Front Burner

by Kirk S. Lippold

  Chris and I watched from the aft missile deck as both of us thought the same thing. This can’t really be happening. Sure enough, when the crew opened the boxes, dinner was served: tuna fish snack packs with crackers. This was almost too surreal to comprehend. What was the crew on Tarawa thinking—or were they thinking? Chris started to head toward the communications suite when I stopped him.

  “I’ll handle this, XO,” I told him. The day had already gone through a number of highs and lows, so what the hell; let’s just express our frustration with a pointed radio transmission.

  Captain Hanna was going to go through the roof when he found out, but a more forceful and direct approach was needed to get my frustration across to Tarawa and the support from the amphibious ready group. Clearly, they just didn’t get it. Instead of the telephone, I picked up the radio handset. Chris looked at me with surprise but said nothing. The Joint Task Force Determined Response headquarters, as well as every ship and command element operating off the coast of Aden in support of USS Cole, could hear everything that was said on that radio circuit. They were about to get a blunt lesson in Navy communications and chain of command etiquette.

  With everyone in earshot listening to me, I took a deep breath, cleared my throat, and keyed the microphone, “JTF Determined Response, this is Cole actual, over.”

  “This is JTF Determined Response, roger, over,” came the quick reply.

  “This is Cole actual, request to speak with Commodore Hanna, over.”

  Only a couple of seconds passed before Captain Hanna was on the radio. He must have been standing nearby and jumped up to answer my call, “This is Commodore Hanna, roger, over.”

  Without giving even a second to pause, I waded in, speaking in a very clipped tone that, while maybe bordering on disrespectful, was even so hardly adequate to express the dissatisfaction and annoyance at my crew’s not being fed, again. “This is Cole, roger, break. Commodore, once again we did not receive a meal from Tarawa. All we got from them for dinner was another load of tuna snack packs with crackers,” I said. After only a momentary pause, I continued, “If this is the level of support we can expect from Tarawa and the ARG, request you detach them to proceed on duties assigned and bring back Donald Cook and Hawes who at least know how to take care of this crew, over.”

  The words seemed to hang in the airwaves for what seemed an eternity as the slight hiss and crackle from the radio penetrated my ear. The commanding officer, executive officer, and amphibious ready group commodore were all senior Navy captains; several years in seniority and experience to me. But they had rolled into Aden with an arrogant attitude that did not measure up anywhere close to what I felt my crew needed for support and sustainment. To ask the commodore to “detach them to proceed on duties assigned” not only publicly embarrassed them by calling them out over the radio, it was a blunt request to have them fired from their mission. They were failing my crew, and after what we had been through, I was not going to let anyone do that.

  Expressing little tolerance for what my tone just expressed toward senior officers but flush with his displeasure at the Tarawa’s failure to feed us, Captain Hanna just as curtly replied, “I will take care of the problem, out!”

  Putting down the handset, I recognized that this could mean more trouble for everyone. In this instance, I didn’t care. This crew had done too much, sacrificed too much, and had endured too much not to get something as simple as a hot meal delivered by one of the most capable and robust support platforms within 1,000 miles of Aden. If Tarawa and the other ships in its group thought they were so good, let them prove it by doing their job right.

  The evening did not get much better. Word came back to us that Tarawa had refused to feed us. Even after the radio transmission, no food was expected for the crew until morning. I was furious and in a foul mood. Staying upbeat and positive was my job but this tested the limits of even my tolerance. If the crew was tender, the incidents of this day had done nothing to prepare them for another hit.

  Shortly before sunset, it was time for me to set things right with Master Chief Parlier. Seeking him out, I asked him to walk with me up to the forecastle. It started as a long, silent stroll. Inviting him to sit down next to me on a set of bitts, we both looked back down at the ship for a few moments before either of us spoke.

  “Master Chief, I’m sorry that I said what I did to you earlier today,” as I started what was sure to be a difficult conversation. “You are too valuable to this ship and crew to send home. I’m not sure what caused me to doubt you but it seems like no one understands what we need to do here. This crew has been through a lot and I just want to do what’s right for them.”

  It was now his turn, “Captain, I feel like I’ve let you down. When I met with the chiefs, I just wanted to do what was right for the crew but it didn’t come across right. I’m sorry.”

  We spent the next half hour in a deep and sometimes emotional conversation. While I had never intended to hold anything back, there was a lot of information that he had not been aware of that suddenly opened his eyes to the myriad issues going on outside the crew’s view. In detail, we covered the complete spectrum of problems and challenges that we had faced over the past week but also the prospect of what lay ahead for us. It was as much an emotional “Come to Jesus” meeting as it was an opportunity to lay out the plan for our remaining time in port.

  In the end, I just looked at him and said, “Master Chief, this crew deserves the honor and privilege to get this ship out of Aden and, once that mission is done, to get on a plane together, meet our loved ones on the tarmac and give them a hug, and show them we’re OK, and what we did together.”

