The shot was taken at sunset on Nov. 17, 1974, in the Mediterranean. If memory serves, we were sailing toward Palma de Mallorca, Spain, having just spent a weekend in Menton, France (between Nice and Monaco.
Not bad for an old Kodak 110, eh?
John 12:24 "Truly, truly, I say to you, unless a grain of wheat falls into the earth and dies, it remains alone; but if it dies, it bears much fruit."
Showing posts with label Mediterranean Sea. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Mediterranean Sea. Show all posts
27 October 2019
16 August 2017
Navy Memories #11: 1975, A Year of Change
Previous installments:
It was an unusually chilly winter in Elefsis, Greece. Not only cold and blustery, but on one memorable Saturday in January, it snowed for the first time in 16 years.
Okay, it flurried. But there was some accumulation, albeit less than an inch. But children had never seen it before, and one of my clearest memories of that morning was watching the neighborhood kids throw loose handfuls at each other. They didn't know how to make snowballs, but the instinct was there. :)
But Christmas of '74 came and went without incident. In the military, that's never a "given".
It's still awfully nice when it happens. So we began 1975 like this:
But in February, duty called: time to get underway. We didn't do much besides cruise around, it seemed, but we did continue to play tag with Russian subs and surface ships. At least we were at sea!
We also fired an ASROC (Anti-Submarine ROCket) or two.
We placed a 36" Styrofoam ball, spray-painted orange, in the ocean. Then we steamed 11 miles away, calculated the wind/drift/current, and launched an ASROC at it the unsuspecting foam. Those tasked with checking the target area went back to it, and reported "many pieces of orange-and-white Styrofoam on the surface."
I thought that was pretty impressive.
Speaking of the ASROC launcher - visible in the photo above as a horizontal rectangle from which the rocket just left - it was directly above my desk. Seriously, the base of the launcher formed the overhead above my seat, and the techs had to stand on my desk to work on it. If that sucker had ever malfunctioned (read if it blew up), it wouldn't have been much fun to be sitting in that particular spot.
After returning to port, The Powers That Be decided we should have a squadron competition for the deck hands: flaking out lines, splicing lines and/or wire ropes, relay races, lowering lifeboats, etc. My band, as well as one other, played live music for the event. There was plenty of food available, although I can't tell you what it might have been ... probably burgers and such. And, as they say, a good time was had by all.
In February, my almost-20-year-old head was filled with thoughts of fancy and possible romance. I'd been conducting a pen-pal relationship for some time with a lady from Juneau; she was a friend of a shipmate, also from Juneau. Bob had gone on to submarine school at that point, but I wanted to meet Rene'.
So I submitted a revised dream sheet* to the Bureau of Naval Personnel (BUPERS), requesting duty in Alaska. A fateful choice, as it turned out: 30 days later, I got orders for Adak, Alaska, an "isolated duty station" in the Aleutian Islands. That a topic to which we'll return, soon enough.
In late March, we set sail again. The ship stopped at a couple of small ports we'd visited before.
On the day before Easter, there were strong winds which prevented us from entering the port at Kythira. So we dropped anchored off the coast. On Easter morning, we awoke to find that the ship was near not only other tin cans from our squadron, but a group of Russian destroyers as well.
I suspect the reason was that spot was suitable for an anchorage (i.e., not terribly deep). But I also had the strong impression that we did it as part of our Navy's ongoing mission of pestering the Russian Navy in the Mediterranean. I can't remember if someone said that, or if we just joked about it.
Probably the latter, though. Heh.
And then we wound up in Naples, a port of call about which I'd heard many tales.
The harbor water was an impenetrable black, had scattered clumps of floating trash, and smelled foul. Once the ship was tied up at the pier, my first close-up look at the harbor was to see an orange peel and a dead cat drift by.
While a group of us were clustered at the rail, a car crashed through the wooden barricades at the shore and fell some 30 feet into the harbor, whereupon it sank like a stone. Even though U.S. Navy divers immediately jumped into that black water, I never did find out if they were able to save the occupant(s).
