As they approached Philadelphia, they could see cannons looming ominously through her open gun ports. To be discovered at this point would be a disaster, for if the Tripolitans touched off those big guns, Intrepid and her crew would quickly cease to exist.
A few lanterns flickered on the frigate, and Decatur could make out several turbaned heads moving about just beyond the rail. He was relieved to see that they were not hurrying. The sound of wavelets lapping at the big ship’s solid hull drifted across the water, and a slight luffing of Intrepid’s large sail seemed much louder than it actually was.
Suddenly the wind failed them, and they drifted to a halt, still about twenty yards from the frigate, still peering into the bores of those cannons. A lookout in Philadelphia called out in Arabic, telling them to bear off. Catalano responded, telling the Tripolitan that he was a trader from Malta, he had lost his anchor in the recent storm, and he wished to tie up alongside the big ship just for the night.
There was a moment when not a single breath was taken aboard Intrepid as the Americans waited for the reply. A few indistinguishable words drifted across the water, then a number of men climbed down from the frigate’s deck into a small boat. They rowed around to Philadelphia’s bow, took a line that had been lowered, and began rowing toward Intrepid. Not wanting the Arabs to get too close, Decatur quickly dispatched his own boat and the two met just a few yards from Intrepid. Once the line had been brought on board, the Americans began hauling in.
The gap between the two vessels narrowed as Intrepid moved slowly forward. Decatur was relieved when he could look up and no longer see down the bores of Philadelphia’s cannons. As the ribbon of water separating the ships grew very thin, another line accommodatingly dropped from the frigate’s stern. All was going exceedingly well.
As the two ships drew together, someone on the main deck of the frigate noticed that their smaller visitor had an anchor on her forecastle! Suddenly, an alarmed voice cried out: “Americani!”
Frenzied shouts and the rapid rustling of bare feet on wooden decks could be heard in Philadelphia as the Americans frantically pulled on the lines to close the few remaining feet. Then Decatur gave the order—“Away boarders!”—and the men began swarming aboard.
Some of the Tripolitans ran below decks, many dove overboard, and others stood their ground and bravely fought. It was a grisly fight. Decatur had ordered that no firearms be used, so the night air was filled with the clash of cutlasses against scimitars and the cries of cleaved men.
Within ten minutes, there was no more opposition. About twenty Tripolitans lay dead, the rest having fled. The Americans moved quickly through the ship, focused on their main mission of setting fires at key points. They spread tar, lint, and gunpowder about and, on Decatur’s signal, they simultaneously tossed lighted candles into their handiwork. There was a virtual explosion as the ship ignited. It happened so quickly that several men were nearly trapped below by the rapidly spreading flames.
The Americans quickly dropped over the side to Intrepid’s waiting deck and began shoving off. They had some difficulty freeing themselves, and Intrepid’s sails began to burn as gusts of flame roared out of the frigate’s gun ports and steaming tar poured down from the great conflagration above. Philadelphia’s rigging began burning through, and as lines and stays parted, they flew about like burning whips, some of them coming to rest across Intrepid’s own rigging. To make matters worse, several shore batteries opened up, one of them scoring a hit through Intrepid’s topsail.
Managing to free themselves at last, the Americans began pulling at their sweeps to distance themselves from the roaring fire that by now was illuminating the whole harbor and much of the surrounding city. The shore batteries continued to hammer away at the fleeing ship from the large waterfront castle nearby, but they could not find their mark. As if in one last great act of defiance, Philadelphia’s loaded cannons suddenly cooked off in the great heat, and some of her rounds actually struck the castle walls from which the shore batteries had been firing.
A welcome breeze sprang up and soon Intrepid was sailing into the outer harbor, her bow pointed toward the open sea. On their starboard quarter, Philadelphia burned in one giant flame like the magnified fire of a single match. Then the fire reached her magazine, and like a volcanic eruption, a massive explosion lifted the great hull into the air and brought it down again, shattered and no longer recognizable as a ship.
