Uss Independence

USS Independence CV62

By Ensign James Rozo, USN

Author's Notes: Carriers operate on18-month cycles and manning is constantly adjusted by MILPERS. Hundreds of sailors, fresh seafood, report aboard over the 4-months of at-sea training during carrier qualifications, refresher training, and the operational readiness exercise.

Filipino citizens are recruited into the US Navy into the Steward rating (since reclassified as Mess Management Specialist, and more recently as Culinary Specialist) under the 1947 Military Bases Agreement between the US and the Republic of the Philippines. Per the Immigration and Nationality Act of 1952, Filipinos who serve honorably for three years qualify for naturalization as US citizens.

Chapter 6: Fresh Seafood

"I do solemnly swear that I will support and defend the Constitution of the United States against all enemies, foreign and domestic; that I will bear true faith and allegiance to the same; and that I will obey the orders of the President of the United States and the orders of the officers appointed over me, according to regulations and the Uniform Code of Military Justice. So help me God." ~ Armed Forces Enlistment Oath, Title 10 U.S.C., Chapter 31, Sec 502 ~

1MC: `Reveille, reveille, reveille... all hands heave out and trice up. The smoking lamp is lit in all authorized spaces. Now reveille.'

It's 0600 and Ensign Rozo is up and searching for hot water.

The 3-141-4-L head, servicing the engineering staterooms, is still secured. The SFOMS rehabilitation project, poorly planned and executed, was initially scheduled for completion in the shipyard.

This morning Supply Department S-5 Division crew's head looks promising. Running water cascades from a shower stall, the occupant enjoying an inport Hollywood shower. A New Filipino Sailor (NFS), fresh seafood, completely naked, standing by a urinal, glances up and smiles warmly.

Ensign Rozo, taking station by a stainless-steel sink and mirror, doesn't recognize the young sailor. Attenuating his authoritative `command voice', sounding like a sailor, the officer engages NFS.

"Hey, what's up?"

"Um... not much, just this," as NFS looks at his erection.

Turning slightly, switching hands, he provides an unobstructed view of his little sausage and eggs. Circumcised, having completed the Tuli ritual, the dark brown appendage, about four inches long, looks like Longganisa - a native sweet sausage flavored with indigenous spices. A popular Filipino dish, the sausages are often paired with eggs and garlic rice for breakfast.

"Nice. Good size," the Ensign lies, boosting the sailor's ego.

"Thanks."

Surrendering all pretense, the sailor brazenly strokes the shaft.

Short, hairless, and impossibly skinny, the sailor has a gold chain and crucifix around his neck - contrasting his unblemished brandy complexion and straight black hair. Deeply religious, the Ichtys, an abstract fish acronym for "Jesus Christ God's Son Savior" in Greek, is tattooed on his right arm.

"Wish someone would take care of it for me," he adds softly.

"Say again?" asks Rozo, pretending he didn't hear the sailor.

If he thinks the Ensign is interested in enlisted sausage and eggs for breakfast he couldn't be more wrong. Officers don't suck enlisted cock. Not ever.

And especially not one from S-5 Division.

Comprised mostly of subservient Filipino sailors, S-5 caters exclusively to officers - providing wardroom messing and stateroom services. An exquisite Filipino cleans the Ensign's stateroom, delivers clean linen & towels, wash & fold his uniforms, and provides other services as required.

"I... um, wish my girlfriend was here," NFS repeats slightly louder.

"Well, you do seem to require attention."

The sailor, shaking like a nervous child at a doctor's office awaiting a barrage of immunization shots, glances at the Ensign's rapidly expanding gear. Realizing it's almost twice the size of his equipment, surprise and desire flash simultaneously across his expressive face.

Being well versed in naval etiquette, NFS understands the implications.

Every sailor knows the unspoken rule: When sailors meet, the bigger cock is in charge. Rank is the overriding variable - officers always get serviced by all enlisted sailors, period. Chief petty officers (E7 to E9) get serviced by junior sailors, and petty officers (E4 to E6) serviced by non-rates (E1 to E3).

And non-rates, well, it sucks to be a non-rate. Literally.

"Yours... err... it's huge," he stutters in a barely audible whisper.

