Date: Thu, 27 Jul 2017 20:19:24 +0000 (UTC)
From: jim ford <sojourn1950@yahoo.com>
Subject: Reflections of a Regular Naval Officer chapter five

This story is fiction. Well, the parts with sex mostly are fiction. The
rest is based on my personal experiences. I have changed the names. But, it
is still true they all existed much as presented herein. The characters are
adults in adult situations.

Warnings: The only person you can ever hope to truly know is
yourself. Trust no one; use condoms. As my friend BearPup says, "dying for
sex" should only be an expression... not a reality."

If you are not of legal age OR in a jurisdiction in which this document is
illegal, go. away. Now!This is my story. Please respect the copyright. If
you enjoy it, let me know. If you are still reading this let me know.Jim
Fordsojourn1950@yahoo.com

Please consider a donation to Nifty. They help keep your dominant hand
therapeutically engaged. Consider this a medical consultation, but pay
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Chapter five

As you might expect, I have been following the investigation of the
collision at sea involving the USS Fitzgerald. Much as I predicted this
tragedy was completely avoidable. While no investigative results have been
released, Reuters has reported the Fitzgerald's watch team likely shoulders
the lion's share of the blame. I was going to wait until I had revisited
all my significant memories at COMMINEWARCOM (Commander, Mine Warfare
Command) in Charleston, SC, before relating any of my Persian Gulf
experiences. But this tragedy has brought to the forefront of my memory the
USS Samuel B. Roberts. I think the telling is timely. I assure you these
accounts are factual according to this old man's memory. Just the sex is
fantasy..... enjoy.

While on overnight watch duty on a Sunday morning at COMMINEWARCOM, I
received a call from the Minesweeper squadron for assistance. They had
received a call from the USS Lasalle in Bahrain. The admiral wanted to turn
two Kuwaiti flagged supply boats, MV Hunter and MV Stricker into mechanical
minesweepers. I will leave it to you if you want to google "pigs, bitches
and Otters". Commander (0-5) Brown, the squadron XO, was tasked with
assembling the necessary hardware and getting it shipped to the Persian
Gulf. In all fairness, I was as useless as tits on a boar hog. I had never
been aboard a Minesweeper. It was my job to develop plans for "laying"
mines NOT clearing them. I simply took notes to report to the more senior
officers at COMMINEWARCOM come Monday morning. I promptly forgot about the
whole episode.

I never understood the relationship between COMMINEWARCOM and the actual
floating minesweeping vessels. I was a minefield planner. The closest I
ever came was to develop realistic exercises that the individual
minesweepers were to execute satisfactorily in order to maintain their
certification. At the time, I think there were eight minesweepers assigned
to the Pacific fleet and six assigned to the Atlantic fleet.

Fast forward a few months and I am assigned ninety days TDY (temporary duty
assignment) to the admiral's staff aboard the USS LaSalle, permanently tied
up pierside in Bahrain. That ninety days was to become one of the most
intense periods of my life. I would learn a lot about myself during that
time.

Onboard the Lasalle, I was one of the Minesweeper Squadron staff. It was
our job to direct the minesweepers in their efforts. We were directed by an
Captain (0-6) and he reported to the admiral.

Here, I will relate my acquaintanceship with one admiral's "baby boy",
let's call him Billy. Now, back in Charleston, Billy was my next door
neighbor. I soon learned that the admiral's son was there to get combat
exposure without the risks of actual combat. He actually told me about
spending the night with the Seal team aboard one of the barges in the
Northern Persian Gulf. It was either "Hercules" or Wm Brn Seven, not sure
which. He was very enthusiastic in his descriptions. I think he may have
even been taken for a ride on a river patrol boat. (There are perks to
being an admiral's offspring. I would later learn his "joy ride" earned him
a "Meritorious Service Medal". If you think he deserved it let's talk about
Arizona shore front property. Billy was ostensibly assigned as the
Admiral's "Mine Warfare Expert". It didn't take me long to learn that
Billy, even after having served as a Division Officer onboard an actual
Minesweeper, in Charleston, didn't know shit about Mine Warfare. The
admiral and his staff would ask him questions and Billy would run to us for
answers. One day a fellow lieutenant got fed up and said words to the
effect of, "Look, asshole, why don't you just tell the admiral you don't
know shit about Mine Warfare and stop using our work and presenting it to
him as your own. Now, get the fuck out of here and go do your own work for
a change." The fellow who said that was the man, from COMMINEWARCOM whom I
was sent to relieve.

