A Sailor's History of the U.S. Navy

by Thomas J. Cutler

  A third round of detonations cleared the deck of men and destroyed much of the firefighting gear, yet moments later more Sailors appeared to fight the inferno. Ignoring the chain reaction of exploding fuel tanks and ordnance, men wrestled with hoses, rolled hot bombs across jagged decks, and muscled aircraft over the side before their fuel tanks could ignite. One Sailor plugged a hole in a plane’s fuel tank with his finger to keep the fuel from spilling out as a group of men rolled the aircraft toward the side for jettisoning. Below decks, men lit off pumps, set up fire barriers, searched for the missing, rescued fallen shipmates, and performed first aid despite the clouds of choking smoke and the cascades of burning fuel pouring down through holes in the decks above. In a display of incredible professionalism and courage, the men in the port after steering compartment were cut off beyond rescue but continued to keep their equipment working and maintained their composure on the sound-powered phone lines until they died.

  For thirteen hours, Forrestal’s crew fought the conflagration until the last fire was out. By great courage, exemplary sacrifice, and sheer determination, they had saved their ship. At a cost of 134 lives and hundreds of injuries, Forrestal would serve the Navy for many years to come. With most of her after flight deck gone and charred wreckage strewn over much of the ship, she left Yankee Station under her own power and returned to her homeport in Norfolk for extensive repairs. She would return to duty and make another seventeen major deployments to the Mediterranean and Arabian Seas, participating in a number of important operations, including Earnest Will (keeping the sea-lanes open in the Persian Gulf during the Iran-Iraq War) and Provide Comfort (deterring Iraqi attacks against the Kurds in 1991).

  Many who survived confided that they were certain they would have to abandon ship before the day was over. The loss of Repair Eight so early on had been a near-fatal blow. The ship had been saved primarily by the willingness of so many volunteers to carry on when shipmates had fallen or disappeared before their very eyes, to pick up the hoses that had been dropped by men burned beyond recognition, to jettison heated ordnance over the side despite the tremendous risk, to stand up to smoke and flames when running away was still an option.

  The Navy learned some valuable lessons that day. Despite their great courage and sacrifice, some of these untrained men had made costly errors—such as washing foam away with water, allowing fires to reignite—that could have been avoided had they received adequate training beforehand. Never again would a ship sail in harm’s way with just part of her crew trained in firefighting. After the Forrestal fire, the Navy decreed that every Sailor, from seaman to admiral, would be trained in firefighting before going to the fleet.

  Today, the survivors of the Forrestal fire look back with mixed emotions. Many have difficulty recounting the experience: Charlie Rodgers, a yeoman who worked in a ready room below the hangar bay, recalls watching the events on the PLAT system, saying, “I can’t tell you how I felt,” as he chokes back tears. Gary Shaver, who saw Chief Farrier run “full gate to what was to become our hell on earth,” remembers with awe that “there was never a look of fear or doubt in [Farrier’s] eyes as he fought the growing fire. Only the look of determination to do his job!” Today, the firefighting school in Norfolk, Virginia, bears the name of that courageous chief who paid the ultimate price trying to save his ship and his shipmates.

  Chief Petty Officer Gerald Farrier charged headlong into the fire on Forrestal, armed with just a fire extinguisher, determined to save his shipmates. Today the Navy’s firefighting school in Norfolk, Virginia, bears this heroic Sailor’s name. Courtesy of USS Forrestal Association

  Shaver, McCain, Rodgers, and the others who survived that terrible day on Yankee Station many years ago carry with them the memories of lost shipmates and the responsibility of living a good life—something that was denied Farrier and 133 others. They also carry with them a wisdom not granted to all, an understanding that fate sometimes deals us difficult hands and the only way to prevail—or, in some cases, simply to survive—is to find in ourselves the kind of courage and determination that Sailors commemorate in their traditional saying: Don’t Give Up the Ship.

  Another Tradition

  There have been many other occasions when Sailors have carried on the tradition of not giving up their ship. From patrol craft to capital ships, courageous, committed Sailors have heeded the words spoken by a dying man in the War of 1812.

