishap. One day, Steve went flying and left his new #2 ring in his equipment locker at the San Diego squadron.  Returning to the locker, the Second ring was gone. Inquiries and searches availed nothing, and Steve realized he’d lost yet another token of his family’s pride and affection. He reluctantly informed his parents and was given the grace of their forgiveness.   However, he realized the next ring was truly and rightfully “on him”. Somehow though in the course of the ensuing years, he never quite got around to buying himself another ring.  He knew it wouldn’t be the same. . . . 

One summer, 33 years after the loss of his second ring, he came across the Christmas note from his long deceased mother.  A strong pang of loss for loved ones and guilt for an “unfortunate turn of affairs” washed over him.  At least he had the note; so he found a safe place for it, keeping even this small remembrance of parental love. 

Three days later, he received a phone call from an  Academy classmate, the Class President no less. Steve M was informed that there was someone looking for him and that Steve M should contact that person on an urgent matter. Intrigued, Steve M took down the contact information and got another Steve (Steve W) on the phone. His class ring #2 was in Hand, found by someone he’d never met. . . . Strong emotions on both side of the phone line underpinned a conversation of introduction, logistics and Gratitude leading to the return of Steve M’s Class ring to him by his new friend, over 1000 miles and a lifetime away.

The other Steve W was a former US Marine, who had served on the East Coast, in the Atlantic and the Mediterranean in the 70’s. Returning from a “Float” (“Cruise” in Navy lingo) in 1975, he crossed paths with a “sub-standard” Marine as they made the journey to CONUS.  The other Marine was being sent back for a court martial and had no money.  Marine Steve W took pity and loaned him $20, to be repaid at the end of the voyage home.  The other Marine tried to duck his obligation, but wound up in the grasp of Steve W, who demanded repayment, with Emphasis.  The other Marine begged off fervently, saying he had no money, but he had a ring; would Steve W take that instead?  Close examination of “the ring” revealed a gold US Naval Academy ring that had an inscription, “Stephen <full name>, United States Navy, Aviation”. Steve W took the ring as payment in full for the $20 loan, intending to see about it’s return to it’s rightful owner.

Upon return of Steve W to routine CONUS USMC operations, he asked his boss what to do with the ring.  Gunny told him to “just give it to me and I’ll handle it.” Something told Steve W to take a more involved approach, so he tried contacting the US Naval Academy to track the rightful owner, to no avail. Navy Steve M was not at Annapolis and finding him in The Fleet was not going to be a straight forward task for a young, active duty Marine. Steve W then asked his older sister, who was in a more seemingly stable living/working situation than a combat marine, to see if  she could work the repatriation of property to an elusive US Naval Officer on active duty.  She agreed and continued to make inquires for some time without success. Then she and her husband were posted in Europe for decades, the wayward Academy ring safely put away in her accompanying jewelry box. The quest went cold, as international travel and affairs took away her attentions.

Thirty three years after Steve M lost his second ring, former Marine Steve W was well placed in the commercial world, with a wife and three sons. His oldest son started his first year at the United States Naval Academy in 2008, and Steve W came to realize the import of an Academy Ring. He thought of the day his own son would wear one. Then another thought came, “Where is that ring I ‘found’??” A phone call to his sister revealed that she was back from Europe and that she thought she could find it with some looking.  Sure enough, it turned up straight away, and she sent it back to Steve W for another try at its repatriation.

Steve W once again called the US Naval Academy, but now with the benefit of his own experience and an improved USNA alumni organization for handling such matters. Within two days, Steve W was talking to Steve M, now retired and working as a DoD contractor.  Within a week, the ring was repatriated to Steve M’s finger and a new friendship was formed. The details of how ring #2 got from San Diego, California, across the world to a US Navy ship returning from the Mediterranean Sea in the course of several months can only be the subject of the most tenuous conjecture.  The important part of this story is the ring’s ultimate return to its place at “home” after 33 years of world travel, sometimes in unfriendly hands; that and a parents’ act of love and pride was and is reinstated.
 

Liberty Ports

by Captain M. W. Newman '71, USN (Ret.)

In the summer of 1989, I was the dashing Commanding Officer of the guided missile frigate, USS BOONE (FFG 28).  We had orders to deploy to the Persian Gulf to escort re-flagged Kuwaiti oil tankers and any U.S. merchantmen wanting our services.  Knowing full well that liberty in that part of the world is grim to say the least, Commander, Sixth Fleet sent us and the two other ships traveling with us a message requesting our choices for a single port call in the Mediterranean on our way to the Suez Canal.  I now had a chance to exercise my command prerogative.

The destroyer NICHOLSON was carrying a destroyer squadron staff, which provided our adult supervision crossing the Atlantic, so the Commodore picked the port for NICHOLSON.  The frigate JACK WILLIAMS was the senior ship so they picked next.  NICHOLSON (the DESRON CDR) asked to go to the Spanish port, Palma de Mallorca, in the Balearic Islands.  JACK WILLIAMS, for no apparent reason, also asked to go to Palma.

I called the Wardroom together to go over with my officers our options.  I started the meeting by telling them where the other two ships were heading, then I asked for their inputs (not that I really cared).  Almost in unison, they shouted, “Ooh, ooh, we want to go to Palma!”  I patiently explained that Palma was very expensive.  Not only would the other two ships’ crews be there filling up the bars and restaurants, but there may also be a 6th Fleet carrier or a cruiser in port.  They thought about this for a moment then someone recommended that we go to the south of France, and they all shouted, “Ooh, ooh, we want to go to France!”  I again patiently pointed out that the closest French port was almost 300 miles beyond Palma.  We’d loose half our time just steaming up there and back.  Finally, in utter frustration, they asked, “Where do you want to go, Captain?”  I told them that we needed to go to the island of Ibiza.  They all cried, “We’ve never heard of Ibiza!”  I said, “That’s exactly why we should go there.  Neither has anyone else in the Sixth Fleet.  We’ll be the only warship in port.  It’s cheaper and about 100 miles closer than Palma.  We’ll be on the beach before the other ships even get into port.  Trust me on this.”  They grudgingly agreed.

Although I had never been to Ibiza, I knew from my two-year tour in Naples, Italy that Ibiza was a very special place.  It was much smaller that Palma, but it was also the favorite destination of young lovelies from all over northern Europe.  We arrived on a beautiful summer morning and picked up the Spanish harbor pilot about a mile off the entrance to the port.  The “harbor” was really a yacht basin.  We could never fit inside the breakwater, and the navigator and I had planned to anchor about half a mile outside.  The pilot dismissed all that and took us right up to the entrance, where we dropped the hook.  This location greatly reduced boating time for the liberty party.  It also gave us an unrestricted view of the yacht parade twice daily.
 
