Initially, Commander Scholley and Warrant Officer Perna were very concerned about the quality of the air and asked one of the shipyard workers who was certified to test it to take measurements. Though the air was deemed safe to work in, the support divers who worked in the space for extended periods of time helping out the divers occasionally wore a self-contained breathing apparatus to be on the safe side.
As the divers wriggled down the wooden ladder and ventilation duct into the engine room, they found themselves standing on the starboard side of the first platform. No matter which way they turned, they saw a confusion of shredded steel, twisted beams, bent hull plating, mangled pipes, loose electrical cables, and deformed duct work. Machinery that weighed hundreds or thousands of pounds had been ripped from its foundations and tossed about the space. The water at this level was about eighteen inches deep, and everything below was completely flooded. At the waterline, sunlight flickering off the calm waters of the harbor outside reflected throughout the space through the blast hole, creating spectral shadows that appeared to be moving around.
To prevent accidental cutting and chafing of their umbilical cords, with air, video, and communications feeds, the divers took several fire hoses that were no longer usable, cut off the brass connectors at either end and routed the umbilical cords through the hoses. Once their assessment of work conditions was complete, they began recovering the sailors whose bodies were trapped in the engine room below the waterline.
Within an hour, they had recovered the first one, Don Sachtleben informed me. I went forward to assist in the identification process and Chris quietly prepared the crew for another honors departure ceremony after the FBI team had completed its forensic examination. Thirty minutes later, we rendered full military honors to the fourth sailor recovered from the wreckage as he left the ship.
By the end of the day Monday, as the sun began to set and the crew finished dinner, there was a growing sense of pride in honoring our fallen friends and shipmates.
Tuesday started out hot and humid and immediately got even hotter. By midmorning, the recovery and collection teams were well into the second day of recovery operations. Just as the FBI was about to start their work for the day, the group working in the area of the galley and mess decks approached Don with a potential problem, and when he told me what it was I went down to the galley area with him to see it firsthand. Standing at the entrance to the destroyed galley, what I saw made almost every piece of metal in the surrounding area appear to be slowly moving. The surface of the metal was crawling with the larvae of thousands of flies. The now-decayed residue of the chicken fajitas had been blown everywhere by the blast, and the flies had feasted on it. Chief Moser sprayed down the entire area with pesticide and repeated the process every three days thereafter to prevent another infestation.
Don Sachtleben and I continued the routine we had developed for the recovery of remains. When the FBI had completed the forensic analysis work, Don would come get me for the identification phase behind the white tarps. While the crew was curious, they stayed away from the area, respecting that this difficult work required privacy. As I was soon to learn, not everyone shared this sensitivity.
By midmorning, the divers had recovered a second sailor from the engine room, but just before the FBI started the forensic examination, Don approached me, agitated and upset. “We have a big problem,” he told me. “Is there any way you can tell someone not to be involved in our work?” I shrugged and said, “Absolutely. Why? What’s the problem?”
“Well, it’s the Fifth Fleet Surgeon, Captain something or another, I forget his name,” Don told me. “He has been with us during each of the recoveries but he is now interfering with our work and potentially impacting our ability to gather evidence. I didn’t mind it yesterday when he wanted to poke his nose into every body recovery we did. We just kind of ignored him as long as he stayed out of the way. He seemed a bit too curious in some ways and kept asking too many questions that we just didn’t bother to answer. Today, though, he went too far. He just asked me if he could bring some of his technicians from ashore to watch and help. He thinks this would be a great training opportunity for them. This is not a training opportunity! I don’t know what he thinks this is but I just can’t have that going on. Is there anything you can do?”
I was mortified. Then, pure anger set in. With barely controlled fury I said to Don, “I’ll take care of it. Go back down to the mess decks and tell him I want to see him up here now.” Don, clearly surprised by the intensity of my reaction, said, “I’ll go get him now.”
I grabbed the clip-on microphone to my wireless walkie-talkie and, looking up the starboard bridge wing, called out, “Ops, Captain.”
Derek was on the bridge standing watch and keeping an eye on the communications with all the support ships offshore. The inflatable boat from Hawes that was supplementing the Yemeni force protection around Cole and making the occasional shuttle run ashore was tied up and refueling at the backside of the pier. A second or two after my call, he walked out onto the bridge wing and answered, “Ops.”
“Ops, do we have a small boat available to take someone ashore?” I asked.
“Yes, sir. Hawes’s RHIB [rigid hull inflatable boat] is on the backside of the pier refueling,” he said.
“Tell them to stop refueling and get the boat to the loading area to take someone ashore, now.”
“Roger, sir,” he replied.
I could see Derek shift channels on his walkie-talkie and contact the boat crew. The boat captain looked up at the bridge and acknowledged the order but nothing happened. He and the crew just went back to sitting around as they continued to refuel the boat. This was not a time for delay and the boat was needed in position immediately.
With a very controlled and staccato voice I called back up to the bridge, “Ops, Captain. Tell that boat crew to stop refueling! I don’t care what they are doing, I want that boat at the loading area, right now!”