  In World War II, the aircraft carrier Franklin, operating closer to the Japanese homeland than any other U.S. carrier, suffered incredible damage when a single Japanese plane came through the cloud cover on a low-level bombing run and hit the ship with two armor-piercing bombs. One struck the flight deck centerline, penetrating to the hangar deck, which it devastated. The bomb also ignited fires through the second and third decks and knocked out the CIC and air plot. The second bomb hit aft and tore through two decks, spawning fires that detonated ammunition, bombs, and rockets.

  Franklin, within fifty miles of the Japanese mainland, lay dead in the water, with a 13-degree starboard list, all radio communications lost, and enveloped in flames. Seven hundred and twenty-four crew members were killed and another 265 were wounded. Many others were either blown overboard or driven over the side by the raging fires. Remaining were 710 Sailors who, by sheer valor and tenacity, miraculously saved the ship. Franklin had the dubious distinction of being the most heavily damaged aircraft carrier in the entire war, yet she remained afloat and eventually proceeded under her own power to Pearl Harbor for repairs.

  While there are numerous examples of Sailors who have not given up their ships, there is another tradition in the U.S. Navy that has never been articulated in the same way as Captain Lawrence’s inspiring words, but it could just as easily be emblazoned on a flag for posterity: Don’t Give Up the Sailor.

  In 1939, USS Squalus, the eleventh in the new Sargo class of submarines, was conducting sea trials off New England when her main engine air induction valve failed and water poured into the boat’s after engine room. The submarine rapidly sank stern first to the bottom, coming to rest keel down in sixty fathoms of water. During the disaster, twenty-six men were trapped and died in the flooded after portion of the ship. This left thirty-three men alive in the forward compartments of the submarine. The survivors sent up a marker buoy and then began releasing red smoke flares to the surface in an attempt to signal their distress.

  USS Sculpin, another Sargo-class submarine sent to the area later that morning, spotted one of the smoke signals at 1241 that afternoon and marked the spot with a buoy. She was joined in the afternoon by a number of other vessels that had been sent to find a way to rescue the Sailors trapped in the crippled sub. Divers and submarine experts, including the Experimental Diving Unit from Washington, D.C., also converged on the location.

  During this preparatory period, the thirty-three survivors spent a cold night trapped inside Squalus and began to suffer from the effects of chlorine gas seeping out of the battery compartment. Despite the knowledge that never before had the victims of a submarine sinking ever been saved from such a depth, no one in Squalus caved in, and discipline, if not spirits, remained high.

  Ashore, the wives and families of the Squalus Sailors awaited news. A Morse-code message tapped out from the sunken submarine—“condition satisfactory but cold”—was interpreted most hopefully. Interviews with relatives nearby and at distant locations were published and broadcast by reporters. One group of newsmen rented a boat for the fifteen-hour journey to the scene and back and learned that not all the crew had survived. When they brought this news back, the impact on the wives and relatives was devastating.

  The would-be rescuers had three options. One was to pump out the flooded compartments to bring the Squalus to the surface; this was risky because the reason for the sinking was still unknown. The second option was to have the men come to the surface using their individual Momsen Lungs (at that time, the lungs were a recently invented rescue device for situations similar to th
is); but the sub’s depth was greater than the 207 feet for which the lungs had been tested. Also, the men were extremely cold and undoubtedly weak from the foul air and tension. The decision was made to take the third option, which was to use a revised version of a diving bell, also invented by Commander Charles B. Momsen, to descend to the sub and attach to her deck above one of the hatches. A few of the trapped men could then climb up into the bell and be transported to the surface. It would take several trips under uncertain conditions to get them all out, but it seemed the best plan available.

  At 1130, the dramatic rescue operation began, and at 1247 direct contact was established with the trapped crew. With the bell positioned over the submarine’s hatch, the first group of men climbed up into the tiny chamber. The bell was hauled to the surface and, for this first group, the ordeal was over. Those who waited below must have felt a powerful urge to rush up into the safety of the rescue chamber when the hatch opened each time; but naval discipline—both admirable and necessary—prevailed, and the evacuation was both orderly and logical, with those in the worst shape and more junior in rank going before the others. Over the next six hours, twenty-five survivors reached the surface in three trips. After serious difficulty with tangled cables threatened to prevent the rescue of the remaining seven survivors, the fourth trip finally rescued them just after midnight. All thirty-three were recovered.

