Burial at Sea

From an Able Dog pilot:

Burial at Sea

The Mediterranean cruises to the Sixth Fleet in the early 60’s were
hard on men and equipment. The duration was part of the problem, 9
and 10 months deployed were hard on planes and pilots. Entertainment
at sea was limited to a few movies in the ready rooms, popcorn for
those who provided such before deployment, and night flying.

Secretary of the Navy, Josephus Daniels dried up the Navy when
Prohibition started in about 1919, and subsequent thirsty aviators had
to resort to guile and discrete smuggling to provide for extended
deployments. Our flight surgeons provided a brief respite to the lack
of adult beverages when we made a night recovery and any flight over 4
hours duration. The venerable AD-6 SKYRAIDER assigned to my squadron
managed to blow past 4 hours almost every launch.

Every night, the night flyers lined up in the ready room for the two
ounce bottles of San Remo Brandy, the Navy’s reward for scaring
yourself in the night recovery. San Remo was terrible stuff. One of
the guys called it .38 caliber brandy; you had to have someone hold a
..38 on you so you would drink it. It was bad, but it was wet, and had
a nice kick, but it was TERRIBLE STUFF.

We did so much night flying during that cruise of 1960 the flight
surgeons ran out of San Remo, and had to resort to refilling the
little miniatures with Old Crow, decanted from gallon jugs of
Medicinal spirits. That was a bit more palatable, and a lot more
thirsty souls lined up for the evening draft. We couldn’t hoard our
little bottles for a nice evenings toot, but drink them down there in
the ready room. Strong black coffee helped the San Remo, and a little
ice and a splash of water made the Old Crow a pleasant draught.

The night flying booze was fine, but to supplement that small
offering, most of us made an effort to stock up prior to departing
Pier 12. Trying to haul enough bourbon and scotch aboard before
leaving was a daunting challenge. Finding a place to hide your stock
was even more of a challenge. One enterprising young aviator
discovered that the drawers built into the double bunks could be
removed, and the space under the drawer would hold several jugs of
necessities. Judicious packing was necessary to preclude any of our
precious bottles rolling around, or breaking. It took several trips
to the ship to store all the squadron gear, and each trip we managed
to add to the growing supply of hooch.

One intrepid fellow, Sid, by name, was dead set on supplying enough
beer in cans to carry him through the cruise, and managed to hide over
ten cases of his favorite brew in the spaces under his bunk, and other
ingenious locations.

We were very careful not to imbibe to excess at any time, except when
in port. It was expected, nay encouraged, for red-blooded young
heroes to partake of the grape, grain or other high octane beverages
when ashore, and we did. Not to a great excess, just to a pleasant
glow, then back to the ship to sleep it off.

Ice was a minor problem, but a trip by the wardroom late in the
evening would net a careful man enough ice for himself and a few pals
for the evening. The real problem was disposing of the empties. Most
staterooms had a small portable popcorn popper, and many an evening
was spent eating popcorn and sipping bourbon. I still can’t drink
bourbon without a hankering for popcorn.

Sometime during the 4th or 5th month, we were running out of places to
stash all the Dead Soldiers accumulated. Four of us spent a pleasant
evening writing notes to place in the bottles, trying to crush the
heavy gauge cans, and getting things prepared for a midnight burial at
sea. Finally, around 0300, we were amply prepared. One last gulp of
the dregs in the coffee cup, hoist up the bag of empties, and scurry
up to the flight deck. It was a dark and moonless night, cool, not a
star in the sky. We crept down the catwalk, on the Port side of the
ship away from the Island and located the perfect spot to heave our
bags overboard. With a cheery heave, we tossed all over the side and
CRASH!! The bags landed in a 5 inch gun tub just below the catwalk.
Our race back to the stateroom was hasty and with some heavy
breathing. Next morning, we made a point to check the results, and
there in its glory lay the remains of our misadventure. For several
days, we expected a tap on the shoulder or a summons to meet with the
Skipper. Nothing ever came of that evenings work, but we were much
more careful the next time we had to dispose of empties.