Like a Duck
- 2 years ago
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What Duck? free porn video
Disclaimer:
Some of the names have been changed to protect the innocent as well as the guilty.
Unfortunately there is no way that I can change the name or hull number of the ship on which these events occurred as there have been too many ships and too many hull numbers on various ships in the US Navy over the past several hundred years.
I have no way of going through the whole list and I would therefore invariably grab the name of a ship that actually existed at one time and a hull number from another ship that actually existed, thereby casting aspersions upon the innocent.
To some there may be several apparently pejorative terms used. During any war, the warriors use terms among themselves to describe themselves that civilians may find offensive. During the Viet Nam War sailors used to refer to themselves as enlisted swine and snuffies (referring to the cartoon character, Snuffy Smith). If this offends you lighten up. It was their rough brand of humor.
I should also tell you a little bit about the USS Porterfield (DD-682). She was built in 1943. A Fletcher Class Destroyer (generally known as a 2100 because her original weight was 2100 tons). She was roughly 376 feet long, 93 foot in height, and 40 foot wide. She was capable of making in excess of 35 knots with a crew of 240 enlisted and 19 officers to make her work.
She was armed with five 5 inch gun mounts and assorted smaller guns.
She was also old and tired. She’d been run to death in WWII and Korea and was again being asked to do the impossible in Viet Nam.
The following tale took place over 45 years ago so I may have a ‘Senior Moment’ and not get everything right but I’ll sure try, if I don’t fall asleep first or forget what it is I’m doing.
_________________________________
They seek him here they seek him there,
They seek him everywhere,
Is he in heaven, is he in hell
Where oh where in the fuck,
Is that god damn duck?
With apologies to Baroness Orczy
In the present . . .
Several months ago I had a swelling and a redness in my right leg and calf. It finally forced me to visit the doctor, who very quickly informed me that I had some blood clotting in my leg. To verify the fact he sent me to St. Joes Hospital for testing. The clotting was extensive, enough so that the next thing I knew, and within the hour, I was admitted and they had IV tubes stuck in my arm, a whole bunch of blood draws from the vampires, and I was sucking down Coumadin pills and getting shots of Lovenex to thin my blood.
After a week in the hospital I was still not stabilized to where they wanted me and it looked like it was going to be a long process so the doctor sent me home. I’d lain in that damn bed for a week never getting any sleep as someone was taking my temperature and blood pressure and poking and prodding me every two hours, so I’d had a lot of time to think and my mind slowly drifted back over the years.
At home I still had a lot of time to think as the doctor had forbade me to do much of anything, especially if a sharp instrument was involved, including my trusty razor. He told me that my blood was now too thin and any cut would be very serious. His final admonishment was that if I cut myself not to try to stop the bleeding until after I’d called the emergency phone number he gave me. Hell! I was a virtual prisoner in my own home but at least I was out of the hospital.
Now I really had time to think. One night I started searching through my library until I found a familiar old cruise book that I’d thought about while in the hospital. As I leafed through the pages my mind slowly drifted back to my final cruise to WesPac (The Western Pacific) during the Viet Nam War. The last several pages were about a little duck known to one and all as What Duck? This in part is his story as the story in the cruise book is not complete because the powers-to-be modified the written tale to cover their collective butts. . .
1968-1969
I was stationed aboard a destroyer home ported in Long Beach, California that will forever be known to the crew that manned her at the time as the Evvie Maru because of the many months we’d spent deployed in the Orient and off Viet Nam over the past several years. I was the Chief Fire Controlman in charge of the computers and radars used to aim the guns. During the Summer I had taken the fleet wide test for advancement and wonder of wonders was selected on my first attempt
The down side to this was that because of my advancement to Senior Chief (E-8), I would have to be transfered as there was no billet for a Senior Chief Fire Controlman on the Evvie Maru. I was about to take my leave of the greatest crew, officer corps, and ship it has ever been my honor and pleasure to be associated with and to serve aboard.
Trying to get the best deal I could from my detailer (the fellow who wrote my orders), I agreed to report to the USS Porterfield (DD-682), said ship being home ported in San Diego, California. This only after receiving assurances from the detailer that she would not deploy to WesPac until after New Years, which would give me several months to be with my family after having just returned from a grueling cruise aboard the Evvie Maru which included us freezing our collective asses off in North Korean waters when the Pueblo was captured by some North Korean gunboats.