Later Billy approached me and said, "Jim, I can't believe he actually
called me an asshole." I noticed he did not challenge any of the
accusations. I was amazed, "You mean to tell me no one has ever called you
that"? His sincere response was, "Not professionally." I said, "Well, I
find that hard to believe. But, then Fred is about to retire and he is
about to fly home. So maybe you caught him with his guard down." Billy was
called away and I got on with my day.

Across the pier from the "Great Galloping Ghost of the Arabian Coast" (The
nickname for the USS La Salle.) was tied up none other than the MV Hunter
and MV Striker. The same vessels I had discussed turning into mechanical
minesweepers, in Charleston, some months before. They were under the
auspices of a Guy I had met in Surface Warfare Officer School (SWOS). He
gave me a quick tour of his "flagship", MV Hunter. We had dinner together a
couple of times in Bahrain.

One weekend his crew got drunk and an international melee ensued. Let me
explain. The vessels were originally Kuwaiti Oil Tanker Company (KOTC)
supply boats. About 180 feet long. The living quarters and superstructure
were on the forward one third of the hull. The vessels were basically
identical except for paint. I felt the Hunter looked more... imposing.

Originally these vessels carried foodstuffs ( fresh, frozen and dry), fuel,
fresh water, replacement crews and even wet cement out to oil platforms in
the Persian Gulf. I have no idea as to the original crew make up. In April,
1988, the crew was comprised of a US Navy Lieutenant in charge of both
vessels. A US Navy Chief Petty Officer was assigned to whatever vessel the
Lieutenant chose not to ride.  Each vessel's crew consisted of the
following; an English Master (read that as Captain), a European second
officer, a European chief engineer, a second engineer (also European) along
with a cook as well as three deckhands, with these last four being from
from the Philippines.  Additionally, there were four or five US Navy junior
enlisted sailors to man the minesweeping gear.

There is no doubt in my mind that the Brits and Europeans were paid a
King's ransom for piloting these boats through mine infested waters. The
folks from the Phillipines, I am not so sure about their pay.

Now, back to the international Melee. The KOTC belonged to the Kuwaiti
government. Their representative in Bahrain supplied all our needs. There
was an endless supply of beer. Any reader really need me to connect the
dots? Ok, you see when you mix sailors... not just any sailors. Oh no,
these guys were a motley crew. They were for the most part, trouble makers
and rejects. Some were being processed for discharges. One was called back
stateside because his "other than honorable" discharge came through earlier
than expected. These guys were not the cream of the crop. They were
disgruntled, unappreciated, and in a foreign land not by their choosing. I
think one out of the nine was an actual volunteer. Apparently the Scottish
Master of the MV Striker insulted the Yanks. The result was the Master
suffered a broken arm and two sailors were assigned to the USS LaSalle to
face non judicial punishment. Henceforth beer was forbidden for consumption
by the US Naval contingent. Oh, and the Officer in Charge was
replaced. Remember, Surface Warfare Officers are responsible for the
actions of their crew. He was out of there.

It was decided that I was to assume the post of Officer in charge of the MV
Hunter and MV Striker. As a joke we had ballcaps embroidered to reflect our
unique status as Commodores, since we commanded more than one ship. My cap
reflected the even numbers assigned to the east coast fleet, read, "TUGRON
TWO". His cap, since he was TDY from San Diego read "TUGRON ONE". TUGRON
was short for Tug boat Squadron. I wore mine any time we were underway and
once or twice aboard the LaSalle. One of my sailors onboard Hunter told me
one day, "Sir, that may be your hat today, but it's going back to
Charleston with me. I'll be a son of a bitch if that bastard, sure enough,
didn't steal my all time favorite hat. Never underestimate a crusty,
determined sailor. He would later do something that earned him that hat and
my undying admiration.