Not exactly an auspicious start.
But of course, I was anxious to see the sights. As soon as liberty was announced, those of us who weren't on duty headed down the gangplank to "Hey Joe Row".
What's that, you ask? It's the elbow-to-elbow rows of sidewalk vendors, on both sides of the street, yelling at the American sailors: "Hey Joe, wanna buy a watch?" Or a shirt, or pants, or a suit, or girls ... the list was endless. It was best to travel in groups, and just keep walking.
We hadn't eaten since an early brunch, and decided that German cuisine sounded good. Visiting Italy for the first time ... reasonable choice, no? Oh well, we had plenty of time to get local food. :)
We found (read we stumbled across) a place called the Bauhaus, or maybe Brauhaus, Brew Haus ... something like that. Okay, I can't remember it's name, but it was good. The size of a middlin' cafeteria inside, it was brightly lit, with many wooden tables, and looked like a set in a play. Or maybe Hogan's Heroes. There were no Nazi soldiers, though. Lots of very large beer steins on the tables, amidst huge platters of food.
After thoroughly stuffing ourselves, we were off in search of further adventures. My personal thought was that I'd probably never visit Italy again, so I wanted to see as much as I could.
The usual procedure for a ship in a port is that the sailors who are afforded liberty will go ashore, usually in civvies unless directed otherwise, and then return to the ship at night. It's the best of both worlds, as you can walk around a foreign land, sample the food and drink, meet people, and then return to U.S. "soil" at the end of the day.
The next day, our group thought it was high time to find out the difference between American pizza, and the real deal. Naples is reputedly the birthplace of pizza, so there was no time like the present.
We found a place with a wait staff who spoke some English, and ordered the daily special pizza.
Turns out it was served in a glass pie pan, roughly 13" x 20", and was 2 1/2" deep. Lots of soft, bubbly crust, with all the day's leftovers piled on top.
One of the best pizzas I've ever eaten, too; we thoroughly enjoyed that meal. Then we did more wandering around town, but I no longer remember much about it. As April drew to a close, my mind was starting to wander, too.
I had orders to the other side of the world, and thoughts of leaving began to crowd out everything else.
So bright and early on the morning of May 1, 1975, I left the ship. After a short hop on a helicopter, and a longer flight on a MAC (Military Airlift Command) flight for Athens - because that's where my tickets specified I was departing from - I boarded a TWA flight for New York.
From there, to St. Louis to see my parents for two weeks, and then to Juneau, to see the pen pal I mentioned. It was ... interesting, but fantasy and reality are frequently quite different. I found that out for myself, and moved on.
Back in those days, one couldn't fly from St. Louis to Alaska. I took Ozark Airlines to Chicago ($25 fare on military standby - eat your hearts out!), Northwest Orient Airlines to Seattle, and then Alaska Airlines to Juneau.
The SeaTac to Juneau flight stopped in Ketchikan. On the ground in Juneau, I discovered that they'd left my seabag on the plane, and off-loaded some old raggedy bag that looked like it had rabies. Or maybe the mange. Either way, it certainly wasn't mine.
The baggage claim lady kept looking at my ticket which said the flight originated in STL, and referred to it as Salt Lake City for the next three days until the bag turned up.
So for those three days, I could wear the clothes I'd flown in. Or maybe not...
I stayed in Juneau for two weeks, did a lot of hiking, and bought clothes I thought appropriate for Alaska: a down coat, thick socks, and heavy hiking boots. Flannel shirts, blue jeans, and underwear. All the things you don't think about, until you don't have them.
Next stop: Adak, Alaska.
* It's a form on which you can list the stations, ships, and overseas locations where you would like to be stationed. If there is an opening, you might get assigned to one of your choices. Otherwise, you can keep on dreaming. :)
- Boot Camp Memories
- About Those Navy Memories
- First Orders
- Anchor's Aweigh
- Man Overboard!
