Front Burner

by Kirk S. Lippold

  Looking around the bridge and at last letting out a deep breath, I smiled at Chris and said, “XO, play the first song.”

  Grinning back in his subdued way, Chris acknowledged with a clipped, “Aye, aye, sir,” as he quickly spoke into his walkie-talkie and gave the order.

  Prearranged between a group of crew members back on the flight deck and the two of us on the bridge, the ship’s stereo system for picnics was set up to play songs during the initial phase of the transit. It was directly connected to the 1MC announcing system and within seconds of the stereo operators being notified, the first strains of “The Star Spangled Banner” boomed out from the speakers and echoed across the harbor.

  With our national anthem playing loudly, we were leaving Aden with our heads held high despite what had happened to us. USS Cole was now a symbol of American might and resolve.

  Now only one tug steadily pulled on the towline at the bow as we left the harbor. The other tugs had retrieved their lines and were chugging alongside as escorts in the event of an emergency. As the national anthem finished playing, we noticed to our left there were two Yemeni Navy patrol craft moored to a pier jutting out into the harbor. Wearing their dress uniforms, the crews from both ships had assembled on the pier to see us off. Just before the bow of the ship came even with the pier and the patrol boats, their commanding officers called them to attention and as we slowly and quietly glided by them, they saluted us and rendered full military honors.

  With pride, the crew came to attention and returned the honors.

  The governments of Yemen and the United States still had differences on how the attack occurred and why terrorists had been able to conduct such a brazen operation without any reaction from the Yemeni government, but that was beyond our control. All we knew was that as fellow sailors, those exchanged salutes signified the bond that had been passed between navies for centuries.

  Really smiling now for the first time in what seemed like weeks, I turned again to Chris as I said, “XO, let’s play the second song.”

  With the same swift precision, Chris called back to the flight deck and within seconds the next song boomed across the waterways. Once again, we played “The Star Spangled Banner”—only this time, the Jimi Hendrix version. It was somehow a fitting transition for what came next. As Hendrix finished ripping, I turned to Chris and told him, “XO, the crew has earned it. Let them play whatever songs they want to.”

  Chris looked a bit surprised, but within seconds he told the flight deck crew to cue and play their next song.

  The screeching noise that then began emanating from the buzzing and vibrating speakers on the bridge and out on the bridge wings—at the loudest possible volume, so the Yemenis watching us leave would be sure to hear it—made me think I had made a huge mistake.

  “XO, what the fuck is that noise?” I was beside myself. “That’s not music. I don’t know what it is, but it’s not what I wanted for music. Get it stopped right now,” I thundered out. It was the first time since the attack that I had used foul language, and as soon as I said the words, I regretted it, but it was too late to take it back now.

  Chris was shocked at my reaction, but when he yelled into his walkie-talkie, the music was so loud the flight deck crew couldn’t hear him telling them to turn it off. I gestured toward the back of the ship and said, “Get back to the flight deck right now and get that noise shut down!”

  Within seconds, Chris hustled out the port side watertight door and headed down the ladders on the exterior of the ship. By this point, Derek and Ann were too surprised to do anything but get away from me as fast as possible. They found some safety on the starboard bridge wing and pretended to scan the harbor for unseen dangers.

  Within less than a minute, Chris was on the walkie-talkie for me. “Captain, the song is almost over, do you still want me to shut it down? They’re playing Kid Rock, ‘American Bad Ass.’”

  Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Derek and Ann, who had overheard the conversation on their own walkie-talkies, working hard to suppress laughter. Shaking my head, I finally understood the amusement of the moment in the calm part of my brain as I responded to Chris, “No, just let it go, XO. Just tell them that a better selection of music would be appreciated in the future.” While I may have wanted to send a signal by playing the national anthem on behalf of the American people, the crew wanted to send their own signal in a way that only a sailor could appreciate—up yours, Yemen!

