Remembering Airdale Bars- From and old bold NFO named Crash...
Airdales always stuck together. They worked and played as a crew and they
gravitated to places where they could be with fellow aircrewmen, in
locations where people who could tolerate the obnoxious conduct, impure
verbiage and rollicking nonsense that was the standard by which the
aircrew were measured. Their hallmark, so to speak. The airdale bar was
unlike other naval watering holes and dens of iniquity inhabited by
seagoing elements. It had to meet strict standards to be in compliance
with the acceptable requirement for an airborne sailor beer-swilling dump.
Loudmouth Barmaid.
The first and foremost requirement was a crusty old gal serving suds. She
had to be able to wrestle King Kong to parade rest. Be able to balance a
tray with one hand, knock bluejackets out of the way with the other hand
and skillfully navigate through a roomful of milling around drunks. On
slow nights, she had to be the kind of gal who would give you a back
scratch with a fly swatter handle or put her foot on the table so you
could admire her new ankle bracelet some AE brought her back from a Hong
Kong liberty.
A good barmaid had to be able to whisper sweet nothings in your ear like,
"Sailor, your thirteen button flap is twelve buttons short of a green
board." And, "Buy a pack of Clorets and chew up the whole thing before
you get within heaving range of any gal you ever want to see again." And,
"Hey animals, I know we have a crowd tonight, but if any of you guys find
the head facilities fully occupied and start urinating down the floor
drain, you're gonna find yourself scrubbing the deck with your white
hats!"
They had to be able to admire great tattoos, look at pictures of ugly
bucktooth kids and smile. Be able to help haul drunks to cabs and comfort
19 year-olds who had lost someone close to them. They could look at your
ship's identification shoulder tab and tell you the names of the Skippers
back to the time you were a Cub Scout.
If you came in after a late night maintenance problem and fell asleep with
a half eaten Slim-Jim in your hand, they tucked your peacoat around you,
put out the cigarette you left burning in the ashtray and replaced the
warm draft you left sitting on the table with a cold one when you woke up.
Why? Simply because they were one of the few people on the face of the
earth that knew what you did, and appreciated what you were doing. And if
you treated them like a decent human being and didn't drive 'em nuts by
playing songs they hated on the juke box, they would lean over the back of
the booth and park their soft warm boobs on your neck when they sat two
Rolling Rocks in front of you.
Imported table wipe down guy and glass washer, trash dumper, deck swabber
and paper towel replacement officer.
The guy had to have baggy tweed pants and a gold tooth and a grin like a
1950 Buick. And a name like "Ramon", Juan", "Pedro" or "Tico". He had to
smoke unfiltered Luckies, Camels or Raleighs. He wiped the tables down
with a sour washrag that smelled like a skunk diaper and said, "How are
choo navee mans tonight? He was the indispensable man. The guy with
credentials that allowed him to borrow Slim-Jims, Beer Nuts and pickled
hard boiled eggs from other beer joints when they ran out where he worked.
The establishment itself.
The place had to have walls covered with ships and squadron plaques. Many
of the ships and the airplanes shown in the accompanying photographs had
made the trip up the river to the scrap yard or to the Davis-Monthan bone
yard ten years before you enlisted. The walls were adorned with enlarged
airwing patches and the dates of previous deployments A dozen or more old,
yellowed photographs of fellows named "Buster", "Chicago", "P-Boat
Barney", "Flaming Hooker Harry", "Malone", "Honshu Harry", Jackson, and
Capt. Slade Cutter decorated any unused space.
It had to have the obligatory Michelob, Pabst Blue Ribbon and "Beer Nuts
sold here" neon signs. An eight-ball mystery beer tap handle and signs
reading:
"Your mother does not work here so clean away your dam trash."
"Hands off the barmaid."
"Don't throw butts in urinal."
"Barmaid's word final in settling bets."
"Take your fights out in the alley."
"Owner reserves the right to waltz your worthless ass out to the
sidewalk."
"Shipmates are responsible for riding herd on their squadron drunks."
Typical signage found in classy establishments catering to sophisticated
clientele.
You had to have a juke box built along the lines of a Sherman tank loaded
with Hank Williams, Mother Maybelle Carter, Johnny Horton, Johnny Cash and
twenty other crooning goobers nobody ever heard of. The damn thing has to
have "La Bamba", Herb Alpert's "Lonely Bull" and Johnny Cash's "Don't take
your guns to town" in memory of Alameda's barmaid goddess, Thelma. If
Thelma is within a twelve-mile radius of where any of those three
recordings can be found on a juke box, it is wise to have a stack of life
insurance applications within reach of the coin slot.
