What I did in the Navy, Dad

After writing about my father's W.W.II story I realized that we had at least one thing in common...we had each joined the service, during a war, at virtually the same age, and almost exactly 30 years apart. My story is far less dramatic, but if he were still here I would tell him, this is my story and I'm sticking to it.

Off the East coast of North Korea, January 1968

Three speeding North Korean PT torpedo boats and an armed sub chaser pull up near the USS Pueblo and order her to “Heave to or I will open fire”. They rake the superstructure with machine guns and shoot the mast with 57 mm guns wounding Cmdr. Lloyd Bucher and two others. Meanwhile in special radio spaces below decks Communication Technicians are scrambling to shred as much highly classified material as possible. Heavy axes are available for just the purpose of smashing high tech radio receivers and destroying the most sensitive gear of all…the U.S. cryptologic equipment used for our own classified communications…the American “Enigma” machine and code wheels. In the ensuing panic, as a last resort material is tossed overboard in weighted bags but there is just way too much material and far too little time.

On January 23, the USS Pueblo becomes the first US Navy vessel in 150 years to be high jacked on the high seas. 83 officers and crew including CTTC James Kell were taken to the port of Wonson and then held and tortured for 11 months prior to their eventual release. The North Koreans accused the Pueblo and the U.S. of spying inside North Korean waters. They were half right. The spying part however the Pueblo was in international waters and was seized illegally. The Koreans managed to capture damaged but intact top secret equipment and manuals that implicated the U.S. in the covert game of electronic eavesdropping. Both sides did it. The Navy personnel trained in this art were Communication Technicians…CT’s. They were called “spooks” and formed a crew apart from the ship’s crew, all with the very highest security clearance…Top Secret Crypto access. The captain of the ship, Commander Bucher himself did not have this clearance.

Yakima, Washington, 1972

After enduring 3 forgettable years in high school and a lackluster effort in Junior College hoping against hope of discovering a passion that would lead to some kind of career I began to get desperate. The Vietnam War was still raging in 1971 although on the downward trend with Nixon's "Vietnamization" program. The draft was still in place albeit with a numbered lottery tied to ones birthday. Every year young men around the country held their breath for the little balls to be selected matching your date to a number, the higher the better. My number was 126...not low but not high either. As it turned out it was high enough...I would not be drafted. Later I started thinking that perhaps my "luck" was in fact not so lucky as I looked ahead to another semester of "Introduction to..., fill in the blank". About this time, December 1971, I decided to forgo my lottery luck and visit my local Navy recruiter. I had no particular favorite service...I did like the sailor uniform and had usually rooted for Navy in the Army-Navy football game. I was also a fan of "Victory at Sea" shown on television with its stirring music and scenes of crashing waves over battleship bows, but other than that that was about it. I was a little flattered the recruiter took a personal interest in me since I had some college and was a little bit older than most recruits. He further sold me by saying I would be able to select my "job" from a list if I so qualified. On that list was Air traffic controller. I had visions of myself inside a control tower directing jets and leading to a civilian career afterwards. He said no problem at all! Right!

In early January I announced my decision to my folks. I did not seek their advice. This was a declaration of independence...long overdue. I could sense a gasp of relief from both of them as well as something, anything was finally going to become of me. The Vietnam War was a side issue never discussed nor anything for that matter other than logistical matters. My recruiter personally drove me to Seattle for my battery of aptitude tests at the interbay recruiting center on 15th avenue. While there with a couple of hundred other young men I took a physical and then sat down in a large classroom and spent several hours taking various multiple choice tests that I remember thinking weren’t very difficult. It was here that I was sworn into the U.S. Navy. My actual induction day would be a couple of weeks later in fact. He drove me home that evening. So now I was technically in the Navy...a little scared but that good scared like waiting for the roller coaster to start. This was a feeling I had never ever felt before. I realize now it was called "life" and I was about to have one.

February, 1972 came as it usually did in Yakima, Washington, dark, cold and bleak. I had just turned 21 a couple of weeks prior and had no friends left in town to say goodbye to, go out with, have a drink or rock the town for the last time. Yeah, right. Following an awkward goodbye with folks and family I was on my way to Spokane, Wa. by Greyhound, across as barren a landscape as this country has to offer. I checked into an old hotel that the Navy kept just for new recruits. It was my first night away from home...on my own and I was beginning to have some doubts. A little late for that I thought. The room was bare bones, very old and very hot with a radiator that hissed steam all night and would not turn off for love or money. After a sleepless night, I and a handful of other recruits were bused to the airport for a flight to San Diego and the Naval Training Center a.k.a. "Boot Camp".

