We were Sailors Once-and Nuts (but some were crazy)

I remember Bumper most of all. He more than all the rest of the nuts I shared a barracks with beside the golf course at North Island, San Diego, was a most unforgettable character. Bumper would wake up and start getting dressed only to find one of his shoes missing. The following morning it would be replaced only to find the other missing. He would throw a fit, running through the barracks screaming obscenities, accusing anyone in his path. Most weekends he would spend in the brig or city jail for public drunkenness. During the WestPac cruises he would be confined to the ship for contracting the clap. On the next visit he would be confined again for contracting the clap from the same woman. He reminds me of the John Belushi character in Animal House. He’s probably a senator now. On one occasion his friends came through the barracks collecting donations for his bail money. “We’re trying to get $150 together to get Bumper out of jail”. Later that night their drunken sobs could be heard through the building. “We tried Man. We really tried for you Bumper. It just a sad state of affairs Man, but those cheap sunsabitches just didn’t cough up enough to get you out. We wish you were here Man. We only raised enough for two lousy quarts of Jim Beam. Poor Bumper.” they would sob. On one occasion they somehow blamed Bumpers sad state of affairs on the Admiral. They were all court-martialed for jumping up and down drunk and naked on the roof of the Barracks yelling: “Fuck the Admiral” when the Admiral and friends were out on the golf course. Bumper, like most of the rest of us were victims of the Draft and couldn’t wait to get out of the Navy. In retrospect, for some of us anyway, it was the best time of our lives. After Bumper got discharged he found it hard to leave and kept showing up at the barracks. He slept in the barracks for two weeks as a civilian before finally wandering off.

Some of the Officers were just as crazy, but they traveled in a different circle. Usually we didn’t mix company. There were officer’s hangouts in Coronado and enlisted hangouts. Theirs were watering holes where they usually showed up with their wives and girlfriends. Ours were just bars where we showed up looking for one night stands. We once decided to crash into one of their watering holes. We just intended on going in and acting obnoxious for a while then getting asked to leave. Ripper and his buddy had other ideas. We all crowded into the place and elbowed our way up to stools at the bar. We ordered drink after drink, getting louder and acting worse with each one. “I’m getting sick” Ripper yelled. “I think I’m going to puke.” He yelled. Soon he had the attention of the people standing around him, who started moving away as he progressively got louder and sicker. The crowd moved a few more feet back after he made a puking sound while clandestinely tossing his jar of chili sauce hidden under his shirt on to the bar. His collaborator, sitting next to him shoved him aside, where upon he made a big show of falling off his bar stool on to the floor. His collaborator then moved into his barstool and began picking through the sauce, acting totally wasted. “One meat, “ he yelled. “one Bean “ as he fingered the sauce. “Two meats…two beans” as he continued finger-painting in the sauce. Pretending to be in his own world. “Ahh! Tomato “ he screamed as he picked up a piece of a red glob and lifted it up in the air and dropped it into his mouth. That cleared the place.

Mr. Thurston. I don’t remember his first name but he was a full lieutenant at age 19 and so wild we wish he was one of us. We were all back aboard after a night of liberty in Yokosuka, Japan. “Where’s Thurston ?” I heard the Skipper asking one of his officers. “Dunno Sir” came the reply. “He’s not in his stateroom.” Soon the whole squadron was abuzz with the missing officer’s whereabouts. The ship was due to pull away from the quay wall and he was nowhere to be found. An announcement over the ships horn brought no reply from the missing lieutenant. We were all worried because missing a ships movement was an inexcusable offense in the Navy. If you missed a ships movement without a legitimate excuse you had better be either captured by the communists or dead. Everyone in the squadron was standing on the flight deck hoping he would show up any minute. Even the Skipper was there. Soon the dock workers began loosing the mooring lines that held the ship to the dock. As the ship started moving away from the quay a taxi cab came hauling down the dock toward the ship and screeched to a halt, doors flying open, three women yelling “You stay with us one more night ThurstySan. You stay please. You nummer one goodtime sailorboy Thurstysan! ThurstySan jumping out of the cab, hurriedly kissing each one, throwing a loose wad of yen at the driver, bills flying and swirling while trying to tear himself away and running toward the ship. “Throw me a line boys, he yelled. One of the ships bosons heaved a line at him with a loop in the end. He stepped into the loop and grabbed fast on the line and we quickly took up the slack and began running across the deck to haul him up the 100 feet or so. The distance from the ship to the dock by that time was about 30’ and with his foot in the loop he jumped off the dock and swung toward the ship. All the time the ship’s captain watching from the quarterdeck shaking his head. ThurstySan left the dock and swung toward the ship smacking full face into the hull. It knocked him out cold and his foot slipped through the loop. We hauled him up with the squadron’s Master Chief yelling: “Heave lads, Heave! Mr. Thurston was out cold and hanging upside down, cheap souvenirs and yen notes spilling out of his pockets as we hauled him aboard. “He so horny we fuck him all night!”, yelled one of the girls on the dock.