  Minutes later, the bow of the ship slowly swung left as we headed down the channel to the open sea. About three miles offshore, the Yemeni tugs cast off their lines as USNS Catawba, a U.S. Navy ocean-going tug, maneuvered into position just off our bow. With the disciplined effectiveness of a well-trained crew, a new towline was passed up to the boatswain’s mates and by 1154 we were under tow again and headed down the coastline.

  Off in the distance, Commander Matt Sharpe on USS Donald Cook hoisted a clear message on her signal flags—EN10-17, meaning “the enemy is in retreat.”

  So far, so good, despite a surprising amount of drag created by the large hole in the port side. It took thirty degrees of right full rudder just to keep the ship on a straight course. On several occasions, probably because of the wind and current, the Cole would slowly drift off to the left of Catawba. The only way to very slowly recenter it at the end of the towline was to order thirty-five degrees of hard right rudder. Since we had no idea of the complete dimensions of the hole at this point, it was difficult to comprehend why so much drag was being created on the port side of the ship.

  Starting around 0300 the next morning, October 30, Catawba began the long process of slowing Cole as we approached M/V Blue Marlin. By 0415 the ship was dead in the water, the rudder was ordered to amidships, and preparations for the crew to disembark began. Landing craft sent over from Tarawa, who had shadowed us as we came down the coastline, temporarily tied up alongside the stern and, with the exception of a small number of crew left on board for the docking or an emergency, everyone else mustered on the flight deck to leave. Each crew member was allowed to take one duffel bag on the trip home. The rest of their personal gear was left on board to be retrieved and shipped to Norfolk once the ship returned to the United States.

  Emotions ran the gamut as, one by one, Cole’s crew left their ship. They had lost their friends, saved their ship, and stayed the course through an unbelievable tragedy; all in the finest traditions of the United States Navy. Most would never set foot on the ship again.

  12

  M/V Blue Marlin and USS Tarawa

  AS THE FINAL LANDING CRAFT PULLED AWAY, two of the Yemeni tugs maneuvered into position alongside us, and a pilot/docking officer from M/V Blue Marlin was escorted to the bridge. It was a few minutes until sunrise, and the clear sky was alight with the glow of the morning. The sea was calm, almost as flat as glass. Only an occasional gently rolling swell drifted by the ships. M/V Blue Marlin was ballasted and sunk down almost sixty feet, as far as it could go. Even from the height of the bridge wings, the deck where Cole would dock was invisible beneath the water.

  Mooring lines from the M/V Blue Marlin were placed onto our bitts, the Yemeni tugs cast off their lines, and the ship was steadily pulled into position. With a slight clang, the port side made contact with the two large towers, and we slowly slid backwards towards the bow. Inch by inch, the cowcatcher moved towards the aft-most pole, and at last it made contact. Navy and Marine divers then jumped into the water to verify the position of the ship as the M/V Blue Marlin started to deballast and rise up toward Cole’s keel. There was a short-lived problem when the blades on the starboard propeller made contact with the forward edge of the pit they were supposed to fit in, and the removable planks on the cowcatcher turned out to be permanently installed, but we hoisted several members of the crew over the side with an axe to chop them away. At one point, someone asked over the radio whether there was concern whether the docking process might scratch the hull. We all looked at each other and pointed out
that we already had a huge hole in the port side, and had cut a small hole into the starboard side ourselves; a few scratches at this point would not make a difference in the repair bill.

  Slowly, in position, the ship rose out of the water, and by late afternoon, with the sun just above the horizon, the docking was complete. As the water spilled off the flat deck, the Master of M/V Blue Marlin invited me over to meet him. After exchanging greetings and meeting some of the caretaker crew that would board Cole for the long voyage home, the Master offered to put me in a basket attached to one of the two yellow cranes and lower me to the deck to walk out and see my ship resting on the keel blocks. I gladly accepted his offer.

  Minutes later, I walked across the deck of M/V Blue Marlin. Water still swirled about the deck as it chased low points to drain off the sides of the vessel. Having been in ship dry docks before, I found the sight familiar, remembering seeing the underside of Arleigh Burke as part of the commissioning crew that built that first ship in the class. Cole’s hull was no different; it was only lightly coated with a routine buildup of marine life and moss after sitting essentially still for two and a half weeks alongside the pier in Aden.