My training was to be one trip from just inside the Straits of Hormuz to
Kuwait City leading the reflagged tanker convoy made up of one or more Navy
combatants and reflagged Kuwaiti tankers.

We, both vessels, would greet the assembled convoy. As Officer in Charge, I
would make the much dreaded "leap of death". Basically, Hunter"s Master
would come alongside the warship while both were making minimum headway
(Going minimum speed.) Two of the largest sailors aboard Hunter would hold
onto my belt and pants while sailors aboard the Navy warship would grab at
me. The Hunters deck was always significantly lower than the
warships. Sometimes I would leap from our deck onto the warship's Jacob's
ladder, a ladder made of knotted rope and wood hung over the side. Everyone
involved, especially me, focused on not letting me fall between the ships
to be crushed or drowned. Both vessels deployed fenders, or cushions, to
prevent actual ship to ship contact.

Once onboard, I was escorted to the wardroom where I would loan the warship
special hand-held encrypted radios with spare batteries. I would then brief
them concerning every vessel's role and position. Basically the Hunter and
Striker would get a head start and deploy our minesweeping gear at first
light. Hunter, with me onboard, would lead with Striker following so she
was just inside the track that the Hunter had already swept. This provided
an overlap area between our vessels through which the convoy would
travel. Thus providing a route that had been twice swept for mines. The
idea was our array fanned out so we "swept" down to a depth greater than
any tanker hull would reach. Our gear spread out in a fan shape for well
over a hundred yards. If we cut a mine loose it would surface and a sailor,
on constant lookout, armed with an M-14, would shoot at it until it was
harmlessly detonated. And no, I never saw that happen.

You might ask, "Jim, onboard MV Hunter you were double sweeping for the
safety of the tankers and the warship. You even cover the path that Striker
navigates... What, pray tell, protected MV Hunter's navigation track"?
"Glad you asked that, Little Timmy. What protected my vessel? Not a fucking
thing!" One Marine General said, "It's better to let one of those Kuwaiti
owned boats hit a mine and save a warship. Too many lives and too much
money to risk one of ours." Personally, I never liked that man. (A sister
ship to Hunter and Striker hit a mine. The only survivor was the cook who
happened to be standing at the stern sheet, the absolute ass end of the
vessel.)

The reflagged tankers followed in a line, behind my vessels, with the
warships bringing up the rear.

After that first run I was on my own. I must admit I was treated well while
in port. I lived in a nice hotel. I had my own rental car. I was on "per
diem". Which meant my meals were covered. If I ate in the LaSalle's
wardroom the meals were free. My superiors decided I didn't have to live
onboard the Hunter when in port. It was ok for my sailors, but the private
stateroom with private bathroom was just asking too much of me. I think
they took into consideration my hazardous duty.

Let me tell you about Dick. Dick was a Brit who Mastered the Hunter. He had
spent his life at sea. He had been schooled at some boarding school
Maritime Academy that he felt I should have heard of. Dick spoke with a
very cultured, "well bred" accent. He was not a tall man. Compact, not
muscular, just strong and solid. I couldn't rest his head under my chin
readily. But it was not too much of a strain to do so.

Then, in his fifties, he was indeed a Master ship handler. That didn't keep
him from shaking nervously when vessel maneuvering required his complete
attention. I noticed from the beginning, he was extremely quiet. I found
out later he was sizing me up to see if I was like my predecessor, he never
cared for that guy. He was also quite good looking. He had a head full of
curly salt and pepper hair, mostly salt. I think he had just enough black
hair on his head and body to give it all some depth. Few things got Dick
excited. One was a pod of killer whales, made up of two adults and a calf,
I photographed in the Central Persian Gulf. Another was his Jaguar XKE. He
quickly explained, it was not the 2 plus 2 body style. I suppose those were
two things we first bonded over. I enjoyed his company. He commanded the
trust and respect of the crews on both vessels, sailors and civilians
alike.

