The Best American Magazine Writing 2020

by Sid Holt

  Breau attacked the greatest threat: water. Berthing 2 and Auxiliary Room 1, housing electrical equipment, had flooded. So, too, had a main passageway on the starboard side. Berthing 1 was inundated, too. All of its sailors managed to escape.

  Breau had to worry about physics. The free surface effect describes a phenomenon when water partially fills a closed space. The weight of water shifting side to side in such a space can disrupt the ship’s stability and threaten to capsize it.

  She did algebra, scribbling calculations on the back of a notebook. She had to figure out the weight of water in the ship in case she needed to counterflood the Fitzgerald, a technique to deliberately flood other ship compartments to counterbalance areas already filled with water.

  Perhaps the biggest worry was progressive flooding—water levels that continue to rise. The Fitzgerald had been set to condition Zebra: All necessary hatches and doors had been sealed tight. But still, water seeped through air ducts and open conduits between compartments. The levels kept rising.

  Breau set up flooding boundaries, where sailors from the rapid response Flying Squad would hold the line against the inrushing sea. They set out with pumps to drain the hardest hit areas.

  One piece of training that Benson did not have to postpone dealt with the safety of his sailors. From his first weeks on the ship, he had worked with Breau to drill sailors on condition Zebra and on getting out of sleeping quarters.

  “These seamen knew exactly what they needed to do and how to do it,” she said.

  * * *

  Up on the bridge, Babbitt was fighting to keep the ship afloat.

  Sailors who had escaped drowning began to show up dressed only in T-shirts and underwear, covered in soapy firefighting foam from a pipe that had burst.

  One was Jackson Schrimsher. He took over the steering controls but found that they were not responding. Babbitt ordered him to a backup navigation station in the back of the ship known in navy parlance as aft steering.

  Babbitt jury-rigged a system to pass his orders. He would call Breau, who would then relay them back to Schrimsher via a special emergency intercom.

  For the next fifteen hours, Schrimsher guided the ship from a small, windowless room. He had no relief: the ship’s other master helmsman had drowned in Berthing 2. Schrimsher fought the list, the slowed propulsion, the shifting currents. Every three minutes he switched rudder positions to keep the Fitzgerald stable, tacking slowly back and forth. He made more than 300 course adjustments in all.

  Babbitt was trying to save his sailors. The five crew members trapped in sonar were rescued early on. Womack appeared in a daze. Coppock was inconsolable, sobbing and berating herself.

  Babbitt told her to go sit down.

  * * *

  At 4:37 a.m., just after sunrise, the first help arrived: Japanese Coast guard vessels and medical helicopters. The Fitzgerald immediately felt the loss of its sailors. Communication with the Japanese crew was difficult—one of those missing, Yeoman Third Class Shingo Douglass, was the only person on board fluent in Japanese.

  Several chiefs strapped Benson to a stretcher, lowering him from the bridge to the flight deck located on the ship’s tail. They passed Benson vertically from man to man down the steep ladders.

  The flight deck on the rear of the ship was listing too hard for a helicopter landing. So a Japanese corpsman dropped down to the deck and hitched Benson’s litter to a winch to bring him on board, followed by White, who had become Benson’s caretaker.

  Breau began to win the battle against the sea. Powerful pumps designed to quickly move huge amounts of water failed. Instead, Breau dispatched portable pumps, the kind available at many hardware stores, to the most seriously flooded compartments.

  Exhaust from the gas-engine pumps reached dangerous levels in confined areas of the ship, creating an alarmingly thick haze. But they “saved our ship,” Breau said.

  One stubborn area remained: Water continued to flood into a lower deck compartment carrying equipment for the Tomahawk missile system. None of the pumps were powerful enough to carry the water out.

  Breau’s last trick was a bucket brigade. For ten hours, about two dozen sailors at a time snaked in a long, tight line from below ship up three ladder wells to the main deck. Sailors rotated in and out, relieving comrades fatigued by the nonstop passing of ten-pound buckets of water.

