A Fine Navy Day - Part 1
By Ensign James Rozo, USN
“Hazing, defined as any conduct whereby a military member without proper authority causes another military member to suffer or be exposed to any activity which is cruel, abusive, humiliating, oppressive, demeaning, or harmful, is prohibited. It can include, but is not limited to playing abusive tricks, branding, tattooing, shaving, greasing, and pinning.” ~ US Navy Hazing Policy ~
“Take it all, cocksucker,” demands the MM2.
Tilting Cramer’s head back, sliding along the pebbly curve of the tongue, the MM2 navigates the restricted channel. Ramming deeply into the obviously inexperienced throat, effectively corking the airway, the petty officer is serenaded with the sweet music of desperate gagging.
“Oh hell yeah…choke on it.”
Having no choice, Cramer complies as tears run down his devastated face.
Secluded below decks in #4 main machinery room, HTFA Andrew Cramer is receiving long overdue feedback on his poor performance, surly attitude, and deficient military bearing.
Thrusting in-and-out, the MM2 violently throat fucks the delinquent young sailor as a choir of congregated voices vociferously cheer him on.
Awaiting their turn, intoxicated with the power of supremacy, a dozen sailors stroke throbbing erections standing smartly at attention. An awesome pleasure, there’s something enthralling about watching the subjugation of an inferior male.
“I’m close…here’s your dinner,” as he feeds Cramer a hot nutritious meal.
With no viable alternative, the distraught sailor swallows the voluminous offering.
Choking like a novice gulping Jamaican rum for the first time, he hasn’t yet acquired a taste for the thick fluid. Fortunately, throughout the evening Cramer will have plenty of opportunity to perfect his cock sucking skills and quaff quarts of delicious navy jam.
“I’m next,” announces a shipmate, pushing his need into the cocksucker’s mouth.
Standing outside the XO’s office, 2-135-4-L, an apprehensive Ensign Rozo, dressed in clean working khakis and polished black leather shoes, knocks on the non-water-tight door.
As the 2nd highest-ranking officer aboard Independence, Captain Dougherty’s office is appropriately sumptuous. A masterpiece in mahogany, a magnificent desk impeccably adorned with an intricate hand carved nautical motif, dominates the space.
A plush brown leather sofa, exquisite coffee table with inlayed mariner’s star of cherry, ebony, and sapele veneers, and two sturdy captain’s chairs with brass nail head trim are meticulously positioned around the compartment.
Decorated with aircraft memorabilia, squadron plaques, and red & white VF-102 Diamondbacks paraphernalia, it’s painfully clear he’s a brown-shoe: an F-4J Phantom II fighter pilot.
Imposing, his strict adherence to naval regulations and take-no-prisoners philosophy make him a formidable force. All sailors, and most officers, are well advised to never cross swords with the XO.
“Reporting as ordered sir,” said Rozo, standing at attention with an elevated heart rate.
“Ah, yes Ensign. I’ve received an incident report involving one of your sailors. Apparently while performing EMI in 4MMR HTFA Cramer was beaten and greased.”
“Yes sir, that was most unfortunate.”
“Hmm…you wouldn’t happen to know anything about this, would you Ensign?”
Silence fills the compartment. Having substantial equity invested in the endeavor, needing to sidestep shifting layers of truth, Ensign Rozo starts to perspire, suffusing the space with the enticing scent of British Sterling cologne, a rich and complex earthy fragrance.
Quickly, he mentally reviews the events of the past 24 hours.
- - - - - Flashback - - - - -
“Mission accomplished Ensign Rozo,” MMCM Abraham reports.
Smiling, the Machinist Mate hands the officer two-dozen black and white Polaroid photographs. A member of the sea’s oldest fraternity, the master chief petty officer is the vital link between wardroom and mess decks…turning officers’ decisions, tactics, and strategies into actions.
“Excellent Master Chief. Please tell me the details.”
Taking the photographs, Ensign Rozo, a voracious collector of seductive imagery, scrutinizes each as if it were a devotional image in a prayer book.
HTFA Andrew Cramer, an incompetent with no discernible talents, was raised in Maryland on the eastern shore of the Chesapeake Bay. A skinny kid with an oversized cock, he enlisted to avoid prison after impregnating the local police chief’s 14-year-old daughter.
Only after reporting to boot camp did he discover there is very little difference between the institutions. Prisoners have some rights - sailors, not as much.