Every morning, a large number of beautiful sailboats would file out of Ibiza for a small, uninhabited (and apparently also uninhibited) island just to the south which was a Spanish National Forrest.  Each boat would have several scantily clad young women gracing the main deck.  In the evening, the parade would reverse itself with all the young lovelies, freshly tanned, topside and topless if not completely naked.  Needless to say, Command Duty Officers had no trouble getting their duty sections (and then some) on deck for morning and evening colors.

A very good time was had by all in Ibiza, and everyone continued to talk about the island and all its diversions well into the six-month cruise.  It helped take our minds off the bleak conditions of the extremely inhospitable Persian Gulf area. 

Finally, it was December and time to start heading back to the real world.  Sixth Fleet sent out another message asking for our port choices in the Med over the Christmas holiday.  NICHOLSON had to go to Naples for repairs so they were out of the mix.  The CO of JACK WILLIAMS wanted desperately to spend Christmas in the Holy Land.  He asked Sixth Fleet for a port call in Haifa, Israel.  Sixth Fleet said, “no.’’  JACK WILLIAMS asked a second time.  I was watching the message traffic and knew exactly where this was heading.  Sixth Fleet came back and told him “no” again and explained that a Navy ship could not go from an Arab port to Israel, or vice versa, directly.  You had to go to a neutral port in between.  JACK WILLIAMS asked a third time, saying he “really, really” wanted to go to Haifa.  Sixth Fleet finally came back and slapped him like a red-headed stepchild telling JACK WILLIAMS to pick a non-Israeli port or spend Christmas in Naples with NICHOLSON.

While I was waiting for the smoke to clear on the Sixth Fleet flagship, I called my officers together to discuss our holiday plans.  Immediately, there was an outcry for Ibiza, especially among the aviators.  “Ooh, ooh, we want to go to Ibiza!”  I told them that all the brown eyes had left the beaches several months earlier when it got cold.  Then someone said let’s go to the south of France!  “Ooh, ooh, we want to go to France!”  I reminded them that France was a long, long way from the north end of the Suez Canal.  I also told them that we would have to anchor out and that the weather would not cooperate with running liberty boats.  Finally, they grumbled, “OK, Captain.  Where do you want to go?”  I told them we needed to go to Gibraltar.  “Gibraltar!?!  We’ve never heard of Gibraltar!”  So I laid it all out for them.  First of all, Gibraltar has a large port so we can go pier side.  Secondly, they speak English in Gibraltar.  And finally, the British do Christmas in a big way.  “Trust me on this,” I said; and they again grudgingly agreed.
 
We arrived in Gibraltar rather beaten up by the transit across the Med in some pretty bad weather.  Fortunately, the weather was perfect on the Rock for our entire visit.  After mooring starboard side to the pier, I went down to the Quarterdeck to meet our welcoming party.  It was a Royal Navy Captain in full dress with sword!  He kissed me on both cheeks and said, “Hail the conquering hero!  Come with me to the bar.”  On the way over to the O-Club, the Brit explained that he had just received word of the United States’ successful invasion of Panama.  For the Crown Colony of Gibraltar, any assault on Spanish-speaking peoples was cause for celebration.  I learned later that JACK WILLIAMS had received a much different reception.  They had finally picked the Spanish port of Almeria on the Costa de la Luz.  When they arrived, there were angry demonstrators on the pier with protest signs and tomatoes that they threw at the ship.  Operation “Just Because” didn’t make the crew of JACK WILLIAMS too popular ashore in Almeria.

For BOONE, it was just the opposite.  We were the only warship in port, and the local merchants were most grateful to have us instead of one of Her Majesty’s ships.  The British sailors had a reputation for being mean drunks and tight spenders.  Our sailors were welcomed with open arms every where.  Several times a day, some local would drive up to our Quarterdeck, come aboard and leave a bottle of Scotch whiskey with the Officer of the Deck.  Every time I came across the Quarterdeck, the watch would hand me an arm full of bottles that I would add to my stash in the closet of my cabin. 

The very best part of our visit came on Christmas Day thanks to my wife, Nancy, and the USN liaison officer to the British Commander of Gibraltar.  Nancy and some of the wives, in cahoots with our Postal Clerk, had been sending us Christmas presents since shortly after we left Mayport, Florida.  All the packages were addressed to the Commanding Officer and the PC3 kept them in his storeroom until it was full, then we took over a Supply Department storeroom.  Nancy had even contacted the families of crew members not in the Mayport area and asked them to send their presents to the CO.  On Christmas morning, we had a party on the mess decks for all hands.  I was Captain Santa, and we passed out presents to every single member of the crew.  They were all taken totally by surprise and were all thrilled.  For some reason, the PC3 got more presents than anyone.

The second part of our Christmas cheer had been organized by a young U.S. Navy Commander before our arrival.  He and his wife, as soon as they learned we were coming for the holiday, went on the local radio and TV stations and started an “adopt a sailor” campaign.  It was so successful that on Christmas Day every crew member, not in the duty section, had some place to go for Christmas dinner.  Those who didn’t end up in a private home were taken to a popular Italian restaurant for a feast.  The XO and I went to the Royal Governor’s for dinner with Vice Admiral Sir Something and Lady Somebody.  It was truly grand, and a good time was had by all.
We left Gibraltar a few days after Christmas in terrible weather, passed through the Straits and into the Atlantic.  We were a happy ship.  We had had a wonderful Christmas Holiday and now were headed home after a successful six-month deployment.  One of our Warrant Officers approached me on the bridge shortly after we got under way.  “Captain,” he said, “I don’t know if this crew would follow you into Hell and back; but I do know they’ll always follow you into a liberty port.”

Praise indeed. 

 

 

 

The Three Drink Rule

by Captain M.W. Newman '71, USN (Ret.)

In 1985, I was the dashing Executive Officer of the guided missile destroyer, USS DEWEY (DDG 45).  We had been scheduled for a UNITAS cruise around South America.  Everyone onboard looked forward to this cruise as one of the last, true “Navy Good Deals.”  Then, as it always does, things changed.  We were re-assigned to the FORRESTAL Battle Group going to the Mediterranean.  The Med had plenty of good liberty, but no one considered a Med cruise a good deal compared to a UNITAS.  So morale was sagging.

Fortunately, we had a brand new Commanding Officer, Cdr. Joel B. Heaton, USN, and a dynamic Command Master Chief, Master Chief Brookins.  The two of them went to work on the crew and the wardroom; and before too long, everyone was starting to think positively about going to the Med.  First we had to go to the Caribbean because the carrier had not yet completed all her pre-deployment workups.  That meant our standard six-month cruise would be a seven-month adventure, but we were promised one or more liberty ports in the islands before heading across the Atlantic. 

