Front Burner

by Kirk S. Lippold

  9

  Recovering the Fallen

  EACH OF THE THREE MAIN GROUPS working on the ship felt that recovering and repatriating the remains of our dead was now the main objective. The FBI/NCIS team, the Navy divers, and the shipyard workers from Norfolk Naval Shipyard now put one mission first: the recovery of the sailors killed in the attack and still trapped in the wreckage of the ship.

  Although the primary mission of the Norfolk shipyard workers was to help enhance the structural stability and seaworthiness of Cole to make the ship ready to withstand being towed from port and returned to a stateside shipyard, little more than an hour after they arrived that morning, they discovered that they had become the linchpin that would enable the other organizations to access and recover the dead sailors.

  When the shipyard team left Norfolk, their mission was twofold: do whatever was necessary to enhance the structural integrity of Cole to allow it to get out of port safely for future transportation back to the United States and support the FBI and other teams on board in their efforts to gather evidence and get the dead sailors out of the wreckage. The FBI needed them to cut access holes in the steel bulkheads. The divers needed them to build a ladder strong enough, yet narrow enough, to lower through the ventilation duct in the starboard brake fan room to access the upper level of the flooded engine room. While it had never been explicitly stated, we all assumed that the shipyard workers’ mission would include not only accessing the trapped sailors but handling their remains as well. This erroneous assumption in their mission was about to have a drastic and unexpected impact.

  But there was one hitch, as I learned when Ken Baggett came up to me with a very worried expression on his face.

  “Captain, can I speak with you privately for a minute?” he asked.

  I hopped down off the fender and motioned for him to step forward near the inflatable small craft, where we would be out of earshot.

  “Captain, I think there may be some confusion about what the shipyard workers and I can do for you. We came here to help get your folks out of the wreckage and get the ship ready to leave port but we can’t handle the bodies. I’m not going to pull a union card on you, but we are not trained or equipped to handle that kind of work and you’re going to need to have some of your folks do that,” he told me.

  We had apparently misunderstood their mission. It was not their fault but now I had to come up with a new plan and quickly. “I completely understand. Don’t worry about it, we’ll put together a list of my crew and we’ll get them down there shortly,” I said. “Captain, I don’t want you to think we don’t want to help, we just didn’t volunteer to come here for this,” Ken said.

  “Ken, don’t worry. We’ll take care of it. Thanks for letting me know,” I said. Without another word, we shook hands and he headed back to his workers.

  Sensing that something was amiss, Chris walked up, “Captain, is there a problem?” I explained it to him, and he took a deep breath.

  Once again, the frame of reference hearkened back to World War II kamikaze attacks in the Pacific. Those suicide pilots sank more than thirty Navy ships and damaged many more, including the destroyer USS Laffey, “the ship that would not die” even after taking five hits in the battle of Okinawa. The carrier USS Bunker Hill had suffered 389 deaths in one of the worst attacks, but its crew had kept the ship from sinking and had helped recover the remains of their shipmates. If those sailors before us had done this kind of difficult work, there was no doubt this crew was also capable of handling that necessary but unpleasant task. Taking a deep breath myself, I just looked at Chris and said, “XO, we need a list of five sailors who we think have the mental stamina and toughness to deal with what they will see. While they need to volunteer for this, we have to pick them carefully. I’ll let the FBI know what we are doing and that we’ll have them ready to go in a few minutes.”

  Chris looked at me, clearly troubled. Before I walked away, we ran through a few names of crew members both of us felt were capable of dealing with this problem, but we still needed a couple more. This was not going to be easy for anyone, and my gut churned with anxiety. Even with the area in the mess line and galley blocked off, I had seen the deteriorating physical state of the bodies in the wreckage and knew that these five crew volunteers would see things that would haunt them for the rest of their lives. We both knew the Navy would inherit a lifelong obligation to these people. While I knew the divers dealt with the delicate task of remains recovery when it came to aircraft crashes and other at-sea accidents, the recovery effort above the waterline did not fall exactly into their line of work. Still, I felt that if anyone had to do that task, it naturally fell to this crew to handle it. Chris turned and walked away to get the names.

