THE U.S.S. SEGUNDO (SS398)
 
  I remember coming down the gangplank (brow), sea-bag on my shoulder. Having just gotten transfered from the Caiman (SS323), where I had qualified in submarines and spent the previous four and a half years. I was looking forward to a new home now, and remembering that Shakey Forbes was the Chief in charge of the mess, having met him several months before during a yard period and knowing that he was a pretty good old-shit, and liked to partake of hops based beverages and others of the alchoholic nature, I was really looking forward to my tour aboard the Segundo.

Cock-sure of my culinary capabilities I shouted out to a cluster of sailors sitting around the after-battery hatch, "hey, I hear you fuckers need a cook?". to which they responded "you ain't just a shittin". To that I replied "well, here I am".  Vrooman, took my seabag and lowered it down the hatch behind me. There I was, emersed in the bowels of the Good old Segundo, with that firmiliar odor of diesel oil and #2 sanitary filling my nostrils.  God it smelled good. I had just come off 30 days leave so my senses were devoid of all those good submarine aromas.
 I re-intoduced myself to Shakey Forbes and met the duty cook,Willie Lump-Lump. I knew then what they ment when they said "you ain't just a shittin". Layin' eye-balls on him reminded me of the three things you never trust, a sick corpsman, a rich storekeeper or a skinny cook.  This guy was skinny and probably couldn't eat his own cooking either.

Forbes way of welcoming me aboard was by shaking my hand
and informing me that I had the galley watch the next day. Shakey didn't  screw around when it came to putting somebody to work.
   I then proceded to the yeomans shack and was checked aboard by Waldrip YN?, whom I dubbed Bulkhead-Leak. (don't know where Hotch was).  
I then proceeded on to find and check in with the COB. While checking, I mentioned to the COB that I was a 'trailer sailor', so he, Dexter Deneen, assigned me the after-upper-starboard rack in the After Torpedo Room. The rack which I pressed and flattened the living hell out of for the next six and a half years.
 It was a good rack in a well run room with our own crapper and sink, what else could a man ask for? And the maid service was excellent too.

    To get on with this narative---My tour aboard the Segundo was the  most memorable part of my Naval career.  The Sailors I had the privilage of serving with on that great old boat made it that way and what follows is little bits of superflous bull-shit and
other things about some of those Sailors that I recall and will attempt to relate in no particular order.

 

      Like the time when we had the Phantom Shitter. He shit in Hogans Alley, he shit in the line lockers. He shit on the bridge.  But the topper was when he shit in the Mk.14 tool box below the WTD in the forward room.  Torpedomen were not happy ampers.  But then, can you blame them? We never did figure out who he was. Still a Phantom.

 

 How about when Herman and Y-Nasty were convinced that the ironheads had pet alligators in the bilge in the forward engine room.  Yes, they were convinced to the point  that they took meat scraps back to feed them.  Prior to the last feeding venture,
the enginemen rigged a 225# air hose and laid it in the bilge. When Herm and Nasty went down to try to feed the beasts, an ironhead hit the air valve.  The hose whipped, the bilges bubbled and hissed, water flew everywhere and Herman and Nasty about shit themselves. They cleared the lower flats in world record time. Hauling ass back up to the forward battery. That was the last of the gator feedin'.

 

 How about the time when the FTR gang pulled the fish out on the
port side to routine them and discovered what resembled an explosion in a condom factory. A shit-load of used, (on the inside) Tojans. Later on the EMFN that occupied the rack where the evidence was left was presented with his own personal 'beat-off-sock' that he could wash and re-use.  I'll omit his name.

 How about "Hung-Chow" who didn't, or couldn't shit for the
better part of two weeks.  Doc tried everything, all to no avail.
Finally an auxiliaryman came to the rescue and put a spoonful or two of hydralic oil in Hung-Chow's coffee and said "drink".  Drink he did and shortly after there was no end to the shit.  Ah the wonders of mechanical-medicine.

 

 How about when Skridge stole Swacks old Chevy and went AWOL? The COB (Dexter) said Swack paided Skridge $2.00 to take it so he could collect on the $100.00 insurance policy.  Which pissed Swack off. Swack loved that old car.

