Funny sub stories....post one.

[Bubblehead1980]

I know many of us have read and continue to read books about submarines etc ranging from the great books by Skippers like O Kane and Fluckey to U boat books etc.I have a couple favorite stories, figured I would post one and start this thread.Hopefully everyone else will join in


The follow is from the book "Maru Killer" by Dave Bauslog.Maru Killer details the service of the Balao class USS Seahorse during World War II.The Seahorse's famous second skipper Slade D. Cutter turned the sub over to Captain Charles Wilkins after four patrols in command, for one patrol, then Commander Harry H. Greer took over.The rest is told as quoted from the book by crewmember Robert Holmes.

"We were on leave at the Royal Hawaiian Hotel.One evening my buddy wanted to go back to the sub to get something, so I went with him.There was always some animosity between the regular and relief crews.We went on the boat and retrieved the item.My buddy started up the ladder in the after torpedo room ahead of me, but at the same time another guy was starting down the ladder.My buddy said, 'I'm regular crew on this **** barge, get out of my way.' 'I'm Captain of this **** barge, you get out of my way.' My buddy was down in a flash.

Although I was not the one who made the comment, I was very embarassed.I wanted the deck to open up and swallow me.As it turned out, Captain Greer came down the ladder and was greeted in the kindest and most apologetic manner possible by my buddy.The Captain was good natured about it.He just laughed and went on his way."

One of my favorites

[Rockin Robbins]

OK, it's first and ten. Rockin' takes his team out of the huddle to tell a funny story about Eleanor Roosevelt at the Royal Hawaiian he dimly recalls. Hut! Hut! Hut! He drops back to pass, Ducimus red dogs from his safety position and flattens Rockin' Robbins in the backfield. He couldn't find the story.

Second and fourteen. Rockin' calls the play. It's another dimly recalled story about.... who cares, let's see what he comes up with. He decides to hand off to Edwin P Hoyt with a story about a captain of an unremembered sub making a deal with his crew on the way to their first deployment at Pearl that they wouldn't make any attacks with less than a 50% chance of survival (good for morale, you know!). Hoyt doesn't have the story and is tackled at the line of scrimmage.

This isn't going well. It's third and long. Rockin' calls a time out. What not-so-well-known book hasn't been discussed lately. He'll just take out the semi-unknown book and find something random since his flea-brain can't seem to come up with anything on its own....

He's back on the field, calling the play! It's from War Patrols of the USS Flasher, the true story of one of America's greatest submarines, officially credited with sinking the most Japanese shipping in World War II, by William R McCants. The length of the title qualifies as a valid funny story! This better be good... Here's the play!

On the night before the Japanese surprise attack on Pearl Harbor, Whitaker (30 year-old Lt Reuben Thorton Whittaker, executive officer of USS Sturgeon and future captain of the USS Flasher) went ashore to see the new movie "Sergeant York" starring Gary Cooper. He returned to the submarine around 11 pm, had a cup of coffee in the officer's wardroom, and went to bed. Sturgeon's skipper, Lt Cmdr William Leslie ("Bull") Wright was still ashore.

Around 2 am Whitaker was suddenly awakened when the bright light just above his head in the tiny stateroom was turned on. Bull Wright had come in. In Whitaker's words, "he was obviously pretty well fixed for the evening—he'd had quite a few drinks."

"Hey Reuben! Ive just been out and had a couple of drinks with the boys!"

Not moving, Whitaker replied, "Yessir, I can see that"

"I just figured it out," declared Bull

"What do you mean?"

Wright said, "I've just figured it out. In a short time we're going to be at war with Japan, and we're gonna have the toughest damned patrol station you ever thought of."

"Yes, captain, yes, captain," murmered Whitaker.

Wright must have noted Whitaker's lack of enthusiasm, "Hey, you don't want me bothering you, do you?"

"Oh, no, captain, I'm enjoying it" (no that is not the joke. Have patience)

"The HELL you are!" With that Wright snapped off Whitaker's light, returned to his cabin and sent to sleep.

Two hours later, about 4 am, Whitaker was again awakened. This time it was by a messenger. "Mr Whitaker, I've got a message here I think you ought to read." The radio message was from Chief, Naval Operations, to all ships and stations. It said simply "THE JAPANESE HAVE COMMENCED HOSTILITIES. GOVERN YOURSELVES ACCORDINGLY."

