The Trip Home

 

By Steve McGourty

 Edited by Charli McGourty

 

Language disclaimer:  There are some words used in this true story that are not used in polite company, but I assure you the real language used at the time was much earthier than reported here.  The stereotype of 'cursing like a sailor' is well founded in reality.  The actual words have been cleaned-up for those who might read this who have more limited sensibilities.

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            The sun slowly rose over a very calm Indian Ocean into a cloudless sky just off the coast of Oman.  A large pod of black pilot whales swam past the aircraft carrier as if it was not there.  The silence of the morning was shattered by an F-14 turning up its engines getting ready to launch.  I watched all this with a small bit of premature nostalgia as I was due to climb onto a helicopter in a few minutes and leave the USS Ranger for the last time.  I had been transferred to shore duty and was about to embark on a journey halfway around the world for home.  It was just a few days before Christmas 1980.

             Sadly it had required a little threatening to get to this point.  After taking several months to get my orders cut, suddenly the squadron realized that they had no replacement for me.  The folks in charge of my unit -- VAQ-137, an electronic warfare squadron made up of four EA-6Bs and about 160 men -- had tried to ignore the fact that I was due to rotate to shore duty,  I however, was hyper aware that mid-cruise my three years of sea duty were supposed to be coming to an end.  I had made very sure that there would be someone on board ship that could do my job.  I knew I had trained my co-worker, Ted, well and knew he was up to the job.  I repaired the heart of the ALQ-99 jamming system known as an exciter.  This device rode in a pod hanging off the wing of the EA-6B and generated various interesting patterns on the enemy's radar screen in order to hide our planes as they went into battle.  It was a complex system but once you knew it it was not that hard to fix.

             As I said, I had my orders.  At home, my wife already had the movers come in and pack up our apartment.  I too had already packed up most of my stuff and sent it home.

              When the squadron's Senior Chief Petty Officer showed up at my work bench I knew something was up, in three years of sea duty I had never seen the Chief in my shop.

             "I am sorry but we will not be able to let you go home McGourty." he said in a tempered voice.  "We do not have a replacement for you."

             "And why is that Chief?"  I asked rather incredulously.  "Why don't you have a replacement for me?"

             "BuPers (that's Bureau of Navy Personnel in Navy speak) told us it was too late in the cruise cycle to get a replacement out here." He offered weakly.

             In my darkest dreams I had foreseen this happening but when it actually took place I felt like a balloon losing its air.  The sad part of this whole episode is that had they asked me to stay I would have volunteered.  We were due to pull into Perth, Australia in a month and I very much wanted to see that port.  There was however a dark thought hovering in the back of my head; we would have been to sea for three months by that time and it was unlikely that they would ever pull a bunch of crazed sailors into a civilized port (this turned out to be an accurate premonition as they ended up going to Mombassa, Kenya instead).  But as usual, they took the hard ass approach and just told me what I would be doing, presuming I would just roll over and take it.  After three years in this squadron I had seen this little scene repeated quite often.  Rather than work with the sailor they would just try to run him over.  I knew from my friends in other squadrons that not all units were like this, but VAQ-137 was known for its general lack of planning and tactless approach when it came to dealing with enlisted men.

             The anger was boiling in me and I blurted out, "Well who the hell was supposed to order my replacement?  We all knew when we pulled out of San Diego four fucking months ago this day was coming.  Who the hell did not do their job?"

             "Now calm yourself son, things like this happen."  The Chief was rapidly getting fed up with me and clearly did not like the direction this conversation was taking.

             "Well I think that my Congressman and both Senators need to hear how poorly this squadron is run."  I really didn't think I had any power in this situation but if there was one thing our Commanding Officer seemed concerned about it was image -- his self image.

             "Oh there is no need for that."  The Chief was trying to get me to calm down but I would not be calmed.

             "Excuse me Chief I need to go write some letters."  I spit out.

             The Chief did not leave, but said in a suddenly much harsher tone, "That would not be a wise career move McGourty."

             "If I was in your damn Navy for a career I suppose that would be a problem."

             With that the Chief shook his head and walked away.

             I did not start the letters immediately.  I had been reading an underground military publication called the Enlisted Times and they had repeatedly talked about this useful little clause in the UCMJ (Uniform Code of Military Justice) ironically called Article 137, which was the only way an enlisted man could write up their Commanding Officer.  I headed up to the ship's lawyers office for some advice.