He's not telling the Ensign anything new. Recently, his boy, HT3 Bepler, despite exceptional innate oral skills, struggled extensively as the officer occupied all the real estate in his throat.

Exercising his inherent right as a commissioned officer, Rozo has also taken quarters inside many ambitious sailors - boys overestimating their skills and abilities. Struggling to accommodate the cock, underestimating space requirements, the sailors beg for leniency.

But none is ever provided.

It's another immutable law: If you ask for it, you better be prepared to take it. All of it.

Like a butterfly pinned to cork, the Ensign closely inspects the Filipino sailor. Impeccably groomed, he has a sweet inviting ass that begs for exploration. Aboard ship, however, prudent precautions must be exercised when encountering fresh seafood.

An awkward silence falls between them. The only other sound is of water running in a shower stall - by an as yet unknown sailor.

Taking a deep breath, the sailor musters up courage, and makes a decision.

"So, um... you, um... you want to?" the sailor nervously inquires.

"Want to what?"

Looking around, ensuring no one is prowling nearby, the sailor looks at the officer's substantial gear, licks his lips, smiles seductively, and gestures towards an open shower stall. Acquiring skills as a young boy in the Philippines, he honed his talents on American servicemen stationed at Naval Base Subic Bay.

NFS is a fully qualified fleet cocksucker.

"Um, you know..."

And there it is. The offer.

In the Navy, sucking is a natural aspect of nautical life. The ritualistic act is repeated all over the ship every day in heads, berthing compartments, storerooms, main machinery rooms, pump rooms, shaft alleys, and hundreds of other secluded compartments.

Eyes meet, glances exchanged, a discreet rub of an erection is made, and interest is gaged. Eventually one sailor will submit to the aggressive bigger-cocked sailor, or a group of sailors, and on his knees, transform into a cocksucker and swallow Navy jam.

Clearly, the sailor doesn't realize that Rozo is an officer. Looking very young, and without his khaki uniform and insignia, his symbolic power, he easily passes for a sailor.

"No thanks."

Ultra-discreet, and possessing enormous self-control instilled via eight years of parochial education, thank you Sister Mary Margret, the Ensign declines the offer.

"Oh, um... really?"

Surprised and disappointed, the young sailor is no longer sure whom he is dealing with. Enlisted men never turn down an opportunity to be sucked.

Deep in thought, the 1MC suddenly blares out, and the startled sailor jumps.

It's just more evidence he's fresh seafood. Experienced sailors are completely numb to the constant barrage of shipboard sounds: the clang of the ship's bell, the piercing boatswain's pipe, and the squawk of 1MC announcements.

1MC: `Sweepers, sweepers, man your brooms, give the ship a clean sweep down both fore and aft, sweep down all lower decks, ladder wells and passageways. Dump all garbage in dumpsters provided for on the pier. Now sweepers.'

Not believing Rozo is uninterested in being sucked, NFS moves towards the showers, and pleads with hungry eyes. Just then, the other shower is secured, the opaque plastic curtain opens, and the occupant emerges.

The Ensign knows the sailor well - MS2 Junaide Poloyapoy.

More importantly, the sailor recognizes the Ensign immediately.

Surrounded by water, the Philippines are an archipelago of 7,000+ islands. Poloyapoy, a descendant of sailors and fishermen, has smooth cinnamon skin, sultry cognac brown eyes, and shiny black hair. Besides catering to officers in the wardroom, he provides stateroom services with exceptional skill.

On his chest is a tattoo of several mermaids singing to a passing ship. Born from the sea, linked with tragedy, mermaids represent the mythological forces of love, allure, and desire. Dangerous temptresses, legends maintain that mermaids often lured men to their doom with their seductive songs. The tattoo is a cautionary reminder that the search for love is a dangerous endeavor.

"Oh, Ensign Rozo. Good morning sir!"

"Good morning Petty Officer Poloyapoy. How are you this fine Navy day?"

Inspecting the naked sailor's unblemished body, the officer notices the small dark brown semi-erection. Having jerked-off, the sailor's sperm are frantically swimming through the ship's piping system, racing towards annihilation in a wastewater-holding tank. With the discharge of their contents, two marble sized testicles slowly descend to the bottom of their brown-velvet floppy sack.

