True story!
Once upon a time, in the summer of the Year of The Big Guy one thousand nine hundred and eighty-seven, your humble scribe and his band of merry brothers were in the bight atDiego Garcia, swinging on the hook on account of the fact that there wasn’t enough money to steam the great warship aboard which he had the honor to serve. Ronald Reagan was at that time Head Guy What was in Charge of Stuff, which may sort of help you put that whole “there’s never enough money to go around” thing into perspective, nearly 20 years on.
And even anchored as we were, taken as a whole, our time in the bight wasnota comprehensively horrible experience, chiefly because, through one of those “only in the Navy” vagaries, there was plenty of money with which to fly the pilots, which is one of the very few things pilots really care about, except for beer, which it turns out wasalsoto be had in heroic quantities, our hosts at D-Gar being Brits, a stout race of men whose admiration of beverages made with malt, barley and hops has previously been remarked upon.
Work there was to do aboard ship, but being as we were young, and pilots, there was not so very much. We’d flown some jets off to the local airstrip and took turns at the flying of them over the deep cerulean sea, brawling amongst one another like playful puppies in $40 million cages and dropping the odd practice bomb while the joy of our laughter echoed across the open spaces. Meanwhile, back aboard the carrier theblackshoesprofessional surface warfare officers sullenly conducted their general quarters drills while swinging on the chain, no doubt wishing in their dark and secret hearts that we were all well clear of land what with all its nasty shallow water, and beer and fun.
Wewererequired to be home before midnight and to sleep aboard the ship at night rather than a nice soft bed ashore because Dad Said, but apart from that when we were not working or flying or sleeping we were free to romp about on dry land in pursuit of whatever trouble we could get into that wouldn’t end up in our Permanent Records.
So of the three basic needs of man, we had two in ready supply between the flying and the beering, and the third was tantalizingly close at hand as well but, alas, forbidden to us. The problem was that, fetching as many of the subjects of our potential affections might have been (not to mention a few who were clearly willing) they werealsoin the naval service. Which would not in and of itself have been a barrier to that union most devoutly to be wished for those of us sentenced to the monastic existence of a sailor at sea in the prime of his life, except for the fact that their service was in theenlistedranks, and so therefore any class of association between them and ourselves that did not scrupulously follow naval protocol was Severely Frowned Upon Indeed, the distinction being thought important, andnoli me tangerewas the order of the day.
Now some of us are oaks, and some are elms and none of us should judge lest webejudged, unless of course we are in a position of statutory authority as defined by Article 15 of the Uniform Code of Military Justice, in which case, have at it, judge away. The fact that getting caught in such a dangerous liaison could get you frowned right out of the service was no obstacle to the hero of our tale, whom we shall call Lazlo, since that was in fact his name. He had somehow contrived to make a Special Friend while ashore, and spent evenings so late as to become early again in that friend’s company. This caused something of a scandal in his mess but while there might have been mutterings, grimaces and sideways glances between his junior officer brothers, none of this bubbled up to the point where it might reach the ears of Dad because he was The Man, and we, as yet, were not.
Day after day passed like this in something very near to pastoral bliss for our happy tribe, each morning comprised of breakfast and a hangover cure, paperwork ‘til lunch followed by a nap, a flight and dinner ashore, complete with ice cubes. Nothing lasts forever though, and finally it came to pass that something or other untoward occurred somewhere in the world, the President himself asked, “Where are the carriers?” as presidents are wont to do and orders came to get our own particular carrier underway, and that right quick, the money necessary to steam her being found between the cushions and we should have looked there to begin with, what we were thinking?
Being the juniorest pilot afloat, your humble scribe was sent ashore to fly one of the jets parked at the airstrip back aboard, the extra landing being thought positively accretive to my overall experience level. There I waited with three of my brothers from other mothers for the ship to get up and go (ships being inordinately slow things, being manned chiefly by surface guys) and dined on a breakfast guaranteed to turn a cardiologist’s hair white, safe in the knowledge that anyone who flies fighters off aircraft carriers at night and worries about heart disease is an irrepressible optimist. Thus engaged and suited up for instant action, g-suit harness and the rest, who might have walked into the greasy spoon wherein we dined but Lazlo and his Special Friend, himself dressed not in a flight suit nor even khakis gentle reader but rather in Bermuda shorts, a Hawaiian shirt, straw hat and flip flops, a get-up most unsuitable to the circ*mstances of either flying aboard or getting underway.
