Crossing the river into Olongapo

We docked in Subic Bay after spending too much time in the Gulf of Tonkin in the summer of 1972.

“…A little beer will do you good. And you could buy yourself a better fitting pair of pants. The one's you're wearing are huge. Come on.”

I acquiesced. I really did need a smaller pair of pants. As we crossed the river that separated the base from Olongapo City, well-tanned boys stood in chest high water yelling, “Hey, body! Throw me coin.” The way they mispronounced buddy as body made me think that the word, body, was more accurate than buddy.

“How can they fucking stand the smell of that shit in the water, much less, swim in it?” Barry asked.

We held our breath as we walked across the bridge. The boys continued pleading, “Hey body, throw me coin.”

One of the boys standing in the brown fecal smelling river looked like he could be one of my little cousins. Reaching in my pocket, I tossed a couple of dimes to him. He caught one and dove into the shit brown water to hunt for the one that bounced out of his hand.

“Oh, fuck!” No way could I do that,” Barry blurted. “I swear, my grandfather's fucking outhouse smells better than that shitty river.”

“Thank God, Barry, we didn't grow up here, having to swim in that sewer of a river just for a few coins.”

“Let's get the fuck outta here. My nose hairs are starting to fuckin singe,” he said as we sped the rest of the way across the bridge.

Olongapo City had a carnival atmosphere. The aroma of skewered beef cooking on a small black grill was a welcome relief from the putrid smell of the river.

“That's probably monkey meat.” Barry said, “It tastes good. You ought to try it.”

I rolled my eyes, “Get real, Barry. When is the last time you saw a monkey in Subic Bay?”

“This morning. He's your..”

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MiG Attack

“General Quarters! General Quarters! This is not a drill,” came over the loudspeaker again as I donned my helmet and life jacket. The hair on my arms stood straight up. My knees began to shake uncontrollably. I looked at Otis, his face much whiter than normal, and said, “For as often as they call General Quarters, you'd think we'd be used to it by now.”

The ship shook as our Mk-42 cannon fired several rounds. The machine gun blasts were muffled in the interior of the ship. I had opened the damage control repair locker and busied myself looking inside, taking a mental inventory of the location of the emergency equipment we would most likely need.

“I hate this fuckin shit, waiting down here, not knowing what the fuck is going on topside,” Otis said. “They never tell us a goddamn thing until it’s over.”

“All Clear,” came over the loudspeaker. “Eight MiGs have been diverted. 

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The Viet Nam Should've Ended in 1968

From  Smithsonian.com:

 In 1968, the Paris Peace talks, intended to put an end to the 13-year-long Vietnam War, failed because an aide working for then-Presidential candidate Richard Nixon convinced the South Vietnamese to walk away from the dealings, says a new report by the BBC’s David Taylor. By the late 1960s Americans had been involved in the Vietnam War for nearly a decade, and the ongoing conflict was an incredibly contentious issue, says PBS:

In 1967, with American troop strength in Vietnam reaching 500,000, protest against U.S. participation in the Vietnam War had grown stronger as growing numbers of Americans questioned whether the U.S. war effort could succeed or was morally justifiable. They took their protests to the streets in peace marches, demonstrations, and acts of civil disobedience. Despite the country’s polarization, the balance of American public opinion was beginning to sway toward “de-escalation” of the war.

Nixon’s Presidental campaign needed the war to continue, since Nixon was running on a platform that opposed the war. The BBC:

Nixon feared a breakthrough at the Paris Peace talks designed to find a negotiated settlement to the Vietnam war, and he knew this would derail his campaign.
… In late October 1968 there were major concessions from Hanoi which promised to allow meaningful talks to get underway in Paris – concessions that would justify Johnson calling for a complete bombing halt of North Vietnam. This was exactly what Nixon feared.

President Johnson had at the time a habit of recording all of his phone conversations, and newly released tapes from 1968 detailed that the FBI had “bugged” the telephones of the South Vietnamese ambassador and of Anna Chennault, one of Nixon’s aides. Based on the tapes, says Taylor for the BBC, we learn that in the time leading up to the Paris Peace talks, “Chennault was despatched to the South Vietnamese embassy with a clear message: the South Vietnamese government should withdraw from the talks, refuse to deal with Johnson, and if Nixon was elected, they would get a much better deal.” The Atlantic Wire:

In the recently released tapes, we can hear Johnson being told about Nixon’s interference by Defence Secretary Clark Clifford. The FBI had bugged the South Vietnamese ambassadors phone. They had Chennault lobbying the ambassador on tape. Johnson was justifiably furious — he ordered Nixon’s campaign be placed under FBI surveillance. Johnson passed along a note to Nixon that he knew about the move. Nixon played like he had no idea why the South backed out, and offered to travel to Saigon to get them back to the negotiating table.

Though the basic story of Nixon’s involvement in stalling the Vietnam peace talks has been around before, the new tapes, says the Atlantic Wire, describe how President Johnson knew all about the on-goings but chose not to bring them to the public’s attention: he thought that his intended successor, Hubert Humphrey, was going to beat Nixon in the upcoming election anyway. And, by revealing that he knew about Nixon’s dealings, he’d also have to admit to having spied on the South Vietnamese ambassador.

