After seeing such farces as “McHale’s Navy” and “Mr. Roberts” on television numerous times, it dawned on me that things had been pretty loose on my own ship during World War II.

I was a Navy signalman with the armed guard aboard a merchant tanker, the S.S. Chrysler’s Field. Tankers have been called “floating bombs” – not a comforting thought, considering our cargo was aviation gas.

After discharging our liquid load in the Philippines in 1945, we headed back toward the Panama Canal. Our captain was a career merchant mariner who apparently sensed that the war with Japan was winding down (victory in Europe had already been declared). He also decided it was high time for a little diversion, so he agreed to let us build our own swimming pool aboard his ship.

The captain even donated some of the ship’s lumber for our project. We built a wooden pool, lined it with canvas and hooked up lines to supply the pool with Pacific salt water. And sea water wasn’t the only liquid that made the voyage go swimmingly.

One of our gun-crew members observed that the captain had an extensive collection of alcoholic beverages. A plot soon hatched and one bold gunner relieved him of a choice bottle. After that, I learned a new word I heard the captain use rather heatedly: “Some s.o.b. (he didn’t abbreviate) has absconded with a bottle of my best whiskey!”

I didn’t need to look up the meaning of “absconded,” as I was part of the plot.

On one of our stops en route, our gunnery officer actually asked me to put on one of his uniforms and go ashore with him to the officers’ club. I declined, however, but it does illustrate just how informal it was aboard our ship.

After the war ended, the Chrysler’s Field was not scheduled to return to the States any time soon, so we were taken off the ship at Saipan to await transportation to the U.S. There were so many sailors gathered at that one place that by the time I finished my noon meal, it was time to get back in line for the evening repast.
Finally our gun crew boarded a Navy transport whose normal passenger capacity was about 400, as I recall.  It seemed to me that we had about four times that many on board, most of whom were Seabees (Construction Battalion) who weren’t accustomed to being on board ship in rough weather.

The chow hall had several chest-high tables where sailors would stand to eat their meals. The aim was for a sailor not to dally, but to eat his food promptly in order to make room for the next man.

I was in line waiting to get to a table when the ship took a violent lurch, whereupon the tables, trays laden with food -- and men -- crashed to the deck, resulting in a gigantic mound of instant chaos. Then many of the Seabees decided they weren’t so hungry after all.

During the next three or four days, they got their fill (it was more like their empties) of a storm that must have been a typhoon. It seemed that most of the poor Seabees spent their time being miserably seasick.

One non-seasick passenger I ran into was our old gunnery officer. One of his hands, however, was heavily bandaged. In relating what happened, he said, “In my four years at sea, including the Murmansk run (where so many ships were torpedoed and sunk), I never got a scratch. But on this ship, I had to get my hand caught in a movie projector!”

When our ship entered San Francisco Bay, I received a 30-day rehab leave effective November 17, 1945 – I remember that date well, as it meant that I wouldn’t be home for Christmas. I wired requesting an extension, but no luck.

My orders were to report to a navy base at San Pedro, California. There I spent about 30 days with virtually nothing to do. I was then transferred to Treasure Island, San Francisco, where I waited another 30 days before receiving an assignment. Since I had not accumulated enough “points” to be discharged, the Navy had to find something for me to do.

Finally, a classification specialist asked me if I’d like to be a bartender at the local BOQ (bachelor officers’ quarters). I knew nothing about bartending, but he assured me I would be taught.

So I took the paperwork in hand – and on my way out, the man spotted the flags on my sleeve. “Wait a minute, are you a signalman?” he asked. “Sure! What did you think I was?” He said his paperwork had me listed as a sonar man. “They need you at a signal tower by the Golden Gate Bridge!” If he hadn’t seen my flags, I might have become a bartender.

My initial tower assignment was at Point Bonita, a Coast Guard lifeboat station on the north side of the Golden Gate channel. When that tower closed, I was transferred to the one in San Francisco which was a few feet from the Golden Gate Bridge. After serving my time, I was discharged in June of 1946 – a grizzled old salt of 19.

Thanks for the ride, Captain. Now that you’ve had a few decades to cool off, let me compliment you on your taste in spirits. I’ve been told that the contents of your “absconded” bottle were mighty smooth.