The Bus

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Desperate seamen try to get rid of their Chief.
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Wow, liberty in Barcelona! I hadn’t even been in the Navy for a year yet, and here I was, about to pull into the same port that Columbus sailed from to go and find the New World. I stood and watched with fascination on the fantail of the ship as we pulled into the port.

Our mooring lines were faked out on deck, and our line captain was wetting the heaving line so that it would be ready to throw onto the pier when we were close enough. The tugboat was inching its way to us through the mottled brown waters of the harbor, waters that had floated more than their share of ships over the years.
The smells of Barcelona reached us before the sounds did. After forty some-odd days at sea, our systems had been flushed clear of the exhaust fumes, floating sewage, and other smells associated with pulling into a port.

As we neared the pier, we could see Las Ramblas, the main street of Barcelona, which ran north from the harbor up to the new city. Then we made out the sound of horns honking, and the all too familiar sounds of street traffic. “Hey, wake up and get ready to heave around on the line”, the line captain shouted as we were pushed up close to the pier.

The heaving line and monkey’s fist dangled in loops from the line captain’s hand. In one swift motion he coiled his body and let go the line, which traveled in a giant arc over the expanse of harbor still left between the ship and the pier.
The monkey’s fist struck the pavement behind the pier line handlers, allowing them to grasp the heaving line, and start hauling the big five inch mooring towards the pier. After the pier workers dropped the eye of the line over the bollard, we began to pull on the line.
First, we pulled the slack out of the line, then one of our crew threaded the line over the bits in a figure eight pattern. “Heave, Heave, Heave around Goddamn it!” screamed the line captain. In a rhythmic pattern we began to pull, inching three thousand tons of steel closer, and closer to the pier.

Once alongside of the pier, we wrapped the extra line around the bits to ensure that it would not come loose and that there would be no line left on deck to create a tripping hazard. After finishing with my line, I watched as the other lines were made up, and the brow was put over the side.

A Chief Petty Officer with a spyglass walked out onto the quarterdeck, and set the watch. We were now officially docked in Barcelona, Spain, my very first liberty port.

Potatoes, thousands of potatoes. Stinking rotten onions, thousands of stinking rotten onions. My first night in a foreign port, and here I was peeling potatoes and washing onions.
This pathetic turn of events began with my journey up to the spud locker. The spud locker was an evil thing, outside of the skin of the ship, up on the 01 level. It was aluminum container, roughly six by four, standing about four feet deep, with a hinged lid. Inside were hundreds of bags of potatoes and onions, various creatures which enjoyed feeding on onions and potatoes, and two or three inches of ooze which may have once been onions and potatoes or whatever else. So while the majority of my shipmates went out on the beach, I had the aromatic pleasure of carrying forty, twenty-pound bags of Idaho potatoes from the 01 level to the galley.

Now I know a twenty pound bag of potatoes isn’t much of a big deal, but make twenty trips up and down a half dozen ladders carrying one under each arm, and it is to say the least, tedious. In the galley I positioned myself next to a large trashcan and commenced peeling them. After a few rebukes from the cookie about my peeling technique, and the wasting of “his” onions, I was pretty much left alone.

There is nothing cerebral about peeling potatoes. Potato number one and potato number one thousand have exactly the same features, and peel exactly the same way. Next I dump these millions of potatoes into a giant sink half filled with water. Stretching my nineteen-year-old brain, and extremely limited creativity, I play out famous naval engagements in the sink with my fleet of Idaho’s finest. There I was in this little apron and hat, the room tropically humid and hot as hell, recreating the British fleet at Trafalgar, when he appeared. He was Chief Musebach. To me he was a hundred years old and mean as hell. Every time he saw me he took a swing at me. Thank the gods I was young and although not really nimble, I was always able to dodge his wayward blows. His jaw was always filled with an enormous chaw of the world’s cheapest chewing tobacco, and he spit the filthy juice with deadly accuracy. The Chief was everything I never wanted to be, fat, dumb, and ugly.

After finishing my most illuminating task of preparing tomorrows sustenance, I complete my glorious duties by scrubbing the lard soaked, age cracked deck on my knees for nearly an hour under the watchful gaze of the near sighted, obese, half-asleep gaze of the leading cook. As I drag my weary carcass to my bunk of a very short night’s sleep, I wonder what I have to look forward to tomorrow, for after breakfast and lunch, I will be, finally, granted liberty.

