| PRINTERS | ||
|---|---|---|
| Noble. C.W., Chief Printer | Dennis. W. W.. Prtr.2c | Schoemaker. E. K., Sea. 1c |
| Rollins, J. W., Jr., Prtr. 1c | Doeppe. L. F., Prtr. 3c | Miller. A. J.. Sea. 1c |
| Giele, J. H.. Prtr.2c | Hartmann, A.G. Sea. 1c | Atteridge, R. H., Sea. 2c |
| VOL. II | 31 MAY, 1942 | NO. III |
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She is an old freighter-- Of some fourteen thousand tons, standing in the roadstead -- Of a port somewhere south of Singapore. She lists a bit -- As if wearied by the typhoons of the China Seas; By the whole gales of Tasman; - By the turbulence of wind off Borneo. Her gear is obsolete;-- Her iron skin blistered, Pocked with rust -- Her engines are rheumatic, and her saw-tooth screw-- Will yield less fourteen knots -- She is the old JERVIS BAY,-- Of Australian registry, nesting, between tides, from her obscure drudgeries, somewhere south of Singapore. She nods at her mooring -- Head bent to the dry monsoon. The JERVIS BAY is nodding, half asleep, when a gig draws alongside, and there is brought aboard, -- Solemnly, a flag with a blue field. A Storied ensign--emblem of Britain's Naval Reserve. This of itself becomes a rousing circumstance. To one so frowsed, so drably sleeping, somewhere south of Singapore.
Up the starboard ladder-way -- There comes a new master, puffing somewhat with middle age. He looks about, he looks above, below -- Forward, aft he peers. His is the manner of a man recapturing a memory. He is Fogarty Feegan--Called from retirement to command the JERVIS BAY. For ten years, Fogarty Feegan -- Has walked in his English garden, watching the roses bud, the violets bloom, enjoying each miracle of season -- That brings white blossoms to the hawthorne hedge. But now he has left his barrow and his slips to bring the storied Ensign, with its blue field. Blue as the violets of his garden. Bringing it from afar to the old JERVIS BAY.
His voice rolls against the breakwater. His big hands grasp the teakwood rail. He swears a bit, and finally -- The old JERVIS BAY Awakens. Soon a battery is supplied -- A small one -- Guns of five-inch caliber. Then, with a hundred young reservists for her crew, the JERVIS BAY puts out to sea. From somewhere south of Singapore. Captain Fogarty Feegan -- Has a distant rendezvous with other old masters,-Summoned from retirement, called by their King – From their little farms, from their office stools,-- From their fireside chairs, from the cities and the shires – For threefold war - Earth, Sky, Sea. Beggars the World. Ships go down -- each day go down,-And bottoms must be had to bear cargoes to Britain.
Through Suez, through the Strait of Gibraltar, out and across the Atlantic, -- And to the Americas. In a harbor of the North,-And with brave haste, the old hulls are loaded to their loading lines--With cargoes for Britain.
Captain Fogarty Feegan –Listens to the rumbling of winches; hears the samson posts creak; hears the chains and blocks complain; harries his First Officer, Mr. Wilson, with commands, as things needful for the life-beat -- Of England's great heart. He shouts to his First Officer. "We are not sleeping now, Mr. Wilson, Somewhere south of Singapore!" From a Canadian bay, -- From behind the fog bank of November dawn. A convoy line puts out: Thirty-eight ships put out to sea with cargoes for Britain. A consignment to help sustain the life- beat of England; goods to provision an Isle that for a thousand years -- Has prized the freedom and the dignity of Man--The gun crews of the JERVIS BAY sleep beside their battery -- They seem young seminars. With parka hoods cowling their heads to keep out the cold sea-rime. Night falls, a great and sombre hymn. The night of November fourth. Nineteen Hundred and Forty years since Our Lord is an anthem of wind and small, following sea. The morning comes like a priest, upholding a golden monstrance. The morning of the Fifth -- Finds the JERVIS BAY and her convoy strong like a procession of pilgrims against the dawn.
The ship's bell sounds; the practice rounds are fired. The sun is on the Meridian, -- And Fogarty Feegan shoots the sun for latitude. Eight bells again, and Fogarty Feegan shoots the sun for longitude. And then, at five o'clock the lookout calls from the crow's nest: "Ship, sir, off the starboard bow!"