San Diego, California, 1972

Now Navy boot camp, even in the 70's was quite different from the image I had developed watching “Gomer Pyle” and movies. Yes, we were greeted by the unpleasant screamer types but several decibels lower than the Marine boot camp with which we happened to share a border with. First thing we were issued our Seabag...that is our complete supply of uniforms and associated gear that we would be expected to pack into and carry with us for the duration of our stint. A whole new lingo was expected to be learned as well...Navy names for everything...underwear were now called "skivvies" e.g., boxer shorts that I was unfamiliar with; bathrooms were heads, walls were bulkheads, etc. We were put into a holding area for the night prior to being assigned to a training company. The next day I was dropped into company 074 commanded by Bosun’s mate Beaver. There were 75 recruits in every company and there were 8 or 10 new companies formed that day alone. We marched, sort of, to our barracks which would be our home for the next 3 weeks. Our company was an amalgam of guys of all ages, colors and regions. At just barely 21 I was one of the oldest as most were right out of high school if that. The idea that I could legally drink was beyond their belief and also out the realm of possibility. Of course, it was loud and boisterous with the usual types falling into the usual cliques. I found a little band of outcasts of the type I usually gravitated to and became fast friends for the duration. That first night was difficult with sounds of stifled sobs here and there. It was also short as we were awakened at 5 a.m. and had 15 minutes to report outside for marching to the mess hall. We were learning the art of lining up, spacing and of course the various commands of attention, at ease, etc. After a roll call we marched off for our breakfast. Southern California mornings in February are very cold and damp. That combination plus the close proximity of hundreds of new people quickly led to a virtual epidemic of bronchitis. Hacking coughs became the unpleasant soundtrack of boot camp. Everyone got some form of it and a few unfortunates also came down with pneumonia. After breakfast and some minimal calisthenics, we spent much of the rest of the morning learning how to march as a unit. The thump, thump, thump of hundreds of boot heels resounded off the hard tarmac called the "grinder", by perhaps a dozen other companies in various degrees of expertise. One could tell the new companies from the more senior by the skill of their marching. When done correctly it is a sight to behold...whole squares of men moving perfectly as one...first right, then left without a stop or hesitation. Much drama was spent correcting the few who messed up and caused the rest of the company grief from the C.C. It was amazing how few semi grown adults actually knew their right from their left. We also spent much time learning how to handle a rifle or something that looked like one and learning a complicated presentation maneuver. After lunch we usually spent time in a class room setting learning about the ways of the Navy, ships and ship lingo, semaphore flags, knots and other Navy kind of stuff. After a little more marching and dinner we went back to the barracks and lights out about 9 p.m.

One learned quickly or was dealt with harshly usually by their peers rather than the C.C. Inspections became a virtual life and death event that had repercussions not just for yourself but your whole company. Making the bed correctly was a big deal as well as the proper and precise folding of your clothes and arrangement of your things in your locker...just so. Personal grooming was also extremely important...shaving especially, even if you didn't have to...I did but just. Shoe shining, as cliché as that sounds, became an obsession with the tip of the boot worked to a mirror finish. Oddly the rest of the boot was less important. It became apparent that many of these guys had prior knowledge of the whole experience from family or friends and thus had an edge over someone like me who only knew the Navy from T.V. and movies. I managed to keep up with my company anyway and don’t remember any major mistakes.

There continued to be however those who just could not stand the strain of being away from home nor with the needed level of intelligence to grasp the very basic stuff being given to us. A few too could not buckle under to authority which was a different problem altogether. There were cases of bed wetting that were fairly common and were a big no-no. There was talk of "shower parties" to deal with troublesome cases which involved bum rushing somebody into the showers and scrubbing them with stiff brushes on their bodies until they were raw and bleeding to get their attention and start acting right. Some guys started plotting to get discharged altogether and heard that if you admitted you were gay you could get out. Later we learned that those who actually tried this were in fact sent to the brig for a time of up to 6 months. They were put into their own "company" and made to march with a pink dyed sailor cap. We would see these poor bastards marching to meals sometimes so I know it was true...at least back then. Our base of asphalt and barracks was bordered by a lovely residential area with beautiful homes and palm trees just on the other side of a barbed wire fence. It was hypnotic to look at this virtual paradise and long to be there. I heard of AWOL cases who evidently couldn't take it and made a run for it...but not ever for long. There were stories too of a few who climbed the fence to get out but only discovered they had actually "escaped" into the Marine boot camp. These poor souls were returned by our service brethren after a thorough roughing up or again, so I heard.

This was how we spent our first 3 weeks...learning to be recruits if not yet sailors. We washed our clothes outside on concrete tables with a bucket of soapy water and the aforementioned brushes. Woe to those who had what were called "Irish pennants" on their uniform...these were loose threads that were to have been snipped off. Push up's were the currency of penalty for these and actually all offenses. Extra marching was the group punishment meted out too often with outsized glee. Eventually, after a winnowing of the weak the load lightened and we eventually "graduated" by "crossing the bridge". Crossing the bridge was the reward for surviving the first 3 weeks and moving into the newer barracks on the other side. The rest of boot camp was a relative breeze with much more class work and far less marching. Clothes were machine washed for example and things just seemed to be finding a better normal. Writing home was required. Time was allocated for this with sometimes pre-written cards that just needed to be signed. Smoke breaks ("the smoking lamp is on") probably got more new smokers than anything else. I never did pick up the habit however despite the temptation and growing up with 2 smoker parents. Packs were just 25 cents to boot.