             Fortunately the ship's Legal Officer was not there when I showed up, but there was a very sympathetic and helpful Yeoman.  "Hi," I said, "I'm here to write up my CO.  Can you help me with working an Article 137 against him?"

             His jaw dropped, then he laughed and said, "Sure, I've never done one of those, but I will see what I can do."  He reached for a green leatherette covered manual from a wall full of similarly covered books in his cubby hole just off the hanger bay.  We had been working on my problem for about a half hour when the Legal Officer returned.

             The Legal Officer looked at his Yeoman and then at me very suspiciously and asked, "What are you doing here?"

             I answered very matter of factaully, "I am here to write up my CO, Sir."  I was about to learn the hard way that the function of a ship's Legal Officer is to protect officers, and not to help enlisted men.

             The Legal Officer took about a second to consider my problem before he screamed, "Get the fuck out of my office!"

             Leaving as requested, I knew I had set the seed to start my trip off the ship.  I returned to my shop and waited for the shit to hit the fan.  I imagine that several seconds after I left his office the Legal Officer was on the phone informing the CO of my intentions because less than a half hour later I got the privilege of a second visit from the Senior Chief that day.

             This time it was him who was pissed, "Who the hell do you think you are?  You can't write up the CO!"  This substantiated in my mind forever that there is not even a pretense of client/lawyer confidentiality in the Navy.

             Deliberately keeping calm I said, "It is my understanding that I can write up the CO, Chief.  From my perspective the CO is derelict in his duty.  When we left San Diego the squadron was so under staffed that we were not actually operationally ready,"  This got his attention, I was not suppose to know that little fact.  I continued, "And now it seems he has failed to order a replacement for me."  I had to add coyly, "The CO should be written up, don't you think?"  I had very innocently stressed should.

             "No goddamn it!" I had never seen a man so pissed.  "If you follow through with this you will never see another promotion and I will personally see to it that you never get off ship in any port we visit."  At that he stormed out.

             The lack of a promotion threat did not bother me; I knew that no matter what I was out of the Navy in a year and a half.  But the not going ashore in port did worry me a bit.  However I was determined to rub this in the CO's face.  He had been a pompous ass the entire time he held the reins of the squadron, more so even than when he was XO.  If he did not feel the need to treat me with respect I felt no compulsion to do the same for him.  In fact I rather liked the idea of putting a black mark on his precious record even if it did mean shitty duty for the rest of the time I was under his command.  I was not a lifer and he was trying to make Captain.  An article 137 could put a screeching halt to his career, convicted or not.  

             The tension was high over the next couple of days as I worked on my letters, but I did not hear from the Chief or anyone else in command.  Being somewhat of an optimist I did not unpack my sea bag.  On the third day I was abruptly shaken awake in my rack by the Chief.

             "Are you packed?" He asked gruffly.

             "Yes I am Chief."

             "Good, you are off the ship in two hours.  Go down to the ready room and get your orders."

             I flew out of bed, dressed and ran down to the ready room.  The ready room is the main place for officers to hang out while on board the ship, it is the main office of the squadron so to speak.  As I walked into the room it was suddenly overcome with a very unusual silence.  I walked over to the one enlisted man in the room, a friend of mine.

             "Hi Mike, I hear you have some orders for me." I was quite cheerful in spite of the dark mood in the room.

             The CO was nowhere to be seen but there were about six other officers in the room and they were all glaring at me.  I had won; they knew it and they were not happy to be out maneuvered by a mere enlisted puke.  I could care less; I was going home.

             Mike looked up, and suppressing a grin he handed me my orders.  "Here ya go Steve, enjoy the trip and shore duty.  You need to be up on the flight deck in one hour.  They are going to helo you over to a supply ship shortly."

             About an hour and a half later I was lifting off the flight deck with 30 other lucky guys headed for the USS Camden.  I wondered how many of them had to threaten their CO to get off the ship at this point in the cruise.

             The Camden is a large supply ship that is used to re-supply other ships at sea.  It provides everything from fuel to bombs to food, and lots of all of them.  Consequently the mess hall served the best chow I had ever experienced at sea.  They had fresh milk, a rarity two weeks out of port on a carrier; they even served food to the enlisted folks on plates, a privilege reserved only for officers on my old ship.