As has always been the custom in the U.S. Navy, the Captain shall address ship’s company prior to departure on an extended deployment, especially one involving port calls in foreign lands.  Topics of conversation are usually related to being good will ambassadors for the United States of America, representing the Navy, the Nation and one’s ship in the finest tradition of the naval service, etc., etc., etc.  When our Captain addressed the crew, he touched on all of these and then some, most eloquently.  I was thoroughly enjoying his speech when suddenly; he seemed to go off script for a moment.  He made the statement that he enjoyed a good drink ashore as much as any one.  However, he went on to say that it had been his experience that on those rare occasions when he had more than three drinks, he usually ended up regretting it.  “Therefore,” he said, “if any man goes over on liberty and has trouble ashore and ends up before me at mast; and I find out that he had more than three drinks, I will have no sympathy for him whatsoever.”  It was several weeks later that our Captain found out just how well his crew was listening to him that last afternoon in homeport.

We left our loved ones in Charleston, South Carolina and headed for the Caribbean, full of anticipation for high adventure.  After rendezvous with USS FORRESTAL, we conducted several weeks of exercises designed to make the battle group a cohesive force.  Everything went very well, and we were finally detached to make a port call on the Island of St. Lucia for liberty.
 
The ship arrived at the island paradise on a beautiful spring morning.  After safely mooring the ship in the tiny harbor, the Captain went off for his round of official calls on the local dignitaries with an assigned St. Lucian police officer driver and car.  As soon as they cleared the pier and I assured myself that the ship was clean, we passed liberty call.  I then retired to my stateroom to catch up on the never-ending paperwork.

When the Captain returned, he and I made plans for dinner on the beach.  His driver had given him a short tour of the area including the best restaurants and night spots.  One of the restaurants was rated five stars, one of only two in all the Caribbean.  That’s where we decided to go.  We gathered up some of the department heads, dismissed the police driver and took off in the CO’s car.

The Captain found the restaurant with very little trouble.  Fortunately, it was still light out while we were searching.  It was truly a beautiful place, on top of a ridge overlooking the harbor.  We started in the bar while they set up a table for the six of us.  After two rounds, we moved to our table in a most jovial mood.  When everyone had ordered, the waiter asked the Captain if we wanted wine with the meal.  He said “Sure” and handed me the wine list to make our selection.  Before I even looked at the menu, I made the comment to the Captain that “wine doesn’t count.”  He asked, “What are you talking about?”; and I explained to him that since wine was part of the meal, it wouldn’t count as one of our three drinks.  All the department heads enthusiastically nodded agreement.

The Captain was shocked that we had really taken him seriously when he addressed ship’s company before the deployment.  He was sure that the crew had not.  The rest of us were not so sure, and I personally hoped that they had.  We all had a great laugh, finished our meal and adjourned back to the bar.  We had one more round (for a total of three drinks apiece-not counting wine) and went back to the ship.

At breakfast in the wardroom, all the junior officers were buzzing with the exceptions and corollaries they had come up with to Heaton’s Law, “The Three Drink Rule.”  The First Lieutenant put forth that if someone else bought you a drink, it didn’t count toward your personal three.  The CIC Officer added that if you spilled one of your three drinks, regardless of how close to empty it might have been, you get to replace it with a full drink without penalty. The Missile Officer offered that if you go over on the beach and have three drinks then come back and touch the ship; you have zeroed you counter and can go back out for three more.  One of the Warrant Officers allowed as how that would work all night as long as one could make it up and down the brow under one’s own power.  I was writing these down as fast as I could to give the Captain a thorough briefing.
 
Meeting with the Captain after Quarters, we were joined by the Command Master Chief.  I gave my brief on the variants to the Three Drink Rule much to the amazement of the CO.  Then the Master Chief chimed in with the corollaries offered by the Chiefs’ Mess and the mess deck.  They were all pretty much variations of what the JO’s had presented at breakfast, and the three of us were laughing our heads off.  Then the Master Chief provided the ultimate axiom to parallel Heaton’s Law.  Senior Chief Boilerman Mudge had formulated the “Mudge Constant,” which states:  If any body asks, this is my SECOND drink!

No one knows how many actually limited themselves to only three drinks ashore (I seldom did), but the entire ship continued to talk and joke about “The Three Drink Rule” for the rest of the cruise.  I believe it was a positive influence on all of us.  Because we were talking about it, drinking and conduct ashore were always in the back of everyone’s mind. We did have a near miss one night in Haifa, Israel.  Senior Chief Mudge ran afoul of the FORRESTAL’s Beach Guard Officer.  The Senior Chief applied the “Mudge Constant,” but the Lieutenant wasn’t buying it.  Just in the nick of time, the Master Chief and several other members of the Chiefs’ Mess showed up and persuaded the Officer to release the Senior Chief into their responsible and mostly-sober custody.

On a seven-month cruise with numerous port calls in six different countries, we suffered not one single liberty incident reportable up the chain of command.  Most of the credit for that amazing record goes to the leadership of our Captain and our Command Master Chief; but I will always believe some of it has to go to “The Three Drink Rule.” 

 

 

 

Rules of the Nautical Road

by Captain M. W. Newman '71, USN (Ret.)

In 1978, I was a dashing young lieutenant serving in USS DUBUQUE (LPD 8).  I was First Lieutenant in charge of the Deck Department.  My good friend and partner in crime was the Air Boss, Lt. Lynd Fitzgerald.  Fitz was responsible for the ship’s flight deck and all the equipment associated with operating helicopters including fuel for the aircraft.  As a landing platform, dock (LPD), DUBUQUE carried Marines and all their assorted equipment and landing craft to move them from the ship to the shore in an amphibious assault.  It was a large ship-much larger than the destroyers I had been accustomed to sailing around in for the past seven years.  But when the Marines embarked, the place got crowded fast. 

The other department heads, Engineering, Supply, Ops, Medical and Dental, all complained about the Marines being on board.  Fitz and I never did.  We saw them as our reasons for being.  We also interfaced with them directly whereas the others not as much.  Besides, they were so much fun to watch.  At reveille, they turned out to P.T., all 800+ of them up on the flight deck, in between the helos.  After P.T., they got in line for breakfast (after ship’s company had been fed).  After breakfast, they got in line for the ship’s store to buy “gedunk” (candy) or “pogiebait”, as they called it.  After ship’s company had noon meal, the Marines lined up for their chow.  After lunch, they did more P.T.  Then mid-afternoon, they lined up at the ship’s soda fountain for more “gedunk.”  Following the crew’s evening meal, the Marines were back in line for their turn.  The only line they did not form was for the nightly movie.  They seemed to enjoy themselves immensely onboard which meant it was much more difficult to get them off the ship when the time came.  The Gunnery Sergeants had to beat them into the boats or up to the flight deck for the waiting helos. 

To this point in my career, I had been primarily in engineering with little exposure to practical seamanship.  Fortunately, I had a terrific staff of boatswain’s mates.  I also had a young Marine First Lieutenant, assigned as Combat Cargo Officer, who spoke fluent Grunt.  Most importantly, I had a Master Chief Boatswain’s Mate who spoke to God, and God answered!