With great sorrow and regret I checked off the ship that I’d lived in for the last 3 plus years with much handshaking, hugs, and back patting. and headed home to my wife and son to spend a quiet night with them before I headed South to report to the Porterfield in San Diego. Wednesday morning came and I kissed my wife and son goodbye with assurances I’d be home Friday for the weekend, got in my truck and headed to my new duty station.
One problem that was really bugging me was that I had a cyst on my ass that was killing me but nobody would do anything about it until it started to drain. That 120 mile trip to San Diego was as excruciating as anything I’ve ever felt, but I finally got myself parked at the head of the pier at the Destroyer Base.
As I looked over the Porterfield all looked well so far. The Porterfield was the third ship outboard of the USS Prairie (a Destroyer Tender) which meant we weren’t going anywhere soon. In fact it began to look even better as the anchor windlass (the machinery that in part reels the anchor chain in) was dangling from a crane. Further aft another crane was hoisting what looked suspiciously like the ships evaporator (the machinery that converts sea water to fresh water) from the bowels of the ship, and even further aft still there was a gaping hole in the deck where the ships emergency steering (known as after steering) was located. The ship was a wreck!
If I had been the brightest light bulb in the chandelier I should have been wondering what shape my equipment was in.
I was about to find out just how badly I’d been fucked by the fickle finger of fate in the person of that son-of-a-bitch in the Pentagon who’d issued my orders.
Having crossed over the Prairie and the two destroyers laying side by side I finally reported to my new home.
As luck would have it the Officer of the Deck (OD) was my new division officer and the young 3rd Class Petty Officer of the Watch (POW) was a Fire Control Technician
who turned out to be a two year active duty reserve who was also the leading petty officer of the Fire Control Gang. They about gang raped me when they found out that I was the expected Senior Chief Fire Controlman. They were hugging me and welcoming me with tears, cheers, and words like, ‘Thank God you’re here.’
My antennas were now fully extended because I knew there was something horribly wrong and I started to ask the questions that would tell me what sort of calamity I was stepping into. First I asked about the status of the Fire Control equipment, only to be informed that NOTHING
was working, not the radars, not the computer, nor any other piece of equipment.
Seeking some solace I asked where I could find the Chief Gunners Mate to find out what shape the guns were in only to be told that the leading Gunners Mate was a 2nd Class who’d just reported aboard from the ‘Gator Navy (Amphibious Ships) and that he’d never worked on 5 inch guns before. With a smile they both assured me that the guns were working although they weren’t working at 100%. When I asked for a figure they both guessed at 50%. The OD then broke into a big grin when he informed me that they thought they’d be getting a Chief or Senior Chief Gunners Mate in Pearl Harbor.
By now I knew that I had just inherited the whole damn Gunnery Department (and occasionally the Deck division because they also had no Chief Boatswains Mate) and it would be my task to make it all work. I was not going up to Long Beach anytime soon so I might as well call my wife and give her the bad news.
Pissed on by the perpendicular prong of predestination . . .
By this time God must have been rolling around in heaven in stitches because he knew what was coming and this poor fool of a sailor didn’t.
The OD informed me that we were getting underway Saturday. Looking about at the carnage I asked which pier we were moving to. It must have been at this point that God
broke into a hysterical laughing spell when the OD replied that we would be leaving for WesPac with the USS Ranger (CVA-61) and her Task Group.
At this point God and I had a short one-sided conversation. I mentioned to him that he’d given me his finger when I got kicked out of high school in my senior year for certain sins of omission and commission, even though I’d been truly innocent of the charge that had finally gotten me booted. I’d always accepted that as his gotcha.
I had always agreed it was my playing sailor with Pat the Barmaid (See Pat the Barmaid series) that kept me in the shits and that it was my own fault.
‘But God,’ I intoned, ‘why has thou forsaken me. I’ve been on the straight and narrow for quite awhile.’ From somewhere I thought I heard a low rumble, ‘Because I can.’
I proceeded with my check-in which included checking in with my department head, the Executive Officer (hereinafter to be known as Dumber Then Fucking Dirt or LCDR DTFD for short), the Commanding Officer (Lovingly called Shit For Brains, who will hereafter be referred to as CDR SFB’s), and the Ships Office, Disbursing (pay) Office and finally Sick Bay.