 

  Then, staying in the 'Swack-mode', there was the time when Chief Swack came back to the afterroom and assumed the horizontal position to catch a few zzzzz's before the noon lunch break ended. There he was, lying on his back, specticles still hanging on his schnoz, blissfuly napping away. That's when one of those afterroom underwater weapons techs decided that a little black tetrol gently applied to Swaks glasses would be a good idea.  So, paint he did.  A few minutes later the word was passed to return to our labors.  With the passing of the get-up call, Swak bounded from the rack and thinking that his bad vision had finally failed completely, he richocheted around the room for several seconds before realizing that he was just the butt of another 'get Swak' joke.

 

  On the sad side. Chief Swakhammer left us for his 'eternal patrol' a few years ago. But, his memory will live on with us.  There was only one 'SWACK'.
  
  Then there was Fat Wills on another diet.  The Chiefs in the goatlocker were cutting a little chunk off his belt every day.  Fat Wills was starving his ass off and his belt kept gettin' smaller.  This went on for about two or three weeks.  I think the belt got  down to about 40 inches before Fat Wills figured out that he couldn't have gained that much wieght subsisting on two pieces
of bread and one slice of horse cock per day.

 

 How about the Big 'T' in Tonkin gulf?  Living with 30 days worth of trash and garbage because the Captain didn't want any flotsum found that might identify us as being in the area. Every bartender and b-girl back in Subic knew where we were, who did the old man think we were fooling? The icing on the cake was surfacing and drawing some stores from one of the tin-cans in the area.  While we were drawing stores, they were dumping trash and garbage.  Didn't have any effect on the Old-Man though.  We kept our smelly shit on board for at least another week. That's how BIG 'T' Drumm got his name, battling the old man to get rid of the garbage. When the Captain informed Mr. Drumm that he didn't want to hear the word "garbage" ANYMORE, Mr. Drumm kept right on badgering him as before but refered to the acumulation as the Big "T". We were proud of our Drumm.  The old man probably wanted to beat him like one.

 

 How about nick-names? Hell, there's a potential sea story conected with practically every one. Skridge, Swack, Fat Sy, Cancer-Ass, Bathless, Fat Wills, Smokey Dave, Grubby Dave, Dirty John, Big Bert, Little Bert, Y-Nasty, Raincoat Charlie, Gator, Hung-Chow, Shakey Jake,  Hosenose, Wingnut, Squirrel, Bones, Sound God, Stubby, Oogie, Bathless, He-He, Mattress Back, Meger, Fat Sam, Knobber,Bunch, Willie Lump-Lump, Pancho, Stretch, Zorba, Skidrow, Von Zipper, Charlie Frick, WOP, Bugs, Tomaladouche, Thumbs,  Dribblejuice, Cherry Boy, and Hotch. Hotch? You may ask what in the hell is a"Hotch?"  We who served with him know what a 'Hotch" is.
    The Hotch was the organizer of quality mass disorganized confusion in profusion.  A landing party via rubber boat from off San Fran. (a story in itself), special pay, (another story), and speeches in Australia (still another story). The list could go on. But he's most famous for naming and perfecting the use of  The 'Segundo Salute' which we still recognize and render to this DAY as a dubious gesture of Segundo friendship.  Sort of like 'Aloha'.
  That famous salute that all Rag Hats rendered from top-side on our departure from Brisbane Australia, while passing the SS Kangaroo who had a banner hanging over their side that said "YANKEE GO HOME-COCKSUCKER". Needless to say, the XO, Lcdr. Smith (Squirrel) who was topside aft., where the bulk of the sailors were, just about had a posterior discharge. 

 Hotch was also 'tough'.  He's the only guy I know that JOGGED back to the boat from a nieghborhood bar in Sasebo during a rain storm the day after having a vasectomy.
Now that's TOUGH.

 

    How about Cancer-Ass Drylie?  Consumes a #10 can of dehydrated apricots during his day's watch in the galley, attends the evening movie in the crew's mess, then Farts during the showing of the flick and clears the compartment. Hence, the nickname "Cancer Ass" the Lone Movie viewer.

 

    I remember when Hung Chow came back to the boat after having his ears operated on. He came down the after battery hatch wearing sunglasses.  I said "Hey Hung Chow, you can take off the shades, there ain't no damn sunshine down here". To which he, in the finest submarine  venacular replied "fuck you Prok, this is
the first time in my life that I've been able to wear any kind of glasses and I'm wearing 'em." And wear them he did, day time, night time, chow time, bed time and all the time for about the next two weeks.  Strange??  No, it was Doctors orders to keep his 'jug handles' from growing back to his head.

   
Prok