The messdecks were abuzz with the talk of the city and it’s delights. San Miguel beer, prostitutes, leather goods, and even the occasional souvenir for the family. All of these topics and more were on the lips of the crew while eating the good old “SOS”, otherwise known as shit on a shingle, and gulping down copious amounts of strong black coffee. These stories of heroic deeds and sexual escapades made my heart beat with the rhythm of a Latin drum.
The clock slowly crawled around in a never-ending circle, each second ticking off like a week. Breakfast finished we washed the dishes, and started prepping for lunch. My mess mate Gary, told me that he had heard Chief Musebach bragging in the Chief’s mess that he had gotten fed, gotten drunk, and gotten laid. Not exactly in that order of course.

The general opinion of our crew of mess-cooks, was that Musebach was a drunken lecher, lucky to able to stay in the Navy these last thirty years. My personal opinion was that he was an asshole, and that if he could get laid, I could understand the reasoning for convents, and vows of chastity.

The crew stomped through the mess decks around eleven thirty. They brought with them eyes with heavy black circles around them, and a desire to go lie down and take a nooner. Believe it or not, the meal itself was the slowest part of our workday. Sure, we had to refill the pans on the chow line, or replenish the trays or silverware, but for the most part we could stand around and shoot the shit.

Our discussion centered on the possibilities that the women in Barcelona were the most beautiful, most willing, and most available in the universe. We were extremely motivated to make our liberty, a great time, and as a whole, we couldn’t wait to get out there.

After washing the dishes, scrubbing the deck, filling the coffeepot, those of us that were in the day before duty section were twitching with anticipation. Then about thirteen-thirty, he appeared. “Men” he belched, “there is a little job you gotta do before you knock off”.
“I’ve got three trucks with fresh and frozen stores out on the pier, and they have to get loaded today. The off-going section will onload ‘em before going on liberty.” We could not have been more stunned had we heard gunshots in the passageway. All of our plans were put on hold so we could load up the fucking freezers!

Without further ado, we were ushered out to the pier under the tutelage of a highly experienced twenty-year-old, third class petty officer. He then hastily arranged us in a chain so that we could load these badly needed foodstuffs in the quickest and most efficient manner. Curses and threats to Musebach and his descendents were shouted at the top of our lungs (as long as there was no one around).

Five hours later we were done. Tired, sore, hungry and thirsty, we were done. We rushed down to our berthing compartment, raced into the shower, jumped into our liberty uniforms, and ran up to the quarterdeck. Barely taking time to render the appropriate honors to the flag and the officer of the deck, we streamed over the brow and into Barcelona!

As all U.S. Navy sailors do, we settled into one of the seedy bars that happen to crowd the waterfront, and immediately bought several of the overpriced local beers.
After gulping down the first few beers, we finally settled down and began to talk about our happy lot in life. “I’d like to fucking decapitate that asshole Musebach” I ventured.
Billy looked at his watch and exclaimed “Shit, we only have two and a half more hours on the beach”. It was a sad fact, none of us were Petty Officers, and non-po’s were required to report back on the ship by midnight, “Cinderella liberty” it is called.

By the time we had gotten to the bar, it was already twenty-one hundred. After drinking a toast to the permanent flaccidity of Musebach’s genitalia, Gary surprised us all by saying “Why don’t we get rid of him for good?” Several seconds of stunned silence followed, then there were murmurs of “sounds good to me!”
“Okay smartass” I said “How are you gonna do that?”
“Simple” said Gary “Just get him drunk and knock him in the head.” We all sat back and sipped on our beers as we contemplated a life of crime.
“I don’t want to kill the guy” said Billy, “I just want to get rid of him.”
“You’re just a chicken shit” said Gary.
“Fuck you butthole” shouted Billy, “I just don’t want to go to jail for the rest of my life.”
I sat my beer down on the table and interjected “Why don’t we get him drunk and put him on a bus to the other side of the country the night before the ship gets underway?”
“Yeah! Alright” shouted the group in unison. It was there and then that we decided to drunk and punk Chief Musebach.

