My mother was not at all enthusiastic about my decision to join the Navy. Moms worry. She had a lot to say about it. The military is dangerous, college is safer, blah blah blah. I knew that was coming. But I wasn’t sure how my father would react. He did a four-year stint in the US Air Force during the Korean War to avoid being drafted into the Army. How would he respond? I had no idea.
Despite anticipating various possible talks he could have with me, his actual response came as a bit of a surprise. He only said seven words total. I didn’t understand it at the time, but I have to say looking back now, I can’t believe how on the mark those seven words were upon his discovery of my secret enlistment:
“You will find the military terribly inefficient.”
That’s all he ever said on the subject prior to my ass shipping out for boot camp. I dismissed it as old man speak. I was eighteen and had no idea what was ahead of me. I just wanted to be self-sufficient and out of my mother’s house. But inefficient? The U.S. military? The greatest fighting force the world has ever known? That sounded preposterous to me.
Whatever, old man.
Yet old men are often wise. In my three years of experience thus far, I had found his seven words were most certainly the words of wisdom. Because I did indeed find the military to be terribly, terribly, terribly inefficient. It was proven beyond a shadow of a doubt each and every time they made a particular announcement over the 1MC.
But since that particular announcement was only made before going out to sea, and we had just pulled into Pearl upon completion of the Tactical Readiness Exam, it would be a few days before I heard those inefficiency-proving words reverberate inside the boat’s hull. At that exact moment, I was only concerned with going home, a task made more difficult with my Marauder under a cover in the Napunani parking garage.
Since I got a ride to the boat from my twidget roommate with a car, I figured I would be able to get a ride back from that same twidget. But I figured wrong. He had duty. What I didn’t figure on was Jay-Jay offering me a ride home as he lived in Aiea, which was the opposite direction of my Ala Napunani apartment in Moanalua.
“Dude, that’s taking you out of your way.”
“Don’t worry, dude. It’s not that far out of the way. Besides, I want to show you something.”
“Oh! Dude, did you fix your cooling fan problem? Was it the temperature switch or the fan motor itself?”
“No, I didn’t fi—just… you’ll see, dude.”
What I saw when we walked to the parking lot and oddly not being able to spot the silver shitbox island beater was that he had a brand-new pickup. Instead of fixing the Chevy Cavalier, he bought a Dodge Ram. Seemed out of character for him. I mean, the not fixing his car part was definitely on brand—he was the first to admit he was no mechanic despite the US Navy arbitrarily declaring him to be one—but spending a ton of money definitely was not his brand. You see, this truck could be no more than four years old as it was the “Peterbilt-style” Ram which debuted in 1994.
He’s supposed to be one of those super rare fiscally responsible sailors! He’s supposed to be frugal!
Spending money didn’t bother me though. I was pretty good at it. Plus, I approved his choice of make. I was a diehard Mopar man (Mopar being a naval-style portmanteau for “Motor Parts Division of Chrysler” and thus the most common nickname for any Chrysler, Dodge, or Plymouth product).
I bought a used previous generation Dodge Ram pickup truck for my first car. It was now sitting outside in a storage facility way out on Long Island instead of being on my Hawaiian island.
The US Navy’s information packet for moving to Hawaii made it appear that a vehicle as large as my truck would be as out of place on Oahu as it would be on the tiny winding streets of little Italian islands like Capri or La Maddalena. But the info packet was wrong! And now instead of me, it was Jay-Jay driving a big ass Dodge Ram pickup truck on Hawaii!
While his Ram was a beautiful shade of green (emerald green metallic I believe), there were two unsettling things which caught my eye. First, the grille was unpainted grey plastic. That’s a big aesthetic no-no for me. Grilles should be nice and shiny chrome or at least painted body color! I absolutely hate the unfinished look of grey plastic parts on automobiles!
Second, it was very low to the ground with tiny little knob-less car tires. How would he drive over rocks and fallen trees and through the mud? I put a lift kit and a set of fairly big, knobby mud tires on my Ram truck for such contingencies. So to me, his Ram looked awfully low. It didn’t make any sense. Then I thought of something unthinkable.
Wait a minute. Could this truck with the skinny little pizza cutters be a two-wheel drive pickup? No way! Who would buy such a basic vehicle!?!
Jay-Jay. Jay-Jay would. It was starting to make sense. This was on brand for him. This was the least expensive form of Ram available. I had different priorities from Jay-Jay. I needed performance, not affordability or reliability. I’d rather an older top-of-the-line vehicle with mechanical issues to tend to than a newer bare-bones vehicular appliance.
My Mopar, a 1985 Dodge W150 Power Ram, was four-wheel drive with the shortest wheelbase possible (standard cab & six-foot bed combo), but with the largest V8 engine available in a Chrysler product at the time, the 360ci (5.9L) LA series small block.
Note that Chrysler discontinued their 400 ci (6.6L) and 440ci (7.2L) B and RB series big blocks by 1979.
My Ram with its 4” lift kit and 33” Super Swamper tires—able to drive over rocks and fallen trees and through the mud—plus with the shiny chrome grille from a 1993 model, and the shiny chrome “wagon wheel” rims, just looked right to me. And to a lot of people who would honk and give me the thumbs up after pointing to my Ram obviously thought so too.