- Reflections of a Black Shoe
- Destroyer Life and Ports of Call
- Warships vs. Big Waves
- The Accident, and More Ports of Call
- The Black Sea
It was an unusually chilly winter in Elefsis, Greece. Not only cold and blustery, but on one memorable Saturday in January, it snowed for the first time in 16 years.
Okay, it flurried. But there was some accumulation, albeit less than an inch. But children had never seen it before, and one of my clearest memories of that morning was watching the neighborhood kids throw loose handfuls at each other. They didn't know how to make snowballs, but the instinct was there. :)
But Christmas of '74 came and went without incident. In the military, that's never a "given".
It's still awfully nice when it happens. So we began 1975 like this:
 |
| Tied up at the pier. Ships (and crews) are happier when underway. |
But in February, duty called: time to get underway. We didn't do much besides cruise around, it seemed, but we did continue to play tag with Russian subs and surface ships. At least we were at sea!
We also fired an ASROC (Anti-Submarine ROCket) or two.
 |
| Not my ship, but one just like it (a Gearing-class destroyer), launching an ASROC. |
We placed a 36" Styrofoam ball, spray-painted orange, in the ocean. Then we steamed 11 miles away, calculated the wind/drift/current, and launched an ASROC at it the unsuspecting foam. Those tasked with checking the target area went back to it, and reported "many pieces of orange-and-white Styrofoam on the surface."
I thought that was pretty impressive.
Speaking of the ASROC launcher - visible in the photo above as a horizontal rectangle from which the rocket just left - it was directly above my desk. Seriously, the base of the launcher formed the overhead above my seat, and the techs had to stand on my desk to work on it. If that sucker had ever malfunctioned (read if it blew up), it wouldn't have been much fun to be sitting in that particular spot.
 |
| A typical ASROC launcher |
After returning to port, The Powers That Be decided we should have a squadron competition for the deck hands: flaking out lines, splicing lines and/or wire ropes, relay races, lowering lifeboats, etc. My band, as well as one other, played live music for the event. There was plenty of food available, although I can't tell you what it might have been ... probably burgers and such. And, as they say, a good time was had by all.
 |
| Counter-clockwise: Elefsis Harbor, the seamen competing, and a group of officers from my ship - note the "715" on the ball caps. Our skipper, Commander John B. Castano, is standing right of center, in a leather jacket with his arms folded. |
 |
| Here's the same photo, enlarged. |
 |
| Me and the Willie Wood Band |
In February, my almost-20-year-old head was filled with thoughts of fancy and possible romance. I'd been conducting a pen-pal relationship for some time with a lady from Juneau; she was a friend of a shipmate, also from Juneau. Bob had gone on to submarine school at that point, but I wanted to meet Rene'.
So I submitted a revised dream sheet* to the Bureau of Naval Personnel (BUPERS), requesting duty in Alaska. A fateful choice, as it turned out: 30 days later, I got orders for Adak, Alaska, an "isolated duty station" in the Aleutian Islands. That a topic to which we'll return, soon enough.
In late March, we set sail again. The ship stopped at a couple of small ports we'd visited before.
On the day before Easter, there were strong winds which prevented us from entering the port at Kythira. So we dropped anchored off the coast. On Easter morning, we awoke to find that the ship was near not only other tin cans from our squadron, but a group of Russian destroyers as well.
I suspect the reason was that spot was suitable for an anchorage (i.e., not terribly deep). But I also had the strong impression that we did it as part of our Navy's ongoing mission of pestering the Russian Navy in the Mediterranean. I can't remember if someone said that, or if we just joked about it.
Probably the latter, though. Heh.
 |
| USS William M. Wood (DD 715), underway. |
And then we wound up in Naples, a port of call about which I'd heard many tales.
The harbor water was an impenetrable black, had scattered clumps of floating trash, and smelled foul. Once the ship was tied up at the pier, my first close-up look at the harbor was to see an orange peel and a dead cat drift by.
 |
| Naples harbor, with Mt. Vesuvius in the background, taken in '73. |
While a group of us were clustered at the rail, a car crashed through the wooden barricades at the shore and fell some 30 feet into the harbor, whereupon it sank like a stone. Even though U.S. Navy divers immediately jumped into that black water, I never did find out if they were able to save the occupant(s).