             I had 24 hours on board to read and reread my orders, and to think about going home.  The orders told me that I was due to get on a C-130 the next day and fly from Oman to Clark airbase in the Philippines, where I was scheduled to stay for a week and then fly from there to Hickum Field in Hawaii.  After a day there it was on to Travis airbase in California.  I was never sure why I was to stay a week in the Philippines (a virtual Disneyland for sailors at the time) before flying home but I suspected it had something to do with the fact that it would insure I would not make it home for Christmas.  The squadron's last twist I surmised.  I had been on sea duty for three years and somehow never been away for Christmas, this would be the first time.  No problem; I was going home, and they were not.

             I was assigned a rack with the Bosons mates on the Camden.  They called themselves deck apes and they did not have good duty.  They were responsible for loading the supplies from their ship to the assorted ships that came alongside, everything from small boys like frigates to capitol ships like carriers.  This meant that about every four hours these guys were required to get up and go to work.  While I was on the ship I never saw these guys get more than five hours sleep in a row.  I could hardly complain when I got woke up every few hours by them coming and going.  I was a Petty Officer 2^nd Class so I was not required to help with this process.  The military has few perks for enlisted men but one of them is that the higher you go in the ranks the less shit work you do and 2^nd class was just high enough to get out of a lot of shit work.  One less stripe and I would have been out there with them.

             The next morning I got up to another beautiful sun rise on the Indian Ocean only to have the serenity broken by the jets turning up on my former ship, which we were now sailing in formation with.  I had a great breakfast, for ship food, and prepared to load onto another helicopter to be ferried over to the airfield the Omani's had allowed us to build on their sovereign soil.  We were quickly loaded onto a helo and a few minutes later landed at an airfield that consisted of a large strip of tarmac and one small metal shack.  About 10 miles out across the desert you could see a mountain.  There was nothing else to see but lots of sand in all directions.  A small contingent of Omani teenagers in Army uniforms carrying automatic weapons ushered us over near the shack.  They were there to make sure we did not run off into the desert and pervert the locals with our imprudent western ideas.  Of course no one wanted to run off into the desert to pervert their citizens.  We were all going home and the last thing we wanted to do was to go anywhere but on the plane that was now landing, but the Omani's were being very careful.

             As the plane landed it blew a tire.  The pilot handled it well and brought the plane to a stop right in front of us.  The air crew got out and began to fix the tire but they were soon stopped by an Omani officer who came running out of the shack.  Not too long after that we were being herded back on the helicopter and once in the air realized that we were headed back to the Camden.  Of course no one told us why.  Later I learned that our agreement with the Oman government was that we would do nothing on their soil without three days notice.  This apparently included changing a tire.

             For the next three days I got to pretend that I was on a not too luxurious cruise ship.  I had no duty so all there was to do was eat, read and sleep.  Well, sleep when I could around the poor Bosons' schedule.  While onboard we were usually sailing in formation with the rest of the carrier task force.  I looked over to the Ranger the second day of my imposed vacation to see thousands of guys up on the flight deck having a party.  They and I, but not the Camden, had been at sea for 66 days and the powers that be decided that it was time to throw a beer bash.  As you might guess this is very unusual for the American Navy.  While most Navies of the world consider off-duty drinking an essential part of sea duty the American Navy does not allow alcohol at sea except under very controlled circumstances.  This was one of those rare occasions.  I got to watch my former shipmates drink their two formaldehyde preserved beers and have a good time without me.  Oh well; I was going home and they were not.

             Very early on the morning of the third day, Christmas Eve, we were once again loaded onboard the helo and flown to the Omani airfield.  This time we were allowed to get on the C-130 and soon were headed for our first stop, Diego Garcia, a small archipelago a thousand miles from anywhere in the middle of the Indian Ocean.  Any thoughts of a comfortable flight evaporated once we were on the plane.  For seats we had cargo nets, and the interior of the plane was so noisy that we were given wax for ear plugs.  There was one small porthole on the side of plane but this did not let much light in.  So we sat in the dark, unable to have a conversation because of the noise for five hours.  Our flight instructions informed us that anything we brought on board we would take with us -- anything.  This of course included the inevitable bi-products from bodily functions.  Fortunately most of us did not have to deal with this issue, but there was a long and anxious line at the only head available once we landed.