As far as trim levels go, the older generation of Ram like mine were designated Royal, Prospector, and Miser. Mine was a Prospector. I wasn’t sure what the trim levels of his next generation of Ram were called, but with his grey plastic grille, painted steel wheels, and pizza cutter tires, his was about the most miserly miser I could ever imagine.
Once inside, my two-wheel drive suspicions were confirmed. I saw no 4×4 transfer case shift lever poking up out of the floor. I also spied roll up windows, a radio without a cassette or CD player, and no air conditioning. This was definitely a most miserable Mopar miser mobile. Not that I would say such things to Jay-Jay. No, I only think negatively, but try to speak positively.
“I love these new Rams. They look killer, like little big-rigs. Like they were made by Kenworth or Peterbilt or Freightliner. Nice choice of color too. It’s pretty bad ass!”
“Thanks dude. Yeah I really like it.”
“So what size engine do ya got?”
I knew there was no chance in hell he got the big one, the 5.9 liter Magnum V8. This “Magnum” was a slightly updated version of my “LA” series engine, featuring a roller camshaft, closed chamber cylinder heads, and fuel injection. These upgrades produced fifty-five more horsepower than my same-sized engine with its flat tappet cam, open chamber heads, and carburetion.
No way he had the 5.9 liter Magnum, but I left that possibility open. Nah, he probably had the trusty old dependable 5.2 liter engine. Dodge put those slightly smaller bulletproof V8’s in practically everything but their minivans. Jay-Jay surprisingly didn’t know what size his engine was when I asked him, however.
“What size?”
“Yeah, the displacement.”
“I don’t know dude. It’s an engine. It’s small enough to fit under the hood.”
“Well, I doubt it’s the five-point-nine liter. Probably the five-point-two. Does that sound about right?”
“Dude, I told you I don’t know. It’s a vee-six. That’s all I know.”
“Oh! You have vee-six? No, the five-point-two is their base vee-eight.”
“Yeah, it’s not a vee-eight. It’s a vee-six, dude.”
“Hmm… I have no idea what the displacement of their vee-six is. They used to have a straight-six that they called the slant six. It was two hundred twenty-five cubic inches, which is… three-point-seven liters, I think. Ever hear of that one, the slant six?”
“Nope.”
“Yeah, well they cocked the cylinder bank to the side about thirty degrees to clear the hood of their A-body compact cars, like their Darts, Demons, and Dusters. You know, ’cause straight sixes are so tall, and all.”
“Truly exciting, dude.”
“But they don’t make slant sixes anymore. And I know absolutely nothing about their new replacement vee-sixes. Sure you didn’t catch how many liters somewhere?”
“No dude. I don’t give a shit about the liters, and the dealer didn’t give me a fucking checkout on this thing. All I know is that it gets pretty decent gas milage, so… yeah whatever, dude. It’s a vee-six.”
All of this nearly created a short circuit in my brain with puffs of smoke coming out of my ears. I just didn’t understand the mentality of a person who would purchase a full-size pickup truck without four-wheel drive, without a big ass V8, without a tape-deck or CD player to blast some tunes, and without air conditioning or even a shiny chrome grille. This was just baffling to me. But he did make it make some sense pretty quickly after my next question.
“So dude, if you’re worried about gas milage, what made you get a big ass pickup truck?”
“Wanted something I could throw my mountain bike and surfboard into.”
“Ah that makes sen—whoa wait. You surf?”
“Yeah.”
“No way! Really?”
“Yeah.”
“Okay, now that’s fucking bad ass. I had no idea you surfed! I’ve surfed, uh, how many times now? Hmm… yeah, so far in total… exactly zero times.”
“Bummer dude.”
“Yeah, especially since I don’t think you’re even allowed to live in Hawaii without learning to surf. It’s like against the law or something.”
“Did you read that in the bullshit navy welcome aboard packet?”
“Most likely.”
“Right. Well, what are you doing this weekend?”
“I dunno. I don’t really plan that far out. Probably go to Dejà—”
“—Vu?”
“Yeah, I guess so. They have really good beer prices there, you know?”
“Right. Good beer prices. Sure, dude.”
“Yeah, well…”
“Yeah well, I’m going surfing at least one more time before we’re stuck inside that big black fucking pig boat for half a fucking year. I have an extra board if you wanna go surfing with me before you go to the Vu.”
“Dude, that would be sweet. Yeah, I gotta learn to surf before I get kicked off this island or they throw me in prison or something.”
That changed everything. If he was going to let me use one of his surfboards, I could definitely forgive him for buying a two-wheel drive pickup with a V6 engine, roll up windows, no tape-deck, and no air conditioning or shiny chrome grille. I was gonna have to let all that slide. I mean the guy wasn’t a speed demon as far as I could tell, and he apparently had no desire to drive over rocks and fallen trees and through the mud.
All he wanted was an inexpensive, reliable mode of transportation that could also haul surfboards and mountain bikes. Made sense. His frugal approach to purchases was not something my brain was wired to do, but it made sense looking at it from a distance. I pictured him ordering a fembot in the coming 21st century:
Look, anything more than an A-cup is a waste, and I’m not going for that fancy vagina package if the anus comes standard.