Through his glass, Fogarty Feegan makes out smoke-A back gargoyle in the sky--East Southeast. Then sights a ship, hull down--And now, a battleship comes boiling over the horizon. She opens fire with heavy guns, -- Captain Fogarty Feegan telegraphs his engine room--To strain the boilers till they burst--He bellows, curses, brings to bear –The popguns of his battery against the Goliath armor of the battleship. He sends up smoke to screen the fleet. He orders all the convoy ships to scatter wide and fast. The Fogarty Feegan sets out alone to meet the battleship. Five inch guns against eleven inch guns. Egg-shell hull against Krupp plate. "Damme," Mr. Wilson, sir," he shouts, "We're not hearing mandolins today, somewhere south of Singapore!" This is a mad thing to do -- This seacharge of the JERVIS BAY, yet a sky of dead admirals look down from the Grand Haven,-Look down at Fogarty Feegan, whose senile tub, Steams bows-on for the battleship. Nelson, Drake, Beatty, Harwood; Yes, and the Americans: All look down in wonderment.
And now a burst of shrapnel rakes the JERVIS BAY and tears the right arm from the sleeve of Fogarty Feegan. He does not fall--He grasps the teakwood rail with his other hand. Masking his agony with bellowings that rise above the guns. Nor will he let a tourniquet -- Be placed upon the stump. He waves the stump, and Mr. Wilson knows (And the sky of dead admirals know) That if a hand were there, it would be making a great fist.
Still steaming toward the battleship, Fogarty Feegan keeps his little guns ablast. The eyes of the setters – And of the pointers grow black and blue from the recoils-- Their eardrums dead. A salvo comes with the top roll of the battleship. And now the Ensign -- Emblem with the Blue Field is shot away. Enraged, bloody, rocking on his heels, Fogarty Feegan roars: "Hoist another Ensign, damme, Mr. Wilson, Sir!" A Bosun procures a Flag from the locker -- A Flag used for the burial of the dead at sea. "Here, sir," he cries, as to a brace he bends the Banner of England. The JERVIS BAY ablaze from stern to bow, at dusk, still fires her puny guns, and will not change her course. Salvos from turrets, guns three-over-three, make geysers grow about--The old ship's wake. But still her guns give voice. And now she's struck below the waterline. Her boilers go. The JERVIS BAY begins to settle by the stern. Yet, sinking, still she faces her antagonist. Then the waters begin to close over her, The waters close over Fogarty Feegan, And over the Flag that once was used for burials at sea. And now night spreads its shroud.
Of thirty-eight ships in the convoy, twenty-nine are saved, to help sustain the life-beat of England, while a sky of dead admirals look on, and claim Captain Fogarty Freegan for their own.
The JERVIS BAY goes down. Goes down as no mere casualty of storm, to rust out, fathoms-deep, in common grave with sisters unremembered by the years. The JERVIS BAY of Australian registry, from somewhere south of Singapore--Goes down in the History of an Isle that for a thousand years has prized the freedom and the dignity of Man.
--------By Gene Fowler
--------An American Author
Flowers for our dead!
The delicate wild roses, faintly red;
The valley lily beds, as purely white
As shines their honor in the vernal
light;
All blooms that be
As fragrant as their fadeless memory!
Praise for our dead!
For those that followed and for
those that led.
While waves our brave, bright banner
overhead--
Praise for our dead!
Love for our dead!
For freedom's morning smile
Broadens across the seas from isle
to isle,
By reverent lips let this fond word
be said;
Love for our dead!
Hobbies of Washington Personnel
Whenever the WASHINGTON'S "bone-benders" are seen grunting and groaning in one of the mess compartments during the afternoon, one can be pretty certain that Lieutenant (jg) J.V. Heimark is somewhere in the vicinity. In fact you can easily note him in his sweat suit gesticulating and encouraging the grapplers. Wrestling is Mr. Heimark's favorite sport. He wrestled on the Naval Academy team as a 136 pounder. His school of wrestling is of the Oaklahoma A and M "go and pick 'em up an' lay'em down" variety. He will not reveal his own particular method for getting his opponents off their feet, but save that it is a combination of attacks, ending, he hopes, with himself upon the top. While coaching our boys, he frequently gets into the fray and shows the mat-men how it is done, and he keeps working with them until they get it.