Unfortunately for Cramer, the Navy owns his sorry ass for the next four years.
Recalcitrant, defying authority on a regular basis, Cramer has gone UA more often than anyone in the division…earning him the nickname ‘rabbit’. Unfortunately, he keeps returning to the ship.
Impulsive and immature, incapable of performing even basic duties, he is an unreliable shipmate - the worst condemnation of a sailor. Lacking military temperament, he has been awarded CO’s non-judicial punishment on countless occasions.
Historically, strict discipline was enforced by flogging or hanging enlisted men from the yardarm. Officers like John Paul Jones, Stephen Decatur, and Joshua Barney had reputations that made subordinates tremble.
And sailors obeyed regulations or suffered dire consequences.
In today’s kinder gentle Navy, not so much.
Destroying years of tradition amid the political agonies of the Vietnam War, Admiral Elmo Zumwalt Jr., the 19th CNO, in a misguided effort to improve enlisted life, reformed personnel policies and ushered in a lenient, pot-smoking, beard wearing, sloppy, undisciplined Navy.
Many old sea dogs, disgusted with the state of their beloved Navy, retired or resigned.
Understanding there’s often no substitute for a good old fashioned ass beating to square-away a wayward sailor, Ensign Rozo authorizes Cramer’s fleet education.
“Not surprisingly, the little dirt-bag struggled furiously, sir.”
Enjoying a good scuffle, the 4MMR sailors beat Cramer, knock him out, strip him, and secure him on the machinery room’s lower level.
The first polaroid shows the naked sailor ass up, draped over a section of main propulsion line shafting…his wrists and ankles securely bound on either side to the deck-plate foundation. Positioned between the main thrust bearing and the first spherical journal bearing, he’s on display like an avant-garde sculpture in a modern art gallery.
Mustered around the exhibit, sailors excitedly discuss the evening’s activities.
Spread open, flaccid cock bent backwards, two large oval orbs in their fleshy pink bag perfectly framed between his skinny little legs, Cramer looks like Isaac ready for sacrifice on Mount Moriah. MMCM Abraham looks up heavenly, almost expectantly, but an angel of the lord doesn’t appear.
And there’s no salvation for Cramer.
The picture’s subtle gradation of light and shadow is reminiscent of the fine art photography taken by professional war photojournalist. The dramatic visual feast…the bound boy’s soft white skin and the hard machinery-gray steel shaft…symbolizes the brutality and enslavement of man to fate.
During WW II the Naval Aviation Photographic Unit, under the command of Captain Steichen, future Director of Photography at the NY Museum of Modern Art, took thousands of candid pictures detailing the lives of sailors aboard ships in the Pacific.
The US Office of War Information sanitized the sometimes homoerotic images for domestic consumption, providing photos to newspapers and magazines, rallying support for the war effort.
United by a common purpose, men at sea develop strong bonds forged in the crucible of shared misery. The photographers captured these bonds: the masculinity and vulnerability, the camaraderie and interdependence, the intimacy and emotional attachments, and the brief moments of boys at innocent play between horrific battles, blinding terror, and gory death.
The pictures of Cramer, while not suitable for the cover of Life magazine, would fit seamlessly in the Unit’s portfolio documenting traditional Naval hazing rituals, grab-ass play, and roughhousing.
Unofficial initiations - tacking on a crow, shaving heads, and greasing new sailors are an integral part of the Navy valued by Old Salts as much as traditional ceremonies: Chief’s Initiation, Crossing The Line, Order of The Bluenose, Order of the Golden Dragon, Order of Magellan, and Order of the Ditch.
Historically, initiations and hazing ceremonies play an essential role validating membership worthiness in male centric organizations. And the more brutal the ritual…the stronger the brotherhood.
“Excellent composition and use of the shafting, Master Chief. I admire your ironic artistry.”
“Thanks sir. But to be honest, the shafting has seen service before.”
“…whenever airmen foolishly enter 4MMR without permission. Last deployment we enjoyed showing some boys the golden rivet.”
The traditional myth, that every Navy ship is built containing a single commemorative golden rivet joining main keel sections, is perpetuated by seasoned sailors at the expense of the gullible. A relatively harmless initiation rite, new airmen are encouraged to search for the rivet down in the many machinery rooms, pump rooms, and shaft alleys.