Derek knew from the tone coming through the radio that he needed to get the boat crew in motion, and quickly. Again, he contacted the boat crew on their separate channel. Derek never told me what he said but the reaction was swift and instantaneous. The boat crew sprang to their feet, stopped refueling, and scrambled to jump into the boat. The engine roared to life as they cast off the lines and raced around the corner to the landing area at the back of the pier.
There was no time to tell Chris, who was standing beside me, what was going on; the surgeon had come up from down below and was headed towards me. Chris walked away as the surgeon came up.
“Captain, I understand you wanted to see me,” he said.
Working hard to project a calm demeanor, I looked at him and said, “Captain, I have been informed by the lead FBI agent that you are interfering with the investigation. I cannot have that happen. I have made arrangements for a small boat to take you ashore. You will not be allowed back on the ship.”
He started to stammer out a reply, “I—I don’t understand. I just . . .”
Turning and indicating with my arm that I wished him to walk with me toward the brow, I continued, “Sir, please, this way. The boat is waiting to take you ashore and I do not want you back aboard. Please leave the ship, now.”
Clearly confused, he did not argue or question my request. He just started to walk toward the brow saying, “Yes, sir, Captain, but I just don’t understand.”
In my mind there was nothing to explain. In many ways, the FBI/NCIS team was the most important organization on the ship. They would gather the evidence necessary to capture and hold accountable the terrorists who had attacked the ship and killed seventeen of my crew. They had also done the crew and me a huge service by taking on the unenviable task of removing the dead sailors from the wreckage of the ship. This was my ship and no one was going to interfere with the FBI’s operations, period.
As we reached the brow, the captain saluted and requested permission to go ashore. As he walked down toward the pier, he kept glancing
back at me with a look of disbelief at what was happening. Thankfully, he continued to cross the pier, got into the boat, and headed towards shore. That was the last time we had to deal with him on the ship.
It was at times like this that it felt supremely good to be the ship’s captain. It was my ship and my crew and nothing was going to prevent or interfere with my doing what was in their best interests. Hopping back up onto my fender office, I got back to work, but it took me several hours before I could bring myself to discuss the incident with Chris. When he was filled in on the details, he was as shocked as I had been.
The process of recoveries continued, and later that day the divers brought up two more sailors from the engine room. Trained to deal with these recoveries in a sensitive and respectful manner, they worked very carefully in extracting each one from the wreckage. The effects of salt-water immersion for so long were appalling, but as each sailor was recovered, the divers placed the remains in a body bag before having them lifted gently out of the engine room through the narrow ventilation shaft and taken into the draped-off area for the FBI to do their work.
By now, the crew knew the routine, and, within an hour of each recovery, assembled topside for the honors departure ceremony. After the second one Tuesday, Don told me that, while they had located more sailors in the wreckage, they wanted to wait until the next day because each successive extraction was going to take longer, given the amount of debris and metal surrounding the remains. Everyone knew that families back home were anxiously awaiting news of their loved ones, but accomplishing the recovery properly was supremely important.
Just before departing the ship that evening, Don asked what happened with the Fifth Fleet surgeon. He looked somewhat bemused by my explanation, but thanked me for taking care of the problem so decisively. Later that evening, there was also the inevitable call from Captain Hanna seeking an explanation. Methodically, I walked him through what the surgeon had done and why the FBI had asked for my help. After patiently listening, he used some rather colorful language to emphasize that he would make sure the surgeon never set foot back on the ship the rest of the time we were in port.
On Wednesday morning, Don and the FBI/NCIS team approached Commander Scholley and the divers with a request. In the middle of the cavernous area blown away by the explosion, a sailor’s “boondocker” boot along with some clothing hung by a shred of cloth from the overhead. There was no easy way to reach these partial remains except by sending the aluminum paint punt back into the engine room with a team member who could then step out carefully where there was good footing and use a pole to unhook the remains of this sailor and lower them into the punt.
Within about an hour Commander Scholley and one of her divers crawled down the ladder that was still hung over the side of the ship to the paint punt and then slowly maneuvered to enter the ship from the hole in the side. Carefully, the diver stepped out of the boat and up onto a narrow piece of bent deck. Using a long six-and-a-half-foot boat hook and holding onto a piece of twisted steel to steady himself, the diver leaned out into the middle of the cavern and slowly stretched out to get the boat hook into position. At the same time, members of the FBI recovery team were working from a piece of narrow ledge at the edge of the blast hole in the middle of the galley. Using the same technique as Commander Scholley and the diver below, John Adams and Tom O’Connor slowly leaned out over the edge with another boat hook. As both groups leaned out, Commander Scholley tried to steady the punt and maneuver into position. The diver’s boat hook could not quite reach, but the hook from the FBI found its mark as the sailor’s remains fell straight down into an open body bag set out in the well of the boat.
Shortly afterwards, the crew assembled for another honors departure ceremony. Later that afternoon, the pace picked up with the recovery of two more sailors’ bodies. The difficult task of identification continued within the draped-off area and by the end of the day, only three sailors remained in the wreckage.