In his real life, Fitz was a Naval Aviator, a helo pilot or “rotorhead.”  Aviators had to do a ship’s company tour at some point in their careers, but they rushed back to flying as soon as they could.  While assigned to DUBUQUE, however, Fitz had to act like a real Naval Officer including standing watch on the bridge underway.  Fitz was an outstanding officer and an excellent watch stander and ship handler.  His sense of relative motion was probably far better than any of the rest of us, but he had a little trouble with standard commands.  Instead of ordering the helmsman to change course with, “Right Standard Rudder, Steady on course zero niner zero.”  Fitz would tell him to “come over to the right a little.”  Rather than ordering the lee helmsman to increase speed with, “All engines ahead standard.  Indicate turns for eighteen knots;” Fitz would tell him to “Come on, come on!  Kick it in the ass.”  Needless to say, this drove the Captain up a tree whenever Fitz had the conn.  Finally, Fitz learned the lingo, much to the chagrin of the enlisted bridge watch; and he was designated a fully qualified Officer of the Deck, Underway.

One evening as we were transporting a battalion of Marines from the Philippines to Japan, I went to the bridge to relieve Fitz for the 20:00 to 24:00 watch.  We were approaching the entrance to Tokyo Bay where a number of major sea lanes converged.  The traffic was becoming rather heavy, and Fitz was most anxious to be relieved before we had a collision.  We were still well south of the traffic separation scheme which controlled all the shipping in and out of Tokyo Wan so every ship within fifteen miles of us was jockeying for position.  Fitz was convinced they were all out to crush him.  I took the watch, and he left the bridge with great relief.  My Junior Officer of the Deck, an extremely sharp young ensign who reminded me of myself in my younger days, stuck his head in the radar scope and started sorting out the mess.  I just kept the ship moving forward and made sure we didn’t run over any one in front of us.  Fortunately, the Captain was not on the bridge so we had time to figure things out for ourselves before we had to explain the situation to him.

After a couple of hours, things had pretty much sorted themselves out, and everyone was behaving.  The Captain came out onto the bridge after the movie, and the JOOD and I were able to give him a complete and confident picture of the traffic flow.  I told him that the only problem-child we had was a large contact off our port quarter several miles astern but gaining on us.  We were not overly concerned about him because, by the International Rules of the Nautical Road, the overtaking vessel must remain clear of the overtaken vessel.  We just had to watch him and make sure he was complying.  The Captain agreed with our assessment and made himself comfortable in his chair on the darkened bridge.

Suddenly, the large contact off our port quarter started flashing us with its signal-search light, but without the normal red filter.  Our bridge was flooded with bright, white light, temporarily blinding all of us.  I hit the intercom box to the signal bridge to order the signalmen to answer the light hoping it would make them stop illuminating our bridge.  The signalman on watch came back to me saying that the contact was repeating the same message over and over – Victor Hotel Foxtrot.  This made no sense to me whatsoever.  Then I realized that they may be trying to communicate with an international code.  The Ensign and I jumped on the International Code Book and started ripping out pages looking for Victor Hotel Foxtrot.  The Captain watched us for a few seconds; then said in a rather sarcastic tone, “He wants to talk to you on the VHF radio, bridge-to-bridge.”  “Oh,” said I as I picked up the handset.  

I hailed the port quarter contact with the standard phraseology:  “Vessel my port quarter, this is United States Warship, northbound to Tokyo Wan, Over.”  Moments later a most pleasant but heavily accented Oriental voice came back with:  “United States Warship.  This is velly large tanker.  You slow down, I pass ahead of you.”  Outrageous!  Who the hell did he think we were, the chicken of the sea?  I composed myself and answered with:  “Vessel my port quarter, this is United States Warship, northbound Tokyo Wan.  We have been tracking you for some time now and hold you as the overtaking vessel.  We will maintain our course and speed.  Request you stand clear of me, Over.”  After a significant pause, the voice came back, somewhat more strident, with:  “United States Warship.  This is VELLY, VELLY large tanker.  You slow down, I pass ahead of you.”

Now it was the Captain’s turn.  He sprang from his chair, grabbed the r/t handset and in his best Captain’s voice said:  “Tanker my port quarter, this is United States Warship, your starboard bow.  We have been tacking you for some time now and hold you as overtaking us to port.  By the Rules of the Nautical Road, we are the privileged or stand-on vessel.  You are the burdened or give-way vessel.  Therefore, we shall maintain our course and speed, as per the Rules, and ask that you steer clear of us.”  Everyone on the bridge was duly impressed with our Captain.  He had certainly told off that pushy Japanese tanker person and upheld the honor of the United States Navy.  Then, after an even longer pause, the voice came back.  This time it sounded more like the prison camp commandant in Bridge on the River Kwai.  “United States Warship!  This is VELLY, VELLY large tanker.  OK, Mister Rules Road, you so smart!  You maintain course and speed.  I maintain course and speed.  We see who give way vessel!”  I thought the Captain was going to have a stroke.  He slammed the handset down and jumped back up into his chair, folded his arms across and chest and kept muttering, “Sonofabitch.”

No one spoke on the bridge.  The entire enlisted watch stared at me with eyes as big as saucers.  I called a little LST that was following us several hundred yards astern on the secure, encrypted radio circuit to warn him away from Velly Large Tanker.  Then the JOOD and I went to the port bridge wing to see what he was doing.  By this time, the tanker had closed to an uncomfortable distance and was still closing.  He looked as big as a mountain. 

The Ensign and I, as casually as possible, located our life jackets, just in case.  We watched the tanker for what seemed like an eternity, while the Captain continued to mutter from his chair.  FINALLY, the Hugeama Maru began, ever so slowly, to alter her course to starboard to pass astern of us (but in front of the poor LST).  As she turned, we watched her aspect change from starboard bow, to dead-on, then to port bow.  It was a most chilling sight to see her bow pointed directly at us, even only for a few seconds.  She looked wider than we were long.  She was indeed a Velly, Velly Large Tanker, and we were most happy to see her sail off into the night.

 

 

Andy’s Barber Shop: Sailor’s Haven in Ellicott City

by Phil Parker ‘71

Got a big event coming up and you don’t meet Navy standards for grooming?  If you’re in the Baltimore area, you should drive out to Andy’s Barber Shop on Baltimore National Pike in Ellicott City.  Andy and his crew will have you looking sharp and ready for inspection in no time at all.  Andy Vallar started the shop 33 years ago after completing a six year Navy enlistment as a Ships Serviceman, First Class.  He was stationed aboard the USS Ranger (CV-61) sailing out of NAS Alameda.  Here’s a shot Andy keeps behind his chair to remind him of his swash-buckling days aboard the Big R.  

Mothers, lock up your daughters!  One of those unlocked daughters happened to be from Maryland, which is how Andy wound up in Ellicott City.  Note the flight deck shots taken from Vulture’s Row. 

