Reflections of a Blackshoe
by VAdm Harold Koenig, USN (Ret)

I like the Navy.

I like standing on the bridge wing at sunrise with salt
spray in my face and clean ocean winds whipping in from the
four quarters of the globe - the ship beneath me feeling
like a living thing as her engines drive her through the
sea.

I like the sounds of the Navy - the piercing trill of the
boatswains pipe, the syncopated clangor of the ship's bell
on the quarterdeck, the harsh squawk of the 1MC and the
strong language and laughter of sailors at work.

I like the vessels of the Navy - nervous darting destroyers,
plodding fleet auxiliaries, sleek submarines and steady
solid carriers. I like the proud sonorous names of Navy
capital ships: Midway, Lexington, Saratoga, Coral Sea -
memorials of great battles won. I like the lean angular
names of Navy 'tin-cans': Barney, Dahlgren, Mullinix, McCloy
- mementos of heroes who went before us.

I like the tempo of a Navy band blaring through the topside
speakers as we pull away from the oiler after refueling at
sea. I like liberty call and the spicy scent of a foreign
port. I even like all hands working parties as my ship fills
herself with the multitude of supplies both mundane and
exotic which she needs to cut her ties to the land and carry
out her mission anywhere on the globe where there is water
to float her.

I like sailors, men from all parts of the land, farms of the
Midwest, small towns of New England, from the cities, the
mountains and the prairies, from all walks of life. I trust
and depend on them as they trust and depend on me - for
professional competence, for comradeship, for courage. In a
word, they are "shipmates."

I like the surge of adventure in my heart when the word is
passed "Now station the special sea and anchor detail - all
hands to quarters for leaving port", and I like the
infectious thrill of sighting home again, with the waving
hands of welcome from family and friends waiting pierside.
The work is hard and dangerous, the going rough at times,
the parting from loved ones painful, but the companionship
of robust Navy laughter, the 'all for one and one for all'
philosophy of the sea is ever present.

I like the serenity of the sea after a day of hard ship's
work, as flying fish flit across the wave tops and sunset
gives way to night. I like the feel of the Navy in darkness
- the masthead lights, the red and green navigation lights
and stern light, the pulsating phosphorescence of radar
repeaters - they cut through the dusk and join with the
mirror of stars overhead. And I like drifting off to sleep
lulled by the myriad noises large and small that tell me
that my ship is alive and well, and that my shipmates on
watch will keep me safe.

I like quiet midwatches with the aroma of strong coffee -
the lifeblood of the Navy - permeating everywhere. And I
like hectic watches when the exacting minuet of haze-gray
shapes racing at flank speed keeps all hands on a razor edge
of alertness. I like the sudden electricity of "General
quarters, general quarters, all hands man your battle
stations", followed by the hurried clamor of running feet on
ladders and the resounding thump of watertight doors as the
ship transforms herself in a few brief seconds from a
peaceful workplace to a weapon of war - ready for anything.
And I like the sight of space-age equipment manned by
youngsters clad in dungarees and sound-powered phones that
their grandfathers would still recognize.

I like the traditions of the Navy and the men and women who
made them. I like the proud names of Navy heroes: Halsey,
Nimitz, Perry, Farragut, John Paul Jones. A sailor can find
much in the Navy: comrades-in-arms, pride in self and
country, mastery of the seaman's trade. An adolescent can
find adulthood.

In years to come, when sailors are home from the sea, they
will still remember with fondness and respect the ocean in
all its moods - the impossible shimmering mirror calm and
the storm-tossed green water surging over the bow. And then
there will come again a faint whiff of stack gas, a faint
echo of engine and rudder orders, a vision of the bright
bunting of signal flags snapping at the yardarm, a refrain
of hearty laughter in the wardroom and chief's quarters and
messdecks. Gone ashore for good they will grow wistful about
their Navy days, when the seas belonged to them and a new
port of call was ever over the horizon.

Remembering this, they will stand taller and say,

"I WAS A SAILOR ONCE. I WAS PART OF THE NAVY & THE NAVY WILL
ALWAYS BE PART OF ME."