“What are you doing here?” we cried in unison and dismay, but Lazlo only laughed and made vague deprecatory motions with his hands while we tried to explain to him the story of the carrier’s emergency sortie from the bight. “Tell it to the Marines,” he replied, he was nobody’s fool and wouldn’t be rattled by transparent fictions of emergency sorties woven by shipmates jealous of his successes; what did we take him for?
Well, gentle reader, we took him for to see, and stepping outside we pointed out into the bight the evidence of a Kitty Hawk-class warship belching black smoke from her stacks while all about her decks Sailors swarmed, readying her for sea and leaving him to draw his own conclusions. At last seeing the truth in our tale, and beginning to suspect that this might End Badly (missing ship’s movement being considered a grievous offense), our hero quickly hired a small boat to take him out to sea in an attempt to come up the boarding ladder, as surreptitiously as ever he might. Quickly did they cast off and quickly race across the bounding waves in their brave attempt, but no: It would never do. The ship had already cast off the breasting barge to which the boarding ladder had only lately been secured; the anchor was a-trip, colors shifted and herself making way purposefully out to sea. Having motored around the ship once or twice, enough at least to startle into deep and thoughtful silence those Sailors walking the carrier’s weather decks, unaccustomed as they were to the sight of a young man in a power boat, wearing Bermuda shorts, a Hawaiian shirt, straw hat and flip flops circling the ship as it got underway, hollering and waving his arms at them, Laz and his driver headed back ashore. There things might have gone very badly indeed, had he not cajoled the plane guard helicopter crew on the beach into smuggling him aboard once the fighters had safely landed and been tucked away.
So things were looking up, but not all the way up: Once a Navy warship gets underway, whether it be from homeport or foreign anchorages, it is considered a Right and Proper Thing to hold a man overboard drill. You see, it’s not that anyone is actually concerned that someone might be having fallen into the sea after such a routine evolution, but that a man overboard drill requires a full and complete muster of all hands, and a report to Higher Authority. Because this is the Navy, there is a premium attached to doing the muster quickly, and it’s considered very bad form and something of a disgrace to not be able to report your squadron mustered in less than five minutes, it being written there somewhere in the leadership position description that you ought to be able to count your people, in a pinch. But our squadron couldnotreport a full and complete muster gentle reader, because, while I and my other fly-on pilots were accounted for, Lazlo as you are aware, most certainly was not. And soon the whole ship knew as well, since our hero’s name was repeatedly called on the ship’s announcing system in censorious tones, obliging him to report immediately to the Big XO on the bridge with his ID card in hand. This occurred every five minutes for over two hours, and by the time Lazlo made it aboard, our squadron commanding officer and executive officer were in an exceptionally high state of lather, with the XO offering to personally drown Lazlo once his whereabouts were established. Those of my brothers remaining aboard the ship showed all due mournful deference if The Heavies looked around, but made antic gestures and comical faces at each other once they looked away because few things are as truly delicious to contemplate as someone else’s pending evisceration.
Well, we trapped aboard, and the plane guard helo followed, landing right aft on centerline. Down in our squadron ready room, the CO and XO morosely stared at the pilot’s landing aid television set in the ready room, having nothing better to do between biting their nails and silently fuming. Thus boiling, they were gratified by the sight of the helo’s starboard side door opening up, and a certain FA-18 pilot by the name of Lazlo, dressed as he was in Bermuda shorts, a Hawaiian shirt, straw hat and flip flops jumping out of the helicopter, down to the gray and greasy flight deck and into our hearts forever.
The PLAT camera zoomed in for a deeply incriminatory moment and dwelled lovingly on Lazlo’s features before he could duck around the left side of the helo and into the port catwalk. The heavies were poleaxed into immobility by this almost incomprehensible display, exceeding as it did so dramatically the previously understood limits of universal possibility. Well before either of them could move from their chairs, Laz found his way to a phone so as to call down to the squadron duty officer, asking hopefully,
December 14th, 2005 at 5:18 pm
That is a priceless sea story! What ended up happening? How much dog-poop did he get in to?
December 14th, 2005 at 6:20 pm
Jeez Cap! You’re keeping me from getting any work done!!!! Besides my ribs hurt now.