It was about at this juncture Mr. Beaver asked the entire group if any one of us could use a typewriter. At this early junction of my military career I had not yet learned the important lesson to “never volunteer for anything”. I had had a couple of semesters of high school typing and kind of liked it so I raised my hand not knowing what I was getting into. Well, what happened next was I was removed from my company and inserted into an office to be a kind of secretary for this fat, mean chief petty officer. I had to type arcane reports for this guy who took an immediate dislike to me. For much of the rest of my boot camp experience I was isolated from my friends who went on to such things as fire suppression training, shooting and much of the more fun experiences of the later boot camp. One time I did something that infuriated him or perhaps said something I shouldn’t have, I can’t remember…I only remember what he did to me. He ordered me to stand at attention against a wall. He then kind struck-pushed me in a way as to knock my head backward and I wound up striking a coat hanger right at the base of my skull. It could have been a very bad outcome and I think he knew it as he quickly removed himself and sort of apologized. I could see my company marching with me in this stupid office and I was dying a little bit inside. I continued to sleep with my company, get my battery of shots and take the necessary tests, but I lost an important couple of weeks that I could never get back. As a matter of fact, as our 9 week boot camp came to an end there was a graduation ceremony with all of the companies we started out with. Parents and families would be there to watch the hundreds of new sailors march in their finest dress blues. Various big shots would speak and awards were given to winning companies. There had been a competition of sorts between all of the companies with points awarded for besting each other in the various activities of boot camp, one of which was precision marching. Because I had been absent during these last important couple of weeks, I was not able to march with my company as they feared I could hamper their efforts. I was a good marcher but in fact was a bit rusty. We did well but did not win as I recall. About this time too I broke my metal frame glasses that I brought with me and was forced to wear my back up pair…a set of prescription sunglasses in big horn rims that I had gotten for a birthday present. So I ended my boot camp pretty much on the sidelines and looking goofy in these ridiculous sunglasses.

There was plenty of excitement all around as we prepared for our 30 day leave and the announcement of our new assignments. As a result of our testing and grades during the previous nine weeks and our initial tests like I took back in Seattle the Navy had decided where our fates would lie. The worst case would be assigned to a ship as a bosun’smate, a sort of consummate deck washer, paint chipper and line handler. I discovered that my dreams of flight controller were just that: dreams. My “best friend” recruiter had failed to tell me that one needed to have perfect 20/20 uncorrected vision. That was that. I could however select from another rating (job) from essentially the same column as flight controller. I chose an innocuous sounding job called Communication Technician and I got it! I was excited but not sure why since I did not know at all what that meant. What I found out now was that meant was I was headed for “A” school in Pensacola, Florida for training as a Communication Technician “T”. That meant 5 months of schooling but also a thorough high security clearance. Hmmm, I thought…what have I got myself into now?

Pensacola, Florida

Time plays games with your mind during intense experiences like Boot Camp. Today I can see pictures of friends I made during those 9 weeks and have trouble distinguishing them from faces of others that I knew going through school together for years. My leave home felt triumphal as I showed off my uniform to friends and family and sought out anyone who cared to listen to my early “war stories” so to speak. My parents told me that Naval Security Group investigators had come through the neighborhood asking neighbors about me and my past…as if I had one. That news heightened my anxiety about the next chapter of this journey…soon I was on a plane taking me to the Deep South in June, 1972. Communications Technician “A” school was in Pensacola Florida in a complex of older buildings on what used to be an old Navy air station. There was a row of barracks set along unused runways and various other repurposed hangars and such for classrooms. The oppressive heat, humidity and palm trees reminded me I was not in Yakima anymore. I checked in and met my roommates…a good group with a yahoo or two, as usual. Soon we all were deep into an all immersive curriculum of electronic theory, radio, telemetry and other such subjects. There was a welcome casual attitude in the military sense and the experience had a feeling of just being away at a small college albeit in uniform and never leaving the campus. I was wearing two stripes on my sleeve…a seaman apprentice rather the one stripe seaman recruit, awarded to me as a bonus for my short college stint. It gave me a wee bit more money and a few puzzled looks from my fellow sailors.

The various classes were difficult but manageable with study, but the real bugaboo of the school and the hurdle that flunked many a prospective CT and sent them packing off to a ship someplace was passing the Morse code standards. This was something you couldn’t learn from a book…it was a skill you either could do or you couldn’t. A laboratory of cubicles with headphones and a keyboard was the classroom. Tapes played code at various speed. One worked up from very slow to a speed that sounded like a stream of unintelligible electronic noise. The minimum to pass the class was to listen and correctly type 18 words a minute with a word being 5 letters long. Every letter consisted of a series of dahs (dashes) and dihs (dots). Memorizing the musical sound each letter made rather than actually listening to each and every dih and dah was the trick. You were allowed very few mistakes and were expected to make quick progress, again with the pressure of failure on each one of us. One could overhear more senior students and be awed by their ability and put serious doubt that you could ever get past this hurdle.

You were expected to spend much of your free time in the lab practicing which was actually a relief to get out of the intense summer heat.

The Florida panhandle is basically southern Alabama. It was as new to me as if I were dropped into a Brazilian jungle. My classmates soon discovered my visceral reaction to the huge black cockroaches that seemed to be everywhere. A good laugh for them was to place one on my shoulder and just sit back and wait. A scream and a hoochie-koochie dance down the hallway sent them into stitches. They really got me one night when I tried to crawl into my bed and had trouble pushing my feet through to the end. I thought I was short sheeted and got up to look and what they had done was collect dozens of these things and put them into a plastic bag and then put the whole crawling mass into the foot of my bed. I’m sure they all got a big kick out of my reaction. I knew who did it…one particular guy who was turning into a bit of a bully. I was familiar with this type from my years of school and learned one never gets away from jerks no matter where you go in the world.

