'The Barracks Thief'

 The Barracks Thief 

By Paul Davis

It had been a busy time on the USS Kitty Hawk as the aircraft carrier launched and recovered aircraft on a moonless night on “Yankee Station” in the Gulf of Tonkin in the South China sea off the coast of North Vietnam in 1971. 

I had just been relieved from my watch at midnight in the Radio Communication Division’s Message Processing Center. While on Yankee Station, we were on eight on/eight off watches, and as the days and nights flew by, we lost track of time. 

On this night, as our aircraft performed combat sorties against the North Vietnamese and faced anti-aircraft fire and surface to air missiles, called SAMs or “telephone poles,” the atmosphere was hectic in the message center as we maintained communication with the combat pilots and processed a great number of highly classified message traffic and intelligence reports in “real time.”  

I headed to the ship’s galley where they were serving “MIDRATS,” midnight rations. The ship’s cooks offered hot dogs, hamburgers, grilled cheese, and French fries to the sailors, airmen and Marines coming off watch, and for those who wanted a late-night snack. 

The more than 5,500 men ate fairly well on the Kitty Hawk, and although I had a fine full dinner eight hours earlier, I stood in line with my tray and took a cheeseburger, a grilled cheese sandwich and some French fries. I laid my tray on a table and took a glass and filled it with a red Kool-Aid like drink that the sailors called “bug juice.” 

I sat at the table and as I took a bite from my grilled cheese, I heard someone call my name. 

I looked up and saw George Goforth from North Carolina. He was in my Boot Camp company more than a year prior at the Recruit Training Center at the Great Lakes, Ill naval base near Chicago. 

Goforth hadn’t changed much. He was about five years older than my 18 years. He still had his close-cropped Boot Camp style haircut, and he was still stocky with a hard face that looked like it was carved from the side of a mountain.

Although I hated Goforth in Boot Camp, I let bygones be bygones. I smiled with a mouth full of my sandwich, and I waved for him to sit across from me. 

Goforth sat with his tray of food and told me he worked in the radar division. I said I was in the radio communications division. 

"So, you a radioman?"

"No," I replied. "I'm more of an admin security guy than a communication tech guy."

Goforth and I enjoyed our MIDRATs, and we spoke more about our jobs on the carrier, the great liberty in Olongapo in the Philippines, and the good and the bad ole days of Boot Camp. 

I last saw Goforth on our last day of Boot Camp when we received our orders. As I had enlisted in the Navy when I was 17 in 1970 for two years under the “McNamara’s 100,000” program, which was Defense Secretary Robert McNamera’s program to recruit young men who prior to the Vietnam War would not have been accepted into the armed forces. 

We were Vietnam cannon fodder, as one sailor explained it to me. The program was also known as “McNamara’s Misfits,” or “McNamara’s Morons.”    

As a two-year enlisted recruit, I was unable to attend a Navy “A” school after Boot Camp, where one was trained in technical skills and then advanced in a Navy occupational specialty, known as “ratings.”    

That was fine by me, as I was anxious to go to Vietnam. I had applied to be assigned to a Navy Swift Boat, officially called a Patrol Craft Fast (PCF). The Swift Boats patrolled the Vietnam coastlines and waterways.   

I was attracted to Swift Boats as I enjoyed “McHale’s Navy,” a TV comedy series that portrayed piratical and comedic sailors on a WWII PT boat, as well as the film “PT 109,” the patrol boat that President John Kennedy had served on in WWII. And I was especially influenced by John Ford’s classic WWII film about PT boats in the Philippines, “They Were Expendable.” 

But as a 17-year-old high school dropout, I was subject to what was deemed the “Needs of the Navy,” so instead of being assigned to a 50-foot-long Swift Boat, I was assigned to a 1,068.9-foot-long supercarrier. Goforth, with his four-year enlistment, I recall, received orders to go to radar “A” school.

 

At the Great Lakes Boot Camp in February of 1970, our company commander, a stout and gruff Boatswain Mate 1^st Class Petty Officer named Schmidt, selected four recruits to be “Recruit Petty Officers.” I had no issue with Jenkins, a tall, skinny, bespectacled 26-year-old, being selected as the leading petty officer, as he was the only college graduate in a recruit company of high school graduates and high school dropouts. But I did sort of resent Schmidt selecting Goforth as a recruit petty officer, as I thought he was dumb. 

Schmidt, for some reason, seemed to like Goforth, and he immediately showed his displeasure with me. Although I was a good recruit in terms of classroom study, marching and PT, Schmidt did not like my questioning instructions and my sarcastic asides. He was not amused, and he often called me a smart ass. 

One day outside of Schmidt’s office, Goforth told me that I had to stand the midnight security watch, where for four hours I stood at parade rest with an M-1 carbine rifle (unloaded) and guarded the barracks as the other recruits slept in their racks. 

I complained that I had the midnight watch only the other day, so with a good many recruits in our company, why did he again assign the late-night watch to me? 

“Cause I said so,” Goforth said. “I do the watch bill.” 

I suggested he do a better and fairer job of it, when I heard Schmidt bellow out, “Listen to the man, Davis!” 

Goforth gave me his best shit-eating grin. 

I recalled that on our very first weekly written test, Schmidt went ape shit as more than half of the recruit company failed, including Goforth. 

Under my breath, I told Goforth, “Enjoy being a recruit petty officer here, because in the fleet, you have to take tests to become a real petty officer, and I suspect you are too fucking dumb to pass a written test.” 

