Front Burner

by Kirk S. Lippold

  Almost as if on cue, President Clinton walked in just as Tom Hanks reached the last sailor. The President’s personal secretary, Betty Currie, escorted him. Lines of worry were deeply etched into his face, and he looked tired and haggard from lack of sleep. Immediately, I stepped forward to introduce myself to him. We spoke only briefly, to give him more time with the crew. Slowly and deliberately, he walked around the gathered circle, shook everyone’s hand, and posed for pictures by the White House photographer. As the President finished circling the room, he thanked all of us for the great job we had done to save the ship and expressed the heartfelt appreciation of a nation he said was justifiably very proud of us. It was hard not to get choked up with emotion.

  As he left the room, we thought we would be able to join the group outside but instead, Betty Currie asked the group if we would like a tour of the Oval Office. This was almost too good to be true. Access to the West Wing of the White House and especially the Oval Office was strictly controlled and this would be a very special treat. Slowly, everyone filed out of the Blue Room, down the West Colonnade, and into the Oval Office. At first, everyone stood around as stiff and proper as possible. Sensing the mood, Betty told everyone to walk around and have a look at everything but to please not touch anything.

  Everyone spoke only in hushed whispers as Betty explained the history of the room, the Resolute desk, and the large oval carpet in the center. With us on the visit were Senior Chief Keith Lorenson and his wife, Lisa. Keith was still healing from the compound fracture to his right leg and while in a bit of pain, he was grateful for the opportunity to make the trip. Using a cane to get around, he sidled up to Betty and, eyeing the President’s desk, said offhandedly that he would like to sit in the President’s chair. Betty laughed, immediately pulled out the chair, and offered him a seat. A look of utter surprise, tinged with fear, graced his face before he broke into a big smile and accepted. No sooner had he sat down than everyone realized how uncharacteristic and unusual this was for him. Lisa had already rounded the corner of the desk and was standing in the middle of the room to take Keith’s picture. She was not alone. Within a few seconds of assuming a distinguished pose behind the desk in his service dress blue uniform, his discomfort at even being there set in and he pushed himself back up. He had his picture for the memory books.

  At the Arlington National Cemetery Amphitheater, it was a cold, bright morning with only a few clouds in the sky as we were escorted to our reserved seats. Our breath came out as slight wisps of vapor in the crisp fall air. The crowd stole glances at us, knowing what we had recently endured. There were combat veterans from every major conflict spanning the last sixty years—World War II, Korea, Vietnam, Beirut, and the Gulf War. We were standing in the presence of heroes who had also safeguarded our nation’s freedoms. At least two people in the crowd near the front wore a thin blue ribbon adorned with small white stars and a star-shaped medal hanging around their neck—the Medal of Honor, our nation’s highest medal for valor. It was our honor to be in their presence.

  The President’s speech was moving and powerful. In the middle, however, he caught the crew and me by surprise when he unexpectedly recognized us and asked us to stand. With the President leading the applause, the audience rose to their feet in tribute to us. Like the crew around me, I felt my throat tighten as my eyes brimmed with tears. My crew certainly deserved this honor but I felt oddly detached from the moment and unworthy to be accorded such gratitude. The command investigation, even with this moving recognition and sign of support from other heroes, was still hanging at this point like a sword over my neck.

  At the conclusion of the ceremony, several members of the crowd approached the crew, talked about their experiences, and expressed how proud they were that we had saved the ship from sinking. My sailors reveled in the moment and clearly enjoyed sharing their own experiences with sailors from conflicts past.

  Back in Norfolk a day later, there was still some discussion about what to do with USS Cole when it returned stateside—whether to decommission it for manning reasons, making it inactive, or to leave it in commission during what was expected to be a one-year repair period. Already, a plan was being formulated for a significant number of the crew to be rotated to other ships or transferred to shore duty. Relying on my experience commissioning USS Arleigh Burke, I approached Admiral Foley about the ship’s personnel and manning during the repair period.