Not exactly an auspicious start.
But of course, I was anxious to see the sights. As soon as liberty was announced, those of us who weren't on duty headed down the gangplank to "Hey Joe Row".
What's that, you ask? It's the elbow-to-elbow rows of sidewalk vendors, on both sides of the street, yelling at the American sailors: "Hey Joe, wanna buy a watch?" Or a shirt, or pants, or a suit, or girls ... the list was endless. It was best to travel in groups, and just keep walking.
We hadn't eaten since an early brunch, and decided that German cuisine sounded good. Visiting Italy for the first time ... reasonable choice, no? Oh well, we had plenty of time to get local food. :)
 |
| Typical street scene in modern-day Naples; not exactly 42 years ago, but close enough. |
We found (read we stumbled across) a place called the Bauhaus, or maybe Brauhaus, Brew Haus ... something like that. Okay, I can't remember it's name, but it was good. The size of a middlin' cafeteria inside, it was brightly lit, with many wooden tables, and looked like a set in a play. Or maybe Hogan's Heroes. There were no Nazi soldiers, though. Lots of very large beer steins on the tables, amidst huge platters of food.
After thoroughly stuffing ourselves, we were off in search of further adventures. My personal thought was that I'd probably never visit Italy again, so I wanted to see as much as I could.
The usual procedure for a ship in a port is that the sailors who are afforded liberty will go ashore, usually in civvies unless directed otherwise, and then return to the ship at night. It's the best of both worlds, as you can walk around a foreign land, sample the food and drink, meet people, and then return to U.S. "soil" at the end of the day.
The next day, our group thought it was high time to find out the difference between American pizza, and the real deal. Naples is reputedly the birthplace of pizza, so there was no time like the present.
We found a place with a wait staff who spoke some English, and ordered the daily special pizza.
Turns out it was served in a glass pie pan, roughly 13" x 20", and was 2 1/2" deep. Lots of soft, bubbly crust, with all the day's leftovers piled on top.
One of the best pizzas I've ever eaten, too; we thoroughly enjoyed that meal. Then we did more wandering around town, but I no longer remember much about it. As April drew to a close, my mind was starting to wander, too.
I had orders to the other side of the world, and thoughts of leaving began to crowd out everything else.
So bright and early on the morning of May 1, 1975, I left the ship. After a short hop on a helicopter, and a longer flight on a MAC (Military Airlift Command) flight for Athens - because that's where my tickets specified I was departing from - I boarded a TWA flight for New York.
From there, to St. Louis to see my parents for two weeks, and then to Juneau, to see the pen pal I mentioned. It was ... interesting, but fantasy and reality are frequently quite different. I found that out for myself, and moved on.
 |
| Me at my parent's house in Missouri. Shown as an E-3 here, I was already scheduled for promotion to E-4 on May 16th, but wouldn't find out about it for nearly two months because of the transfer from Greece to Alaska. |
Back in those days, one couldn't fly from St. Louis to Alaska. I took Ozark Airlines to Chicago ($25 fare on military standby - eat your hearts out!), Northwest Orient Airlines to Seattle, and then Alaska Airlines to Juneau.
The SeaTac to Juneau flight stopped in Ketchikan. On the ground in Juneau, I discovered that they'd left my seabag on the plane, and off-loaded some old raggedy bag that looked like it had rabies. Or maybe the mange. Either way, it certainly wasn't mine.
The baggage claim lady kept looking at my ticket which said the flight originated in STL, and referred to it as Salt Lake City for the next three days until the bag turned up.
So for those three days, I could wear the clothes I'd flown in. Or maybe not...
I stayed in Juneau for two weeks, did a lot of hiking, and bought clothes I thought appropriate for Alaska: a down coat, thick socks, and heavy hiking boots. Flannel shirts, blue jeans, and underwear. All the things you don't think about, until you don't have them.