Goforth walked away without a word. 

“Yes, go forth, Goforth,” I called after him.

 

On top of the intense and tiring training we were subjected to, we had a bit of drama in the barracks as several recruits’ money and other items of value were reported stolen.

It appeared that our barracks thief had lock-picking skills. 

After the third reported theft, Schmidt held muster and told the assembled recruits to be sure to lock up their valuables and watch out for each other. 

“There is nothing lower than a barracks thief,” Schmidt said with a disgusted look. “If I catch anyone stealing, I’ll bust his ass right outta the Navy.” 

The barracks thief was a major topic of discussion on our down time, but one night a black, muscular, six-foot-tall recruit named Robert James was discussing boxing with me. He was speaking about the great Rocky Marciano and Joe Louis bout. James said he had been competing for the Golden Gloves in his hometown of Cleveland when he feared his draft notice was imminent. 

“I fight anybody in the ring,” James said. “But I ain’t fightin’ no Viet Cong in no jungle, so I up and joined this here Navy.” 

We laughed. 

“You was a boxer too, right?” James asked. 

“I boxed at the South Philly Boy’s Club. Strictly a low-rent amateur,” I replied. 

“What you lookin’ at, boy,” James said looking over my shoulder. 

I turned around. Goforth turned and walked away. 

“We ought to use Goforth as a punching bag,” James said with a laugh. 

“The thought occurred,” I said.

 

A few days later I entered the barracks and saw Alfred Dinkins, a short and stocky 20-year-old recruit from Baltimore, bent over and rooting through another recruit’s locker. 

I crept up behind Dinkins, and I kicked him square in the ass. He screamed and tumbled across the deck.       

“Davis! You on report!” I hear Goforth shout behind me. 

“Dinkins was rooting through Martin’s locker. He’s our barracks thief,” I said. 

“I bent down to tie my shoelace and Davis kicked me,” Dinkins said in protest. 

Goforth took me and Dinkins into Schmidt’s office. 

I stood at attention in front of Schmidt’s desk, alongside Goforth and Dinkins. 

Goforth spoke first. He told Schmidt that he saw me kick Dinkins. I spoke next, explaining that I caught Dinkins in Martin’s locker. Dinkins then denied that he was looking in Martin’s locker. 

“Goforth, go get Martin,” Schmidt ordered.      

Goforth came back to the office some five minutes later with Martin in tow. Schmidt asked Martin if his locker was locked or unlocked. 

“It was unlocked, Sir. But I only went to the head for a minute.” 

“Are you missing anything?” 

“No, Sir, I checked.” 

“He would be missing something if I hadn’t kicked Dinkins in the ass,” I said. 

“Shut up, Davis,” Shmidt bellowed. 

“Didn’t I tell you pukes to keep your lockers secure?” 

“Yes, Sir,” Martin said sheepishly. 

“Martin and Dinkins, you are dismissed.” 

After they left the office, Schmidt rose from his chair and looked hard at me. 

“Davis, I should put you on report for assault,” Schmidt said. “But instead, I want you to give me ten laps around the grinder. Goforth, escort Davis out to the grinder.” 

Goforth handed me a 12-pound M-1, and we went out to the grinder, a cement parade ground the size of a football field. 

Holding the M-1 across my chest, I began to run around the grinder as Goforth stood to the side with a smug, shit-eating grin - the dumb bastard!

 

Sometime later, we were given our first “liberty” and allowed to leave the base. Most of the recruits talked about going to Milwaukee. But being a big city boy, I chose to go to Chicago, and I went by myself. 

Like the Great Lakes Boot Camp, Chicago was cold. Dressed in my “crackerjack" Navy-blue uniform, white hat (called a dixie cup) and a Navy-blue pea coat, I walked around Chicago. As an aspiring crime writer and student of crime, I boarded a tour bus that offered a tour of Chicago’s gangland history. 

The tour bus drove past the site of the St. Valentine’s Day Massacre, where in 1929, seven men from the bootlegging North Side Gang were mowed down from tommy guns, reportedly ordered by Al Capone. The garage was long gone and, in its place now stood a building. 

Likewise, the site of the Biograph Theater, where in 1934, the FBI gunned down the infamous bank robber John Dillinger after he was betrayed by the “woman in red.” The bus stopped and the tour guide pointed to a nondescript building. 

Not only was the bus tour rather boring, but the tour guide also got several of his facts wrong. I spoke up and corrected him the first time and I received a dirty look from the guide for my trouble. I stayed quiet when he erred again and again, as I was worried that he would throw me off the bus. 

After my disappointing tour, I resumed walking around the famous Loop in the center of downtown Chicago, and I bundled up my pea coat to ward off the frigid winds coming off Lake Michigan. 

I walked by a pretty blonde girl in bell bottom jeans and a fluffy coat. I smiled at her. Most girls at that time would not look or talk to sailors or soldiers in the street, so I was taken aback when she smiled at me and asked me if I were in the Navy. 

I told her I was from Philadelphia, and I lied and said I was 25. She said her name was Carol and she was 21 and she was from a small town in Illinois. She said she was a business student attending DePaul University and she shared an apartment with another female student. 

I asked to buy her lunch, and she agreed and suggested a small place just up the street. We had a good meal and a good conversation and afterwards she invited me to her apartment where she said she had wine and pot. She noted that her roommate had gone home for the week. 

We drank, smoked pot and kissed on the couch. We then moved to the bedroom. 

A couple of hours later I asked if I could use her shower. I showered and dressed in my uniform. 

