I had a friend on the 1966-1967 cruise whose name should perhaps be changed to protect the innocent. I’ll call him Buddy. He had the bunk above me on the Kitty Hawk. He was a tall thin guy and was an aircrew radar tech. I met him on the cruise and he seemed to be a really nice, easy going, and peaceful character. I didn’t know he was an alcoholic. He worked and acted completely normal. The aircrew job required brains and ability to think fast under pressure. I knew he was a liberty hound, but most of those guys were. It was the sixties and for many it was their first time away from home and the U.S.
We were out on station, bombing the snot out of North Vietnam when the bad news came in; our relief carrier the Constellation, had blown a boiler and would be in port at Cubi Point until the boiler was repaired, so we would be stuck on line until such time as they could repair the boiler and be seaworthy. It turned out our normal 30 days on station at sea was extended to 61 days of combat air operations. We worked 12 hours on and 12 hours off, 7 days a week at sea during the Vietnam War, so 61 days at sea meant 61 straight days of work, all 12 hours a day. That amount of work began to wear on the sailors and tempers would flare on short notice, but Buddy went completely bonkers! I couldn’t even talk to him and neither could anyone else. I discovered later that he had run out of booze right after the extension began. The limited personal storage space aboard ship would not allow him to store more than a one month’s supply of liquor. He being an aircrew member he occasionally got a trip to DaNang or back to the Philippines mid-month to replenish his supply, but it didn’t happen this time and he was upset! Our relief showed up on the 62nd day and we finally headed into port. One night in town and Buddy was back to the normally nice guy I had met earlier. He was a decent human being once more.
Buddy was in San Diego the summer after we had finished the cruise when he had a bit or a lot too much to drink one night. The bars closed and Buddy went outside to head for the base. Now Buddy was only about 160 pounds and as I said very tall, 6’2” or so and he rode a Harley 1200 cc Electra Glide. Buddy tried to kick start the bike, lost his balance, and fell, dragging the bike down on top of him. There’s no way to lift a 1200-cc Harley off of yourself, when it’s got your leg pinned under the bike. So Buddy took a nap. A police cruiser rolled by about 3 in the morning and saw the bike and Buddy lying underneath it. The police stopped and walked over to see if Buddy was okay. The officers woke him up and asked if he was all right? Buddy replied in a loud and rude tone: “ it’s about time, where the f*** have you been?” The officers pulled the Harley off of Buddy, handcuffed him and took him to a safe place, the shore patrol brig, so he could rest for the remainder of the night. Buddy was just one of many interesting characters I met during my first enlistment.
Copyright Bill Weber 2006-2019 and beyond.
We were out on station, bombing the snot out of North Vietnam when the bad news came in; our relief carrier the Constellation, had blown a boiler and would be in port at Cubi Point until the boiler was repaired, so we would be stuck on line until such time as they could repair the boiler and be seaworthy. It turned out our normal 30 days on station at sea was extended to 61 days of combat air operations. We worked 12 hours on and 12 hours off, 7 days a week at sea during the Vietnam War, so 61 days at sea meant 61 straight days of work, all 12 hours a day. That amount of work began to wear on the sailors and tempers would flare on short notice, but Buddy went completely bonkers! I couldn’t even talk to him and neither could anyone else. I discovered later that he had run out of booze right after the extension began. The limited personal storage space aboard ship would not allow him to store more than a one month’s supply of liquor. He being an aircrew member he occasionally got a trip to DaNang or back to the Philippines mid-month to replenish his supply, but it didn’t happen this time and he was upset! Our relief showed up on the 62nd day and we finally headed into port. One night in town and Buddy was back to the normally nice guy I had met earlier. He was a decent human being once more.
Buddy was in San Diego the summer after we had finished the cruise when he had a bit or a lot too much to drink one night. The bars closed and Buddy went outside to head for the base. Now Buddy was only about 160 pounds and as I said very tall, 6’2” or so and he rode a Harley 1200 cc Electra Glide. Buddy tried to kick start the bike, lost his balance, and fell, dragging the bike down on top of him. There’s no way to lift a 1200-cc Harley off of yourself, when it’s got your leg pinned under the bike. So Buddy took a nap. A police cruiser rolled by about 3 in the morning and saw the bike and Buddy lying underneath it. The police stopped and walked over to see if Buddy was okay. The officers woke him up and asked if he was all right? Buddy replied in a loud and rude tone: “ it’s about time, where the f*** have you been?” The officers pulled the Harley off of Buddy, handcuffed him and took him to a safe place, the shore patrol brig, so he could rest for the remainder of the night. Buddy was just one of many interesting characters I met during my first enlistment.
Copyright Bill Weber 2006-2019 and beyond.
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