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The USS Black
DD-666
By: Martin A. Hruz (CS3)
USS BLACK (DD-666)
20 Dec. 1963 - 23 Jan. 1967
A "Bubble Head" in sixty three,
aboard Roncador, a man of war, in a made-up war.
Trouble ahead for thee, Roncador SS Three Oh One, 'tis about to score.
Mysteries of the ocean deep, I
think the reserves have me to keep.
My stories start on Roncador, to which I leap.
The Black horse lopes within my
scope, for Black, there's no hope.
The Black's turned to toast and we boast, if real, you could not cope.
No flak from the Black, 'till we
attack, my shot is right on track.
No slack for the Black, 'tis my first "kill", I'm attacked with slaps on the
back.
No "Sea Story", I'm assigned my first ship; that's right, I'm slapped on the
Black!
There's but one sub that can
boast. Trip six has been deep sixed.
There's but one thing broke on the Black, their pride. That can be fixed.
Week-end drills sharpen my TN
skills, between high school thrills.
To seek an end to drills, I switch to surface service, cool no frills.
On the last day of boot, orders
are read, as we stood at our rack.
Once aboard Black, the "Ole' Salts" could be heard, giving advice, never a lack.
Now at last, a member of our crew, knowing soon there'll be no slack.
Sailor boy graduates boot, proud
of his apprentice stripes, with a belly full of "Salt Peter".
Sailor boy hesitates, a snappy salute, now aboard he'll learn of "Willie Peter."
The skinny, "Sad Sack" of a
sailor, that trips aboard Black was me, at seventeen.
The sleek mean look of the Black, 'Tis the best ship I'd ever seen.
Raring to rid himself of his
"Boot Condition", a search for "Relative Bearing Grease" by the tin, can delight
the crew stem to stern.
Really heaped in root of tradition, a learning of our "Tin Can", a lesson he did
learn.
A ship lacks life without a crew,
only rivets and plates of steel.
The Black has life with her crew, though none has laid the keel.
Longing for sleep, we grab our
socks, at the sounding of the G.Q. gonging.
Wronging sleep, G.Q. drills, I.Q. 's drop and sleep keeps longing.
The typhoon's volcanic voice
resounds throughout the Black, she slices into troughs, to view "Neptune's
Throne."
Sick are the volatile vomit sounds, most are on their back, only a few not
thrown.
The shrill sound of the boatswain
pipe calls for chow, only thirty-six show up.
The ill bound not, now so worn out, from dirty sick throw up.
Shot line across, we heave around
and listen to the boss.
High line across, we cleave to receive rounds without a loss.
The silvery silhouette of the
ammo ship skips upon the swells, serving up a showery spray.
Slipping alongside, spanking swells soak sailors, spirited to stow shells away.
We
cruise the coast, covering grunts on the hunt and give V.C. a thump.
Black clad V.C. go runin', as Black comes a gunin', kicking V.C. Rump!
Detrimental to their health,
Skunks sneak junks along the coast, our enemy at sea.
Dental deficient "Beetle Nut" faces, lurk during search and seizures, for
elusive V.C.
The delta's chocolate waters
sadly swirl around stir sticks of merchant masts and stacks.
The devil's travesty, 'tis our anchor, ghosts stir and chant, we do not last in
our racks.
We know the Cong stream along the
Mekong, their eyes upon us from a blind.
Mekong Delta banks abeam, Dinks that would smack a mine, have a change of mind.
Gunner's grenades geyser plumes
of moisture and rotting vapor, keeping V.C. at bay.
The concussion is worth discussin', I'm here to say.
Anchored for days in the Mekong,
Percussion grenades keep booming.
No aid to our quest for rest, the booming keeps the black clad yellow man from
looming.
Black yearned for a break and
permission to leave our mission.
Our "turning and burning" reaps R & R, for what we'd been wishin'.
R & R won't be long, but away
from "Yankee Station".
No smells of cordite, alright, now for rest and relaxation.
So long Vietcong, we're goin' to
Hong Kong.
Our crew will get a brew, away from "Ho" and his Cong.
"Fung Fat Water Taxi alongside",
is announced.
Sailors bounding over the side is pronounced.
Mary Sue and her girls surround
Black, smiles abound.
Sue's junks in a clump, begin painting Black, all around.
The deck is not stacked, the
Black has to go back.
We sail back to the frey, for another whack.
"Chicken Plate" in place, the
pilot's low and slow pace, he relays info to pelt our prey.
Tree tops whippin', propeller's clickin' and we keep kickin' N.V.A. all day.
That low to the jungle, the piper
pilot's nerves jingle.
A center piece on a table of sky, he does tingle. (and maybe tinkle too!)
N.V.A. despise our eyes in the
sky and wish for this pilot, off their back and in a raft.
Treacherous tracers stitch the spacious sky, seeking the sputtering spotter
craft.
The pilot swirls, plunges and
prays, while screaming to radio of his plight.
The Black's mount fifty-one, whirls around, ready for this fight.
Tracers all around, the rays of
hope, do not abound.
Mount fifty-one has swung around and fires only one round.
This one round, meant for effect, did astound all who were around.
Our mount, gave grief to the V.C. and relief to our spotter pilot, IN ONE ROUND!
Heralded we are not, nor is it
asked by us.
Honored we are not, for us, we ask no bias.
The bungle was not in the jungle,
with the V.C.
The bungle, in hindsight we see, was with D.C.
Politics awry we behoove you be
not against us upon our return.
We're kicked aside, to be in view of you and colors you burn.
Young ones flee to the north,
free of their plight.
Young once, we go to the north, Tonkin, to fight.
The carrier gets a fervent
"Welcome Home", the lack of which is all the Black has ever known.
The carrier has a band on the pier, which we can hear, we lear like a gnome.
('cause patience is blown!)
"Winning hearts and minds", in
this far away land, we've won no fans in our own land.
Hurting our hearts in kind, on a par we're like sand, no Welcoming Band.
Deployed into war, we're a
target moving fast.
Colors shifted from the mast, we're home at last.
Home now, trip six is still a
target, of our own nation's scorn.
Moored on the "Mole", once more, we're forlorn.
I heard what you said of those
back then, who slandered servicemen.
They had not been where we had been, nor slain any Viet men.
Dissenter's voices became
inflamed with disdain, borne by vets, with such pain.
The voices came, a truce within our own brain or insane with pain, is plain.
In this passed world, with it's
sights and sounds, has blinded my spirits powers.
In decades since an ole' man sits, in soured silence, scowling at the loss of
his youthful hours.
The Black's had many a crew, now
none.
The Black's had many a cruise, now none.
The Black's woven us, as one.
My Brethren Of The Black, We've
won.
Dedicated To: JOHN BROCK and ALL
WHO SERVED
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