A Week In Charleston

Sorry. No pictures today. I searched online but couldn't find any that would serve as reference to the following tales. So please bear with me as I rattle on. Thirty-eight years ago today, I checked into the Naval Station Charleston, South Carolina for classification and re-outfitting. I had been out of the Navy for about 15 months - since I left Adak - and, after loading freight in Charlotte for Thurston Motor Lines and installing insulation in GE air-conditioners in Tyler, I was more than ready to return to the Navy and the world of air traffic control. I only spent about a week in Charleston, but it was an eventful week.

Duty Station. As soon as I settled in, I called my detailer in the Bureau of Personnel to find out where I would be stationed. There was little doubt that I'd get sea duty, but I might have some choice as to which aircraft carrier I might draw. And, indeed I did. The chief told me I had two choices, but I could only think of one discriminator: which one's newer? He told me, but then added, "she's in the States now, but just canceled everyone's leave. She's got new orders and will be departing almost immediately for WestPac." My incisive mind went straight to the heart of the question. First, do I want to go to Spain, France, Italy, Greece. . . or Yankee Station? Second, do I want to serve with guys on a sight-seeing cruise in the Mediterranean, or guys that are pissed off about having their leaves canceled to steam around in circles off the coast of Vietnam? Easy choice; USS Franklin D. Roosevelt (CVA-42) and Med cruises.

Standing Watch. While we were being classified and re-outfitted, the Navy tried to keep us busy, adhering to the premise that idle hands are the devil's tools. I came back in as an AC2 (E-5), so I was assigned to the barracks master-at-arms force, typically supervising non-rated sailors during the day maintaining the barracks and grounds. One night I caught duty which amounted to supervising the barracks fire watches, receiving reports on their patrols and fielding calls from the Officer of the Day. The most common cause of trouble on one of these watches has always been the return to the barracks of sailors who have had more to drink than they could handle. This particular night was unusually quiet in that respect, but about 2am I was sure I smelled something burning and I got up to find source. Just two doors down the passageway I could see smoke coming from a cube. I went in and found a sailor, still dressed, curled up on his bunk around a lit cigarette that had burned a hole about 3 inches across in his mattress. I called, then shouted for him to get up, to no avail, then grabbed him by the collar and dragged this carcass off the bunk to make my point. Well, it made my point alright. When I removed his bulk, the mattress sucked in air and burst into flame. Impressive. I pulled the mattress off the bed and stomped the fire out, all the while yelling at the idiot on the floor. I had him drag the mattress outside, away from the building and sit there and watch it to make sure it didn't flare up again, while I called the fire department and the OOD. Idiots!

Brig Chaser. One day this MM2 and I were sent over to the brig to escort three or four sailors to Captain's Mast. The first guy went into the Captain's office and the others sat on benches in the passageway between my partner and me. We could hear sounds from the Captain's office, but couldn't make out what was being said. Eventually, when we heard the first session begin to break up, my partner (closest to the door) leaned over and said to me, "Did you hear that? The Captain said to bring the next guilty son of a bitch in." The faces of our remaining charges paled significantly.

Parker, Go Move Your Car. I can't remember what that guy's name was, the MM2, but we were fast friends for the few days I remained at Charleston. We went exploring the area in my car a couple of different nights, which involved drinking a fair amount of beer. At one stage I lost track of my new buddy and went searching for him. (It turned out later that I had dropped him off back at the barracks.) One of the places I sought him was the Chief's Club, though I still don't understand how, as an E-5, I managed to get in there. The next morning after muster the Chief Master-at-Arms told me he'd had a phone call from someone and I was to move my car immediately or it would be towed. As I hotfooted it out of the barracks I had to admit I didn't have a clue where I had parked the night before. As I checked the barracks parking lot I thought about the night before and finally remembered parking at some stage under a large, lighted sign reading "CPO Mess (Open)". I knew where the Chiefs Club was and hiked the five or six blocks in short order. As I approached the massive parking lot (it was also the parking lot for the sailors and civilians who lived/worked on all those nested destroyers tied up across the main drag) I saw at least three of those signs and thought, "This is going to take all morning." As it turned out, however, I found my car across the street from the first of the signs, parked in the Captain's parking space in front of the Restricted Publications Building. It was easy to spot because it sported a furious Lt(jg), sitting on the fender waiting for me. He was fuming about two things essentially: (1) that I had had the temerity to park in the Captain's parking space, and (2) that the floor of the back seat was filled with empty beer cans (level with the seat, as I recall). I listened to his lecture and made all the appropriate sounds, eventually getting out of there when I told him I'd be leaving Charleston for my ship in a day or two, never to return. Promise. It was great to be back in the Navy.

Gunners Mate - Not. The last of my Charleston tales concerned another special duty. A change of command for some Supply Corps Admiral was scheduled and my MM2 buddy and I were among four E-5's chosen by the Chief Master-at-Arms to attend the ceremony and assist his Chief Gunners Mate buddy as necessary when they fired the whatever-gun salute. We were briefed on the ceremony and our duties with respect to the two 5" guns which would fire the salute. We didn't get to fire the guns - we got to corral the hot brass when it was ejected from the guns. However, we apparently didn't exhibit the proper attitude for this detail because it was clear from the beginning that the chief was annoyed with everything we said and did. Never one to leave someone like that to fume unnecessarily, I asked him about our sound attenuators - or lack thereof. He immediately hit the overhead in a spectacular explosion and started another rant about our suitability - or lack thereof - to be part of his gun crew. I very calmly explained to him that, as an Air Controlman, I had to pass rigorous annual FAA medical exams and was required by my job description to protect my hearing in order to perform the duties for which the Navy went to great expense to train me. He ran us off, shouting and cursing till we were out of sight, but the next day at the change of command he provided each of us sissies with "Mickey Mouse ears". His Gunners Mates, however, had to "tough it out". . . huh?, Say again?