I discovered the shop by accident about five years ago.  It happens to be next door to a branch of my bank and one day I needed cash and a trim, so I hit the ATM and then Andy’s.  It looked like a nice, old fashioned barber shop from the outside and as soon as I walked in, I knew I had found someplace special.  Andy’s shop is a wonderful tribute to the United States Navy and a great place for an old sailor to soak up some memories.  The first thing you’ll probably notice is his hat collection.  Over the years his customers have given him ball caps and other military head gear which are spread around the tops of the walls.  Ball caps from every imaginable type of ship, old and new, are there – Battleships (USS New Jersey BB-62), Aircraft Carriers (USS Dwight D. Eisenhower, CVN-69), Amphibs (USS Dubuque LPD-8) and of course my favorite – submarines.  Many boats are represented - USS Houston SSN-713, that famous first, USS Nautilus SSN-571, old timers like USS Bowfin SS-287, and my favorite – USS Helena SSN-725. The state of Maryland is honored by USS Maryland (BB-46 and SSBN-738) and USS Baltimore SSN-709.  Here’s a small portion of the collection:

The collection is mostly Navy hats, but all services are represented.  The Coast Guard posts hats from the Coast Guard Academy and the training bark Eagle.  There’s a camouflaged utility cover that once belonged to a First Lieutenant of Marines and a Drill Instructor’s Smoky the Bear hat.  There are senior officers’ dress covers from the Army and Air Force and a black ball cap proudly displaying the insignia of the 82nd Airborne Division.

The Air Force and Naval Aviation are splendidly honored by fabulous collection of model aircraft hanging from the ceiling – Mustangs, Thunderbolts, Spitfires, Corsairs, Sabers, Tomcats, Starfighters, B-17’s, 25’s, 29’s, a menacing MiG-15 and much more.  Andy is as skilled at model making as he is at hair styling.  The details and the markings are perfect.  “I built them between haircuts,” he says modestly.  Here’s a small part of Andy’s Air Force:

Pictures of ships, distinguished people, and sailor’s knot boards cover the walls.  This happens to be my favorite, the official ship’s portrait for the USS Laboon, DDG-58. 

John Laboon ’43, won a Silver Star as a young submarine officer on the USS Peto, SS-267 in World War II.  He swam through a minefield to rescue a downed aviator and brought him back to the boat.  After the war he became a Jesuit priest and then a Navy Chaplain.  He was the senior Catholic Chaplain at the Naval Academy when I was there and the only chaplain I ever met that wore Gold Dolphins.  The Protestants kept up, however.  Chaplain Greenwood, the senior Protestant Chaplain, wore Gold Wings.  Protestant, Catholic, or none-of-the-above, you could tell Father Jake was somebody special.  His nephew, Tom Laboon, is a member of our class. 

This Saturday, Andy is busy, as usual. 

You shouldn’t be discouraged, however, if you come in and there’s a crowd.  You’ll get a good haircut from any of the barbers in the shop, but a lot of the regulars don’t mind waiting until Andy can serve them personally.  The wait is longer for him.  While you wait, there’s plenty to read – coffee table histories of the Navy and Marine Corps, Janes Fighting Ships, Sea Power magazine, as well as the local papers and periodicals of more general interest. The television in the corner is usually silent unless there are youngsters in the shop who need to be amused with their Saturday morning shows. 

Today, Andy is being assisted by Frank Ingrassia, in the back room, and Phyllis Shipley.  Frank has worked with Andy for a little over two years.  You can trade sea stories with him, too.  He started cutting hair as a Ships Serviceman on the USS Intrepid (CVA-11) on Yankee Station, serving a hitch of four years.  Phyllis is new to the shop, having started only about six months ago.

Andy’s customers represent all ages, from little boys to senior citizens like me and beyond.  The typical customer is a middle aged male – 40 – 60, who wants a haircut that will pass watch squad inspection.  Andy can give you anything you want in a haircut, however, and to prove it, here’s a shot of him working on a young man whose tastes are distinctly more modern than mine. “As long as he’s happy with it, I’m happy with it,” says his mother. 

Note the banner from the 108th Army-Navy football game, played in Baltimore in 2007.

Here’s Phyllis working on another customer.  He wanted a haircut like the young man’s, but not even Phyllis can work that miracle.  She gave me a great haircut.

Earlier in the morning she had finished a page-boy style cut on a boy of about twelve.  “Is that long enough?,” she asked.  “It’s not short enough!,” shouted the boy’s father, who was sporting the “high and tight” of a Marine infantryman.   The kid won. 

So ends our morning at Andy’s Barber s Shop.  A special thanks to Andy Vallar, Phyllis Shipley, Frank Ingrassias, and Andy’s customers for allowing me to be part of their day. 

 

R-Division - The Measure of a Man

By Captain M. W. Newman '71, USN (Ret.)

A tragedy struck USS GOLDSBOROUGH several months before I reported and was the reason for my change of orders. Steaming in port Pearl Harbor, along side the pier, one of the 1200 psi boilers had exploded, killing several Boilermen. The Engineer, the Main Propulsion Assistant and the Damage Control Assistant were all relieved. The Captain would have been relieved as well, but he was allowed to retire instead. The first DCA ordered in as a replacement lasted only a few weeks before checking himself into the hospital. A second was ordered in and made it for a few more weeks before reporting that he used drugs. By the time I got there in August of 1971, all I had to do was show up in a clean uniform; and they thought I was golden.

As DCA, I was the Repair Division Officer, responsible for approximately fifteen men. R-Division consisted of welders, shipfitters and pipefitters. We also had Enginemen who took care of the ship’s boats (2) and the diesel engines for the emergency generators forward and aft. There were auxiliary Machinist Mates who worked on the air conditioning and refrigeration system and anything else mechanical not related to main propulsion, and we had one Machinery Repairman who was a wizard on the lathe. Since there was no Electrical Officer, I also had E-Division (another 6-8 sailors) made up of Electrician’s Mates and Interior Communications-men or IC-men (truly strange people). The IC-men took care of all the internal communications systems including telephones and alarm systems. Then there were the Hull Technicians (HT), formerly Damage Controlmen, who maintained all the fire fighting and emergency repair equipment throughout the ship. They also functioned as leaders in the repair lockers at General Quarters. All of these guys were amazing young men. They bitched constantly, but never let their bitching slow down their working, and they worked All THE TIME, both in port and at sea. I came to love them all.

I started losing my hair when I was in the ninth grade. This gave me a certain advantage growing up in Texas. I could go into any liquor store in the Great State and buy anything I wanted. However, it wasn’t much of a help when my buddies and I would go out to “run women.” Nevertheless, reporting to my first ship, I did look older than the average Ensign, especially with my post-graduation mustache. When I met R-Division the first time, some one started the rumor that I was a “Mustang”, meaning that I had former enlisted service and would, therefore, be much more strict. The immediate result of all this was that I was given significant deference by the sailors of my division. Every morning at quarters, they were all present and standing tall with relatively clean uniforms. They all responded quickly and respectfully to my orders. I soon began to believe that I was a natural at this Division Officer stuff. This misconception wouldn’t last long.
 