Whitaker thought, "Now, what the hell does that mean? Commenced hostilities with whom? With the US? With the British? Or what?" The message said nothing about the Pearl Harbor attack under way.

After thinking it over, Whitaker concluded, "Nobody in his right mind would send that message unless it meant we're at war with Japan."

Whitaker took the message into the skipper's cabin and this time he got to turn the cabin light on in Bull Wright's face. It didn't awaken him. Wright slept on, undisturbed. Reuben spoke to him, called to him, nudged him and finally lightly slapped the captain on the side of the face. Wright simply rolled over. Whitaker slapped him on the other side and Wright rolled the other way.

Bull finally opened one eye, glaring at Whitaker and said, "WHAT IN THE HELL DO YOU WANT?!"

Whitaker said, "Captain, we just got a message we're at war with Japan."

Wright took it in. "Oh, the sons-a-bitches want to FIGHT, do they? I'll whip HELL out of 'em."

"Aye-aye, sir," said Whitaker, "I'm going up on the bridge to get ready to get under way to move out in the harbor where we can dive, because they might bomb us as soon as daylight comes."

As Whitaker was leaving Wright said, "Hey Reuben. Take care of that for me, will you? I'm going back to sleep." He turned over and was immediately asleep.

OK, funny story? I think the story is hilarious, but McCants substituted John Wayne for Bull Wright. The telling isn't the best. McCants never uses one word when he could use six. Must have been paid by the word. But McCants was a submariner, not an author. Well, he WAS an author, but not a particularly good one. We'll have to issue him some extra credit for being a submariner attempting to be an author then.

I don't know. I say it's fourth and one. Somebody else better try the funny story thing. Not sure this one worked out...

[sunvalleyslim]

A True Story from the "Life and Times aboard the USS Segundo (SS398)"
Long after World War II the Navy's "Silent Service" still prowled the Worlds Seas. The Officers and Enlisted Men still carried on the Diesel Sub Traditions and Folklore left over from WWII.
Since the USS Segundo (SS398) was stationed at Point Loma, San Diego, Calif., she was assigned to yearly WestPac Tours. Before leaving on her "Tour", the ship was to commence Combat Readiness Exercises. These various exercises included, simulated torpedo runs, evasive manuvers, and emergency drills. And anything else the Navy can dream up.
We had just completed an Emergency Collision Drill. All hands in the Forward Torpedo room were up and standing by for further drills......In comes Capt Fudge, Commanding Officer of the USS Segundo (SS398). He promptly enters the Officers Head. This is off limits to all enlisted personnel. Enlisted heads are located in the After Battery (2) and After Torpedo Room (1).
After a significant time in the Head by the Captain, we hear a loud whooshing blast of air sound emanating from said Head. Seconds later the Head door slams open to reveal a very angry man. His face is beet red, steam emanating from his ears and nostrils. His wire rimmed glasses are askew on his nose. There appears to be bits of white toilet paper and small brown fecal matter all over his face, glasses and shirt front. He says nary a word to the enlisted men, and hustles out of the Torpedo Room in a storm.
Immediately we jump up to assess the problem, and render a fix before all hell breaks loose. We realize that the vent to the Sanitary Tank in the Officers Head is still shut. (It had been shut during the Collision Drill) Not a serious problem of its own. However there was an unknown small pressure air leak that was building pressure inside the Sanitary Tank. (This small air pressure line into the tank is used to blow the contents of the tank out to sea every twelve hours.). Pressure was building in the tank waiting for a victim. Now the captain has to rid the stainless steel toilet bowl of its contents. In order to do that, he needs to add sea water into the bowl and then open the sanitary flush lever. He must lean over the bowl in order to grab hold of the lever and open the valve. This lever is attached to a ball valve which when opened allows you to actually "see" down into the Sanitary Tank. That is if theres no air pressure involved....When the Captain opened the valve with the air pressure in the tank built up, it allowed the contents of the bowl and tank to erupt in an upward motion, striking the victim without warning.
We immediately opened the Sanitary Tank Vent Valve and stood around innocently waiting.....It seemed every officer on board came racing to the Forward Torpedo Room to find out what the cause had been. We enlisted men insisted that we were unable to find a problem, but we would "look into it".....When all the officers had left, we looked at each other and laughed our asses off, we had gotten away with one....and it would become Submarine Folklore

[Bubblehead1980]

LOL @ both stories. I can identify with the drunken story and there is a pretty good story involving a malfunction of blowing sanitary in O Kane's book about the Tang, I'll have to look it up.