Next stop: Adak, Alaska.
* It's a form on which you can list the stations, ships, and overseas locations where you would like to be stationed. If there is an opening, you might get assigned to one of your choices. Otherwise, you can keep on dreaming. :)
31 July 2017
Navy Memories #5: Man Overboard!
Previous installments here:
When we last left the illustrious crew of the Willie Wood, I had written about the routine. But what about events which were not routine at all?
Like any other profession which puts people in harm's way, life is days of routine, interrupted by periods of high adrenaline. Sailors never know when the General Quarters alarm may sound, which is why we drill and drill and practice and practice ... ad nauseum. Knowing what to do without having to stop and think about is the difference between a quick, accurate response and disaster.
For example, in December 1973:
We were in the Mediterranean, sailing out of Elefsis, Greece. The skies had been black for days. The darkness outside seemed to seep into the interior of the ship, along with the chill of the damp sea air that pervaded everything. Seas didn't just "toss", they writhed and groaned like living things in untold misery, and shot up waves that looked like overhanging cliffs.
The winds also howled and moaned, and whisked tons of seawater into the atmosphere. The wash of ocean across the decks had become a familiar, if unwelcome, sight. Sometimes, the bow (that's the pointy end) dove so deep that the forward gun mount appeared to be underwater.
For an even better description of what a big storm at sea is really like, go here.
The announcement was repeated hourly over the 1MC (P.A. system), "Weather decks are closed (off limits) to all hands. Attention on deck: the weather decks are closed to all hands."
Those who were susceptible to seasickness had been in their racks (bunks) for several days, as well. The rest of us tried to work, but it was nearly impossible to get much done when the deck beneath our feet was rolling and pitching fore and aft, side to side, with a continuous series of 15- to 22-degree rolls in all directions.
The gasket on the porthole in my office on the main level of the ship had dried out a bit, and wasn't completely watertight. This would prove to be a problem, later on.
"Attention on deck: the weather decks are closed to all hands."
The only escape was in sleep. We lashed ourselves to our racks with tie-down straps, and slept like babies. Well, most of us did. The rocking, rolling, rising and falling did wonders for those who had learned to embrace it. The forward rolls in this storm was occasionally so great that the screws would lift clear of the sea, and the change in pitch was distracting until we got used to that, too.
Working hours at sea are different than in port. When tied up to a dock, the daytime shift was 0800 to 1700, with an hour for lunch. At sea, we worked 0800 to 1800, with two and a half hours for lunch. Many would go back to their racks and sleep during this time. It's not like we had anyplace else to go.
"Attention on deck: the weather decks are closed to all hands."
We had taken on a new batch of sailors just before leaving port. That's not unusual; sailors come and go all the time, as their tours at one duty station expire, and they transfer to another. This time, though, we'd taken in quite a few newbies, and many had been on board for only a day or two before we got underway.
The storms started almost immediately, and it seemed that they'd never end. Those of us who had our "sea legs" watched in amazement as our feet drifted from one side of the midships passageway to the other, at times literally walking on the bulkheads (walls). This storm was something special; we all knew it. Or at least most of us did.
"Attention on deck: the weather decks are closed to all hands."
The storms grew worse. Moving around the ship became more hazardous, and we used both hands, as well as our feet, to balance ourselves when we had to move. Using the head was an issue, and sailors had to brace themselves with both hands there, too. (This may sound funny, but try taking a shower when the stall is pitching from 25 degrees to the left, to 28 degrees to the right, and moving up and down at the same time. When we got ourselves braced as well as we could, we had to suffer the water sweeping from side to side as it, too, obeyed gravity.)
Most of the parts of the ship were readily accessible, during this time, but there were two exceptions. The front and rear gun mounts had exterior hatches, and access was normally just a few steps from a rear door opening on an athwart-ships passageway, to the hatch on the side of the mount.
"Attention on deck: the weather decks are closed to all hands."