  Determined salvage operations later raised Squalus, and she was towed into the Portsmouth Navy Yard on 13 September 1939. Following an investigation into the cause of the disaster, the boat was formally decommissioned on 15 November, then recommissioned with the new name Sailfish on 9 February 1940, in time to serve in World War II. During her twelve war patrols, Sailfish sank seven Japanese ships, including the escort carrier Chuyo, for a total of more than forty thousand tons. Sailfish was awarded the Presidential Unit Citation.

  It was a remarkable achievement. The Navy had not given up on either its Sailors or its ship. James Lawrence and Oliver Hazard Perry would have been proud.

  Part III

  A Unique Profession

  It should be clear from the preceding chapters that serving as a Sailor in the U.S. Navy—whether for two years or thirty—is a truly unique experience. It is a bit of an understatement to say that men and women who serve in the Navy see, hear, say, and do things they would otherwise never have done. In the remaining chapters, we will see why, no matter what else a person may do in his or her life, those years spent in the Navy will always be remembered as unique.

  Transitions

  7

  As with all things that rely on technology, navies have evolved over the years. Oars have given way to sails, which have given way to steam propulsion, which has in turn given way to gas turbines and nuclear reactors. Weapons have evolved from boarding parties and rams to guns, missiles, and supersonic aircraft. That which remains the same throughout all this change is the Sailor who dares to venture into the unknown when new challenges emerge and who uses this ever-changing technology to defend the nation and, when necessary, to achieve victory at sea and to project power ashore.

  Contrasts

  Gunner’s Mate Second Class Joseph Palisano stood on the deck of the destroyer USS Paul F. Foster at 0441, 17 January 1991, peering into the predawn darkness that blanketed the Persian Gulf. Suddenly, there was a deafening roar as a Tomahawk missile leaped into the black sky, momentarily turning night into the brightest noonday glare. Like a shooting star, the reflection from the flaming engine traced a path across the dark waters as the weapon soared off in search of its assigned target. In seconds, it was gone, leaving Palisano once again enshrouded in darkness to ponder what he and his shipmates had just done. To no one in particular, he remarked: “There it goes. We just started a war!”

  Although one might argue it was the Iraqi tyrant Saddam Hussein who had actually started the war when he sent his armies into an unprovoked invasion of neighboring Kuwait, Palisano was correct that his ship had just fired one of the opening salvos of what had been dubbed Operation Desert Storm, the war to liberate Kuwait.

  The largest naval armada since World War II had gathered in the Middle East to strike at the very heart of Iraq; even the capital city of Baghdad was among the many targets that would be hit in the devastating assault. Three aircraft carriers—Saratoga, John F. Kennedy, and America—launched their strike aircraft from the northern Red Sea. Across the Arabian Peninsula, in the Persian Gulf—where some had deemed it impossible to conduct carrier operations—Midway and Ranger proved the skeptics wrong and fired off sortie after sortie. Battleship Missouri (upon whose decks the Japanese had surrendered to end World War II nearly half a century before) and her sister Wisconsin were there again to fire in anger.

  This time, however, it was not gigantic 16-inch guns that served as their main batteries, but a barrage of state-of-the-art guided missiles. They were joined by Aegis cruisers San Jacinto and Bunker Hill and destroyers Paul F. Foster, Leftwich, and Fife, and together they fired 48 Tomahawks in the first hour. That was just the beginning: in the first two days of the war alone, 216 Tomahawks and 1,100 combat sorties from the carriers had been launched against Saddam Hussein’s Iraq.

  One of the vessels of this powerful striking force made history in those early hours of the war. Like many other ships in the armada, USS Louisville had come a long way to fight. Her voyage had been more than 14,000 miles at high speed. But unlike most of the other vessels, she had made the transit underwater. Louisville was the fourth ship to bear the name: Her predecessors had been an ironclad steamer that fought in the battle of Vicksburg during the Civil War, a troop transport that carried thousands of Soldiers to Europe during World War I, and a World War II cruiser who fought in several engagements, including the Battle of Leyte Gulf that destroyed the Japanese navy. But this Louisville was the first to be a submarine. And on 19 January, she became the first submarine in history to launch a Tomahawk missile in actual combat.