“Are you leaving?” 

“Yes,” I said. “I have to be back at the base before midnight.” 

She reached for her notebook and pen, and she wrote down her name, telephone number and address and gave it to me. I took the note and kissed her. 

“This was fun. Thanks for inviting me here.” 

“I’m glad I meet you,” she said. “I hope to see you again.” 

“I’ll call.”

 

Back at the barracks, we all heard the news that Schnidt had caught Dinkins in his office. Schmidt made Dinkins empty his pockets and Dinkins pulled out Schmidt’s brass money clip with a good bit of cash. Schmidt called the Naval Investigative Service and civilian special agents from the base came over and took Dinkins into custody. 

We later learned that Dinkins had been a burglar in Baltimore, and a judge gave him the option of joining the military or going to prison. He chose the Navy, where as a "McNamara Misfit," he continued to ply his criminal pursuits.  

I felt vindicated, having earlier accused Dinkins of being the barracks thief, but neither Goforth or Schmidt said a word to me. After discussing the fate of our barracks thief, most of the recruits spoke of their liberty. It appeared that I was one of the few recruits to have met a girl on liberty. 

I felt good about Dinkins getting caught and my liberty with Carol, and I sat on my rack smiling to myself. 

“Davis, you got the midnight watch,” I heard Goforth say, ruining my moment of happiness. 

California Liberty

 California Liberty 

By Paul Davis 

I was just returning from evening chow after my eight-hour watch in the message center aboard the USS Kitty Hawk as the aircraft carrier launched aircraft from “Yankee Station” in the Gulf of Tonkin off the coast of North Vietnam in 1971. 

As I entered the Radio Communications Division's enlisted men's compartment, I heard Salvatore Lorino’s distinctive raspy, fast-paced voice. 

Lorino often visited me while we were on Yankee Station, partly because we were both from South Philly and became friends, and partly because he had two meth customers in the division. 

Lorino, a young hoodlum whom I knew slightly from the South Philadelphia neighborhood where I was raised, was several years older than I. He was about six feet tall, lean, with black hair, rugged features, and a long face with a perpetual lopsided grin that alternately charmed and menaced. 

Entering the compartment, I saw Lorino sitting in a folding chair across from Ingemi, Hunt and a couple of other sailors. The radiomen were laughing at a story Lorino was telling them. 

“Hey, Paulie, I was jes telling them about the time we went to the bullfights in TJ,” Lorino said as I sat down and listened to the story of our trip to Tujuana, Mexico. 

“We was out of Boot Camp for only three months, so we was jes a couple of “Boots” from South Philly when we went down to the border…” 

As he told the tale, I counted. Lorino got seven out of ten facts wrong.

 

While we were stationed in San Diego prior to setting sail for Southeast Asia, we were on three-section duty, which meant that Lorino and I had two out of three weekends off. I liked San Diego, especially Mission Beach, but I was not too fond of the honky-tonk bars that most of the sailors and Marines frequented in the downtown area. I preferred to visit the bars near the local colleges, where the girls were mostly from out of town, just like us.  

I also liked to visit Tijuana, which was just across the border from San Diego. I laughed as Lorino began his tale, recalling how Lorino rooted for the bull rather than the matador. At one point, Lorino stood up and shouted out to the bull, “Now! Get ‘em now!”  

The Mexican bullfight aficionados around us were not amused by the loco gringo, but the Kitty Hawk radiomen hearing the story certainly were. 

Lorino then launched into telling another liberty story. Lorino went on to tell the sailors in the compartment about the time we visited a club on Sunset Strip in Los Angeles. 

“We was in a club in LA and Paulie got us the two best looking girls in the place.” 

Lorino and I traveled in civies when we ventured to Los Angeles. I was fond of LA and liked the vibrant city’s nightlife, and I visited there previously on many of my free weekends. I liked to go to West Hollywood and hit the “happening” clubs on the mile and half of Sunset Boulevard that was known famously as the “Sunset Strip.” 

I told Lorino about the Strip and how it was home to trendy restaurants, sleazy bars and hip nightclubs. The Strip was a girl watchers’ delight and walking the Strip at night was like being part of a wild parade. Someone called the Strip a “cultural carnival.” 

I also liked the great rock music played at the clubs there and I liked dancing with the young, pretty girls. Growing up in South Philly, I had gone to teenage dances every weekend, so I knew that hitting the dance floor and dancing well was a good way to meet girls. 

Along with servicemen like Lorino and I, there were hippies, college students, tourists, music and movie people, and almost everything in between at the clubs. 

I wore my "civies" to the clubs, but unfortunately, like the other servicemen with regulation short hair, Lorino and I stood out from the young men who sported the longer hairstyles of the day. It appeared that the prettiest and most desirable girls shied away from military guys.

On the night Lorino was telling the Kitty Hawk sailors about, I asked an exceptionally good-looking college student named Susan to dance with me at a club on the Strip. She was a pretty, shapely blonde and she wore a loose blouse and tight dungarees.

“I like your high black boots,” I told her. “You can kick me if you want to.”

She laughed.

I spent a good bit of time with Susan on the crowded dance floor. Lorino grabbed Susan’s girlfriend and took her onto the dance floor as well. After a while, we took a break from dancing, and I bought Susan a drink at the bar. Lorino slid next to me with Susan’s girlfriend in his arms.  

Susan was a bit inebriated and giddy. I held her and she looked at me closely. 

I grinned, thinking this was a romantic moment and I was about to kiss her.