He soon took to wearing his shirts unbuttoned. Looking back it's hard to
say when I realized he had noticed me staring at his hairy chest or his
whole body actually. It was probably the second week I was in charge. We
got to talking about his XKE and he invited me down to his stateroom. His
stateroom was nicer than most any Navy Captain's stateroom. It had plush
carpet and rugs. A plush seating room with all the comforts, TV, VCR,
fridge, and a microwave oven. In the bedroom he had a queen sized bed. The
whole space smacked of home. While there were paintings on the walls I saw
no photographs anywhere. Dick explained that he had to share this
stateroom, on a revolving basis, with two other Masters. Each had a locker
which stored any personal effects they didn't want to lug back and forth to
home.

Dick made himself a gin and tonic while I sipped something akin to 7Up. We
sat on a small sofa while he proudly showed me photographs of his XKE as it
was being restored. The album spread across his lap as he detailed the
progress. He talked about the inherent rust in the undercarriage and rear
quarter panels. He definitely loved his car.

When I leaned in close to view a photo he was pointing to on the far page
he slipped his arm around me. He gently stroked my right bicep. I could
smell his sun kissed skin and his clean musk. I intentionally let my cheek
brush against his exposed hairy chest. "You know Jim, I have caught you
admiring my body. I must say, I find it quite flattering. Those running
shorts you wear when jogging and working out, should be illegal. I have
enjoyed watching your cock flop around. It's quite obscene."

Between the deep, soft, sexy roll of his accent and his rhythmic strokes
against my naked flesh I was hesitant to sit up, but I did. Looking into
Dick's soft brown eyes I surprised to see caution and fear. It seemed in
such contrast to his spoken bravado. Still, he had taken quite a risk
here. It was a calculated risk, but a risk nonetheless.

He was definitely not expecting me kiss his fears away, but I did. Dick was
usually clean shaven inport. Underway he let his stubble show. It felt
strange, but stimulating. He tasted vaguely of gin and strongly of, "I want
more!"

We struggled getting me out of my uniform. All Dick had to do was kick off
his deck shoes and slip off his shorts. I halted and asked, "Are you sure
no one will come in"?I must have looked a sight in my black socks, my white
briefs down to my knees and my hard, leaking cock throbbing
sporadically. If anyone had come in there would be no doubt as to our
intentions.

Dick chuckled, "No one `ever' enters without permission." With a twinkle in
his eye he added, "I might have had the foresight to lock the cabin door
when we came in." With that, he dropped to his knees and docked his mouth
onto my cock. He slipped out of his shirt and tossed it toward the
loveseat. He alternated between taking me deep and teasing my frenulum with
his very active tongue. My hands rested on his shoulders and I discovered
his back was almost as hairy as his chest. All too soon I was on the
edge. I pushed him away. I wanted to explore the body I had been lusting
after. His questioning look was answered by my, "Too close. I want to play
more before I cum." That notion apparently pleased him on several levels.

He smiled and stood up. I looked him up and down. His cock was an eye
catcher. It was thinner than mine, but noticeably longer. His foreskin hung
down in lush folds even with his cock fully engorged and leaking. I tore my
eyes away and stiffened my stance, least I drop to my knees and slurp up
that pearlescent goodness.

He was indeed a hirsute individual. I had somehow associated real
Englishman as being slim, hairless, rather effete. I fantasized about Sean
Connery and Pierce Brosnan, neither of whom were English. Yet, here was a
shorter, stockier version of my ideal and he most definitely was
English. My stereotypes were discarded. I caressed all parts of his body I
could easily reach. When I brushed against his nipples his whole body
shuddered. "Pinch them,Please!" I did. "Harder!" I complied. He began to
furiously stroke his cock. "Oh Yes!" I pinched using my thumbnails. "Oh
God! Squeeze my balls!" My left hand dropped down to his lowhangers. I
squeezed his balls with my left hand and pinched his nipple with my
right. "Harder!" Then, "Harder on both please." A satisfactory groan later,
"May I cum, Sir? Please, May I cum"?