Hopefully this thread will take off....thanks for posting you two.

[Rockin Robbins]

Ugh!!!!!! UUUUUUUUUgh!!!!!! Here comes a BIG one from a certifiable genius! A totally daft genius, but genius just the same. Just gotta get this one in the tube. Ugggggggghhhhhhhhhhhh!!!!!!! Whew! Tube one ready, sir!

Being a Torpedo Pusher by Bob 'Dex' Armstrong

One morning I was eating my customary in-port breakfast… Three eggs scrambled, Spam and toast. I can't be the only sonuvabitch in the known world who loves Spam… The supermarket shelves are packed with Spam cans and I'm sure as hell not supporting that kind of production at the rate of a couple cans a week. I just may be the only guy who will admit it… It's like IC Electricians having sex with owls… They all do it but none of them own up to it.
Where in th' hell was I? Oh yeah, I was wrapping myself around morning chow when the COB comes up, puts his hand on my shoulder and tells me to lay topside when I get through "Stuffing my face." (Chief had the social grace of things that lived in trees in Kenya).
I finished… Scraped my scraps into the sharpshooter bucket, handed my plate to the kid douching dishes in the deep sink, made no attempt to tuck my shirttail in and climbed topside.
It became clear that the Chief of the Boat and I were going to have another 'father and son' discussion about the course of my future. These intimate moments always began,
"Armstrong, I am firmly convinced that you are not as stupid as you do your best to convince me you are… Nobody is that gahdam worthless. There are times when you appear quite smart… Then, you go and do something very dumb and destroy my faith in you… Why do you do that? Why do you take pride in being Clown King of the Second Fleet? Where is your ambition? Where is your desire to seek advancement and rise to the leadership challenge presented by service in submarines? Armstrong, what IS your problem?"
"Listening to this bull**** every time you and I have one of these 'Come to Jeezus' sessions."
"Dex, I am just about to toss your worthless butt into the bullring of life. From this point on, consider yourself a torpedoman striker."
"Jeezus Christ Chief… Is this negotiable? Is there anything short of an abnormal sex act that you would take to forget we had this little career adjustment conversation?"
"Get used to it, sweet pea."
"Does this mean I gotta go up to the forward room and listen to old men snore… Officers going to the head… Stewards cuss in Philipino… And the gahdam ocean trying to flatten bow buoyancy?"
"No, the deal I made with Dyshart to take you, specifically stated that you would remain the Crown Prince of Idiotville in the after battery alley. Your new sea daddy will adopt you only if you live in another location in case lunacy is contagious."
And that was how I became a torpedoman. I was the victom of a kind of shotgun wedding…
"Fleet idiot, do you take heavy tubular ordinance for your wedded wife? To love, honor and obey until your DD 214 doth part?"
"I do."
"Do you torpedo gang, take this self-professed jerk… To love, honor and obey… To crush his toes… Put knots on his head… To dive tubes… To check NAVOL monitors… Rig loading hatches… Clean Cosmoline-covered spare parts… To check exploders… To be little Miss Mary Sunshine gopher and low man on the totem pole whore for every sadistic animal calling himself a torpedoman?"
"I do."
"I now pronounce you man and gang. You may now kiss all the torpedo pusher's fannies."
And that was how it was. How a kid from East Tennessee was kidnapped and forced to marry the ugly toad that never became a princess.
My career change put me in direct contact with mature senior rated men… Family men so gahdam henpecked that they had to make a deal with 'Rent-A-Set', the testicle leasing folks, to enjoy overseas liberty. They taught me the torpedoman's trade and I taught them how to double team and steal anything not firmly fastened to Orion's hull. Being a Master Orion Thief was a real asset.
Loved the torpedo gang… Great guys. The low man got to be the owner-operator of the forward and after signal ejectors… The Pyrotechnic Prince. I got to shoot 'smokes and flares'… Wrestle Mark 14s and 16s… Mark 27s and 37s… And clean the lower flats. I got to rig the torpedo recovery boom and handle a vang line… And a snubber when we slid 'em back into an elevated skid in the forward room. And I got the honor of re-establishing the collapsible frame you had to drop to get fish into the room.