“Why do you have short hair?” Susan asked, stopping me from leaning in to kiss her. “Are in you in the military?” 

I just knew that my being in the Navy would be a “turn off” for her, so I thought fast. 

“No, but I don’t want to talk about it,” I replied sheepishly. 

“Why not?” 

“My hair is cut short because Sal and I just got out of San Quentin prison.” 

Her interest and imagination ignited, and she leaned into me and whispered, “Why were you in prison?” 

“We robbed a bank.” 

I heard Lorino behind me laugh. Susan nodded her head slowly, as if to say she understood. She then smiled, kissed me full on the mouth, and we returned to the dance floor. Lorino and I later took the two girls back to our hotel room. 

Apparently, this fresh-faced college girl was just fine with me being a bank robber and ex-con, but she would have surely bolted had I told her I was a sailor. 

Go figure.  

Thankfully, the girls in Olongapo had no such prejudice against sailors. 

 

On a roll, Lorino also spoke of the time we visited Disneyland in Anaheim, California. On that visit to Disneyland with Lorino, we dared to smoke marijuana openly, boldly, and quite stupidly, as we walked around the popular amusement park. 

On the Haunted Mansion ride we shared a joint in our continuously moving vehicle. At one point in the ride, the vehicle pivoted to the right before a mirror, and through Disney’s technological magic, a ghost appeared in the mirror between the reflection of Lorino and I. The ghost grinned and wrapped his arms around us.

Looking at the image between us in the mirror, I offered the joint to the ghost. I thought this was funny, and Lorino thought it was hilarious. 

The security guards monitoring the ride through the mirror were not nearly as amused. 

At the end of the ride, two security guards dressed as Western Sheriffs stopped our vehicle and ordered us to get out. 

“Are you part of the amusement ride?” I asked in jest. 

Lorino thought that too was hilarious. The guards remained unamused.         

The guards held us in a building until the Anaheim police arrived and took us into custody. We were handcuffed, placed in the police car and driven to the Anaheim police station. We were held in separate rooms. I was searched by an Anaheim police officer, and he confiscated the pocketknife I was carrying. 

I was worried about prison and getting kicked out of the Navy. Thankfully, the police officer took pity on me and told me that he was cutting me loose. He said he had been a Marine when he was a young guy, and he also did dumb things then. He told me to take off. 

I asked about Lorino, and the officer told me to “Get while the getting is good.”

I asked if I could have my knife back, and the police officer just stared at me in disbelief. I left the police station quickly and took a bus back to San Diego.  

Lorino later told me that he was arrested because he was holding more than an ounce of marijuana in a plastic bag in his pocket. He was held over the weekend and appeared before a judge on Monday morning. Lorino pled guilty to possession, was fined, and then released. 

Unfortunately for Lorino, the Kitty Hawk shoved off on Monday morning and the carrier went to sea while he stood before the judge. Lorino missed "ship's movement," which was a serious offense. Upon his return to the carrier, Lorino went before a Captain’s Mass and busted back to seaman apprentice and lost a month’s pay. 

I felt guilty that I was lucky to not be charged and “skated” through the incident, and left Lorino holding the bag, quite literally. Lorino shrugged and told me not to worry about it.

The sailors sitting around the compartment appeared to be quite amused at the pre-deployment adventures Lorino and I experienced.  

© 2025 Paul Davis 

Note: You can read other chapters via the below links: 

Paul Davis On Crime: My Crime Fiction: 'Salvatore Lorino'

Paul Davis On Crime: My Crime Fiction: The Old Huk

Paul Davis On Crime: My Crime Fiction: Join The Navy And See Olongapo

Paul Davis On Crime: My Crime Fiction: 'Boots On The Ground'

Paul Davis On Crime: My Crime Fiction: 'The 30-Day Detail'

Paul Davis On Crime: My Crime Fiction: 'Cat Street'

Paul Davis On Crime: Chapter 12: On Yankee Station 

Paul Davis On Crime: My Crime Fiction: 'The Cherry Boy'

Paul Davis On Crime: My Crime Fiction: 'The Hit'

Paul Davis On Crime: My Crime Fiction: Welcome To Japan, Davis-San

Paul Davis On Crime: A Look Back At Life Aboard An Aircraft Carrier During The Vietnam War: 'The Compartment Cleaner'

Paul Davis On Crime: My Crime Fiction: 'Murder By Fire'

Paul Davis On Crime: My Crime Fiction: 'Admiral McCain'

Paul Davis On Crime: My Crime Fiction: 'Hit The Head' 

Paul Davis On Crime: My Crime Fiction: 'A Night At The Americano'  

Paul Davis On Crime: My Crime Fiction: 'Missing Muster' 

Paul Davis On Crime: My Crime Fiction: 'The Barracks Thief'

Cabahug

 Cabahug 

By Paul Davis 

Joselito Cabahug was a scrawny Filipino criminal known to his cohorts as Duling, the Tagalog word for crossed-eyed. But no one dared to call him that to his face, as Cabahug was short-tempered and prone to violence when insulted or angered. 

He was born in Olongapo's Barrio Barreto in the Philippines with his eyes crossed. His poor family were unable to provide medical help for him. Despite his small stature, Cabahug grew up mean and tough and he struck out at anyone who dared to ridicule or tease him about his eyes. In time, his perpetually angry, twisted face and crossed eyes took on a truly sinister look that struck fear into people.   

