Are You a True Believer?

  Written And Contributed By Horace "Dan" Giles ET1(SS)
623,630,633,640  

I looked in my bag for the thermos of coffee I’d brought, strong, black coffee, just the way a sailor likes it. It was dark, and had been for over two hours, except for the streetlights from the parking lot behind me and the stars in the sky, there was little light to see by. I found the thermos, poured myself a cup and took out an extra cup, placing the extra on top of a railing post. Although I was by myself at the moment I was expecting company, or rather, hoping for company, shortly. 

I was at Patriots Point, just across the Cooper River from Charleston, South Carolina.

Patriots Point is the location of a floating museum where the carrier USS Yorktown is now on display. Moored along with Yorktown is Clamagore, a diesel submarine, destroyer Laffey and Coast Guard Cutter Ingham. I could clearly make out Yorktown’s silhouette, framed in the glow of light cast from Charleston proper. The other vessels were difficult to see owing to the carrier’s size. 

Tonight was supposed to be special for the true believers. It was an annual event, dating back centuries, not that many people knew or cared with fewer still taking notice. Perhaps in Italy, Spain, Portugal and Greece there were those who would see, but I subscribe that here, in the United States, I was the only one looking. I was here because I was a sailor, a submarine sailor, and this place had a submarine - Clamagore. Other places had ships and submarines, too: Philadelphia, Puget Sound, Baltimore and New London to name a few. Tonight would be special for those other places as well; not that anyone would be there to witness the event. 

My coffee had cooled so I reached for the thermos again when someone from behind me asked, "Hey shipmate! Could you spare a cup of that coffee? I could smell it a mile off." 

Startled, I jerked around expecting to see a security guard. Instead what I saw was a man about half of my 40 years, maybe younger, and half of my waistline, too. He had on a regulation dungaree uniform with no rating on his sleeve, a name was stenciled over his pocket that I couldn’t quite make out. On his feet were a pair of worn boondockers that had last seen polish when they were new. 

"Sure," I said, filling the extra cup I had brought. He took the cup from me with a nod and I watched him take a sip. With his eyes shut, he rolled that first taste around his mouth, savoring it like a fine wine. He swallowed, took another sip and smiled.

"You don’t know how long it’s been since I tasted coffee this good," he said.

"I’m glad you like it," I replied. Maybe I was a true believer, I’d just have to wait and see.

"Was that a pack of Lucky’s I saw in your bag?" he asked, eyebrows raised and a hopeful smile on his face. 

"Yeah," I replied, "here, take the whole pack."

Click To Preview"Thanks shipmate. The Captain doesn’t approve of smoking but tonight he makes exceptions." With that he asked for a light and took a deep draw. I could tell it had been a long time since he’d had cigarette. We sat overlooking the ships for about ten minutes, enjoying the quiet, our coffee, and he his cigarette. 

"The Navy’s not like it used to be," my companion commented. "The Captain doesn’t like these political folks that are starting to show up. You know, men that are supposed to be leaders but are more politician than sailor. People like that will get a good many bluejackets killed one day. 

"Is that right?" I said, trying to sound neutral.

"Yes, that’s right," he shot back at me, angry at the thought. "There’s no place on ships for political sailors like that, and the Captain knows it. We all have to come before the green table, officer and bluejacket alike, so the Captain can judge us. Mostly He’ll listen to a bluejacket’s story, wink at Saint Brendan, and let us by; He’s got a soft heart for common sailors. Oh, we have to serve our time you see, but it’s near nothing as compared to some of the Admirals and Politicians; those who get to serve time. Some of them are marooned forever out of hand."

By this time I though I noticed Yorktown singling her lines, preparing to get underway. Imagine that, I thought, a ship as old as Yorktown getting underway. No noise or whistles, no lights no sounds, but by now her bow was swinging into the Cooper River, soon to catch the current. This is exactly the way I’d been led to believe it would happen.

"Are they getting underway?" I asked my friend.

"Yes," he said. "Admiral Gallery is the group commander for this night. He has experience at it and was a good sailor, too. Captain Elliott Buckmaster, of course, is in command of Yorktown.

Admiral Arleigh A. Burke Admiral Burke is conning Laffey. He’s hardheaded and won’t ride anything but a destroyer.

RADM Frederick B. Warder, NSS CO, 1944-46Admiral Warder is on Clamagore. Like a lot of other submarine skippers who made admiral, he was highly thought of by his men. That’s why he’s on the bridge and not in the bilge.

 

 

 

 

Rear Admiral Richard Hetherington O'Kane Captain O'Kane mustered aboard a few years ago. Let me tell you there was a party when he arrived. All his old Tang and Wahoo shipmates were here, Morton included. I didn’t think we’d ever get back to port. St. Brendan had to step in so we’d get the boat back in time."

By now Yorktown was clear of her mooring and headed down the river, Laffey and Ingham were turning into the current, only Clamagore was left. 

"Is this the only place this is happening tonight?" I asked, wanting to confirm what I thought I knew.

"On no," my friend replied, "it’s the eve of Saint Brendan’s feast day. St. Brendan, as you probably know, is the patron saint of all sailors. Mothball fleets are getting underway for the mid-watch all over the world. And you're one of the few who will see us get underway. Not to worry though, they’ll be back at their moorings before sunrise. This is what the Captain gives out as penance. Everyone has to serve in some form or another; other people do other things, this is what sailors do. Most of the bluejackets love it, most of the Admirals don’t. They end up in the bilge’s and can I tell you its Hell down there. Lots of bilge’s on Yorktown so there are lots of Admirals on her tonight."

"How long will you have to ride ships, like this?" I inquired.

"It’s not that long, a couple hundred years, but I don’t mind, I look forward to it, really."

"Are you riding Clamagore tonight?" I asked. It was simple to deduce, Clamagore was the only vessel left at the pier. 

"Yeah, I’m Seaman off a nuc boat," he replied. "I’ll be the helmsman tonight. There aren’t enough nuc boats to go around so we ride the diesel boats until our rotation for a nuc boat comes up again. I’ll tell you this, the way the navy is decommissioning nuc boats these days there’ll soon be enough for everybody to ride one, no more waiting." 

With that he got up and started walking down towards the pier, I had other questions for my friend but Clamagore had cast off all lines but one. I called out to him, "Say friend, what boat were you on?" I shouted, afraid of the answer, considering the US Navy’s losses in nuc boats. 

"I was on Scorpion*, shipmate, thanks for the coffee and the smokes!"

I watch my friend jump from the pier to the bow of Clamagore and then go below. The last line was taken in and Clamagore slowly got underway. I could see two figures on the bridge one giving orders, though I could hear nothing. Presently, she too was gone, for her annual mid-watch cruise. 

Click To PreviewI tossed out my leftover coffee, re-packed my bag and sat down again to reflect on what I had experienced. I had heard no whistles or engines or orders to line handlers, but just before I left, and perhaps it was a fluke of nature, ducting they call it, I thought I heard a voice shout, "Dive! Dive!" and two blasts the diving alarm. Maybe I imagined it, maybe not. 

 

*editor's note:  The USS Scorpion sank in 1968. All 99 crewmen were killed. click here




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