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Reflections of
a Blackshoe Sailor
By Capt. Joel
Labow, MC, USN (Ret.)
I liked standing on the bridge wing at sunrise
with salt spray in my face and clean ocean winds whipping in from the four
quarters of the globe—the destroyer beneath me feeling like a living thing as
her engines drove her swiftly through the sea.
I liked the sounds of the Navy—the piercing
trill of the boatswain’s pipe, the syncopated clangor of the ship’s bell on the
quarterdeck, the harsh squawk of the 1MC, and the strong language and laughter
of sailors at work.
I liked Navy vessels—nervous darting
destroyers, plodding fleet auxiliaries and amphibs, sleek submarines and steady
solid aircraft carriers.
I liked the proud names of Navy ships: midway,
Lexington, Saratoga, Coral Sea, Antitiem, Valley Forge—memorials of great
battles won and tribulations overcome.
I liked the lean angular names of Navy “tin
cans” and escorts—Barney, Dahlgren, Mullinix, McCloy, Damato, Leftwich,
Mills—mementos of heroes who went before us. And the others—San Jose, San Diego,
Los Angeles, St. Paul and Chicago—named for our cities.
I liked the tempo of a Navy band blaring
through the topside speakers as we pulled away from the oiler after refueling at
sea.
I liked liberty call and the spicy scent of a
foreign port.
I even liked the never ending paperwork and all
hands working parties as my ship filled herself with the multitude of supplies,
both mundane and to cut ties to the land and carry out her mission anywhere on
the globe where there was water to float her.
I liked sailors, officers and enlisted men from
all parts of the land, farms of the Midwest, small towns of New England, from
the cities, the mountains and the prairies, from all walks of life. I trusted
and depended on them as they trusted and depended on me—for professional
competence, for comradeship, for strength and courage. In a word, they were
shipmates then and forever.
I liked the surge of adventure in my heart,
when the word was passed: “Now set the special sea and anchor detail—all hands
to quarters for leaving port,” and I liked the infectious thrill of sighting
home again, with the waving hands of welcome from family and friends waiting
pier side.
The work was hard and dangerous; the going
rough at times; the parting from loved ones painful, but the companionship of
robust Navy laughter, the “all for one and one for all” philosophy of the sea
was ever present.
I liked the serenity of the sea after a day of
hard ship’s work, as flying fish flitted across the wave tops and sunset gave
way to night.
I liked the feel of the Navy in darkness—the
masthead and range lights, the red and green navigation lights and stern light,
the pulsating phosphorescence of radar repeaters-they cut through the dusk and
joined with the mirror of stars overhead. And I liked drifting off to sleep
lulled by the myriad noises large and small that told me that my ship was alive
and well, and that my shipmates on watch would keep me safe.
I liked quiet mid-watches with the aroma of
strong coffee—the lifeblood of the Navy permeating everywhere.
And I liked hectic watches when the exacting
minuet of haze-gray shapes racing at flank speed kept all hands on a razor edge
of alertness.
I liked the sudden electricity of “General
quarters, general quarters, all hands man your battle stations,” followed by the
hurried clamor of running feet on ladders and the resounding thump of watertight
doors as the ship transformed herself in a few brief seconds from a peaceful
workplace to a weapon of war—ready for anything.
And I liked the sight of space-age equipment
manned by youngsters clad in dungarees and sound-powered phones that their
grandfathers would still recognize.
I liked the traditions of the Navy and the men
and women who made them. I liked the proud names of Navy heroes: Halsey, Nimitz,
Perry, Farragut, John Paul Jones and Burke. A sailor could find much in the
Navy: comrades-in-arms, pride in self and country, mastery of the seaman’s
trade. An adolescent could find adulthood.
In years to come, when sailors are home from
the sea, they will still remember with fondness and respect the ocean in all its
moods—the impossible shimmering mirror calm and the storm-tossed green water
surging over the bow. And then there will come again a faint whiff of stack gas,
a faint echo of engine and rudder orders, a vision of the bright bunting of
signal flags snapping at the yardarm, a refrain of hearty laughter in the
wardroom and chief’s quarters and mess decks.
Gone ashore for good they will grow wistful
about their Navy days, when the seas belonged to them and a new port of call was
ever over the horizon.
Remembering this, they will stand taller and
say “I WAS A SAILOR ONCE.
I WAS
PART OF THE NAVY & THE NAVY WILL ALWAYS BE PART OF ME."
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