Fleet operations in the Southern California op-area during the late 80′s, and your humble scribe was on the LSO platform, basking in the summer sun and topping it the grandee, on account of the pickle which he held in hand.
(And may I add parenthetically that, if you yourself, gentle reader, were to go a-Googling for images under the term “LSO pickle” then I abjure to ensure that some class of “safe search” is first enabled in preferences before you get to page 3. You’re going to want to trust me on this.)
The pickle of authority it was (not to mention responsibility), the better to permit lesser beings to make approaches aboard ship, or by declining to suffer their buffoonery end them. Sending them around on the wave-off like, for to make another go of it. Only better this time. Don’t make me call your dad.
Alongside of us we had – very nearly in plane guard station, only tending more towards the port quarter than right aft – a Sowjet Moma-class AGI, or intelligence gathering ship.
We’d see these fellers ret frequently off the Southern California coasts, and to tell the truth we sometimes felt a little sorry for them. Their ships were small and rusty, and the ocean rolling and vasty, what with their home being so very far away. While just across the horizon the lights of kapitalist Sandy Eggo beckoned them siren like, what with fresh fruits and vegetables of the sort they’d never seen, not to mention the gustatory glories to be found in any the local grocery markets. All the while refusing them entry, the mere tease. All glow and no go and isn’t that just like a Southern California girl?
But I digress.
I reckon they mostly gathered electronic intelligence, which is the work of a very small and specialized set of operators in darkened cabins, while all the rest of the swabbies wallowed and heaved like rice crispies in a milk bowl when not picking at the occasional rust spot that they could no longer decently pretend to overlook. This work we would sometimes see them occupied with in the stoic but desultory fashion of the New Soviet Man who pretended to work so long as the boss pretended to pay. Ever once in a while they’d have a madcap moment and break in on our radio frequency with an “I wanna rock!” riff from Twisted Sister – I suppose just to show us that they could. They always had the decency not to do so while we had a jet on final, which we took as a kindness.
The LSO platform was as pleasant a place as you could find aboard a carrier at sea, that wasn’t the cockpit of a fighter in tension on the catapult, but even something so dramatic as ensuring the safe and expeditious recovery of aircraft could become tedious through long accustomed use. And tedium, as has been pointed out before, was ever the death of human decency.
It came to pass that they ranged up close alongside our warship with binoculars at their brows, seemingly for a better look at we few, we happy few, we band of blind men paddles. The day being balmy, the ship being non-gender integrated, ourselves being young and full of joy and the tempo of operations suiting our instant fancy we made the collective, if not particularly deliberate decision that we owed them a close-up view of the largest and most superficial of the gluteal muscles. Trousers were dropped on the volte-face and the deed was swiftly done.
The Moma peeled off to port as though she had been scalded and we looked between ourselves sheepishly for while we had intended to be playful we’d meant no serious offense.
Our concerns were swiftly laid to rest however, for she continued her turn to port so far as to come right round and range up alongside again. The Soviet skipper had merely used the time spent in the turn to muster all hands – or butts – not actually on watch to his starboard weather decks in order to demonstrate that no matter what we could do he could do better.
They didn’t get much sun, those Soviets.
All in good fun and over in a bit with no hard feelings on either side. They fell back into position while we went back about our work.
I remember thinking that it would have been a shame to have to go to war against such men. You can’t say that about everyone you meet.
I simply cannot tell you how many Soviet ships, submarines, and aircraft had the opportunity to enjoy gazing upon the ol’ Chief’s stern side which was in close proximity to the port aft observer window on the Mighty Orion at the first hint of a low altitude fly by.
Makes you almost feel bad for them – all that sunshine in Southern CA yet somehow they don’t, in fact, get much…
Hmmm.
Sir,
You make one hell of a point: We had respect for the Soviets, all the more so when you could see them up close. You truly cannot say that about our current enemies.
Mike
Ah, such memories that must never die. The best ones are the ones like yours, Lex. But oh, how nice it is to be on the winning side. I had a friend once named Bluey, what you might call today a German – Australian, although I doubt the Aussies play our stupid game.
