50 Years Ago - Mullinnix Leaves for Gitmo
Excerpt from “The Last Gun Ship - History of USS Mullinnix DD-944” - A Historical Novel By Frank A. Wood
Under a haloed moon, typically an omen that meant bad weather was on its way, the fires were lit under 1A boiler. On 6 July, the ship began independent steaming to U. S. Naval Base, Guantanamo Bay, Cuba for refresher training in accordance with COMDESLANT Quarterly Employment Schedule. The term ‘independent steaming’ may imply a leisurely trip down to Gitmo, kind of like the calm before the storm. That wasn’t the case. In the first day alone the ship conducted a steering casualty drill, GQ, engineering casualty drill, abandon ship drill, and exercised the crew at GQ for a fire drill – all before 1900.
Smythe and McGee were on the fantail enjoying a smoke before the movie on the mess decks at 2000. The Atlantic was hidden by night. The only sound was that of the ship slipping through the growing wavelets.
“Did you feel that?” ask Smythe. He meant the way Mullinnix was taking the sea. The wind was off her port side now. “We’ve turned more easterly.”
“Don’t panic, but it might mean a storms brewing ahead.”
The chop crew larger. Nothing in view except endless waves rolling blue-green against a dark blue backdrop of sky. By the time they’d lit their second smoke, the seas were running at six feet. Mullinnix creaked and moaned in the swells, but held her course.
Smythe watched with satisfaction as a new crew member turned green and leaned over the lifeline, dry heaving nothing into the sea.
“Ya’know,” mused Smythe. They don’t call Cape Hatteras the ‘Graveyard of the Atlantic’ for noth’in.”
McGee was about to answer when the 1MC cracked. "Darken Ship! Show no white light topside."
The sound of dry thunder like crackling cellophane leaked from the clouds that gave no rain. Moments later the clouds broke loose and hailstones as big as mothballs clattered down on the decks of the ship.
“It’s time to hit the movie Smythe. Let’s move!”
The two ran to the aft starboard hatch near the base of MT52 and headed forward up the main passageway to the mess decks. Upon entering, the screen already having been assembled, a gray-blue cloud hung above the tables. The snack machine contained petrified snacks. The coke machine -well- coke. Coke in little paper cups covered with a film of wax, supposedly to prevent the coke from eating through it. The challenge was getting a firm enough grip to keep from dropping it on the deck while at the same time keep from crushing it in two. five cents bought you a disposal cup filled with a pre-measured amount of syrup and fizzy water mixed at the last minute before running into the cup. Tasted something like slightly chilled carbonated bug juice. Ice? In your dreams.
The rain began to fall like silver arrows in the running lights, each drop exploding in a white blur against the bridge windows then streaming down it so copiously that the wipers could not clear it fast enough.
Smythe grabbed a cup of charred coffee. McGee halfheartedly picked up something that superficially resembled a cinnamon Danish.
“Damn man, this coffee is so strong it could walk to the bridge by itself,” suggested Smythe.
McGee, settling in for the movie, only provided, “hurmph.” Leaning back, he studied the overhead. Although there was nothing up there to look at other than the occasional roach racing forward or aft on its choice of miles of shielded electrical wiring bundles, his thoughts wondered to what lay ahead in Gitmo. Week after week of relentless training in an attempt to perfect a score that only a few understood.
“What’s the movie tonight?” someone asked.
“The Man Who Knew Too Much!”
“What the fuck’s that about?”
“Alfred Hitchcock, asshole. Shut up and watch. It’s a good flick!” someone announced.
Once most had settled down, coffee cups continued to rattled in their saucers. The overhead lights were snapped off; the space darkened as Zippo lighters clicked to life. Immediately, the Bell and Howell sixteen millimeter projector ground to life. The credits rolled and blue cigar and cigarette smoke swirled before the screen.
One hour and twenty minutes later, after only one real change (short movie), the projector stopped, then was threaded for re-wind. Eyes blinked as bright lights flashed on in the smoky room, snapping the crew back to reality. Time for the sack. Some of them would be up at 2330 for the midwatch.
