by Bruce Orr
Lori quickly replaced the chairs under the table, and as soon as she was done, she ran from the room back up to her office.
The dining room, where chairs inexplicably rearrange themselves. Courtesy of KOP.
In the time that has passed since that encounter, Lori has learned that whatever haunts the galley is not there to harm her. In fact, she thinks that, whatever it may be, it is playful and actually enjoys getting a reaction from her. She thinks it does these “pranks” and gets amusement from others’ reactions like some paranormal practical joker.
For example, there have been additional instances where she has been in the CPO Galley and been startled to hear something slam against the wall next to her as if some invisible object had been tossed across the room. She has also experienced a passageway door opening on its own accord in the very same room as her encounter with the chairs. She states the door, which is extremely heavy and difficult to operate, opened on its own and came to rest against the wall. She secured the door only to have it reopen all by itself and return to rest against the wall…an action that is physically impossible for the door to do by itself.
Lori has become a little more at ease with the teasing, but she has taken some precautions in order to avoid such encounters if she can help it. She does her best to try to avoid being alone in that area.
THE PHANTOM LIGHTS OF THE USCGC COMANCHE (WPG-76)
In their book Haunted Harbor, authors Geordie Buxton and Ed Macy tell the story of what has become the largest group to ever witness a paranormal event on board the USS Yorktown. In all, eighteen witnesses from Boy Scout Troop 149 would share in a ghostly encounter between the USS Yorktown and the USCGC Comanche on February 2, 1987.
The temperature that Monday had been well into the sixty-degree range until sundown. The troop had been busily reliving the day’s activities after dinner, and they were not in much of a hurry to pitch their tents on the aircraft carrier’s Flight Deck. This was because the temperature was beginning to drop, and the boys were not too anxious to leave the enclosure of the ship for the exposure of the open landing strip.
The boys’ counselor, Art Clawson, had the boys walk out on the strip and begin to set up their tents. As they worked and the sun began to set, the temperature began to drop. Pretty soon the chilly night air caused a thick layer of fog to rise up from the harbor’s sun-warmed waters.
When all the boys’ tents were up, the cold scouts crawled inside. In the darkness, the visibility dropped to less than one hundred feet as the clouds covered the waters, the landing strip and the tents. Clawson began to verify that each scout was accounted for. He would stand by a tent and call the scout’s name, and then he would verify that the scout was indeed inside and in his sleeping bag. He confirmed that all the scouts were accounted for.
Two and a half hours later, Art Clawson made his final head count before turning in himself. That is when he discovered one of the scouts was missing. Nine-year-old Michael Finch was nowhere to be found.
Clawson walked nearly the entire 888-foot length of the Flight Deck until he located the missing scout standing at the edge of the starboard end of the carrier. The counselor slowly approached the boy and cautiously placed his hand on his shoulder so as to not startle the young scout.
“What is it? We have a big day tomorrow,” Clawson said.
The boy just continued to stare at the water. Clawson stepped to the railing and did likewise. That is when he saw what had captured Michael Finch’s attention and mesmerized the boy.
At first there were just a few of them. They appeared to be red lights, soft red lights just below the surface of the water.
The lights continued to appear, rising up to the surface of the water and shining through the fog. Pretty soon, the Coast Guard cutter Comanche, which was berthed there at the time, was completely surrounded and visible and bathed in an eerie red glow.
The glowing red lights continued to grow in number and intensify. So did the number of scouts who joined Art Clawson and Michael Finch. Pretty soon, the entire troop was mesmerized by the sight of the red lights. The two had not realized that the intense red glow had awakened the other sixteen. In the next three minutes, there were hundreds of lights in the water around the Comanche, according to the eighteen witnesses.
Clawson described the intensity of the experience as equal to watching an alien spacecraft land. Everyone was speechless, and there was no sound…except for what sounded like singing in the harbor, way off in the distance. The singing, although faint and distant, sounded familiar. It sounded like a hymn.