But he, in his prior life, had been a sergeant in the German Air Force (he didn’t like the expression Luftwaffe). He always ended his tales “Ahhhhhh, we were Heros!”. Lex, you guys truly were.
And keep the stories coming!
One day in the summer of 1980 at Ballast Point Submarine Base while loading torpedos on the best Sturgeon class submarine in the fleet, my Leading Petty Officer mooned a San Diego Harbor Excursion boat full of tourists. You should have seen the flashbulbs. A blue on blue moon I guess you’d call that. He never did make Chief.
Memories of the good ol’ Nikolai Zubov….
You know, Captain, someone somewhere has the rig photos of your stern. Downloaded in livid color on some internet spankmedotcom cyrillic spam site! (for those who dig that sort of thing)
Cap’n,
Until he suddenly passed away, I was honored to be a good friend of a former WWII Soviet Navy sailor. He commanded a torpedo boat on the Murmansk run, until the German’s went and sunk his one and only command.
A big, bluff hearty man, Nicoli had a grip that even in his 80s would crush a less worthy man. His wife had him under tight restraint, after all, he was a sailor! He laughed, spent a considerable amount of his time with children. No one was prouder than he when his eldest Granddaughter went to Aluminum U. It seemed that he waited until she graduated and gave her her First Salute before he started down hill.
Thinking back I wonder, did we really want to go to war with men like that?
Comrades,
Yes indeed. before I pass on, I would very much like to visit Russia, and to take a drink or three with those sailors whom we flew against, and share our stories. I’d bring some fine American bourbon, and they should bring some great Russian vodka, and we’d have some saisage and cheese and bread, and tell lies to each other about our worthy adversaries and our good fortunes to be in contest with each other instead of those lesser types we face now.
Back in the day, we would send the trawler (AGI) crews care packages as we passed overhead. theirs was, indeed, a thankless task, made all the more galling, i suppose because we used them as a navigational feature, their position being so certain and obvious.
We’d take the clear plastic tubes that Sonobuoys came in, put some foam rubber into it, and add a bottle or two of Jack Daniels, some adult magazines, Cassette tapes, etc, seal it up and launch as we came abreast of them.
We’d circle to see that they retrieved it, usually with the ship’s whale boat, and then waggle our wings at our erstewhile foes and speed off to where ever it was we were heading.
They were good times, those, even though we were sworn enemies. The Soviets, at least, played more or less by the rules of the game. Unlike those enemies we face today.
I remember that Moma hangin round!
If it happened today video’s of everyone’s butt would be on youtube within hours!
b2
So would that mean that the Russian skipper made an “All Butts on Deck” call?
You had to admire our Soviet friends’ seamanship. I’ve played “dodge the AGI” coming out of every submarine homeport in the U.S. Navy, and a few foreign ones. I saw them handle everything from samll motor whale boats up to the biggest of their AGI’s in all kinds of weather, night and day, including a very nasty blow on a dark winter night off Scotland. They could stay right with you and do it as well as or better than anyone else.
Its a pity that Putin is heading off the reservation and taking his Navy toys with him. We could use some good sailors like them these days.
Hey Craig Mclaughlin were you on SSN-682 ?
Nope. I was on one of the other best Sturgeons in the fleet, USS Drum (SSN- 677). Was Tunny ever at Ballast Point?
Michelle, Wouldn’t that be ” all Hands on Butts on Deck” ? just asking…Best
AW1 Tim, we Blackshoes used to drop care packages like yours to the tattletails following us around in the Med. I normally used a plastic bag inside a burn bag. They went nuts over those red and white striped buoys!
Cruised in USS Ranger as a pilot with VA155 for her last cruise in 92-93. Two encounters with our Russian friends during that cruise.
