Send your "Sea Stories" to the Mailing List. It's Possible they will end up on this Archive Page.
To Walt who is ill at this time. The recent Thunder Mate Sea Stories are great examples of what a Newport News sailor is all about. I'll try to keep the stories comimg with this: While the ship was in NOB Norfolk repair, not the regular pier, my good shipmate Walt Heinzelman and I went ashore for some adult liquid libation. By the time we decided to walk back to the ship it was quite dark outside and we didn't know exactly where we were but started what you might consider walking anyway. We knew we were lost and just kept changing directions until hopefully something would look familiar. I noticed that the street we were on was lined with pretty blue lights and commented to Walt how nice these southern people kept their streets. He agreed. Just then a jeep speeds up to us and a guy with an arm full of stripes starts yelling at us in four letter language and quite loudly to "get the ... off the runway. He didn't even answer us when we asked where do they keep the ships around here?
It was 30 years ago this month that I took my first cruise,
as I had reported on-board the 148 right before Christmas of 1970. We left
Norfolk and went to Fort Lauderdale. We spent a few days there, I
think, since I remember getting drunk at a place called Lums, trying to keep
up drinking beers with some chief and a few other guys. I woke up sometime
in the early morning face down on the beach, I had no idea were I was or
were the hell the ship was. I found my way back to the ship with the help of
a retired marine that gave me a lift, muttering something about drunken
sailors. The next stop was in New Orleans for the Mardi Gras. I had
the duty first night in port, and we were standing 4 and 4(don't ya miss
that) I had the 12-4 down in boiler room 4, and was relieved by George
Dashnaw who had the 4-8. Now if you remember, those who had the 12-4
would come back and relieve the 4-8 guy so he could go to chow. Well I
went down to relieve George and he said come back later. So I go
back to the compartment, which was directly under the meat locker, and
settle down to watch TV. I must have dozed off a bit 'cause the the
next thing I know, the 1-MC comes on and says "secure the chow
line" I jump up, run up the ladder and head for #4.
As I headed down the passageway at full speed, I jumped thru the
Bob,
I was fortunate enough not to have stitches but I did have
somewhat of a similar incident
No Bob you didn't dream the cruise. I remember it too. I
also had duty first day in New Orleans. But I got SP duty, seems I always
did. Maybe because just before reporting on board NN, while it was in dry
dock, I had 6 months of SP in Norfolk. When we went out on SP in New
Orleans they paired us up with guys that were stationed there for SP.
Don't remember his name or rank, he was a good guy and know his way
around. Late into our rounds of the streets and bars, he leads me to this
long, dark alleyway. Says to follow him down it, as we go I'm thinking
he's going to get us mugged. Turns out the alley lead to a court yard
restaurant, We got a large platter of Crawdads, First time I had them. But
I like lobster and shrimp so I figure why not. Think we finished first
platter and they bring out another. We put a good dent in that one too,
but couldn't finish it. I go to get wallet out to help pay for food and
sodas, waiter says it's free for SP. What a town! Next day I took guys
from 2 Div to all the "GOOD" bars, but had no idea how
I remember Gunner Coan coming into Forward Secondary Plot one day.
Gunner always wore his NN ball cap pulled down low. That was great
for looking 'squared away', but it also limited your field of vision
greatly.
Anyway, the good Gunner came into plot with a full head of steam.
He must of been making 30 knots as he came in the door. He forgot
that you have to make a hard left turn in order to avoid the A/C
unit that hung from the overhead. He went crashing into the drip
pan and really rang his chimes. He was staggering around plot with
his hands on his forehead and over his eyes. He then decided that
he was needed in his stateroom and charged out of plot. He must
have miscalculated his steps, cause just as he lowered his hands, he
caught the knife edge of the door across his forehead. What the
drip pan failed to do, the knife edge on the door succeeded in doing.
As I recall, it laid him out like a mackerel. He was last seen
strapped in a Stokes stretcher being taken to sick bay. Didn't see
much of the Gunner for the next few days.