I tried to get the 1st Class Corpsman (HM1), ‘Doc’ Buster Crabbe, to lance that damned cyst but was told it would have start draining first. Oh Joy!
Later that evening I called my wife to break the bad news, asked her to pack my seabag, get hold of my running mate (a Chief Fire Controlman on a destroyer in the Long Beach Shipyard), and get down here tomorrow. She cried a little bit (actually, a whole lot, and from a woman who never swears, Shit and God Damn were heard several times). Finally she asked if our son could come along, to which I acceded.
The following morning they arrived with my seabag and we all sat in Chief’s Quarters while the mess cooks lugged my gear aboard.
My wife, as a grand finale to the day, informed me she would be down to watch us sail away, once again, on Saturday. I loved to have her with me but she always became a weeper, wailer, and a gnasher of teeth. It was her nature. I tried to dissuade her by pointing out that we were so far out from the pier and completely shielded by the Prairie that there would be nothing to see. Didn’t matter. She would be there with our son and that was that.
Saturday found my wife and son, my running mate, and his wife sitting in the CPO Mess for a couple of hours. Fred, my running mate’s wife would drive my truck back up to Long Beach as my wife had never learned to drive.
Finally, after goodbye kisses, hugs, and tears, this haze grey garbage barge was underway and headed for WesPac
By the time we got to Pearl Harbor I had everything working although the gun mounts still needed some tweaking.
Two days before our arrival in Pearl that damn cyst finally started to drain. God that felt good! When we docked I headed to the base Sick Bay so that I could get it removed. I was laying naked on the table when the doctor dropped the hammer. ‘Senior Chief” he said, ‘It is so close to your ass hole (my words) I can’t give you anything to kill the pain’. In those immortal words all doctors use he said ‘you’ll feel a mild discomfort,’ which meant I was about to meet Torquemada the Grand Inquisitor. He decided to call in a corpsman to help and in the door walked a young female corpsman, which did nothing to sooth me.
As that SOB proceeded with the operation, I’m afraid I taught that young corpsman words and phrases in several languages she’d never heard before. Hell, some of them I didn’t even know that I knew. The doctor was able to shoot me up with a general painkiller after the operation and since I was going to very shortly be out of it had me driven back to the ship.
When I came around the next day I happily found out that we had a new Senior Chief GM, by the name of Gunner (All Gunners Mates are Gunner) Hinderline, and a damn fine one to boot. We hit it off like two peas in a pod. He was also appointed to be the ship’s Chief Master at Arms (sheriff, also sometimes referred to as Deputy Dog and/or Dudley Do-Right) and as that would cut into his Gunners Mate duties we agreed that he’d tell me what he wanted done and I’d cover it for him.
The cruise, for the most part, went like all cruises during those days until a trip to Subic Bay, Philippines in early December for some liberty, to re-provision, and to make a few repairs before heading back to ‘Nam.
After accomplishing all that we’d come to do it was time to head back to ‘Nam again.
We got underway from the pier to head out past Grande’ Island at which point the sea detail was secured. It was time for me to inspect my equipment.
My first stop was the after fire control director located on the 2nd (02) level between mounts 54 and 55. I climbed the ladder to the director and received one hell of a shock. In a cardboard box next to the After Lookout was a little yellow duckling, a small bowl of canned corn, and some water in another bowl.
By now the After Lookout seemed to be a little nervous since one of the powers had discovered the crew’s secret. It took me a few moments to reassure him that I could care less, but I did point out that that young duckling being up there was not exactly healthful due to all of the stack gas he was sucking in instead of clean air.
Truth be told, to be able to keep the duckling hidden from the officers who were sure to disapprove, this was probably the ideal hideout.
Unfortunately the officers did find out.
The cruise book says that CDR SFB’s and LCDR DTFD were ambivalent, but that wasn’t the way it got around on the ship. From conversations on the bridge CDR SFB’s and LCDR DTFD agreed that the duckling had to be found and thrown over the side.
The other officers were told to find the duckling and get rid of it and the game was afoot.
For the most part most of the wardroom stood aside, acting with benign neglect except for the Damage Control Assistant, a little ass kisser from the gitgo. He started his own personal crusade to get rid of the duckling.
It was at this point that What Duck? received his name. To every inquiry by an officer, any officer, about the duckling the reply was always, ‘What Duck?’