A few weeks into our cruise and my tour as DCA, I was back in the R-Division shop with two of my leading petty officers going over work orders from the other departments requesting repair assistance from my guys. My Naval Academy classmate, A.J. Whittle, the ship’s gunnery officer, came in to submit a work order. As he and I were discussing his needs, he called me “classmate” and I called him same. My petty officers took note; and when A.J. left the space, they asked me if Mr. Whittle and I were the same type officers. I told them we were both Naval Academy graduates of the same class year. They gave each other knowing looks; then Petty Officer Sundby, our leading HT, (see COMMAND DUTY OFFICER and NON SIBI) said, “So you aren’t really a mustang, right, Sir?” Laughing, I said, “Of course not.” Next morning at quarters, no one showed up but the Chief and the two First Class POs. All the rest of the little rascals decided to sleep in. Why turn out for just another Ensign even if he does look older than baseball?

We made it through that first cruise without too many problems. I did have to rescue Petty Officer Sundby and Petty Officer Solazzo, the leading shipfitter (welder), when they were caught stealing welding gas from the shipyard in Subic (aahh Subic). Because we were firing the guns so much sitting off the DMZ in Vietnam, lots of things were breaking around the ship from the shock of the recoil; and we were always running short of gas to weld every thing back together. Sundby and Solazzo saw their chance to replenish the repair shop at no expense to the Engineering Department budget which was pretty much gone too. Unfortunately, shipyard security stumbled across them as they were loading the ship’s truck to make their getaway. I was called to the quarterdeck shortly before sunrise where I had to sign my life away to take custody of the two desperados. If we had not been getting underway later that morning, the Provost Marshal might not have been so obliging. The shipyard was happy to get their gas back and all was forgiven. What I didn’t learn until we were well out to sea was that the S&S-gang had been caught on their FOURTH trip to the well that night. We had plenty of welding gas in the shop when we got back to the gunline.

Returning to Pearl Harbor in the spring of 1972, we became pretty much the “duty destroyer”. Because we were the only ship not in overhaul or upkeep, we were on a busy schedule as “services provider.” We would tow targets for others to shoot at or we would be a target for the submarine prospective COs to sneak up on or we would go to the gunnery range to train army spotters. We were underway early every Monday and returned to port late on Friday afternoon. It was during this time that the local media was awash with news of Japanese interests buying up large chunks of Honolulu, shopping centers and hotel complexes. I remember one blaring headline stating something to the effect that “What the Japs couldn’t do in 1941, they are trying to get done in 1972 with bushels of money.” There was considerable “public outrage” that we easily ignored.
 
Then one week we got to return to port before noon on Friday. Everyone was anticipating some early liberty until the XO closed the brow shortly after securing from sea detail. The ship had been chosen to host a group of Japanese industrialists on a Department of Defense tour of the U.S., returning home via Hawaii. They had asked to see a submarine, a surface ship AND the Arizona Memorial! What this meant to us was that the XO wanted all hands turned to cleaning the ship. I was no happier than my sailors, but I had my orders. I assembled the lads in the Repair Shop and told them we had to get all our spaces clean before there would be any liberty call. While they were “calmly” digesting this news, I went on to explain that there was going to be a group of Japanese industrialist onboard Saturday morning and that they were specifically looking for a ship to purchase for the Japanese Maritime Defense Force. If they liked what they saw, they might buy GOLDSBOROUGH, and we could all go home. This prompted several incredulous cries of “No shit, Mr. Newman!” When I assured them I had the inside scoop, they went to work on their spaces with a vengeance. Understanding that these guys rarely cleaned themselves, much less their work spaces; the results were nothing short of miraculous. Even the XO was impressed, and R-Division was among the first groups authorized to leave the ship that Friday afternoon.

Monday morning at quarters, everyone wanted to know what the Japs had said about the ship. I told them that, as I understood it, the Japs were VERY impressed, and they would most likely be making us an offer after they got back to Japan. My guys were all excited about the prospects of selling the ship and going home, and they asked me for updates almost daily. After several weeks, however, I finally had to confess that the Japs had changed their minds and decided to buy another hotel instead. The subject continued to come up for months. Even after Fast Ed Snyder relieved me as DCA and I became the ship’s navigator, I would run into one of the R-Division guys around the ship who would ask: “How much is the ol’ man asking for this bucket? Maybe we should offer the Japs a cash discount?” It was a great inside joke we shared right up to the day I detached.

Not long after the Japanese left town, we received a new Ensign onboard. He was Naval Academy and out for his blue-water cruise prior to reporting to flight school to become a helo pilot (rotorhead). He let us all know right away that he was just passing through on his way to much bigger and better things. In spite of this, he was a very likeable guy and seemed not to mind being called a rotorhead. The remarkable thing about this fellow was that he was vertically challenged. He must have just made the minimum height to be commissioned in the U.S. Navy. Underway, he could barely see over the bridge wings or out the pilothouse windows. He was a classic “sandblower.” None of us could image how he was going to be able to fly a helo without strapping blocks to his shoes to reach the pedals.
 
About the same time, we received a shipment of porcelain urinals. No one would confess to having ordered them, but the chief directed that they be installed in all the officer heads, starting with the Captain’s. Fireman Schriner was tasked with this significant assignment. Schriner was an excellent welder and pipefitter. When he finished the installation in the After Officers’ Head, I happened to be the first one to test the new urinal. It worked fine, and Schriner had disposed of the old metal one and had even cleaned up the area before he left! I was most pleased.

I did notice that the urinal was just a tad bit high, even for me at 6 feet 1 inch tall; but I didn’t worry about it until about ten minutes later. That’s when Rotorhead came busting in to my stateroom all red in the face and seriously up set. He was ranting and raving about being insulted and how he wasn’t going to take it. When he finally ran out of breath, I got him to tell me what the matter was. He demanded that I follow him down to the head. When we got there, I immediately understood the problem and bit my tongue trying not to laugh out loud. The new urinal hit Rotorhead about chest high. FN Schriner stood well over six-four, and he had measured the installation on himself which, unfortunately, left Rotorhead out of business, so to speak. Still biting my tongue, I assured Rotorhead that no one was trying to personally affront him; and that I would have the installation corrected as soon as possible.

Calling the Chief, I tried not to bring Rotorhead into the issue; but everyone in the R-Division Shop knew exactly what had happened. Choking back tears of laughter, the Chief promised he would get Schriner back up to After Officers first thing next morning. True to the Chief’s word, Schriner was hard at work, cutting and welding shortly after quarters.  He worked all morning long and into the afternoon. Just after liberty call, I was in my stateroom doing paperwork when Rotorhead burst in all fired up once again.

I followed him back to the head as he ranted and raved all the way down the passageway. Schriner had done another beautiful job, even cleaning up the area. The urinal still hit Rotorhead about chest high, but NOW there was a set of metal steps that would fall down in front of the urinal when you depressed a foot pedal. When you were finished, you just lifted the steps up with your foot, and they locked in place neatly out of the way beneath the urinal. It was truly a masterful job.