Eventually, Nixon won by just 1 percent of the popular vote. “Once in office he escalated the war into Laos and Cambodia, with the loss of an additional 22,000 American lives, before finally settling for a peace agreement in 1973 that was within grasp in 1968,” says the BBC.

Tattoo

Would ye be knowing that I have a tattoo on my arm? 

It covers the original scar that emerged after I was spitting logs. A piece of metal shot off from the hammer so fast and furious it sheared through my shirt and lodged itself within my mighy bicep. 

Faith and Begorrah! It hurt!

The doctor used his scalpel to hunt for the shrapnel. He cut in, following the little bugger's pathway. He stopped when his blade reached the muscle tissue. "Leave it be," he said to me. "It'll work its way out, of its own volition, in a month or two." His words brought me no comfort. And the next words that he uttered made me even unhappier: "or it will encapsulate and take up permanent residence." 

It took its sweet time, as if it were no faster than a lazy slug. So, what else could I do but assume that after two long years, it had taken doctor's option number two? 

The scar was hideous, making onlookers recoil in revulsion. To remedy the situation, I sauntered down to the Long Beach Pike and found a tattoo parlor. The artist embedded a bird, beautifully concealing the scar. 

My tattoo was not even one year old when that lazy piece of steel immobilized my arm with a hellacious pain. The little bugger finally made its way to the surface of my bicep. My tattoo, which had been doing a fine job of obscuring the original scar, now has its own unfortunate scar. It got one hell of a tonsillectomy.   

IN THE EYES OF THE BEHOLDER

Krack followed me as I trudged up to the Helo deck after we finished loading rounds of ammo into the MK42's magazine. We were tired from passing the seventy pound shells from sailor to sailor into the magazine beneath the cannon. The sun shone brightly up on deck an hour before sunset. The water rippled with the sun's diamond like reflection. We sat on the deck, just outside the hangar door admiring the sun's sparkling art work. A couple of guys were playing basketball inside. One of them asked us to play.

“I'd rather play on a court that doesn't have a constantly moving basket,” Krack said.

“Anticipating the speed of the ship's rocking is what makes shooting baskets such a challenge,” a player said and dribbled the ball in front of him a couple of times.

“How about you?” he asked, as he turned to face me. “If you're any good we could play two on one.”

“Nah. The gunfire from the choppers is too distracting,” I said. “I've got too many things on my mind.”

“I don't want to hear any bullshit whining out of you,” Krack said as he stood up and grabbed my arm. “We're stuck in this fuckin' war. It's going to continue whether we play basketball or not, and right now, you need to play because we will all be back on battle station in a couple of hours.”

Krack and I took off our shirts. He tossed me the ball and I dribbled until I was blocked. I passed the ball to him. He jumped and threw the ball, too far to the left of the basket, or so it seemed. The ship swayed and the ball swished through the basket.

“Tell me that wasn't the most beautiful shot you've ever seen,” Krack said.

We played for twenty minutes until one of the other guys had to leave to stand his watch. Krack and I stepped out of the hangar while putting our shirts back on our sweaty torsos. We resumed our previous positions, sitting just outside the hangar door. Looking west, over the hills beyond the battle, I watched the sun descend behind the hills.

“Look, Krack,” I said, punching him in the shoulder. “The sun is cloud painting again. God, that's a gorgeous sunset.”

“It’s weird that we can be out here on the water,” Krack said, “the war waging not more than two hundred yards off our port side and you stop everything to point out a gorgeous fuckin' sunset.”

“It's no weirder than playing basketball on a rocking ship while our five inch gun kills only God knows who.”

New England Accent

I competed welding school (1972) at the San Diego Naval Base, and soon after, I received my orders to a new destroyer escort, U.S.S. Trippe DE1075, whose home port was Newport, Rhode Island. 
I flew to Providence, Rhode Island to report to my new ship. I took a local bus from the airport to Newport. Two women hopped on the bus and sat down in the seat in front of me. I leaned in as close as I dared. I didn't want to appear as if I were eavesdropping. I wasn't. I was trying to figure out what language they were speaking. It was English with a very heavy New England accent. 
After spending a year on that ship and going home for the first time, my mother said, "Stop talking like that, you sound funny." 
The accent had hopped on my tongue and followed me home. Most of my shipmates were from New England and had strong accents. 

Congress = Blessing or Curse?

January will bring a new Congress,

To our Nation’s capital.

Will the new "Blue" Congress
Be a blessing

Or a curse

For Veterans of the 
Viet Nam war?

Will they pass new laws

To help those of us
Who risked our lives,

Lost our limbs,

And Sacrificed our sanity?

Will they help the Vets of the
Blue Water Navy?
Will the new Congress

Honor their promises

To take care of the
Wounded Vets?

We are watching.

We voted them in.
Will the new Congress

Be like the previous one

That said they would

But chose to ignore us instead?

Will the new "Blue" Congress
Be a blessing o

Or a curse

For Navy Veterans?