  With these words, we became forever bonded together not only as professionals but as two lifelong friends. Through a crucible defined by the attack and its aftermath, we each passed through a transition point that defined our relationship for the rest of the time in port. Trust was not only reestablished, it was reinforced, and became an unbreakable bond.

  Sensing that most of Thursday had been a day of emotional extremes and complex work, John had stayed aboard after his team left for the day. In the early evening, he patiently listened to my explanation of the episode with Master Chief Parlier and the climactic conversation between us on the forecastle. Thinking that maybe the captain himself was long overdue for some counseling, he asked how things were going. I said I thought that with a few minor exceptions, such as today’s debacle of not getting fed, the crew was holding up remarkably well. We discussed the plans for getting the ship ready to leave port and where the crew would be going. We also touched on how I was handling my own exposure to the recovery of remains, but he could see I wasn’t responding to the point of his question. This conversation was not about what was being done for the ship and crew, it was about me; I knew it and was doing an artful job dodging any discussion. Growing up with a psychologist for a father has its advantages and disadvantages.

  John finally got to the point by asking me what I thought about the task force commander’s assessment that the crew was too “tender,” could not “take another hit,” and my subsequent reaction to that judgment. I stubbornly stood by my assertion that as a crew in harm’s way, we did not have a choice; we had to be ready to fight and save the ship if we were attacked again. He then hit me with a hammer blow. “Well, sir, maybe you’re right,” he said. “A crew might be ready for another hit, but not your crew.” Looking at him with a growing sense of what was coming, I challenged him, “Please elaborate, I don’t understand.”

  “I think your crew could ‘take another hit’ if you were a better leader,” John said.

  This simple but blunt observation brought my actions of the past week into sharp focus. He didn’t say it directly, but implicitly he was saying I had to recognize my shortcomings and possible failure as a leader and commanding officer. He knew he had to keep going with me, and he continued on, pointing out the growing disconnect between my expectations for the crew and their ability to live
up to and achieve those objectives. I was preoccupied with the idea of being commanding officer in charge of a ship in combat. But the crew had been inadvertently influenced into misconstruing their circumstances, becoming overly concerned with their immediate safety, and seeing it unnecessarily jeopardized by my keeping them so long in Aden.

  The crew had also expressed an almost universal frustration, he told me, at my seeming detachment from how they had experienced the disaster and how they were dealing with it. They felt that I was insensitive, too mission-oriented, and that I was growing more and more angry. With example after example, John patiently walked me through my perceptions and the reality of how I was dealing with the issues affecting the crew and me. Slowly, the truth of what he was saying dawned on me.

  As commanding officer, it was my duty and obligation to be the strongest member of the crew. I had to be the strongest for everyone, so that each of them could have those precious moments to take a step back, reflect on what had happened to them, and then stand strong as a crew again. While everyone had had that opportunity, for me it was a luxury that I felt I could not afford to take right now. My time would come when the ship was safely out of port and the crew headed home to their families. It was not that the crew failed to understand me; I failed to understand their perception of me.

  Inside, I was hurting just as much as they were. I had already judged myself knowing that seventeen sailors had died and thirty-seven more were wounded while under my command. Accountability may be a harsh master but command of a ship is an unforgiving profession. The crew needed to better understand who I was as their captain. It was now up to me to share what I had been through. It was going to be a long night of thinking about how to lead forward from here. Before long it was dawn, the first boat arrived, and John went ashore to meet with his team back at the Aden Mövenpick Hotel.

  At quarters that morning, following Chris’s standard litany of announcements and assignments, I addressed the crew. What I shared with them that morning was a part of me they had never seen before. As directly as I could, I told them I felt an immense sense of loss for our shipmates killed in the attack. I viewed them as my sailors and my responsibility, as a group and as individuals. I also expressed the almost indescribable pride I felt for the job their shipmates, the crew standing before me, had done over the past week. They had saved the ship not only once but twice. They had persevered through incredibly hot and humid days and toiled for hours on end standing watches and working to help the divers and the FBI retrieve our shipmates from the wreckage, so that they could return home to their families. In my eyes, each of them was a hero, just as much a hero as each of their dead shipmates, and I would forever be in their debt for what they had done for our Navy and the nation. It was solely because of them that Cole was not going to become a trophy for the terrorists.

  A short time later, a large landing craft from Tarawa pulled up to the pier. With no small amount of surprise, Chris and I watched as the Commanding Officer of Tarawa strode up the brow and introduced himself, as his supply officer and a crew of about ten sailors unloaded breakfast supplies. Within thirty minutes, a smorgasbord of breakfast choices lay ready for the crew to enjoy. The day was off to a great start. By midmorning, John and his team were back on board. But today was different. Their overnight assessment was that the crew did not need much more in the way of intervention. From John’s perspective, even after our intense conversation of the previous night, the command was functioning well. The team planned to operate in an “as-needed” mode and conduct one-on-one interventions only as required.