December 14th, 2005 at 6:31 pm
*snort*
Been to Diego Garcia…
I can see this happening…
December 14th, 2005 at 6:52 pm
Abso-tively outstanding Sea Story Cap’n…
Bravo Zulu.
December 14th, 2005 at 6:56 pm
LMAO! That was great!
It’s been awhile since we had one of your own Sea Stories… thanks for sharing that one. And do give us a follow-up post on what happened to Lazlo, please.
December 14th, 2005 at 8:40 pm
Good ‘un. Had to wait till someone retired to tell this story or was it the statute of “limitations”?
DGAR- lousy place to do that stuff. Offload into Cubi for a couple weeks is a better proposition. Pure VFR flying and a mite scary in the olden days!
During a Vinson cruise we stopped for 3 days in DGAR. After a mid-afternoon “follies” and a pickup truck full of only beer (no water,soda or chow) all 250 or so stalwart participants went to the only two “resturants” on the atoll. Suffice it to say, the lines were long and they ran out of chow! Subsequent to that, some alleged (Island P-3 folks?) a “mini-riot” broke out and part of the O’Club was damaged (deck railing?). Verdict-many, many in a ’sort of hack’….my last visit there. Ask the boss, he’ll know, I think I may have seen him leaning on it. This of course was after the earlier “Marg-Aruda” Incident IHO a wayward Prowler (Garuda)squadron…
B2
December 14th, 2005 at 8:51 pm
Hmmm, B2… that sounds an awful lot like something Lex has alluded to in this space before, but refusees to truly describe. Did this happen more than once, or did the two of you cross paths “way back when?”
December 15th, 2005 at 3:00 am
Lex, just what I needed to start my day. Thanks!
December 15th, 2005 at 4:46 am
All that this story needs is Edward Everret Horton to read this Fractured Fairy Tale!
I’d love to hear The Rest of the Story, suitably titled ‘How Lazlo spent his Remaining Days On Deployment While His Friends Played Outside’
December 15th, 2005 at 7:09 am
Cap’n,
The story itself is great, but add in your way with words, and it becomes waaaayyyyy more better. Outstanding job. And poor Lazlo…???
December 15th, 2005 at 8:00 am
Lex,
Write a book, please! Even if the stories are not all your own. You really have a gift with words and that story is a showcase.
As for hearing one’s name over the 1MC for a man-overboard…back in the days of my first cruise I was bunking in one of those infamous “JO bunkrooms” - this one being on the Midway. This particular bunkroom happened to have a head located in an area that (I was to discover) was not well covered by the 1MC. As I was not scheduled to escape the boat for several hours yet, I had heeded nature’s call and decided to multitask by getting a little studying in (reading NATOPS, of course). After a while I noticed that it seemed rather quiet (a relative term aboard carriers, but I’m sure you know what I mean), except for regular unintelligible squawks from the 1MC. Curiosity finally got the better of me and as I was getting the circulation back in my legs I heard the regular squawk again from the 1MC – this time clearly intelligible and clearly calling my name. The Midway was originally a battleship and (just my luck) the route from the bunkroom to the ready room was an obstacle course that easily bettered the one in Pensacola. Needless to say the following mad dash included several bruises from knee-knockers, etc. Not that it garnered any sympathy from the XO or anyone else. And this was after I’d broken the ready room coffee pot during late-night SDO ops a few days prior. Took a while to get back on the XO’s good side…
Brian
December 15th, 2005 at 8:40 am
A great story well told!
But then there’s this:
…except for the fact that their service was in the enlisted ranks, and so therefore any class of association between them and ourselves that did not scrupulously follow naval protocol was Severely Frowned Upon Indeed
Frowned upon, butcertainlynot unknown. I did a quick mental count (aided by fingers, but not toes) and came up with six cases of fraternization known to me during my career, three of which resulted in marriages. My experience (emphasis on “my”, YMMV) indicates female officers are more likely to stray off the straight and narrow than males. All three mixed-marriages I know of were cases of females marrying “down.”
Just sayin’…
December 15th, 2005 at 10:19 am
Great story, Lex, and made all the more harrowing by the experience of an underage teen with my DNA who was dumped on the front lawn of his house laden with Sunday company, waking up in bed still drunk wondering if anyone knew.
