50 Yrs Ago Today, Mullinnix pulls into St. Raphael, France
Excerpt from “The Last Gun Ship - History of USS Mullinnix DD-944” - A Historical Novel By Frank A. Wood)
Mullinnix, like many ships, suffered her share of scrapes and bruises. Nothing can compare to her sister ship Decatur. Earlier, on 29 August, she suffered an engine room fire while docked in Naples, Italy. The fire was extinguished after two hours during which the ammunition stores were flooded as a precautionary measure. On 27 September, 1963, her sister-ship USS Barry DD-933 will accidentally discharge a torpedo into her deck house while moored alongside in Newport, Rhode Island. Fortunately, there were no injuries or significant damage. The following year on the 6th of May, she will collide with USS Lake Champlain CVS-39 in the Atlantic 150 miles east of Cape Henry, Virginia. Decatur will sustain heavy damage to its superstructure (both masts lost, the bridge & both stacks crushed), again there are no personnel injuries.
With the sky forked with lightning, the air pungent with the promise of rain, Mullinnix, in the company of USS Laffey, anchored at St. Raphael, France at 0816 on 28 October. Liberty call was announced for the ship’s crew. The weather continued to deteriorate throughout the day. Thick clouds turned the water a dark gray with only a few white flecks of foam here and there. Gulls flew low, wings kissing the water, their distorted shadows in a race they would never win. With the wind at 30 knots, the sea rolling, featureless, sheet metal gray, the Captain suspended all boating at 1850.
Orders were given to the engineering department to be on 10 minute standby for getting under way. Word was relayed to the shore patrol parties to order everyone back to their respective ships.
St. Raphael was a relatively small town that spread in broken fingers into the valleys and up the sides of low rolling hills, lush green broken occasionally with clusters of man-made structures lining narrow winding routes that passed for roads. Each cluster constituted a disjointed chain of bars, casinos, cafes, and brothels spread over a wide area causing unobserving sailors to stray far and wide.
They’d headed off to the nearest cluster. There, to overhaul the entire culture of the Navy and maybe even get laid, or at a minimum, drunk. The quartet were greeted by a quaint and tidy southern French village with arched stone bridges, standard French architecture, relatively friendly people and the proverbial sturdy gray stone church built by missionaries.
Hungry the four stopped in the first bar they spotted that served food. They ordered a couple dozen oysters and bottles of French wine – one each.
“Hey, is it true these things are an aphrodisiac?” asked Benson.
As a BM3, Benson’s dungarees should have identified him a working man. His didn’t. Pressed shirt, knife-crease in his pants, mirror shine on his boondockers. Ball cap fitted like a major league third baseman. Key chain on his left most belt loop with enough keys to open a car dealership. He had red hair and a narrow nose that ended abruptly above thin lips, all courtesy of his Irish ancestry.
“Not really,” answered is buddy, six-foot four-inch Sam “Stretch” McDonald. “I had a dozen in the last port and only 11 worked.” Waiting for some laughter and not getting any he added, “Old joke.”
To be continued...
Cheers,
Woody
Mullinnix, like many ships, suffered her share of scrapes and bruises. Nothing can compare to her sister ship Decatur. Earlier, on 29 August, she suffered an engine room fire while docked in Naples, Italy. The fire was extinguished after two hours during which the ammunition stores were flooded as a precautionary measure. On 27 September, 1963, her sister-ship USS Barry DD-933 will accidentally discharge a torpedo into her deck house while moored alongside in Newport, Rhode Island. Fortunately, there were no injuries or significant damage. The following year on the 6th of May, she will collide with USS Lake Champlain CVS-39 in the Atlantic 150 miles east of Cape Henry, Virginia. Decatur will sustain heavy damage to its superstructure (both masts lost, the bridge & both stacks crushed), again there are no personnel injuries.
With the sky forked with lightning, the air pungent with the promise of rain, Mullinnix, in the company of USS Laffey, anchored at St. Raphael, France at 0816 on 28 October. Liberty call was announced for the ship’s crew. The weather continued to deteriorate throughout the day. Thick clouds turned the water a dark gray with only a few white flecks of foam here and there. Gulls flew low, wings kissing the water, their distorted shadows in a race they would never win. With the wind at 30 knots, the sea rolling, featureless, sheet metal gray, the Captain suspended all boating at 1850.
Orders were given to the engineering department to be on 10 minute standby for getting under way. Word was relayed to the shore patrol parties to order everyone back to their respective ships.
St. Raphael was a relatively small town that spread in broken fingers into the valleys and up the sides of low rolling hills, lush green broken occasionally with clusters of man-made structures lining narrow winding routes that passed for roads. Each cluster constituted a disjointed chain of bars, casinos, cafes, and brothels spread over a wide area causing unobserving sailors to stray far and wide.
They’d headed off to the nearest cluster. There, to overhaul the entire culture of the Navy and maybe even get laid, or at a minimum, drunk. The quartet were greeted by a quaint and tidy southern French village with arched stone bridges, standard French architecture, relatively friendly people and the proverbial sturdy gray stone church built by missionaries.
Hungry the four stopped in the first bar they spotted that served food. They ordered a couple dozen oysters and bottles of French wine – one each.
“Hey, is it true these things are an aphrodisiac?” asked Benson.
As a BM3, Benson’s dungarees should have identified him a working man. His didn’t. Pressed shirt, knife-crease in his pants, mirror shine on his boondockers. Ball cap fitted like a major league third baseman. Key chain on his left most belt loop with enough keys to open a car dealership. He had red hair and a narrow nose that ended abruptly above thin lips, all courtesy of his Irish ancestry.
“Not really,” answered is buddy, six-foot four-inch Sam “Stretch” McDonald. “I had a dozen in the last port and only 11 worked.” Waiting for some laughter and not getting any he added, “Old joke.”
To be continued...
Cheers,
Woody
posted by Frank A. Wood at 13:16
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