I liked Gunner. I never figured out exactly
what his function in life was, other than to try catching us goofing
off. I do remember that he had a thing about cameras and that we
always kept a camera nearby in case he came in and caught us. All
you had to do was start talking about your Kodak Brownie camera and it
would distract him. Or so we thought.
Steve
I remember that very well. I had just come back
onboard when I heard someone yelling behind me, and it turned out to be
this guy who had come up the gangplank just as I did. While they
were checking him out he bolted, ran right to the fantail and without
hesitating dove right off and into the Mississippi River. The
'man-over-board' alarm was sounded and they got right to it but after a
few hours searching didn't find him. A few days later as we were
heading out towards the gulf I was standing my at-sea watch as 1JV on the
bridge when a message came in from Ops for the Captain. I was
standing alongside him as he was reading that the local New Orleans river
services had discovered that guy's body washed up a few miles down river
along the bank. I never did get his name but I still remember that whole
scene very well.
With everyone talking about their old Chiefs last week , I
remember fondly SMC Bowman on the 70 Gitmo cruise . He had only been
aboard a few weeks before we pulled out , so we didn't know him very
well and didn't really know how to take him . About 3 weeks into the
cruise myself and about 6 other SMs were in the EM club with about 500
other guys drinking beer and watching a floor show of Go - Go girls
dancing on the stage . Go- Go girls had just hit the EM clubs .
Everyone was hooting it up and making a lot of noise , when one of the
guys at our table grabbed his rolled up white hat and threw it like a Frisbee
at the stage . One of the girls grabbed it and all of us thought that
was a great idea and did the same thing A few guys at other tables threw
their hats also , and there were about 10-12 white hats up on the stage.
The SPs in the club RAN over to our table , informed us that we were on
the pad for causing a disturbance and to get the hell out . We thought
that was a bit much and they told us that they didn't need 500 drunks
all throwing their hats then all getting up to find then and probably
causing a riot. We started to leave when the SP Chief in the club shows
up - SMC Bowman . He told the SPs that we were his men and they didn't
have to write us up because he was going to extract blood back on the
ship . Our liberty was secured , however . The next morning , just
before colors we were in the signal shack sitting around , drinking
coffee and laughing it up about last night ,when Chief Bowman walks in .
We shut up and you could hear a pin drop . He didn't say anything - just
gave us a dirty look , walked over and got himself a cup of coffee .
After , what seemed like an hour he asked in a sarcastic voice if we had
a good time last night . One of us said yeah , we had a pretty good time
. He looked out the window ,cracked a smile and said "Yeah , when I
saw that first white hat go , I knew it was my boys . " He never
mentioned it again . I was transferred shortly after but I never
worked for a better boss .
From what I remember first we hit wonderful GITMO for
those glorious battle training weeks (what fun that was... remember
them tossing live grenades alongside the ship to simulate an enemy attack,
or how about having someone run into Damage Control with their arm
spurting blood (which in fact was a prostethis equipped with what looked
like blood which spurted out as the In April 1960 I was a wide-eyed, almost nineteen year-old kid on the adventure of my life. I had been ordered to report aboard the USS Newport News, a heavy cruiser, and if the stories I’d heard were correct, the “showboat” of the US Navy. WOW! What they didn’t tell me was that it was peons like me that were used to keep the navy’s showboats in showboat condition. I caught a navy flight from Norfolk to Morocco, and a few days later to Naples, where along with a bunch of other guys, I was embarked on a supply ship whose name is long forgotten. During the days we were pretty much treated as passengers while the ship rendezvoused with other ships, and one by one, high-lined us over to either our destination, or a ship that would take us there. I was high-lined to the Neosho, and that was an experience I’ll never forget! Again, we were treated like guests for a couple of days. One day, while many of us were sun-bathing on her helicopter deck, a jet fighter-bomber did a practice run on the Neosho from astern. None of us heard the s.o.b. coming, as he pulled straight up just short of the oiler’s chopper pad and thirty or forty of us half-asleep boots. BOOM!! A few of us fell into the sponsons and got cut up a bit, but NONE of us resumed sunbathing. A day or so later we met up with the Newport News, and as we approached for