After two months or so we were allowed some liberty off the base. We could go to the Gulf Coast beach or hang out in the bars that catered to servicemen, like Rosie O’Grady’s…a legendary honky-tonk. Although I could legally drink, my friends could not. The Enlisted men Clubs on base would serve beer to all servicemen so that was where we drank if anywhere. The beaches were that eerie sugar white sand, beautiful to look at but with challenges. The sun reflection was blinding and seemed to multiply the overall air temperature which was already withering. The humidity would wet your body just enough that the extra fine sand would stick and form a nice white crust. A relentless wind made sure any clean up was futile. The sea water was little relief at temperatures somewhere in the 80’s and with waves full of stinging man o’ war jellyfish. They call this area the “Redneck Riviera” and for good reason…the Bubba quotient was off the chart…naturally. Altogether not my scene but I loved the sense of discovery and being far away from the familiar. In October, 1972, a close friend and I decided to drive from Pensacola to Dallas and back via New Orleans to attend the Texas/Oklahoma football game. We had a 4 day weekend, gas was 40 cents a gallon and my friend could get tickets so off we went. My family moved from Dallas in ’62 and I was excited to see how the city had changed. New Orleans was of course beguiling and beautiful and the game was big time college football with OU being a national powerhouse featuring RB Greg Pruitt. My friend was a big OU fan so he was happy the Sooners won while I was just happy to be there.

Months slipped by in that leisurely Southern way of nothing happening too quickly. Days got a bit shorter and just a wee bit cooler with the occasional sub-tropical storm putting on a lightning show the likes I had never seen.

The sweat on one’s brow was now put there by the building pressure to pass your Morse code class and by an ever looming deadline or face exile to a rust bucket ship like ordinary sailors. There was an elite status I sensed that came with having a CT rating. CT’s were stationed in many exotic locations and some desolate outposts, but we were willing to take our chances rather than wind up with the rank and file sailors…not that we knew what that entailed…only our stereotypes. The day I passed my Morse code was a highlight of my entire Navy career. There were other finals in other classes but this was the tough nut and every friend who eventually passed made for another cause of celebration. Now after a modest graduation ceremony, my class and I waited to be told where we would be sent for our duty. One by one an officer barked out names matched with places…Rota Spain, Keflavik Iceland, Guam, Adak Alaska, Augsburg Germany, then finally me…”Chris Barnes…Pearl Harbor, Hawaii”. Wow, I thought. A friend of mine also was assigned to T.G.U. Pearl Harbor. He was from Tacoma of all places. A week of leave back home and then off to the Islands.

Pearl Harbor, Hawaii

The 5 hour flight to Honolulu was long enough to let my mind imagine all sorts of bucolic settings one imagines in paradise. The Navy popped those dreams pretty quickly. I stepped down the rollaway staircase to that thick warm, flower scented air that greets everyone like a fresh lei. I had no idea in the world what to do next. In my hand were orders that were somewhat non-specific…to report to the check in desk at Pearl Harbor by such and such date and time. I was looking helpless and hopeless when a couple of black guys came up to me and asked if I was Chris Barnes. I answered yes and then told me they were there to pick me up and take me to the base and get me settled into the barracks. Turns out these were fellow CT’s from the outfit I would be working out of. I later further learned the background story. It was procedure to schedule a greeting party for new CT’s coming into Pearl and these guys had perused the list of names and specifically asked to pick me up and also to arrange for me to bunk with them in the barracks. Their reasoning was that my last name, Barnes, was a common black surname and they were guessing I was going to be a “brother”. They told me later that when they saw me and what a goofball I looked to be that they were just seconds away from leaving me there to fend for myself. So we hopped into a car and drove to the base, got squared away and into “our” barracks room. When I walked in I thought I had just entered into Malcolm X’s private boudoir. The Navy allowed a good deal of personal freedom in the barracks. This being the 70’s, the walls were decorated in black pride style posters. The air had that subtle aroma of burned incense while an expensive Japanese stereo system like most sailors obtained at the Navy Exchange, blared the O’Jays. I could not have been more out of place. They were not at all pleased with their mistake and made no effort to hide it and make me feel at home…which would have been impossible anyway. This was late evening now and I needed to stretch my legs and check out my new digs. There were several of these 3 story barracks in a kind of motel style…outside walkways with stairs at the ends. I was surprised to see next to the Coke machines the Navy provided a beer machine…how convenient and just 25 cents per can. Music was coming out of many of the rooms that each held 4 guys with a small seating arrangement and a Hollywood style bathroom that joined two rooms. The barracks complex was a short distance from Merry point landing where a number of large Naval vessels were tied up. I was getting a full cultural education as well. The Navy had fairly loose grooming standards in that day. The hair style for blacks was afros as big as you could grow and required an incredible amount of work. They used steel picks to constantly poof them out and then would just stick it right in their hair so as to be able to find it again quickly and keep going at it. But in the morning you were expected to have your hair within regulations…I think a couple of inches or so. To manage that magic trick required them to do what they called “packing” which involved forcing the entire afro back under a wool knit watch cap while they slept. Again it was quite an involved effort to get it all under there when they had just spent so much time having it all poofed out as far as possible. They wore their caps as much as possible and released the bounty at night when they went out to discos or wherever. The bathroom countertop was always covered in curly little black hairs from all that picking and many bottles, jars and potions from the part of the drug store I never went to. After the culture shock wore off for all of us I got used to it and loved listening to the Staples, Commodores and all that great music that was the golden age of soul. An opening occurred in another room a few weeks later and we all agreed it would be better if I just moved on which I did. One of my old roommates became one of my very best friends and we shared many laughs for the next 3 years while another became a fierce rival on the basketball court.