Officer or enlisted there was one place in San Diego where we all went. Fred Finn started a speakeasy type bar in an abandoned warehouse. He played rinkydink piano with a motley band to a full house every night- even with a $5 cover charge. The beer was $2.25 a pitcher. His wife Mickey played the banjo occasionally. He had a great repertoire and lots of tricks to keep the crowd entertained like a moving spotlight that shined from the ceiling to hi-lite the waitresses behinds as a shrill whistle sounded off. What a place that was. Fred and his crew would man an old fire truck they would ride in the parades and a big cannon they would shoot off at Charger games. We spent a lot of time at Mickey Finns swilling pitcher after pitcher and meeting girls. At that time in the early ‘60s $2.25 was an expensive pitcher of beer , but worth it. One night a waitress approached our table and announced that one of the patrons had bought us a pitcher. She wouldn’t say who. After we finished that one she came over with another, then another, then another. We never learned who bought us all that beer but we had to give up before he quit buying- whoever it was.

At that time my buddy Dan and I drove sports cars. He had an MG A and me an Austin Healey Bugeye Sprite. We bought them at the same time in L.A. The car lots had acres of them and you could have any one of them for $1000 each. There was a Bank of America about a block from Finns and on our way there one night Dan found a survival flare that I kept in the passenger door side pocket. He thought it would be a good idea to fire off the smoke end and hold it up while driving down the road, which he did. It got too much for him to hold and he threw it away. As chance would have it we were just passing that bank and the flare rolled right up to its outside marble façade. It was protest time in those days and the driver behind us must have thought that were bombing the bank. Un beknownst to us he got my license # and called the cops. We were working our way through our first pitcher when Fred announced that the cops were waiting to speak to the owner of the red Sprite in the parking lot. We both emerged from the back door to be greeted by three uniformed officers and a detective. The first thing they did was separate us and begin questioning. I yelled over to Dan: “They don’t have a thing on us Dan. Don’t tell them anything”. “Look Son. Your buddy over there is being straight with us and explaining what happened. Mean time you are over here playing sea lawyer. Just tell us what happened and we’ll go easy on you. Otherwise you will be causing a lot more trouble for yourself than you are in right now.”

That got my attention so I blamed it all on Dan. After getting our units, the name of our Skipper, addresses, drivers license numbers I managed to convince them that we had no intention of pulling a Berkley and burn down the bank. They said that if we went back and cleaned off the face of the bank they wouldn’t take us to jail, but they would still have to file a report with our unit commander. We had no cleaning materials but our tee shirts. There was a water spigot across the road from the bank and we spent the next three hours wiping the stain, wringing out the tee shirts and hopping across the road for more water. Occasionally one of the black and white’s would show up to say. “You guys are going to jail if you don’t get it all off.” And then again with “You guys are never going to get that bank cleaned.” All the while we are scrubbing and running back across the road thinking that they will throw us in jail for sure and the Chief will have to come bail us out. Around 2am we eventually got it looking presentable. The next day we spoke to our buddy Operations Petty Officer Hank. I won’t mention his last name, who intercepted the letter to the Skipper and sixed it. Whew!