re-fueling and high-lining, I remember thinking that she had to be the best looking ship in the navy. I was a reserve, pulling my two-years active duty, and hadn’t been to radioman school, but had been a ham radio operator for a few years, and hoped to get in the radio gang. Well, that wasn’t to be, for a while at least. I was assigned to M Division, and learned all about engine-room #4 for a couple of months. They were a great bunch of guys, and they taught me that I was capable of sweating much more than I thought was humanly possible. I learned to run bilge pumps, take temperature readings in dozens of places every few minutes, and open and close valves when told. Some other experiences in the engine room include: Cleaning the reduction gear—the “big” transmission that was the size of a truck. After all the lubricating oil was pumped out, another guy and I had to strip to only our skivy shorts, crawl inside—each of us with a single cloth rag--and wipe all of the residual oil and metal particles from the gears and internal housing. The rags were counted—like in surgery—to make sure none were left inside. That was the one—and only—time I’ve ever been completely coated with oil. Painting the overhead in the engine room—at about 120-140 degrees—was a memory best forgotten. There was the time during the ’60 Med cruise, that the ship passed through a huge school of shrimp (I think it was), and clogged up a salt-water manifold for something or other (I didn’t learn everything about the engine room). We were scrambling frantically to remove the cover plate to the manifold and one of the guys yelled, “Give me that f---ing wrench!” I looked up and saw Captain Bennett pick up the wrench and hand it to the sailor, who never noticed—and fortunately didn’t have occasion to say, “not that one, you a—hole!” After a couple of months I got my transfer to OR Division (Radio) and began a learning process all over again. Radio was right for me. I enjoyed most everything I did while in OR (and later, CR) division. This was 1960, and “state of the art” wasn’t even a phrase then. This was when the Navigator only had a sextant; this was when our transmitters and receivers were still using vacuum tubes, and were huge. My first watches in radio were as messenger. This was a “great” job for a kid who was curious. You had to roam the ship with the message book, getting various officers—from the admiral (ComCruDiv2), down—to initial that they had read the message. I had the “run of the ship.” Messengers carried a flashlight at night, and after knocking on an officer’s cabin door, if there was no response we had to enter his cabin and wake him for the message. One night a messenger’s light wouldn’t work and in “waking” a particular commander, the unfortunate radioman stuck his finger right in the half-awake officer’s eye. But most of the time it was simply interesting. I especially enjoyed visiting the bridge during a storm. The ocean, in all its fury, is a beautiful thing to behold. And how the Newport News weathered the storms was a testament to her and her crew. She wasn’t without her weaknesses however. Radio Central had a large panel of rotary switches that we referred to as “the patch panel.” This enabled us to connect different antennas, and different sound circuits to different sources and destinations. One switch was known to be faulty and required a chair leg to hold it in position. On one mid-watch, the chair leg slipped and a loud squeal was patched into the captain’s sea cabin. We caught hell for that, and our “bitch-box” (as we all called the 1-MC) lived up to its name. Later, I stood watches in Radio-4, which was a transmitter space that also had a small compartment attached for TACAN (tactical air navigation—I think). One of the guys fell asleep on a mid-watch in a lone transmitter space, and the chief walked in on him. When the chief touched him on the shoulder, the guy puts his hand up (like “hold on a second”) and then says, “Amen.” The chief never said a word. On the ’61 Med cruise a couple of ETs and I operated a “ham radio” station that ship’s funds had purchased to facilitate calls home from the Med. Whenever we were off duty we managed the station and “phone-patched” crewmembers to their loved ones back in the states. We enjoyed it as much as they did (that’s why it is a hobby). I have lots of memories, but most wouldn’t be of general interest—and I’m not sure this has been. My two years on the Newport News represent a major period in my life. I literally “grew up” aboard her, and loved it more than I hated it. I can’t imagine a better ship and a better crew! We all pissed and moaned from time to time—we’d be weird if we hadn’t. But, isn’t it remarkable at how we all looked for, and found her on the internet? Just can’t let go! I guess we turned out to be “lifers” after all. Anchors aweigh! Frank Dean, OR ’60-62
|
||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||