I think that’s how his brain worked. Yet there was still something a little off. Wouldn’t the most economically prudent option for Jay-Jay be to repair his Cavalier and buy a cargo rack to strap boards and bikes onto it? Then again remember, Jay-Jay was the first to admit that he was no mechanic despite being officially classified as one by the Navy.
So that begs the question, why weren’t naval mechanics actual mechanics? You see, most of the nuclear navy’s so called “mechanics” had no idea what they were getting into. Recruiters were vague about the whole nuclear field, perhaps purposefully so. They didn’t explain things like standing watch or getting monthly PMS for example. Hell, my recruiter—a sonar tech on subs—even claimed he didn’t know what it was like in the engineering spaces because non-nukes weren’t allowed back there. That was a blatant lie.
Can’t believe a fellow ginger would con one of his own people!
The recruiters—including that red-headed reprobate—did mention that you’d have to select one of three nuke field ratings: machinist’s mate (knuckle dragger), electrician’s mate (wire-biter), or electronics technician (twidget). They further stated that there were two sub-specialties for machinist’s mates available: welders (designated heroes) and chemists (squats!!!). Note that most nuke mechanics will not be granted either sub-specialty. Most will become straight up knuckle-dragging so-called “mechanics.”
Without hesitation, I immediately requested the mechanic rate as I had my eyes on that designated hero welder slot. Apparently, I was a rarity as not too many potential nuke recruits voluntarily signed up to be a mechanic.
By far, most choose electronics technician (as did Jay-Jay) and many of the rest choose electrician. So very few choose mechanic unless they wanted to become a chemistry squat or a welding hero. This created quite a surprise and a big disappointment for a number of hopeful sailors.
None of us knew what we were getting into as there was no internet during high school for us to easily learn about things such as for what you were about to sign six years of your life away. If any of my fellow high school students wanted to learn about this naval nuclear power business, we would either have to talk to someone in that field (which even today is ever so rare) or go to the library and peruse the 620 section of the Dewey Decimal System. Might be one or two books about it there provided that they weren’t checked out or stolen.
So, most of us had no idea what the naval nuclear field entailed. Therefore, our brains had to fill in this knowledge vacuum with something. But with what? One might see how it would be easy for our tiny little uninformed teenage brains to glom onto scenes in the engineering section of the Enterprise from Star Trek. A nuclear submarine must be something like that spaceship!
Wait, something would occasionally break down on these sophisticated underwater spaceships? I guess maybe we would remove a panel and stick a blinking and whirring little electronic device inside it to fix a problem. There clearly would be no wrenches or grease used in a nuclear reactor plant. Clearly not. That would be barbaric! So last century! Everything would be computerized, and the ship would be packed with the latest, most advanced technology ever invented! Stepping onboard a nuclear submarine would be like stepping into the future!
The reality was that the submarine was indeed like stepping into the future—if you were a sailor from the 1940’s. Then our sophisticated underwater spaceships just sort of got stuck in time.
I’ve been aboard the museum ship USS Nautilus (SSN-571), the first nuclear powered vessel ever made, completed in 1954, and I assure you it is virtually indistinguishable inside from a Los Angeles class boat, of which the first in class commissioned nearly a quarter of a century later in 1976.
In fact, pictures I had seen of the ultra-modern Seawolf and Virginia class boats didn’t look all that different either, in which the first in classes were commissioned in 1997 and 2004 respectively.
What’s with the stagnation? One could lay it at the feet of the “father of the nuclear navy,” a very cautious Admiral Hyman G. Rickover. He was notoriously anti-automation. He did not trust computers. Everything installed inside his nuclear-powered vessels had to utilize tried-and-true, established technology. He would not introduce anything cutting-edge to his boats, as such technologies had no track records.
I had previously mentioned that a mechanic from a World War One battleship would have little problem operating the engine room of a nuclear-powered submarine. I do stand by that statement, but perhaps they might melt down the reactor. Eh, details.
So I will now revise this statement by saying that sailors from the early 1950’s who operated the USS Nautilus (SSN-571) would also be able to operate the USS Los Angeles (SSN-688), the USS Seawolf (SSN-21), and the USS Virginia (SSN-774) class submarines with little difficulty. No blinking and whirring electronic devices needed. Just lots of grease and illegal toolboxes full of wrenches.
Of course, I know that now. I didn’t know that then when I signed the enlistment papers. It was still an underwater USS Enterprise (NCC-1701) to me and probably to people like Jay-Jay. I am certain he wanted his own personal blinking and whirring little electronic device and therefore signed the enlistment papers for the twidget electronics technician rating. (He also requested a ballistic missile submarine out of Georgia.)
The Navy had other plans for Jay-Jay, however. They made him a mechanic on an attack submarine out of Hawaii. (While he may not have learned to fix mechanical things, at least he learned how to surf!) Note that Jay-Jay’s story was far from unique. It was something I had heard countless times since joining the fleet. There were just too many recruits that wanted to be twidgets for the available slots. But you know what rating had plenty of available slots? Yup, machinist’s mates. So, now you know why the Navy became filled with all these non-mechanic “mechanics.”
The next day, I braved the flatulence-filled morning muster with more enthusiasm than usual as I was eagerly anticipating being assigned some real, honest-to-goodness mechanical work. Usually, I was assigned mundane preventative maintenance jobs like changing oil or cleaning tubes in a cooler. God, I hated getting PMS. Most of the time, being a submarine mechanic was really fucking boring.
