“Deployment,” sounded a bit ominous to kid from the sticks that had barely been over the state line to beat his car up on the drag strip. However, I had grown wings: gone to CA for boot, IL for school, FL to catch the ship, and caught the ship in Cuba – I was a world traveler. “We” were going “to the Med,” whoopee. More hours of 130 degF heat in the engine room on essentially a 12 hour off/on basis, and that was when everything was running right. On a ship that was as old as I was, that was a lot to ask for.
However the ship made it across the Atlantic in one piece, and so did the crew that had grown from 3000 (normal complement to run the ship) to a little over 5000 with the addition of the air wing; I was on an aircraft carrier. The small floating airport had more people on it than existed in my hometown.
I was still considered “a boot,” so I still had the “Messenger Watch” which required me to make an hourly round through the engine room, shaft alley and stern tube. The propeller connects to the engine (steam turbine) via a very long shaft. The shaft alley is a space that has a bearing to support the shaft; similarly, the stern tube is the last space before the shaft exits the ship so it has a bearing and a cooling water supply for the shaft seal. What this equated to was going up and down ladders between decks 2 & 7 three times an hour for a four hour shift. The great thing about shaft alleys and stern tubes is that you were guaranteed to be the only one in there during your shift. Perfect place to flash back to fantasy land and take matters into hand. It was either that or wake up stuck to your mattress. At least that’s what I thought back in those days.
Our first port was Rota, Spain which had a small (I guess it still does) USN presence. Being so large, a carrier just doesn’t ‘tie-up” to the pier. The crew goes ashore via “liberty boats” that are 80 ft diesel powered launches. My first liberty call in a foreign land, and I did what any other sailor did; got hammered and made back to the boat. Then I could look forward to getting sick later as I was unaccustomed to foreign beer. Of course I was properly hung over the next day which was a “duty day;” nothing says “stupid” more than knowingly contributing to a hang over that you can enjoy in a noisy engine room (remember messenger watch?). That pattern continued until we left for the Straits of Gibraltar and entered the Mediterranean Sea; next stop – Naples, Italy (the armpit of the Med).
Naples was home to a NATO base and for some reason the ‘Hey Joes’ were allowed to come aboard and sell their wares. The Italians called every American sailor “Joe;” some bizarre carryover from “GI Joe” in WWII. A typical bargaining session began with “Hey Joe, I got …” which could be anything from patches, trinkets, porn, and once you saw them off ship it turned to where to get drunk, dope, or hookers.
And yes, that was my first exposure to porn in the form of nasty Italian smut magazines that dear old Uncle Sam allowed to be sold on the forward mess decks of our ship. You’re probably surprised that was my first exposure, but bear in mind I was 18 at the time and sowed a lot of oats from graduation in May to boot camp the following January.
We made a lot of port calls in Naples since there were not many places that wanted to have a carrier full of idiots storm their shores. Every port was the same story, get drunk, get laid or both. Despite all of the brain cells that I killed on my first deployment, I still remember one night in particular. Drunk as usual and hooking up with an attractive, young olive skinned girl; she leads me through a serpentine path to wherever the bed is so we can consummate our arrangement. I wasn’t too drunk not to notice, but I was drunk enough not to care, as she led me through her family’s dining room to her own bed. I don’t recall the exact number of people present, but her parents and younger siblings were all seated at the table. I remember the father sitting their like he was chiseled from stone, eyes straight ahead, and no sound as I staggered through his home with a beer in one hand and the hand of his daughter in another. I cannot fathom how a father could sanction such an act with his daughter – under his own roof.
After posting this, I asked myself the obvious question: “How could I?” The answer is that I had no clue; I thought I was doing what was considered “normal” for a male my age.
On to Matrimony – First Contact.
Or back to the previous blog Blue Water Train.
babychristian55 