Eventually the lights began to fade individually. One by one, they vanished into the harbor beneath the USCGC Comanche. The troop was speechless at first but slowly began to question each other for verification that they had actually seen and felt what they had just experienced.
The troop eventually returned to their tents, but no one slept the rest of the night. They were either too frightened to sleep or too excited to tell their tale the next morning.
Perhaps a paranormal occurrence had allowed Troop 149 to witness events that the USCGC Comanche had seen forty-four years earlier.
One branch of the service that is often overlooked for its service during times of war is the United States Coast Guard. The average person does not realize the contributions that the Coast Guard made in preserving the daily freedoms that we enjoy.
During World War II, 231,000 men and 10,000 women served in the Coast Guard. Of this group, 1,918 made the ultimate sacrifice by giving their lives in service.
In the spring of 1941, Coast Guard cutters were assigned to the United States Navy. They were not only assigned port security, beach patrol and search and rescue as we readily recognize today but they also participated in amphibious landings, Long Range Navigation (LORAN) duties and anti-submarine warfare escorts.
Coast Guard ships sank at least eleven enemy submarines and rescued more than 1,500 military personnel that survived enemy torpedo attacks. The cutters on escort duty saved an additional 1,000.
The USCGC Comanche was one of those cutters.
The Comanche was commissioned on December 1, 1934. She was originally stationed at Stapleton, New York, which remained her homeport until 1940. At Stapleton, she carried out the standard operations of the Coast Guard at that time, including light ice-breaking on the Hudson River.
In 1940, the USS Comanche transported the first American consul to Ivigtut, Greenland, at the invitation of the Danish government-in-exile. This made history by beginning a close association between Greenland and the United States and, in particular the Coast Guard, during World War II. On June 1, 1941, the Comanche was assigned to the newly established South Greenland Patrol and was permanently transferred to the United States Navy on July 1, 1941. She was primarily used for convoy escort through Greenland’s waters.
On January 29, 1943, the Comanche was assigned as an escort along with the Tampa and Escanaba. They departed from St. John’s, Newfoundland, escorting convoy SG-19. This was a convoy consisting of the USAT Dorchester, SS Biscaya and SS Lutz. Convoy SG-19 was bound for Greenland.
During the early morning of February 3, 1943, the German U-Boat U-223 fired five torpedoes at the convoy. One of the first torpedoes struck and exploded against the Dorchester, on her starboard side. The Dorchester was formerly a merchant ship that had been converted to military use in February 1942. She was now serving as a U.S. Army transport ship, and just one year into her service, she was the victim of a German U-boat.
Hans J. Danielsen was USAT Dorchester’s captain during convoy SG-19. He was concerned and cautious because earlier the Tampa, one of the escort ships, had detected a submarine with its sonar.
The Dorchester was now only 150 miles from its destination, but the captain ordered the men to sleep in their clothing and keep life jackets on. Because of the engine’s heat, many soldiers sleeping deep in the ship’s hold disregarded the order. Others ignored it simply because the life jackets were uncomfortable.
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sp; Early that fateful morning, at 12:55 a.m., a periscope broke the chilly Atlantic waters. Through the cross hairs, an officer aboard the German submarine U-223 spotted the Dorchester. The U-223 approached the convoy on the surface, and after identifying and targeting the ship, he gave orders to fire the torpedoes.
Danielsen, alerted that the Dorchester was on fire and sinking, gave the order to abandon ship. In less than twenty minutes, the Dorchester had disappeared beneath the Atlantic’s icy waters.
The torpedo strike had knocked out power and radio contact with the three escort ships. The Comanche, however, saw the flash of the explosion. It responded and then rescued 97 survivors. The Escanaba circled the Dorchester, rescuing an additional 132 survivors. The third cutter, Tampa, continued on, escorting the remaining two ships.
On board the Dorchester, panic and chaos immediately had set in. The blast had killed scores of men, and many more were seriously wounded. Others, stunned by the explosion, were groping in the darkness. Those sleeping who had ignored the captain’s earlier orders rushed topside with little or no clothing and no life jackets. They were immediately confronted first by a blast of icy Arctic air and then by the knowledge that survival for them was hopeless.