But this day, I knew there was a troubleshooting type job to do, and that is what I lived for. It’s a natural high for me to diagnose and repair a machine that had previously become a paperweight. Then I stand there pointing to the perfectly functioning mechanism thinking, “I did that.”
I’m telling you, it’s a natural high. And this morning, it was time to get high! You see, during the TRE underway, I had heard that the starboard side high pressure air compressor began vibrating even more violently than “normal.” (Normal being enough to crack that fitting on the discharge line, the one that I welded back together.) My weld repair on the discharge line still held, but not only was the vibration worse now, the air compressor’s output was also well below spec.
Something was seriously wrong with it. That’s why I was salivating for the assignment of troubleshooting and repairing that sick Hi-Pac. I was jonesing for that high, and Chief Queen had just brought the compressor up during the morning meeting! But I wondered who I’d be working with. Hopefully not one of the non-mechanic mechanics.
Damn these loud ass ventilation fans, I’d better listen up… okay, okay… here it is… Jay-Jay okay and… Wait! Did Queen La Cheifa just assign Jay-Jay and Carlos the tear-down of the starboard Hi-Pac but not me!?! How the hell did he not call out my name for this assignment!?! I’m a motorhead! He can’t be serious! This is bullshit! This is absolutely fucking bullshit!!!
I couldn’t believe my ears. What the fuck!?! Queen knew I’ve been dying to do some real mechanical work—everyone knew that. I was the only guy who willingly signed up to be a machinist’s mate when enlisting. I loved being a mechanic. I loved fixing things! I loved getting my high! I needed to get high!!! But fucking Queen La Cheifa assigned this work to not one, but to two non-mechanic mechanics!
Was there perhaps a good reason for this? Like maybe I had a different equally worthy repair job to do? No! Not in the slightest! What was my assignment? He gave me fucking PMS! He had me inspecting god damn carbon steel piping for corrosion! That was some serious ass absolute fucking bullshit right there!!!
Jay-Jay can’t even fix his fucking Cavalier and now he’s going to fix the Hi-Pac!?! Is this a fucking joke!?!
It wasn’t a joke. Queen didn’t look at my reaction and then say,
“Just kidding. Droughton: you’re on the Hi-Pac. Vanderbilt: you inspect the pipes for corrosion in the auxiliary seawater bay.”
I had a really hard time understanding why Chief Queen would do this to me. Why wouldn’t he assign me this work? It was almost like he did this on purpose to make everyone as miserable as possible. I desperately wanted to do that work but wasn’t allowed to. Jay-Jay didn’t want to do it (as he told me later) but had to. Carlos was indifferent; it was just work to him like vacuuming out a bilge with a shop-vac. To him, work was work.
I couldn’t figure out the why in La Chiefa’s worker selection. It made no sense. Maybe he was angry at me the day he came up with the job assignments for some reason. Maybe he heard me say “dude” in the engine room while he was drafting the assignment sheet. Maybe he just plain didn’t like me because of all my smart-ass quips.
Or maybe it was because of Jay-Jay. Maybe Queen didn’t like him either because he knew Jay-Jay thought he was a psychopath and hated his fucking guts. But you know what? Now I was beginning to hate Queen La Chiefa guts the same way Jay-Jay did. When he read out his work assignments, it honestly felt like a slap in the face to me.
What was that for!?! I didn’t deserve that!!!
There was no excuse for this. La Chiefa knew I was absolutely dying to do this sort of work, real mechanic work, so for him not to put me on that job was something I took personally for a very long time. From that point on, whenever I saw him and his stupid Beatles bowl cut and dumb ass glasses so thick he could see the future, I just thought,
“What a fucking dick.”
I don’t know. Maybe in reality, he didn’t give the worker assignment much thought. He probably had no Machiavellian master plan to maximize our misery as I had been so absolutely convinced of by his actions. That just had to be the why. There’s no other explanation!
He’s such a fucking dick!
After “inspecting” pipes all day and seeing Jay-Jay and Carlos “working” on the starboard Hi-Pac whenever I entered or left the engine room, I went home angry. Fucking Chief Queen. What a dick.
Many people have asked me if there was a psychological exam before being assigned to submarine duty. Well yes, there was one, actually. It consisted of merely two questions:
“Do you ever get angry?”
“Yes.”
“What do you do when you get angry?”
“I blast heavy metal music as loud as I can.”
The psychiatrist (or the person playing one at the military processing station) stamped my papers and I was on my way. Well, turns out this submarine business was very effective at making me angry. And true to my answer to the counselor, I’d go home and blast Slayer. But the Hi-Pac job had me even angrier than usual. I needed something more extreme. I took a ride to the Tower Records just outside Waikiki to peruse their metal section.
I had most of what they were offering, but then, bingo. I found two fresh Napalm Death albums that I didn’t even know existed, ones which came out over the past two years. Diatribes from 1996 and Inside the Torn Apart from 1997. Guess I was too busy finishing up the Peepayleenay and then going on my Medrun to notice their latest efforts.
Well, now that I had found them, these CD’s were life savers! They were so aggressive and angry that they soothed me. Despite the rage, these two albums had a bit of an accessible “groove” to them such that I was able to get into them immediately. Typically, I needed several weeks to study a death metal album’s wall of noise before I could sink into and enjoy it. Not these two shouty but groovy ones.
