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Perhaps the most solemn duty of a United States Naval vessel is to honor the passing of our veterans with a ceremony of Burial at Sea.
On the morning of the USS Chicago first such burial in years, I happened to be driving the boat.
On the morning of the USS Chicago first such burial in years, I happened to be driving the boat.
My Division Officer (referred to as “Chop”) entered the control room and asked a question that will make all enlisted sailors run and hide
“Hey, who’s got their dress whites onboard?”.
“Hey, who’s got their dress whites onboard?”.
Naturally since I’m literally at the steering wheel of a six million dollar warship I couldn’t run.
I thought to myself: “Stay cool. Don’t make eye contact. Don’t look at him. Whatever you do, don’t look at him.”
It didn’t work.
I thought to myself: “Stay cool. Don’t make eye contact. Don’t look at him. Whatever you do, don’t look at him.”
It didn’t work.
“Petty Officer Elbo, do you have your dress whites?”
“Yes sir.” I said with a bit of anger in my voice.
“Get the Diving Officer to relieve you and get in your whites and meet me in the Command Passageway.”
“Yes sir.” I said with a bit of anger in my voice.
“Get the Diving Officer to relieve you and get in your whites and meet me in the Command Passageway.”
The Captain ordered the crew to get prepared for a burial at sea. This was the first time I had ever done anything like this so I really didn’t know what to expect.
The Officer of the Deck cleared checked the periscope for any surface contacts and we surfaced the boat.
The Officer of the Deck cleared checked the periscope for any surface contacts and we surfaced the boat.
In the addition to the normal compliment of the bridge crew, a few sailors and a gunner reported topside to pay their respects and to give a traditional gun salute.
Hilariously, the gun being used for this was a M240.
Hilariously, the gun being used for this was a M240.
The person manning this gun would be a Torpedoman who had a history of being reckless with firearms at the gun range.
This was going to be interesting.
This was going to be interesting.
The Executive Officer (XO) entered the Control Room with a small cardboard box. It was about the size of a shoebox for toddler-sized feet.
“What’s in the box, XO?”
“Petty Officer Smith. What were you expecting? A fucking urn?”
“I guess I didn’t expect anything sir, I’ve never done this before.”
The XO handed me the box, which seemed much lighter than I expected; it felt almost empty.
“Petty Officer Smith. What were you expecting? A fucking urn?”
“I guess I didn’t expect anything sir, I’ve never done this before.”
The XO handed me the box, which seemed much lighter than I expected; it felt almost empty.
I read the label – “Musicians Mate Second Class J. Smith”.
“MUSICIANS MATE? This guy has probably never been to sea in his life!”
The Assistant Navigator (ANAV for short, but more affectionate knows as GayNAV), who had been listening to our conversation butted in.
“MUSICIANS MATE? This guy has probably never been to sea in his life!”
The Assistant Navigator (ANAV for short, but more affectionate knows as GayNAV), who had been listening to our conversation butted in.
“Hey Elbo, can I see the box?”.
I passed the dead musician over to him. He hefted it, also surprised by the easily bearable lightness of not being.
He shook the box next to his ear like a child with a mysterious Christmas present.
I passed the dead musician over to him. He hefted it, also surprised by the easily bearable lightness of not being.
He shook the box next to his ear like a child with a mysterious Christmas present.
“Quit fucking around!” the XO yelled while seizing the package from his hand.
“For fuck’s sake, show some respect for the fucking trumpet player!” with a serious but sarcastic tone.
“For fuck’s sake, show some respect for the fucking trumpet player!” with a serious but sarcastic tone.
By now, everyone was in place and I ascended the ladderwell with Petty Officer Smith up to sunlight that I hadn’t seen in weeks.
The XO took over the ship’s intercom and began reading the traditional script. “All hands, bury the dead.”
The XO took over the ship’s intercom and began reading the traditional script. “All hands, bury the dead.”
