The Times - Serving Waitsburg, Dayton and the Touchet Valley

I call this series “Just Vignettes” because that’s what they are, just short snapshots of things that have happened to me or have been told to me. I can vouch the stories you read here are mostly true.

The officers of the USS Missouri were in a fit of excitement and activity. In preparation for the arrival of a distinguished visitor, the quarterdeck was to be laid with a red carpet, a normal adornment for such occasions. Now, unbelievably, the carpet was missing from the Bosun’s locker.

Why would anyone purloin the red carpet? What could they possibly do with it? These questions were asked of the assembled officers in the wardroom. All the officers sat stone-faced and silent as years of training and experience have ingrained them to do. As the officers finally filed out, Lieutenant Carman, the ship’s gunnery officer and recent veteran of another battleship, the New Jersey, set off on his own search mission.

In less than an hour, we got the news that Lt. Carman had discovered and retrieved the red carpet. The Missouri was spared the shame of welcoming a dignitary without a red carpet on the quarterdeck. He had been poking his head in the turret gun rooms and noticed a glint of red reflecting off the top of Turret Three’s center gun.

From his experience aboard the USS New Jersey, he knew what perhaps only a handful of other sailors on the ship knew: the Iowa Class battleships had a small, hidden berthing compartment between the center and left guns. Some gunner’s mates had taken the red carpet from the Bosun’s Locker, snuck it across the deck and into Turret Three’s hatch, and up into the old berthing space.During the Korean War and WWII, the battleships had nearly double the crew they would have after their 1980’s refit. Most of the reduction in crew size resulted from the removal of the masses of 20mm and 40mm anti-aircraft guns. That’s why the ship had so many unused racks (navy for beds) scattered about in unusual places.

I had never heard of such a secret berthing space before and immediately set off for Turret One to see if we also hosted such a mystery surprise. We did. It was not easy to get to. From inside the ship, a sailor would need to climb down a four-story vertical ladder to the Powder Flats. Next, the sailor would go through the center of the turret and climb past the Powder Flats, past two levels of Projectile Flats, through the Machinery and Electrical Decks, pop up into the Pan Deck and climb vertically into the Gun Deck. Next, the sailor steps out on the Gun Captain’s Platform in Center Gun and carefully attempts to ascend the gun breech without falling into the pan deck. Next, the sailor must shimmy across the top of the gun, squeezing between it and the upper armor. From about the center of the gun, the berthing compartment access can be seen on the port side. This journey through the turret takes about twenty minutes. 

Entering the berthing space was like entering a time capsule. It appeared to be untouched since the Korean War. All the incandescent lights still worked. The compartment contained about six racks, only two high because of the low overhead, and a small, permanent table printed with a checkerboard pattern. On the table and hanging from some of the racks were homemade butt kits (navy for ashtrays) crafted out of “Circus Peanuts” cans with a cartoon elephant printed on them.

Sailors had punched small holes near the upper rim of the peanut can and fashioned a bale from a straightened-out paperclip. Scattered on the racks were period girlie magazines with black and white photos of women sporting Betty Grable and beehive coiffures. The women wore uncomfortable-looking stiff bras and girdles. The magazines reminded me of old Sears catalogs without the prices. Scattered about was some other minor equipment, all of it apparently untouched and unseen for thirty years.

After seeing these living conditions, I gained a new respect for the sailors of WWII and the Korean War. Imagine being assigned to this berthing space and in the middle of the night feeling the urge to use the head (navy for bathroom). Imagine thinking about the twenty minutes it will take to exit the turret and another twenty minutes to return. 

Worse, perhaps, imagine returning from a night of imbibing at the Honolulu Hotel Street bistros with your shipmates, singing arm-in-arm, and navigating the treacherous path to your pillow while being in a bibulous stupor. Life could be tough back then.