Chuckwagon Chaos
Navy and Marine officers try to outdo each other when it comes to pulling pranks one afternoon in the Philippines. But in the end, the last laugh is had by all.

One of my earliest adventures in the Navy took place in the Philippines at the NS Subic Bay officers club annex, known as “the Chuckwagon.” For those who’ve never enjoyed the “coldest beer in West Pac,” the Chuckwagon was two Quonset huts joined across the back by a kitchen facility and a passageway full of slot machines. One of the Quonsets was a steak house; the other was strictly for drinking.
 
It was in the drinking side, late one afternoon in the fall of 1971, that all the junior officers from the USS Goldsborough (DDG-20) were assembled, waiting for happy hour. Also there was a group of warrant officers from a fleet oiler who had been waiting for happy hour since before lunch. Shortly after 1600, two Marine lieutenants came in and sat near the door. They were greeted with hoots from all us salty Navy types, and the warrants sent a pitcher of milk to their table. The Marines finished their beers and left to a chorus of more hoots and catcalls.

Unbeknownst to most of us, the Marine barracks was located just across a side street from the Chuckwagon. A short time later, I noticed a platoon of Marines formed up in the street in three ranks facing the Chuckwagon. They were dressed in boots, utility trousers, and Skivvie shirts, and the two milk-drinking lieutenants seemed to be giving them special instructions. Pretty soon, everyone inside the Quonset hut was looking out and laughing at the Marines — that is, until the lieutenants gave the command to charge! The three ranks ran in formation to the near side of the Quonset, scampered up and over, reformed on the other side, charged back over the top, and off to their barracks.
 
Inside the Chuckwagon, all hell broke loose. Thirty-some-odd years of dirt, spiders, geckos, and paint chips came raining down on our heads, down the backs of our shirts, and into our beer mugs. We all reached the same conclusion at exactly the same time — abandon ship! One very large warrant boatswain knocked down the only exit door, and we spilled into the parking lot, where we collapsed in a khaki heap. Before we could regain our officer-like composure, the two lieutenants walked casually through our mess, pouring milk on us all.

Having been so totally humiliated and professionally embarrassed, there was only one thing left for us to do. We regrouped, “captured” the two Marines, and took them back inside the Chuckwagon for all the beer they could drink for the rest of the night.

— Mike Newman is a retired Navy captain. He and his wife, Nancy, live in Bryan, Texas, where he works for his family-owned printing company.