Christmas Eve. Oh, so many years ago. I was aboard the USS Hornet, CVA-12, aptly named by our country's WWII Japanese enemy as "The Grey Ghost." It was an attack aircraft carrier, Essex class, harbored in San Diego, CA.
The ship had seen extensive and distinctive service in the WWII's Pacific theater, its crews and pilots having served with honor and dedication. That war ended when I was five years old.
In 1942, the future Grey Ghost was being built as the USS Kearsarge, CVA-33. However, the USS Hornet, CV-8, Yorktown Class carrier, was irreparably damaged in the battle of the Santa Cruz Islands and was sunk. Quickly, the Navy Department renamed the Kearsarge the Hornet, the eighth U.S. naval fighting ship to bear that name. The first was christened in 1775 and was one-half of the entire Continental Navy, its sister ship, the Wasp.
About three weeks prior to that Christmas Eve, the Navy had cut orders for Seaman Apprentice George Smullen, assigning me to ship's company although I was temporarily assigned to San Diego's Destroyer base, waiting for the Hornet, at sea, to return to port.
The day the ship moored, a destroyer base driver gave me a ride to the harbor after evening meal. "A Hornet personnel boat will eventually pick you up," he said. I lifted my sea bag filled with uniforms and then found a wooden bench. I waited for a boat manned by a Hornet Coxswain to pick me up and take me out to the ship. I could see it from that bench. It was larger than huge. It already had festive holiday lights strung just below its flight deck. Also, above it, there were bright colorful lights hanging from the ship's conning tower to both its ends, the forecastle and fantail. I was impressed.
I soon discovered ship's company enlisted men and officers were assigned to the ship whereas Airedales, air department enlisted men, officers, and pilots, were assigned to the naval air station at Alameda, CA, until, that is, they were deployed to the various carriers of the Pacific fleet for their tours of sea duty.
That first night I slept in the forecastle with the deck apes of the 1st division. The next morning, the ship's executive officer assigned me to the Hornet's 6th division, the gunnery department, responsible for storage and safekeeping of all ordnance, including small arms and large five-inch, thirty-eight, cannons, later changed to 5-inch, fifty-fours, installed for the ship's protection. Magazines (rooms) under our care held numerous bombs of various weights up to a half-ton, grenades, aircraft and anti-aircraft artillery, air-guided torpedoes, Sidewinder air-to-air heat and light-seeking guided missiles, any and all ammunition. 6th Division sailors manned the cannons and rifles and sent up on elevators all ordnance to the hangar bay or flight deck where Airedale gunnery sailors took over.
With over a 2,500-man crew, Captain Thomas Connolly advised us over the loudspeaker system my first morning that we'd soon go to sea for a month's ORI, Operational Readiness Inspection, before we ventured on an 11-month tour of protecting our country's interests in the vast Pacific Ocean.
The Ship's Gunner, a Warrant Officer 4, who had risen from the enlisted ranks, was, according to fellow sailors, "On the right hand of God, himself." Even the Lieutenant Junior Grade Officer, an Annapolis graduate who was supposed to be in charge of our division, treated Gunner, a tall, well-built Texan native, as the authority figure. Nobody dared call him, "Sir." The white haired man was contemptuous of anyone who spouted that term for him. He remained an enlisted man. Heart and soul.
Gunner assigned me the task of OA, Ordnance Accountant, which had been the responsibility of a petty officer, second class. The Gunner chose me, he said, because of my test scores I had received in boot camp. The former OA, still on board and in our division, was a second class petty officer gunner's mate, a balding man named Curly. There was nothing I could do to assuage his resentment for my "stealing" his job.
Gunner immediately assigned Kentuck, a seaman obviously from Kentucky, to escort me to every magazine on the ship, a task which took the entire day. Kentuck told me jokes all the while. Because we couldn't smoke in magazines, we took plenty of smoke breaks. Up, down, up and down some more, and all around that ship we traversed. Each magazine hatch (door, for you non-seafaring folk) to the hold (room) was padlocked. Seaman Kentuck had magazine key responsibility, and there were plenty of them. He was not allowed a master key due to security reasons although Gunner had some stored away in a place where he could get them and hand them out in an emergency.