I suppose it was the “nu-metal” bands that brought groove into nearly every other metal genre in the late nineties. I never liked any nu-metal bands, and fans of thrash metal and death metal tend to despise the groovy years nowadays, but I became absolutely attached to these two new-to-me groovy Napalm Death albums. With these two recently acquired weapons in my arsenal, Queen La Chiefa could not break me. I could withstand anything he threw at me.
It was simple. I would just bottle it all up, bring it home with me, then blast it away by lying on my pile-of-laundry bed with my boombox on my chest and Napalm Death on full volume. It would lull me to sleep, and I’d wake up relaxed.
So soothing!!!
Over the next couple of days, I’d see Jay-Jay and Carlos dicking around with the big Hi-Pac compressor with little progress. Fucking Chief Queen. What a dick. Those guys were on it three days and had nothing to show for it. I shook my head each time I walked by. I was confident I would have solved the problem by now. It bothered me, but I laughed it off as I had my soothing shouting sounds of my new Napalm Death albums to listen to when I got home.
By day four, I simply found it insulting, and I wasn’t letting it get a reaction from me. The worst was over, and I was nearly over it. At least that’s what I thought. But as usual, I thought wrong. It started with a 1MC announcement.
“ATTENTION ALL-HANDS, ATTENTION ALL-HANDS: STORES LOAD TO COMMENCE IN FIVE MINUTES. ALL PERSONNEL NOT ON DUTY REPORT TOPSIDE. ALL-HANDS STORES LOAD TO COMMECE IN FIVE MINUTES. REPORT TOPSIDE.”
It was time for our ninety-day stores load. We were leaving for our six-month Westpac deployment in a few days, so we were packing our boat with supplies for half our needs.
I slowly made my way up from engine room lower level for stores load after drawing pictures of insulated pipes and possible water stains on my inspection report. When I walked by the Hi-Pac in engine room mid level, I expected to see what I had been seeing. Pretty much nothing. Instead, I saw something shocking.
Oh my god! I fucking hate you Chief Queen! You’re such a dick!!!
I saw a significantly disassembled big ass reciprocating four-cylinder high-pressure air compressor, which looked an awful lot like a diesel engine from a tractor trailer. I could see the pistons and connecting rods and all sorts of parts lying around. And you could clearly see that the giant first stage connecting rod was slightly bent.
I wanted to be the one to discover the problem, you son of a bitch!!!
I thought I could withstand anything Chief Queen could throw at me, but this unexpected sight was another slap in the face, and a much harder one than usual. No, the sight of the disassembled air compressor was a punch in the gut.
Napalm Death had better be working on an even angrier album for me right fucking now.
I hadn’t looked into the Hi-Pac’s tech manual, but the whole time I was expecting an issue with a maybe a check valve leaking by. I didn’t think it was going to come down to a complete teardown of the unit. The one thing I loved more than troubleshooting and repairing something was when it required a total disassembly so I could see how things fit together in three dimensions. And that’s what Jay-Jay and Carlos had to do—without me! I know this probably sounds petty, but I was so damn jealous! And I was so damn angry!
Holy hell, I instantly needed my Napalm Death cacophony cocoon. I couldn’t wait to go home to blast it. I was so disgruntled, so frustrated, and so furious! I need those albums! But then the thought of those albums waiting for me back home calmed me down a bit.
They’re home waiting for me. They’ll be there when I get home. Just bottle it up and chill out. What the fuck am I doing tying myself into a pretzel here!?! Relax! Just fucking relax!
It was no use getting so worked up about this injustice. I couldn’t do anything about it, so it’s all wasted energy. How could I let this twist me up so much? Was perhaps Chief Queen doing this on purpose to get a reaction from me?
If so, I couldn’t let him get a rise out of me. What good would it do? It wouldn’t make my situation any better. Might actually make it worse. I tried to make myself feel nothing but indifference. Yes, we feel indifferent. There’s nothing that could be done about it. I concluded that being in the Navy was like being in a prison with a nice view out the window. I just had to suck it up and do my time.
One thousand thirty-four days to go.
Fuck the Navy but also fuck Chief Queen. I never again had respect for him. This time a line was crossed. I stopped being friendly with him that week. Time after time La Chiefa would alternate from being a dick to being your buddy. And I had always accepted him back with open arms. He’d yell at me one afternoon seemingly out of nowhere, and the next morning we were joking around again as if yesterday never happened. But that was not going to happen ever again. From this point on, I strapped my grudge into one of those little front pack baby carriers to hold to my body securely.
Here little grudge, have a kiss on the top of your head.
I would only return monosyllabic responses and icy stares whenever he talked to me, no matter how chummy he tried to get with me. I just didn’t care anymore. Whatever. He’s such a dick.
But now it was time to suffer through a different small death. The stores load. I went topside to participate in my third ninety-day loadout, something I had grown to hate with a passion. My father had warned me about exactly this sort of situation four years earlier almost to the day, right after I signed my enlistment papers.
Unlike the newer and much larger Ohio class boats that have “logistics hatches” where supplies can be lowered by crane right into the ship, Los Angeles class boats such as my USS San Francisco have regular people-sized hatches. That means we had to load ninety days’ worth of supplies the old-fashioned way: hand-over-hand, bucket-brigade style.
