[CW] Signal Lights and Sailors

[K0HB]

Signal Lights and Sailors
          by Bob 'Dex' Armstrong
  
Someone told me that Morse Code is a thing of the past in the armed forces
and that global positioning satellites have done away with the need for
Quartermasters. That all positioning is done by electronic technicians.

I don't think I would like today's submarine duty… You crawl into one of
those big ugly looking iron monsters… Close the hatch and say 'goodbye' to
daylight, sunrises and sunsets, being bounced around in heavy seas,
listening to the code beeping away in the radio shack and not being able to
see signal lights flashing back and forth at sea.

Signal lights and sailors... I never thought it would ever be otherwise. 

You would be having a smoke and bullshitting with the manifold operators in
control, when your duty Signalman would haul out the light and head up to
the conn. You'd crush out your smoke in the chart table butt kit and swing
up the ladder behind the skivvy-waver.

"Bridge, conn... Permission for two men to lay topside." 

"Conn, bridge... Who are they?" 

"Biilingsly and Armstrong... Billinglsy is hauling the Lucy Light. Said he
wants to see if we can gin up a movie swap with somebody tomorrow morning…
Tells me it's the Old Man's idea… Armstrong just wants to air armpits,
catch a smoke and see what the world looks like."

"Permission granted for Billingsly. Tell Dex to bring three black and
bitters up with him."

And so it went… The gentle slap of the signal light shutters opening and
shutting. Take a second and close your eyes… Hear it? That distinctive
popping sound as an intermittent finger of flashing light reached to the
horizon. If you rode smokeboats you can remember the sound. 

"What's he saying?"

"Sir, he reads as follows… USS Richfield, Capt. Roscoe sends his
compliments… Requires charts for Panama approach due to revised OP Order.
Can you furnish?" 
"Whatcha want me to tell him?" 

"Return compliments from USS Requin Capt. Edward Frothingham commanding.
Then say, 'Wait one' while we check our charts."

It was sailor talk… Long range sailor-to-sailor bullshit. The Signalman's
trick was to execute the official message then bullshit with the lad on the
other ship. While officers were working out their officer stuff, the
Signalmen would be bitching about what they just had for chow, telling each
other what they would do for two pairs of clean socks or just cussing their
present OP orders.

There was a very comfortable feeling you got standing on the bridge
watching two guys connect your boat to the world… And all you heard was the
gentle slapping of those shutters. 

Knowing the nuke navy, it is all a lot quieter… Just some damn near silent
dynathermal rizzofracting fizzmodulator cosmic wordsender that emits no
sound above the decibel level of a ladybug fart and has a range of six
thousand miles and thirty feet, with a ten-million word transmission taking
just under one second, has replaced a really neat shipmate and his magic
light. 

One thing about the gahdam Rickover Navy… The sonuvabitches are always
replacing real live American Buejackets with stuff you can't bum cigarettes
off of.

Hey, you moonbeam propulsion guys… The sonuvabitch that swapped your signal
light for whatever in the hell you got for it, didn't do you a favor… He
picked your pocket when you weren't looking.