"I'm excellent, sir. Have you met the new Pinoy?"

"Yes, he seems like a very friendly and accommodating sailor."

"MSSN Aportadera reported aboard yesterday."

"Well, I'm sure his skills will be appreciated by the Wardroom."

Aportadera is stunned to learn that the `sailor' he's been propositioning is really an officer. Caught completely off guard, expecting dire repercussions, he's frozen with fear and dread. A few words pass between the sailors in their native Ilocano, the language of northern Luzon.

Looking at Aportadera, with an assertive command voice Rozo admonishes the boy, "you need to be more discreet. Otherwise, you'll be heading back to PI in disgrace. You understand me?"

"Sir, yes, sir."

"Very well. Let me welcome you aboard Independence."

Pushing the kid into a shower stall, the Ensign orders him to get down on his knees. Poloyapoy watches and laughs as the officer unleashes a strong golden stream, bathing the shocked sailor.

Reaffirming the sailor's position at the bottom of the food chain, the officer slowly moves up the kid's chest, paints his face, and soaks his black hair. Aportadera, having no choice, closes his eyes and submissively accepts the officer's generous gift.

"What do you say, sailor?" the Ensign demands.

"Um... thank you sir," clearly ambivalent as liquid gold runs down his face.

For the officer, it's an excellent start to the day. For Aportadera, not as much.

1MC: `Now hear this: the smoking lamp is out throughout the ship while taking on fuel'.

Breaking out Bravo from the 09 level flag bag, a CS Division signalman attaches the bright red flag on the starboard outboard halyard. Hoisting it close-up on the yardarm, 171 feet 10 inches above base line, Independence indicates she is taking on fuel.

A fuel oil barge from Craney Island Fuel Terminal is secured alongside the carrier's port quarter refueling station at frame 182. The topside filling connection leads down to pump room transfer manifolds which direct the fuel to dozens of storage and service tanks.

The non-self-propelled YON barge carries 352,000 gallons of diesel fuel marine (DFM) for the carrier's eight thirsty Babcock & Wilcox boilers.

After inspecting samples in the oil lab, 3-127-2-E, boiler technicians align transfer valves and monitor tank fill gages as the MIL-F-16884 fuel is pumped aboard. Connected via the 4JV sound powered phone circuit, sailors in pump rooms and officers in main control communicate with barge operators.

Independence's total DFM tank capacity is 2,510,750 gallons.

While providing only a fraction of the carrier's fuel requirements, the YON delivery is sufficient to get underway and steam to the VACAPS operating area. Once on station, she will CONREP with a Fleet Oiler and press-up all tanks.

Additionally, 1,178,395 gallons of JP5 will be transferred aboard for aircraft.

"Are we expecting any new sailors?" Ensign Rozo inquires of HTCS Garcia.

Residing in the Repair Division office, 2-129-6-Q, they're updating the watch, quarter, and station bill that designates personnel by billet for job assignment, watch standing, and general quarters.

"Yes sir, several should be reporting aboard next week."

Last month in the shipyard, the ship was crewed at 84% required to achieve R-1 readiness. Repair Division, comprised of 6 work centers and 110 billets, is currently undermanned by seven petty officers and ten E-3 and below.

Sailors are vectored from many sources.

Seasoned petty officers E5 and E6, an infusion of enlisted leadership and technical talent, transfer aboard based on well-established sea / shore rotations for each rating. Other sailors receive orders after reenlistment and completion of advanced `C' schools.

New sailors E3 and E4 from rating `A' schools, eager to join the Fleet, wet themselves with excitement reporting aboard their first underway command. Embarking upon a life-altering adventure, idealistic and motivated, bursting with potential, they are a welcomed addition.

"We need more non-rates, sir."

"Senior Chief, do you seriously expect another after the last incident?"

Fresh seafood straight from boot camp, non-rates in pay grades E-1 to E-3, lacking the intelligence to warrant an investment in specialized training, reside on the bottom of the military food chain.

Lacking discernable skills, engineering non-rates are allocated by the Chief Engineer (CHENG) among his five divisions: Auxiliaries, Boilers, Electrical, Machinery, and Repair.