If it weighed a ton and had to be monkeyed with, it belonged to Mr. Career Ladder Climber.
Requin had no tubes aft. When they converted her to be a radar picket in the 40s, they cut out the four after tubes and never reinstalled them when they converted her back to straight 'SS'. They put in a big 'poker table' with a horseshoe-shaped seat that had over padded red naugahide cushions.
It was a great place for poker and beer… Convenient too, allowing you to dispose of empty beer cans by shooting the sonuvabitches out of the signal ejector. Because of this unique feature, it was not unusual to see the heavy hitters of the payday poker games crossing the nest and dropping down Requin's after hatch.
"0600… Gentlemen, straight stud or draw poker… No bugs… None of that one-eyed jack ****… No gahdam Girl Scout camp games… Nobody is interested in any games your gahdam grandmother taught you when you were sick… High-low split pots are okay… Any friggin game invented in Louisiana and played by Cajuns is out… Oh, You, Tee, OUT! Any game that takes more than 15 seconds to explain is out. Progressive pots are a no-no… Nickel, dime, quarter, and maximum three raises… After 2300… Table stakes shoot-the-moon poker until Saturday morning prep flag. Should the sound-powered phone buzz three times indicating wardroom occupant heading aft, chips in table pot go in the Colonel Sanders Chicken bucket, all hands get tossed into this white hat that goes into this side locker and players responsible to get money and chips in their pockets… Put full cans or partially full cans in the locker with the Pabst Blue Ribbon sticker on it… And shoot the signal ejector. When the officer steps through the watertight door, I will say '…and she had a glass eye.' and everyone laughs. You got it?"
The torpedomen were responsible for the coordination of enlisted vice and clandestine activity.
As time passed by, I did my damnedest to mature but in spite of my disconnect with the planet, I recognized the wisdom of my placement. Torpedomen are strange folks… I fit right in.
When I see nuke movies, I see the fish running into the tubes by some hydraulic ramming system. I wonder if the lads of the present force know that there was a time when torpedo ordinance was as heavy as an average car and grown men had to jackass the sonuvabitches into the tubes. Having been part of the jackass team, I can tell you that the distance from skid to stop bolt was a mile and a half on a hard reload night. It cost a gallon of sweat and made for an interesting evening… We didn't need exercise bikes, weights or treadmills to get a workout on Requin.
We were good at what we did… Not bragging, that's just a fact. Officers felt good about our record of dependability.
One night, we had a malfunction on a one fish shot. The damn thing cleared the outer door, failed to activate and went straight to the bottom.
Over the conn circuit, we heard the word 'Range'.
I was standing close to the guy holding the forward room handset. I said,
"The only way those sonuvabitches will get any range on that one will be for the Old Man to throw the old girl into reverse."
My comments were picked up on the handset and within the hour I got called to the wardroom.
"Armstrong…"
"Aye, sir."
"Armstrong, your worst enemy is your big mouth."
"Aye, sir."
"Your comment didn't win you the Mr. Wonderful Award in the conn tonight."
"Aye, sir."
"Do you want to be the ship's clown… Is that what you're striking for?"
That hurt… Because it was true.
After that, I eventually became a respected member of a great gang. I was still stupid… I still stepped on my crank occasionally, but I worked at being good.
A couple of months later, we delivered two critical hits on a firing evolution. We got a 'Well done' from the Old Man. Chief Long grabbed the handset and said,
"Sir, both were maintained and loaded by the ship's clown."
"Damn fine work… Clown."
From then on, things were great. The gang was great.
Torpedo pushers were a rare breed who never tired of telling the entire crew that their entire purpose was to get us to where we could deliver lethal valentines to nasty people. It was our way of triggering interesting reactions.
If you weren't a torpedo pusher, you missed something wonderful… The forward room was a great place to work… Except when the damn stewards racked out up in the Bridal Suite below the loading hatch and played their gahdam ukes and sang weird songs… And when officers sang in the shower.

