Somewhere off the coast of Columbia, 2000:
So these bastards from the other ships in the ARG send their new booters to me (As in " Hey this guy is a dipshit and Sludge is the only FC on that wreck...let us send this dipshit to him for a few weeks. The grouchy ass will straighten out..."}. You know, worst kind of booters like the ones that are waiting on the pier at the next port o' call, or show up on a helo with the mail. Dunno bout the other branches, but only the dumbest of the dumb Firecontrollmen show up like this.
So, I get a pair of jokers for a month. Contrary to popular belief amoungs the rest of the crew, I am a busy sonovabitch underway. I'm doing my job AND playing Gunnersmate, Operations Specialist, and Master At Arms. (This is the price of being active duty, qualified, and holding a valid clearance on a goddamned reserve platform....)
So I do what I always do, I set the booters to cleaning shitters and standing "coffee watch" for the bridge and CIC midwatchsdtanders. This lasts a few weeks until I get some time to work with these guys on the gunmounts and at least get them qualified to be expendable on the .50s or 25mms. Both showed promise, so to help them get accquainted with shipboard life, I sent them both off on the standard self guided tour...
""Oi, shitbrick! Get yer ass belowdecks and ask the storecreatures for a 2lb tub of relative bearing grease."
Traditionally this keeps them busy for a few hours as every department plays along and sends these NUBs on a squid-style wild goose chase. NUB A returns after 45 minutes defeated. I ofcourse led him to belive ol' FC had no sense of humor and enjoyed cussing out NUBs. NUB B was gone for six hours before I got worried. I hopped on the bitchbox and started asking around.
"Anyone seen NUB B?"
"Uh, yeah, few hours ago FC2. Why you need him?"
"He's MIA somewhere, put the word out to look around for the dude. He either gave up and racked out, or he is lost with the snipes."
"Roger that."
Five hours after that, NUB B shows up...
Its 0300 and I am halfway through six hours of staring at a 45 year old surface search radar and learning spanish from our translator. NUB B is filthy. Greezy. Sweaty. Stinky....and holding a large can...
"FC2, here's yer goddamned relative bearing grease. The snipes say you owe them one."
By this time everyone onboard, leathernecks included know what is going on. This kid was sent to areas of the ship I had never even heard of. Yet, there in my hands was a little under half of a 5lb tub of grease circa 1950.
I wiped a rag over the old school label....
"Grease, multypurpose, Type A"
And, of course, the fine print on the can reads something very similar to:
"Manufactured by the Relative Bearing and Gearing Company under Contract to the US Navy."