  As I stood there for just a moment longer, Don Sachtleben from the FBI walked up to me.

  “Captain, I’m working with the shipyard folks down on the mess decks and heard their concerns about having to handle the bodies,” he said. Assuming he wanted to get started with the recovery effort as soon as possible, I responded, “That’s correct. I already discussed the issue with the XO and we’re putting together a list of five sailors as quickly as possible who we think can handle what they’re about to do. As soon as we get the list, we’ll get them down to you.”

  He looked at me a little surprised. “You don’t need to do that,” he told me. “We have folks here that can do that job. We’re trained to do this type of work and have agents here who were involved in the recovery efforts at Oklahoma City and some just recently finished up work in Bosnia at a mass grave excavation. We have the Tyvek suits, gloves, facemasks, and scented filters. We’ll take care of your sailors for you.”

  A huge weight lifted off my shoulders. The crew did not have to be exposed to the tragic sight of their shipmates and friends. Somewhat overcome with gratitude, all I could say was, “Thank you, thank you very much. That helps us out a lot.” Don just smiled, shrugged his shoulders in his typical no-problem manner, and walked back toward the amidships area to continue his work.

  Chris was as grateful as I was when he heard the news.

  With their toolboxes staged on the aft missile deck and flight deck, several of the shipyard workers gathered up their equipment and cutting torches and, in company with the FBI, went down to work on the mess decks. There two, possibly three bodies were trapped in the deformed, unyielding metal of the mess line.

  There was still no power in this area of the ship and forward. While some up-and-over lights had been strung in the mess decks area, it was still relatively dark. The pungent smell of rotting chicken fajitas and the other remnants of last Thursday’s noon meal permeated the air. Combined with the still powerful smell of fuel, it was as close to the putrid smell of hell as one could imagine. Yet, no one complained; no one flinched; no one declined the work. Everyone down there knew their mission and went about it with steely determination.

  The problem now became how to get this curved wall of metal away from the sailors. There was no way to pull it away from the bodies since there was nothing on the other side except the large open cavern inside the ship where the general workshop, galley, and engine room used to exist—no way to gain the leverage needed to do the job. The next option was to cut away the bulkhead between the mess line and the mess decks where the remains were pinned into the wreckage.

  Before the explosion, members of the crew had been walking down the mess line with food trays in hand. When they rounded a corner to enter the mess decks, they came to the drink line, which formed across the forward bulkhead to their left. They passed sectioned plastic racks holding glasses at the beginning of the line, then machines dispensing a wide array of selections: white and chocolate milk, water, lemonade, various soda pop flavors, and “bug juice”—a flavored water similar to Kool-Aid relished by sailors worldwide for its high sugar content and unique ability to shine brass. This forward bulkhead, with all this equipment along it that had to be removed, was the aft-most wall relatively undamaged by the
blast. On the other side were the devastated mess line and trapped bodies.

  To gain access to the flat surface of the bulkhead behind what had been the drink line and prepare it for cutting, the machines had to be unbolted from the deck and bulkhead, and within thirty minutes they had been disconnected and shoved aside to give the shipyard welders unfettered access. Mindful of the possibility of a fire, they had a qualified engineer test the immediate area where they would make the cuts and check the quality of the air to ensure it contained no explosive gases or vapors. While the hot air hung heavy with the humid stench of decay, it would not ignite from sparks or flames.

  After taking very careful measurements of where to cut, the torch popped to life and the slow process of removing a section of bulkhead began. The cut had to be made all the way around, with special care to avoid the bodies of the sailors known to be just on the other side. To access the first of those sailors, a piece of bulkhead measuring four feet wide and five and a half feet high was carefully cut and pulled away.

