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D.E.
SIX THIRTY-FOUR
By
Gary W. Hendrickson RD3
Gary W. Hendrickson
Written
near the end of Whitehurst's Viet Nam patrols.
We
are all a part of the Whitehurst crew
In
the year of our Lord nineteen sixty-two.
Our
families and loved ones we see no more;
We're
stuck on this ship D.E. six thirty-four.
Now
many of us, in times not far past,
Have
played our roles in a far different cast.
From
each walk of life her crew is made up;
The
call to her steel many lives did disrupt.
She
wears a proud name, as in days of yore
Her
guns blazed hot in the second world war.
With
men and might she fought all but the Nazi,
Til
her career was near ended by a Jap Kamikaze.
Her
remains were sent to the Pearl Harbor yard,
To
return her again to the sea lane guard.
Though
her lines were changed to a slight degree,
She
was ready to fight, as any could see.
An
illustrious future would not be her fate,
Her
new menial task a proud ship would hate.
For
it was determined that what she deserved
Was
to carry a crew of green boot reserves.
Each
would spend one weekend of every four
Attempting
to learn but listening to lore.
And
for two weeks a year, cross the blue Pacific,
We
were men of the Navy and really terrific.
Then
one dismal day on an October morn,
To
the United States Navy we really were born.
With
sea bag and farewell we departed Seattle,
The
Whitehurst would fight a new kind of battle.
In
the days to come across the vast sea,
We
would live, laugh and fight on this tragic D.E.
Points
of the compass where once she did dwell,
Fast
were becoming a new kind of hell.
All
traditions were here, to some of us strange,
We
hated the Bo‘sun pipe with its piercing range.
The
master-at-arms with his badge and a scowl
Had
everyone cowed, we all thought him quite foul.
There
was pride in this ship, the crew had spunk;
Our
running Bate we called a Philippine junk.
Although
they were la the same spot as we,
How
they kept her afloat was a great mystery.
How
that sorry craft from a different state,
Orders
from her were a bitter pill to take.
Though
she flew the flag of COMCORTRON SEVEN,
Next
to her we sailed a small piece of heaven.
Most
that I have said points out what was good,
I
hope I have not been misunderstood.
God
knows I would be the last to say
Everything
that happened was quite okay.
Take me not wrong with this sentimental patter.
When
we chose to look we found plenty the matter.
At
this ship of ours we cursed and swore,
Many
were the time one could take little more.
Some
swabbies felt in the back of their mind,
That
the officers must be entirely blind.
And
the gold braid too, I feel almost certain,
Had
a hell of a time, 'hind the wardroom curtain.
In
the radar shack t'was a crew of nine,
Three
were so bald you could see their head shine.
Signalmen,
radiomen and yeomen too,
All
a part of the operations crew.
The
gunners mates, justly proud of their fame,
Blasted
their targets with unerring aim.
Once
a plane flew over with a long red sock,
A
round from our guns brought it down like a rock.
The
Bo’sun mates with their lines and their swabs,
Created
the image of true Navy gobs.
Fruits
of their work gave then reason to gloat,
We
all knew ours was the toughest afloat.
Down
in the hole near the bowels of the sea,
Snipes
fought their battles without referee.
'Gainst
the ponderous engines and valves galore,
Who
could blame them if they fought hard ashore.
Each
had their problems no one could deny,
None
had more than the division - supply.
To
keep such a crew and a good ship ready,
All
of their work must be turned over steady.
The
question that was asked by most of us,
Was,
"What circumstances created this fuss?"
Here
we are united, half way round the earth,
Testing
the ship, the sea and all men’s worth.
In
this day and age with a ship this old,
Surely
our movements cannot be too bold.
Yet
the job is here for this tired old steel,
To
again slice the seas on her weary keel.
The
job will be done but we'll all have in mind,
That
not long from now this will all be behind.
But
each will remember forevermore
The
days that were spent on six thirty-four.
Gary
W. Hendrickson
Radarman
3rd WHR-A
March
1962
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