Cabahug joined a youth street gang in Olongapo in the early 1960s and committed numerous petty crimes, eventually graduating to armed robbery. Due to his frightening looks and his penchant for violence, he rose to be the leader of the teenage gang. He was arrested and sent to prison for armed robbery, and his reputation grew substantially after he performed a contract murder in the prison for Homobono Catacutan. 

The Olongapo gang leader was impressed with the fearless and frightening young thug, and he used bribery to get Cabahug released from prison. Catacutan recruited him and used him as an enforcer for his "shabu" crystal meth business. Catacutan’s customers and rivals, and even the police, were hesitant to confront the gang leader when he had the demented and evil-looking Cabahug at his side.      

Cabahug often backed up the gang’s chief enforcer, Tibayan. The two ferocious killers were ordered by Catacutan to hand out beatings and to assassinate rivals, cheats and police informers. 

Cabahug became legendary in Olongapo when he hunted down two of Catacutan’s shabu dealers who were cheating the gang leader. Cabahug captured the two drug dealers and took them aboard a boat. At sea, he tortured the two until they gave up the whereabouts of their stash of money and drugs. He then stabbed them to death and tossed them overboard. The two mutilated bodies late washed ashore, and the word went out to the underground that Cabahug brutally murdered them. 

Sometime later, Cabahug murdered a bar girl who was suspected of being a police informer. Like the two cheating drug dealers, Cabahug tortured the young woman until she admitted she was talking to the police. Her ravaged body was dumped in front of a police station. 

Cabahug was high on Lieutenant Colonel Rosa’s list of criminals he wanted to bring to justice, but he was unable to get anyone to testify against the notorious killer.          

Bulan befriended Cabahug when he worked as a clerk in Catacutan’s grocery store. Cabahug, who had no true friends, appreciated that Bulan was not frightened of his looks and violent reputation, and the clerk appeared to genuinely like him. Bulan, thinking ahead, wanted the notorious killer on his side when he eventually made his move to take over the gang from Catacutan. Bulan promoted Cabahug after Catacutan was murdered. Bulan from then on had his own loyal bodyguard and killer. He later ordered Cabahug to kill his partner, Tibayan. 

Some years later, Bulan sat in the Ritz, suffering from the gunshot wounds from Salvatore Lorino, the American sailor from the aircraft carrier USS Kitty Hawk, had inflicted on him. Bulan swore he would get revenge. He finally made up his mind on a course of action. He called over Cabahug and ordered him to find and kill the American sailor named Lorino.     

The following evening, as Lorino was in a hotel room with Jade, there was a knock on the door. Jade answered the door as Lorino lay in bed smoking a cigarette. Cabahug knocked Jade to the floor and rushed in. Thanks to his South Philly hoodlum instincts and criminal experience, Lorino saw Cabahug running in and he dove from the bed as Cabahug drove his Butterfly knife into the bed sheets. 

Lorino was quickly on his feet and grabbed the bedside lamp and smashed it against Cabahug’s head. Lorino was taken aback at the sight of the crazed, crossed-eyed intruder as Cabahug leaped from the bed, his knife in hand. Lorino backed into a wall and leveled a hard kick into Cabahug’s chest as the enforcer rushed in. Cabahug fell back on the bed and Lorino jumped on top of him and knocked the knife from Cabahug’s hand. Lorino brought down a slew of punches to Cabahug’s face. Lorino reared back his right hand and delivered a hard punch that stunned Cabahug for a moment. As Lorino stood up and took a breath, Cabahug recovered, leaped from the bed and ran out the door.         

Later that evening, Cabahug reported to Bulan that he failed to murder Lorino. Bulan looked at Cabahug’s bruised face and dared not reproach his chief enforcer. He simply told Cabahug to try again.    

At the Americano, Lorino told Walker about the attack. He told Walker that he and Jade were fine, although the girl was shaken. When Lorino mentioned that the attacker was crossed-eyed, Walker said, “Cabahug.” 

“Who?” 

“Joselito Cabahug, a thug who works for Bulan,” Walker said. “He’s a cross-eyed, crazy-looking bastard.”    

“I hit the motherfucker so hard, I think I might have uncrossed his eyes,” Lorino told Walker. “But he still got up and ran out the door.” 

Walker left the bar and walked over to Camama’s hotel to pass on to the Old Huk what Lorino told him about the murder attempt. The elderly gang leader had already been informed about the incident by one of his hotel clerks. Camama was furious that Bulan would dare to send the crazy killer Cabahug to his hotel to murder one of his American shabu dealers. Camama told Walker to have Duke Valle shadow Lorino for his protection. Lorino was a good earner for the Camama gang, and the Old Huk didn’t want anything to happen to him.  

The Old Huk turned to Sicat after Walker left and told his lieutenant to retaliate. Sicat nodded. Sicat and Coco Labrador, another veteran killer, roamed Olongapo hunting for Cabahug, but he appeared to go underground. But there were other targets, and the Old Huk approved of Sicat’s idea. 

Benigno Del Rosario was dapper, handsome and loquacious. He rose from being a waiter and bartender to become the Ritz’s popular manager. Del Rosario was in the Ritz working when one of his waiters told him that one of the bar girls was outside of the bar throwing up in the street. A hands-on manager, Del Rosario went outside to investigate. 

As Del Rosario stepped outside, Sicat and Labrador opened up on the bar manager and shot him multiple times. Del Rosario collapsed and died instantly. Sicat and Labrador ran down the street and leaped into a jeepney, which sped off.

