USS MULLINNIX DD-944

Marseille, France 1959



View of old port, "Le Vieux Port" in Marseille, France
Post marked from USS Mullinnix DD-944 on 27 August, 1959


This postcard picture is the old port of the harbor where the many fishing boats tie up. All the sides of this 'old port' are surrounded with seafood restaurants and open beer gardens. The Mullinnix tied up just to the left of this picture.

Excerpt from "The Last Gun Ship - History of USS Mullinnix DD-944"
A Historical Novel By Frank A. Wood

1959 Marseille, France Taxi Brochure (PDF)


Marseilles has sailor roots and is the oldest town in France. The legend surrounding the origins of the town go back to 600 B.C. Greek sailors coming from Phocaea (Asia Minor) chose to focus their activity in the Lacydon creek - the present location of the Vieux Port. The day they arrived, the leader of the Greeks, Protis made a visit to the Ligure tribe, which had settled there. It just so happened that on that very day, Gyptis, daughter of King Naan was to be married. Gyptis chose Protis as her husband above a number of other suitors - he had also fallen head over heels for her - and thus, Marseilles was founded.

There are approximately one hundred different districts in Marseilles, each one self-contained and with its own distinct features - a veritable orgasm of sailor taste buds. Le Vieux Port was one of the best-known parts of Marseilles with streets lined with dockside slums and down-and-out whores on the make. La Canebière was the most famous road in town with market streets branching off such as Rue St Ferréol, and the Musée de la Mode, the Musee de la Marine et de l'Economie, and the Opera. Le Panier was rich in history such as the Clocher des Accoules, la place des Moulins, la Vieille Charité and la Major.

The crew enjoyed Place Jean Jaures with its huge market square, the Le Cours Julien section filled with cafes, cabarets and exotic dance clubs, and Endoume, partial with the locals, host to the world famous Notre Dame de la Garde with its enormous statue of the Virgin Mary on top of the bell tower. There were two areas more popular than the others to most of the crew. The first was The Corniche, a scenic coastal road that wound along the Mediterranean coast through fancy villas with views of the open sea and wide sandy, hidden beaches that were mostly topless if not nude. The second was Castellane with its all night bars and massage parlors.

The locals had an ambivalent attitude toward sailors, who were the mainstay of the local economy, and a major source of aggravation. No wonder. With the arrival of each ship, sailors descended like a plaque of locusts. All looking for a meat market, a sailor's meat market.

They found themselves, by choice, in a sailor's bar in Castellane. Alcohol would come first. Women next. They drank from a square bottle of cheap sailor's gin they had bought as a substitute for American whiskey.

BT3 Carl "Stick" Startford and MM3 Butler "Butt" Mackavie. Their shipmates believed they'd made a conscious choice to erase God's thumbprint from their souls. They both knew the best times of their life was punching holes in the ocean aboard Mullinnix. Both were self-destructive, pretending they could drop lighted matches in a gas tank without consequences. Their shipmates were gold while they were base metal.

To say Startford walked slowly was an understatement. He appeared to be someone who stood still at an extremely fast pace. He was like following a statue. A solid man of middle height with the unmistakable look of a sailor. He smoked like a boiler with a too rich fuel-water ratio. He sounded more like a marine than a sailor with comments like, "Listen, you fuckin' wingnut."

On the other hand, Mackavie had Bogart eyes, Chandlerest-like. His mouth was like a horizontal keyhole, the corner of his upper lip exposing his teeth. His shirts were so wash-faded you could see his chest hairs through the fabric. He was just beginning to fill out, to lose the kid in him, to hop the fast track to manhood.

"Every time I go in the hole I can't seem to scrub the grease, oil and steam out of my skin...fucking shit," complained Startford.

"Don't get your skives in a knot Stick. We're on fuckin' liberty man!" answered Mackavie.

"I know, I know. But that shitbird I work for makes it worse, all most unbearable."

"Who? Chief Fuckup?" Asked Mackavie.

"Yea, he's a mean son-of-a-bitch when he wants to be and he always wants to be. I'd like to stick it to him - stick it in and break it off in his ass!"

"You know, you're crazy. You should go see a fucking shrink!" said Mackavie.

Chief Fuckup was in referenced to BT Chief James Buchanan. To see him was to smell him. He was a bearded, ill-kempt man in his early forties with strong body odor. There was a gap in his teeth were cigarettes were lodged in an almost permanent basis. He had ulcers, high blood pressure, insomnia, and constipation. He was a walking wreck of a man. What kept him alive? Booze, fags, whores, and most importantly, the sea. He had a streak of mean that was ever present on his face and in the face of the people that reported to him.

"He's a shit bag full of hot air. Always handed out his little chicken shit details. Shine that. Scrub this. Check that. Well, I say 'fuck him!' Fuckin' ass wipe."

"Holy fucking shit Stick, keep this up and you'll ruin both our liberties. Can't you just drop it for a fuckin' minute while we get our ashes hauled", complained Mackavie. "Liberty is so we can forget ball-breakers like Buchanan. Let's finish off this gin and find a massage parlor. I have a ditty bag full of fufu juice that I'm gonna spread on thick for these girls with those sweet bosnias."

Walking out into the street Startford asked, "Eat first, or fuck first?"

"What, are you crazy? Fuck!"

As they walked the street they were approached with, "You want fille publique (public girl)?" Or, "fille de joie (girl of joy)?" Or, "come, in here, fille de mauvaise vie for you (girl of bad life)!" They didn't take long as lofty expectations had not been set.

It didn't look like much from the outside. But then again, they never do. Why waste the money. They entered through a thick beaded curtain. They were led upstairs by a thirty something woman, in threadbare stockings and a short black leather skirt the displayed more than it hid. The pair couldn't help but look up, straining to see even more, as they followed her to the second floor. They were offered a seat and to flip through a stack of porn magazines while she slinked down the narrow dimly lit hall. Two wood-bladed fans turned overhead, one squeaking with age. The cigarette and cigar smoke smelled like air trapped for days in a refrigerator full of spoiled cheese.

A door opened, then closed. Two women appeared from the hall. They first one was typical French in that she wore little makeup, sported a boxy haircut, strong narrow face, a torso somewhat longer than necessary, and shapely caves and angles. Her mouth a thick red smudge of lipstick. But her voice, no, her accent cut through you like a hot knife through butter. Her partner was slim, shapely, and gifted with long, silken black hair that was curled up like a snake on top of her head. Her dark complexion accentuated the brightness of her large, pale blue, inquiring eyes. She spoke good English but it was heavily accented.

The women were clad only in custom jewelry and high heels. "Fuckin' A!" muttered Mackavie.

Added Startford, "This is going to be fan-fucking-tasic!"

With the financial arrangements settled the foursome walked to the end of the hall and entered the last door on the left, shutting it gently. First the two soaked in tubs with the two naked girls. Then they were massaged by their soft soapy bodies. Then they were laid on beds surrounded by mirrors and towel dried off. After another massage by both of them on the bed, Startford and Mackavie had to choose. Oral or conventional? Who watches whom? Who went first?

Later, Startford opened one eye and saw, on the adjoining slab, his shipmate, semi-comatose in the hands of his masseur. Apart from the slap of flesh on flesh, there was silence.

To be continued...

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