THE SCUTTLEBUTT
The Newsletter of the
USS Buchanan (DDG-14) Association
June 30, 2004
Vol
VI. No. 1 http://www.uss-buchanan-ddg14.org Editor:
David B. Malone
________________________________________________________________
BUCHANAN
SINKING COMMEMORATION
Submitted by Dick Zimmermann
On 10 June, we
observed the fourth anniversary of our ship’s sinking. CDR Feza Koprucu (Fire
Control Officer 1988-90) hosted a reception aboard ex-USS BARRY (DD-933) at the
Washington Navy Yard. There were 20 shipmates in attendance with service times
ranging from 1967-91, including two former
We were treated to
enjoyable remarks and reminiscences from CDR Koprucu and CAPT Roche, and were
able to tour the ship. The tour now permits access to the engineering spaces,
which have been off-limits for several years now, so this snipe had a great
time. We also got to swap some sea stories to confirm again that the memories
of the ship and what happened, are similar regardless when you might have
served.
We
were treated to some of Tim Burrington’s souvenirs of the ship, but won’t
reveal the actual nature of these goodies until the statute of limitations has
fully elapsed. The evening was wrapped up with the always painful viewing of
the ship’s sinking on tape.
The
following is a list of those who were in attendance.
Phil
Beinke; ETN3 67-68
Tim
Burrington: LT 87-90
Tom
Bush LTJG (Tarter,
ASW, CIC) 76-80
Lee
Gurke CDR (CO) 87-89
Tony
Kitchen LT 86-89
Feza
Koprucu LT (Fire Conrol) 88-90
Cole
Kupec LT 87-90
Sean
Mangen LTJG 87-91
Dave
McKinley LCDR (XO) 77-79
James
Roche CDR (CO) 73-75
Michael
Smith LTJG (Comm) 79-81
Dick Zimmermann LT
(CHENG) 70-71
______________________________________________________________________________________
THE NEXT
Tim Nightingale reports that the
results of the survey for the next reunion are in. His e-mail to me with the report is as
follows.
Shipmates
Attached
is the results of the survey from the web site.
I
am calling it
Late
Spring 2006
for
3 days from thursday to sunday.
I
will start contacting and setting things up twards the end of July
As stated in the last newsletter,
Tim Nightingale is in the business of organizing and hosting ship’s
reunions. He did a wonderful job at the
______________________________________________________________________________
TREASURER’S REPORT
PAID MEMBERS (38)
Acosta,
Javier; Baile, Bruce; Beinke, Phil; Borg, Gene; Botti, Bill; Browning, Rob
& Marian; Cotant, Mike; Egge,
Dennis; England, Carl; George, David; George, Ken; Ginter, Roger; Heffernan, Michael; Heisler, Tim; Hoermann,
Richard; Kern, Tom; Looney, Glenn; Malone, Dave; Manis, Frank; Marak, Ron;
Mezori, George; Myers, Dean; Nepper, Jerry; Nightingale, Tim; Probus, Ed;
Proctor, Lou; Rudisill, Terry; Schaefer, Larry; Sheridan, Tom; Smeltzer, Steve;
Taylor, Jim; Tom, Phillip; Ursich, Al; Wallace, Jim; Wihera, Victor; Yow, Tom;
Ziesmer, Jim; Zimmermann, Dick
NEW MEMBERS SINCE MAR 2004
Cotant,
Mike IC2 84 - 86
George,
Ken FTM1 67 - 70
Tom,
Phillip FTMC 75 - 78
Ziesmer,
Jim EW1 77 - 81
TREASURER’S REPORT
Balance
1 Apr 2004 $3,114.01
Dues 98.00
Ship
store sales 143.20
Ship
store expenses -54.34
Balance 30 June 2004 $3,300.87
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NOW ON THE BUCHANAN...
Moments in the life of USS
Buchanan (DDG-14), taken from the ship’s annual reports.
Thirty Five years ago... 1969
From
18 June till 15 July BUCHANAN fired
over 5,000 rounds in support of our troops in I and II Corps areas. While the
majority of the time was spent in and around
Thirty years ago... 1974
After
stopping for a weapons loadout, BUCHANAN was assigned as Engineering School
Ship for the month of June. Later that same month, BUCHANAN was underway for
Fifteen years ago... 1989
On
15 June the RANGER Battle Group was relieved by the USS AMERICA Battle Group.
The RANGER Battle Group departed the North Arabian Sea; enroute to
______________________________________________________________________
Submitted by Bill Johnson
CHIEF PETTY OFFICERS
One
thing we weren't aware of at the time but it became evident as life wore on,
was that we learned true leadership from the finest examples any lad was ever
given, Chief Petty Officers.
They were crusty old guys who had done it all and had been forged into men who
had been time tested over more years than a lot of us had time on the planet.
The ones I remember wore hydraulic oil stained hats with scratched and
dinged-up insignia, faded shirts, some with a Bull Durham tag dangling out of
their right-hand pocket or a pipe and tobacco reloads in a worn leather pouch
in their hip pockets, and a Zippo that had been everywhere.