Lieutenant Colonel Cesar Rosa came on the scene of the murder in front of the Ritz. Shooting people down in public in front of bars that drew in American sailors and their valued dollars was bad for Olongapo. Rosa and his officers interrogated witnesses. A bartender informed Rosa that a waiter had told Del Rosario that one of the bar girls was sick outside of the bar, which caused the manger to venture outside where he was shot and killed.

Rosa questioned the waiter, who at first denied he told Del Rosario anything. But when the waiter was dragged to the police station and harshly questioned, he confessed that Coco Labrador had threatened his family if he didn’t set up the bar manager. Rosa and his men sought out Labrador and arrested him at the Americano bar. At the police station, Labrador denied threatening the waiter and denied knowing anything about the murder. He also refused to implicate his boss, Sicat or the Old Huk. 

After Rosa left the interrogation room to urinate, Labrador punched the police officer guarding him. He took the officer’s sidearm and ran out of the interrogation room. Rosa encountered Labrador in the hall as he was fleeing, and Rosa pulled his sidearm from its holster and shot Labrador dead.      

Lorino spent the evening with Jade at the Americano. When the bar closed, Lorino and Jade left the bar and headed towards the hotel next door. Cabahug leaped from a jeepney and began firing at Lorino. Lorino pushed Jade to the ground and fell on top of her. Duke Valle came out of the shadows and shot Cabahug twice in the head. Valle placed the barrel of his gun under his nose and sniffed it like he saw so many cowboys do in the movies.          

When Bulan heard the news of Cabahug’s death, he gripped his knee in pain and cursed his luck. He did not grieve for Cabahug. Bulan would have to think of another way to pay the American sailor back. 

© 2025 Paul Davis 

Note: You can read other chapters via the below links: 

Paul Davis On Crime: My Crime Fiction: 'Butterfly'

Paul Davis On Crime: My Crime Fiction: 'Salvatore Lorino'

Paul Davis On Crime: My Crime Fiction: The Old Huk

Paul Davis On Crime: My Crime Fiction: Join The Navy And See Olongapo

Paul Davis On Crime: My Crime Fiction: 'Boots On The Ground'

Paul Davis On Crime: My Crime Fiction: 'The 30-Day Detail'

Paul Davis On Crime: My Crime Fiction: 'Cat Street'

Paul Davis On Crime: Chapter 12: On Yankee Station 

Paul Davis On Crime: My Crime Fiction: 'The Cherry Boy'

Paul Davis On Crime: My Crime Fiction: 'The Hit'

Paul Davis On Crime: My Crime Fiction: Welcome To Japan, Davis-San

Paul Davis On Crime: A Look Back At Life Aboard An Aircraft Carrier During The Vietnam War: 'The Compartment Cleaner'

Paul Davis On Crime: My Crime Fiction: 'Murder By Fire'

Paul Davis On Crime: My Crime Fiction: 'Admiral McCain'

Paul Davis On Crime: My Crime Fiction: 'Hit The Head' 

Paul Davis On Crime: My Crime Fiction: 'A Night At The Americano'  

Paul Davis On Crime: My Crime Fiction: 'Missing Muster' 

Paul Davis On Crime: My Crime Fiction: 'The Barracks Thief'

'Missing Muster'

 Missing Muster

 By Paul Davis

As we were nearing the end of our WESTPAC (Western Pacific) 1970-1971 cruise, the aircraft carrier USS Kitty Hawk was on station in the Gulf of Tonkin, launching aircraft that performed combat sorties against the North Vietnamese. 

On the deck just below the flight deck, I was shifting through copies of message traffic at my small desk in the Message Processing Center. I came upon a copy of a message to the carrier’s captain that solved a mystery that had haunted the officers and men aboard the carrier since the beginning of the cruise in November of 1970. What happened to Seaman Moore? 

Seaman Martin Moore was one of only a few casualties we had suffered on the cruise. Thankfully, all of pilots had returned safely to the aircraft carrier after bombing raids over North Vietnam. Unlike some of the pilots from our sister carriers, our pilots hadn’t been shot down and killed or taken prisoner. 

As I read the message, I recalled the frantic search for Seaman Moore as we sailed from Hawaii to the Philippines prior to reporting on “Yankee Station” in the Gulf of Tonkin off the coast of North Vietnam. 

Aboard the ship at sea, sailors were gathered periodically in groups and attendance was taken in what was called “musters.” Musters were held at various times to account for all of the nearly 5,000 crew members and airwing personnel. On the third muster at sea, it was reported that Moore was missing. He had been accounted for in the first two musters held while the carrier was at sea.   

On the assumption that he had fallen accidentally overboard into the sea, aircraft was launched to scan the Pacific Ocean and look for the missing sailor. The ship was also searched, compartment by compartment, looking for the sailor. It was thought that he was perhaps dead or dying somewhere or he was hiding on the carrier to avoid work. 

When two Marines showed up at the Message Processing Center, Chief John Helm would not allow them into the center to search for Moore. Despite the order from the carrier’s captain to search all spaces aboard the ship, the chief stopped the Marines from entering the center as they did not possess the proper clearances to do so. The chief was backed up by LTJG Albert Moony. 

As the Marines, Chief Helm and LTJG Moony had a standoff in the passageway outside of the top-secret center, a call was put into the Marine commanding officer, who in turn called the ship’s captain. Commander Thomas Larkin, an officer on the captain’s staff, showed up along with the Marine commanding officer. 

Chief Helm was adamant. 

