A SEA STORY

SENT TO US BY

TERENCE SUTHERLAND

(Don't have dates when he was in)

BILLY JOE CARTER

            The Executive Officer of a Navy or Coast Guard ship has a whole bag full of duties.  He is in training for command, to be sure.  But the main thing he does is relieve the Commanding Officer of hundreds of distracting details daily, allowing him to think of the Big Picture while all the little bits and pieces are coming together under the leadership of those junior to him.  On a destroyer these include the heads of the engineering, operations, weapons, and supply departments.

          The Exec holds a whip over the department heads for their operational and administrative performance.  In truth, a Machiavellian play takes place aboard ship.  The Captain is the Prince; and the Executive Officer is the Prime Minister.  When it comes to handing out medals and commendations, holding parades, announcing a new and interesting liberty port, it is the Captain who shines in this department.   When it comes to kicking butt, meting out informal and summary punishment, holding people’s feet to the fire, it is the Executive Officer who had better do it.

          In our squadron of DER's (Destroyer Escort, Radar), the old radar picket ships which were so much employed in air defense of at the end of in World War II, when Japan was becoming a waning naval and air power, there were eight ships assigned.  We were employed mostly on the DEW line, a Distant Early Warning barrier spread, in our case, across the Pacific Ocean from Adak, Alaska to Oahu, Hawaii.  We had air search radar, but little armament.  It was our job to warn of incoming hostile aircraft or missiles bound for United States territory, obtain weather data every six hours, and serve as search and rescue platforms for a continuous string of Constellation four-engine radar search aircraft which flew out of Hickam Field.  These Connies made their search as far north as Adak, then returned to Hickam.  Should one of these aircraft go down, we were there to pick up the crews, everyone hoped.

          As a routine matter, we performed this little function every three weeks, remaining in port for three weeks thereafter to glue everything back together from our rough sojourn into  Northern Pacific waters, which, by the way, are not too pacific.  Occasionally we were sent off on intelligence missions, gathering information on Soviet submarines or ICBMs.  Once we blew in and out of Shanghai harbor, causing the Chinese to illuminate us with their fire control radars, on which we took tapes and sailed quickly out.  Not a shot was fired.  Once we bugged Russian missile range ships while they did telemetering work on an intercontinental missile shot out of the Kamkatcha Penninsula.  And when we were near Adak, we monitored a U.S. nuclear shot in space from Johnson Island, located far south of the equator.

          So much for excitement.  The truth of it is that our daily routine was as dull and boring as that of Richard Henry Dana, who spent two years collecting horse hides in on the Pacific Coast and running the Horn under sail from Boston and back.

          The weather in the North Pacific frequently produced a depressing fog.  The relatively warm currents combined with moist, cold air to produce a great many zero visibility days.  It was my standard practice, as Exec, to be notified when the sun broke through, so that I could go to the general announcing system in the pilot house and inform the crew:  “Now hear this.  The sun is shining.”  This was a general signal for everyone below to crawl topside to blink at the sun.  I especially appreciated the engineers doing this, since they blinked in a grateful way, having been in the dark holes of the propulsion and auxiliary spaces for what seemed to be generations.

          On one night per three-week cruise, we were allowed to dress in any clothing we chose, brought from ashore, and hold a Casino Night in the crews mess.  Of course, funny money was used, having been purchased for the benefit of the welfare and recreation fund.

          It is money that is the subject of this story; and this introduction brings us to the activities of Billy Joe Carter, a fireman in the R (Repair) Division.  Early on I had heard rumors that Billy Joe was running a slush fund.  Just exactly what that was and how it worked, I was not sure.  Yet I was fortunate to have on board a Chief-Master-at-Arms who, as all good CMAAs, had a pretty good ear to the deck for illegal happenings, getting wind of them almost before they happened.  Chief Curty reported to me one day that one Billy Joe Carter was lending money to the crew at usurious rates.  Catching him in the act, though, proved to be almost impossible.

          I am not ashamed to say that I spent an unusual amount of time on the excellence of the berthing and messing facilities aboard.  To be sure, I made a daily inspection of all berthing and messing compartments, noting each improvement that could be made, and requiring the department heads to see that the whole business sparkled in general.

          I thought it was important, and it was.

          One of my techniques from time to time during these inspections was to run my hand under a mattress to see what was stowed there.  Sometimes I came up with a soggy black sock, and this was not too pleasant.  But one day I hit pay dirt when I ran my hand under the mattress of Billy Joe Carter.  I recovered a wheel book, a small green memorandum book which most supervisors used to record important information.   Supposedly only wheels carried them, officers and petty officers.  The little book, entitled Memorandum, was standard issue and very popular.  When I thumbed through the wheel book of Billy Joe, I found a list of people who owed him money, some seventeen or so crew members, all of whom were not paid well.   It turned out Billy Joe was charging twenty-percent compound interest a week, with payment due on payday, which occurred at the first of every month.

          To me there was only one thing to do with the book.  With the CMAA as my witness, I walked to the fantail and sailed Billy Joe’s wheel book into the waves.  A beautiful sunrise smile came upon the face of Chief Curty.  We continued the daily inspection without incident and in good spirits.

          About mid-afternoon I was walking about on the main deck, as was my habit, getting all over the ship to see what was going on, when there appeared before me Billy Joe Carter.

          “Commander,” he whined.  “Did you throw my wheel book over the side?”

          “Yes, I did, Billy Joe.”

          “Commander, you are always picking on me.”

          “You’re running a slush fund.  You were charging the crew at usurious rates,” I stated.

          “Well, yes, Commander.   But it is business.”

          “Billy Joe,” I warned, “your business is at an end.  And I hear you have been playing poker for money in the I.C. room.  One of these days I am going to catch you.  When I do I am going to bring you up to the old man at mast, and you can tell him all about it.  After I finish briefing him, he will probably do something to remove from your wallet all those unfair gains you have made off the seamen and firemen on this ship.”

          Billy Joe slumped off.  It was time to call watch relief's to early mess.  We all have our bad days.