Sailing the high seas stimulates yearnings for adventure and exploration.
Roweled up, horny sailors in desperate need of sexual relief utilize all available resources. Turning the simple into the sublime, tantalizing ass is transformed into succulent sea pussy. A traditional seafaring pleasure, there’s nothing quite like shafting submissive shipmates.
And honestly, who hasn’t sampled a piece or two?
* * *
Frigates, destroyers, and cruisers don’t have embarked physicians.
Instead a highly trained HM1 and HM3, affectionately known as Doc and Baby Doc, address crews’ needs. When necessary critical patients are stabilized and evacuated to shore facilities or ships possessing more robust capabilities (aircraft carriers & amphibious ships).
SFIDC school, located at Naval Medical Center San Diego, CA, is a rigorous 12-month classroom and clinical training program. Upon graduation Abara receives orders to an Arleigh Burke-class guided missile destroyer home ported at Naval Station Mayport, Florida.
USS The Sullivans DDG-68.
* * *
There’s a special relationship between corpsman and crew.
Intrinsically intimate and inviolable.
Abara enjoys unfettered access to magnificent masculinity. Hundreds of sailors reside at the peak of perfection with lean bodies, vibrant cocks, and alluring asses. A bountiful buffet of flesh on his examination table for consumption. Who could desire anything more?
Sailors appreciate his aggressive approach to treating illness and injury. At daily sick call patients queue up for his salutary ministrations. With confidentiality assured they openly discuss desires, fetishes, and paraphilia with the conversant homophile.
It’s complicated… the try-if-you-dare bravado of sailors.
The sea facilitates the expansion of sexual boundaries. Liberated from rigidity, amenable to trying anything at least once, curious sailors pursue pleasures and perverse fantasies. After all how do you know you don’t like something if you’ve never tried it?
And who hasn’t experimented at sea?
* * *
Built at Bath Iron Works Maine, commissioned in 1997, the destroyer has 23 officers and 248 sailors. Four GE LM2500 gas turbines, coupled to two five-bladed reversible controllable pitch propellers, drive her 30+ knots with a maximum range of 4,400 nautical miles.
Steaming in the Caribbean for 12 weeks she’s conducting battle group escort training in preparation for a Mediterranean deployment. Crew health assessments are squeezed in between general quarters, weapon exercises, and damage control drills.
YN3 Larson reports to medical, 1-220-3-L.
Knowing the routine the yeoman strips without hesitation.
In contrast Abara’s musculature is sheathed in obsidian silk. Broad shoulders, chiseled chest, ripped abdominals, and sculpted ass exude athletic prowess. Mesomorphic. His magnificent unclipped cock, massive and meaty, is surrounded by dense wooly black tufts.
“Stand at parade rest,” Abara orders with crisp authority.
Commencing a physical survey he purposefully pokes and strokes torso and extremities. Clinical explorations invariably transition to sensual caressing and mindful manipulation. Aroused, pheromones release and suffuse the compartment.
Smiles and stimulated somatic responses as corpora cavernosa fill with blood. Inspecting for sexual health, stroking the swollen shaft, squeezing the spongy glans, small clear pearls of natural lubricant emerge from the urethral meatus.
Leaving no stone unturned he clutches the sailor’s scrotal sack.
Weighing testicles in the palm of his hand, he lifts and rolls ellipsoid eggs ensconced inside the floppy bag. Asymmetrical size and volume. Deftly squeezed between experienced fingers and thumb they’re inspected for bumps, lumps, and growths.
"Ok, almost finished. Bend over and spread them.”
Rectal examinations are humiliating for straight sailors. Who willingly surrenders his most private space for another male’s inspection? Homosexuals, however, are a completely different matter. Their asses always appreciate attention and adventure.
Passed around, many shafts were sheathed inside his gluteal glove.
And he learned the paradoxical pleasure of submission.
Bending over the examination table Larson unashamedly spreads himself open. Everything is on display for Baby Doc’s viewing pleasure: floppy bag ladened with precious cargo, perineum, perineal raphe, and a sphincter cloistered in a deep indentation.
The beautifully bruised and battered bud is encircled by a palette of crimson, mauve, and pale chartreuse. Gravitating towards servicing alphas, it’s a common condition for omegas in the notorious gay attracting YN, PS, and HM enlisted ratings.
“Magnificent.”
Transfixed by the exquisite sight, feeling the sting of concupiscence, Abara repositions his ballooning shaft and provides room for unencumbered expansion. Loving his job, few perks are better than taking charge of government property and playing with ass.
