Submarine Store

Captured Memories
by Bob "Dex" Armstrong

There are  a lot of special moments that touch a boat sailor's heart... Intimate  moments in time long remembered, that define us as what we were and remain to this day. We will carry such memories until our final  sleep... Moments that can only be fully appreciated by the men who wore twin fish and
went to sea in submersible ships. This  is the time of year when it seems fitting to reshuffle such images of the mind... Unlock those private moments and pass them around among ourselves.

Acceptance by your crew cannot be captured in a single  moment but rather a daisy-chain of warm memories... Cups of coffee  handed to you by a shipmate without you asking... Small...  Unspectacular, but a moment of acceptance. The awarding of a  nickname... A handle by which you will be known for more years than  you ever expected at the time... 'Wingnut', 'Fly', 'Big Red', 'Slick', 'Baby Huey', 'The Chinese Whore', 'Rat', 'Mack'... Every boat  did it.

You come alongside a long way from home... Hundreds of miles  from the disbursing office on your tender, where your pay records  that control your pay are gathering dust... Nothing can flatten an  E-3 wallet like a long-range pay record. An old Chief  named 'Dutch' grabs you and pretends to straighten your neckerchief  knot as an excuse to shove a twenty in your jumper pocket. "Gahdammit  Dex, see that your running mates get a couple of beers." The old  bastard was the kindest man I ever knew. He wore Dolphins... Those big goofy-looking Dolphins that West Coast sub sailors got in Japan... Ugly as hell, but when you saw them, you knew the guy was far from  being a new kid on the block. Had a Combat Patrol Pin and six rows of  non-gedunk ribbons. Hard-core boat sailor with the pride that comes  from plowing saltwater for more years than you had been on the  planet. A big man in every way, especially in the heart... A man who  never forgot how it felt to live at the lowest link in the Naval food  chain.

The Old Man coming to the bridge, turning up the collar on a  well-worn foul weather jacket with 'C.O.' stenciled in big letters  between his shoulder blades, taking a good look at one of those  million dollar sunsets... Smiling and saying,
"Gentlemen,  damn fine night for a sailor... Red sky at night, sailor's delight." Then he would pat his pocket like he was looking for  an elusive pack of smokes... He never had any. We used to joke among  ourselves that no pocket on
the Old Man's sea jacket had ever seen  anything containing cigarettes.

"Dex, what are we smoking  tonight?"

"Marlboros' sir... Same as last night."

"Very  well..."

He always knew where I kept mine and would fish one out,  light up and fill us in on our op orders.

"Keep a sharp  eye out... Cans will be out here poking around for us at first light.  I'm going to pull a blanket over us next watch... Tell your relief."

"Aye sir."

"Good night, gentlemen... Like I said... Great  night to be a sailor."

"Aye sir, great night to be a sailor."

Thirty-five years later, standing forward of the conning tower fairwater in Pittsburgh where the old girl has been dolled up and put out to  pasture, I had the honor to stand next to the Old Man and enjoy our  last sunset together.

"Great night to be a sailor, sir."

"Dex, they were ALL great nights."

He died a year later and if  there's a submarine where he went, I hope the lookouts carry smokes  and know they've got as good as they come.

On several occasions, we  formed topside with the entire crew decked out in dress canvas...  Damn, we looked sharp! Such a photo hangs on my bedroom wall... A  gentle reminder that as Mike Hemming put it so well, "It wasn't all a  dream..."

No Mike, we lived it. Oh man, how we lived it!! Then there were the goodbyes... Funny thing about boat  sailors. They figure if they say what they really feel, some wise-ass  will accuse them of turning queer, so a sentimental goodbye for  submariners goes something like,

"Goodbye you worthless bastard... As  long as you've got a church key and a deck of cards, you'll make out  okay." Or...

"Take it easy Jack... Some poor lame-ass  fishing boat probably needs a lousy cook."

There were  nights you spent with damn fine men standing aft by the screwguards,  watching the rippling effect of moon reflection in the current, daydreaming about the future.

"Think you'll get married?"

"I guess... Sure, someday."

