Destroyermen
Unattributed:
The requirements for being a destroyer sailor are many. He must be tough, have endurance, and split-second reactions. He must be adaptable, compatable and above-average in intelligence. He must have common sense, understanding and patience.
All of these are necessary to live and work in a small ship, often at sea for long periods.
Destroyermen are proud, for they know that they man a warship that is designed only to attack. The ship’s hull is only thick enough to carry the weight of the guns and other armament and the men that man them.
And destroyermen are proud for another reason. They are truly seagoing men. Every destroyer sailor comes to know and respect the sea, and at times, fear it.
Destroyermen are from every state in the Union and are of all faiths. They are proud to wear the uniform of a navy, ready to protect the freedom and security of the United States.
Admiral Arleigh Burke once said, "Destroyermen have always been proud people. They have been the elite. They have to be proud people and they have to be specially selected, for destroyer life is a rugged one.
It takes stamina to stand up to the rigors of a tossing destroyer. It takes even more spiritual stamina to keep going with enthusiasm when you are tired and you feel that you and your ship are being used as a workhorse.
It is true that many people take destroyers for granted and that is all the more reason why the destroyer Captain can be proud of their accomplishment."
2 comments:
Oo-rah, sir, oo-rah.
Not exactly the most Navy thing to say, but it sums everything right there. I'm proud to be the only cadet in my CAP squadron that wants to join the Navy. I get a lot of oh-you-should-join-the-Air-Force type stuff, but I'm Navy all the way. Keep it up,
Cat
XO, I humbly submit you put this bit of Kipling up in the crew's mess:
THE STRENGTH of twice three thousand horse
That seeks the single goal;
The line that holds the rending course,
The hate that swings the whole:
The stripped hulls, slinking through the gloom
At gaze and gone again—
The Brides of Death that wait the groom—
The Choosers of the Slain!
Offshore where sea and skyline blend
In rain, the daylight dies;
The sullen, shouldering swells attend
Night and our sacrifice.
Adown the stricken capes no flare—
No mark on spit or bar,—
Girdled and desperate we dare
The blindfold game of war.
Nearer the up-flung beams that spell
The council of our foes;
Clearer the barking guns that tell
Their scattered flank to close.
Sheer to the trap they crowd their way
From ports for this unbarred.
Quiet, and count our laden prey,
The convoy and her guard!
On shoal with scarce a foot below,
Where rock and islet throng,
Hidden and hushed we watch them throw
Their anxious lights along.
Not here, not here your danger lies—
(Stare hard, O hooded eyne!)
Save where the dazed rock-pigeons rise
The lit cliffs give no sign.
Therefore—to break the rest ye seek,
The Narrow Seas to clear—
Hark to the siren’s whimpering shriek—
The driven death is here!
Look to your van a league away,—
What midnight terror stays
The bulk that checks against the spray
Her crackling tops ablaze?
Hit, and hard hit! The blow went home,
The muffled, knocking stroke—
The steam that overruns the foam—
The foam that thins to smoke—
The smoke that clokes the deep aboil—
The deep that chokes her throes
Till, streaked with ash and sleeked with oil,
The lukewarm whirlpools close!
A shadow down the sickened wave
Long since her slayer fled:
But hear their chattering quick-fires rave
Astern, abeam, ahead!
Panic that shells the drifting spar—
Loud waste with none to check—
Mad fear that rakes a scornful star
Or sweeps a consort’s deck.
Now, while their silly smoke hangs thick,
Now ere their wits they find,
Lay in and lance them to the quick—
Our gallied whales are blind!
Good luck to those that see the end,
Good-bye to those that drown—
For each his chance as chance shall send—
And God for all! Shut down!
The strength of twice three thousand horse
That serve the one command;
The hand that heaves the headlong force,
The hate that backs the hand:
The doom-bolt in the darkness freed,
The mine that splits the main;
The white-hot wake, the ’wildering speed—
The Choosers of the Slain!
Kinda says it all...
Byron
Post a Comment