To be continued...
Cheers,
Woody
Under a haloed moon, typically an omen that meant bad weather was on its way, the fires were lit under 1A boiler. On 6 July, the ship began independent steaming to U. S. Naval Base, Guantanamo Bay, Cuba for refresher training in accordance with COMDESLANT Quarterly Employment Schedule. The term ‘independent steaming’ may imply a leisurely trip down to Gitmo, kind of like the calm before the storm. That wasn’t the case. In the first day alone the ship conducted a steering casualty drill, GQ, engineering casualty drill, abandon ship drill, and exercised the crew at GQ for a fire drill – all before 1900.
Smythe and McGee were on the fantail enjoying a smoke before the movie on the mess decks at 2000. The Atlantic was hidden by night. The only sound was that of the ship slipping through the growing wavelets.
“Did you feel that?” ask Smythe. He meant the way Mullinnix was taking the sea. The wind was off her port side now. “We’ve turned more easterly.”
“Don’t panic, but it might mean a storms brewing ahead.”
The chop crew larger. Nothing in view except endless waves rolling blue-green against a dark blue backdrop of sky. By the time they’d lit their second smoke, the seas were running at six feet. Mullinnix creaked and moaned in the swells, but held her course.
Smythe watched with satisfaction as a new crew member turned green and leaned over the lifeline, dry heaving nothing into the sea.
“Ya’know,” mused Smythe. They don’t call Cape Hatteras the ‘Graveyard of the Atlantic’ for noth’in.”
McGee was about to answer when the 1MC cracked. "Darken Ship! Show no white light topside."
The sound of dry thunder like crackling cellophane leaked from the clouds that gave no rain. Moments later the clouds broke loose and hailstones as big as mothballs clattered down on the decks of the ship.
“It’s time to hit the movie Smythe. Let’s move!”
The two ran to the aft starboard hatch near the base of MT52 and headed forward up the main passageway to the mess decks. Upon entering, the screen already having been assembled, a gray-blue cloud hung above the tables. The snack machine contained petrified snacks. The coke machine -well- coke. Coke in little paper cups covered with a film of wax, supposedly to prevent the coke from eating through it. The challenge was getting a firm enough grip to keep from dropping it on the deck while at the same time keep from crushing it in two. five cents bought you a disposal cup filled with a pre-measured amount of syrup and fizzy water mixed at the last minute before running into the cup. Tasted something like slightly chilled carbonated bug juice. Ice? In your dreams.
The rain began to fall like silver arrows in the running lights, each drop exploding in a white blur against the bridge windows then streaming down it so copiously that the wipers could not clear it fast enough.
Smythe grabbed a cup of charred coffee. McGee halfheartedly picked up something that superficially resembled a cinnamon Danish.
“Damn man, this coffee is so strong it could walk to the bridge by itself,” suggested Smythe.
McGee, settling in for the movie, only provided, “hurmph.” Leaning back, he studied the overhead. Although there was nothing up there to look at other than the occasional roach racing forward or aft on its choice of miles of shielded electrical wiring bundles, his thoughts wondered to what lay ahead in Gitmo. Week after week of relentless training in an attempt to perfect a score that only a few understood.
“What’s the movie tonight?” someone asked.
“The Man Who Knew Too Much!”
“What the fuck’s that about?”
“Alfred Hitchcock, asshole. Shut up and watch. It’s a good flick!” someone announced.
Once most had settled down, coffee cups continued to rattled in their saucers. The overhead lights were snapped off; the space darkened as Zippo lighters clicked to life. Immediately, the Bell and Howell sixteen millimeter projector ground to life. The credits rolled and blue cigar and cigarette smoke swirled before the screen.
One hour and twenty minutes later, after only one real change (short movie), the projector stopped, then was threaded for re-wind. Eyes blinked as bright lights flashed on in the smoky room, snapping the crew back to reality. Time for the sack. Some of them would be up at 2330 for the midwatch.
To be continued...
Cheers,
Woody
posted by Frank A. Wood at 07:54
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