Gunner advised me I was responsible to keep track of all ordnance on board at any given moment, including officers' small arms. I had to ask for each and every pistol and ammo assigned to pilots before they transferred from our ship to anywhere else. Most pilots were more than accommodating. One gave me a hard time but after I told him my orders were from Gunner, he handed his .45 to me faster than a whitetail buck avoids hunters.
Even the captain who would be promoted to admiral after our cruise treated Gunner with utmost respect. Weekly, I had to visit each magazine for count. Kentuck handed me a foxtail broom which I used to clean the magazine's deck of any dust.
Christmas Eve day arrived. Because our religious preference along with blood type was in our personnel records and cited on our ID dog tags, Gunner knew I was Catholic. He told me he was going to attend Protestant services that night and asked me if I planned to attend midnight mass. "Our service is going to be held in the hangar bay at 2300 hours and yours will be at zero hundred hours. You going to go?"
Rather than a question, I heard it as an order. "Yes," I told him.
Thus, at 11:50 p.m., the boatswain mate blew his whistle over the loud speaker and announced Midnight Mass would take place in ten minutes. I felt homesick for the first time since I had joined the Navy six months earlier. I made my way up to the hangar deck from the armory. Just outside it was one bunk, assigned to me. Curly hadn't liked being moved from that bunk to the group's sleeping area and let me know in no uncertain terms. On the hangar bay, in front of a large group of planes, their wings folded toward each other, I saw at least 300 steel folding chairs set up in a bunch of rows, a temporary altar in front. I took a seat.
One second later, Curly sat next to me as I thought, "What did I do to deserve this?"
After mass, the chaplain announced, "Mid-rats are being extended for you men."
Curly turned to me. "Are you going for Mid-rats?"
"I don't even know what they are."
"Midnight rations. You should go. They serve a helluva meal."
So, I followed Curly down to the enlisted men's Galley. As we stood in line for an extended time with Curly in front, he turned to me and said, "You won't believe this meal. It's something to write home about."
Served to us was a complete Thanksgiving turkey and ham Dinner plus a full breakfast menu, including steak and eggs, any number you wanted and the way you wanted them, fried or poached, hashed brown and American fried potatoes, pancakes, waffles, SOS (shit on the shingle—creamed beef on toast), breakfast ham, bacon, plenty of toast, coffee, milk, and many other food items. When my tray was loaded, Curly said, "Follow me."
We went to a 10-man table where eight other sailors, four on a side, sat. Two empty seats faced each other. Curly said, "Sit over there so we can talk." I couldn't believe his friendliness, considering the way he had been treating me.
After he gobbled down one of his breakfast steaks, Curly said, "I want to apologize for the way I've been treating you. It's not your fault that Gunner assigned you my job." From that point on, we chatted about just everything under the sun, including cold Wisconsin winters. Curly was from Florida. I was so relaxed I forgot I was homesick.
Much later, on Christmas morning after I woke up, Gunner arrived at the armory. "Well?" he said.
"Well, what?"
"Did you attend mass?"
"I did."
"And," he asked as he broke a grin, "who sat next to you?"
I didn't answer right away but a few seconds later I said, "You know, don’t you? I'll betcha you had a talk with Curly."
"I did. He's an old sea dog and didn't want me to be the cause of his being transferred to a base somewhere in the middle of a desert. I'm sure you two will get along fine from now on."
Although Curly and I never became friends, he never mistreated me ever again. That's why Gunner's Christmas gift to me is one I'll never forget.
The Hornet was decommissioned in 1970. Lori and I are going to make my bucket list visit to the ship in February. Now a floating museum, she's moored in Alameda. I've been a card carrying paid member of the USS Hornet Association for many years. We former crew members and Airedales who served aboard her saved the ship from being sold, dismantled, and melted down for razor blades and Japanese automobiles.