The inner sanctum awaits visitation.
Dispensing with needless preparations only a dollop of benzocaine topical is applied. Pressing forward, encountering no resistance, two fingers slip inside the pliant slot. Sliding in-and-out, they frig the fabulous fitting. And who doesn’t enjoy finger fucking a sailor?
Exploring deeper, caressing silky folds, he manipulates the walnut sized prostate gland. The button is aggressively poked and stroked. Due to the close proximity of nerves the stimulation results in intense arousal. Brought to the brink the yeoman skirts pleasure’s ledge.
Larson turns and looks at the corpsman with pleading, begging eyes.
Conversant in the silent language of gays Abara understands the sailor’s need.
Extracting his magnificent mahogany cock, a few strokes ensure tumescence. Easily nine inches. Perhaps more. Crafted by a divine hand, radiating power and providence, the girthy shaft capped with a flared head has addressed many shipmates’ carnal cravings.
“Damn it’s fucking huge.”
Mess deck scuttlebutt is spot on; a phallus of priapic proportions.
In high school the intimidating instrument was a constant source of pride. Strutting around, showing off, it was admired and feared by all. Fascinated, stealing glances, not wanting to be labeled fags, many masturbated to nightly visions and inverted desires.
“It might sting a little… try to relax.”
Easier said than done.
It’s an opportunity to transcend boundaries. Freshly flushed, the prudent sailor properly prepared prior to reporting to medical. Meeting the challenge, resolutely spreading legs wider, he takes a deep breath, exhales, and braces for a rapturous rough ride.
The ring doesn’t require gentle coaxing. Fast insertion is often more compassionate than a slow tortuous journey. Just rip the band-aid off. Holding hips, ensuring proper alignment, without requesting additional permission to come aboard Abara lunges forward.
“Argghhhh!”
Punching through Abara doesn’t stop until every inch is quartered.
Fully impaled, shocked by the rapid transit, consciousness waivers. Writhing and whimpering, tears stream as spasming muscles try to repel the incursion. But resistance is futile. Fully seated, intense pain provides meaning and structure to the experience.
“There now… that wasn’t so bad.”
Abara savors a sensation that never gets old.
Moist and tight, an indescribable delight, there’s nothing like being sheathed up inside a shipmate… physically and psychologically possessing masculinity. Luxuriating inside, the shaft is surrounded by smoldering velveteen walls that rhythmically squeeze with every heartbeat.
No time for acclimation or hesitation.
And a rough military fuck commences.
Pushing and pulling the flexing ring, it’s a rapid repetition of all-ahead flank followed by emergency crash astern. A hypnotic symphony of powerful collisions reverberate off metal bulkheads. And crewmen walking past medical exchange knowing smiles.
Deep penetrations drive Larson senseless. Pierced to the core, reaching beyond physicality it induces a spiritual transcendence. Perception whirls with synesthesia and time dilation. Feeling the presence of a higher power the pain transforms into immutable pleasure.
“Oh god fuck me!”
And the corpsman complies with alacrity.
Unrelenting congress ensues until Abara is perched upon the precipice of a climax. In extremis, an emphatic explosion is imminent. Grunting, groaning, grinding against glorious glutes, he slams home one last time. Cataclysmic release and a flood of biblical proportions.
Stimulated beyond control, with rapid ragged breaths the yeoman also climaxes.
A joyful ode; a spilled load.
“Thanks Baby Doc… I really needed that.”
“Anytime. I’m here to help.”
The corpsman annotates Larson’s medical record. He’ll schedule a follow-up comprehensive rectal examination. Employing invasive medical devices in-conjunction with deep hand insertion, he’ll visually and tactilely check the chute for signs of injury.
And who doesn’t want to cram their hand inside a cranberry glove?
The destroyer has a storied pedigree.
She’s named for 5 brothers from Waterloo, Iowa born between 1914 and 1920.
George, Francis, Joseph, Madison, and Albert Sullivan.
Swearing to avenge the attack on Pearl Harbor, the Irish brothers enlist/ reenlist in the Navy (George & Francis previously joined in ‘37 and were discharged in ‘41) with the stipulation that they all serve on the same ship. ‘We stick together,’ they emphatically tell the Navy.
Against a policy that isn’t enforced, the brothers are assigned to USS Juneau CL-52, an Atlanta class light cruiser. While fighting in the Battle of Guadalcanal (Solomon Islands) the ship is torpedoed and sunk by Japanese submarine I-26 on 13 Nov 1942.