The furniture in a real good airdale bar had to be made from coal mine
shoring lumber and was not fully acceptable until it had 600 cigarette
burns and your carrier's ship numbers carved into it. The bar had to have
a brass foot rail and at least six Slim-Jim containers, an oversized glass
cookie jar full of Beer-Nuts, a jar of pickled hard boiled eggs that could
produce rectal gas emissions that could shut down a sorority party, and
big glass containers full of something called pickled pigs feet and Polish
sausage. Only drunk Chiefs and starving Ethiopians ate pickled pigs feet
and unless the last three feet of your colon had been manufactured by
Midas, you didn't want to get any where
near the Polish napalm dogs.
No aircrew bar was complete without a couple of hundred faded airplane
pictures and a "Shut the hell up!" sign taped on the mirror behind the bar
along with several rather tasteless nekkit lady pictures. The pool table
felt had to have at least three strategic rips as a result of drunken
competitors and balls that looked as if a gorilla baby had teethed on the
sonuvabitches.
Aircrew bars were home, but they were also establishments where 19
year-old kids received an education available nowhere else on earth. You
learned how to "tell" and "listen" to sea stories. You learned about sex
at $25.00 or 20 pesos if you bargained really well, a lesson from professional ladies who taught you things your high school biology teacher didn't know were anatomically possible. You learned how to make a two cushion shot and how to toss down a beer and shot known as a "depth charge." We were young, a helluva long way from home. We were pulling down slave wages for twenty-four hours a day, seven days a-week availability and loving the life we lived.
We didn't know it at the time, but our association with the men we served
with forged us into the men we became. And a lot of that association took
place in Naval Aviation oriented bars where we shared the stories
accumulated in our, up to then, short lives. We learned about women and
that life could be tough on a gal.
While many of our classmates were attending college, we were getting an
education slicing through the green rolling seas in WestPac, experiencing
the orgasmic rush of a night cat shot, the heart pounding drama of the
return to the ship with the gut wrenching arrestment to a pitching deck.
The hours of tedium, boring holes in the sky late at night, experiencing
the periodic discomfort of turbulence, marveling at the creation of St.
Elmo's Fire, and sometimes having our reverie interrupted with stark
terror. But when we came ashore on liberty, we would rub shoulders with
some of the finest men we would ever know, in bars our mothers would never
have approved of. Saloons that would live in our memories forever.
Airdales always stuck together. They worked and played as a crew and they
gravitated to places where they could be with fellow aircrewmen, in
locations where people who could tolerate the obnoxious conduct, impure
verbiage and rollicking nonsense that was the standard by which the
aircrew were measured. Their hallmark, so to speak. The airdale bar was
unlike other naval watering holes and dens of iniquity inhabited by
seagoing elements. It had to meet strict standards to be in compliance
with the acceptable requirement for an airborne sailor beer-swilling dump.
Loudmouth Barmaid.
The first and foremost requirement was a crusty old gal serving suds. She
had to be able to wrestle King Kong to parade rest. Be able to balance a
tray with one hand, knock bluejackets out of the way with the other hand
and skillfully navigate through a roomful of milling around drunks. On
slow nights, she had to be the kind of gal who would give you a back
scratch with a fly swatter handle or put her foot on the table so you
could admire her new ankle bracelet some AE brought her back from a Hong
Kong liberty.
A good barmaid had to be able to whisper sweet nothings in your ear like,
"Sailor, your thirteen button flap is twelve buttons short of a green
board." And, "Buy a pack of Clorets and chew up the whole thing before
you get within heaving range of any gal you ever want to see again." And,
"Hey animals, I know we have a crowd tonight, but if any of you guys find
the head facilities fully occupied and start urinating down the floor
drain, you're gonna find yourself scrubbing the deck with your white
hats!"
They had to be able to admire great tattoos, look at pictures of ugly
bucktooth kids and smile. Be able to help haul drunks to cabs and comfort
19 year-olds who had lost someone close to them. They could look at your
ship's identification shoulder tab and tell you the names of the Skippers
back to the time you were a Cub Scout.
If you came in after a late night maintenance problem and fell asleep with
a half eaten Slim-Jim in your hand, they tucked your peacoat around you,
put out the cigarette you left burning in the ashtray and replaced the
warm draft you left sitting on the table with a cold one when you woke up.
Why? Simply because they were one of the few people on the face of the
earth that knew what you did, and appreciated what you were doing. And if
you treated them like a decent human being and didn't drive 'em nuts by
playing songs they hated on the juke box, they would lean over the back of
the booth and park their soft warm boobs on your neck when they sat two
Rolling Rocks in front of you.
Imported table wipe down guy and glass washer, trash dumper, deck swabber
and paper towel replacement officer.