“These Marines are not cleared to enter the Message Processing Center,” Helm said. “We can’t allow them in.” 

“The chief is right, Sir,” Moony added. “This is a high security area.”  

Larkin told Helm and Moony that he was cleared to enter the center. He offered to go in and search in lieu of the Marines. Helm, Moony and the Marine commanding officer agreed. Chief Helm punched in the four digits on the security panel that opened the door to the center.    

Larkin entered the Message Processing Center and walked around with Moony and Helm, holding a photo of Moore. He showed the photo to the sailors in the center and asked us if we had seen him. 

I glanced at the photo and noted that Moore looked a lot like Alfred E. Neuman, MAD magazine’s goofy cartoon character who sprouted “What me worry?” 

Moore, like Neuman, had a mop of reddish-brown hair, gap buck teeth, big ears and a silly grin. 

Satisfied that the missing sailor was not in the center, Larkin thanked Helm and Moony and left the center. 

As the captain ordered, the entire aircraft carrier was searched. Moore was not found, so he was reported as missing at sea and presumed dead from drowning.

 

But according to the Naval Investigative Service report I was reading, Moore was alive and well in Honolulu.                       

According to the NIS report, Moore had deserted the ship when the carrier sailed from Pearl Harbor in Hawaii to Subic Bay in the Philippines. 

With images of World War II naval combat in his head, with sailors being killed from Imperial Japanese fire and sailors drowning as ships were sunk, Moore was frightened that he would die aboard the carrier in devastating combat with the North Vietnamese. 

Apparently, he didn’t know that the 7^th Fleet aircraft carriers operated in the Gulf of Tonkin off the coast of North Vietnam in a battle group. The carrier was not only protected by the ship’s aircraft, the carrier was also protected by destroyers, a submarine and other defenses. The North Vietnamese shot at the carrier pilots flying over North Vietnam, but they didn’t dare try to attack the aircraft carriers at sea. 

Moore did not discuss his great fears with anyone. If he had, they might have told him this. By all accounts, Moore was a dim lad. 

The NIS report stated that as Moore was a loner and did not have much of a social life, so he was able to save a good bit of money. As the Kitty Hawk was preparing to leave Pearl Harbor, Moore failed to report back onboard. Wearing civilian clothes, he checked into a cheap Honolulu hotel and hid out. 

For many months, he ate little, bought little, and spent his days on the Waikiki beach, watching the pretty girls in bikinis. He watched the girls, but he was far too shy to approach them or dare to speak to them. 

Moore had not contacted his family back in Boulder, Colorado. He didn’t know that the Navy had reported his presumed death to his parents, as he had not given a thought to how the Navy would respond to his missing status.  

Moore’s stay in Honolulu ended after two local thugs beat and robbed him. The thugs punched and kicked him and ripped his well-worn shirt. They took the money he had in his shirt pocket. They left him on the beach unconscious. The police took him to a hospital and as he lay unconscious, the police checked his pocket and found his Navy ID. 

The Honolulu police reported the incident to the NIS and the NIS ran his ID and discovered that Moore was listed as missing at sea. When Moore awoke, he saw two NIS special agents at his hospital bedside. They questioned him, and he confessed that he had not reported aboard the Kitty Hawk prior to the ship's sailing out for the Philippines.  

When he was released from the hospital, Moore was taken into custody by the NIS and charged with desertion.  

Who reported Moore present in the first two musters, or why, remained a mystery.  

A Night At The Americano

 A Night at the Americano

 By Paul Davis 

As the aircraft carrier USS Kitty Hawk was departing “Yankee Station” off the coast of North Vietnam in 1971 and sailing towards the U.S. Subic Bay naval base in the Philippines, Salvatore Lorino visited the Radio Communications Division’s berthing compartment. 

I just got of watch in the ship’s Message Processing center and as I entered the compartment, I saw Lorino talking to Mike Hunt, Dino Ingemi and a couple of other radiomen. Lorino jumped up from his chair and hugged me, South Philly style, as he called me his goombah, which in South Philadelphia Italian means a good friend. 

Although Lorino worked in the Deck Division, he often visited me and the other friends he made in my division. The radiomen in my division got a kick out of Lorino. His South Philly swagger, his perpetual lopsided grin, and his rapid, raspy voice amused the sailors. 

I was 18 years old at the time and Lorino was a couple of years older. Lorino, six feet tall, lean, with black hair and rugged features, was a meth dealer on the ship, and he had a couple of radiomen as customers. I had asked him not to deal drugs in my division, but his brief response was "Hey, business is business." 

It was not meth business, called “shabu” in Olongapo, that brought Lorino to the berthing compartment this time. Rather, he wanted to see me. He wanted to ask me to accompany him to the Americano bar in Olongapo when we docked in Subic Bay. 

I said no, as I enjoyed the Starlight bar and the company of Zeny, the beautiful Filipina hostess that I had been seeing. 

Mike Hunt suggested that I should visit the Americano to see what it was like there. 

“Scout it out for us,” Hunt said. “If you liked the bar, we’ll all go there.”  

“I’ll tell Zeny that you got the duty on the ship,” Ingemi said. “I’ll buy Zeny and Marlena drinks. That’ll keep the other guys away from Zeny.” 

The first night in port at Subic Bay, Lorino met me at the enlisted brow, and we walked together down the brow to the pier. Lorino was wearing a black T-shirt, jeans and black cowboy boots. Ever the clotheshorse, I was dressed in a black knit shirt, tan slacks and Italian black loafer shoes.  