Until this moment I had only the vaguest notion that I enjoyed exhibiting
an element of control during sex. I had always assumed it was the husband's
role to initiate and to choreograph positions during intercourse. Dick had
unknowingly turned on a light in my closeted place. "Don't you cum! I
crushed his nuts to emphasize my point. He let go his cock and began to
collapse. Instead of following him down I held firmly and insistently onto
his balls and pulled his nipple in an upward direction. I let him know he
was under my control. I directed, "Stand up." When he didn't respond I
crushed his nuts again without restraint, as I slapped my right hand hard
against his left pectoral.  I was shocked to see I had left my handprint on
his flesh. I thought surely he would raise hell. Instead he snapped
upright.

It was sinking into my brain that I could play hard and he would love it. I
released his body and stepped back. His cock had been hard and leaking the
whole time. He looked pleadingly into my eyes and quietly mumbled, "Please
don't stop."

I snarled, "What did you just say"? His shuddered and looked at the
floor. "I said, Please don't stop... Sir."

I felt a thrill rush up my spine. I was used to being addressed as "Sir",
but never in a sexually charged context. I was ecstatic. I grabbed him by
his hair and snatched his head up. His eyes were glazed over with lust. I
started to kiss him. I got close enough to feel his breath. "Open your
mouth!" His lower jaw dropped as if attached to a heavy weight and his long
tongue lolled out over his lower lip. I spat at his mouth. Most went
inside, but some slashed on his upper lip. Part of me was on alert for an
unfavorable response. Most of me was just exhilarated at the
possibilities. Dicks response was to groan, swallow greedily, and lick his
lips as if to capture every little bit of some tasty treat. A kid eating
ice cream came to mind.

"Suck my cock!" If a trap door had sprung open beneath his feet Dick could
not have dropped faster. He inhaled my cock to the root. He gagged and
backed off coughing, just as it was feeling so good. That pissed me
off. When he came back for more, I grabbed his hair and began to tease him
with my cock. Keeping it just out of reach of his mouth. He followed it in
an almost trance like state. He hungered for my cock. I almost laughed out
loud. "Look at me!" His eyes snapped to mine. "I am going to fuck your
throat until I cum. I am not going to release your head until my cum is in
your belly. Do you understand"?

Quietly he replied, "Yes Sir, please do."

"Please do what"?

"Please Sir, fuck my worthless throat, until you cum." (If you the reader,
didn't hear echoes of "Oliver Twist" in his request, you are either not
well read or I am not doing my job.)

I spat in his face. This time it landed mostly between his eyebrows and ran
down the side of his nose. His tongue searched fruitlessly. I slapped my
cock against the side of his face a couple of times then plunged balls deep
in a single thrust. I showed no mercy. I fucked his face as I would later
fuck his ass, with absolute unrestrained lust. There was nothing in the
world except my cock, my need to get off, and his warm, wet womb of
pleasure. If you have ever fucked like nothing else matters... this was
that, only ten times better because it was this hyper masculine man I was
using.

I would like to say I prolonged it. I would like to say we explored each
other's bodies to our mutual satisfaction. Truth is, I fucked that gorgeous
man's throat until you couldn't tell which part of his face was covered in
tears, saliva, snot, puke or cum. Mostly, it was a mixture.

When I finally released his head, he sprawled across the floor, gasping for
air. As messy as his face was, his chest, belly and groin were awash in his
own cum. On the floor I could see the trails of cum he painted across the
floor. It was a massive amount. Hiding my awe, I demanded, "How many times
did you cum"?

Without looking up. Without really moving, his right hand, laying across
his chest, extended two fingers. After a moment, a third finger joined
those two. As he considered the experience a Cheshire Cat's grin painted
his messy face. "Jim, it was truly `my' pleasure getting to know you. I
hope we can do this again sometime. Forgive me if I don't see you ou...."
The next sound I heard was snoring.

I dressed and made my way down the hall, to my own stateroom. I got a
shower and jerked off thinking about having my way, again, soon, with that
incredibly virile, masculine, hairy, wet dream of a man.

Dick was the consummate professional. Unless, we were in his stateroom with
the door locked. A time or two he would order ice cream, or some snacks, so
the cook could see "we were just two mates enjoying each other's
company". And we certainly did.