Petty Officer Hank, our squadron Ops Petty Officer. There was a guy that had his stuff together. I never hung with him personally, but he impressed me as one smart cookie. Street smarts. He had a commercial pilots license and the Officers would let him fly the aircraft occasionally. I was a radar/sonar operator. Our squadron flew the S2 Tracker. It was a multi-engine sub hunter with R1820 1200 horsepower twin engines. I would be sitting in the back with the pilot and Hank would be up in the left seat doing touch and goes. What a time. Hank at that time owned 5 rental houses in Coronado, one of the richest areas in California. He had a 40’ yacht moored at the Coronado Yacht club, and him an E6. Hank was switched on. Once I heard him answer one of the Officers with: “Can’t handle that Sir? Want me to get a seaman recruit to do it for you Sir?” I didn’t think much of it at the time, but to deep-six the cops' letter addressed to the Skipper took confidence- and balls. Hank was a rare individual. I was fortunate to know him.

One day I was sitting in the Squadron Hangar Crapper reading the walls. I recognized one of the scripts and wrote an answer. Young and stupid doesn’t describe someone who would write on the Squadron wall, then sign his name to it, but there I was. About a week later I was called into the Leading Chief’s office and asked to sign my name on a sheet of paper, which I did. We then marched down to the head, the Chief and me and the squadron legal officer. The chief held up my signature next to my name on the wall and said: “Do you deny that this is your signature?” I looked at the legal officer and said: “Do I have to say anything Sir?”. “You don’t have to say anything Michael.” I got the impression that he was a little disgusted with the Chief trying to nail someone for writing on the shithouse wall. I looked at the Chief and said that I wasn’t going to say anything. He stepped back, put his hands on his hips and said. “Well, it looks like we will have to call in the CID in on this” The CID I thought. For writing on the bathroom wall?

I had all I could do to contain myself from breaking out laughing. A week went by before I was assigned to latrine duty. I scrubbed that head each day and was instructed to call the Officer of the Day when finished, whereupon he would arrive, inspect the head and announce: “Not good enough Michael. Do it over.” Young and dumb as I was, instead of just sitting there for a few hours and calling him again, I would actually do it over only to have him inspect and announce: “Still not good enough. Do it over.” Ahh Youth! Looking back I have little doubt that the Chief actually called the CID only to be drowned out in laughter as they hung up on him.

Being trained by the Navy as an avionics technician, I thought I would better my electronic skills by working in the shop rather than on the line. In the shop we actually got to dig into the radios and nav gear found faulty by the avionics techs that worked on the line. One day I was approached by the Warrant Officer in charge of the shop. “Michael! How many times have I told you to get a haircut?” It was never short enough, it seemed. “Michael, you go down to the base legal officer and show him your haircut.” I then trundled off to the base legal officer. “What can I do for you Son?” , he said after in entered his office, stood at attention and said: “Reporting as ordered Sir.” My shop Chief ordered me to report to you for a haircut inspection sir”, I replied. “What? What for?” “Dunno Sir. The shop chief is not happy with my haircut I think”, said I. He looked at me and seemed to come unglued. “Who sent you down here for me to inspect your haircut? What is his name and phone number?” He then got on the phone. “What in the hell do you think you are doing sending your men to me for haircut inspections? Do you think the legal office has nothing better to do than this? Chief if you can’t do your job its no concern of mine. If you send anyone else to this office for haircut inspections I will put you on report”. “Son. You are dismissed.” I did an about face and marched out of the office. Looking back, It is laughable, but at the time it was one more reason why I wanted out of the Navy. Those people were crazy.

Haircuts were always an issue. Once on the ship I got disgusted with always being pestered about my hair being too long. So I shaved my head. My mates helped me. Except for a little knot of hair about an inch and a half tall right in the middle of the top of my head. Somebody ratted on me and the next morning during muster on the Hangardeck the chief yells. “Squadron. Attenshun! Hats—OFF. The chief made a bee line for me. He was about 5’2. Looking up at me he began yelling. “What are you doing with a haircut like that Michael? Even though my haircut was more than regulation, the knot was more than he thought standard. I glanced over at the rest of the squadron. The officers were standing there shaking their heads. As if to say. “Pathetic, simply disgraceful”. “You get below and shave that ridiculous knot off your head!” “Yes Chief” I replied. I was worried. I did it as a joke but didn’t think anyone would worry about it. After all. It was regulation. I think it was around that time I got me a short-timers chain.