Merry Christmas everyone. And may it be as pleasurable to you as mine was to me those many years ago on board the Grey Ghost.
In 1942, the future Grey Ghost was being built as the USS Kearsarge, CVA-33. However, the USS Hornet, CV-8, Yorktown Class carrier, was irreparably damaged in the battle of the Santa Cruz Islands and was sunk. Quickly, the Navy Department renamed the Kearsarge the Hornet, the eighth U.S. naval fighting ship to bear that name. The first was christened in 1775 and was one-half of the entire Continental Navy, its sister ship, the Wasp.
About three weeks prior to that Christmas Eve, the Navy had cut orders for Seaman Apprentice George Smullen, assigning me to ship's company although I was temporarily assigned to San Diego's Destroyer base, waiting for the Hornet, at sea, to return to port.
The day the ship moored, a destroyer base driver gave me a ride to the harbor after evening meal. "A Hornet personnel boat will eventually pick you up," he said. I lifted my sea bag filled with uniforms and then found a wooden bench. I waited for a boat manned by a Hornet Coxswain to pick me up and take me out to the ship. I could see it from that bench. It was larger than huge. It already had festive holiday lights strung just below its flight deck. Also, above it, there were bright colorful lights hanging from the ship's conning tower to both its ends, the forecastle and fantail. I was impressed.
I soon discovered ship's company enlisted men and officers were assigned to the ship whereas Airedales, air department enlisted men, officers, and pilots, were assigned to the naval air station at Alameda, CA, until, that is, they were deployed to the various carriers of the Pacific fleet for their tours of sea duty.
That first night I slept in the forecastle with the deck apes of the 1st division. The next morning, the ship's executive officer assigned me to the Hornet's 6th division, the gunnery department, responsible for storage and safekeeping of all ordnance, including small arms and large five-inch, thirty-eight, cannons, later changed to 5-inch, fifty-fours, installed for the ship's protection. Magazines (rooms) under our care held numerous bombs of various weights up to a half-ton, grenades, aircraft and anti-aircraft artillery, air-guided torpedoes, Sidewinder air-to-air heat and light-seeking guided missiles, any and all ammunition. 6th Division sailors manned the cannons and rifles and sent up on elevators all ordnance to the hangar bay or flight deck where Airedale gunnery sailors took over.
With over a 2,500-man crew, Captain Thomas Connolly advised us over the loudspeaker system my first morning that we'd soon go to sea for a month's ORI, Operational Readiness Inspection, before we ventured on an 11-month tour of protecting our country's interests in the vast Pacific Ocean.
The Ship's Gunner, a Warrant Officer 4, who had risen from the enlisted ranks, was, according to fellow sailors, "On the right hand of God, himself." Even the Lieutenant Junior Grade Officer, an Annapolis graduate who was supposed to be in charge of our division, treated Gunner, a tall, well-built Texan native, as the authority figure. Nobody dared call him, "Sir." The white haired man was contemptuous of anyone who spouted that term for him. He remained an enlisted man. Heart and soul.
Gunner assigned me the task of OA, Ordnance Accountant, which had been the responsibility of a petty officer, second class. The Gunner chose me, he said, because of my test scores I had received in boot camp. The former OA, still on board and in our division, was a second class petty officer gunner's mate, a balding man named Curly. There was nothing I could do to assuage his resentment for my "stealing" his job.
Gunner immediately assigned Kentuck, a seaman obviously from Kentucky, to escort me to every magazine on the ship, a task which took the entire day. Kentuck told me jokes all the while. Because we couldn't smoke in magazines, we took plenty of smoke breaks. Up, down, up and down some more, and all around that ship we traversed. Each magazine hatch (door, for you non-seafaring folk) to the hold (room) was padlocked. Seaman Kentuck had magazine key responsibility, and there were plenty of them. He was not allowed a master key due to security reasons although Gunner had some stored away in a place where he could get them and hand them out in an emergency.