"Gonna have a family?"

"Hell yes, gotta have kids." 

"Anyone picked out?"

"Nah... What gal would get serious about some chronically broke idiot  that disappears for weeks at a time?"

"A good woman can  handle it.. A lot of 'em do..." 

"Not that many good women  around."

Like so many other things in life, I couldn't have been  farther off base. One thing boat service taught us all... We know  when we are in the presence of truly good women... And that it took  such women to put up with us for the long haul. No one  ever turned you down for a standby when you really needed one... And I never saw a dime change hands over a standby. Small thing... But a  big indicator of a tight crew. Tight crew... We all knew  that meant that any man on the boat would have piggy-backed any  shipmate through the fires of Hell on any given day, simply for the  honor of doing so.

I truly hope that has not been lost. Officers can  be independent... Stand  alone. not so, enlisted men. We had to lean  on each other. We were the muscle and nerve system of those iron  monsters. Without us, there would have been no
functioning arterial  system... We brought life to the boat.

By now, the world knows how  full of crap I am about the Nuclear Navy. Sid Harrison has repeatedly  jerked my drawers to half-mast and exposed me for the fraud that I  am.

You nukes should take time to collect your moments and file them  carefully away in a dark corner of your heart... Most certainly, you  will want to retrieve them sometime way in the future, to share with  your current mates in your twilight years. And honor your  enlisted naval heritage... I know, sounds like a load of crap... It's  not. You got handed, through no personal exertion on your part, a  heritage earned by good men and... Yes, good women... Who went before you.

You aren't the first to Brasso brightwork, bucko. That  uniform... That impractical, Cracker Jack box-looking set of blues... The one with the flap that smacks you behind the ears on a windy day... The one with the stupid neckerchief that dangles in your soup, can be  found in wooden boxes in the military cemetaries of the world. Men  who ran out broadsides of eighteen-pounders from the gunports of  wooden ships, wore the same outfit that's folded in your side  locker. 

More important, and probably more relevant to you, the boat  sailors who crushed the Jap navy wore it and we who passed it on to  you, wore it. That uniform and the Dolphins that look so good over  your pocket, makes us brothers and allows us the credentials  necessary to validate our right to jump down each other's smokestacks  now and again, in fun. None of your sister services has a 150  year-old uniform paid for in selfless sacrifice... Forget that and  you diminish yourselves.

I'm not your gahdam mother... I am a  has-been smoke boat sailor who knows he wouldn't make a proper pimple  on the ass of a present-day submariner. But, having said that... I  know we passed into your hands, an untarnished record that we have a  right to expect you to maintain it in a condition that can be proudly  passed to future contenders for the 'Brotherhood'. Rest assured,  there will always be the Sid Harrisons who will rise up and speak  their piece when things are said or done that aren't in the spirit of what the sub service is... And should be. But above all, don't  let the moment get by. Take your slice of life from the middle of the  pie and don't look back. Let the rest of the Navy scramble for the  crumbs. You are 'bubbleheads' - boat sailors... You come from a long line of guys who whittled their names in some of the finest bar furniture on the planet.

Sid said it far better than I ever could.  "Propulsion doesn't matter..." Hell, they may be running boats off  Kellogg's Corn Flakes in ten years... Betty Crocker may replace Hyman  as God's gift to underwater warfare... They may find they can  conserve electricity by turning off the lights and handing out  Dolphins at the Lighthouse for the Blind... Who the hell knows.
But  one thing is certain... There will always be boats and there will always be men who volunteer to man them... And there will always be liars who rode boats and love to dabble in the bullshit trade over a cold beer  in the company of shipmates.

And with that, this old man  should hit the rack... You have kept him up far past his bedtime.  It's time for old coots to shut and lock eyelids, and dream of a land  of big-busted girls, Viagra trees and blind shore patrols... Where rum and cokes go for a dime and Ray Stone has all the good phone  numbers.

Credits
Dex Armstrong's Captured Memories was first published in Ray Stone's After Battery Collection and is reprinted with permission. Dex was a Torpedoman who served on the Requin in the 1960s.

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