We walked out the naval base’s gate, walked across the bridge over “Shit River” and strolled down Magsaysay Drive until we came to the Americano. 

When we stepped inside, I heard the Filipino house band playing country music, imitating a popular American country group. Although the Filipino band was quite good, I wasn’t a fan of country music. I preferred rock and R&B dance music. 

As we stood in the entrance, a hostess rushed up to Lorino and hugged him. 

“This is Jade,” Lorino said. “She’s got a friend for you.” 

Jade took us to a table, and we sat down and ordered San Miquel beer. Jade waved over another hostess, and she introduced me to Tala, a pretty young girl with an oval face, black marble eyes, long dark hair, and a slim figure. Tala sat next to me. 

The Americano’s manager, Maxwell Walker, a heavy-set and nearly bald man in his fifties, came over with the waiter who delivered our drinks. The retired U.S. sailor was known as the “Chief.” 

“How’s my favorite guy?” the Chief asked Lorino. 

Lorino replied that he was great, and he introduced me to the Chief as his South Philly home boy. 

Lorino had told me all about the Chief, the Old Huk, and the other Olongapo criminals he had been dealing with when we were at sea. He was proud of his Olongapo connections, although I cautioned him.     

“Go say hello to the “Old Huk.” You know he loves you,” the Chief said, pointing to a table in the corner where an old, wizened man and a skinny younger man wearing large sunglasses sat. 

Yeah,” Lorino said with his lopsided grin. “He loves the money I bring in.”  

Lorino took my arm and took me over to the table.   

“Hello, my friends. This is Paulie, my goombah from South Philly,” Lorino said to Amada Camama, the Olongapo crime boss known as the Old Huk, and his assistant Jackie Sicat. 

“Paulie’s a writer.” 

Lorino called me a writer based on the three feature articles I wrote for the ship’s newspaper back when we were both in Special Services. I doubt that Lorino actually read the pieces, but he told me he was impressed. Back in South Philly, the only writers he knew were number writers. 

Most guys in the Navy addressed each other by their last name, and a couple of sailors abbreviated Davis and called me “Dav.” But because Lorino and I were both from the same South Philadelphia Italian American neighborhood, Lorino called me by the diminutive of Paul, my first name, like they do in South Philadelphia.  

“Paulie’s also a boxer. I seen him fight, so don’t fuck with him.”  

Amama just nodded, but Sicat lowered his sunglasses and gave me a curious look. 

When we walked away, Lorino told me he built me up to impress his partners in crime. 

“Great.” I said. “Now if something happens, they’ll shoot me first.” 

Lorino laughed.         

After a few drinks, Tala pulled me to the dance floor during a slow number and I danced with her, holding her close to me. Amama and Sicat passed by us as they headed out the door. 

Even with the band playing loudly, we all heard gunshots from outside the door. Lorino was up and running towards the door and I followed in his wake. 

Amama was crouched in the doorway, and Sicat was firing a pistol at two other Filipinos who were firing back from behind a jeepney. Lorino stood in front of Amama to protect him, and I stood off to the side. 

The gunfight on Magsaysay Drive only lasted a minute. Sicat shot one of the gunmen, and he collapsed in the street. The other gunman took off running down the street. 

Amama patted Lorino on the back and then he and Sicat stepped into a jeepney and drove off. Lorino and I went back into the bar. 

The Olongapo police and the American Shore Patrol showed up and began asking questions. The Chief, his bar employees and the bar’s patrons all told the police and the Shore Patrol that they didn’t see or hear anything. 

The dead gunman in the street was carted away by the police. Inside the Americano, the band began playing again and the sailors went back to dancing with the bar girls. 

As we sat back at our table, Lorino in a low hush told me about the street war going on between the Old Huk and another drug gang.         

 “You better break away from these shady characters and the shabu business,” I told Lorino. “You’re out of your league here. This isn’t South Philly. You’re going to end up dead or in jail.” 

Lorino just gave me his lopsided grin and shrugged. 

 

Later that evening, Lorino, Jade, Tala and I took a jeepney to Jade’s house in the Barrio. The house, no better than a shack, was clean and comfortable if rustic. 

Jade gave us a beer and Tala took my hand and led me to a bedroom. 

The next morning Lorino and I headed back to the ship. There were no jeepneys around, so we walked through the Barrio village towards Magsaysay Drive. We came to a rickety small wooden bridge a few feet above a muddy creek. 

At the other end of the bridge was five teenage shoeshine boys. The shoeshine boys were notorious thieves and violent criminals. Lorino swaggered towards them and waved hello. 

One of the shoeshine boys came forward and said, “Hey, Joe! You want a shine?” 

“No,” I replied firmly. 

The shoeshine boy threw a ball of mud onto my left shoe. 

“How about now?” he asked with a grin. The other shoeshine boys laughed. 

My reaction was immediate. 

I punched him in the face, and he dropped to the wooden floor of the bridge. 

We then heard a series of clicks as the other shoeshine boys whipped out Batangas "Butterfly" knives. I pulled out my own pocketknife and we squared off. 

Lorino pulled out a wad of Pesos and tossed them into the muddy creek. 

The shoeshine boys all jumped into the creek to retrieve the Pesos. 

“Look at what that fucking kid did to my shoe,” I said in anger. 

“Come on, let’s go,” Lorino said to me and pulled me away from the bridge. 

We caught a jeepney and we drove back to the naval base’s gate. 

“Gotta love Olongapo,” Lorino said.