673 men perish with her sinking, including 30 sets of brothers and all the Sullivans.
A stunning national tragedy.
The Sullivan deaths are the largest loss for one family in American history. Their parents, Alleta and Thomas, receive thousands of letters of condolences from and tributes from President Roosevelt, the Iowa Senate & House, and many dignitaries & celebrities.
The Office of War Information uses the tragedy to encouraged enlistments and home front contributions. And radio broadcasts ask, ‘What have YOU given to win this war?’
Recruiting posters feature the brothers. Combatting stereotypical Irish tropes (lazy, drunk, & violent) and a mistrust of Catholics (ideologically corrupt with a fanatical devotion to the Pope), media outlets and newspapers transform the Sullivans to Protestant respectability.
And thousands of motivated young men quit high school to enlist.
Schools, streets, and community centers are renamed in the Sullivan’s honor.
A Fletcher class destroyer currently under construction by Bethlehem Shipbuilding in San Francisco, is renamed by President Roosevelt to honor the brothers. Commissioned 30 Sep 1943, USS The Sullivans DD-537 is the first Navy ship to honor more than one person.
Assisting the War Department Alleta and Thomas tour the country promoting war bonds and speak at community centers, manufacturing plants, and shipyards. Inspiring increased wartime production, they implore workers to not let their sons have died in vain.
Hollywood creates heroes out of lawmen and outlaws alike.
Coordinating with government propagandists, the film industry transforms unremarkable Irish rogues from rural America into national heroes. Compromises, omissions, and fabrications facilitate myth making and manufacturing of the ‘Greatest Generation.’
Events are immortalized in the 1944 movie The Fighting Sullivans.
And their story inspires, at least in part, the 1998 film Saving Private Ryan.
As a direct result of the Sullivan deaths the Navy strictly enforces the policy of assigning brothers to different ships. Their demise, and that of other brothers in the Army and Navy drive Congress to pass the Military Selective Service Act of 1948.
Revised by Congress during the Vietnam War, the Defense Department issues The Sole Survivor Policy, DoD Directive 1315.15. Service members who become sole surviving sons or daughters may now apply for discharge from military service even during wartime.
Main Engine Room 1.
Engineering spaces are configured to mitigate loss of mission capabilities from damage in contested environments. Comprised of 3 levels from frame 174 to frame 220, MER1 contains the starboard powertrain and associated propulsion equipment.
The restricted space is perfect for uninterrupted activities.
Boredom at sea is overpowering.
Release is routinely realized through erotic roughhousing, initiations, greasings, and grab-ass play. It improves morale and builds teamwork. Circle jerks and cock sucking are also just normal parts of the traditional male bonding experience.
Shipboard horseplay isn’t gay; everyone knows that!
It’s just sailors experiencing everything the Navy has to offer.
And what happens at sea stays at sea.
MER1 is charged with vivacity. Groin groping Gas Turbine System Technicians and Machinist’s Mates eagerly anticipate a gangbang. Utilizing all available resources, succulent sea-pussy is a comfortingly familiar yet nuanced sensation that simply must be experienced.
Sailors love to fuck; few enjoy being fucked. Thankfully, the ship has several squids willing to service shipmates. Submissive objects of prurient fascination like YN3 Larson.
Stripped and secured in a modified Mil-S-18313G replenishment cargo net suspended from overhead deck plating, with splayed legs he’s perfectly positioned for unencumbered breeding. Stroking swollen shafts, salacious sailors study the sumptuous socket.
“Damn, look at that sweet hole,” muses an MM3.
“Can’t wait to tap it,” admits a shipmate.
Everyone wants a turn inside the communal cunt. Envisioning a sexual soiree, inflamed imaginations paint libidinous canvases. Maddened by urgent desires, fueled by unbearable cravings, sailors boldly embark upon mental voyages of scintillating excess.
Larson scans the engine room.
Although exposed and vulnerable he isn’t embarrassed. Center of attention, he’s proud to arouse strong feelings in shipmates. Surrounded by a dizzying display of desperate dicks he notes a nice selection of sizes, colors, and configurations.
Similar but unique.
All waiting to breed and seed him.
Fully invested in the moment, it’s an opportunity to explore new territory and experience sensations unavailable through more conventional undertakings. Total submission. Complete vulnerability in a compelling masculine milieu with military men and machinery.