When we were little my brother used to follow me around. Being a typical big brother who held his little brother in contempt I kept yelling at him to stop following me around. One day I said to our mother. “Mom. Tell Jerry to quit following me around” whereupon she replied with: “Jerry. Quit following your brother around.” From that day on Jerry never followed me or anyone else around. At the grand age of about 4 jerry became his own man—and for approximately the next 8 years, my chief competitor. It seemed he spent his every waking moment thinking up ways to get me into trouble. What was really upsetting was he was successful at it. The only time he was caught was once when he was hanging over the balcony with his hands around his throat making choking sounds pretending I was beating him up and mom stepped out from under the staircase and caught him. There he was with his hands around his throat and me standing about halfway up the stairs. Small compensation for all the times he stood by smirking while I got swatted by Pop for something he had framed me for. In my frustration I would take a poke at him every once in a while. Pop once said to me: “If you hit your brother again I’m going to give you a backside warming you won’t ever forget.” That was music to Jerry’s ears. For fear of my father I never touched him and endured his torments without reacting. One day in Germany it got to be too much. I was sitting in my room doing my homework when he darkened my door with his typical litany of verbal torments. “Why don’t you hit me? C’mon. Pop’s sitting down the hall at the dining room table. Go ahead. Hit me. Whattsamatter Chicken? You’re chicken aren’t you. Cluck cluck acluck buck buck a cluck.” My patience at the end of its rope I got up, grabbed him by his shoulders, lifted him up and threw him against the wall across the hall. Even as he was sliding down the wall toward the floor he looked down the hall toward Pop at a loss for words, pointing at me, mouth agape. “Charlie hit me”, he gleefully announced. I came out of the room and looked at Pop. “Well, He probably had a good reason.” Was his reply. Wow! At that moment. My image of my Dad grew to immense proportions. Later when I was about 16 Jer and I became fast friends for life. But then he showed up to visit me at North Island.

I have no idea what he was doing in San Diego. I must have been around 20 at the time, which would put him at 16. The family was living in St. Louis, but here he was by himself in San Diego. I had no place to put him up so I hid him in the barracks. He spent about two weeks sleeping in the barracks. We would go out and party. I would take him out and we would meet girls and goof off, riding around in my Bugeye Sprite. But then I had to leave on a two week cruise aboard the Yorktown for a Carqual. That is short for Carrier Qualifications. We would float around off the coast of California practicing Operational exercises on the USS Yorktown. Innocently I told Jerry. “ok here is the keys to my locker. Just make yourself scarce and sleep in my bunk till I get back. I’m putting the keys to the Sprite in my locker but don’t drive it. Here is some money so you can eat at the gedunk, the base snackbar. They won’t ask you for any ID there.”

When I returned Jerry is under house arrest and I am quickly ushered into the office of the CID to explain all of the tools etc they found in my car after they stopped Jerry for as they called it “zipping around base” in my Sprite. I explained that he was visiting me, but denied that I had ever told him to sleep in the barracks. They said they were going to do an investigation and released jerry. I told Jer to leave the base and for the next few months friends were approaching me and telling me that the CID was around asking questions, trying to place the tools that were found in the back of my car. Truth is that if I found a tool on the mat or anywhere else I would inspect it for identifying marks and if I couldn’t find who it belonged to, throw it in the back of the Sprite. Apparently the CID came up with nothing and about two months later called me into their office. “There is the story on you” as he threw down a sheaf of papers about two inches thick on the table. As I was beginning to answer he said “Don’t say a thing. I don’t want to hear a thing out of you. Shut up before you get yourself in more trouble than you are already in. We have decided not to prosecute you so you are dismissed, but that is the story on you. Don’t touch that! Just leave and count yourself lucky” So I left and counted myself lucky while telling myself. “They didn’t find a thing on me.” Jerry joined the Army and went to the Nam where he got shot up a couple of times. The next time I saw him was in 1969. He got discharged from Walter Reed and the army and came to visit me while I was attending San Diego State. He lived a good life and worked in Ocean Beach for the next 40 years and died in 2008. He always told me that he led his life watching me and doing the opposite. I sure miss you Bro.