It was about a 10 minute stroll under tall palm trees, past the Bachelor Officer Quarters (BOQ) to our non-descript concrete bunker style office. Officially it was called Technical Guidance Unit or T.G.U. A 10 key style code box would buzz the door open. Inside were 5 or 6 rooms with divided work stations where about 40 of us would gather every morning at 8 A.M. There was a commanding officer, an ensign, a chief warrant officer and a handful of chief petty officers including Chief James Kell formerly a USS Pueblo POW. Twenty or so lower ranked seamen filled out rest of the staff including me. On occasion Chief Kell would gather us all for a lecture on his experience and methods for classified equipment destruction, something the Pueblo crew lacked. I learned that we would train and update our manuals while waiting for orders to get underway on two specially equipped ships. The Navy had taken two old, relatively small destroyer escorts, USS McMorris and USS Claud Jones and built a SUPRAD, or Support Radio shack onto them and the associated antennae. Inside they crammed it with an array of state of the art receivers and video tape recorders. Another room within the Suprad held the crypto equipment we used to communicate with CincPacFleet and NSG itself. We performed our real jobs only at sea which I would soon learn fast, for in early December 1972, we got the call to “get underway”

The NSA, National Security Agency would monitor Soviet missile test sites by satellite or U2’s for signs of prep activity that would indicate their intention to test fire an ICBM. When it appeared imminent we would get the call. The ship would be readied and our team of CT’s would somehow be crammed into an already fully crewed ship and we would head out of Pearl, past Midway Island toward an area we knew the Soviets usually would splash their test shots, an area referred to as B.O.A., Broad Ocean Area. International protocol was to forewarn commercial ships to steer clear of this particular chunk of ocean or risk being struck by missile debris. Our little ship was in a race to reach this place before they could test the missile…sometimes we had just days. This was all part of the cat and mouse game between the super powers. By the new SALT treaty, missile test telemetry was not to be encrypted but that didn’t mean they would make it easy for us to intercept that data. We played by the same rules for our missile tests in a different part of the Pacific, with Soviet counterparts doing our job.

By cruel fate my first trip to sea of any kind was this. The north Pacific in December is a wild and wooly roller coaster and by going up on the bridge I was able to live my image of crashing waves over the bow with “Victory at Sea” playing in my head. But this was no battleship. The Claud Jones was small with little keel so it would feel every swell to its fullest. The diesel exhaust would pour into the Suprad intensifying the seasickness to near fatal levels. I would vomit until there was nothing left but blood. At times it felt the ship would lean so far that it could never right itself again with the moaning sound of twisting metal and all not nailed down crashing to the floor and being swept to one side and then all this repeating again to the other side. There was some relief to be had by going outside and breathing fresh air and seeing the horizon. You had a lot of company on the rail until you gained your sea legs. For the old timers they managed just fine, virtually walking the walls with full cups of coffee and spilling nary a drop. Food had no appeal especially the smell. I did not have my own bunk on board so they lashed a cot and strung it between some poles in the passageways. I would crawl to bed with people walking all around and talking, desperately trying to sleep, praying to wake to calm seas. Eventually that was the case but not before more storms replayed the scene several times.

It took us 3-4 days to get on station. Once there the ship would circle around in a race track course awaiting more information of Soviet activity. With luck we would be in the perfect position to intercept the actual missile performance data being transmitted down to Soviet ships which were also inside this BOA. If need be we would get virtually right next to them or as close as they would allow. Updates would alert us to how long before we could expect the shot to happen. The Soviets had 2 missile sites, Tyuratam, Kazakhstan, and Plesetsk, in the far Russian north. Sometimes they would fool us and impact into the Kamchatka Peninsula. On occasion the whole affair was a wild goose chase and nothing would happen at all. This was not that time.

In the early 1970’s the Soviet Union was testing a number of huge and dangerous new ICBM’s, like the SS-17 with a range of 7,500 miles. Our group of 10 or so was an officer, a chief, a first class petty officer down to us, the green, untested and very scared. We each had a post in front of a tall assembly of digital displays, radio receivers and oscilloscopes. We already knew likely frequencies the Soviets would use and would scan those in hope of picking up a signal. By the time we got word that the missile was away we had just 30 minutes before impact. The missile, while not armed with a nuke did have a charge large enough to destroy any hardware that we could possibly intercept. There was also the distinct possibility that missile debris could strike the ship as it crashed to earth. This time we were in fine position and heard the sonic boom of reentry which only heightened our tension. All of our work was being recorded on high speed video reel to reel tape whirring away at lightning speed. This was the actual raw data and we had no idea if we got anything useful at all. The tape would be analyzed by NSA back in Ft. Meade, Md. The challenge was how to get the tapes back to NSA in a timely matter. Today, the entire effort would be digital and instantly sent in seconds. Then however, the tapes were secured in a special pouch and sent into the air on a balloon tether. A plane with a special hook was sent from Midway Island to swoop down and capture the line with the secret cargo and send it on an 8,000 mile journey back to D.C. While we worked inside our space, outside a dangerous duel in the air was taking place. Missile debris could sometimes float and could be a strategic boon if we could capture some. Specially equipped helicopters would lift off the aft of a ship and then deploy two large net arrays that looked like giant dragonfly wings. This chopper would then skim along the ocean surface hoping to sieve anything of value. In the meantime Soviet choppers would be hovering over the same areas using their downward draft trying to sink as much of this debris as possible. These dueling choppers often came very close to colliding. We saw armed sailors in the Soviet chopper during these tense standoffs. Another small, unknown battle fought in the cold war. Eventually NSA would tell us if the Soviets were standing down and returning to routine…the BOA would then reopen to traffic and we would be on our way back to Oahu. It was exciting to actually feel the sea air warm up as we neared the islands and I am sure I could in fact smell the lush vegetation as we got ever closer. The entire episode could last a month or two. For extra incentive, we were told that one of us could actually win a Congressional Medal of Honor if we were able to find and record a mythical signal…the elusive Soviet ICBM arming and fusing signal. This signal purportedly was sent from one part of the missile to the warhead to actually arm it for detonation shortly before it was to blow. We were told it was very weak and very directional. If the U.S. were to have knowledge of that signal, we could theoretically, in a nuclear crisis be able to arm and detonate the Soviet underground arsenal while still in their silos. A medal might be in order for that little trick I guess. We went on a few of these “spy vs. spy” capers in my years with TGU, Pearl. In between we trained to improve our skills, updated our classified pubs and stood watch in that old building. We also played volleyball and basketball and took field trips to the Primo Brewing Co., which had a liberal post tour beer policy and had group Luaus.