Before I go any further, a burial at sea ceremony on a surface ship is quite moving. On a submarine it’s as formal as you can get when you shove 5-6 sailors in an area the size of a phone booth.
I felt that this was not going to be the typical tearjerking burial experience that Petty Officer Smith was hoping for. He should have asked for a fucking aircraft carrier.
I opened the box and forever consigned Petty Officer Smith to the deep forever, or so I thought…
I opened the box and forever consigned Petty Officer Smith to the deep forever, or so I thought…
Unfortunately for me, “forever” took a little while to begin. The gunner was required to fire a three shot volley salute. Following that, it takes about one minute and three seconds to play “Taps” over the ship’s intercom.
This gives me SEVENTY THREE SECONDS of what seemed like an eternity.
Modern submarines are the most complex and advanced machines in the world. We have complex computer systems that are the envy of the world.
Modern submarines are the most complex and advanced machines in the world. We have complex computer systems that are the envy of the world.
We have Doppler radars that can predict weather all over the world and we have an advance nuclear reactor in the Engine Room that can provide infinite power for over 50 years.
But one thing we can’t control however is the fucking wind.
But one thing we can’t control however is the fucking wind.
As I tilted the box to pour Petty Officer Smith into the sea, the wind suddenly changed and his ashes flew directly into my goddamn face.
All of it.
All of it.
Now, to tell you a little bit about myself, I’m a bit of a germaphobe.
Not on a mental illness level, but cleanliness is next to Godliness. Due to this, I consider myself exceptionally holy. I’ve lost my sanity dealing with some of the nasty people on my boat.
Not on a mental illness level, but cleanliness is next to Godliness. Due to this, I consider myself exceptionally holy. I’ve lost my sanity dealing with some of the nasty people on my boat.
There was an exceptional occasion of me losing my goddamn mind when I found out the cooks were using Purell Sanitizer instead of washing their hands after taking a shit.
The current indiscretion however would sink to a whole new level of foulness.
The current indiscretion however would sink to a whole new level of foulness.
As the last of the ashes fell from the box, a cloud of “Dead Guy Dust” formed below me. The Captain and gunner began their salute as he first the first round of three.
However, the questionable sanity of this Torpedoman turned a three volley salute into about thirty.
However, the questionable sanity of this Torpedoman turned a three volley salute into about thirty.
He just went wild shooting into the distance and emptied his whole ammo belt.
Fucking moron.
Fucking moron.
The cloud lingered and swelled. An updraft suddenly came out of nowhere as Taps began to play for 63 seconds and the remains of Petty Officer Smith surrounded the men of USS Chicago’s bridge like a pestilence.
I recoiled as flecks of man-ash settled upon my lips. I tried to spit quietly while holding the position of attention. It was utterly useless – wetting my lips only made it stick better.
And I could taste it now.
And I could taste it now.
This was fucking horrible. I counted down the second like it was an eternity.
Below deck, the audience of shipmates gawked in amazement through the periscope, growing hysterical over the horrors transpiring above.
Since they knew about my germaphobic ways, they started taking bets on how fast I would get relieved, race down and jump into the shower.
Since they knew about my germaphobic ways, they started taking bets on how fast I would get relieved, race down and jump into the shower.
Two sailors even bet whether or not I would take my clothes off before turning on the water and hundreds of dollars changed hands.
Typically, the formal process of being relieved from watch takes more than fifteen minutes to complete.
But me standing there with another man’s ashes on my face managed to go from the bridge to shower set a new ship record at two minutes and thirteen seconds.
But me standing there with another man’s ashes on my face managed to go from the bridge to shower set a new ship record at two minutes and thirteen seconds.
I slid down the ladderwell stripping off clothes along the way while screaming like a little girl, much to the laughter and delight of the crew.
And so it came to pass that Musicians Mate Second Class J. Smith, having composed the most macabre of finales, ended his illustrious Naval career on the lowest of notes.