  This final manning decision was to allow enlisted personnel of the ranks of petty officer first class and higher to remain assigned to the ship through the rebuild period, but only if they agreed to stay with it for at least one year after the ship returned to service. Officer assignments would be handled on a case-by-case basis to ensure junior officers met their qualification requirements and senior officers would not have their careers adversely impacted by an extended shipyard period. All other personnel would be reassigned to other ships throughout the Navy. The Bureau of Personnel agreed that given the unique circumstances surrounding the attack, Cole personnel could choose any available assignment, regardless of its fill priority. Crew members who were within six months of rotating to shore duty could opt to have that time waived and pick a shore duty assignment immediately.

  Ultimately, just over forty people met the criteria and elected to remain with the ship. They formed the core group that would report to the shipyard in Pascagoula, Mississippi, and manage the influx of new personnel assigned to the ship as it neared completion of repairs in about a year.

  At the same time, the command investigation was continuing up the chain of command, and the criminal investigation of the terrorists, headed by the FBI, continued to make progress. While I was on leave, however, the FBI contacted me at home in Nevada. George Crouch, the special agent in charge of the criminal investigation under John O’Neill, had been directed to interview me. A day later I found myself with him in the local Carson City, Nevada, FBI office, expecting to spend an hour, two at the most, with him.

  George was a former Marine officer, and a lawyer. As we sat down and started to talk, we slowly became immersed in the minute details of the attack. Question by question, he slowly drew out my recollection of events, from before our arrival in Aden, until days after the attack as we feverishly worked to prevent the ship from sinking. Time flew by and when it was over, it was dark outside and well past 5 o’clock in the evening.

  It was during these precious days at home visiting my mother and father that I discovered how the Navy had informed them of the attack and whether or not I had survived. Like every family with crew members on Cole, they had a heart-wrenching wait to learn my fate—and the Navy had not exactly handled its responsibilities with aplomb.

  Prior to deployment, every crew member was required to verify and update what is commonly known as a Page 2—Record of Emergency Data. It contained the important information—full name, address, phone number—that the Navy would use to activate a Casualty Assistance Calls Officer in the event of the death or serious injury of a crew member. Once the entire crew had verified their entries, the data was transmitted to and maintained by the Navy’s Bureau of Personnel. I, too, had dutifully verified and signed my sheet prior to deployment. Then it became the primary tool the Navy was using to contact all the families of the crew assigned to Cole, but my parents’ experience told me it wasn’t being used effectively.

  My father and mother had divorced years before and my father was remarried; I listed my mother as primary next of kin and father as secondary, knowing each of them was living in Carson City, Nevada. By 0730 on October 12, my mother, who was using her maiden name, Staheli, had learned of the attack on the ship from Nicole Segura, who had already received several calls of support from friends and relatives wondering about my fate. A bit later my mother received a call from another informal source, U.S. Army Lieutenant Colonel Marshall Harper, who had been renting my Washington condo since just before I took command of Cole.

  At work that morning in the Army’s Command Center
buried in the bowels of the Pentagon, Marshall had received some of the first intelligence reports that a U.S. Navy ship, USS Cole, had been attacked by terrorists in the port of Aden, Yemen. I had provided him with my mother’s contact information as part of our rental agreement, and he promptly got in touch with her to pass along the breaking news. At this point, all he knew was that the ship had been attacked, but he did not know if I was alive. In speaking with my mother, Marshall was astounded to learn that he was the first person in the military to contact her and let her know about the attack on the ship. Nicole had since called my mother again to let her know that she had received similar news from Lieutenant Commander Rick Miller, my former Combat System Officer, who had since transferred from Cole and was also assigned to the Pentagon. Thankfully, Rick had provided an additional piece of good news—I was alive. Since I was making the initial voice reports off the ship, he deduced I had not been killed in the attack but did not know if I had been injured. As the minutes ticked by that morning, the Navy had yet to react and contact my mother or father.