And now for some behind the scenes historical facts.

The USS Samuel B.Roberts started out being a pain in the ass. First off the
Captain refused to allow the Hunter to even approach, saying that he had
seen other ship's whose sides we had messed up with our black rubber tire
bumpers. When I finally convinced him we could do the leap of death while
standing clear he gave in. I will say he complemented the Dick's ship
handling skills in not getting his ship's sides all blackened. As soon as I
was again safely aboard the Hunter, I learned the Roberts crew had managed
to clear the encryption code. That meant they were basically Walmart walkie
talkies. He refused to allow me to replace those with properly encrypted
radios. One each convoy all ships assigned were given code names. In this
case all ships were given callsigns taken from American comedians. Hunter
and Striker "Burns" and "Allen" while Roberts was "Groucho". That was
deemed appropriate early on and would be significant later in our journey.

Once the journey began he complained of our slow speed. Insisting he had a
rendezvous with a supply ship just inside the Straits of Hormuz. I tried to
explain that our speed was calculated to allow time for a mine who's
mooring cable we cut to surface so we could safely detonate it. Otherwise,
the convoy, including his ship, could wind up dodging floating mines. He
didn't like it when I told him he would have to contact the admiral in
order for me to violate our standing orders. He was pissed and let me know
what he thought of an uncooperative junior officer.

It was in the wee hours of the morning when I was rudely awakened by one of
my sailors. I insisted we maintain a Navy presence on the bridge at all
times. He informed me that the Master thought we were being approached by
Iranian patrol boats. I got dressed in a hurry. On the bridge I saw the
radar contacts. I confirmed that Striker saw what we did. I tried to raise
the Roberts on the walkie talkies.. no joy. I contacted the tankers. One of
them confirmed our contacts, the other one had nothing. I tried to reach
the Roberts on Bridge to Bridge channel 16, which every Naval vessel is
required to monitor. Again, No joy!  Finally I directed the last tanker to
hit them with a flashing light. After that I directed Hunter and Striker to
take station on the lead tanker's port side. The contacts were fast
approaching on our starboard side. At last the Roberts made contact on the
walkie talkies. I explained our situation with the fast approaching
contacts we assumed to be Iranian patrol boats.

Forty-five minutes later the captain of the Roberts came on the walkie
talkie and proceeded to chew my ass over his ship going to General
Quarters, launching his helicopter and disturbing his crew's rest, all
because of my "panic" over some radar anomalies. I listened to him talk
about his report to the admiral which he assured me would most definitely
mention my name.

When he finished his tirade I said, "Captain, I understand that radar
anomalies are not uncommon here. I understand the efforts you and your crew
expended as a result of those "likely" anomalies. All I can say is that if
your Bridge team monitored the secure radios or even if they monitored
Bridge to Bridge instead of having to be alerted by flashing light, all
this could have most likely been avoided."

His response was to spit and sputter and finally, "Roger out!"

I directed Hunter and Striker to resume their previous stations and went
back to bed. The next morning we dropped off the tankers at Kuwait
City. Before he released the tankers he offered, "I know you all think I
lived in to my callsign, "Groucho". But, I want you to know I look forward
to sailing with you all again. Roberts, out." Let me point out two things;
First, only the Captain can identify himself by the ship's name, in this
case, "Roberts". The second is that when a radio transmission ends with the
word "out" it means the whole conversation is concluded. No response is
expected, desired or even allowed. BTW, no military personnel ever say,
"over and out". Ever!

Normally the warship would escort us back to within ten nautical miles or
so of Bahrain. Not so "Groucho". As soon as the convoy disbanded he asked
to release Hunter/Striker, so he might make his supply ship
rendezvous. Both Masters agreed we could hug the coastline and slip through
some oil platforms and probably be ok. I trusted their judgement, so I
agreed to be released.

But the Masters worked a little payback for the Captain of the
Roberts. Realizing the Roberts was capable of twice the speed of our
vessels. The Masters, via satellite phones, cooked up a script that
basically played over channel sixteen. With my approval.