December 15th, 2005 at 12:01 pm
Fbl-
That’s my story and I’m sticking to it!
From reading Lex’s great stuff I’ve pretty much figured that when Lex was in DGAR I was in Pax as a LCDR. I was in Westpac ‘90 when that story took place I think Lex must have been in Key West being “glamorous”. Me? I was a working man, almost a “truck driver” in Naval Aviation, sort of. Lex would tell ya I was “flyin’ fat”. But I could tell the story of why I was on the last boat from HongKong once but I don’t want y’all to think I really am a BadBob!
In the olden days we had a lot of characters. Some fell on their swords, some are in charge of the Navy now, like Lex. Today a lot of this stuff could never take place because they don’t go into port as much, it seems, and the “zero defect mentality policy” is in place. Also, as you know there weren’t any of the fairer sex aboard. Which, in retrospect, made things a lot simpler.
Are you a shrink?
Who broke that coffee pot? An egregious crime!
B2
December 15th, 2005 at 1:05 pm
B2 - I broke the coffee pot and paid dearly for it. Was able to get it repaired by the airframers (paid them too).
Brian
December 15th, 2005 at 1:49 pm
C’mon Sir, the Chief’s Mess want to know; WHAT HAPPENED TO LAZLO AT MAST?
December 15th, 2005 at 6:19 pm
Turns out that the O’Club at D-Gar was victimized on more than one occasion. One of our Tomcat squadrons took the place apart in detail back in ‘89 I think it was. Left it for the rest of us to pay for, bastiches.
December 15th, 2005 at 7:14 pm
Highjinks in Diego Garcia
If you have not yet had the pleasure of a Sea Story as told by Lex, you have my sympathies. But here’s your chance to rectify the deficiency!
December 15th, 2005 at 8:41 pm
Two years previous a near identical emergency sortie went down. Saratoga was pierside in Dodge when Gaddafi claimed (again) the Gulf of Sidra as his own, precipitating the first ever carrier night transit of the ditch. A few weeks later the Libyan fleet of Osa patrol boats met with a quick ending as they sortied against the Yankee “pirates.”
As I recall, there were three females in Dodge at the time, and one of them was an officer. She was among the most pursued women in the world, with a ratio of at least 1,000:1. Favorite sport: night skinny-dipping. Said she liked my hat, but was just a tease.
December 16th, 2005 at 6:14 am
I guess this was before the DG-21 contract kicked in and there were hordes of young lovely Filipinas available ( not really, they were off limits too…but then again if one knew where to look…..;-) ).
You guys should see the place now since the USAF is there in force. Was at the DGAR O’club couple years back listening to some guys at the next table describe the escapdes of trying slice off a piece before the girl’s tentmate came back……..
Ah, wars and lechery. Nothing else holds the fashion. What a great story.
December 16th, 2005 at 7:16 am
Geez, I use to THINK I was old, now I know it. Apparently, LEX was a nugget on the Connie when I was pulling my twilight tour on the Ranger (no shore duty for this black shoe!) When Ranger was in the IO escorting tankers through the Straits of Hormuz during the Iran-Iraq war, I was sent to DGAR for a week to straighten out some issues with the COMMSTA. Everything is relative–compared to being aboard Ranger, the island was heaven. Especially without all those fun-loving stovepipe jockeys trashing the club. I will, however, admit to similar hi-jinks back in my less dignified enlisted days (but that’s MY Sea Story.)
December 16th, 2005 at 9:49 am
Lex says- “…took the place apart in detail back in ‘89 I think it was.”
Ahhh, no wonder the management was so “sensitive” a year later over that railing….
Going into DAGAR with a BG is a bad idea. Not enough, er, infrastructure. If you think it was undersourced in the late ’80’s or even now, you should have seen the place in the late ’70’s. We stayed in “hooches” ala, Mchale’s Navy. There were basically 3 critters on the island: cats, donkeys and chickens, all wild. Don’t ask me how they got there. In the lagoon there were big, really big, sharks. One could get qualed on a 13′ Boston Whaler, rent fishing tackle and fish out to the reef. It was the only really interesting thing to do there. Cyrstal clear down to 150′. All the tuna, grouper, and snapper you could catch. A lot was turned over to the contract Phillipino workers there who made the base SAC capable. Besides that there was an outside movie theater tennis and BB courts. Booze was available. To come off the ship and Gonzo for a few days there was “heaven”. Now the USAF probably call it arduous. For the dozen or so enlisted and officer women there it must have been great. Mainly, when I wasn’t doing the above I was trying to get autovohn (remember that) to get orders for myself and others. And as I remember it I wasn’t too good at that. LOL!