It has been said that just prior to the Civil War, the Officer’s Manuals at the US Naval Academy used to describe the enlisted men as surly, lazy, and of low intelligence. It further pointed out that they were also sly, cunning, and bear watching at all times.
It was now time to find out if sly and cunning could save What Duck?.
There were organized search
es but most were half-hearted at best except for the DCA.
CDR SFB’s even set up personal and berthing and messing inspections (unheard of in a combat zone) in an effort to find and get rid of What Duck?
What Duck? had now united the enlisted men including the chiefs in a way I’ve never seen before. The Wardroom was not going to get hold of What Duck? and that’s all there was to it.
There are so many places on a ship to hide things that unless you know every inch of that ship intimately you won’t find whatever is hidden. It is the enlisted snuffies that know all of those spaces, not the Wardroom types because to get to some of them you have to get real dirty, heaven forbid. The officers were going to lose this battle unless somebody badly screwed up.
I was told that even the Corpsman, Buster Crabbe, used to check up on What Duck? to make sure he was healthy. Now I’m not exactly sure how a Corpsman knows when a duck is healthy, but Corpsman are awfully good at what they do.
At this point in this tale (tail?) I have to introduce you to a sailor by the name of Jim Detlefsen (his real name). Jim was a First Class Boiler Technician (BT1) and was also the ships Oil King. It is the Oil King that sounds the oil tanks, figures out how much fuel we have, and where to put it so the ship stays on an even keel. He is a very important person. In Jim’s case he was also a certifiable nut. Who else would put a leash on a hot dog and drag it along as he sounded the tanks?
I also have to tell a little bit about the layout of the ship at this point. The deck below the main deck is the number 2 deck. On those old 2100 DD’s there was a long passageway and the officers sleeping quarters were located off to the side of that passageway.
The Christmas Holidays were approaching and we were in the Tonkin Gulf and would be for a long time. The search was still on for What Duck? but without success.
Just before Christmas the officers woke to find a flour coated trail of duck’s feet on the deck of the passageway. The duck prints went into each of the officer’s berthing spaces and in the case of the DCA and LCDR DTFD’s bunks the duck prints were all over their blankets. On the pillows of these two ass holes, eggs had been placed (laid?). Those two idiots were now beside themselves, almost to the point of apoplectic shock, The gauntlet had been thrown down.
Who’d laid those duck prints down and laid the eggs on the pillows? How? When?
In spite of their best efforts no culprit could be found. I knew who did it. It was BT1 Detlefsen who’d done the dirty deed. I won’t tell you how I found out but there weren’t many who knew that secret and those that knew weren’t going to quack. He’d gotten some leather from the Gunners Mates, cut the duck prints out, purloined flour from the baker, liberated the eggs, and in the dead of night while making his rounds, Jim did the fowl deed.
There was more to come. A What Duck? newsletter was put out. Keep in mind that this was well before the modern computers and printers. Newsletters had to be run off on a mimeograph machine. But which machine? There were several aboard ship. Because of this fact of limited ability to print the newsletter it was shortly laid to rest.
A couple of days before Christmas we went alongside a Naval supply ship to refuel, take on supplies, and hopefully receive mail. Mail was a rather chancy thing for the ships during the ‘Nam War. Sometimes it would be weeks before mail caught up with us and sometimes we’d get our mail out of sequence.
{An aside – No sailor on a small boy (read destroyer) likes to go alongside a supply ship or carrier for resupply and replenishment. It is a case of David and Goliath pure and simple. There have been hundreds of thousands of these events in the history of the US Navy and almost all of them have been done safely, but . . When something goes wrong Goliath wins and David loses. I, and several ships I was on over the years, have been the recipient of some of those disasters. It ain’t fun. In fact for several years of my Naval career, until I made Chief, I was a Sea Detail and Underway Replenishment Qualified Helmsman (which means I got to steer the ship) and that entry in your service jacket is not there by accident, you have to earn it. Think about a hulking behemoth and a small deer side by side 100 – 120 feet apart in good weather or bad, steaming at 15 – 17 knots for what may be several hours, with the possibility of disaster always present if something goes wrong and you’ll get the idea. During the years I took the helm during those events. When it was over I would sit and shake from the cessation of the adrenaline flow.}
Nadine
- 31.12.2020
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