The next day we were exceedingly respectful to the Chief. Courteously asking after his family, and hoping him health and happiness, we were quite giddy with anticipation of his professional demise. Gary was put in charge of finding out about the bus, because a homosexual signalman, a Petty Officer, knowledgeable about these parts, was after his ass, and Gary thought he could get the faggot to get the bus information for him.

The next morning, a liberty day, we all got together after breakfast. We met on the 01 level, up by the spud locker. Gary was the last to show up. “So, what’s the deal?” I asked. Gary said nothing, looked around at all of us, and reached into his dungaree pocket and removed a bus ticket!
“How the hell did you get that?” Billy asked.
“That dumb queer signalman Gammon got it for me.” Said Gary “ I told him my aunt lived in Bilbao, and I wanted to go visit her.”
We all busted up laughing and pounded Gary on the back congratulating him on his great coup. Gary held the ticket up so we could all see it, “So, how do we get Musebach on the bus?”
Hmmm, I mused, “Simple, we invite him out for a beer tonight, get him shit faced drunk, then stick him on the bus.”
Billy piped up “I’ll ask him to come out for some beers after work, he will never turn down free beers, and oh by the way, I can speak the local lingo pretty well.”

Once we had completed our duties for the day, we all met at the bar on the pier. Billy had arranged for the Chief to meet us at the bar about eighteen hundred. We decided we better find out where the bus station was, and then tour the town as this was our last night out before the ship went back out to sea.

We walked down the Las Rambalas, gawked at the whores, drank some beers, and went to the bullfights. The bullfights were awesome, but the bus station was our objective this afternoon. We found the bus station, and to our glee, there was not a sailor or shore patrolman in sight. Just across the busy street was a bar with tables out on the sidewalk, a perfect location for our conspiracy.

We took a cab back to the pier to meet the Chief, promising the cabdriver a generous tip if he stayed with us. The Chief walked out over the brow in civilian clothes, and stood next to the brow looking impatiently at his watch.
Billy walked up and started talking to the Chief, and pointed us out waiting in the cab. Billy and the Chief got in and away we went, cruising the streets of Barcelona with criminal intent. As we sat in the cramped, urine stained taxi, the streets of the city flew by before us.
“What a bunch of dumb fucks Three dumbass messcooks trying to brown nose me,” ” said the Chief. “You dipshits don’t think you are gonna get over on me do ‘ya?”
Instantly, this carload full of dangerous criminal minds was transformed into a gaggle of speechless creampuffs incapable of completing a sentence, much less answering the Chief’s question.
“Honest Chief” I squeaked “We just wanted to buy you a beer and pick your brains about the Med., since you have been here so many times.” “Hmpff” snorted the Chief. “Yeah I have been here a few times. If I had a reason to, I could teach you asswipes a thing or two.” Thankfully, wonderfully, the cab glided to the curb outside of the bar we had previously selected.

The Chief tumbled out of the cab and plopped his fat ass in a chair facing the boulevard. I paid the bill, having just been promoted to Seaman deuce (a $40 per month pay raise), and followed the rest of the gang to seats around the table.
We ordered a round of beers, and started munching on the Tapas, the waitress placed on the table. Just as we finished our first sip of beer, the Chief slammed his empty down on the table top with a bang. “Goddamn you sissies, you gonna let a forty-seven year old man out drink you?” Instantly our beers went to our lips, bottles turned up against the evening breeze, and we choked down the rancid brew as if we had been dying of thirst.

After ten or twelve rounds of beer, four or five plates of Tapas, and one pissed off waitress (pinched on the ass by the Chief), the conversation had dropped to a lull. The Chief was laughing and joking, a one-man show, and we were the audience. I was beginning to worry about our ability to get him drunk. It seemed to me that we were buzzing much faster than he was.

Divine intervention, that must have been what it was. Just when we were losing hope in our quest, it happened. “Fuck this Spanish horse piss, let’s get something worth drinking” the Chief blurted out in halting Spanish. “Hey beautiful, bring us a bottle of Jagermiester with that next round.” he shouted at the glowering waitress.
As the bottle and the beers arrived, I think we all realized we were in trouble. While the Chief was pouring his shot, I gave the others a high sign. I raised my empty glass to my lips and winked, hoping they would understand I meant for them to nurse the drinks while the Chief plowed on full speed ahead. Everyone caught on except Billy. After he and the Chief had a few shots, to our couple of sips, he and the Chief were best of friends. We watched and feigned drunken ecstasy as the Chief and Billy hooted, hollered and acted like complete asses.

