Ramblings of a 30 something suburbanite - By Jason Martin

1993, somewhere in the Indian Ocean.

I was 19 years old and still somewhat new to the aircraft carrier I was living and working on.

I was considered to be a “booter” and an “FNG” (Fucking New Guy).

This was my first Western Pacific cruise and the longest I had been away from home in my life. Six months at sea with a few exotic port of calls in between, but not many. I was new but had earned enough respect through standard US Navy hazing, trying not to be a pussy, and drinking myself into oblivion at every opportunity. Trying to impress those senior to me with more salt. Guys like Glidden, Jones, Jacobson, and Crump. Those guys were assholes most of the time, but you respected them, their seniority, and their leadership - no matter how difficult it may have been to endure.

I was a trained Shipboard firefighter, Damage Controlman was the official name.

A lowly E-2, but at least I was rated. I had been to US Navy “A” school and had more training than many of my fellow booters. This helped me to earn a coveted position onto the highly regarded “Nucleus Fire Party” - The elite firefighting team that was called upon to respond to any fire or flooding casualty below or above the flight deck.

“First to fly, first to die”

That was our motto that somehow made us feel tough and relevant among the other 6000 men that made up the floating city capable of destroying an entire country within a few minutes.

One night after working hours, I was laying on the cold, hard deck of the AFFF shop. I was smoking a Marlboro red while watching a movie being broadcast throughout the ships enclosed television network. Smoking in the shop was a small luxury on board ship, but it was taken away about 2 years later with the passage of time and political correctness. Movie time was good too. However, I really shouldn’t have been allowed to watch a movie, as there were qualifications I needed to be working on. Technically, TV time was disallowed for booters like myself. But, there I was. Laying on the cold deck next to my buddy Gotvastlee. Smoking Marlboro Reds.

Suddenly, I was ripped from my movie world and back into the reality of my shipboard existence with a voice coming across the 1MC:

“Casualty. Number 2 Main Machinery Room. Lube Oil Rupture. Nucleus Fire Party Man Repair 5. This is NOT a drill”.

Fuck.

This is not a drill.

Lube oil rupture in a main machinery room that maintained an ambient temperature of about 120 degrees.

Lube oil that moved those machines that could easily burst into flames with one spark.

Lube oil that, when ignited, will create solid black smoke making it impossible to see. Especially when they shut down the electrical equipment in the space - including lighting.

A lube oil rupture that is occurring 7 decks down from where we are to enter.

A descent into hell.

Out goes the Marlboro. Heart beating, remembering the words of my dad before boot camp, “When the shit hits the fan, your training will kick in - trust in that”. Shoving cooks, airmen, electricians, and even Marines out of the way and into bulkheads. Running down passageways. Full sprint down the port side passageway, heading aft. Finally, arriving at Repair Locker #5.

My comrades running around like ants donning firefighting suits and Oxygen Breathing Apparatuses (OBA) and boots and portable extinguishers and thermal infrared cameras and 50 foot sections of 1.5″ salt water hose lines. Orders being shouted down from the established chain of command, of which I was at the bottom.

Shaking, scared, excited, confused, terrified, heart pounding, what is this going to be like, Jesus Christ I am going to die? I miss my mom, fuck I put on my boots wrong, “someone check my suit, can you see any exposed skin?” OBA donned, seal checks, oxygen canister in, top has been removed, good, I’m ready.

“YOU! Get on that hose and prepare to make entry!”

A muffled, “Yes Sir”! was bellowed out from behind my sweat filled mask. I’m on hose #1. Hose is charged, waiting to make entry and drag this fucking thing down 7 stories.

Awkward wait. Whats happening down there? Why aren’t we moving in? Heart racing from a mixture of my recent Marlboro filled sprint and increased adrenaline rush.

3 minutes ago I was watching a movie with Gotvastlee. Where his he now? Who is this next to me on hose #2?

It’s DC3 Jones (Named changed for anonymity). An old salt, on his second cruise. He is  sheet white and crying behind his mask.

“Jones, is this for real dude”? I asked.

“I don’t fucking know” He replied. “But I got a kid and I didn’t sign up for this bullshit, I’m scared man I don’t want to fucking die! I don’t think I can do this Martin”!

What was I supposed to say? This guy was several years older than me, senior, more experienced, well respected among the division, popular, a guy I tried hard to impress, and he is fucking crying to me about our current situation. I was supposed to follow his leadership.

I didn’t know what to say to him, so I said nothing. I took a deep breath, and thought about my family.

I don’t have any kids or a wife, so I’m cool with this. First to fly first to die. No backing down now. This is what I am here to do. I hope it doesn’t hurt and that it’s quick.

Visions of descending into an inferno 7 decks down with zero visibility has a tendency to make you wonder how your life will end in a few minutes.

Will the guy in front of me let go of the hose and run back up? Can I depend on the guy holding the nozzle to hold fast and stand his ground? Can I depend on the guy behind me to hold the weight of the hose as we snake it around 7 flights of ladders? Will 30 minutes of recirculated oxygen be enough to get me down and back up again without suffocating in the darkness below?

I’m on a ship, we can’t just contain the fire, it has to be fought. At ALL costs. Period. There is nowhere to run, but only to swim. I am 19 years old. I have lived a good life.

My brothers will honor me, my mom will miss me and my dad will respect me.

Jones is a fucking pussy and needs to quit his whining. What is taking so long? I’m already 3 minutes into my oxygen supply. I’m willing to give my life for this ship, my shipmates, and my country.

This is my duty.

I’m ready.

“Hose Teams 1 and 2, stand down. The lube oil rupture has been contained and the AFFF bilge sprinklers have succeeded in covering it with foam. The situation is secure, break it down”.

“What? That’s it? It’s over?”

I had just gone from chilling out without a care in the world to preparing for an immenent death by fire and smoke in less than 10 minutes and now its over. A roller coaster ride of emotion, breathing, adreneline, and thoughts of mortality. It’s enough to make you mature very quickly.

I have to admit that I was a little angry rather than relieved. I was pissed off at what I had just been put through. I was ready and prepared to fight until the death and now they are telling me to “stand down” and drain fucking fire hoses?

It’s hard to describe what its like really. Watch the movie “Jar Head” - You may understand my point here. But from a Navy perspective.

People wonder how they would react in a real combat situation. I never had to face combat, but I did face what I really thought was a life and death situation while serving my country.

I’m proud of the way I reacted. I think I passed the test and hope that I would still do the same today if faced with a similar situation.

I could never look at Jones the same way again. No respect. He was still an asshole to me even though he knew I knew his secret cowardice. He’s the same guy who did unspeakably disgusting things to me on Wog Day (Crossing the equator ceremony) several weeks later. I never ratted him out. I still won’t.

Never shared this story with anyone before. Not really sure why I am doing so now.

In honor of the USS Nimitz Nucleus Fire Party / Flying Squad 1992-1996 And to the rest of the US Navy Damage Control Teams that continue to serve on US Navy ships today