Not so, during this storm. The weather was too rough, and tons of seawater were constantly washing across the deck, driven by gale-force winds. The gunners had to go through berthing* compartments to access their work areas. They went down a ladder, through the compartment in question, and then up another ladder into the base of the mount.
"Attention on deck: the weather decks are closed to all hands."
One of the newly-arrived Gunner's Mates was R.M. He either didn't understand what the announcements meant, or paid no attention. More about him, later.
This is the storm during which we were shown The Poseidon Adventure, as I relayed in the previous post. Insert your own jokes here; you can't make this stuff up.)
On the worst day of the storm (the day after seeing Poseidon, naturally), we took a 36-degree roll to starboard. The ship heeled over, like it had done every minute or so for days, but then it didn't stop. The list increased. At my desk, I faced the port side. My chair started to scoot away from the desk; I grabbed the handles on the front of the desk - placed there for that purpose - and tried to pull myself forward.
The chair slipped away from me and tumbled across the compartment, crashing into the desks on the outboard side. I put my feet down on the deck and had trouble leaning forward, as the list continued to increase. Eventually I was hanging full-length from the handle (visible through the uprights on the chair, above), with my knees and toes dragging on the deck behind - not beneath - me.
Book and manuals, normally held in overhead shelves with lengths of rope (see above), began to rain down on my head and back. Drawers slid open, and papers on the desktop slid across and showered the compartment.
At this point, the office went dark. I tried to see over my shoulder, but couldn't because of the angle. I wound up looking under my arm, to see that the porthole was under water, and water was pouring in around the defective gasket. This was something new ...
I remember thinking, "We're going to have to mop that up."
Slowly, with shuddering, creaking and a groaning vibration felt deep in our bones, the ship began to right itself. It took a long time - too long - before the feeble daylight began to show through the porthole, and the water stopped running down the bulkhead.
It was a 46-degree roll; the ship's capsize point, we were told, was 47 degrees. A great many of us got a little weak in the knees when we realized how close we came to a literal watery grave. Fortunately, we didn't hear about that until some time later.
Almost immediately after righting, the call of "Man overboard!" was sounded. Our aft lookout had seen what looked like a figure wash across the fantail (the rear of the ship), and then go through the life rail back into the sea.
R.M. hadn't taken the warnings to heart. He tried to go out the forward hatch (front door, at the end of the passageway nearest the front of the ship), to get to the forward gun mount. Why? To retrieve a Louis L'amour novel which he was reading. I told you they popular.
But one of the biggest waves of the storm had hit just as he opened the door, allowing a substantial amount of seawater to enter the interior passageway. The next man to see it pulled the door shut, and was trying to figure out how it got open in the first place.
To make what is now a long story a little bit shorter, R.M. washed across the main deck, went under the ship and came back up on the opposite side, at the fantail. That's what the aft lookout had seen. He was then sucked back under the ship, where he was pulled through the twin screws.
We conducted the standard enumeration of the crew, and his absence was reported to Ship's Office in very short time. The skipper, of course, had brought the engines to full stop when the alarm was sounded, and we performed an "Anderson" turn, where one screw goes forward while the other goes in reverse, neatly pivoting the ship in place. This maneuver is not possible with modern, single-screw ships.
The lookouts finally saw R.M. bobbing in the water, nearly a quarter-mile to starboard, and a diver went in to get him, trailing a safety line. The ship, in the meantime, was now at rest, bobbing like a cork in the rough seas. Many of those who hadn't gotten sick before, became so now.
He was in very bad shape from being chewed up by the screws; the Hospital Corpsman (enlisted man always known as "Doc", roughly equivalent to a paramedic) told us that R.M. died three times on the table, while Doc tried to stabilize him and bandage the worst of his wounds.
We called a helo from the carrier for an evac, and never saw R.M. again. On the Book O' Faces, he recently turned up to make some comments on a post recounting "man overboard" incidents. That was the first time I knew he survived.