  Carefully, I made my way between the two rudders and twin propeller blades. The shadow cast by the hull made me feel as if the ship was pressing down on me. The blade pits were still full of water and the blades from each shaft were at slightly different angles as they dipped into the dark waters. Walking steadily forward and not knowing exactly what my reaction was going to be when I saw the full extent of the damage, I came out into the sunlight and strode up the port side. I wanted to look up but was also anxious. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see I had reached the point near the center of the blast hole. I slowly turned and stared up at the opening in the side.

  Instantly, my throat tightened as my mind tried to grasp the sight before me. It was hard to believe how huge the hole actually was. I took several steps backwards in an attempt to better absorb the shock to my senses. Water mixed with oily residue continued to drain from inside what was left of the destroyed main engine room 1 and dribble out along the numerous ripped sections under the ship. A rainbow-colored film of oil ran by my feet as it headed over the side. The bilge keel, while still attached at either end, had been ripped away from the ship in a sixty-foot section and was strangely rippled and bent.

  All along the edge of the blast area, the metal that had once been the hull was torn and bent inward in bizarre shapes. From just above the fuel tanks at the lowest level in the engine room to the overhead in the remnants of the galley, the inside of the ship was exposed. Wires, cables, mangled pipes, bent structural beams, and crushed equipment was visible at every level. The scope of devastation was staggering.

  Yet a feeling of total awe and amazement overtook me. My crew had saved USS Cole. Looking up at the deck edge along the side of the ship, several faces peered down at me, probably wondering what I was seeing and thinking. My eyes grew moist and I lowered my head. A tear slowly rolled down my right cheek as I looked back up again at the hole. Though seventeen of my crew were dead and thirty-seven more were wounded and hospitalized, 240 sailors had survived this ordeal. While this crew had accomplished what many deemed impossible in saving their ship, the burden of my responsibility as commanding officer now seemed to weigh even more heavily on me.

  Back on board, Chris had already begun to assemble the remaining crew as the landing craft from Tarawa made their way toward us. It would be another couple of hours before the last of the crew was loaded onto the boats. As each group prepared to leave, they were given the opportunity to walk up the port side and behold the hole as they, too, gained an appreciation for what they had accomplished together. Many let their emotions openly show as they stood on the deck of M/V Blue Marlin and looked up. Like the group that morning, they now faced leaving their ship for the last time. Through blood, sweat, and tears, they had accomplished history.

  An hour past nightfall, Chris, the last of the crew to leave the ship and M/V Blue Marlin, was ready to join them on Tarawa. “XO, for all intents and purposes, you are the captain of this crew,” I told him. “Take care of them when you get back to Norfolk and I’ll see you in six and a half weeks. If anything comes up and you need to reach me, you know where to find me.”

  We exchanged a firm handshake. Neither of us was capable of saying any more. I was too overcome by emotions put on the backburner for the past two weeks. We just nodded at each other as he turned and got on the boat. Seconds later, it disappeared into the night seas.

  That evening, I moved into a small cabin on M/V Blue Marlin and prepared to hunker down for the long transit home. The next day was Halloween and that afternoon I passed out to the caretaker crew some small snack packs of M&Ms that I had received in a care package delivered by mail; they were touched by this reminder of home. An updated set of communications equipment had been installed on Cole—a satellite radio that served as our primary link to the outside world, and now a more robust secure telephone unit that allowed us to make calls and send faxes that were of a classified nature.

  Later that evening, the satellite radio crackled to life with Commander Scott Jones from Hawes requesting to speak with me. “Cole, this is Hawes. I am going to send my boat over to you to pick you up. The admiral would like to speak with you in person on board Tarawa, over,” Scott told me. I was confused by this request. Tarawa was already miles away up the coast and the only way to get to her would be a flight in a helicopter. It was already dark, and an over-water night flight was only permitted in time of critical operational necessity. To my knowledge, there was no pressing need for this flight.