Mr. Heimark grew up on a farm in Minnesota. After graduating from high school and doing some work at business school, he entered the Naval Academy. During the fall months at Annapolis, managing the football team kept him busy. In 1938 he was manager of the "B" squad team, coached by our own Lt. Torgerson, and in 1939 managed the varsity squad that ended its season with a 10 to 0 victory over Army.
He says that his particular hobby at present seems to be "keeping Mr. Beaver's gadgets in repair". He is fond of music -- both classical and popular, and likes the drama. When the autumn frosts begin to cover the corn fields, his thoughts wander to his ancient 12 guage shotgun and the good pheasant hunting back in Minnesota.
The newest member of the warrant officers' quarters received the news of his appointment on May 11. He is the former Master Gunnery Sergeant Sam W. Withers and was elevated to the rank of Marine Gunner.
Gunner Withers came from the U.S.S. North Carolina to join the Marine Detachment of the U.S.S. Washington on the 26th of November, 1941. He has been a member of the United States Marine Corps for 19 years and other ships in which he has seen service, have been the United States Ships, North Dakota, West Virginia, Utah, Arizona, Augusta and North Carolina. He has also served in China for five years and one year of tropical duty.
He was promoted to the rank of Master Gunnery Sergeant aboard the U.S.S. Washington on 23 January, 1942.
Gunner Withers is a married man and we are sure that Mrs. Withers joins us in wishing him great success in his new rank and duties.
A right cross, a left hook, a jab, a sweating happy looking individual prancing around like a toe dancer---There you have No. 1 messing compartment. Lately it's taken on the aspect of Stillman's Gymnasium in New York City. You probably noticed while waiting for early chow, some ferocious looking individual pounding away at the heavy bag while an impatient mess cook looks on unhappily wondering if the rugged looking fellow will ever spend his fury.
A week or so later you see the scene reenacted. Only this time our aggressive friend seems to know what he's doing. He works smoother, hits harder, breathes easier. Even the mess cook seems more patient though still unhappy. Want to know the reason for this sudden metamorphosis? Well here it is.
One day as a tyro he started punching the bag. Naturally, he was slow and awkward. Luckily, however our celebrated George Duffy, a master at the game gave him a few friendly tips. He pointed out his faulty footwork, his lack of coordination. Then he showed him how. Eventually, he'll know "How to handle his dukes", which is, after all, the secret ambition of every redblooded member of Uncle Sam's fighting forces.
Here's another incident. About a month ago two men from the seventh division fell to arguing about a certain type of punch. They finally got to demonstrating on the bag, taking turns explaining awkwardly at first and after a while not so awkwardly. They kept at it, asking members of the boxing squad, each other or any one who knew a little more than they did.
Today, one month from those unsteady uncertan moves they are moving, feeling, and walking better. In fact, one of the men, a light heavyweight, of the 7th division is considering trying his potent right in our next smoker. You can be sure, experience or not, his opponent will have no easy time of it.
By now you are probably wondering where this is leading to. Well, if you can stop yawning and shake off the effect of the last watch, here it is. We want all men who are interested in boxing in any way, shape, or form, to drop around and watch our little school work. You will be surprised and even more pleased with what's going on. If you want to fight, you'll find someone to fight, if you want to learn the manly art purely for defensive reasons, you'll wind up with a little more than a defense. If you just want to watch, you're as welcome as ever. What we want is an interest in boxing whether it's actively as a boxer, or student, or passively as a spectator. We want spirit. Some have it. All we have to do is scratch beneath the surface and stimulate it. So how about how about it, fellas? No. 1 messing compartment any afternoon about 1500. You'll always find a few members of the boxing squad around to lend a hand. Incidentally they are for your information -- Alvarson, light-heavy, Beacht and Jacobs, middle-weights, Fagen -welter-weight, Davidson, Lewanski and Tullis, light-weights, Russo and De Santis – feather-weights.
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A series of articles are in preparation dealing with the work of the various departments and the men who make the wheels go 'round. The Gunnery Department plans to submit three articles and others are expected from the Engineering, Communication and other departments that; no doubt will prove interesting reading to all on board and to the folks at home. |
Adjust yourself. Don't be a square peg in a round hole. Fit yourself into Navy requirements.
Keep your eyes open. Observe what is going on around you.
Self-confidence when not carried far, is an aid to success.
Don't be fearful you are doing the wrong thing all the time. Lack of confidence will hold you back.
Think. Success in life depends upon the quality as well as the quantity of the thought.
Smile.