Out at sea, with few constructive outlets, the boredom is overpowering, and boys being naturally curious, explore and wander, often at great peril into unauthorized spaces. Even though the aircraft carrier consists of 3,000+ compartments, most sailors never see more than 5% of the vessel.
Although celebrated for effective teamwork, aboard carriers where surface warfare and air warfare communities coexist in close quarters, there’s a shocking amount of competition and territorial predation.
There are borders, imaginary lines with dire consequences.
It’s nothing personal, just black-shoes and brown-shoes competing for dominance, marking and protecting their turf, and having fun initiating the young and inexperienced sailors.
“We showed them the golden rivet alright.”
Engineering propulsion rooms, radiating seductive rumbles and vibrations throughout the hull, sing an enchanting Siren song that can’t be denied.
Opening a mysterious second deck Ellison Door, breaking the pressure boundary, leaving the world of light, descending five decks below the waterline, spellbound airmen are lured into the ship’s dark and dangerous bowels.
“Of course, they got much more than they bargained for,” jokes the Master Chief.
“I’m sure they did.”
“Damn brown-shoes can’t violate engineering spaces without consequences.”
Like the mythological winged maidens that doomed Greek sailors, engineering pit snipes lurking in the shadows easily ensnare their prey. Demanding terrible tribute, the airmen are ritualistically initiated and force-feed black-shoe cock as tight virgin orifices, both fore and aft, are sampled and seeded.
Afterwards, the naked airmen are unceremoniously dumped on the mess decks.
A similar fate with unavoidable repercussions awaits any engineer misfortunate enough to be apprehended above decks in squadron spaces or upon the flight deck.
Immune from the repercussions of territorial disputes, as a commissioned officer and the Ship’s Fire Marshal, Ensign Rozo is authorized to enter and inspect all compartments - the few exceptions to this privilege being flag quarters, top-secret cryptological spaces, and special weapon magazines.
“I’m sure the airmen appreciated the lesson and have a new-found respect for engineering,” said the Ensign. “Too many brown-shoes think ship’s force exists to cater to their needs. Fuck them.”
“Exactly sir. Undoubtedly, a few will stray down into 4MMR on our upcoming deployment. If you’re interested in sampling some airman sea-pussy sir, just let me know.”
“Thanks Master Chief, but I’m not without available resources.”
Smiling, the officer thinks about his cornucopia of delightful submissive enlisted boys: HT3 Bepler, ABEAN Wetter, IC3 Martinez, BMSA Punderson, and several S-5 division Filipino sailors.
Inevitably, he’ll also enjoy some prime naval academy midshipmen tail.
The Ensign never participates in questionable undertakings with unknown sailors. Too many malevolent shipmates would relish the opportunity to blackmail an officer with UCMJ Article 133 proceedings in return for special considerations.
UCMJ Article. 133. Conduct Unbecoming an Officer and a Gentleman
1. Any commissioned officer, cadet, or midshipman who is convicted of conduct unbecoming an officer and a gentleman shall be punished as a court-martial may direct.
Activities that garner an enlisted sailor a simple reprimand often result in a courts-martial and disgrace for an officer. Held to a higher standard, officers have been removed for unprofessional behavior contrary to good order and discipline, allegations of sexual harassment, maintaining overly familiar relationships with enlisted members, or demonstrating a lack of sound judgment.
“I understand sir. It’s an open invitation. You’re always welcome down in 4MMR.”
“Thank you, your thoughtfulness is appreciated. I must admit, I do enjoy watching.”
Possessing a mild paraphilia, Rozo often pursues opportunities to document abusive traditions, customs, and ceremonies…collecting troublesome images that question conventional boundaries and limits. Irresistibly entertaining, it’s a delightful diversion from the mundane at-sea routine.
And seeing the shocked, humiliated, tear filled airmen’s faces never gets old.
“Yes sir, any time.”
The Master Chief, well attuned to scuttlebutt, knows that Ensign Rozo is a front-runner with connections to major department heads. Battling the vicissitudes of nautical life, powerful alliances and interpersonal politics are paramount for a successful tour.
It’s all about political capital accumulated, expended, protected, or wasted.
In the next polaroid several sailors, with cocks hanging out of their coveralls, are playfully standing in front of Cramer contemplating his torment.
Utterly vulnerable, like a POW at Hoa Lo Prison in Hanoi Vietnam, Cramer’s expression is one of despair…his hopes consumed in the flames of understanding.