Decatur and his men paused at the mouth of the harbor and looked back in awe at what they had done. Then Intrepid caught a freshening wind and headed off to rejoin the rest of the U.S. fleet, bringing back a piece of restored honor and every man who had left on the mission. Miraculously, not a single American Sailor or Marine had been killed or even seriously wounded. When word of the feat reached British Admiral Horatio Nelson—the most respected naval hero of the time—he was reported to have remarked that the burning of Philadelphia was “the most bold and daring act of the age.”
Sailors boldly entered the enemy harbor at Tripoli to board the captured Philadelphia and set her on fire. When word of the feat reached British Admiral Horatio Nelson—the most respected naval hero of the time—he was reported to have remarked that the burning of Philadelphia was “the most bold and daring act of the age.” Naval Historical Center
An Ongoing Tradition
The examples cited here are but a few of the many in the U.S. Navy’s history when foolish culprits have dared to tread on this nation’s honor, and Sailors have had the duty—and the commitment—to seek appropriate retribution. Revenge may not be sweet, as the old proverb goes, but there are times when might must be met with might in order to maintain credibility and to remain a potent deterrent. Al Qaeda dealt the nation a serious blow when they took down the World Trade Center and struck the Pentagon on 11 September 2001, but the subsequent loss of the terrorist training haven in Afghanistan, as well as the ongoing worldwide War on Terrorism, has once again sent the message to those who might consider stepping on the American rattlesnake; they would be wise indeed to heed the warning: Don’t Tread on Me.
Don’t Give Up the Ship
6
In September 1813, a group of American Sailors led by American Master Commandant Oliver Hazard Perry built a fleet from scratch and took it into battle against the British on Lake Erie. They were a polyglot group—in many ways representative of the new and growing nation of various racial and ethnic backgrounds. One in four was black, and alongside the few experienced seamen and untrained militiamen were local Indians and a Russian who spoke not a word of English.
Perry’s flagship, USS Lawrence, was built from green timber hewn out of the local forests and was named for Captain James Lawrence, who had lost his life during an earlier battle between his ship, USS Chesapeake, and the Royal Navy’s HMS Shannon. Lawrence’s inspiring words—spoken as he was carried below, mortally wounded—had been “Don’t give up the ship,” so Perry had these words sewn in bright white letters onto a navy blue field to create a unique flag to carry into battle.
Inspired by this flag, the American Sailors were victorious on Lake Erie, causing Perry to send a famous dispatch: “We have met the enemy; and they are ours. Two ships, two brigs, one schooner, and one sloop.”
It was a momentous victory of great strategic significance and, along with a similar victory on Lake Champlain by Sailors led by Thomas Macdonough, helped bring an end to the war.
Today, Perry’s flag is on display at the U.S. Naval Academy, and through the ages, those inspiring words—Don’t give up the ship—have guided Sailors through times of terrible crisis. Although U.S. Navy ships have been lost in battle and to natural catastrophes in the years since those Great Lakes battles of the War of 1812, many others have been saved by intrepid Sailors who, in the face of great adversity, have met the challenges head-on and simply refused to give up their ships.
One Crew in One Moment in Time
In January 2000, USS The Sullivans arrived in Aden, Yemen, to take on fuel
. This Arleigh Burke–class guided-missile destroyer was not the first ship to stop in the port city near the southern tip of the Arabian Peninsula. Aden’s location at the juncture of the Red Sea and the Gulf of Aden, west of the Arabian Sea, makes it a natural fueling stop for vessels transiting these waters.
The ship got her rather unusual name because she commemorates the name of not just one Sailor, as is the more common practice, but five. Five brothers, all serving in the same ship during World War II, were lost in a single, terrible night when USS Juneau went down in the Battle of Guadalcanal.
An earlier ship named for the Sullivan brothers, a Fletcher-class destroyer, served in World War II and the Korean War and played a key role in the Cuban missile crisis of 1962. That ship earned nine battle stars for her service.