  “This is Cole, roger, over. Request advise [me] why the admiral can’t just speak with me via radio? We can go secure if required but a night, over-water flight is not really necessary, is it?” I asked. “This is Hawes, roger, the admiral would like you to pack up your luggage, fly to Tarawa, and come home with the crew, over,” he replied.

  I shook my head in irritation. I had already had a very detailed and specific conversation with the chief of naval operations himself about the decision to remain with the crew. I just assumed that everyone knew about that discussion. I was not about to leave the ship without his knowledge.

  “This is Cole, roger. Please inform the admiral that the CNO and I discussed this issue and based on his recommendation, I am staying with the ship. Over,” I replied with just a hint of annoyance.

  Scott now clearly understood my reluctance to go, “This is Hawes, roger. Ummm, I was unaware of that conversation and will let the admiral know about your decision. Over.”

  “This is Cole. Roger, out,” I replied.

  Scott would be back in touch a few minutes later. Since their arrival, the caretaker crew established a radio watch to continuously monitor communications. Knowing this might be a drawn-out process, I plopped myself down into one of the chairs brought out from inside Cole. Less than five minutes later, the radio popped back to life.

  “Cole, this is JTF Determined Response, over,” came the voice from Tarawa that I recognized immediately as the admiral himself.

  “This is Cole. Roger, over,” I replied, sitting up.

  “Kirk, this is Admiral Fitzgerald. Scott is going to send one of his boats over to you and pick you up. We’re closing your position now and are going to fly you on board so you can come home with the crew. Over,” he told me.

  Smiling slightly, I quickly replied, “This is Cole, roger, break, Admiral, I had a very specific conversation with Admiral Clark a couple of days ago and we discussed my decision to either stay with the ship or come home with the crew. He and I agreed that I should stay with the ship and that was my decision. Over.”

  After only a slight hesitation, he replied, “This is Determined Response. Roger, I was unaware of that conversation. I’ll get back in touch with you shortly. Over.”

  “This is Cole. Roger, out,” I replied.

  This situation was about to get real interes
ting. I leaned back in the chair and tried to contemplate what was going on and what had caused this sudden interest in getting me off M/V Blue Marlin to join the crew headed home. Something was up and no one seemed anxious to explain what was going on. Once again, about five minutes later, the radio crackled to life.

  “Cole, this is Fifth Fleet, over,” came the call for me. “This is Cole. Roger, over,” I replied.

  “Kirk, this is Admiral Moore. I want you to get on the boat from Hawes and fly out to Tarawa. You are going home with the crew. Over,” he said in a manner that clearly implied this was not a request.

  I took a deep breath and replied, “This is Cole, roger, break, Admiral, I understand what you are asking me to do but I had a very specific conversation with Admiral Clark a couple of days ago and we discussed my decision to either stay with the ship or come home with the crew. He and I agreed that I should stay with the ship and that was my decision. I am concerned that the CNO is expecting me to stay with the ship and now I’m being told to come home with the crew. Over.”

  The curt reply clearly belied a bit of irritation with my response, “Kirk, I wish you had told me about that conversation. Over,” replied the admiral.

  “Yes, sir. I apologize for not telling you. I have had a number of conversations with people in my chain of command over the past few days and I just assumed you were aware of my discussion with the CNO. Over,” I told him with the heartfelt humility of a commander who had just been chastised by a senior three-star admiral.

  “I’ll get hold of the CNO and talk to him about this situation and will be back in touch shortly. Fifth Fleet, out,” he answered and with that the conversation abruptly ended.

  How was I supposed to know Admiral Moore was out of the loop on the discussion and my decision? I had taken everyone in the chain of command at face value when they told me it was my decision to make whether to stay with the ship or come home with the crew. This was all the more reinforced after my conversation with the CNO. Something was up; and clearly, I did not have all the pieces to completely understand what was happening. It was about thirty minutes before the radio snapped back to life again.