And if you have no respect for stomach muscles or your ability to stand, visit Recollections of an After Battery Rat. Not responsible for soiled underwear.

[sunvalleyslim]

[quote=Rockin Robbins;1203536]Ugh!!!!!! UUUUUUUUUgh!!!!!! Here comes a BIG one from a certifiable genius! A totally daft genius, but genius just the same. Just gotta get this one in the tube. Ugggggggghhhhhhhhhhhh!!!!!!! Whew! Tube one ready, sir!

[center] And if you have no respect for stomach muscles or your ability to stand, visit Recollections of an After Battery Rat. Not responsible for soiled underwear

AHHHH.....Rockin Robbins you brought back such vivid memories....

[Rockin Robbins]

Originally Posted by sunvalleyslim

AHHHH.....Rockin Robbins you brought back such vivid memories....

Later on I'll uncork the one where Dex and his wife go to a subvet's convention. That is flat out lethally funny! You've seen or not seen Monty Python's "The World's Funniest Joke?" Well, Dex wrote the world's funniest essay and that might be it.

[Rockin Robbins]

This thread is falling too far down the order and now Bubblehead has started a "me too" thread over at Ubi Forums to make it worse. That does it. I'm dropping the nuclear device right now, and remember, a little nukie never hurt anybody! This was on a T-shirt made in 1986 just before Chernobyl. Oops...

Blackbeard the Smokeboat Snipe by Bob 'Dex' Armstrong

When Flo Hemming dies, God will put her in the express lane to Paradise… This poor lady has had all the hell on earth that God assigns to any one human being. You see, Flo Hemming is the lovely lady Mike Hemming, a.k.a. 'Boy Throttleman' hypnotized into marriage… No parole… No time off for good behavior. Hell, Flo could shoot him and do less time.
Flo has never taught Mike the intended concept of sleep. The idea that God created night and day for specific purposes and that the dark part was to be spent putting a download on a Serta.
At reunions, there are always five or six long-range liars who hang around the bar in the hospitality room, unloading load after load of historically inaccurate horse manure… And putting a helluva dent in the 'toss the hat' liquor stores. Like injured race horses, the only way you can put Hemming down is to blow a hole in his head with a large caliber handgun. When senor Hemming starts consuming brewed products in multiple can increments, there is a resulting rapid erosion of truth. After twelve or so cans, Mike will swear to the historical accuracy of Dr. Seuss.
At the first Requin reunion, I felt that I should stay up and drink with the heavy hitters. Only in the ensuing years I had learned when to switch to Pepsi and when to say 'to hell with it' and toss my car keys on the roof. I stayed up until a drunk ran down the corridor in white hat and skivvies yelling,
"Take her down to six-five feet and report yer leaks…"
Followed by two guys yelling,
"Paint locker, manned and ready!"
Anticipating the not too far off arrival of the local Gestapo or guys from the local asylum with nets… I gathered up my confused Norwegian submariner's wife and went to our room… The one Bob Garlock put me in right next to some sonuvabitch who checked in with a dog that could have easily qualified for the Budweiser beer wagon team. Damn dog barked all night and every time he barked, a couple of fillings fell out of my teeth.
When we got back to the room, I found that my innocent foreign-born bride was wide-eyed shocked. She had been listening to Mike Hemming and was trying to deal with the revelation and discovery that she was contractually cohabiting with a perverted heathen.
"Darling, Hemming lies. Don't believe a word the sonuvabitch said."
"Sweetheart, there is no such thing as a six-story cathouse… And if there was such a place and I jumped out of a six-story window with a nekkit blond… I would be dead… D-E-A-D… Deader'n hell."
"No, no one ever had to use a high pressure hose to get me out of a tree."
"Mom, Hemming is a master bull**** artist… He and Stuke… When presented with a choice between truth and fabricating something out of ten pounds of pony ****, will go for the pony crap every time."
"No, neither of them ever developed an appreciation for what became known as the concept of sleep… They never figured out that the Lord's original idea of dividing the day into two sections of 12 hours was so tired bastards could sleep."
"Dex?"
"Yes, sweetpea?"
"Did you ever make love to a zebra?"
"Who'n the hell told you that!?!"
"Mike Hemming."
"Darlin', I could go around this hotel and round up a couple of hundred sworn affidavits that Mike Hemming hasn't been closer than five miles to the truth in ten years."
Hemming doesn't care whose reputation he flushes down the ceramic dumper.
I love Mike a.k.a. 'Boy Throttleman'… Proud to call him shipmate. Love Flo… Maybe someday this lovely lady will knock off Mike's rough edges and file his horns down enough to turn him loose in polite society.
Mike lies. I, on the other hand, only deal in the gospel truth… Never prone to exaggeration or concocted horse****. I should be writing Little Golden Books for kiddies.
Hemming lies… But all the stories told on him are true. He is a totally unrepentant corrupting influence who needs salvation in the worst way. When he was assigned to the Carp, they say he tossed his seabag over the brow, saluted the colors and the quarterdeck and said,
"What the hell is 'C-A-R-P'? Don't you idiots know how to spell crap?"
Mike, if you are reading this, know we love you and after your invitation to the Carp get together, I spent the better part of a month pulling your harpoons out of my butt. Consider this a love note… Kind of a belated Valentine… A big, wet kiss from Stuke and Dex.