Some of them came with tattoos on their forearms that would force them to keep
their cuffs buttoned at a Methodist picnic. Most of them were as tough as a
boarding house steak. A quality required to survive the life they lived. They
were and always will be, a breed apart from all other residents of Mother
Earth.
They took eighteen year-old idiots and hammered them into sailors. You knew
instinctively it had to be hell on earth to have been born a Chief's kid. God
should have given all sons born to Chiefs a return option.
A Chief didn't have to command respect He got it because there was nothing else
you could give them They were God's designated hitters on earth.
We had Chiefs with fully loaded Combat Patrol Pins in my day...Hard-core
bastards, who found nothing out of place with the use of the word 'Japs' to
refer to the little sons of Nippon they had littered the floor of the
Pacific with, as payback for the December 7th party they gave us in 1941. As
late as 1970 you could still hear a Chief Petty Officer screaming at you in
bootcamp to listen to him, because if you didn't, the damn gooks would kill us.
They taught me In those days, 'insensitivity' was not a word in a sailor's
lexicon. They remembered lost mates and still cursed the cause of their loss...
And they were expert at choosing descriptive adjectives and nouns, none of
which their mothers would have endorsed.
At the rare times you saw a Chief topside in dress canvas, you saw rows of
hard-earned worn and faded ribbons over his pocket. "Hey Chief, what's
that one and that one?" "Oh Hell kid, I think it was the time I fell
out of a hookers bed, I can't remember. There was a war on. They gave them to
us to keep track of the campaigns were in. We got our news from AFVN and Stars
and Stripes. To be honest, we just took their word for it. Hell son, you
couldn't pronounce most of the names of the villages we went to. They're all
gee-dunk. Listen kid, ribbons don't make you a Sailor. The Purple one on top?
OK, I do remember earning that one. We knew who the heroes were and in the
final analysis that's all that matters."
Many nights we sat in the after mess deck wrapping ourselves around cups of
coffee and listening to their stories. They were lighthearted stories about
warm beer shared with their running mates in corrugated metal hooches at rear
base landing zones, where the only furniture was a few packing crates and a
couple of Coleman lamps. Standing in line at a Philippine cathouse or spending
three hours soaking in a tub in Bangkok, smoking cigars and getting loaded. It
was our history. And we dreamed of being just like them because they were our
heroes.
When they accepted you as their shipmate, it was the highest honor you would
ever receive in your life. At least it was clearly that for me. They were not
men given to the prerogatives of their position. You would find them with their
sleeves rolled up, shoulder-to-shoulder with you in a stores loading party.
"Hey Chief, no need for you to be out here tossin' crates in the rain, we
can get all this crap aboard." "Son, the term 'All hands' means all
hands." "Yeah Chief, but you're no damn kid anymore, you old
fart."
"Shipmate, when I'm eighty-five, parked in the old Sailors' home in
Gulfport, I'll still be able to kick your worthless ass from here to fifty feet
past the screw guards along with six of your closest friends." And he
probably wasn't bullshitting. They trained us. Not only us, but hundreds more
just like us. If it wasn't for Chief Petty Officers, there wouldn't be any U.S.
Naval Force.
There wasn't any fairy godmother who lived in a hollow tree in the enchanted
forest who could wave her magic wand and create a Chief Petty Officer. They
were born as hot-sacking seamen and matured like good whiskey in steel hulls
and steaming jungles over many years. Nothing a nineteen year-old jaybird
could cook up was original to these old saltwater owls. They had seen E-3 jerks
come and go for so many years, they could read you like a book. "Son, I
know what you are thinking. Just one word of advice. DON'T. It won't be worth
it." "Aye, Chief." Chiefs aren't the kind of guys you thank.
Monkeys at the zoo don't spend a lot of time thanking the guy who makes them do
tricks for peanuts. Appreciation of what they did and who they were, comes with
long distance retrospect. No young lad takes time to recognize the
worth of his leadership. That comes later when you have experienced poor
leadership or lets say, when you have the maturity to recognize what leaders
should be, you find that Chiefs are the standard by which you measure all
others. They had no Academy rings to get scratched up. They butchered the
King's English. They had become educated at the other end of an anchor chain
from Copenhagen to Singapore. They had given their entire lives to the United
States Navy. In the progression of the nobility of employment, CPO
heads the list.
So, when we ultimately get our final duty station assignments and we get to
wherever the big CNO in the sky assigns us. If we are lucky, Marines will be
guarding the streets. I don't know about that Marine propaganda bullshit, but
there will be an old Chief in an oil-stained hat, a cigar stub clenched in his
teeth and a coffee cup that looks like it contains oil, standing at the brow to
assign us our bunks and tell us where to stow our gear... And we will all be young
again and the damn coffee will float a rock.
Life fixes it so that by the time a stupid kid grows old enough and smart
enough to recognize who he should have thanked along the way, he no longer can.
If I could, I would thank my old Chiefs. If you only knew what you succeeded in
pounding in this thick skull, you would be amazed. So thanks you old
casehardened unsalvageable sons-of-bitches. Save me a rack in the berthing
compartment.
______________________________________________________________________
SEA STORY OF THE QUARTER
Submitted by Ed Bosley, BT2, 1961
– 64 (Plank Owner)
BUCHANAN's
Early Years