             Diego Garcia is a British Protectorate, so even though we had a couple of hours to kill waiting for the plane to be refueled we were not allowed off a 30 by 30 foot cement square with a rope fence around it.  This, we were told, was to avoid a customs inspection.  Being that we had all been at sea for two months I have no idea what kind of contraband they imagined we might be carrying back with us.  There were no chairs and only one port-a-potty.  This time we were guarded by one British soldier, unarmed.  He was there, we were informed, to make sure we did not pick up any contraband from the local US sailors on the island.  I noticed the guard had a completely bored expression on his face and thought I would start up a conversation with him just to kill some time.

             "How long you been here?" I asked.

             As he stared off into space he answered dryly, "Two months."

             Not getting much of a response, but being in the mood to talk I continued with an attempt at conversation, "How do you like it here?"

             He glared at me like I had just insulted his mother and responded, "It’s a great place to save money."  He then walked away to guard another spot on our small perimeter.  So much for meeting the locals.  He was right about a great place to save money.  Since then I have met several Seabees, the name given to the Navy's construction Battalion, who were stationed there.  At the time if you were a Seabee you got to spend at least one year on this coral reef affectionately referred to as "the Rock" where there was nothing to do but build whatever you were told.  Of course one of the first things they built was an enlisted man's club, that is, a bar.  The British had moved any indigenous people off the island years before to create this strategic re-supply center, the only one available in the Indian Ocean for US forces.  Being a British-owned facility, off duty at least there was alcohol available and from the stories I have heard everyone there took full advantage of this privilege.   At one bar-b-q I heard about the Seabees drank so much beer that at the end of the party they dug a large trench with a bull dozer and filled it with beer cans.  I suspect this happened more than once.

             When the time came we were quickly funneled back on the plane, where we strapped into our webbing, then hand warmed and reinserted the orange wax in our ears.  This time we took off right on schedule.  Because we were flying east, time was attempting to stand still.  Even though the flight from Diego Garcia to Clark was six hours long, by the time we landed at Clark it was only one hour later than when we left the Rock.  So after flying eleven hours that day and spending two on the Rock the clock on the wall had seemed to only move about four hours.

             We landed at Clark with no incident and parked next to several C-5As, one of the few planes in the world that can make a C-130 look small.  This was an actual air base with a terminal.  We were all beginning to feel human again even though we were all filthy and exhausted from our flight.  The local Air Force ground crews were working their way though our various orders when we were informed that there had been a change in plans.  There was a C-5 on the runway waiting for cargo and the powers that be had decided that we were it.  This meant that I would only spend a few hours in Clark and not the five days my officer buddies back in VAQ-137 had planned.

             As I mentioned, Clark AFB actually had a civilian-like terminal, which meant they had a limited selection of souvenirs there.  One of these souvenirs was a supply of four packs of the local beer, San Miguel, some were even cold.  On previous trips to the Philippines I had been introduced to this questionable brew.  The bottles were dark brown so you could not tell what color any particular batch was, and it could run from almost clear to amber to green; the alcohol content could run from 0.5 to 6.5% and higher; you never really knew.  Even though it was around 10 in the morning local time we had all been up quite some time and most of us had been at sea for over two months.  Needless to say it took about a half hour for all of the souvenir packs to be bought by the now 60 or so of us that had been gathered as the cargo that would enable a C-5 crew and a Navy Commander to get home for Christmas.  I had no illusions that they were doing this for us.  Lucky for the Air Force terminal there was enough beer to go around for the moment and many of us even bought some extra to take home.

             After we were aglow from the beer some genius noticed that we were all wearing our working uniforms, blue chambray shirts and denim blue jeans.  My guess is it was the one and only officer flying with us, who was wearing dress blues of course.  It is a military regulation that you fly in a dress uniform, which we all had with us but they were cramed into our duffel bags and would no doubt be quite wrinkled by that point.  Also there was no place for 60 folks to unpack, strip down and change into the proper attire.  Someone made a command decision and decided that just this once we could fly in our working uniforms.  We all cheered, took another sip of our beers and relaxed.