* * * * *
The manual typing and compiling of reports about that incident took several days, as every single individual (officers on the bridge, lookouts, crewmates, R.M.'s supervisor, etc) had to submit hand-written notes.
I typed up reports from some of the bridge crew, and only found out the rest of this story later, as we all compared notes. The bit about R.M. trying to retrieve his book came from his own comments on Bookface.
* * * * *
But not every incident was quite so dramatic, or lasted such a long time. A couple of shipmates with whom I've reconnected have offered some of their recollections and/or reminders, and I'll write about them next time.
* Sleeping areas
TO BE CONTINUED ...
When we last left the illustrious crew of the Willie Wood, I had written about the routine. But what about events which were not routine at all?
Like any other profession which puts people in harm's way, life is days of routine, interrupted by periods of high adrenaline. Sailors never know when the General Quarters alarm may sound, which is why we drill and drill and practice and practice ... ad nauseum. Knowing what to do without having to stop and think about is the difference between a quick, accurate response and disaster.
For example, in December 1973:
 |
| U.S.S. William M. Wood (DD 715) |
 |
| stormy weather at sea |
For an even better description of what a big storm at sea is really like, go here.
The announcement was repeated hourly over the 1MC (P.A. system), "Weather decks are closed (off limits) to all hands. Attention on deck: the weather decks are closed to all hands."
Those who were susceptible to seasickness had been in their racks (bunks) for several days, as well. The rest of us tried to work, but it was nearly impossible to get much done when the deck beneath our feet was rolling and pitching fore and aft, side to side, with a continuous series of 15- to 22-degree rolls in all directions.
The gasket on the porthole in my office on the main level of the ship had dried out a bit, and wasn't completely watertight. This would prove to be a problem, later on.
"Attention on deck: the weather decks are closed to all hands."
The only escape was in sleep. We lashed ourselves to our racks with tie-down straps, and slept like babies. Well, most of us did. The rocking, rolling, rising and falling did wonders for those who had learned to embrace it. The forward rolls in this storm was occasionally so great that the screws would lift clear of the sea, and the change in pitch was distracting until we got used to that, too.
 |
| A ship in a storm at sea, but not MY ship. |
"Attention on deck: the weather decks are closed to all hands."
We had taken on a new batch of sailors just before leaving port. That's not unusual; sailors come and go all the time, as their tours at one duty station expire, and they transfer to another. This time, though, we'd taken in quite a few newbies, and many had been on board for only a day or two before we got underway.
The storms started almost immediately, and it seemed that they'd never end. Those of us who had our "sea legs" watched in amazement as our feet drifted from one side of the midships passageway to the other, at times literally walking on the bulkheads (walls). This storm was something special; we all knew it. Or at least most of us did.
"Attention on deck: the weather decks are closed to all hands."
The storms grew worse. Moving around the ship became more hazardous, and we used both hands, as well as our feet, to balance ourselves when we had to move. Using the head was an issue, and sailors had to brace themselves with both hands there, too. (This may sound funny, but try taking a shower when the stall is pitching from 25 degrees to the left, to 28 degrees to the right, and moving up and down at the same time. When we got ourselves braced as well as we could, we had to suffer the water sweeping from side to side as it, too, obeyed gravity.)
Most of the parts of the ship were readily accessible, during this time, but there were two exceptions. The front and rear gun mounts had exterior hatches, and access was normally just a few steps from a rear door opening on an athwart-ships passageway, to the hatch on the side of the mount.
"Attention on deck: the weather decks are closed to all hands."
Not so, during this storm. The weather was too rough, and tons of seawater were constantly washing across the deck, driven by gale-force winds. The gunners had to go through berthing* compartments to access their work areas. They went down a ladder, through the compartment in question, and then up another ladder into the base of the mount.
"Attention on deck: the weather decks are closed to all hands."
One of the newly-arrived Gunner's Mates was R.M. He either didn't understand what the announcements meant, or paid no attention. More about him, later.
This is the storm during which we were shown The Poseidon Adventure, as I relayed in the previous post. Insert your own jokes here; you can't make this stuff up.)