The guy had to have baggy tweed pants and a gold tooth and a grin like a
1950 Buick. And a name like "Ramon", Juan", "Pedro" or "Tico". He had to
smoke unfiltered Luckies, Camels or Raleighs. He wiped the tables down
with a sour washrag that smelled like a skunk diaper and said, "How are
choo navee mans tonight? He was the indispensable man. The guy with
credentials that allowed him to borrow Slim-Jims, Beer Nuts and pickled
hard boiled eggs from other beer joints when they ran out where he worked.
The establishment itself.
The place had to have walls covered with ships and squadron plaques. Many
of the ships and the airplanes shown in the accompanying photographs had
made the trip up the river to the scrap yard or to the Davis-Monthan bone
yard ten years before you enlisted. The walls were adorned with enlarged
airwing patches and the dates of previous deployments A dozen or more old,
yellowed photographs of fellows named "Buster", "Chicago", "P-Boat
Barney", "Flaming Hooker Harry", "Malone", "Honshu Harry", Jackson, and
Capt. Slade Cutter decorated any unused space.
It had to have the obligatory Michelob, Pabst Blue Ribbon and "Beer Nuts
sold here" neon signs. An eight-ball mystery beer tap handle and signs
reading:
"Your mother does not work here so clean away your dam trash."
"Hands off the barmaid."
"Don't throw butts in urinal."
"Barmaid's word final in settling bets."
"Take your fights out in the alley."
"Owner reserves the right to waltz your worthless ass out to the
sidewalk."
"Shipmates are responsible for riding herd on their squadron drunks."
Typical signage found in classy establishments catering to sophisticated
clientele.
You had to have a juke box built along the lines of a Sherman tank loaded
with Hank Williams, Mother Maybelle Carter, Johnny Horton, Johnny Cash and
twenty other crooning goobers nobody ever heard of. The damn thing has to
have "La Bamba", Herb Alpert's "Lonely Bull" and Johnny Cash's "Don't take
your guns to town" in memory of Alameda's barmaid goddess, Thelma. If
Thelma is within a twelve-mile radius of where any of those three
recordings can be found on a juke box, it is wise to have a stack of life
insurance applications within reach of the coin slot.
The furniture in a real good airdale bar had to be made from coal mine
shoring lumber and was not fully acceptable until it had 600 cigarette
burns and your carrier's ship numbers carved into it. The bar had to have
a brass foot rail and at least six Slim-Jim containers, an oversized glass
cookie jar full of Beer-Nuts, a jar of pickled hard boiled eggs that could
produce rectal gas emissions that could shut down a sorority party, and
big glass containers full of something called pickled pigs feet and Polish
sausage. Only drunk Chiefs and starving Ethiopians ate pickled pigs feet
and unless the last three feet of your colon had been manufactured by
Midas, you didn't want to get any where
near the Polish napalm dogs.
No aircrew bar was complete without a couple of hundred faded airplane
pictures and a "Shut the hell up!" sign taped on the mirror behind the bar
along with several rather tasteless nekkit lady pictures. The pool table
felt had to have at least three strategic rips as a result of drunken
competitors and balls that looked as if a gorilla baby had teethed on the
sonuvabitches.
Aircrew bars were home, but they were also establishments where 19
year-old kids received an education available nowhere else on earth. You
learned how to "tell" and "listen" to sea stories. You learned about sex
at $25.00 or 20 pesos if you bargained really well, a lesson from professional ladies who taught you things your high school biology teacher didn't know were anatomically possible. You learned how to make a two cushion shot and how to toss down a beer and shot known as a "depth charge." We were young, a helluva long way from home. We were pulling down slave wages for twenty-four hours a day, seven days a-week availability and loving the life we lived.
We didn't know it at the time, but our association with the men we served
with forged us into the men we became. And a lot of that association took
place in Naval Aviation oriented bars where we shared the stories
accumulated in our, up to then, short lives. We learned about women and
that life could be tough on a gal.
While many of our classmates were attending college, we were getting an
education slicing through the green rolling seas in WestPac, experiencing
the orgasmic rush of a night cat shot, the heart pounding drama of the
return to the ship with the gut wrenching arrestment to a pitching deck.
The hours of tedium, boring holes in the sky late at night, experiencing
the periodic discomfort of turbulence, marveling at the creation of St.
Elmo's Fire, and sometimes having our reverie interrupted with stark
terror. But when we came ashore on liberty, we would rub shoulders with
some of the finest men we would ever know, in bars our mothers would never
have approved of. Saloons that would live in our memories forever.
...although I did have a CO or two who definitely "remembered" too much.