The Navy is a hierarchical organization. Based on rank the order of embarkation is established. And sailors lineup to deliver precious cargo. It’s an intimate experience, a shared physical and emotional connection between men with immediate needs.
“C’mon, fuck him already,” demands a sailor. “Let’s get this train rolling.”
Anticipation mounts as a GSM1 takes position.
Enjoying the company of men he volunteered for extra sea duty. There’s nothing like ships and sailors. Sea salt, sea pay, and sea pussy. The seasoned seadog has expanded many young sailors’ horizons as sea daddy. And who could wish for a more rewarding career?
Initiating engagement, aggressively thrusting forward, he violently slams inside the sea-hole in one powerful stroke. No mercy is offered; none expected. This isn’t love making… it’s Navy ass fucking! Hard. Brutal. Primal. Aggressive testosterone fueled domination and conquest.
“Nail that ass,” yells a sailor.
“Fuck it!” shout shipmates while jerking cocks.
Venting pent-up sexual energy, the GSM1 pulls out and slams back in. A surge of adrenaline. Strained muscles. Fucking with maniacal energy, putting on a show, changing angles of attack, he drags the helpless ring along for a rough ride on his rapacious rapier.
Ecstasy is etched on Larson’s face.
“Damn, look at him take it,” said an enthralled MMFA. “He loves it!”
“Of course he does… it feels great,” exclaims a lying seadog.
Sweet on the sailor, encouraging and manipulating him, it’s never a bad time to start lining up a new piece. Requiring regular replacements, alphas can never have enough curious shipmates with tight holes waiting in the wings. One on the boil, three on the simmer.
“You’ve got a great ass; I bet you’d love getting fucked too!”
“Um… I don’t know about that.”
“Hey, how do you know if you never try? I’ll be gentle.”
Sure he will.
Famous last words all virgins hear before screaming in agony. Subjugated and shanked, scuttlebutt spreads and the sailor’s fate is sealed. Relentlessly pursued, he’ll be passed around and repeatedly pummeled as all-hands sample the new hole.
“Just think about it. It’ll be so much fun!”
Rhythmic pounding mirrors the pulsing of the propulsion plant. Hips buck hypnotically as the absorbed audience applauds. Cameras document the proceedings as cherished memories are captured. And who doesn’t fondly remember their first Navy gangbang?
“Getting close,” announces the GSM1
Savagely slamming home, stiffening, he seeds the sailor.
Crested, totally drained, descending from the euphoric high, with a smirk of satisfaction he disembarks and gives way to the next cock in the queue. Gaining access, spurred by cachinnations, a dangerously endowed GSE2 delivers a riveting performance.
And who doesn’t enjoy watching a good fucking?
Feeding insatiable appetites sailors fuck for hours. And Larson’s ring is wrecked and ruined beyond recognition. Out of commission, it’s time to visit Baby Doc again.
* * *
Eventually Guadalcanal Battle documents are declassified.
Although redacted there are shocking revelations.
Officers were skeptical that anyone aboard Juneau survived. With Japanese submarines lurking nearby, they considered it reckless to expose wounded ships to additional torpedo attacks. So they steamed back to the allied base at Espiritu Santo without searching for survivors.
Unbeknownst to the Navy, approximately 100 sailors survived - including two Sullivans.
Over several days reports of men sighted in the water by planes go unnoticed.
Realizing the appalling mistake, a recovery mission is mounted. Meanwhile, Juneau’s survivors, many of whom are wounded, are exposed to the elements, hyperthermia, hunger, thirst, and repeated shark attacks. After eight days in the water only ten sailors are recovered alive.
And no Sullivans.
Security concerns override truthful disclosure to the public.
National morale and confidence in military leaders is of paramount importance. Vague reports avoid accountability, falsehoods are disseminated, and families are told the men perished in the explosion - averting a National uproar and saving the careers of Commanders.
Sailors and marines go on to fight horrific campaigns at Tawara, Leyte Gulf, Saipan, Guam, Manila, Iwo Jima, and Okinawa… leading to the bombing of Hiroshima and Nagasaki. And U.S. Pacific casualties total 111,606 dead/ missing; another 253,142 wounded.
YN3 Larson’s legs are secured in stirrups.
The willing recipient of a robust gangbang, his ravished ring suffered significant blunt force trauma. Stretched beyond military specifications the fitting lost watertight integrity. A tight bud mere days ago is now a radiant flower with subtle gradients of carmine and crimson.