Unencumbered by expectations, non-rates are an essential source of manual labor - performing menial assignments: mess cooking, compartment cleaning, and working parties. Besides augmenting skilled shipmates, the sailors intrinsically make excellent cocksuckers and sea-pussy.

"Sure, why not? The CHENG owes us some."

"Seriously? Transgressions have consequences."

Reflecting on recent events, the Ensign is certain they won't be assigned another non-rate anytime soon. Taking the last non-rate underwing, Garcia vectored the boy down to the Goat Locker... the private sanctuary where E7-E9 members berth, share meals, socialize, and forge professional bonds.

Within two weeks of reporting aboard the non-rate is in sickbay, ruined.

• • • • • Flashback - - - - -

FA Darges, a new non-rate assigned to R-Division, instantly catches Garcia's predatory eye.

The painfully cute little 18-year-old 120 lb. fireman apprentice is immediately vectored to the chief's mess. Besides fulfilling the division's requirement to augment Supply Department S-8 Division, the kid is a welcome addition to the chief's well-worn stable of catamites.

Barely meeting military height and weight standards, the product of an English and German union, the boy grew up in Jasper Indiana, ten miles west of Hoosier National Forest and Patoka Lake.

While concerned for the sailor's welfare, the Ensign is powerless to influence events. Although outranking its denizens, the astute officer, well versed in proper etiquette and naval tradition, knows that unless personally invited, the Goat Locker - the locus of enlisted political power, is off-limits to all commissioned officers.The sovereign domain of seasoned mariners, what happens down there, like Vegas, stays there.

"Welcome aboard Independence," as HTCS takes control of Darges, escorting him to his doom. "You'll be TDY to the Chief's Mess for 90 days mess cooking."

"Okay, senior chief."

A complete misnomer, temporary duty mess cooks do everything but cook - the exclusive domain of the professionally trained Mess Management Specialists. A miserable rite of passage, over worked and underappreciated, mess cooks are basically indentured servants.

Besides cleaning, scrubbing, and slaving away in the mess, galley and scullery 3-175-0-L, berthing compartment 3-183-0-L, and heads 3-190-2-L and 3-183-6-L, young TDY mess cooks provide valuable entertainment and an array of essential personal services.

"You're lucky," Garcia exaggerates, "not every sailor gets this opportunity... much better than working on the crew's mess decks. Lots of special privileges too."

"That sounds good," the unsuspecting sailor grins.

Sailing in dangerous waters, unaware of the perilous nature of the assignment, the non-rate will be surrounded by apex predators. Forced to consume prodigious quantizes of decadent jam, the defenseless sailor will also have extensive liberties taken with his young ass.

"Of course, you'll also provide traditional services."

"Services?" asks the kid, not understanding it's his turn-over-the-barrel.

"Just follow orders Darges and everyone will be happy."

Envisioning breeding the little sailor, HTCS Garcia repositions his tumid gear. Entering the labyrinth of secluded third deck compartments, pushing the sailor forward, he provides the generous gift to his shipmates, delivering Darges to his destiny.

The Mess, adorned in shades of blue and gray, while not as lavishly appointed as the Wardroom, is an upgrade from the crew's mess decks. Three dozed square metal tables, welded to the deck, are surrounded by ubiquitous Emeco 1011 aluminum semi-upholstered armchairs.

"Follow me," as Garcia navigates the compartment.

In the galley is an imposing figure - the Mess Management Specialist Master Chief (MSCM).

A skilled vituperator, barking at frantically scurrying sailors, his powerful voice bristles with hard-earned authority. Working up the ranks from E1 to E9, an arduous 32-year journey, the veteran born on the open seas is the embodiment of nautical tradition. The salty bellowing bastard, motherless son of Neptune himself, has dark piercing eyes embedded in a weathered coriaceous face.

Tattooed on his arm is the traditional CPO emblem.

A gold anchor, emblematic of constancy of purpose amidst the storms of life, is fouled by a length of chain symbolic of life forged day-by-day with honor, morality, and virtue. The silver letters `USN', symbolizing unity, service, and navigation, are superimposed on the anchor's shank. Two inverted five-point silver stars cap the stock, indicating the rate of master chief petty officer.