Those of us who collected data on surface ships were collectively known as “400” and those who collected data from submarines were known as “900”. One had to volunteer for submarine duty and there was strong peer pressure to do so. I resisted their overtures however as I had definitely seen way too many submarine movies for my own good. The “900” side of things went after an entirely different category of intelligence and the risk involved multiplied in my view. They would sneak through underwater submarine netting in order to enter Vladivostok harbor, raise an antenna and collect communication transmissions. Like Mission Impossible, if one was lost at sea, the Navy would not acknowledge the circumstances of your loss. Stories of narrow escapes and games of chicken with Soviet subs were enough to keep me up on top side of the water, in the sun and fresh air as I eventually got my sea legs too and rarely got sea sick. Down time at sea, and there was a lot, was spent mostly playing cards...favorites were Spades, Crazy 8’s, Hearts and the ultimate, Pinochle which the Chiefs mostly played. A form of backgammon, Acey-Duecey was common as well. The food was just average by Navy standards, but with plenty of “bug juice” (kool aid) to whet your whistle. The ship’s crew knew we were the reason for the deployment and that they could otherwise be on the beach if it weren’t for us which kept us at arm’s length. We also did not pull regular ship watches like the rest of the crew which did not make any friends either. It was an odd arrangement that was likely unique in the Navy. We would come home and get a week off or so to unwind and catch up with our personal affairs. A month or two after that we often we would get a group citation from the Naval Security Group for our effort and with a picture to boot.

I got my Petty Officer 3^rd class after passing my tests and time in grade. That also got me the reward of a housing allowance to live off base. I had made a friend with which we pooled our money and moved into an apartment tower just outside of Waikiki. I had bought myself a little Toyota Celica and had indeed discovered paradise. We would go to Hanauma Bay to snorkel and body surf at Makapuu beach and the North Shore. Sometimes we could get a tee time at the incredible, military only Navy-Marine golf course, called the “Pebble Beach of the Pacific”. We would head down to Waikiki at night and drink in now long gone hangouts, like Davey Jones’ locker in the basement of the Outrigger. It had a window that looked into the swimming pool behind the bar. Sometimes we would stand outside on the beach and look into the Halekulani Hotel showroom and watch the legendary Emma Veary perform. We went to concerts like Elton John and Cat Stevens and rock festivals inside Diamond Head crater.

Honolulu still had a rough edge in the 70’s. Hotel Street, now gentrified was a seedy, world famous string of titty bars and whorehouses catering to the sailors of the world. My first trip there taught me a good lesson. A group of us went down to Hotel Street as a necessary rite of passage for all young sailors. We first went into the very disreputable “Juicy Lucy’s” for a cold beer. Crowded and noisy it was a sleazy hole that looked to be from a different time and place…Singapore in the 30’s? Skanky sluts offered us all kind of cheap “entertainment” which we somehow managed to avoid. We next went to “Tammy’s”, a strip joint. By being right up next to the stage one of the performers came down and removed my glasses to rub on her sweat covered nipples and then returned to my face and to the hysterical laughter of my compadres. The rest of the night seemed like a foggy haze in more ways than one. While walking the sidewalk various hawkers would invite you into their club. This time a gypsy lady grasped my hand and pulled me into her darkly veiled chamber and offered to “bless my money” which meant reaching to my back pocket while her hands were doing things closer to my front pocket. She kept pulling me further into a labyrinth of various small rooms with dark shadowy figures hidden behind beaded curtains and drapery. A couple of strong arms started to grab me and my wallet. I was small and wiry back then and managed to spin and free myself. With some effort I escaped with a tale to tell my buddies and again much more laughter from all except me. I went back to Hotel Street but usually during the day to go a famous Chinese restaurant, now gone, Wo Fats. It was here I first tasted fried rice and thought it was magical. As silly as that sounds now, I had never had it before and thought it was as exotic as it gets. By the way, Hawaii Five-O used the name Wo Fat as a fictional bad guy in the TV show.

December 1973 I took a leave home for the Christmas holidays. It was extra special for me as I was also able to treat my two brothers to a trip to Seattle to see the Sonics play the Lakers with Wilt Chamberlain. It was a great visit home but was more than happy to return to my new Navy life. When I returned I discovered that my ship had left to go on a mission and I was to get my butt to Midway Island for a rendezvous. I took a MAC flight to this most northern of the Hawaiian island chain and scene of the battle that turned the tide in Pacific war against Japan. There were a handful of us that had to cool our heels waiting on this tiny, flat atoll that was also famous for being the home of the Gooney Bird. This large albatross so graceful flying in the air had the worst time trying to land, usually landing ass over teakettle. They also had an intricate mating ritual that is a show unto itself. Finally we were picked up at the tiny dock and off once again into the BOA. This trip however was to be like no other.