Rotorhead’s next stop was at the XO’s stateroom to demand a change of berthing to Forward Officers’ Country!

 

 

King Rat

By Captain M. W. Newman '71, USN (Ret.)

Early in 1973, I was a dashing young Lieutenant (junior grade) serving in U.S.S. Goldsborough, a guided-missile destroyer deployed to the Western Pacific. We were ordered by Seventh Fleet from our gun-line station off Vietnam into Manila, The Philippines for liberty and to execute a change of command.

I had duty the last night in port and was standing watch on the quarterdeck as Officer-of-the-Deck from midnight to four in the morning. My watch team consisted of a third class gunner’s mate as Petty Officer of the Watch and a seaman as Messenger of the Watch. We were moored starboard side to pier number one in downtown Manila, just behind the Manila Hotel. All was quiet onboard. The old captain had departed and the new captain was safely in his cabin. The bulk of the liberty party was back on the ship, and those who were not would be dealt with by the next watch.

All was not quiet out on the pier, however. Pier One was a large wharf with a row of warehouses extending down its full length. We were the only ship on our side of the wharf, and a small coastal freighter was tied up across the foot of the pier. The freighter was dumping loose rice onto the pier where workmen were shoveling it into a line of trucks cycling up and down the wharf on the opposite side of the warehouses. On our side of the warehouses was an equally active cycle of rats moving up and down the pier with their own supply of rice.

When we assumed the watch, the tide was just starting to go out; and the ship was riding well above the pier. Over the next several hours, we found ourselves slipping lower and lower until we were actually standing below the level of the pier and the brow was at a steep up-angle.

From the beginning of the rice unloading operation, we had taken note of one larger-than-most rat that seemed to be very much in charge, King Rat. He never carried any rice, but would move up and down the line urging on the lesser rats. He took no notice of the three of us whatsoever, until the tide went out. Suddenly, King Rat walked over and looked DOWN at us! From where we stood, he looked as big as a large dog. He fixed us with his beady eyes, and we backed up against the steel bulkhead of the deckhouse only a few feet from the near end of the brow. Slowly, King Rat hoisted himself onto the far end of the brow and carefully began to move down toward us.

I was standing between the gunner’s mate and the seaman with my ceremonial long glass clutched like a baseball bat. King Rat made two more cautious steps in our direction when the night was shattered by the deafening report of a Navy-issue .45 caliber pistol fired right next to my left ear. King Rat was gone. His workforce was gone. All the Pilipino stevedores were gone. My head was spinning.  The Petty Office of the Watch had drawn his sidearm, loaded it and dispatched the intruder before I could organize an effective defense of our position.

Within seconds, a wild-eyed Command Duty Office appeared on the quarterdeck wearing only his khaki trousers. I couldn’t hear a word he was saying, but it was obvious he was highly agitated. I tried my best to explain what had just happened and give credit to the gunner’s mate for saving the ship; but the CDO did not seem to buy it. He left in a huff. Just before we were relieved, enough of my hearing had return to allow the Petty Officer of the Watch to tell me that the CDO promised to see us both at Captain’s Mast later in the day.

After a power-nap between 04:00 and 06:00, I went to the Wardroom for breakfast. There I found my boss, the Chief Engineer, and the Weapons Office, who happened to be the CDO’s boss, in deep conversation. Finally, after many whispers and giggles from the senior end of the table, they showed me a message they had just drafted to Commander, Seventh Fleet. It was the standard ammunition expenditure report with the notation: “One round, .45 cal ball ammunition, expended in COMBAT.”

The young gunner’s mate and I never received the recognition we felt our heroism that night so richly deserved, but neither did we go to mast.

 

 

Non Sibi

By Captain M. W. Newman '71, USN (Ret.)

The old salts say that the two best ships in the Navy are your last ship and your next ship, but you never forget your first ship. My first ship was USS GOLDSBOROUGH (DDG 20), out of Pearl Harbor, Hawaii. She had something less than a stellar reputation within the Pineapple Fleet, and her sailors liked it that way. They spoke with pride of the day, in-port Pearl, when a torpedo was fired into the Navy Exchange Mobile Canteen. On liberty, GOLDSBOROUGH sailors had an attitude. They could bitch about the ship all day long; but let some sailor off another ship say one disparaging word, and all hell broke loose. GOLDSBOROUGH was, in many ways, a junkyard dog; and all who sailed in her loved her for it.

We often referred to our ship as DDG 20.5 because for several years, GOLDSBOROUGH was on a deployment rotation with USS COCHRANE (DDG 21). When one would come home from Vietnam, she would crossdeck all of her gun ammunition and spare parts, half her Gunner’s Mates and half her Boilermen to the other who then would leave for WestPac. GOLDSBOROUGH made seven cruises to Vietnam in the eight and one half years between November 1964 and May 1973. On her third cruise she fired over 10,000 rounds of Naval Gunfire Support (NGFS) while avoiding over 800 rounds of hostile fire. I don’t know who was counting the incoming. The ship and its crew were awarded a Navy Unit Commendation. I was onboard for WestPac numbers six and seven between August 1971 and May 1973. On my second cruise, we also fired over 10,000 rounds of NGFS and were awarded a Meritorious Unit Commendation. Nobody counted the hostile fire except for the one round that hit us the night of 19 December 1972.

Before the ship left on cruise, I had been relieved as DCA by Fast Ed Snyder and was designated to become the Navigator after ASW Air Controller School in San Diego. I was thrilled to be going to the mainland and missing the long transit to WestPac. However, about the time I got to my school, the news reported that Secretary of State Kissinger was in Paris negotiating with the North Vietnamese. I realized that peace could break out at any moment, and I still didn’t have any hero medals! As soon as the school was over, I dashed up to Travis AFB for a flight to the Philippines. From there, I hoped to get out to my ship on the gunline. At Travis, I fell in with a First Lieutenant of Marines with orders to be XO of the Marine Detachment in the carrier MIDWAY. We had all manner of adventures working our way across the Pacific, but that’s another story.

I was lowered onto the fantail of GOLDBOROUGH from a helo in early November. The ship had already been in several gun battles with North Vietnamese shore batteries because President Nixon had ordered a resumption of Linebacker Operations. These ops involved air and naval bombardment of targets in the north to encourage/pressure the Communist to negotiate in good faith at the Paris Peace Talks.

Relieving as Navigator, my General Quarters station was now on the bridge where I had a great view of all the goings on. During my first cruise, we had received only random fire from the beach and never had the chance to engage the shooter. Now we were conducting multi-ship raids along the coast of North Vietnam, and the enemy had all manner of gun emplacements defending the very same places we wanted to blow up. Our raids always took place at night. We would form up with one or more destroyers just before dark, steam north at high speed until we were abreast of our target. On signal, we would turn together toward the beach, charge in as close as we dared for fear of running aground, turn again parallel to the beach, unmasking all gun mounts, and cut our speed in half. All ships would fire on their designated target(s) and any shore batteries that might try to engage us, then declare victory and withdraw at high speed to deep water.