On the worst day of the storm (the day after seeing Poseidon, naturally), we took a 36-degree roll to starboard. The ship heeled over, like it had done every minute or so for days, but then it didn't stop. The list increased. At my desk, I faced the port side. My chair started to scoot away from the desk; I grabbed the handles on the front of the desk - placed there for that purpose - and tried to pull myself forward.
The chair slipped away from me and tumbled across the compartment, crashing into the desks on the outboard side. I put my feet down on the deck and had trouble leaning forward, as the list continued to increase. Eventually I was hanging full-length from the handle (visible through the uprights on the chair, above), with my knees and toes dragging on the deck behind - not beneath - me.
Book and manuals, normally held in overhead shelves with lengths of rope (see above), began to rain down on my head and back. Drawers slid open, and papers on the desktop slid across and showered the compartment.
At this point, the office went dark. I tried to see over my shoulder, but couldn't because of the angle. I wound up looking under my arm, to see that the porthole was under water, and water was pouring in around the defective gasket. This was something new ...
I remember thinking, "We're going to have to mop that up."
Slowly, with shuddering, creaking and a groaning vibration felt deep in our bones, the ship began to right itself. It took a long time - too long - before the feeble daylight began to show through the porthole, and the water stopped running down the bulkhead.
It was a 46-degree roll; the ship's capsize point, we were told, was 47 degrees. A great many of us got a little weak in the knees when we realized how close we came to a literal watery grave. Fortunately, we didn't hear about that until some time later.
Almost immediately after righting, the call of "Man overboard!" was sounded. Our aft lookout had seen what looked like a figure wash across the fantail (the rear of the ship), and then go through the life rail back into the sea.
R.M. hadn't taken the warnings to heart. He tried to go out the forward hatch (front door, at the end of the passageway nearest the front of the ship), to get to the forward gun mount. Why? To retrieve a Louis L'amour novel which he was reading. I told you they popular.
But one of the biggest waves of the storm had hit just as he opened the door, allowing a substantial amount of seawater to enter the interior passageway. The next man to see it pulled the door shut, and was trying to figure out how it got open in the first place.
To make what is now a long story a little bit shorter, R.M. washed across the main deck, went under the ship and came back up on the opposite side, at the fantail. That's what the aft lookout had seen. He was then sucked back under the ship, where he was pulled through the twin screws.
We conducted the standard enumeration of the crew, and his absence was reported to Ship's Office in very short time. The skipper, of course, had brought the engines to full stop when the alarm was sounded, and we performed an "Anderson" turn, where one screw goes forward while the other goes in reverse, neatly pivoting the ship in place. This maneuver is not possible with modern, single-screw ships.
The lookouts finally saw R.M. bobbing in the water, nearly a quarter-mile to starboard, and a diver went in to get him, trailing a safety line. The ship, in the meantime, was now at rest, bobbing like a cork in the rough seas. Many of those who hadn't gotten sick before, became so now.
He was in very bad shape from being chewed up by the screws; the Hospital Corpsman (enlisted man always known as "Doc", roughly equivalent to a paramedic) told us that R.M. died three times on the table, while Doc tried to stabilize him and bandage the worst of his wounds.
We called a helo from the carrier for an evac, and never saw R.M. again. On the Book O' Faces, he recently turned up to make some comments on a post recounting "man overboard" incidents. That was the first time I knew he survived.
* * * * *
The manual typing and compiling of reports about that incident took several days, as every single individual (officers on the bridge, lookouts, crewmates, R.M.'s supervisor, etc) had to submit hand-written notes.
I typed up reports from some of the bridge crew, and only found out the rest of this story later, as we all compared notes. The bit about R.M. trying to retrieve his book came from his own comments on Bookface.
* * * * *
But not every incident was quite so dramatic, or lasted such a long time. A couple of shipmates with whom I've reconnected have offered some of their recollections and/or reminders, and I'll write about them next time.
* Sleeping areas
TO BE CONTINUED ...
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