Our ship was on station in early February ’74 awaiting the next move by the Soviets. I was in the Suprad with my mates when the clacking sound of the crypto teletype startled us with what is called a Ziffer. Our ensign began reading out loud the text since for an odd reason it mentioned me. He stopped suddenly halfway and ordered me out of the room while the remainder of the message typed out. Finally he told me that I was to go see the ship’s captain who would tell me the mystery within that message. My anxiety was fever pitch when I entered the private quarters of the Captain, whom I had never previously met. He began by kindly giving me condolences and telling me that the message said that there had been a death in my family and that they were requesting the Navy for a special bereavement leave to return home. As difficult as that message was it did not state exactly who it was that had died. He left me alone to grieve as I was left to ponder who among my 7 brothers and sisters and parents for that matter had passed on and how. I was allowed to return to my bunk for several hours. At last, a more complete message came through that told me it was my youngest brother, Scott, only 13 years old, whom I had just spent that trip to Seattle with weeks before. Turns out Scott had contracted the rare Reye’s Syndrome which also struck many other kids that winter. A complication from catching the flu after sledding with friends, he was gone in a matter of days. I faced a giant logistical hurdle in trying to return home from the middle of the North Pacific. It was decided the mission was too strategic to return to Midway for a flight back to Hawaii and then home. There happened to be a passing Navy freighter close by so they attempted a maneuver where I would be passed from one ship to the other via a line strung between the ships moving parallel at the same speed. I was to be put into a kind of bucket and “highlined” over to the other ship which was on its way back to Pearl and from there, home. That was the plan except after several tries the seas were just too rough and thus deemed too risky for the attempt. The ships separated and went on their ways and I had to suck it up and stay on duty. That duty turned out to be almost another entire month by the time we returned to Pearl. I did get my emergency leave and left quickly to get home. Life as my family had known it had changed forever with a huge open wound that has never really healed. I spent two weeks trying to make sense of the nonsensical. It was hard to leave home yet again but the Navy had been very generous with me and I needed to return to duty.

That summer my other brother Jon came out to Hawaii to spend a week with me which was great. We did all the touristy things one can do with a teenage boy. He was the only family member to make it out there despite my pleas for visitors.

Later, I and two others were sent to a special school at the Sylvania plant in Sunnyvale California. We spent a week or so learning how to operate some brand new gear that was being placed in a unique ship…the USAFS Vandenberg. This ship actually belonged to the Air Force and was used for American missile testing much like the Russian testing I wrote about earlier. After training, a small team of us were to be stationed on the Vandenberg for 2-3 months at sea. Evidently the Russians were trying to avoid the BOA impacts of their tests and instead impact the missile inside Russian territory on the Kamchatka peninsula in the far North Pacific. These ships were equipped with massive radio receiving dishes that could still pick up valuable information while stationed in International waters. That’s exactly what the Pueblo thought too.

Our group was flown from Hawaii to Anchorage Alaska and from there on a tiny “puddle jumper” prop plane out to the far fringes of the Aleutian Islands to a barren rock called Adak. On Adak is a permanent radio station manned by the U.S. Navy. They live in Quonset huts and travel in tunnels among the few buildings they referred to as “downtown”. There was a severe beauty to this place that is nicknamed “birthplace of the winds” and for good reason. The constant wind keeps anything taller than grass from taking root. We were there for several days before our rendezvous with the Vandenberg. This ship was huge in comparison to our own small destroyers. It was more like a cruise liner…we wore civilian clothes and were housed in small staterooms with other Sylvania employees. The ship itself was sailed by Merchant Marine personnel. We would dine on linen covered tables and order from a menu. The ship was large enough to handle rough seas without much trouble. My roommate was an interesting guy who got me into the Carlos Castaneda series of books. We would sit and talk and share a joint on occasion. I spent a lot of time playing chess, cards and more Acey-Duecey with my fellow TGUers. As for the “mission”, it all seemed quite remote for us. We did our best but again without any feedback if we accomplished anything at all. Time dragged slowly and I longed to be back on Oahu in the sun. At last we made it back, but later I was ordered on a second tour, this time on its sister ship, the USAFS Hap Arnold. Arggh! It was easy duty, but borrring.

When I finally got back ashore, some friends and I took a short trip to the Big Island of Hawaii. We toured the erupting volcano, Halemaumau and saw the famous black sand beaches of Kalapana that have now been totally destroyed by the more current eruptions and lava flows. We stayed at special Navy housing that is available only to servicemen.

About this time I felt I wanted a larger place closer to the beaches I loved to go to. Four of us were now sharing a condominium in a luxe development called Hawaii Kai, past Diamond Head out toward Koko Head. It meant a much longer commute to work in the morning but the location was spectacular. The rent of $450 seemed a king’s ransom then but with 4 of us it was manageable.

In the summer of 1975 there was scuttlebutt, Navy speak for rumors, that the 400 department of the TGU was being disbanded. The submarine duty would remain but the surface aspect was being transferred to the Air Force Security Service, evidently to capture the intelligence from an airborne platform. There was talk of a few remaining in Hawaii but the bulk of us would be transferred to who knows where. After much hand wringing we each were given our new assignments. I and a handful of others were to be transferred to San Diego, California. Actually it was to a small radio station down close to the Mexican border in a town called Imperial Beach. After almost 3 years in Hawaii I was just beginning to feel a little bit native and was not at all happy about it. But orders are orders. About this time I passed my latest advancement test and was now a Petty Officer 2^nd Class, E-5, and just 24 years old. I sold my Toyota, packed my things and got a move on to “Dago”.