The newer The Sullivans lay at the Aden facility gulping fuel just two days after the new millennium had begun, her crew unaware that this new century would be marked by a new kind of war, and that at that very moment, evil forces were gathering to do her serious harm.
Not far away, a small boat shoved off from the shore, full of explosives. The boat looked like any number of other local craft, but this one was manned by several fanatics with ties to a group most Americans had never heard of—al Qaeda, an Islamic extremist organization. These men were determined to die for their cause and to take an American warship with them.
As the boat moved out across the shimmering water, she behaved sluggishly, and soon her gunwales were awash. Fanatical these men were; brilliant they were not! They had miscalculated the effect all those explosives would have on the small craft, and in minutes they found themselves sinking into the warm waters of Aden’s harbor. The bad luck that had taken all five Sullivan brothers back in 1942 did not haunt their namesake on this day. USS The Sullivans was spared the intended attack; in fact, her crew would not even be aware until much later that they had been targeted.
Ten months later, the al Qaeda fanatics were ready to try again. USS Cole steamed into the harbor at Aden on 12 October 2000 to refuel. Like The Sullivans, she was an Arleigh Burke–class guided-missile destroyer. Like her predecessor, her crew had no idea they were the intended target of an attack.
This time the fanatics stayed afloat and made their way across the blindingly bright waters, headed for the American warship. It would be another year before 9/11 would waken the “sleeping giant” of America to the reality of the war that had been declared against it, so the men in this boat had the great advantage of surprise on their side. Waving to the crew on the main deck of the large destroyer, the men steered right for her exposed port side. It was 1118 on the day before the Navy’s 224th birthday.
Command Master Chief James Parlier and Damage Controlman First Class Ernesto Garcia, the Repair Division Work Center Supervisor, emerged from Cole’s training room, where they had just concluded a Morale, Welfare, and Recreation Committee meeting, when they suddenly felt the deck move beneath their feet. The lights momentarily flickered off and on, and a television fell from its shelf. It was fortunate that Parlier had been at the meeting in the after portion of the ship; unbeknownst to him, a two-ton reefer had just crashed clear through a bulkhead, destroying his office.
Hull Maintenance Technician Second Class Chris Regal was standing in an after passageway near the flight deck when he was abruptly slammed to the deck. Nearly knocked unconscious, he was aware of a great pressure change inside the ship. Shaking his head like a boxer who has just taken a jolting left hook, he climbed to his feet and began running toward the source of the detonation.
Petty Officer Third Class Tayinikia Campbell, a twenty-four-year-old hospital corpsman from Latta, South Carolina, had joined the Navy six years earlier, right out of high school. Because she was the junior corpsman in Cole, in addition to not being very big, the crew had christened her “Baby Doc.” She was in sick bay, working with her striker Seaman Eben Sanchez, when the doors blew open “like someone had kicked them in,” and thick black smoke poured into sick bay. Campbell and Sanchez could hear voices frantically calling, “We need Doc,” and the two of them ran down the passageway toward the calls. Finding injured shipmates all about, they set up a makeshift aid station there in the passageway and began treating the many wounded. The longest day in Baby Doc’s life had just begun.
The fanatics had driven their boat into Cole’s port side amidships. This time they had done all their homework—the shaped charge of powerful explosives had detonated with great force, tearing a forty-by-forty-foot hole in the destroyer’s side, smashing in bulkheads, and tearing deck plating as though it were made of paper. Smoke filled her passageways, and water was already pouring into her engineering spaces. Dozens of Cole’s crew had been killed or injured in the blast. In an instant, the many ranks, ratings, and other distinctions in the complex crew of this billion-dollar ship were of little relevance. As a Navy Times article would later observe, just three jobs mattered now, and every able-bodied crew member would soon be performing one of them: caring for the injured, providing security against further attack, and saving the ship.
