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| At it's narrowest point, it's only seven nautical miles. It's still a long swim. Unless you're Aquaman. |
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| "See? Makes you want to respect me, huh?" "Naw, you still smell like fish." |
To the south is Morocco and, to the north, Gibraltar, a British protectorate since 1713. In addition to locals, all of whom speak English, and day workers from Spain, a troop of macaques, also known as Barbary Apes, inhabit the “Rock.”
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| Wrong Rock. |
I served aboard the aircraft carrier, USS America, in the last few years of the 1970s. During that time, my ship made two cruises to support American national security interests in the Mediterranean. Naturally, we used the “STROG” to come and go from the United States to our area of operations.
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| Because that's how we be in the Sixth Fleet |
On the night of September 9th, 1979, we transited west through the Strait of Gibraltar. Our time protecting Europe’s southern flank was at an end. We were heading back to our homeport of Norfolk, Virginia. It would be the last time for me as a member of America’s crew.
I would return to the “Med” seven years
later, but that’s another story altogether.
While at breakfast the morning before our
transit, I brought up the subject of the macaques with a newly-reported
crewmember.
“Oh, yeah,” I said as I reached for a
bottle of ketchup with which I hoped to kill the taste of powdered eggs, “there’s
a couple hundred of those things living on the Rock.”
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| "Take five gallons of water, add to fifty pounds of powdered eggs, add a pinch of paprika. garnish with a liberal dose of salmonella, serve with diarrhea. Voila! It's what's for breakfast!" |
“So? That’s a problem?” the rookie asked.
“Well, they’re a crafty buncha
monkeys. They could easily swim over and
climb aboard the ship. If that happens, who
knows what damage they could do?”
My companion’s eyes widened to dinner
plates. I knew the hook had been set.
Mustering all the bravado three years as a savvy
crewmember could bring, I continued, “The Senior Section Leader is drafting up
a watch bill which will put in place a ‘Shipboard Security Watch’ from midnight
to four tomorrow morning. We call it the
‘Monkey Watch.’”
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| "So, whaddya say we swim over to that aircraft carrier over there?" "Actually, I'd rather go sniff tourists." "Yeah, but Biden's beat us to it." |
“Why then?”
I shook my head.
“Because that is when we’ll be going
through the strait and at most risk, of course.”
“Won’t we be going pretty fast?”
“Not maximum speed, but plenty fast enough.”
“But, isn’t the strait seven mi-“
“They’re pretty sneaky bugge-look,
don’t you care about your shipmates?”
“Well, sure. I’m just wondering ab-“
“Good.
Since you’re the new guy, the Chief volunteered you for the duty.”
“Really?” He looked dismayed. “Where do I report?”
“Don’t worry. Just come down to the shop at 11:30 tonight. As you know, I work nights. I’ll help you out.”
“Well, okay. I guess.”
“Hey, could you pass the Texas Pete? The ketchup ain’t doing it.”
That evening at 11:30 (well, 2330, but I’m
cutting those who don’t know military time some slack), USS America’s indispensable
Monkey Watch stepped into the shop. He
looked a little nervous, but his working uniform was immaculate. I guess he figured that, if he was going to
represent our department, he may as well look like a recruiting poster.
Steve, our Departmental Clerk, stood next
to me. An hour prior to the arrival of
Airman Apprentice Gilbert Gullible, he had gone down to the ship’s detachment
of Marines. Asking the bemused Corporal
of the Guard to play along, he relayed our plans for the evening.
The corporal (who was an actual corporal)
grinned and said in a thick southern drawl, “Oh, don’t you worry. I’ll make sure that your baby squid is
properly posted.”
“So,” our ‘victim’ asked, “where do I need
to go?”
As seriously as I could, I said, “We need
to go down to the Marine Detachment. The
Corporal of the Guard will post you.”
That brightened him up some. “Do I get to carry a gun?”
Our clerk jumped in. “Of course not. You’ll get a billy club and a whistle. They’re just monkeys, you know.”
Then, to me, he asked, “Are you sure he can
do this?”
I gravely nodded my head.
“You know, because this isn’t a game.”
Then, to him, “All right, let’s go. Jeez, tie your boots, man.”
Minutes later, the Corporal of the Guard
had him standing at attention. He looked
him up and down, intensely scrutinizing his appearance and that of his uniform. He yanked down on his sleeves and peered at
the tops of his (tied) boots.
“Well, you’re no Marine, I’ll say that. But, since you’re a Navy guy, I guess you’ll
do.”
He tossed him a white web belt with a
nightstick, helmet, and a whistle. “Here,
put these on and follow me.”
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| "Whew! Good thing I put on clean underwear." |
Just before they hit the ladder leading to
the weather deck, the Marine turned to us.
“I’ve got him, gentleman. You swabbies can go drink coffee and color
your nails while he’s protecting us all from roving bands of monkeys.”
Well, even though this was all a joke, I
suppose a Marine couldn’t help being a Marine.
Still, a cup of coffee sounded pretty good.
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| "Eff those Marines, amirite?" "Right on. But, we still get to paint our nails, though, right?" "And shave our legs." |
We soon shared some-what else?-coffee in
the Department Office. Steve told me
what would be happening down below as the ship sped towards the Atlantic.
“They’ll put him next to the portside whale
boat. He’ll be told that, if he sees
anything suspicious, he’s to blow his whistle and one of the Marines will come
up to investigate.”
“What’s the billy club for then?”
“To bash himself in the head when he
realizes he’s been played.”
I laughed. “Can’t believe he fell for it.”
Steve shrugged. “New guys.”
I set
my empty cup down. “Gotta get to work,”
I said. “How long do we leave him there?”
“Well, if he doesn’t figure it out, he’s on
until three-
thirty or until the
Marines let him go.”
“Good grief, nobody could be that gullible.”
“I didn’t think anyone could be that
gullible to fall for this thing in the first place.”
I nodded.
“Breakfast later?”
“You bet.
I know a cook who got his hands on real eggs.”
As I walked past an open door leading to
the portside weather deck, I heard a frantic whistling, followed by a loud
pounding of feet flying up a ladder.
Huh.
I wondered how ticked off he’d be when he found out.
EPILOGUE: Our Monkey Watch remained on post for an hour and a half. He finally figured things out when a handful of Marines, wearing gas masks and grunting, “Ook, ook, ook,” approached him from the dark.
I avoided him until the ship arrived home two weeks later.