The one good thing about stores load and why most of the crew like doing them was the little reward after its completion: personnel not on duty and without critical work assignments which could possibly hold up the deployment were to be dismissed. That usually worked out to around noon or so.
Pretty good deal, right? Hell yeah, fucking awesome deal actually… if you’re one of those pantywaist rates with no critical work to do. You know, like twidgets, squats, and those damn freaks in sonar. None of them would know actual work if it bit them in the ass. Those fuckers are surely skating at noon on a fucking Friday.
But the machinist’s mates like me in M-Div and the non-nuke ones in A-Div, plus the electrician’s mates in E-Div would be lucky just to get off at regular time even without a stores load. And now we were pulled off our assignments right before the weekend for this fucking four-hour delay. Okay, right about now you may be thinking I’m being overly dramatic here.
Typical sailor, always bitching and complaining about something.
You might think that since I would be using the very supplies we were about to load while underway that it only makes sense that I should help load them. Yes, it would be perfectly logical to think that, but for one fact: we had way too many fucking squids for the job!
Up on the pier, the civilian truck drivers were unloading pallet after pallet after pallet of supplies. One by one, sailors would pop out of the rear hatches to form that bucket-brigade-like line to move these boxes of frozen hamburger patties, cans of beans, cartons of milk, bags of bug juice powder, boxes of trash disposal weights, and all sorts of other shit from the pier, across the brow, over topside, down the forward-most hatch, through the passageways and into the storerooms, refrigerators, and freezers.
Pier to ship was a finite distance, and from the last two loads, I knew there were just too many damn squids to squeeze into this fucking line. And then once the stores load was complete, I’d be one of the assholes stuck on the boat on a Friday night along with the other mechanics and the electricians after all the slack-ass panty-waist sailors were cut loose. Why not allow the surplus sailors who have crucial jobs to complete prior to the underway go back down below so that they could bang out their work and maybe get off at regular time for the weekend?
The Chief of the Boat presided over the stores load ordinarily. I figured I should be able to reason with him. He’s gotta see this disparity of hours on the boat here. I mean, it’s not like the mechanics and electricians make overtime for all those extra hours. Maybe all the COB needed was for someone to mention this to him. I stated my case as to why I shouldn’t be pulled off my assignment, falsely implying I was one of the mechanics rebuilding the starboard Hi-Pac.
I knew the COB was a dumb-as-dirt coner, but even he must have known that the Hi-Pacs charge our massive air banks to 4500 psig so we can do minor things such as surface the boat in an emergency or breathe when there’s a fire consuming all our oxygen. You know, the little things.
I presented what I believed to be a solid case to him for M-Div, E-Div, and even A-Gang to return to our assignments, yet no dice. The Chief of the Boat was not swayed. It wasn’t too surprising though. That fucker loved sticking it to the nukes. Who knows, maybe some nukes picked on him for being a complete imbecile back when he was a noob. This was perhaps his way of getting back at them. What an asshole!
I should mention that the only reason this dumb-as-dirt dickhead joined the Navy was because he wasn’t smart enough to get away with the car he tried to steal. The judge said it was either jail or the Navy, at least according to him. I assumed judges only gave that choice in the movies, but I had heard those words drip out of his stupid mouth many, many times.
He absolutely loved the Navy and was actually proud of telling that story of taking something that wasn’t his from someone who likely worked very hard for many months or years to purchase, as if we were supposed to be impressed with how the Navy transformed him into the stand up, actually pay-for-goods-and-services man that he was today. Well, I certainly wasn’t. Clearly his military metamorphosis had included a lobotomy.
Despite his room temperature IQ, he was the highest-ranking enlisted scumbag on our boat. I had to endure his inescapable bullshit. He denied my request. The COB’s miniscule prefrontal cortex had concocted a simple theory in which he used to shoot down my appeal to return to my assignment:
“Everybody eats; everybody loads.”
Yes, that was a truth. But I had another truth for him.
“Well yeah everybody eats, Master Chief, but doesn’t everybody also breathe? Are you going to send them all down to help us fix the Hi-Pac after stores load?”
I had a good counterpoint, but the COB doesn’t have time to debate policy.
“Petty Officer Droughton, you will get in line and conduct stores load.”
I thought of other things mechanics and electricians would be stuck doing maintenance on as the squats, twidgets and coners all frolicked around in this Hawaiian paradise with their soon-to-be-had freedom. Everyone drinks fresh water, right? Will they help the electricians replace the heating elements of the evaporator before deployment? But then again, everybody shits too. I didn’t want to help the A-Gang mechanics clean out the poop tanks. I elected to keep any additional retorts to myself.
“Aye, Master Chief.”
Off to the stores load line I went. Yet the original problem remained. Too many fucking squids. Where the hell were we all supposed to go? How the fuck were we all going to get in on this stores load so that the COB doesn’t award punishment for non-participation? There was a solution, and that solution made me die a little on the inside each time we were forced to use it.
We just made the line S-shaped.
That’s right. The United States Navy does not conduct stores loads in nice, neat straight lines. The object is not to move supplies from the pier to the boat in the most efficient manner. No, no, no. Clearly the object is to humiliate its junior scumbag sailors. And maybe, just maybe as a bonus, also get some shit we need for a deployment on board in the process.