  This massive assault from the sea crippled the enemy’s infrastructure and weakened their will and ability to fight. After the air war, the ground war began and was over in just a few days. Kuwait was liberated, and Saddam Hussein’s bid for mastery in the Persian Gulf region had been thwarted. While this spectacular victory was achieved by a joint effort of all U.S. armed forces with the assistance of a coalition of foreign allies, the U.S. Navy’s role was unquestionably vital to the outcome. Without control of the surrounding seas and the power projected from those waters, the war would have been a different one indeed, if it could have been fought at all.

  The ships, aircraft, and submarines that accomplished this liberation were representatives of the pinnacle of naval power at the time, incorporating state-of-the-art technology that was a far cry from the sailing frigates who had fought the despots of Morocco, Algiers, Tunis, and Tripoli nearly two centuries earlier. Even though Sailors from both eras answered orders with a traditional “aye-aye” and knew the value of a half-hitch, much had changed since the twelve-gun Enterprise had captured a Tripolitan ship in a ferocious action off Malta and a party of courageous Sailors had sailed the tiny ketch Intrepid into Tripoli’s harbor to destroy the enemy fleet berthed there on what turned out to be a suicide mission. Those tiny wooden vessels following the whims of North African winds in the early 1800s bore little resemblance to the great steel ships plying Middle Eastern waters in 1991. The contrast between hundred-yard cannons and Tomahawks flying hundreds of miles into Iraq is almost beyond comprehension. And those brave men in Intrepid who made that last sortie into Tripoli harbor would no doubt have gratefully welcomed the assistance of a flock of strike aircraft or a missile-firing submarine.

  A Tomahawk cruise missile, as viewed through the periscope of the submarine launching it. USS Louisville was the first submarine in history to launch a Tomahawk in combat. Naval Historical Center

  The U.S. Navy of the late-twentieth and early-twenty-first centuries is unquestionably the most powerful the world has ever seen. But it d
id not come to be that way without the imagination, innovation, and outright genius of some brilliant inventors and the courage of Sailors who, using those inventions, dared to go where no one had gone before.

  Peter Williams

  Seaman Peter Williams would not have been cast as a hero in a Hollywood movie. His slender build, mousy brown beard, and gray eyes were not features that made him stand out in a crowd. But he had proved himself a capable seaman during his first voyage shortly after the Civil War began. He was a quick study and had already learned a healthy respect for the sea. His ship had been seriously damaged in an Atlantic winter storm and was undergoing repairs in the Brooklyn Navy Yard when Williams heard of a strange new kind of ship being built nearby. The rumors had been spreading along the waterfront for some time, and although he was no naval architect and not among the most experienced Sailors in the Union Navy, Williams knew enough about ships to know how they worked. What he was hearing about this vessel did not seem possible.

  It was a blustery January afternoon in 1862 when the young Sailor decided to have a look for himself. A chilling wind nipped at his ears as he made his way along the waterfront. A wad of tobacco bulged his left cheek, and he was careful to spit to leeward as he walked. On his right, tall masts skewered the bright blue sky, and to his left, soot-covered brick buildings housed the industrial shops and chandlers’ lofts of the Navy Yard. The pungent smell of burning coal wafted on the wind, and across a narrow band of water he could see Cob Dock, a man-made island created over the years by dumping the cobblestone ballast from ships that came in for overhaul.

  He was stopped at a gate by an old watchman, an attempt to maintain the secrecy that had long before been compromised. There had even been stories in the newspapers about the strange new vessel that had been designed by the colorful and sometimes difficult John Ericsson. Williams had some difficulty getting past the old watchman, but he succeeded after his persistent (but untrue) assurances that he was a member of the new ship’s crew. As he passed by the watchman, the old man said, “Next time bring me a pass so that if you are a spy and blow up the ship, I’ll have something to fall back on.” So much for priorities.