One remarked, "Glad that bloody bastards done with."

The other, "Yeah, such a wanker. Hated we had to hold back the speed, but
it got his knickers in a fancy wad."

"Yeah, it was worth it though, just to hear him whine. What say we pop on
over pier side at thirty knots"?

"Quite right. Let's hit then."

At this point, both Hunter and Striker's engineers did something that
resulted it both vessels' stacks emitting enormous columns of the blackest
exhaust imaginable. As to speed, it accomplished nothing. But, if the
Roberts had been monitoring Bridge to bridge, and looked behind them, it
would look as if the little supply/minesweepers had just kicked in the
afterburners. It brought a smile to my guy's faces after a very stressful
convoy escort.

There was only one close call during our unescorted transit. One half hour
when I regretted releasing the Roberts, but all worked out and about 8:00
pm we tied up safe and sound pierside Bahrain. As my chief and I walked
across the pier to check in at the LaSalle, we learned that the Roberts had
struck a mine. My chief immediately insisted we could be of some
assistance. We talked about Hunter and Striker's massive pumps their
towing/pushing abilities and there maneuverability. We sold our vessels,
their Masters and our crew. I told my (0-6) that I would only take
volunteers from my crew. Since we would be taking only one vessel and would
not be deploying minesweeping gear the remaining Sailors should be allowed
to bunk onboard LaSalle. Only one of my sailors ask to stay behind. He was
a big man. He asked to speak privately. When we were alone, tears
glistening in his eyes, he said, "Mr. Ford, I have a wife and five kids
back in Charleston. My wife is barely able to cope with me being over
here. If something happened to me, I hate to think what would happen to my
kids." As it turned out we left several behind including him. He was spared
any shame. I always felt he was a very strong man. Within a few hours we
were enroute to save the ship that had been a very real pain in our asses
just hours before.

When we approached the Roberts you could see she was in very bad shape. I
won't visit the injuries other than to report there were no
fatalities. Ship's pumps were not having any measure of success. The
Roberts Captain came on channel 16 and said, "I know I refused to let you
folks come alongside the other day. But, right now, I would be most
grateful if you could tie up and help with the pumping." Well, the best
pumps in the world couldn't overtake water pouring in through a fifteen
foot hole in the hull.

It soon became apparent that pumping water out was an act of
futility. Soon, Hunter's tow lines were put to good use and we towed the
USS SAMUEL B. ROBERTS to within sight of Dubai, United Arab Emirates. There
we turned her over to harbor tugs and resumed our duties.

We did bring supplies to her a week or so later. To see her in a dry dock
used to repair supertankers was a shock to my perspective. We were
"allowed" by direction of the Captain, to purchase some ship's
memorabilia. Our presence was not acknowledged by anyone other than the
ship's storekeeper, who said he had to clear our hat purchases through the
Captain.

After much discussion it was decided by an international committee ( made
of five nationalities) that the Captain of the USS Samuel B. Roberts was a
complete and utter ASSHOLE!

As a result of the minestrike the minesweepers were brought down from the
Northern Persian Gulf to sweep that area. They worked tirelessly. Hunter
and Striker were tasked with re supplying them on site, in the mined
area. We were completing a supply / crew exchange run and headed back to
Bahrain. The chief engineer, a German, came on the bridge and said, "Jim, I
just stopped by the galley and caught a young sailor taking an apple. The
boy apologized and said it was the first fresh fruit he had seen in over
thirty days. Dick, having heard this conversation called down to the cook
to break out all the fresh fruit, snacks and soft drinks he could find and
set them up outside on the deck. Dick was a brave man to repeatedly put
himself at risk as a civilian. He was also a caring and compassionate
leader. I hold few men, in my life, as his equal.

Author's Note:Thanks to Nathan, who did a great job editing, but used far
too many emojis. Who knew an emoji could drool?I suppose the next chapter
is to be about recovering the crew of a crashed Marine Cobra
helicopter. Plus an interesting encounter with a Navy Seal who used the
Heimlich Maneuver on himself.Let me know what you think.Jim