I joined in and suffered yet another small death as I made the line even more serpentine. This was insane. No one with a straight mind would look at this lunacy and nod with approval.
“Yeah, okay this makes sense.”
Only someone with shit for brains would think that. No, you really couldn’t get any more nonsensical than a stupid fucking S-shaped line like this. That’s precisely what I thought at that moment. But I thought wrong.
By the time all the other delinquent stragglers clamored out from deep within the bowels of the nuclear beast for stores load, not even this giant fucking zigzagging line was enough. The only way to accommodate all of us was to spiral around the pallets on the pier.
Spirals and zigzags for a line? Are you fucking kidding me!?!
I could barely take it. The stupidity was going to give me a nosebleed, and there was nothing I could do about it. I had to move to a spot next to Carlos despite my jealousy of him and his work assignment in order to retain my sanity. I’d say Carlos had become my best friend on the boat already, so he would be forgiven for trying to do the mandatory task that the tyrant Queen La Chiefa had given him.
Hell, even La Chiefa himself was off the hook at the moment. My ire was directed squarely at the Chief of the Boat now. Just looking at him made me sick. Like, why does he have such stupid proportions for a human being? He was tall, and while his hips and abdomen appeared appropriate for his height, his shoulders were just way too narrow to look right.
What’s wrong with him!?!
And then he’s all topped off with this really tiny head.
Man, that’s a tiny fucking head! What’s his deal!?!
It was like he was bred to be shot out of a cannon.
He’s so pointy!
I couldn’t fucking stand him and had express my feelings. Between catching and tossing boxes, I wasted no time opening up my line of bitching to Carlos.
“Fucking COB. You know what that asshole said to me?”
“One-tee, two-tee?”
“No dude,” I laughed while responding, “C’mon.”
“Then no, I do not know what he said to you.”
“I was trying to get him to cut the mechanics and electricians loose from this bullshit so we could get back to our fucking jobs. But no, he’s like, ‘Everybody eats; everybody loads’.”
“Are the officers not eating this underway?”
“Yeah, right? That’s a good point. I don’t see the fucking officers loading shit. Yeah, I’d like to see the COB go up to the Captain and say, ‘Everybody eats, everybody loads, mother fucker!’”
“Maybe the old man is gonna put the fast back into fast attack.”
“So now we’re fucked on a Friday. We’ll be here all night while the fucking coners are out day drinking.”
“I wouldn’t mind a nice ice-cold Dos Equis right about now.”
I dripped with contempt as I watched the Chief of the Boat standing up on a crate looking down on us.
“Fucking COB. Look at him over there with that stupid shit-eating grin, like he’s proud of himself running this total fucking cluster-fuck. I fucking hate him and his stupid fucking little, tiny head.”
“Would you say he looks microcephalic?”
“Micro.. phallic? Like small dick? Is that what it means?”
“I don’t know. But he kind of looks like an angry Muppet.”
“Oh shit yeah! Totally! With his tiny fucking head, that ridiculous-looking flattop, and those big stupid glasses? You’re right! Yeah, he looks just like Beaker.”
“Absolutely. That’s what I was thinking. He looks just like Beaker.”
“But with black hair.”
“And a nineteen-seventies porno mustache.”
“Wow that’s pretty specific. Do you watch a lot of nineteen-seventies pornos?”
“Sometimes.”
“Does your wife know about that?”
“Sometimes.”
That’s why I had to find a spot next to Carlos. He made me laugh all the time. He briefly removed me from these small hells. But eventually, you have to clock back in from your little break. I regained awareness of my surroundings. After a bit of silence, I noticed the civilian truck drivers looking at us the way I had been looking at the Chief of the Boat.
“Look at those truck drivers. I bet they’re thinking we’re totally going to lose the next war if the Russians attack us. I mean like, after seeing how we load the fucking boat?”
“Yeah, they know we’re all retarded and they’re on their own in World War Three.”
“You know what? Why don’t we just go by rank?”
“To fight in World War Three?”
“No. I mean for stores load.”
“I see how the two could be confused.”
“Dude it’s like, you know how you said you don’t see any officers tossing cans of shit down this line with us? Not to mention the chiefs. They don’t load shit either.”
“Yeah. But I think the boat is full of enough shit, so…”
“So why not keep that whole ‘rank has its privileges’ thought-process going all the way down the line? No officers or chiefs right off the bat. Then if there’s still too many people, cut the first classes loose. Still too many fucking guys? Okay, then you start cutting the second classes. You know what I mean?”
“Absolutely. I know exactly what you mean.”
“Yeah, right? It’s a good idea.”
“I don’t like it.”
“What? Why not? Because some M-Div third classes will be stuck working after stores load?”
“Nah.”
“No, listen. Don’t worry, you won’t be stuck afterwards. Think about it. The first and second classes would be doing all the M-Div work during stores load, so like, even the third classes would get off the boat earlier than if we were all jammed into this stupid fucking zig-zagging line and not working on any of our shit the whole time. So like, you don’t have to be all jealous or anything. Dude, it would totally be better for all ranks, like everybody. Even the third classes.”
“No, it’s not a jealousy thing. That’s not the reason.”
“So then what is it?”
“You know why.”
“No, I don’t. Why are you being all weird about it? I have no idea why you don’t think my plan’s any good.”