"Here's our new mess cook, Master Chief," as Garcia hands over Darges.

"Oh great... another pretty little shit," the annoyed MSCM notes.

Serving aboard six afloat commands - challenging environments with tenacious predators, he knows the adorable boy is doomed. Capturing the imagination of the membership, the little sea urchin will spend significant time engaged in unofficial activities down on his hands and knees.

"He can't spend all day over-the-barrel," the Master Chief growls.

"Understood...we'll work out an equitable schedule."

Word spreads and excitement builds as the enticing scent of fresh seafood permeates the Mess. Gathering around the nervous sailor for a communal meal, salivating chiefs consume the tasty little morsel with their lecherous eyes.

Relishing the opportunity to inject the non-rate with a robust fleet education, several chiefs rub their constricted and growing erections.

Glancing down, assuming a submissive position, the frightened sailor notices a dozen throbbing and twitching cocks on display. Thick shafts, prominent veins, shapely cockheads, and large testicles are all clearly discernible in the chief's khaki trousers and coveralls.

Whereas care must be exercised when educating 3/c midshipmen - they must be returned to the academy relatively undamaged, no such restriction exists with a non-rate. Darges can be aggressively enjoyed... absorbing everyone's fetishes and perverse sexual predilections.

"I better get some work out of this one before you sea dogs ruin him."

"Sure, of course," Garcia placates the MSCM.

Immediately the transformation into sea-pussy begins. Exercising control over their property, Garcia commences the non-rate's education and teaches the minnow his place in the food chain.

"Time to see what we have here. Strip sailor," Garcia orders.

"W... what senior chief?"

"Strip now!" HTCS aggressively commands, the threatening tone conveying serious consequences for disobedience or anything other than immediate compliance.

Stunned, struggling for understanding, unsure where this adventure is headed, the sailor glances from face to face searching for sympathy. Finding none, filled with dismay, having no choice in the endeavor, Darges reluctantly follows the lawful order.

With a blank expression on his face - eyes distant and unblinking, he slowly unbuttons and removes his blue chambray shirt and white undershirt. Pausing briefly, he unfastens the web belt buckle, unbuttons and unzips his dungarees, and pushes them to the deck.

"Everything... skivvies too."

The excitement is palpable as the young sailor strips.

Stepping out of the pooled dungarees, his hands tremble as he pulls the skivvies' elastic waistband out and down, off his hips, and past his thighs as the last scrap of modesty falls to the deck.

Standing utterly exposed, striped of his clothing and confidence, the vulnerable sailor is on display like the day's catch at New York City's historic Fulton Fish Market. The renowned wholesale market sells every imaginable variety of fresh seafood.

"Stand at parade rest, sailor"

Assuming the military position, snapping arms behind his back, hands interlocked, and feet spread shoulder width apart, his head is bowed in submission. The boy's insignificant gear shrinks as frightened tiny testicles retreat and seek protection inside the miniature pink purse.

Devastated, his face displays a priceless range of emotions.

"Good boy," said Garcia, pleased with the sailor's obedience.

The chiefs, like discriminating seafood wholesale buyers, restaurateurs, and retailers inspecting the day's catch, gather round the sailor for a closer inspection.

With experienced and discerning eyes, they evaluate and pass judgment on the quality of the offering. Taking perverse delight, intensifying the humiliation, they exchange disparaging comments about the under-sized sailor.

"You sure he's legal size? Perhaps we should throw him back into the sea."

"Not much meat on his bones."

"Looks more like a little sea scout than a US Navy Sailor."

Tattooed on the boy's arm is an abstract silhouette of a full-rigged sailing ship. Representing a desire for freedom and distance from difficult circumstances, intertwined with the mythology of the sea, the image invokes a yearning for exploration and new adventures.

"He's got a pretty little tail. That's something."

"True. Let's get a better look at that," Garcia suggests.

Powerless, the wretched sailor is frog-marched forward, aggressively bent over a table, and displayed like a featured item at a buffet restaurant. Spreading the minnow's slender legs, rotating his hips, pulling the cheeks apart, the starving patrons maneuver for the perfect viewing angle.