I'd just toss that pair of underwear in the trash. There's no way to save that!

[timmyg00]

i've read every single story on the After Battery. It's what inspired me to join USSVI... my appetite for submarine stories made me realize i'd been out of the loop for too long!

TG

[Bubblehead1980]

Robbins, I started the same thread at UBI in hopes it would catch on in either forum or both, slow going thus far

[Rockin Robbins]

I figure I'll do the Dex stories here, others over there. I don't want to take over either thread but I'll post if either gets too far down the page.

[Bubblehead1980]

I have a good one about the Wahoo but waiting to post until I get home and can get it out of the book instead of going on memory...

[DaveyJ576]

Ok, here is a real no shi**er!

On board the old USS Darter (SS-576) one of my best friends was Big Mike, a MM2 in the A-gang who was well known as being a heavy sleeper. One day while underway off Japan, Big Mike was passed out in his rack in the after battery crews berthing, clad only in his white scivvie shorts as the temp in berthing tended to run well into the 80's. Another of the A-gangers, Eric, was a stocky, sandy haired youth from northern Minnesota who also happened to be an inveterate practical jokester. Passing through berthing, he noticed Mike passed out on his back and immediately a evil thought ran through his head. Hurrying into the galley, he talked one of the cooks out of a small bottle of red food dye and proceeded back to Mike's rack. Barely able to hold back his laughter, Eric commenced to squirt the red dye all over the crotch and front of Mike's white scivvie shorts.

Eric went about his business, laughing hysterically to himself and barely able to wait for the inevitable. About two hours later, Big Mike wakes up for watch and heads aft to the head to shave. Stepping into the light he looks down and is utterly horrified to find what appears to be a massive blood stain on the front of his shorts. Fearing that there was something seriously wrong with him, he hurredly throws on his coveralls and heads forward to the goat locker to get our only corpsman, Chief Grant. They both head back to the head, which doubled as Doc's makeshift sickbay. Now Doc Grant was a salty old SOB, but never in his life had he seen anyone bleed that much from his privates.

Imagine the scene: Big Mike standing in the head with his coveralls and scivvies on the deck around his ankles and Doc Grant sitting on a stool making a thorough examination. About this time Eric stumbles by the head, barely able to walk as he was laughing so hard. Irritated and wondering what the ******* was so damned funny, Doc and Big Mike look up to see Eric standing in the doorway holding the food dye bottle in his hand, tears running down this cheeks and doubled up in laughter!

Submarine sailors are the William Shakespeares of the swearing world, renowned throughout the fleet as true masters of the dirty word. That day, however, Big Mike set a new high water mark in cussin', as the epithets that roared out of his mouth nearly blistered the paint on the bulkhead. Doc Grant just sighed loudly, leaned back on his stool, and wondered about the sanity of the knuckleheads he went to sea with.

As for Eric's fate at the hands of Big Mike, let's just say that revenge is a dish best served cold!

[Bubblehead1980]

Thanks for sharing, good one.

[Rockin Robbins]

Incredible! Submariners are true diabolical geniuses! I bet I can restart my breathing any time now.

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