I wasn’t in the real Navy, a fact made crystal clear to me one morning when a destroyer escorting my ship came alongside to refuel.
Now, don’t get me wrong. I wore the uniform. I slept on a two-inch thick mattress in a compartment with racks hung four high. I spent months at sea. I endured water hours like other enlisted men – but not the officers, of course. [Officers were so special.] And I stood watches on the bridge. But I was a journalist on a heavy cruiser, USS Los Angeles, so I was not a real sailor.
The L.A. was often escorted by destroyers, I guess because we were a flag ship –– we had an admiral on board. A heavy cruiser can carry a lot more fuel than a smaller escort so sometimes we refueled them.
There had been a bad storm the day before and the L.A. was still rolling in heavy seas. But it was a beautiful, clear day, when I climbed the ladder to the main deck, coffee mug in hand, to watch the refueling operation.
There I stood, swaying some as the Los Angeles rolled side to side in the waves. Below, way below, on the deck the destroyer, I could see real sailors at work.
The smaller ship’s fuel line handlers, roped off to keep from being washed overboard, were being repeatedly knocked down by waves that crashed over the bow of their destroyer and rolled down the main deck.
It was interesting but I had to leave before they finished refueling their ship. My coffee was getting cold.
Coming Monday: King Of The Castle.