My first night raid, I was thrilled with the light show from the beach. The muzzle-flashes and tracers were as good as any Fourth of July spectacular. The next night, they started shooting as soon as we turned toward the beach; and we drove well into their range before we got to our next turn point. When the near-misses started to splash water on the pilothouse windows and shrapnel began to ping off the bulkheads, I suddenly realized these guys were trying to kill ME! I lost all concern for hero medals, and began to think maybe I would be better off with Fast Eddie down in DC Central where I had spent the first cruise. Then I learned that the snipes were listening to the concussion of the close-aboard shell bursts against the ship’s sides, BELOW the waterline. This was more adventure than I had bargained for, but we kept doing it almost every night.

On the evening of 19 December 1972, we left our holding area with the destroyers HOEL and SHELTON heading for an area further north than we had ever been before. Our targets were on a bay, and we would have to pass a small island at the entrance to the bay going in and coming out. The enemy gun emplacements were on that island. We slipped by them on the way in, but they were wide awake when we tried to slip back out. GOLDSBOROUGH was the closest ship to the island so the NVA gunners concentrated their fire on us. We had all four boilers on the line and were doing over thirty knots. Shells were splashing all around us, and the Captain kept ordering course changes to drive through the last splash. I never knew if that was standard procedure for such situations, but I would have preferred for him to just run a straight line and get us the hell out of there as fast as possible.

Suddenly, we heard a shell burst and felt a slight shudder through the deck. The report came up from weapons control that we had been hit in the after part of the ship around mount 52. Damage Control Central reported fires in the Repair III area but had lost communications with the repair locker. Repair V, in the center section of the ship, was sending investigators out to locate the damage and to assist Repair III as required.
 
After what seemed like an eternity, the picture started to clear up. We had been hit by a large caliber shell. It had struck the top of mount 52 and put a significant crease in the gun shield before it hit the deck just forward of the mount and exploded. A five foot hole was blown in the 0-1 level deck inflicting heavy damage to the after chiefs’ berthing compartment directly below. Tragically, the lounge area of that berthing was where the Repair III locker leader set up his command post. The explosion killed Senior Chief Hull Technician Donald A. Dix, BM1 Robert M. Dow, mortally wounded HT2 Gary L. Boyce and severely injured HT2 Gordon Sundby. Despite his wounds, Petty Officer Sundby rallied the surviving members of his repair locker and extinguished the fires and isolated the damaged electrical circuits with the help of Repair V.

As we continued to run south at full speed, a helo from one of the carriers came over to medivac Petty Officers Boyce and Sundby. With some dramatic airmanship, they were lifted up from the 0-1 level deck between mount 52 and the missile launcher. The pilot actually steadied himself by resting one of his main landing gear wheels on the damaged gun shield of MT-52. Petty Officer Boyce was taken on to the Air Force Hospital at Clark Field where he died of his wounds. Petty Officer Sundby stayed on the carrier where he met up with his brother and received his Purple Heart Medal from the Secretary of the Navy who happened to be passing by for a visit. He did eventually get back to the ship, and we were all happy to see him again. My good friend Jim Lloyd had the gruesome task of putting Senior Chief Dix and Petty Officer Dow into body-bags and storing them in the freezers. It was a long night for everyone.

As the sun was coming up, we entered Da Nang harbor and anchored. The HT’s welded a two-inch thick metal patch over the gapping hole in the 0-1 level aft, and we got under way again as soon as they finished. What we did not know was that on the same night we were hit, the Air Force lost a B-52 over Hanoi so we made the evening news back home. This caused much concern for many of our loved ones including my mother and my future bride, Miss Nancy Poteet. It would be over a week before I got ashore in Sasebo, Japan to call them and tell them I was unhurt.

We joined up with the destroyers RICHARD E. KRAUS and HENRY B. TUCKER after leaving Da Nang, and the three of us conducted more raids on the 21st and 22nd of December. Finally, on Christmas Eve, we detached and headed for the repair facility in Sasebo. That Christmas at sea was a sober and solemn occasion for all of us who were thankful just to be alive. We arrived in Sasebo on the 28th and stayed through the first week of January 1973. Several wives had flown out from Hawaii so New Year’s Eve was a most festive event at the Sasebo Officers’ Club, The Town Club. We almost lost Piggy Lloyd in a freak fire ax incident, but that’s another story.
 
By 11 January, we were back on station just north of the DMZ engaging targets along the coast. We resumed night raids on the 13th, 18th, 19th and 25th of January with the destroyers RATHBURNE and KING. On the afternoon of Saturday, 27 January, we were waiting in our holding area for nightfall when we would head north to re-strike the area where we had been hit on 19 December. The day was rainy and overcast, and everyone was quietly making preparations for the night’s work. I was on watch on the bridge when the Captain and XO came into the pilothouse and asked the Boatswain’s Mate of the Watch to pipe “attention all hands” on the 1MC announcing system. The Captain then took the microphone and told us all that a cease fire had been agreed to in Paris, effective 08:00 Sunday, 28 January. Our raid for that night was cancelled, and we were to move out to sea and rendezvous with the carrier battle group.

I was over come with relief and joy. I truly didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. I tried my best not to do either until the Captain and XO had left the bridge, then the entire watch team did lots of both. Minutes later, the clouds literally parted; and we were treated to the most magnificent sunset I had ever seen before or since.

The war was essentially over for us after that. We had a change of command in Manila in February, went to Singapore and crossed The Line in March and then did some more NGFS in the Mekong Delta area (from anchor!).  We went back to Japan in April and arrived in Pearl Harbor in May.

The ship’s crest for USS GOLDSBOROUGH was the family coat of arms from Rear Admiral Louis Malesherbes Goldsborough, a Union Navy hero. It showed a pelican sitting on a shield with the family motto on a scroll beneath, “Non Sibi.” A large, solid brass ship’s crest was mounted on the door to the Captain’s in-port cabin. It was the responsibility of the wardroom mess cooks to keep the crest highly polished, and they never failed in that duty. One morning many weeks after 19 December, the new CO, Commander (later Vice Admiral) Walter T. Piotti, came out of his cabin to find a mess cook hard at work on the crest. As it happened, this young sailor had reported aboard just before 19 December and had experienced everything. He greeted the Captain and requested permission to ask a question. Captain Piotti said, “Sure.” The sailor asked, “Does ‘Non Sibi’ really mean ‘no shit.’” The Captain gave him the only answer a GOLDSBOROGH sailor could ever give, “You bet your sweet ass it does!”

P.S. USS GOLDSBOROUGH had a long and illustrious career after I detached in July 1974. She was finally decommissioned and stricken from the naval record on 29 April 1993. She was sold to the Royal Australian Navy as a parts hulk for their fleet of guided missile destroyers.