"Damn, look at that beautiful tiny hole," Garcia whispers.

"Pink and tight, just the way I like them," adds a toothy carnivore.

Fully exposed for everyone's viewing pleasure, the mortified sailor experiences overwhelming feelings of humiliation and shame. Nauseous, unable to breathe, the traumatized non-rate, stripped of his self-esteem, retreats inward, his eyes distant and unfocused.

Memories of his pre-enlistment physical suddenly flood back... the indignity and humiliation. Standing naked under bright lights, feet shoulder width apart, arms up and out parallel to the deck, the boy is surrounded by a military doctor and four corpsmen.

Determining suitability for naval service, providing no quarter, inquisitive hands run skillfully over every inch of his body - poking, prodding, and probing inside and out. Teaching the corpsmen, the doctor demonstrates the proper technique for conducting hernia and prostate examinations.

With growing smiles and erections, they take turns honing their skills.

"Sweet sea-pussy," said an enthralled chief. "Can't wait to tap that."

"Hell yeah. We all want a piece," a choir of voices affirm.

Addressing the matter of lubrication and dilation, grabbing a sick of butter, Senior Chief Garcia finds the delicate opening and caresses the miniature lips. Exposed and vulnerable, feeling pressure, the ring instinctively clamps shut on the intruder.

Employing force, working relentlessly, prying the reluctant aperture open, Garcia triumphantly enlarges the minnow for the appreciative crowd.

"Open that sea-pussy, get it ready for us," encourages a shipmate.

"Boy, we're going to enjoy shafting you," HTCS Garcia tells Darges.

In a moment of understanding and panic, the non-rate's stomach tightens as his face contorts with fear. Darges has been around livestock, watching aggressive bulls breed cows, and he's heard stories of drifter boys - some willing, others not so much, ridding experienced farmhands up in the hayloft.

"Please senior chief, I'm not gay. I don't take it up the ass."

"Nonsense, of course you do. You're non-rate ass belongs to the Navy."

"B... but... but I'm not gay," Darges whimpers.

"Doesn't matter. You're our sea-pussy now."

With obvious pleasure, Garcia rams the butter past the quivering lips and up inside the protesting chute. The boy's internal heat slowly melts the butter, basting the tender seafood, enhancing the flavor and texture. The audience enthusiastically applaud, impressed with Garcia's culinary skills.

"Here's your new uniform, sweetheart," said a chief, producing a pair of pink panties. Sliding the silk panties up the boy's slender legs, transforming the sailor into sea-pussy, the chiefs cheer enthusiastically.

Emasculated, tears well up as Darges drowns in humiliation.

Other non-rates working in the galley, stop, and stare at the proceedings. While sympathetic, they're also greatly relieved, knowing it means less time over-the-barrel for themselves.

Wasting no time, the inveterate consumers escort Darges through the Mess, down a passageway, and into a berthing compartment. Forced onto the designated duty mattress, the trapped sailor struggles but is no match for the motivated chief petty officers.

Having no choice, Darges surrenders and accepts his destiny.

The enlisted sharks encircle the helpless sailor, move in for the kill, and savagely consume the minnow. Focused on their personal enjoyment, indifferent about consequences, abhorrent fetishes and perverse sexual predilections are freely indulged.

As the provider of the meal, Garcia is entitled to the first piece of ass.

Unconcerned for Darges' discomfort, without any additional enhancements other than the kiss of butter, Garcia breaches the ring and storms inside the defenseless pussy.

"Aggggghhhhhh!"

"Oh fuck yeah," Garcia cries.

Providing no time for acclimation, smirking with satisfaction, he rips roughly into the protesting hole, assaulting the helpless non-rate as the membership vociferously cheers the endeavor.

"Oh god, it's too big... take it out... please," the sailor begs.

"Shut up and take it like a sailor."

Grabbing the boy's hips, he slams all 10-inches inside the shattered boy. Driving balls deep inside the clutching chute, bottoming-out and rearranging internal organs, Garcia repeatedly pummels the non-rate, ripping the kid a new one.

"Damn... he took the whole thing," said a chief.

"Way to go... plow that sea-pussy!" another shipmate encourages.