A work of art; a beacon of beauty from the dark.
“I need to inspect the damage,” said Abara.
Donning examination gloves he pulls the ass apart. Caressing captivating contours, the cultivar is coaxed back into the hidden chamber from whence it came. Amazingly resilient, the eternal flower will undoubtedly bloom many times before the ship returns to Mayport.
Not designed for military mishandling, delicate membranes can manage only so much mayhem. And excessive abuse can result in disciplinary action. As physical property of the Navy, sailors’ bodies are covered under Title 10 USC 908 Article 108 of the Uniform Code of Military Justice: Loss, damage, destruction, or wrongful disposition of military property.
It’s a straightforward process to check for injury.
Abara inserts a stainless steel anoscope.
The chamber is illuminated like Kentucky’s Mammoth Caves. Regardless of race or heritage internally all sailors glisten bright red. An exquisite environment with mesmerizing membranes. Trenches raw and ravaged, bruised and abraded from maniacal manipulations.
“How bad is it?” asks Larson with trepidation.
All sailors fear that one day they’ll possess a totally bashed & ruined ass. Appeal past peak interest and enjoyment. Hastening the blush off the rose, they are routinely reshaped by countless cocks & fists, toys & tools, and other nautical paraphernalia.
“Not too bad all things considered.”
Larson exhales a sigh of relief.
Somehow the gangbang got out of hand. Word spread as dissolute sailors from other engine rooms flooded the compartment. Who doesn’t want to join a gangbang? In the end, more over-exuberant revelers than any one ass should reasonably accommodate.
“A thorough tactile inspection is warranted.”
“Whatever you think best… my ass is in your hands.”
He extracts the anoscope and retrieves a small glass bottle. Amyl nitrite.
Readily available, poppers aren’t a UCMJ Article 112 prohibited substance. Relaxing muscles, the vasodilator is used extensively fleetwide. A serene sailor offers less resistance during medical inspections, master-at-arms’ cavity searches, and tag-team marathons.
“Inhale deeply.”
The yeoman takes several hits.
An immediate rush of euphoric wooziness as muscles relax. Heat and heart rate increase as blood surges through dilated vessels. Blood pressure drops and he feels suddenly intoxicated. Resistance recedes and his rose unfolds for inspection.
Fully certified, Baby Doc has conducted dozens of deep rectal examinations.
Exhilarating adventures that never get old.
A prominent erection snakes down the left leg of his scrubs. With an elevated pulse his body radiates the enticing scent of Old Spice cologne - its masculine greatness from a near-perfect blend of bright citrus, warm flowers, rich vanilla, and cedar wood.
“You may feel a little discomfort.”
Right hand index and middle fingers - distal, middle, and proximal phalanx, slip inside the pliant porthole. All the way to the metacarpophalangeal joint at the base. Stroking the silky smooth lining of the lower rectum, they feel the tender terrain for tears and fissures.
Working in-and-out, around and about, scissoring apart they prepare the passageway. Soon after ring finger and pinky join the party. No real resistance. Abara applies a liberal amount of Mil-Spec silicone lubricant to his hand, wrist, and forearm for the ensuing parade.
“Now just relax and push out.”
As if Larson hasn’t heard that a million times!
Tucking thumb into palm, wide knuckles slowly press forward. Focused on achieving the objective, Baby Doc applies increasing, insistent pressure. The rectal ring steadily stretches and suddenly yields. Popping inside, the large hand is fully embedded.
‘Fuccccckkkk!” Larson screams in momentary misery.
“I’m in,” Abara needlessly announces as if half the ship didn’t already know.
Slowly rocking back-and-forth, the sphincter is pushed and pulled along the stout wrist. Entranced, he admires the beguiling opal bracelet. Highly sought after by all alphas, the sparkling bangle is more desirable than a Navy Achievement Medal.
Wasting no time he gets underway.
Sailing upstream, combatting peristalsis and haustral churning, he skillfully traverses the restricted channel. Having no choice, the gripping, contracting, rhythmically squeezing chute is forced to expand to accommodate the wily explorer.
And Baby Doc’s arm starts to disappear.
Navigating twists and turns he advances deeper and deeper.
Inch by inch knowledgeable fingers probe and gather spatial measurements like cartographers mapping the new world. Along for the ride, the taut sphincter slides further and further down the taper of Abara’s muscular forearm.
“Fuck, you’re splitting me apart!”
“You’re doing great… just a little more.”