Slapping his face with their tumid erections, the eager sailors are thoroughly enjoying the sanctioned assignment. Cramer, not so much. Transcending typical hazing initiations, restrained by few limitations, the rabbit is ‘counselled’ with impunity.
Conveying the message that unreliable sailors are a detriment to Engineering, the snipes relentlessly educate Cramer’s worthless ass, ensuring the painful but beneficial lesson resonates for days.
Finding inspiration, taking on slightly sadistic overtones, the next compelling photograph shows a sailor applying vise-grips to Cramer’s balls.
The locking pliers, with a curved jaw and hardened steel teeth, are designed to provide maximum locking force for a variety of material shapes. A hex key adjusting screw tightens to apply precision pressure and a controlled release.
“Excellent use for vise-grips,” said the Ensign.
“Yes sir…a practical and efficient application of force.”
Confronted by the potent eroticism of the shocking image, there’s no denying the instinctive aggression and unparalleled ingenuity of sailors. Vigilantly standing the watch, intelligently pursuing mission objectives, the American sailor is the finest in the world.
“Of course, some snipes have unpredictable vicious streaks. So I closely monitored the situation to ensure they didn’t inflict any permanent damage to Cramer’s gear.”
“Well, that would have been most unfortunate,” said the Ensign, getting semi-erect thinking about the prospect of a bruised or better yet…a shattered testicle.
After all the time and energy he has expended upon Cramer - the hundreds of hours wasted counseling, documenting UCMJ infractions, and attending captain’s masts, the dark truth is he can’t help but desire some small measure of retribution.
And one insignificant enlisted orb is a small price to pay for inconveniencing an officer.
“Sometimes, however, collateral damage is unavoidable,” grinning impishly. “Besides, he has a spare should one be irrevocably damaged.”
“Yes sir…that’s true,” laughs the Master Chief.
A sailor is aggressively feeding Cramer in the next picture.
Grinning with demonic delight, intoxicated with the power of supremacy, grasping Cramer’s ears, he violently thrusts inside the rabbit’s protesting mouth. Laughing in the background, several shipmates watch attentively and await their turn inside the communal mouth.
“Any difficulty transforming the dirt-bag into a cocksucker, Master Chief?”
“No, not really, sir.”
Stiffening, the sailor unloads a sizable portion of decadence into Cramer’s shocked mouth. An explosion of flavors resonate on the rabbit’s tongue - rich creamy white chocolate custard with understated vanilla and caramel notes.
Having no choice, he swallows the surprisingly delicious jam.
“Look at him drink that shit!” exclaims a shipmate.
While Cramer reluctantly sucks his white shipmates, it takes significantly more persuasion to open his mouth for the black ones. Initially uncooperative, his attitude quickly changes after several twists of the vise-grip’s adjusting screw.
After all, the boy is a slow learner but not completely stupid.
Conceptually, being a cocksucker is tragic for the religious sailor.
An abhorrent deed, his immortal soul is doomed to reside in the inner ring of the seventh circle with the other sodomites. Sucking black cock is an especially sickening enterprise. Thankfully, Cramer consoles himself, his family and friends will never know of this shameful debasement.
“I called over to 2MMR and treated a few black sailors to his white mouth.”
MMCM Abraham grins impishly, having amassed political capital at Cramer’s expense. Delighting in actively supporting the Navy’s EEO Policy, committed to the strategic human capital imperative, he ensures Cramer is a non-discriminatory equal opportunity cocksucker.
Exceptionally poignant, the next few photographs capture the quintessential essence of man qua man: domination and submission, strong and weak, predator and prey.
A black MM2 strides forward, grins, and slaps Cramer’s face with his magnificent cock. Disgusted yet simultaneously fascinated, striking fear and dread in the rabbit’s soul, the menacing oversized tool commands immediate respect and attention.
Like a coiled cobra, the lethal cock is poised to strike.
Obscenely stretching Cramer’s lips, the massive nautical pacifier is crammed inside Cramer’s small white mouth, occupying all available real estate. The juxtaposition of color and texture is vividly striking - the soft luscious submissive pink lips embracing the demanding dark-chocolate cock.
“Take it all, cocksucker,” demands the MM2.”
Defeated, eyes distant and unfocused, resigned to his fate, Cramer mentally surrenders.
Sodomizing Cramer, punching in and out of the inexperienced and convulsing throat, the MM2’s large balls swell…eager to deliver their scalding custard.