The ship was already listing to port, a sure sign she was suffering major flooding. All power was lost; torn electrical cables dangled from overheads, arcing and sparking dangerously close to fuel that gushed out of ripped fuel tanks and coated everything in its path. A portion of the deck in the mess decks area had been rolled up like the lid of an opened sardine can—protruding from the roll, four boots could be seen. One badly injured Sailor was placed on a door as a makeshift stretcher for evacuation. Injured Sailors tended to shipmates who were more seriously injured. Others opened canisters of fire-fighting foam concentrate and poured the yellow liquid onto the fuel-covered decks in hopes of preventing ignition.
The 12 October 2000 terrorist attack on USS Cole as she was refueling in Aden harbor tore a forty-by-forty-foot hole in the destroyer’s port side. U.S. Navy (Lyle G. Becker)
In the oil lab one deck below the chief’s mess, Gas Turbine Technician Mechanical First Class Margaret Lopez could see daylight through a jagged hole in the ship’s side. Water streamed in through the hole and choking smoke made breathing difficult. She had been seriously burned over twenty percent of her body. Looking about she soon realized that she and another Sailor were trapped in the space; crushed bulkheads had sealed them in.
Helping her shipmate, she waded into the flowing water and fuel and got both of them out through the jagged hole and into the gulf waters. She then swam back into the ship in search of a missing shipmate. Exploring the internal wreckage, she was unable to find him and eventually went back out into the harbor and swam alongside the side of the ship until some Sailors on the main deck hauled her aboard.
Shortly after the explosion, Hull Maintenance Technician First Class Michael Hayes made his way to the mess decks area—or what was left of it. With several other shipmates, he ventured into the surreal world of death and destruction, stepping over a puddle of boiling water to get there. In his fifteen years in the Navy, he had never seen anything like this. It was pitch dark except for the strobing lights of arcing electrical wires. Smoke filled the compartment, muffling sound and softening what images there were as though they were part of a dream sequence in a movie. There was an acrid taste in his mouth that he had experienced many times before in training, but there was something different about it this time.
Hayes donned a damage control helmet with a light on it so he could see through the haze. He did not need his years of experience and training in damage control to tell that the ship was in bad shape. The damage to this area was extensive, making almost unrecognizable what had been a familiar area where he and his shipmates had shared meals and talked about the things Sailors always talk about when deployed to far-off parts of the world. Struggling through the massive wreckage, he began to sort among the human beings who were scattered about, passing by those who were obviously gone and tending to the injured. Some Sailors were trapped beneath equipment, so Hayes made his way to a repair
locker and returned with several crowbars to dislodge the equipment and extract the victims. With a number of others, including Ensign Kyle Turner—whom Hayes would later describe as being “everywhere”—he helped carry or drag many of the injured to the relative safety of adjoining passageways.
Petty Officers Regal and Garcia had teamed up and were moving toward the source of smoke that filled the portside passageway. The lights were out, but emergency battle lanterns lit their way. In the half-light, Regal nearly bumped into an electrical panel that was sparking a deadly warning; Garcia saw it in time and shoved his shipmate away from the danger. When they reached the mess decks, they saw that there was no deck left on the port side. Both men entered the space and began the hardest work of their lives.
Regal formed a team of Sailors and moved forward to see how far the damage extended and to render assistance to those who might be trapped up there. Garcia remained on the shattered mess deck, helping a chief petty officer out of a hole he had fallen into and then comforting a Sailor while others used a “jaws of life” to extract her from twisted wreckage. Regal returned from his foray forward, and he and others muscled a partition away from a number of injured chiefs who were trapped by it in their mess. Although injured himself, Chief Boatswain’s Mate Eric Kafka immediately began helping those more seriously wounded.
At makeshift triage stations Baby Doc, Sanchez, Parlier (whose rating had been hospital corpsman before he became command master chief), and Cole’s independent duty corpsman, Chief Clifford “Doc” Moser, worked frantically to save the worst cases while directing the efforts of the uninjured and less-injured Sailors who worked on broken bones and jaws, bleeding wounds, crushed arms and legs, and various other injuries. Makeshift splints were rigged, shirts were made into bandages, and words of encouragement were whispered into shipmates’ ears.
A Sailor's History of the U.S. Navy Page 16