" CT  Poem "

A   " CT "

Where there's a base on foreign ground
      A Navy CT stands
Loved only by his family
      And girls in other lands.
His duty lies upon the shore
      No foredeck feels his tread
No five-inch turret swings around
      To make him duck his head.
He does his job in Asian sands
      Maybe in Adak snow
And if Bupers should pass the word
      To Turkish mud he goes.
Some ridicule the land-locked swab
      And heap him with abuse
And say because he's not at sea
      He couldn't be much use.
These same few figure that a tar
      Should brave the salty spray
At the bow of a four-pipe can
      Fighting a stormy day.
The CT hears these rusty yarns
      Tales old as Davy Jones
He sits and listens quietly
      And inwardly condones.
For he knows the ways of seamen
      Their pride as men-o-war
Their way of tying knots and such
      Their thoughts of ships and shore.
So he gives his rapt attention
      To men who've been around
And from his lips you'll never hear
      A hint of Boastful sound.
Because his pride's the biggest kind
      The kind that's never heard
Pride in doing a thankless job
      Without a single word.

(Author unknown,   A CT in Turkey in 1957)