“I’m close…here’s your dinner,” as the sailor feeds Cramer a hot meal.
Cameras flash, capturing the moment for posterity…the humiliation and shame clearly discernible on his face. Although psychologically scarred for life, Cramer will never forget the amazing tang of black jam - the molten decadence of rich dark chocolate ganache, cinnamon, vanilla, and exotic spices.
“Although resistant, I think he acquired a taste for black jam,” laughs the master chief.
“I always suspected the dirt-bag was a closeted cocksucker,” said Rozo. “I greatly appreciate your efforts to expand his culinary horizons and educate his palate.”
The evening progresses and Cramer explores a world of sophisticated and satisfying flavors. Like sampling exquisite deserts from a fine Parisian patisserie, he’s treated to an unparalleled assortment of delightful custards - rich and velvety, savory and spicy, refreshing and heavenly.
After several hours of delicious indulgence, the evening’s grand finally is at hand. The word quickly spreads via 26MC squawk boxes, and sailors from other machinery rooms descend upon 4MMR.
“Go get the gun,” orders a senior BT1.
Rummaging in a tool locker, a sailor quickly retrieves it and several cartridges.
The Lincoln lever-action grease gun is designed for rough treatment with a cast iron pump head, precision fit plunger, and extra heavy follower spring. With a working pressure of 10,000 psi, 16-ounce grease cartridges, and a 18-inch flexible hose extension, it’s the right tool for delivering precision lubrication.
A scrum of sailors maneuver for unobstructed views of Cramer’s doomed ass. Anticipating the glorious devastation, the predators perverse fantasies move inevitably closer to fruition.
“This is so awesome,” said a BT3, exchanging wolfish grins with shipmates.
“I can’t believe they let us do this,” cries a hyper-excited young sailor.
Glancing behind and shuddering in fear, Cramer is consumed with dread. Victim of unfortunate circumstances, the bound sailor is utterly helpless to alter his fate.
“Ok, dirt-bag, open up that hole,” as the BT1 positions the gun.
Manipulating Cramer’s sphincter like a zerk fitting on a mechanical system, the grease gun’s flexible hose tip is firmly inserted. Embedded, the hose extension slowly snakes deeper, twisting and bending, descended inch by inch inside the miserable sailor.
“Look at him take it,” said an amazed BT3.
“Just another 10 inches to go.”
Groaning incoherently, mostly undecipherable vowels, Cramer feels the hose advancing through the serpentine passageway, navigating the sigmoid and descending colon.
The enthralled audience, stroking painfully hard erections, watch with fascination as the hose traverses the meandering chute, until with one final twist and push, wedged impossibly deep, it reach its final destination after a long tortuous journey.
“Damn, he took it all!” announces an amazed sailor.
Cameras flash as elated sailors congratulate the BT1.
Rubbing Cramer’s abdomen, a BT3can feel the protruding metal braided flex-hose. Looking at the rabbit, he delights in seeing the range of emotions playing over the miserable kid’s face.
In the plaintive eyes he finds shock, despair, and hopelessness.
“Awesome. You know everyone wants a turn greasing you, right?”
Traumatized, Cramer remains stoically silent…experiencing the overwhelming nausea of humiliation and shame. Stripped of his dignity, his asshole fully accessible for everyone’s pleasure, the devastated sailor mentally retreats inward as the last vestiges of hope evaporate.
“Definitely sucks to be you,” laughs the BT3.
Employing a pair of dice, the gods of Wind and Wave determine the evening’s order. Tossing several times, a lucky winner emerges - a young and enthusiastic BTFN. Approaching Cramer and the gun with purpose, he sports a monstrous grin and erection.
“Here we go,” as he grasps the lever.
Instinctively, all eyes are automatically drawn downward to the asshole as the joyous contamination commences. Pumping the gun with immense pride, black MIL-G-23549 all-purpose grease flows up inside Cramer, filling and packing isolated quarters in his transverse and descending colon.
Relishing the violation, the sailors dance with jubilant abandonment.
“How much grease did he take, Master Chief?” asks Ensign Rozo.
“Well sir, more than I initially planned. After we started greasing him, everyone wanted a turn pumping the gun. In the end, two 16 oz. cartridges were emptied up inside the kid.”
“Nice…that must have filled him. He’ll be shitting grease for a week.”