According to eyewitnesses, men jumped from the ship into lifeboats, overcrowding them to the point of capsizing. Others tossed rafts into the Atlantic, which quickly drifted away before soldiers could get in them.
Although pandemonium and chaos had erupted throughout the ship, four army chaplains brought hope among the chaos. Those chaplains were Lieutenant George L. Fox, a Methodist minister; Lieutenant Alexander D. Goode, a Jewish rabbi; Lieutenant John P. Washington, a Roman Catholic priest; and Lieutenant Clark V. Poling, a Dutch Reformed Protestant minister.
The four chaplains spread out among the soldiers. There they tried to calm the frightened, tend the wounded and guide the disoriented toward safety. “Witnesses of that terrible night remember hearing the four men offer prayers for the dying and encouragement for those who would live,” said Wyatt R. Fox, son of Reverend Fox.
One witness, Private William B. Bednar, found himself floating in oil-smeared water surrounded by dead bodies and debris. “I could hear men crying, pleading, praying,” Bednar recalled. “I could also hear the chaplains preaching courage. Their voices were the only thing that kept me going.”
Another sailor, Petty Officer John J. Mahoney, tried to reenter his cabin, but Rabbi Goode stopped him. Mahoney, concerned about the cold Arctic air, explained he had forgotten his gloves.
“Never mind,” Goode responded. “I have two pairs.” The rabbi then gave the petty officer his own gloves. In retrospect, Mahoney realized that Rabbi Goode was not conveniently carrying two pairs of gloves, but rather that the rabbi had decided not to leave the Dorchester.
By this time, most of the men were topside, and the chaplains opened a storage locker and began distributing life jackets. It was then that engineer Grady Clark witnessed an astonishing sight. When there were no more lifejackets in the storage room, the chaplains removed theirs and gave them to four frightened young men.
“It was the finest thing I have seen or hope to see this side of heaven,” said John Ladd, another survivor who saw the chaplains’ selfless act.
Ladd’s response is understandable. At this moment, all barriers were removed. There was no race nor religion at this point. The chaplains simply gave their life jackets to the next man and continued their prayers and assistance of others. This was the epitome of unconditional love for one’s fellow man.
As the ship went down, survivors in nearby rafts could see the four chaplains—arms linked and braced against the slanting deck. Their voices could also be heard offering prayers and singing hymns.
Of the 902 men aboard the USAT Dorchester, 672 died, leaving 230 survivors. When the news reached American shores, the nation was stunned by the magnitude of the tragedy and heroic conduct of the four chaplains.
That night Reverend Fox, Rabbi Goode, Reverend Poling and Father Washington passed life’s ultimate test. In doing so, they became an enduring example of extraordinary faith, courage and selflessness.
The Distinguished Service Cross and Purple Heart were awarded posthumously December 19, 1944, to the next of kin by Lieutenant General Brehon B. Somervell, commanding general of the Army Service Forces, in a ceremony at the post chapel at Fort Myer, Virginia.
A Special Medal for Heroism was authorized by Congress and awarded by President Eisenhower on January 18, 1961. The special medal was intended to have the same weight and importance as the Medal of Honor.
The Comanche’s first indication of trouble came from the convoy at 0102 on that morning. A white flash was observed to come from the Dorchester, just aft her smokestack. This flash was followed by a visible cloud of black smoke and the sound of an explosion. There immediately followed two blasts from the whistle of Dorchester and lights were seen to flash on in numerous spots on the ship.
At 0104 (1:04 a.m.), the officer of the deck of Comanche sounded the general alarm and all stations were manned. At 0112 (1:12 a.m.), the Comanche, in accordance with prearranged instructions, commenced maneuvering to intercept and destroy any enemy submarines in the vicinity. At this time, all lights left burning on Dorchester went out, and it is believed she sank immediately after this at 0120 (1:20 a.m.).