  Standing at quarters with us for the first time was one of the most welcome guests to come on board the ship since the attack, Chaplain Loften C. Thornton. Chaplain Thornton, “Chaps” as we liked to call him, was one of the crew’s favorite officers. He was the chaplain for Destroyer Squadron 22, Cole’s squadron in Norfolk. Throughout our time in Norfolk during workups before deployment and during every extended underway period at sea, the crew always looked forward to have Chaps helicopter on board, not just to minister to them but to listen sympathetically to whatever they wanted to say to him outside the chain of command.

  Chaps had been embarked on USS George Washington in the Mediterranean when the attack occurred, and patiently worked on the chain of command to allow him to fly into Aden, so he could get out to “his” crew, some of whom had also asked when he could get to the ship. Fortunately, he was going to be with us the rest of our time in port.

  With the last of the sailors recovered out of the wreckage the previous afternoon, we had immediately begun planning for the memorial service we would hold this evening, and Chaps was to preside over it.

  Later that morning, the task force headquarters radioed us that the Fifth Fleet Commander, Admiral Moore, was on his way out to the ship and that a working party was needed to quickly unload a cargo of ice cream. Through some miracle, Captain Hanna had come through for the crew. Knowing the ice cream must be melting quickly, Chris rapidly got the flight deck ready—for the admiral and the ice cream. We had also received word that Hawes had baked a large cake for us. Today, after a seven-day delay, we were going to celebrate the Navy’s birthday! (October 13, 1775, was the day the Continental Congress in Philadelphia voted to fit out two sailing vessels as the start of the Continental Navy.)

  Admiral Moore was in a good mood as he quickly crossed the refueling pier and spryly strode up the brow onto the ship. I greeted him at the quarterdeck and we spent a few minutes just catching up on the events of the past week. He had been closely monitoring the reports coming in from the Joint Task Force headquarters, as well as from other ships; but there was nothing like actually seeing a crew in action to get a real sense of the morale and attitude of everyone on board.

  John Kennedy joined us for a few minutes on the aft missile deck and the admiral warmly greeted him. He had been providing Admiral Fitzgerald and the Joint Task Force Determined Response staff daily updates on the crew’s mental health and outlook, which the staff had forwarded to Admiral Moore. Out of the blue, as Admiral Moore stood looking over the flight deck and the crew as it was assembling, he looked at both of us and asked, “What’s happened? This is not the same crew I saw a week ago. I don’t know what has happened but this is amazing.”

  John just modestly grinned and replied, “Well Admiral, I think you are seeing a crew who has been through a lot and knows what they are capable of surviving.”

  Within a few minutes, Chris had the crew assembled back on the flight deck for several events. First, the admiral was asked to preside over our delayed celebration of the Navy’s birthday; and second, to participate in a reenlistment ceremony for one of the crew, Fire Controlman Chief Thomas Cavanaugh. Despite the circumstances the crew had survived under during the past week, they had a sense of victory and pride that had been missing over the previous few days. Now, as they went about their watches and helped the FBI and the divers, there was a quiet sense of confidence in their demeanor.

  The Navy birthday celebration had to come first—the ice cream was rapidly melting in the hot midday sun. Following longstanding Navy tradition, the oldest crew member, Chief Moser, and the youngest crew member, Petty Officer Foster, would together cut the Navy’s birthday cake and help serve it to the crew. As the first slice was made, the crew cheered. Everyone had big smiles plastered on their faces. The admiral and I took our rightful place behind the large tubs of now soft ice cream and started to dish it out. It was quite a sight—a three-star admiral in his pristine Summer White uniform and a commanding officer in his combat-stained blue coveralls, standing side by side scooping out heaping mounds of ice cream and plopping big globs onto Styrofoam plates filled with yellow cake and thick, creamy frosting.

  After a hundred or so scoops, the admiral and I were relieved of our duties for a few minutes and went for a short walk. “I need to speak with you privately for a few minutes,” he said. When we were alone and sitting near the ship RHIBs, he said, “Kirk, your crew
has been through a lot this past week and I would like you to consider something. The Navy has assembled a team of about a hundred people from Norfolk who have volunteered to come over here and relieve your crew. Most have served on guided-missile destroyers and are familiar with this type of ship. Now, anyone you think you need to keep the ship going will stay behind, but I would like you to consider allowing half or more of your crew to go home.”

  I leaned forward on my elbows, my hands clasped in front of me, my chin dropped into my chest as I stared at the non-skid deck that had suddenly become a sea of intense gray ridges and valleys. Inside I knew I had to stay absolutely calm, but I was in total disbelief. Everyone knew the crew had been through a lot and the emotional toll was tremendous, but without warning, the world collapsed around me again. All I could think to myself was, “This is the Commander of Fifth Fleet, a vice admiral in the United States Navy, and he’s asking me to allow my crew to abandon ship because what we’ve been through has been ‘hard’ on them!?” I was utterly astounded that the Navy’s leadership would even consider such a thing. The historical roots of the Navy clearly meant nothing to the admirals running the Navy today. They appeared ready to make decisions that flew in the face of generations of sacrifices by others who had also suffered at the hands of the enemy. The leaders and commanding officers throughout the history of the Navy, from John Paul Jones to Chester Nimitz, would never have even contemplated such a decision, and I wasn’t ready to, either.