The Chief had started to doze now and again, and mumbled something about Isabella. When he was awake, he was still the life of the party. Every time we thought he had snoozed for good, he woke up again. Billy was loony tunes, hoping, jumping, and dancing to the beat of some imaginary rock and roll band. Looking at my watch, I noticed that the critical time was quickly approaching.

When Billy got up to go take a leak, Gary followed him to assess his ability to help us carry out the plan. While they were gone, I tried to talk to the Chief. He was stoned, he couldn’t hold his head up, and was muttering things about bullfights, champagne and Isabella. I knew the time was right and just in time because we had about twenty minutes to get him across the street and into the bus to Bilbao.
Gary was nodding his head no to me as he came out towards the table. With that indication, and by watching him, I could see that Billy was too far-gone to help. This was a problem because Billy was the only one of us who could speak passable Spanish.

The first obstacle was getting across the busy street. It was twenty two hundred and it seemed like rush hour traffic was just getting started. After numerous false starts, we were finally able to navigate across to the Island in the middle of the two lanes. As we stood there waiting for the traffic to thin enough to let us move across, I noticed two shore patrol loitering on the opposite corner, just were we were headed. My testicles began to shrink as I thought about the courts-martial and my subsequent imprisonment.
Just before we were about to turn around and cross back over to the bar we had just left, the shore patrolman walked away down the street. Fearing their return, I dragged our little party across the avenue just escaping the impending crushing wheels of a fetid garbage truck.

We rushed into the bus station. Neither Billy nor the Chief had shown recent signs of brain activity, so looking at my watch, I determined we had just enough time to find the bus and get the Chief on it. Looking at the bus schedule and the listing of bus numbers and departure lanes was a complete waste of time. So we skipped outside to where the buses were lined up, and commenced to looking for the bus to Bilbao.

I sat the Chief down into the seat and handed the bus driver his ticket. Not knowing what to say I pointed at the Chief and said to the incredulous bus driver “Papa”. “Papa, Bilbao” I repeated pointing franticly at the Chief. The bus driver shrugged his shoulders and said “si, si, Bilbao.”
We held our collective breaths while we waited for the bus to leave the station. As the bus pulled away Billy woke up and asked, “Where are we, where?” Gary and I hoisted Billy up and ran out to the line of taxis in front of the bus station. We sped through the night back to the waterfront. My mind was full of fear and loathing, hoping against hope that bus would go non-stop to Bilbao.

The light exploded on the outside of my eyelids like a state trooper’s roadside flare at midnight. “Mitch, Mitch, get up asshole!” Gary shouted as he shook my sleep-numbed body. I looked over at my clock and saw it was almost zero five hundred. I was late for breakfast! I threw on my uniform and ran to the messdecks pulling on my boots as we ran. By the time we got there the coffee was already made, and the tables were all set up. The old black cook Joe (twenty years in the Navy and still a third class petty officer) just glared at us, but didn’t say anything. It was clear he had set the messdecks up for us. I took a tray of silverware into the CPO mess, and looked around for Chief Musebach. He was not in the small dining/lounge area, so I went back into the CPO sleeping quarters. The chart of bunk assignments was posted on the bulkhead near the hatch to the compartment, so I found the Chief’s bunk, and saw that it was empty, apparently unused during the night.
I skipped out the mess-decks with joy in my heart. We had done it!. I passed the word about the empty bunk to Gary, who passed on to the other guys. The rest of breakfast flew by like no other meal ever had. At 0700 the word was passed over the 1MC “Now station the special sea and anchor detail”. This meant that it was time for us to assume our line handling details in preparation for getting underway.

I zoomed down to my bunk, whipped off my smock and paper cap, grabbed my utility shirt and dixie cup, and shot up the ladder to the fantail. The next thirty minutes took forever. While waiting to untie the ship, we made a few preparations to remove the brow, and to store the lines n the line locker. Finally, the line captain shouted “single up all lines!” At this signal, the Spanish sailors in the pier removed the eye of the line from the bollard, and slid it through the eye of bitter end of the line. We heaved on the line furiously so that it would not fall into the water and become much more difficult to pull onboard.

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