Enjoying undeniable perfection, it's another fine Navy day for Garcia.

For Darges, not so much.

The brutal assault proceeds unabated as the alpha males exercise their inherent rights indiscriminately and to excess. Over the next two weeks many large military objects are unceremoniously stuffed up inside the miserable minnow.

Struggling valiantly to accommodate the fleet education, but inherently lacking sufficient elasticity, the sailor's devastated sphincter, gapping wide open, is quickly ruined.

Out-of-commission, Darges is reluctantly transferred to medical.

Lying on his belly, hips up and rotated, legs spread wide open, chunks of navy jam and blood ooze out of the sailor's battered and torn pussy. The damaged sailor, incapable of performing his duties and standing watch, will be on the binnacle list for the foreseeable future.

Under HM1 Coyne's care, the corpsman performs daily examinations, fingering the healing ring and inspecting the delicate rectal lining with his medical toys. Concerned for his sailor, Ensign Rozo also frequently visits sickbay, personally examining the boy's shredded asshole.

"No one knows what happened," said Coyne, "and he's not talking."

"That's not unexpected," replies Ensign Rozo.

Used. Abused. Discarded. It's an inherent part of nautical life that recruiters seldom mention at the high schools. The Navy excels at identifying prey and rewarding predators. Sharks and minnows - consumers and consumed, engage in a continuous struggle for resources and survival.

"They didn't use much lubrication... just some butter," said Coyne.

"That seems like an imprudent decision."

Unfortunately for Darges, his fate is sealed - designated as sea-pussy. Once cleared for unrestricted duty, his education will continue. Making up for lost time, he will absorb his lessons until fully qualified to stand the watch and accommodate his superiors and shipmates.

Upon completion of the TDY assignment he will return to R Division.

A duty schedule will be posted in the berthing compartment for shipmates to reserve half-hour time slots. Senior petty officers, enjoying head-of-the-line privileges, will naturally exercise their rights and frequently shaft the inferior male.

• • • • • Return To The Present - - - - -

"The situation did spiral a little out of control sir," HTCS Garcia admits.

"A little? Senior Chief, you ruined the kid. There's no way to put lipstick on that pig."

An unexpected annoyance, the CHENG reprimands HTCS Garcia for the careless destruction of government property, a UCMJ Article108 violation. Although not directly responsible, the actions of his subordinates reflects poorly on Ensign Rozo's leadership.

UCMJ Art. 108. Military Property Of United States: Loss, Damage, Destruction, Or Wrongful Disposition:

(1) Any person subject to this chapter who, without proper authority sells or otherwise disposes of; willfully or through neglect damages, destroys, or loses; or willfully or through neglect suffers to be lost, damaged, sold, or wrongfully disposed of; any military property of the United States, shall be punished as a court-martial may direct.

"It's not really my fault, sir," Garcia explains.

"How's that? You should have prepared him better, senior chief."

Darges wasn't stretched out sufficiently at Recruit Training Command (RTC), Great Lakes - an unforgivable oversight by his company commander.

Fortunately, one insignificant non-rates' ass isn't of any great concern. The Navy has an abundance of minnows and every ship routinely enjoys fresh catches.

"I swear sir, today's sailors are woefully unprepared to join the Fleet."

"You know Senior, sometimes a little finesse pays handsome dividends."

All predators understand that the ultimate enjoyment lies in the hunt - ascending the dizzy peak of anticipatory wanting, identify a target, attacking, break, and taking ownership of a shipmate. Make no doubt about it, there is nothing like it, decimating a sailor's will and converting him into sea-pussy.

"True sir, but it's more exciting watching a sailor struggle to take it."

"Can't deny that senior chief," laughing at the rationalization. "Still, you must exercise care in the future. You can't go around tearing up all the new non-rates."

"Yes, sir. I'll take that under advisement."

In the Navy, rank is everything.

And life as a Chief Petty Officer can be sweet; for fresh seafood, not so much.

The voyage aboard USS Independence continues in Chapter 7: Navy Brat.

Comments and readers' experiences with sailors, shipboard or ashore, are always of interest.

The author may be reached at JRozoNavyDoD@gmx.com