San Diego, California 1975-76

I first went back home for a short leave and bought a car to drive to San Diego…a mustard yellow 1972 Chevy Vega! I wanted to take a leisurely scenic tour from Seattle to San Diego in this fine vehicle. I first drove through central Oregon to Lake Tahoe and spent the night. I felt quite proud of myself by winning a little bit at blackjack despite not knowing anything about the game. I scooted over to San Francisco for my first visit there and a quick walkabout Fisherman’s Wharf, then on to Carmel and Pebble Beach. I continued south on Highway 1 along the Big Sur, then popped onto I-5 through L.A. and on into San Diego. I checked into the big Naval HQ’s downtown and they sent me over to spend the night at the Seal base on Coronado. I actually spent a few nights there until I found myself an apartment in Imperial Beach…a sad little two story duplex in this depressingly brown little burg. It was quite the comedown from the condo in Hawaii Kai. I was stationed at a building inside a Wullenweber antenna array…also called an “elephant cage”, which consisted of several rings of poles set in huge circles maybe 500 feet around. Wires are attached and form antenna that communicate with submarines in very low frequencies. I had nothing at all to do with that. I was now part of a group that met in a building in the center of this antenna. Our new job was to train crews in the fine art of electronic warfare. This is the critical ability to identify enemy threats and alert your own ship for counter measures. The problem was that I was a CT and was not trained in Electronic Warfare, EW, but was now expected to train them. I was feeling very much like a fish out of water. I did have a few familiar faces from Hawaii there sharing my frustration however. We would schedule ourselves to visit ships in the harbor and lecture them on radar threats and the like. They all knew more than I and worse, they knew it. My time off I went to the Zoo and the beach but always longed for Hawaii. I guess a part of me had bad memories of my time at Boot Camp just a few miles up the road. The highlight of my time in San Diego was my temporary duty aboard the Aircraft Carrier Ranger, CV61, in October ’75. It was going out on sea tests with its air wing. It would conduct air operations while I was to give a presentation to the combined officer group about the latest enemy threats and electronic warfare countermeasures. Good Lord. I was to be totally exposed as a complete fraud. We spent a week at sea. I had pretty much free rein exploring the huge ship and got to go up on to the conning tower and watch the launching and retrieving of the massive jets. The sense of military might was truly awesome and frightening. I was put in a bunk at the very tip of the ship just below where the catapult would crash into a water bag and virtually explode. This would go on even at night so I got little sleep to say the least.

My presentation went well, so they say. I have had a stammering problem since a child and I know I had trouble getting some words out but all in all it was 15 minutes of hell and that was that. I was to observe the EW’s at work in COMBAT…the nerve center of the ship that one sees in the movies with the darkened screens and everyone wearing headsets and shouting to each other. It was fascinating to watch even if I had no clue what they were doing and exactly why I was there.

I was getting to be a short-timer, that is getting close to the end of my 4 year enlistment. This is the time one starts to think of re-upping and making it a true career. The Vietnam War was over now and the military was downsizing. Just a few years prior the Navy would tempt you with large bonuses for re-upping sometimes into the thousands of dollars. Those days were over in 1976. I was personally in a bit of a situation…trained in a specialty that was now obsolete and would need another ‘A’ school to be trained in different job. The Navy had spent a huge amount of money on my training and clearances. Unfortunately for me it was now a dead end. All in all it felt right to call it a short career and prepare to get out and return to civilian school back in Seattle. So, in February 1976, CTT2 Barnes was whistled out of the Navy and into history. I took my little Vega and drove to Dallas Texas, where I picked up my sister and her two small kids and then the 4 of us drove all the way up to Yakima, Washington in the winter, in that tiny car. I was now full circle, back in Yakima in February, but 4 years older and worlds wiser. The Navy now behind me, I was getting my land legs for what lay ahead of me. For some reason a beer sounded real good.

Seattle, Washington, 2012

My story above reflects a Navy and a world that has disappeared in a relatively short time but would have been familiar to most sailors the previous 70 years back to the days of the Dreadnought. Today’s Navy is a quantum leap ahead in technology and mission that reflects a post-cold war world and threats. I was surprised and saddened to discover that virtually every mentioned ship and place is now a footnote in the history book…

-Naval Training Center, San Diego (Boot Camp)…900 acre facility, entirely shut down in the 1990’s and returned to the City of San Diego., now named Liberty Station. Great Lakes NTC in Illinois is now the only Navy Boot Camp.

-‘A’ School, Pensacola…now called Corry Station Cryptologic School serving all branches of service.

-TGU Pearl Harbor…Shut down 1982, appears to be a parking lot.

-USS McMorris, USS Claud Jones…sold to Indonesian Navy in the 1980’s…today probably scrapped.
-Navcomsta Adak...abandoned 1997. Left intact with a hospital full of supplies, motor pool with new vehicles, grocery store complete with inventory...

-Navcomsta Imperial Beach…closed in 1998. Dismantled, 2007.

-USAFS Vandenberg…sunk off Key West for an artificial reef for divers, 2007

-USAFS Hap Arnold…deactivated 1982, current fate unknown.
-USS RANGER CV 61...Decommissioned 1993, mothballed Bremerton Wash.

AND LASTLY...

-USS Pueblo…the last intact artifact remaining on the list.

Currently a tourist attraction on the Taedong river in Pyongyang, North Korea.