“Definitely,” replies the Master Chief. “I’ve see kids struggle for control of their bowels even after two weeks and repeated cleanings.”
Unfortunately for Cramer, the water insoluble grease loges in countless intestinal crevices and hollows, making removal impossible. The imbedded lubrication, facilitating involuntary evacuation, in conjunction with the stretched and ruined sphincter, will force the humiliated sailor to wear a diaper.
“It’s an effective reminder of the consequences of his poor performance,” beams the delighted Ensign.
The last picture, using strong chiaroscuro lighting, is a masterpiece worthy of inclusion in the National Archives in Greenbelt Maryland. Functioning predominantly as the passive visual object, Cramer is hanging up-side-down from the upper deck plates between the 4-Alpha and 4-Bravo boilers.
With arms tied behind his back and legs spread wide, black grease is slowly oozing out of his battered asshole. A dozen grinning sailors basking in delight, one holding the grease gun and empty cartridges, all with spent flaccid cocks hanging out of their coveralls, surround the well-lubricated rabbit.
With predators and prey on parade, the seductive image provides erotic pleasure in the viewing.
“Excellent job, Master Chief. Please convey an appreciative bravo-zulu to your men. I’ll keep the last picture and these,” as the Ensign, captivated by the decadent images, sorts through the stack and selects several hauntingly beautiful compositions of Cramer sucking black cock.
“I’m sending these to his family in Maryland. You can distribute the rest to the crew.”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
- - - - - Return To The Present - - - - -
The XO’s cabin fills with the Ensign’s cologne, an intoxicating blend of bright citrus, warm woods, amber, and lush moss, as beads of sweat drips down his back. Glancing around the compartment, Rozo notices several pictures of airmen engaged in initiation ceremonies.
Is the XO is a traditionalist? Rozo decides to gamble.
“Um…no, XO. I don’t know anything about the unfortunate event.” The Ensign’s performance is convincing and the word of a commissioned officer is never questioned.
“Very well,” acknowledges the XO.
“Disrespectful, insubordinate, and incapable of following orders, Cramer’s been to Mast for countless Article 89, 91 and 92 infractions, sir,” the Ensign hastily adds.
Regrettably, all NJP has been ineffective.
Prejudicial to good order and discipline, Cramer’s pugnacious disposition brings nothing but discredit to the Navy. Paging through the boy’s service record, the XO notes the numerous entries documenting the sailor’s unsuitability for continued military service.
“Another chronic misfit. More trouble than he’s worth,” the XO pronounces.
“I understand Cramer is UA again. If he misses ship’s movement, we’ll declare him a deserter and disown him. If he returns, he’ll be immediately remanded to the ship’s brig until a courts martial can be convened and a BCD issued.”
“Yes, sir,” responds the Ensign.
Outwardly, Rozo is wearing a stoic expression hewn from Vermont granite. Inwardly, however, he’s shouting for joy. Good riddance Cramer!
It’s a fine Navy day!
“I suppose a brief inquiry is necessary. I’m assigning you the task, Ensign. Coordinate with the CHENG, interview 4MMR duty section personnel, and have a report on my desk in three days.”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
“Even if the recipient is a dirt-bag, we can’t have hazing and sailors taking military discipline into their own hands. Still, it would be tragic if any good, hardworking, and dedicated sailors were found culpable and their careers deleteriously affected. I don’t want that to happen.”
Taking off his glasses, the XO looks sternly at Rozo.
“Am I being clear, Ensign?”
No officer may, by act, word, deed, or omission condone or ignore hazing if they know or reasonably should have known that hazing may or did occur. Thinking he fooled the XO, that his plan worked brilliantly, Rozo is relieved and rather pleased with himself.
“Sir, yes, sir.”
“Very well. Dismissed.”
As he starts to egress the compartment the XO delivers a shock, “oh…and Ensign, good job getting rid of the dirt-bag. Next time, however, use a little more finesse and a little less grease.”
Instinctively, the XO knows the Ensign authorized Cramer’s greasing.
“I’m keeping my eye on you Rozo.”
Swallowing hard the Ensign responds, “aye, aye, sir,” and quickly departs.
In the Navy, rank is everything.
And life as the ship’s Executive Officer is exceptionally sweet; for the Ensign, sometimes not as much; and for the greased enlisted rabbit, it totally sucks.
Comments and readers’ experiences with sailors, shipboard or ashore, are always of interest.
The author may be reached at [email protected]