Lex- did any of your airwings ever det off the ship in the PI for a week or 2 inport? Man, that used to be something. Daily VFR fying, “jungle waterpolo, Cubi Specials (health drink), Nora, carrier landing at the club and of course Alongapo for two weeks, all made for an interesting time. Remember those vicious monkeys they had running around there near the dumpsters?
B2
December 16th, 2005 at 10:41 am
[…] “Why yes, Laz. You were missed. In fact the better part of 5000 people have been looking for you for the last two hours and…(muffled, aside:) Yes, sir it’s Lazlo. Just a minute, Laz - The Skipper would like to speak to you.” […]
December 20th, 2005 at 9:56 am
“Those of my brothers remaining aboard the ship showed all due mournful deference if The Heavies looked around, but made antic gestures and comical faces at each other once they looked away because few things are as truly delicious to contemplate as someone else’s pending evisceration.”
All Shoe’s know the first law of thermodynamics; “Flame on you, is flame off me”..
I once swam fully clothed, a mile and a half back to my anchored ship in Jamaica. I missed the last boat ferry, and did not want to be missed.
Won’t do that, again.
December 20th, 2005 at 1:02 pm
Bull’s Brigade, Springbreak ‘87: been there, done that, got the t-shirt.
Bad beer
Hank Jr on the E-club big screen
chickens
chickens
chickens
first light launches
last light recoveries
fresh water, lots of fresh water
midnight plane washes knee deep in the P-3 wash rack
living on 5 hours of sleep and one meal a day. one meal a day of green beans and pancakes
green beans and pancakes aka midrats
holiday routine for ship’s company.
That’s “holiday” for blackshoes and “routine” for the airdales.
… and then the Stark was hit and Connie bustered north for Earnest Will. God rest their souls and remember to stand and salute when the flag passes next time.
The older I get, the better I was.
Airwings: THE reason for carriers,
dw
December 20th, 2005 at 1:09 pm
A “Hack” Eagle? Graced by your visit. Did DCAG Smoke ever get his flight jacket back?
ROFL!
December 20th, 2005 at 11:42 pm
Memory of all the pranks fades with time. I recollect a particular hat tho’.
Being a VAW we had a special relationship w/ Alpha Whiskey on the Fox. The way I remember it, a few JO’s from 113’s boys town got past the Fox’s quarterdeck in Subic on the way home. They made it to the Skippers room and swiped his ball cap and took it back to our ready room on Connie. When they were found out there was the obligatory chewing out by our squadron CO followed by apologies on board the Fox.
Of course, once underway again there was a bunch of unofficial backslapping and praise in the ready room for their demonstration of such an aggressive “tactical mindset.” Bravo Zulu, Sierra Hotel and all that from the CO, XO et al.
The same bunch of JO’s pulled another especially noteworthy stunt back at Miramar. The F-14 boresighting range was in a long low building beside the runway. Along the runway side painted in gi-normus letters was FIGHTERTOWN. The JO’s from 113 snuck out and repainted it to spell HUMMERTOWN. Next morning they made sure to get a pic of our birds on a taxiway with the “improved” spelling as a backdrop.
I think the common denominator in the pranks an otherwise nameless NFO (callsign “Snuggles”). That would be the same CICO who’d sometimes play “Ride of the Valkyries” over the UHF when releasing a strike group to go feet dry.
Another of those JO’s later got slammed in the Topgun kangaroo court (damn shame of a panty raid — Rep. Pat Schroder should have been so lucky to get that kind of attention from officers and gentlemen).
sic ‘em baby,
dw
Editor's Note:This isn't exactly how I received it from our own John Blackshoe, I made a command decision to pull it directly from the Wayback Machine and present it pretty much as it would have appeared on the day it was published, along with the subsequent comments. The original can be read by following the link under the opening graphic.Note that many of the original links are no longer valid. Part II, Po' Lazlorus will be published tomorrow.