And the ass takes every torturous increment.
Conditioned to be obedient, what choice does it have?
Stretching the snug sleeve, repositioning internal organs, Abara continues the expedition. Making way up the descending colon, turning to port, after a long circuitous journey with one final push he reaches the final destination: the transverse colon.
Unable to reach any further, his hand and arm are wedged deep inside the writhing yeoman’s swollen abdomen. Grinning, he admires the artistic beauty of the ruined rectal ring stretched impossibly wide around his muscular forearm… a mere inch from the elbow.
“Damn, I’m in pretty deep.”
That’s not news to Larson.
Utterly stuffed, he’s pierced like a victim of the Wallachia ruler Vlad III, commonly known as Vlad the Impaler. While an assortment of cocks, flotsam, and jetsam have been crammed inside him many times, he’s never experienced impalement like this!
Complete submission; total domination.
Excruciating pain and pleasure. Profound and unfathomable.
Systematically stretching and straightening canal walls, Abara meticulously searches tantalizing terrain for anatomical problems and fissures. Radiating intense internal heat, the velutinous chute rhythmically pulses around his arm with every heartbeat.
The hand’s much further up inside the yeoman than any cock could ever reach. But why take chances? Performing due diligence he accomplishes a comprehensive appraisal. In for a penny, in for a pound. Pulling back, ramming forward, he searches the place from top to bottom.
“Damn, this is one sweet ass.”
Groaning and grimacing, Larson appreciates Baby Doc’s thoroughness.
He experiences a physical and psychological connection rooted in paraphilic fantasies fueled by youthful explorations reinforced by years of masturbation. Embracing the journey, ruthlessly fingered, fucked, and fisted, the yeoman has found his place in the Fleet.
He’s increasingly curious about bondage, discipline, and CBT too.
And how do you know if you never try?
Abara takes pride in upholding the sacred Hospital Corpsman’s Oath.
The Staff of Asclepius - a roughhewn rod with a single snake twined around it, is tattooed on his right forearm. On the left is the Caduceus, the symbol of the power to harm or to heal - a staff entwined with twin serpents, topped with a pair of wings.
Providing compassionate quality care with honesty and integrity, he respects the privacy and secrets of shipmates. It’s an enduring tradition that guides all surface force independent duty corpsman. And who has a more rewarding career in the Navy? No one!
Unable to postpone the inevitable, Baby Doc vacates the ass.
The ruined ring reveals a radiant red rose.
And the Navy is a more beautiful place.
* * *
The Sullivans’ sailors serve with honor and distinction.
Going in harm’s way, over 28 years she deploys 15 times to the 5th, 6th, and 7th Fleet - sailing more than 450,000 n.m. Supporting NATO and Unified Combatant Commanders, she operates seamlessly with allied and coalition navies from Europe, Asia, Africa, and Oceania.
The ship receives numerous awards including Meritorious Unit Commendations, the Battenberg Cup, and the Arleigh Burke Fleet Trophy. In 2022 she’s recognized by Commander, U.S. Fleet Forces Command as the best all-around ship in the Atlantic Fleet.
The crew proudly embodies the ship’s motto ‘We stick together.’
The Sullivan brothers’ story is one of service and sacrifice, government incompetence and cover-up, manipulated and complicit press coverage, and Hollywood duplicity. It’s quintessential Americana: tragedy transformed into patriotism and a public relations victory.
And on Memorial Day 2025 a grateful Nation reflects on the selfless service of her sailors.
Author’s Notes:
1. Built in 2008, nestled in downtown Waterloo is The Sullivan Brothers Iowa Veterans Museum. A tourist destination adjacent to The Grout Museum of History and Science, it ensures the brothers’ story and sacrifice is remembered by future generations.
2. The first USS The Sullivans DD-537, seeing action in WWII, the Korean War, and the Cuban Missile Crisis, earned 11 battle stars. Decommissioned in 1965, the historic landmark museum ship is moored at the Buffalo and Erie County Naval & Military Park in Buffalo, NY.
3. Stationed on Espiritu Santo after the Battle of Guadalcanal as a Naval historian, LT James Michener (future renowned author) recorded war and cultural impressions. Developed into 19 short stories, the collection was published as Tales of the South Pacific. Awarded a Pulitzer, it was adapted by Rodgers and Hammerstein into the beloved Broadway musical South Pacific.
And who hasn’t sung I’m Gonna Wash That (Navy) Man Right Outa My Hair?