“Yes, you do. You even told me why already.”
“I did?”
“Yeah.”
“Dude, I don’t know. Just tell me.”
“It’s because everybody eats, everybody loads.”
“Oh my god. I hope that fucking Hi-Pac slides off its mount and crushes your toe.”
“Ouch. That seems a bit… vituperative, wouldn’t you say?”
“No, I wouldn’t. I have no idea what that word means.”
“Neither do I.”
As predicted, most of the crew were able to bask in their newfound noon-time freedom on a glorious day in paradise after the stores load wrapped up. Word on the street was they were all going to meet up at some fancy pants bar in downtown Honolulu for happy hour.
Carlos and I, of course, were fucked on a Friday and could not partake. At least not for happy hour. Perhaps later. He had to get back on the Hi-Pac in mid level, and I had to head back down to lower level to resume inspecting these damn carbon steel pipes.
Fucking stores load. Not enough that they have to stick it all the way in on a Friday. Have to break it off up in there too with this weather? Fucking assholes.
That’s what I was thinking climbing down the ladders. But once I entered Propulsion Lube Oil bay, my attention shifted as I stopped dead in my tracks.
“What the fuck? What the hell is all this shit?”
There were eggs everywhere. Both port and starboard sides of PLO bay were lined with cases and cases and cases of eggs ratchet strapped to the stanchions holding up the upper outboard catwalks. So many damn boxes of eggs that I could barely squeeze by them and the oil reservoir.
For fuck’s sake! How the fuck is this not going to be a problem during drills—or like during real fucking casualties!?! And I don’t remember seeing any fucking eggs on the ship’s blueprints! Isn’t this exactly what the Bull Nuke called an unauthorized shipalt? Or is that only when it’s convenient? This is fucking bullshit!
I think Naval Reactors have an absolute shit fit over storing eggs in the engine room. Could you imagine if the Captain was warned of an imminent surprise inspection by an ORSE team flying in from Washington? There would be an immediate announcement.
“NOW HEAR THIS, NOW HEAR THIS: ALL EGGS TO THE TORPEDO ROOM! REPEAT: ALL EGGS TO THE TORPEDO ROOM! ALL HANDS REPORT TO PLO BAY TO MOVE EGGS TO THE TORPEDO ROOM! ALL EGGS TO THE TORPEDO ROOM!”
But that never happened. I would have to learn to live with hundreds and hundreds and hundreds of these little white space invaders until we ate them. This gave me yet one more thing to bitch about to myself while squeezing into tight places with an inspection mirror, clipboard, and pen, just dying to get off the damn boat.
When could I leave!?!
I had no idea. I just knew that despite not having anything to do with the high-pressure air compressor reassembly, no one in M-Div could leave until it was put back together. Those not on the Hi-Pac detail just got ready to prepare to standby to leave. Once it was assembled and the word was given, all of us nuke mechanics would shoot out of the boat like it was pressurized.
For the time being, I had to just stew in my thoughts trapped way down in the belly of the beast looking for wet spots in the insulation. This entailed climbing into places not really meant for human occupation. Those with claustrophobia need not apply.
Compressed into places like that didn’t bother me, but the whole feeling trapped by the Navy sure did. That’s the only thing that truly made me feel claustrophobic. Occasionally I’d just lay limp among the pipes as if I had given up on life. If I had died there, it would take a few weeks for them to find the body. (Not like the engine room could smell any worse.)
After laying there a good long while feeling trapped by my life’s choices, I decided to go wander up to mid-level to see if I could get a good estimation of how much longer this damn compressor job would take.
You’ve got to be shitting me!
The Hi-Pac was fully reassembled, and everyone was already gone. They had forgotten about me all the way down in auxiliary seawater bay. Can’t say I blame them—other than Queen La Chiefa. Like I said, once the compressor was complete, we’d shoot out of the boat like it was pressurized. I guess I just got caught on rusty pipes when that time came.
The cool night air felt especially refreshing upon climbing out of the hatch of the sewer pipe that I had just been confined inside of for what felt like an eternity.
Nice big breath! Ahhhh!
Across the brow I asked the topside watch when all the M-Div guys left. I had been laying among the pipes roughly thirty minutes longer than I needed to be. I felt defeated. I felt incensed. I felt fucked.
I walked past where the pallets had been dropped off by the truckers for our spirals and S-shaped lines from the pier, across the brow, and into the submarine. And then I turned around to just stare in disbelief thinking about that fucking stores load.
What an absolute shit show. I would not have believed this would even be allowed to happen in the service if I hadn’t seen it with my own fucking eyes.
I couldn’t let my father know what I had just participated in, that something like this was happening in the modern military. In the greatest fighting force the world has ever known!?! No, I couldn’t tell him about this and never did tell him about this. But once honorably discharged from the Navy, I told this to everyone else. I used the stores load stories as the anecdote to explain to everyone else just how absurd serving in the military can be.
And you know what else? After each and every one of these fucking ninety-day stores load shit-shows, I realized how so completely ignorant young punks like my eighteen-year-old self can be, and how so totally wise old men really are after their years and years of experience in life. My father was one of those wise old men and he tried to warn me.
“You will find the military terribly inefficient.”
I did. I most certainly did. Fucking S-shaped lines.