1) Russians sent Bears out to find us on the Transpac, something about the military district chief becoming friends with our BG commander and ship’s CO during a visit to San Diego prior to deployment. This in the time when the Reds had stopped this activity due to expense. Heavy fog in the Box and good EMCON meant they did not find us and were RTB when the ship activated radar and all such emitters. Bears turned around, alert Tomcats were launched, and shortly thereafter, the Bears lumbered out of the fog in the late afternoon murk and flew over the boat. I can still see the Red Stars on the vertical stabs and the pilots’ faces and Soviet leather flying “helmets” and realizing that over some adult beverages, we probably had many of the same concerns with regards to life, flying, and women.
2. Doing several weeks of battle group ops with the Russian Udaloy class destroyer Admiral Vinogradov in the Persian Gulf. Having a former enemy doing formation steaming exercises with us was a trip. Even cooler was their Helix bringing their CO and some staff over and landing on Ranger. As far as I know, that was the first time a Russian helo had ever landed on a US carrier. The helo crew was stunned at the reception they received from the assembled masses on the flight deck – they were rock stars for an hour or two. Everyone not on watch was out there to witness the event and shake the hands of these intrepid Russian pilots. Very cool! They were quite humbled by the multiple crates of fresh fruit and vegetables that were given to them by the ship. I always wondered what the Admiral, CAG, and CO got in return…
These events reminded me that as warriors, we had much in common, even though we wore different colors during game time.
Amen to AW1 Tim. A toast to real Sov sailors.
I met some in Woods Hole on a cold winter Sunday back in ’79. They were crew from a fisheries “research”vessel who’d put in to get a break from some extended nasty weather off Nantucket. You couldn’t mistake the really tacky clothes and pasty complexions for anyone else [What's the Russian for "Your mother dresses you funny!" ]. They looked like extras from an old mobster film. Their ship looked worse, like near-total rust was mandated as Communist art or something.
One of the group came up to me and asked in broken English if I was a mariner and if I could give them directions. I’d just returned from my last ship with a Caribbean tan and felt pretty sorry for them. I offered to show them around my home port, but it was the worst day of the week to do anything, and a bitter wind was making standing outside pretty uncomfortable. They just stamped their feet and muttered: “Bars klow-zed. Street klow-zed. All klow-zed. Back to ship.” Their minder, the zampolit, gave me dirty look as he herded them back to the Fisheries dock. I recall smiling at the thought he had no control over me like he did with them.
Hope you all made it home safe guys.
And threw the zampolit overboard first chance you got.
“Nope. I was on one of the other best Sturgeons in the fleet, USS Drum (SSN- 677). Was Tunny ever at Ballast Point?”
A few visits but not with me. I always turned in the opposite direction when leaving homeport Papa Hotel. In the the 80′s we didn’t have anything of interest in that direction. I think our cold war stories are still verboten. Silent Service and all that……….
Goin Deep…….
Ah, times were simpler with the Soviets – we both pretty much stuck to the rules. Was witness to many reactions by MiG 23s and SU-15s. I thought those Flagons were gorgeous with that big green radome, but those missiles they toted along meant this was serious business. The Russians (then Soviets) are tough, proud people – look what they endured in the Great Patriotic War. Their pilots (er…aviators) were quite skilled, but their weakness was being tied to a ground controller, whereas Western fliers like Lex were taught to be able to take the initiative on their own in the often changing environment of combat.
AW1 Tim @ #8 said: Yes indeed. before I pass on, I would very much like to visit Russia, and to take a drink or three with those sailors whom we flew against, and share our stories. I’d bring some fine American bourbon, and they should bring some great Russian vodka, and we’d have some saisage and cheese and bread, and tell lies to each other about our worthy adversaries and our good fortunes to be in contest with each other instead of those lesser types we face now.
I had the opportunity to do just that, AW1 Tim, during a couple of biz trips to Moscow back in the mid-90s. One of my counterparts was a retired Russian Navy type who spoke not a word of English and I spoke no Russian. But we had not the slightest difficulty communicating once the vodka began to flow, and flow it did. Oh My, did it ever flow… on many, many, many occasions!
All I can say is if you ever get the opportunity to pass that way and realize your dream, make danged sure your liver is in good shape, or, at the very least, make sure you have a transplant donor lined up. Those guys can drink.
Thanks for warning me not to…the Pickle Queen’s pretty hot.