Gunner advised me I was responsible to keep track of all ordnance on board at any given moment, including officers' small arms. I had to ask for each and every pistol and ammo assigned to pilots before they transferred from our ship to anywhere else. Most pilots were more than accommodating. One gave me a hard time but after I told him my orders were from Gunner, he handed his .45 to me faster than a whitetail buck avoids hunters.
Even the captain who would be promoted to admiral after our cruise treated Gunner with utmost respect. Weekly, I had to visit each magazine for count. Kentuck handed me a foxtail broom which I used to clean the magazine's deck of any dust.
Christmas Eve day arrived. Because our religious preference along with blood type was in our personnel records and cited on our ID dog tags, Gunner knew I was Catholic. He told me he was going to attend Protestant services that night and asked me if I planned to attend midnight mass. "Our service is going to be held in the hangar bay at 2300 hours and yours will be at zero hundred hours. You going to go?"
Rather than a question, I heard it as an order. "Yes," I told him.
Thus, at 11:50 p.m., the boatswain mate blew his whistle over the loud speaker and announced Midnight Mass would take place in ten minutes. I felt homesick for the first time since I had joined the Navy six months earlier. I made my way up to the hangar deck from the armory. Just outside it was one bunk, assigned to me. Curly hadn't liked being moved from that bunk to the group's sleeping area and let me know in no uncertain terms. On the hangar bay, in front of a large group of planes, their wings folded toward each other, I saw at least 300 steel folding chairs set up in a bunch of rows, a temporary altar in front. I took a seat.
One second later, Curly sat next to me as I thought, "What did I do to deserve this?"
After mass, the chaplain announced, "Mid-rats are being extended for you men."
Curly turned to me. "Are you going for Mid-rats?"
"I don't even know what they are."
"Midnight rations. You should go. They serve a helluva meal."
So, I followed Curly down to the enlisted men's Galley. As we stood in line for an extended time with Curly in front, he turned to me and said, "You won't believe this meal. It's something to write home about."
Served to us was a complete Thanksgiving turkey and ham Dinner plus a full breakfast menu, including steak and eggs, any number you wanted and the way you wanted them, fried or poached, hashed brown and American fried potatoes, pancakes, waffles, SOS (shit on the shingle—creamed beef on toast), breakfast ham, bacon, plenty of toast, coffee, milk, and many other food items. When my tray was loaded, Curly said, "Follow me."
We went to a 10-man table where eight other sailors, four on a side, sat. Two empty seats faced each other. Curly said, "Sit over there so we can talk." I couldn't believe his friendliness, considering the way he had been treating me.
After he gobbled down one of his breakfast steaks, Curly said, "I want to apologize for the way I've been treating you. It's not your fault that Gunner assigned you my job." From that point on, we chatted about just everything under the sun, including cold Wisconsin winters. Curly was from Florida. I was so relaxed I forgot I was homesick.
Much later, on Christmas morning after I woke up, Gunner arrived at the armory. "Well?" he said.
"Well, what?"
"Did you attend mass?"
"I did."
"And," he asked as he broke a grin, "who sat next to you?"
I didn't answer right away but a few seconds later I said, "You know, don’t you? I'll betcha you had a talk with Curly."
"I did. He's an old sea dog and didn't want me to be the cause of his being transferred to a base somewhere in the middle of a desert. I'm sure you two will get along fine from now on."
Although Curly and I never became friends, he never mistreated me ever again. That's why Gunner's Christmas gift to me is one I'll never forget.
The Hornet was decommissioned in 1970. Lori and I are going to make my bucket list visit to the ship in February. Now a floating museum, she's moored in Alameda. I've been a card carrying paid member of the USS Hornet Association for many years. We former crew members and Airedales who served aboard her saved the ship from being sold, dismantled, and melted down for razor blades and Japanese automobiles.
Merry Christmas everyone. And may it be as pleasurable to you as mine was to me those many years ago on board the Grey Ghost.
RSS Feed