From the time the Dorchester was struck by the U-223’s torpedo until the time she slipped beneath the waters was eighteen minutes.
At 0226 (2:26 a.m.), the Comanche raced to the scene to assist the Escanaba in a joint rescue effort after both had received instruction from the escort commander. When the Comanche arrived at the scene at 0302 (3:02 a.m.), she passed through an enormous oil slick. Within the slick were numerous red lights. As the number of lights increased, the crew of the Dorchester realized that they were the red lights on the life jackets of the dead and dying crew. They watched in horror as more and more rose to the ocean’s surface. Hundreds of the red lights floated on the surface, bathing the Comanche in an eerie red glow. Hundreds more began to rise from the depths. These new lights were obviously attached to the life jackets of those who had perished on board the Dorchester and were now drifting free from her as she came to rest on the bottom of the Atlantic.
The Comanche attempted to rescue some of the men by calling them to the ship, but upon attempting this, it was discovered that the men in the glowing red life jackets had already perished or had become unconscious due to hypothermia and were unable to respond or act in any way.
When an individual first hits cold water, he is faced with panic and shock. Cold water robs the body of heat thirty-two times faster than cold air. The initial drop in temperature immediately places a severe strain on the individual. The immersion into the cold water immediately creates numbness in the extremities to the point of uselessness. The men in the water would have been unable to adjust the straps on their own vests, let alone grab onto a rescue line.
Within mere minutes, severe pain begins to override rational thought processes. This is all before hypothermia sets in. After the onset of hypothermia, if the victim is not immediately rescued and administered first aid, they will slip into unconsciousness and die.
The normal human body has a temperature of 98.6 degrees. At 96.5 degrees, the body senses that it is cold and begins to slightly shiver. When the body’s temperature drops to 94.0 degrees, amnesia sets in. As the body approaches 84.0 degrees, the person becomes unconscious, and as the body drops to 79.0 degrees, death occurs.
Other factors that these men faced were the fact that the torpedo attack occurred in the early morning hours. Most men were sleeping and poorly dressed. The major areas that heat escapes the body are the head, neck, armpits, chest and groin. Sleeping men in their underwear are not prepared for immersion in cold water, and eighteen minutes on a burning and sinking ship is not a lot of time to prepare.
The onset of hypothermia was rapid. Due to the fact that these men were most likely swimming away from th
e Dorchester or treading water, they lost body heat more rapidly. Swimming can decrease survival time by more than 50 percent, compared to just remaining motionless. These were improperly dressed men swimming away from a burning and sinking ship. Without intervention and immediate rescue, they had no chance.
Also take into consideration that cold water is defined at being below seventy degrees. The Comanche was an escort and an ice cutter. Water freezes at thirty-two degrees, so we can assume that the waters were, at most, thirty-two degrees. In waters thirty-two degrees or less, unconsciousness can take place in as little as fifteen minutes.
With the survivors suffering from hypothermia and therefore unable to climb aboard a rescuing vessel, the Comanche put into operation the “retriever” method. This proved to be the only option available to save lives. This technique involved having a crewman, dressed in a special suit, jump overboard with a line tied around him. The “retriever” would then grab a survivor, and then crewmen on board the cutter would then haul both men on deck. Three officers and nine enlisted men from Comanche acted as “retrievers” that night.
Altogether Comanche rescued a total of ninety-seven survivors, mostly through utilizing the new rescue technique involving the use of a “retriever.” One of those retrievers was Stewards-Mate First Class Charles Walter David Jr.
David served his country at a time when the service was segregated. Because of race, he was barred from the officer ranks and limited in his enlisted specialty. Despite this, David exercised the Coast Guard’s core values of honor, respect and devotion to duty to the highest measure.
The Comanche was on scene with the Dorchester, and its crew desperately searched for survivors in the frigid North Atlantic waters. David fearlessly volunteered to leave the safety of the Comanche to dive overboard, with water and air temperatures below freezing, to help in the rescue of the Dorchester’s crew.