Be happy. Lincoln said, "Most people are about as happy as they make up their minds to be". A happy disposition takes you farther than being a grouch.
Fight homesickness and discouragement. The Navy is a man's world. There is no room for mollycoddles and weaklings.
Don't be resentful when "bawled out". Resolve to avoid the mistake next time.
No one can drag you down except yourself. You are captain of your own soul. Avoid self-pity. Speak well and not ill of others.
Avoid procrastination. When there is a job to be done do it. Don't "duck" work but help your shipmates.
Use common sense.
Heartiest greetings to baby Patricia Blanton - - - she has a papa so proud that he hands out TEN CENT cigars!..... Which reminds us--everyone in the "R" division is due to collect no less than eleven cigars, effective June first. Congratulations boys. And if you can't find me in the division compartment I'll be on duty next to the post office. (Yes, I said next. Better by-pass that joint. With cigars anyway!)..... The dope on P.F. and P.A. to M. and B. is N.G.!..... That great song his, "South of the Border" was written by two chaps who had never even been in Mexico or the United States! And we learn that our own Ensign Weinick is a musical composer..... If MAA T. H. Ryan ever wants to be a movie theatre manager, he is getting invaluable experience at our 'Paramount Theatre' back aft, and doing a good job to boot- - -to boot you out if you get caught smoking. In fact, you can't even get a light in your eye before he tags you with the flashlight!..... When it comes to spaghetti we'll take "Smokey Joe" Hackwith. Ditto to Old Man Dailey on the macaroni..... Congratulations to Mr. and Mrs. Creppon on the arrival of Mr. Stork with a boy. (Better late than never. War time communications you know).
What metal mutilator finally discovered that you can't grow a mustache on a gas mask???..... "Uncle Bill" Parcell, who smokes as many cigars per day as you do cigarettes, says those re-sold razor blades are not only re-shined but actually re-sharpened. Honest to Dockham!..... Paying two hundred eighty-nine dollars to have his house de-termited has so exhausted Chief Radioman Roberts that he hasn't enough strength to carry his own laundry below!..... Top Kick Adalac can give you detailed information about any medal issued by the Marines---except the one you get upon graduation from sea school. Could it be a Hollywood medal?..... War analyst Anderson, who in his spare moments is our Chief Pharmacist's Mate, will really make you really happy with his latest reports. He always ends up with putting us back under the big crane. Yeah, man!..... "Montagno" is a good name fr a King---bingo King!..... Chief Machinist's Mate Haas perfected a mysterious gadget for more positively controlling the auxiliary exhaust pressure. However, we have not yet heard of him selling any stock to prospective investors in his brain child. Net profit so far are fewer gray hairs for the engineers.
M. C. Smith SM3c of the "G" Division hails from Canton, Ohio. He was captain of the 1936 football team at Canton-McKinley High School, nationally noted for its pigskin artists.
Several of the members of the team he captained made All-American elevens, including Don Scott, Ohio State quarterback, Eddie Molinski, Tennessee guard and Ralph Fife, guard at Pittsburgh.
Smith played center at Canton-McKinley, but when he entered the University of Michigan, he was shifted to guard and tackle. He played on the 1938 Michigan freshman eleven and was regular guard of the 1939 varsity, helping clear the way for Tom Harmon and other backfield runners. He left college upon the death of his mother, but hopes after the war to go back and complete his college training. His ambition is to be a metallurgist. He joined the Naval Reserve on January 3, 1941. Weighing 205 pounds, it is hard to miss seeing him on the signal bridge.
Chemistry Professor: "What is the outstanding contribution that chemistry has given the world?"
Student: "Blondes, sir."
"What do you mean by saying your friend George is a three-letter man?"
"Oh, he's always giving people his I. O. U."
On the farm he used to open the rolling gate for the cows to come into his father's barnyard. Now he's in the Navy and has a rolling gait of his own.
First Girl: "Were you ever out with a blind date?"
Second Girl: "No, but I went out with a man who fitted window shades one time."
He: "Do you know, honey, if I had it to do all over again, who I'd marry?"
She: "No. Who"
He: "You!"
She: "Oh, no you woudn’t."
Lady: "Poor man! And are you married ?"
Tramp: "D'ye think, ma'am, I'd be relyin' on total strangers for support if I had a wife?"
"Bill's bride is rather large, don't you think?"
"Yet, in the lottery of marriage, Bill hit the jackpot."
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