The next day, Thursday, was a day of extreme highs and lows. At the start of the day, the crew was increasingly upbeat about the pace of recovery of their shipmates. Everyone hoped today would be the last day for rendering honors in the remaining three departure ceremonies. These last recoveries, however, would prove the most difficult. To date, all the sailors found by either the divers or the FBI recovery team had been relatively easily extricated.
The FBI had located two more remains in the galley, but access was extremely difficult. They were pinned between the bulkhead and the overhead in the area separating the galley from the chiefs’ mess, with large pieces of unrecognizable debris blocking any easy path to reach them. These last two recoveries were so difficult, they could reasonably have been put off until the ship returned to the United States, but by now, all the FBI and NCIS agents on board Cole had developed an unspoken bond with the crew and knew that no one should be left behind.
Once again the Norfolk Naval Shipyard workers were called into action to cut away the pieces of mangled rubble in the galley. John Adams, dressed in full protective gear, slowly worked his way up into the small area where he could reach the remains of the two sailors trapped there. There was no way to pull either sailor straight out; both would have to be dragged across his torso and handed out to the waiting team. It was dark, hot, and humid. Portable lights only partially illuminated the area and cast odd shadows as other FBI agents tried to light the crevice. Lying on his back, John slowly and carefully reached over himself and slid each of the two sailors across to Tom O’Connor and Kevin Finnerty, waiting below him. The honors departure ceremonies for these last two sailors were held about an hour apart to allow the FBI to complete their forensic analysis work.
But one sailor was still frustratingly missing somewhere in the engine room. The MDSU-2 divers began a detailed and methodical search. Time ticked by with agonizing slowness. Although work and watches continued normally, the crew grew increasingly anxious. By mid-afternoon the sailor’s remains were found. Commander Scholley and her divers notified everyone that a body had been located trapped under machinery that had been blown on top of it by the explosion, but that it would take some time to pry it out. Word quickly spread and an air of tense anticipation took hold.
Over the past four days, the crew had endured the emotional toil of knowing friends and shipmates were dead and trapped in the wreckage on the inside of the ship. Most had seen the bodies in the wreckage of the mess line, and everyone had struggled to understand how they had escaped death. In their own way, every one had gone through the mental exercise of wondering what their own families would think if they had been killed, wondering how and where they were trapped and what was being done to get them out. The crew worked hard to come to terms with what had happened to them. They intuitively sensed that the recovery of the bodies would naturally lend a degree of closure. They anxiously looked forward to the recoveries, to be able to say good-bye, but also to know that a family back home could begin to deal with the unimaginable tragedy of losing a loved one.
Finally, the moment came when Don Sachtleben motioned for me to come up to the staging area to help with identification. Minutes later, Chris assembled the crew for the last honors ceremony.
The ship cast a growing shadow on itself and late afternoon sunbeams streamed across the harbor. And as the final zodiac with the Marines slowly departed the refueling pier carrying the final casualty ashore, I could almost hear the crew breathe a collective sigh of relief. It was not lost on anyone that there had been thirteen departure ceremonies, for twelve missing shipmates, but the last of the seventeen USS Cole sailors killed in the attack had begun their journey home. We were all emotionally drained and exhausted, knowing that our shipmates had paid the ultimate price for our freedom. But we would not let them down in the days to come.
It had been a trying week in many other ways, as well—the most trying week of my life.
10
Recovering From Stress
THE SPECIAL PSYCHIATRIC RAPID INTERVENT
ION TEAM (SPRINT) that was mobilized by the Navy the day of the explosion to provide help to us was led by Lieutenant Commander John Kennedy, a Medical Corps psychiatrist. The team, including a Medical Service Corps administrative officer, a family physician, an inpatient ward nurse, a substance abuse counselor, two independent duty hospital corpsmen, and two other hospital corpsmen, one a specialist as a psychiatric technician and the other a patient administration specialist, had some difficulty getting diplomatic clearance to Aden but had finally been able to board the ship on Sunday evening, at the height of the crisis caused by the loss of electric power.
Walking up the brow, all of them were struck by the darkness. Crew members lay about the ship in a tense state of rest, ready for the next crisis that seemed sure to come. The portable JP-5–fueled air compressors were running loudly in the background to recharge the high-pressure air flask that would be used to restart the generator that had failed.
Commander Kennedy requested permission to come aboard, and I warmly greeted him at the brow. “What can we do to help you?” I asked.
John was stunned by the question. He was here to help the crew, not the other way around. Nevertheless, I grew up with a father who was a psychologist in the field of stress management. I viewed the team’s arrival as a force multiplier, not a distraction from our mission to save the ship and the crew. Soon Commander Kennedy and I were on first-name terms. He had trained with experts from Walter Reed Army Hospital in Washington and the National Naval Medical Center in Bethesda, Maryland. He had had access to Army combat stress training and to lessons learned from ground combat in World War II, Korea, and Vietnam. “Shell shock” trauma was not something the Navy had to deal with often, but he was an expert on it and that was exactly what Cole’s crew had experienced.
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