  Three FBI agents, Special Agent Tom O’Connor, Special Agent Kevin Finnerty, and Special Agent John Adams, volunteered for the difficult task of recovering and handling each of the bodies as they were removed from the wreckage. No training or previous experience truly prepared any of them for doing this type of work, yet here they were, doing an extremely demanding job in the knowledge that these were loved ones of American families waiting for them to come home.

  It had been about an hour since Don had approached me with the offer to have the FBI handle the trapped crew. Now, around 0900, he came back up to the aft missile deck and motioned that he needed to speak with me. Standing near the inflatable boats, he told me that two sailors had been recovered from the mess line and asked if I wanted to come down, help identify them, and tell him what we planned to do to honor them as they left the ship.

  Quickly, Chris learned what was going on as Don took me down to the mess decks. There, carefully arranged on the tables, were the first two recovered missing crew members. Fortunately, their identification was straightforward. But standing there, I became acutely aware of how crew members that had been providing assistance to the FBI in gathering evidence might react if exposed to the recovery of human remains. My decision was quick and immediate. The crew would not be allowed to see their shipmates in this condition. It would be my sole responsibility as commanding officer to be the only member of the crew who would work with the FBI to identify my sailors.

  Don told me that this was just the first stage of the recovery effort. Regardless of whether the FBI or the divers completed the extraction process, as sailors were recovered, they had to be taken to a well-lighted staging area where the FBI could examine them for forensic evidence and to the best of their ability verify their identification. The best place to do this was the amidships area between the stacks.

  To ensure privacy for the FBI to work uninterrupted, and also to prevent the crew from seeing their shipmates in this condition, I gave Chris the task of arranging to cordon it off. With two white tarps, stretched from the back of the forward stack to the front of the aft stack and hung from lines about eight feet off the deck, we created an accessible but isolated area that no one could look down on. As the recovered sailors were brought up to this area, the FBI examined them for any visible signs of evidence. This included detailed documentation by Special Agent Garrett McKenzie. All aspects of their recovery, including where they were found, and physical features such as nametags on uniforms, identification (dog) tags, armed forces identification cards, and jewelry were used to accurately determine who they were. With the first two identifications complete and the forensic analysis and collection finished, these sailors could begin their final journey home.

  I thought it was paramount for the crew to have an opportunity to participate in some type of ceremony to honor their fallen shipmates and friends and say good-bye to them forever. Each recovered sailor’s remains were placed into a body bag, sometimes two. As a tribute to the demanding job being done by Special Agents O’Connor, Finnerty, and Adams, I asked them to tape an American flag carefully in place on each body bag. Next, six sailors, either from the individual’s division or close friends, were selected to act as pallbearers in an honor guard. We then gathered the honor guard outside the draped area.

  Once alerted that the recovery effort was complete and the FBI was ready, at the same time Chris announced on the partially restored 1MC that all available crew should assemble on the aft missile deck and flight deck. The FBI pulled back the drape and the six sailors lined up, three on each side of their shipmate. On command, they bent down, firmly grasped the looped handle on the black bag, and in one smooth motion lifted it off the deck. With one of the Fifth Fleet chaplains and me at the front of the procession, the command to start marching was given and, in lock step, the group marched out from the draped area, turned to the right, and began a solemn walk toward the flight deck and the brow. As the honor guard with our fallen shipmate approached the area where the assembled crew stood at attention, Chris called out, “Hand salute.” A few feet from the brow, the chaplain and I broke away from the procession, took up ranks on either side of the brow, and joined the crew in a salute as the remaining members of the honor guard carried their shipmates off USS Cole for the last time.

  As the last member of the honor guard set foot on the refueling pier, Chris called out, “Ready to,” and everyone dropped their salute. With an “About face,” all members of the crew turned towards the refueling pier and their fallen shipmate, who was then to be solemnly escorted ashore by the Marine FAST platoon, returning the honor the ship’s name itself had given to Sergeant Darrell S. Cole. The ship’s honor guard walked across the refueling pier and gently placed each of the dead in the well of the zodiac boat, which gently glided away from the pier. As the zodiac headed toward shore, the American flag at the stern of the boat flapped in the slight breeze as a Marine sat at attention with his M-16 pointed forward as a vanguard and protector. When the boat cleared the stern of the ship, Chris ordered, “Carry on.”

