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)