  Around 1000, however, the phone rang again; finally, the Navy was on the line. “Mrs. Staheli?” a polite young officer asked. “Yes, this is she,” replied my mother, her heart pounding in her chest, wondering what he was going to say next. Positive in his demeanor that delivery of this good news would surely find a happy family member on the other end, he confidently told her, “Yes, ma’am, I just wanted to inform you that your son, Kirk Staheli is not on the USS Cole.” My mother was aghast. Of course he is, she thought, and in a very polite but firm tone, she replied, “Young man, my son is Kirk Staheli Lippold, and he is on the Cole. He’s the commanding officer. Please call me back when you have your facts straight.” And with that, she hung up on him. She stared at the phone for a moment, dismayed and wondering how many other families would have to go through a similar form of bureaucratic torture because the Navy was so ill prepared to carry out such a simple task in reaction to this disaster. Sadly, it would be the only call she received from anyone in the Navy throughout the entire event.

  Thankfully, my father’s experience was slightly more positive. His wife, Kathy, had a son in the Navy, Don Nutting. That morning, Don called to tell them to turn on the news, where they learned that Cole had been attacked. Shortly afterwards, Nicole also called them to confirm that the ship had been attacked, but that I was at least alive and making voice reports off the ship. Shortly after that, a Navy admiral called to give them an updated status report on the ship. Over the next several days, my father would get periodic updates, which he shared with my mother. In many ways, it was still disconcerting to learn in my short visit home that the Navy appeared to be struggling to keep the families informed about what was going on, even with a crisis of this proportion. What would the Navy do if the nation went to war and other ships came under attack? Despite their reputed and best-stated intentions to always look out for the families back home, clearly there was work to be done to live up to that standard.

  A few days later, it was back to the grind at the USS Cole offices. A number of the crew had drifted back to Norfolk from convalescent leave early and checked in with Denise. Many of them had found that the experience had changed them in ways they were only beginning to understand; they felt as if no one could quite relate to or comprehend what they had been through. Their shipmates understood what their family and friends could not, and they sensed a certain comfort in being together.

  When the crew arrived back in Norfolk there was still a great deal of concern about their psychological well-being. Dr. John Kennedy, who had flown back with us along with Chaplain Thornton, briefed the head of the Portsmouth Naval Hospital psychiatric intervention team and brought him up to date on our status and those crew members he felt would need additional support and counseling. At first, the Portsmouth team wanted to come over to the detachment offices, schedule debriefing sessions with each of the crew members, and create a new intervention plan for us. But after talking it over with Chris and the Master Chief, we all agreed it was an overreaction. Instead, we proposed there be no scheduled appointments, and team members would visit every day and just hang out with the crew. Within days after the crew’s arrival as a group, the team found relatively few who needed any additional intervention. It was important to continue to destigmatize the post-traumatic stress interventions, since John and the original team had done a great job in Aden. The crew’s mental well-being showed in their resilient behavior.

  The nation continued to pour out its support. Many people, entertainers, and businesses across the country donated funds for the families who had lost loved ones in the attack. To organize and deal with this influx of charity, the Navy-Marine Corps Relief Society agreed to become the collection manager and trusted agent to oversee the fund. Two entertainers held benefit concerts for the crew and families to help raise money for it. In December, Faith Hill and Tim McGraw held a concert that raised a stunning $375,000, and in January, the crew was treated to the rocker whose “American Bad Ass” they had chosen as their departure song—Kid Rock, who held a concert in Norfolk that raised over $75,000. Prior to the concert, Kid Rock paid a visit to the detachment offices, signed autographs, and visited with the crew for a few hours. It was the highlight of their month.

