By Commander Ed Bookhardt, USN Retired
On my den walls are a variety of plaques, photographs and other trivia of my 30-year naval career. Among this cherished conglomeration are several faded photographs. One is of my uncle, a Navy cook who served in World War I. Following the war he reenlisted and went to China on the Destroyer Truxtun DD-229. In the photograph he is standing on the Truxtun’s fantail with the flag waving from the stern staff. At his feet is a small shorthaired terrier. Terriers, particularly in the Orient were used as “ratters” aboard ships of the era.
Another sepia print taken in the 1920’s is of my father and the “Black Gang” on the USS Vestal AR-4. The Vestal like most ships of that era was coal fired. The Firemen who kept her boilers stoked came off watch completely covered in coal dust. In the picture, a number of coal blackened men are strumming the backs of their shovels like minstrel banjos. Standing out in their midst is a white mutt with huge dark eyes. It seems that throughout history, dogs have been a part of Navy life.
As I reminisced over those aging images, my mind drifted back to an earlier time in my life. It was the early 1950s during the Korean War. I was a young Petty Officer First Class assigned to the Navy Seabees. Our battalion had been deployed to Cuba to accomplish a variety of construction and repair projects in support of Atlantic Fleet operations.
After working dawn to dusk, our brief off-duty time was spent at a makeshift canteen and outdoor movie theater. The canteen was a small twenty foot Quonset hut on an open concrete slab surrounded by wooden picnic tables. Soda, beer, Slim Jims, canned pork-n-beans, peanuts, sardines and crackers were house specialties. The alfresco ambiance was further enhanced with impromptu smidgens of sea-stories, or in other words, with blatant lies of amorous conquests.
One evening as I dined beneath the stars on filet of sardine and a bottle of fine lager, strange forms appeared in the fading light. Drawing closer, it was two dogs. They came trotting across the salt flats from the rocky outcroppings beyond the camp perimeter. The larger of the two, was an ugly rawboned hound with one eye. The other eye had apparently been lost in some past confrontation as his long ears were scarred and chewed…they flopped in rhythm to his lumbering gait.
The big dog’s companion was his opposite, a small handsome dog with a smooth white coat punctuated with random black splotches. His short ears as his tail stood straight up. Big liquid eyes sparkling with affection offset the permanent broken tooth grin etched across his teddy-bear face.
With tails wagging, the pair pranced up to the canteen as if they were the pub proprietors. Seasoned politicians, they began licking extended hands. Obviously thirsty from their trek, beer was poured into a canteen swab-bucket and offered to the pair. They quickly buried their heads in the suds, tails wagging in unison as the lapping sounds echoing up from the bucket. With foam hanging from his nose the small dog backed out just long enough to give us a toothy grin, then nudging the big dog dove back in…a roar of laughter erupted!
It came as a surprise the following evening; the strays were still at the canteen sitting side-by-side on a table bench. Their quizzical expressions seems to say, “Where have you boys been all day?” As we approached, the two came running down the path to greet us. It wasn’t long before they made their way into our hearts.
Each was issued “dog-tags” [no pun intended] which jingled as they trotted about camp. The maintenance shop with appropriate fanfare presented them with brightly painted troughs with the names lettered on the side. The troughs were placed under the canteen pass-through window so our canine shipmates could share in the festivities.
As was deemed appropriate, the one eyed hound got his name “Hatuey” for the “One-eyed Indian” logo of the popular Cuban beer. Hatuey loved his beer and after a few trips to the trough he would sit back on his haunches, look up into the moon lit sky and belt out long lonesome yodeling howls! Revelers mocking his howls would follow, setting old Hatuey off on another chorus or two.
“Needle,” being a small dog, was named for his male attributes. Actually he had two names, “Needle Dick,” but we dubbed him “Needle” for short, no one wanted to hurt his male ego. And since the canteen was their favorite spot, it was officially dedicated “SALTY DOG CANTEEN” with the smashing of a bottle of Hatuey on the Quonset hut roof and ceremonious unveiling a colorful painted sign above the hut.
Being military to the core, the dogs mustered at daybreak with the battalion. You can probably guess which group they adopted? Yes, it was the Cooks and Bakers platoon. Hell, those chowhounds ate like kings…the Chief Commissaryman was an ardent dog lover!
The occasions that they missed muster, usually due to severe hangovers or a night of hunting banana rats in the outcroppings, the Company Commander would snap to rigid attention and solemnly report, “Headquarters Company, two absentees, Constructionman Hatuey and Needle are AWOL again… Sir!” A ripple of snickering laughter would echo across the formation.
They sometimes rode with the crews to the construction sites. Charlie Company gained that honor, which brought a certain prestige. Their Company trucks had “H&N TRUCKING CO.” chalked on the doors. To see those two hanging out of a cab window with tongues flopping in the breeze would lift one’s spirits on the darkest of days!
The day the battalion rotated back to the States, we lined the main deck railing of the troopship USS Olmstead AP-188 to watch the myriad of activities as the ship prepared to get underway. Down on the pier, sitting side-by-side on the hood of a rear-echelon jeep sat Hatuey and Needle. Their heads tilted quizzically, puzzling over their surroundings and what was taking place.
As the tugs pushed the ship out into the channel, a chorus of hoots and whistles went up for our faithful friends. Hatuey in reply, leaned back on his haunches and began his long soulful monolog. Needle the showman, did little tap-dancing circles on the hood around him. Tears blurring my vision, I watched intently as the two were lost from view in the morning mist, never to be seen again.
Many years have passed, yet I still cherish the memories of the time two of God’s creatures came trotting into the hearts of some lonely Seabees far from home. As I look once more at the photographs on the wall, I wonder if my elders had experienced similar memories. I certainly hope they did. Wish they had shared them with that lanky barefoot lad I faintly remember...