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   Another instance where code talking came into play was just before we pulled into Villefranche, France. We were still in the Eastern Med, heading West when we lost all communications with the shore station in Londonderry Ireland. There was a huge thunderstorm between us and them and our signals were not getting through. It was our responsibility to take all the traffic sent by ships assigned to us and get them to ‘derry. Once they got them, they would broadcast them out over the Fleet Broadcast, or send them on to the States, if need be. Usually when this happend, I’d contact the beach using the voice circuit and a manual crypto system, to get or give directions onto which frequency to try next. That circuit was dead as well. One of the guys came over with a list of global Naval radio stations and which frequencies they listened to. After trying Morrocco, Greece and Spain, I gave Australia a try. On the second attempt, they came back 5 by 5, (signal strength, and readablility based on a scale of 0 to 5). Once I had them in contact, I got out the NUCO Crypto book and a list of frequencies we could try with Londonderry and encrypted them. 20 minutes after transmitting them I got word from Main-Comm that we were BTT, (Back to traffic). I got on the circuit one more time and wished them a MERRY CHRISTMAS. It was the only thing I did as a radioman that could have landed me in “A world of shit”, but I didn’t care.

   It was during a “Zulu 20 Charlie Charlie” where I had two situations that were a little out of the ordinary. The first one was an exercise I was part of where I had to communicate with an aircraft that was flying out over the fleet. I figured I’d be talking to another radioman onboard one of those Command and Control aircraft but it turned out to be something else.

   I was told that at 2200 hrs, I’d receive a message that was comprised of 100 groups of five letters each. From there it would be put through a crypto system very similar to the “Inigma” system the Germans used during WWII. From that we’d recieve orders of what to do next. I had high hopes of getting 100% of it, figuring I’d be talking to another radioman. We were all trained in the same school, and they taught us to make each signal clear and precise. When I started to receive these, it sounded as though the guy was using his foot instead of his hand on the key. The letters were all smeared and jumbled and I had a hellava time copying it. I ended up only getting 80% of it correct but given it was sent by an Italian pilot, transmitting from a key on his thigh, while flying an F-4, I did pretty good.

   The second thing that happened during that exercise, was the other guy who stood that watch, came down with the flu, and it settled in his testicles. When one of us became sick, the other man had to stay in that space on watch, until he recovered. It was 48 hours into a 96 hour stint I pulled in that space when it happened. I remember it must have been a mid-watch because there wasn’t much else going on when I was ordered to receive another 100 group message. From what they tell me, I was sound asleep for the second half of that exercise, and I still ended up with a 98%. I even QSL’d the message (transmitted a receipt) so I was pretty proud of that.

   I’ve recently learned that CW is no longer part of Naval Communications, but if they ever need a ‘fresh fist’, I could still and would do it.

   I’ve written before about Radio Central and what I’ve done there, but the reason I was there, hasn’t. I was there because Chief Hite couldn’t. Chief Hite was the fastest code operator on the ship, but he was a Chief and he had other things to do. I was the second fastest, and I worked for him.

   I’d graduated from ‘A’ School as the fastest operater in our class, and then again in ‘High speed code school’ as it’s fastest. I was sending and receiving at 22 words per minute, which turns into 110 letters in 60 seconds.  That’s almost 2 letters per second and with from 1 to 5 strokes on the key per letter, it can get pretty busy. The trick was to remember in your head, up to 30 seconds of signals between what your hearing and what your typing. You wouldn’t realize how much you had in your head until you could no long hear the signals in your earphones, just the clicking of the typewriter afterwards. When I graduated from Code school, I was given the M.O.S. (Military Occupation Specialty) number of 2304. (high speed code operatior) It should have read; 1369. (unlucky cocksucker).

   As I’ve written earlier, we carried a Task Force Commander with us and therefore we assumed the fleets responsibilty to have a CW (Continues Wave, Morse code) circuit open to International Distress. Not all the ships in the fleet, copyed international distress, they didn’t have the manpower, or sometimes the equipment, we had both. It was nice to have because there were many hours spent staring at the status board, waiting for something to happen. There was almost always some transmission’s going on over it, and I was required by International Law to listen and keep a record. Most often, it was one Merchant Marine calling another for contact, and then they’d move to another frequency. Every once in a while, you could listen in on a conversation between two operatiors on those ships and if your lucky enough to find two English speaking ones, it could get interesting. My first exciting experience listening over this circuit was listening to one ship sink and another lending a hand.

   It wasn’t so much that there was a ship sinking, it was who was trying to save the crew. It was during the afternoon that I remember sitting in that chair, typing and trying not to fall over at the same time. We were in a hellava blow and if you hadn’t stood a watch on the bridge, you hadn’t seen daylight in four days. There had some sporatic traffic on the circuit but then we received an SOS. Nothing gets your attention faster than listen to a long hard signal and then three dots, three dash’s, and three dots. People don’t send those signals because it’s a drill, they send them because they’re in deep shit. I yelled into the bitchbox for the Messenger of the Watch to come over and I jumped over to the work station. By the time he had transmitted the second S, I had a sheet of paper in the typewriter, with my headphones on. He gave the call sign of his ship, his position, and the problem. I don’t remember his name but I remember where he was and what he was doing. He was in the Adriatic, about 42ºN by 18ºE and his boiler was on fire. I typed out the needed information, signed it and handed it to the messanger of the watch. He took one copy to Main Comm and another to the Bridge. We were in the 32X32 area, not far off shore from Isreal, so we were out of the picture as far as the rescue was concerned. I sat at the work station because I figured there’d be more traffic on it and I was right. The ship called again, about 10 minutes later and said they wouldn’t need any assistance, they had help in sight. Everything was cool until he told me it was the Soviet Helicopter carrier Moskva. I knew we’d been looking for that carrier, I’d read about it in the SECRET reports, so I transfered that information onto a form and called for the messanger again. A day later, it was in the reports. I would have kept a copy for my scrapbook but it may have interfered with my hopes of being a free man the rest of my life.