  When this first ceremony ended, the crew stood frozen in the moment. No one moved. Everyone watched as the zodiac plowed effortlessly through the calm waters of the harbor toward shore. Several crew members openly but quietly cried and turned to seek comfort from their friends nearby. A couple of minutes later everyone slowly dispersed and wandered back to work.

  Not everyone was comfortable with how we had handled this ceremonial send-off. After the first two sailors were taken ashore, word came to Chris that some of the crew had been unable to get away from their work or had not known that a departure ceremony had taken place. Several were upset and were very outspoken in their criticism. Quickly, we changed our routine. At the next departure ceremony, work would be stopped throughout the ship to allow the entire off-watch crew and any support personnel who wished to participate, assemble and pay their respects.

  Less than an hour later, a third body was recovered from the area of the destroyed galley. This recovery proved especially difficult since this sailor had been standing at the epicenter of the explosion and his remains had been rolled up into the twisted and distorted ball of stainless steel that had been the serving line. Despite their misgivings, the workers from Norfolk Naval Shipyard had worked very hard to unravel the metal and allow the FBI to make the extraction. It was an intense undertaking, but they had done it. It had been underneath this same roll of metal that Fireman Stewart had been initially trapped until freed by Petty Officers Foster and McCarter. This time, Chris assembled every crew member not standing watch to come topside to participate in the honors departure ceremony and a short time later, another of our shipmates left Cole.

  The divers now turned their attention to the destroyed engine room. While they had access through the ventilation duct, they also wanted to inspect it from the hole in the ship’s side, despite the sharp jagged metal from the shredded hull plating that protruded into the space. Even getting a boat close
to the hole without damage was a problem. A zodiac-style boat would not work since the inflatable pontoons could be easily punctured. The only metal boat on the ship was the boatswain’s mates’ aluminum paint punt, fourteen feet long and almost six feet wide, used to paint the waterline while in port and designed to carry up to three people with a capacity of 600 pounds, including gear. The boatswain’s mates took Cole’s paint punt and tied it off next to the ship just aft of the blast hole with a pilot’s ladder lowered over the side, and two divers climbed down to the boat, had their gear lowered down to them, and then suited up. They carefully swam over the thick rubber mats they had placed over the jagged metal around the blast hole, but despite all their precautions, their umbilical cords kept tangling every few feet. It was quickly determined that the divers would be unable to safely access the area of the upper level of the engine room this way, and the ventilation shaft now became the primary entry point.

  By early afternoon on Monday, the Norfolk Naval Shipyard workers had constructed a simple but sturdy wooden ladder down into main engine room 1, which had three levels. The upper level, on the same plane as the fuel lab and general workshop, was referred to as the first platform, containing ductwork to support the intake and exhaust for fresh air into and out of the engine room itself, as well as air to support the operation of the gas turbine engines. The normal entrance to this level was through the damaged and dished-in watertight door located between the entrances to the fuel lab and general workshop. The second platform, the next level down, contained the fresh water system’s reverse-osmosis and water purification units. The lowest level was the bilge, containing the foundations and support structure for the two gas turbine main engines, the modules that enclosed them, the reduction gear that converted the high-speed turbine revolutions into turns of the starboard propeller shaft, and various other equipment.

  The divers had reviewed the engineering diagrams to understand what to expect and find there. But when they went in, they found it barely recognizable, except for the large ducts coming from the tops of the engine modules, which had been dished in and distorted by the force of the blast. And the smell of fuel and lube oil was overpowering. Carefully, they walked around the first platform, testing the strength of the steel deck and gratings to support their weight, until they found several points where they could carefully lower themselves into the floodwaters and dive down farther to search for the missing sailors.