             It is also a military regulation that you do not fly in an inebriated state.  I guess they decided to overlook this little detail too when they realized we were all getting quite drunk and they still wanted to get this plane home today.  Lucky for us it was Christmas Eve and I am pretty sure they did not want 60 pissed off and drunken sailors in their airport.  I had noticed in the past that the Air Force had a lot of respect for the potential destructive power of drunken sailors.  Around 1100 they lined us up and started loading us on the plane.  It is too bad no one had a camera.  The C-5 is a very large plane; there is a two story walkway up to the cargo bay and then once inside another two story climb up some very narrow stairs to the passenger compartment.  The first part of the climb we had to carry our duffel bags.  Now a regulation duffel bag weighs in at just under 100 pounds when filled with regulation stuff, but we were headed home.  We had a lot more than regulation uniforms and equipment in them, so many were weighing in at well over 100 pounds of very tightly packed clothing and other personal items.  It must have been quite a sight watching 60 drunken sailors climb up a two story ladder with 100 plus pound sacks.  I almost fell twice and was not alone.  Once in the cavernness cargo bay we dropped our duffels and climbed up to find that the upper section of the plane looked much like any airliner except there were no windows and the seats were much smaller.  Of course the first row of seats was reserved for officers, or I should say the one and only officer in our group.  The rest of the seats were open.  We flopped where we could and buckled up.

             This time we did not need to put wax in our ears, but the plane was still noisy as it turned up its four large jet engines and began to taxi down the runway.  We had no sooner left the ground when the souvenir San Miguel started popping open once again.  It was Christmas Eve and we were on the way home after all.  Surely just this once the rules could be broken and besides no one had the balls to stop us -- well at least for the first hour.  About then the Commander stood up and addressed the rowdiest crowd he had probably ever had to deal with.  In his sternest tone he informed us, "If you do not stop drinking I will order this plane land in Japan and have you all thrown in the brig."  In our drunken state we just laughed.  We knew he wanted to get home just as much as we did and for the first time in my military career I, and many around me, blatantly disobeyed a direct order.  I think it would technically be called a mutiny.  The Commander assessed the situation, mumbled something to himself and sat down, but he was fuming.

             While the upper portion of this plane looked somewhat like a commercial plane, it had six seats to a row divided by an isle down the middle; it did not meet FAA standards for the number of heads to passenger ratio.  This became evident about a half hour into the flight when the rented San Miguel was seeking a new home.  There was only one head on the plane and the line to it formed quickly, it got and stayed long for quite some time.  Some of the folks had gotten a bad batch of the beer and were not in too good a condition, which greatly slowed up the relief line.

             Two hours into the flight the officer could take it no more.  His ego insisted that he re-take command.  He stood up and screamed to get our attention.  "I mean it damn it, if you do not stop drinking I will put every one of you in the brig when we land!"  At this point, almost in unison, we held up a great many empty bottles and showed him that we had stopped drinking already; we had run out of beer.  The beet red officer indignantly turned and sat down.  We did not hear a peep out of him for the rest of the fifteen hour flight.  After our intoxication started wearing off we all pretty much slept, there was nothing else to do.  It was one of the few times I had no problem sleeping on a plane.

             Somewhere mid-flight we crossed the International Date Line, which, because we were flying east, meant that time moved back 24 hours, thus extending Christmas Eve for one more day.  According to the clock we landed at Travis before we took off from Clark.

             Being that I spent only a few hours at Clark and not five days as in my orders and missed my day in Hawaii I had no military transportation arranged to get back up to Whidbey Island NAS where my wife was waiting.  She too thought that I would not be home for another week.  I called her and gave her the good news and informed her of the civilian flight to Seattle that I had arranged.  Travis is about 60 miles from Oakland airport and my only option was to hire a taxi to take me there.  All of this cost me money out of my pocket but it was much better than being put on a cattle car, as we called the Navy busses, being shipped to Treasure Island in San Francisco Bay, known to have the most dangerous transit barracks in the Navy, and then waiting several days while they got around to shipping me home.

             There was a place to change and take a shower, so I got cleaned up and put on some very wrinkled civilian cloths.  I found that no one else needed a ride to Oakland so I had the taxi to myself.  We were no sooner off the base when the driver looked over and asked, "Can you roll, man?"

             With a broad smile I responded, "Of course."  He handed me a baggie and some papers and I promptly rolled up two fat joints that we shared on the way.

             Once we got to Oakland I had about a half hour to catch my plane, and soon I was in the air on the way to SeaTac.  The plane landed at SeaTac just as the sun was setting, but it was still Christmas Eve.  My wife was waiting for me at the gate; I had not seen her for four months.  We had a short but very sweet reunion and then were out the door of the airport as quickly as possible.  She had cleverly planned ahead and rather than make the two hour drive back to Oak Harbor, where our packed-up apartment was, she stopped at the first hotel outside the airport.

             Thus ended the longest day of my life, approximately 36 hours, halfway around the world from Oman to Seattle, and I was home for Christmas.  Quite a day.

                

 

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