  The fund expected to collect a total of $1,000,000 by the cutoff date of March 15, 2001. Three main groups were ultimately designated as recipients. In the first category, surviving children, spouses, and parents or guardians, with most of the money designated for the children. As an additional benefit, the Navy/Marine Corps Relief Society agreed to pay for any child’s college education at any institution in the United States, from a community college to an Ivy League university. It was an amazing gift.

  In the second category, funds would be used to design and construct a permanent USS Cole Memorial. Initially, the Navy planned to build it in a public place, but persistent public relations concerns about the Navy’s responsibility in allowing the attack to happen relegated its location to a secluded area on the Norfolk Naval Station.

  In the third category, funds went to the Veterans of Foreign Wars and the White House Commission on Remembrance for each organization to ensure that over the next twenty-one years (reminiscent of a twenty-one-gun salute) an arrangement of flowers would be placed at the gravesite of each of the fallen sailors.1

  As the middle of December approached, so did the return of the Cole itself to the United States. Based on weather and M/V Blue Marlin’s transit speed, the ship’s scheduled arrival date was finally set for December 13. That morning, the sky was overcast as the chilled, humid mist of winter air drifted across Pascagoula Bay. M/V Blue Marlin with Cole riding on top was expected to arrive around ten o’clock that morning as crowds from the local area gathered on a nearby public beach to watch. Slowly, the outline of M/V Blue Marlin with Cole docked in the center and cocked off to one side came into view, and several tugs chugged out of the harbor to meet the ship and guide it into port. M/V Blue Marlin turned and made her way toward the pier where the vessel would remain for the next eleven days. At the offices of Ingalls Shipbuilding, everyone stood quietly looking out the window at Cole, a proud but battered and beaten ship. A gray tarp covered the large hole in the port side. Hardly anyone spoke. Seventeen sailors had died in the explosion that had caused that damage.

  A few minutes later I walked down to stand on the pier as the mooring lines were doubled to secure M/V Blue Marlin as a brow was lowered into place. As the temporary commanding officer, Commander Rich Abresch had taken good care of the ship and the caretaker crew. They had accomplished a lot during the past six and a half weeks. Damage assessments were mostly complete and the ship was almost ready to enter the shipyard for repairs. We shook hands as he handed me the paperwork to execute the change of command. Without fanfare, pomp, or circumstance, I was back in command of USS Cole.

  Earlier that morning, I had met with a team of investigators from the FBI. Supervisory Special Agent Don Sachtleben
was again in charge of the group, with some old team members from our days in Aden, as well as some new faces, including the agent who would eventually inherit the USS Cole case for the FBI’s Explosives Lab, Special Agent Mark Whitworth. Don explained that during the transit, the caretaker crew found several items of interest for the criminal investigation.

  They had also found additional remains of crew members.

  Before leaving Aden, I had briefed key people in my chain of command, including members of the Fifth Fleet command, Joint Task Force Determined Response, and Naval Surface Force, Atlantic Fleet, of the strong possibility that this might happen. It was going to be very tough on the families, but the nature of the explosion and the twisted and mangled metal of the destroyed galley and main engine room 1 made it almost inevitable. After speaking with Don about what the caretaker crew had found, plus the additional evidence that was exposed as the shipyard workers began to cut away metal, I left the ship to make a call and confirm to the Navy what had been found and the status of this new crew recovery effort.

  When I reached Admiral Foley’s chief of staff, he was initially dumbstruck by the news, and instead of reacting calmly, filled the line with invective and anger. Obviously, he had either not been briefed or had forgotten this information. The questions poured forth in a stream of criticism. “How could this happen?” “Why didn’t you tell us about this?” “You told us that everyone had been recovered and now this?” “What are we supposed to do now?”

  All I could do was stand there and listen to him rail on. Finally, I had had enough. Pointedly, I told him that, in fact, I had informed the chain of command of the strong possibility that additional remains would be found during the transit and subsequent deconstruction period. Faced once again with yet another officer who just did not get what had happened to the ship and crew, I was in no mood to be yelled at by an uninformed senior officer.