  As pumps and generators and sailors worked to help, the water level began to stabilize.

  At about 8:30 a.m., the first American rescuers arrived on scene, navy tugboats from Yokosuka. They lashed themselves to the Fitzgerald to correct the list and guide it forward. A few hours later, the USS Dewey, another Arleigh Burke–class destroyer, arrived to assist. Dewey sailors poured on board the Fitzgerald, bringing food, water, and fresh muscle.

  It was then, at last, that Breau realized the Fitzgerald was going to make it back home.

  Crew migrated to the main deck in search of relief and rest after what seemed an endless night. They lay down amid a tangle of twisting red fire hoses draining water from below.

  They munched on slices of turkey and cans of tuna, handfuls of grapes and orange wedges, and drank bottles of water. Toilets were not working, so Babbitt ordered buckets put into two adjoining compartments.

  Ogilvie sat down to smoke a cigar beneath a missile. Lighting up beneath hundreds of gallons of jet fuel broke all kinds of rules, not to mention common sense.

  It just didn’t seem to matter much at the moment.

  * * *

  The Fitzgerald came into view of Yokosuka harbor late in the afternoon on June 17. It was moving so slowly that it took several more hours to reach shore. All traffic headed into Tokyo Bay, one of the world’s busiest harbors, stopped. It was an extraordinary sight: scores of massive cargo vessels slowly following a disabled American warship.

  Just before seven p.m., the Fitzgerald finally tied up to Pier 12, the same place it had departed thirty-six hours before. Hundreds of people had gathered. Family and friends huddled under white tents. Sailors from all over the base arrived to help. The Red Cross and military charities stood by with food, water, and new clothes.

  Navy divers had arrived in wetsuits and a rescue boat to retrieve the seven dead sailors. They stationed themselves by the Fitzgerald’s starboard side, which faced away from the pier to conceal the worst of the damage. They had trouble getting into the Fitzgerald at first. The hole on the starboard side was jagged. Inside, it was filled with debris. The water was oily and dark. It was not until 4:54 a.m. that they managed to swim into Berthing 2.

  They found Seaman Dakota Rigsby first. He was floating in the starboard exit, his foot lodged between the exit ladder and the wall. It was unclear whether Rigsby had been trapped. He often slept on benches in the lounge area, where he could stretch out more than in his bunk.

  Rigsby, nineteen, from Palmyra, Virginia, population 104, was the fourth generation in his family to serve. On the Fitzgerald, he worked in the cafeteria. He liked spicy foods, scary movies, and TV comedies. He guzzled energy drinks and consumed all things having to do with Pokémon and anime. He had recently become engaged and hoped to become a chief petty officer.

  The divers placed Rigsby’s body into a bag and swam toward the dive boat, stationed next to the Fitzgerald. They had stretched a tarp over the boat to shield the operation from the media, family members, and spectators. Rigsby’s body was recovered at 5:23 a.m.

  The same process was repeated six more times.

  At 7:45 a.m., the divers brought up Douglass, of San Diego, California. His body was found floating in the starboard side lounge of Berthing 2.

  Douglass, twenty-five, grew up in America and Japan, the son of a marine sergeant and a Japanese mother. The Seventh Fleet allowed him to live in both worlds. He was fluent in Japanese and had become a master helmsman.

  At 8 a.m., Petty Officer First Class Carlos Victor Sibayan, twenty-three, was retrieved from Berthing 2. His body was also found in the lounge area.

 
Sibayan was born in Manila, Philippines, and grew up in Chula Vista, California. He had been raised navy: his father was a retired master chief who had lectured him on the importance of standing watch to ensure the safety of his ship, noted an obituary in the Times of San Diego.

  At 8:15 a.m., the divers recovered Xavier Martin, twenty-four, of Halethorpe, Maryland. He was the third person found floating in the lounge.

  The son of a veteran, Martin was one of Benson’s favorites. He was an eager young sailor who had advanced quickly and impressed Benson with his initiative. Benson had made him a personal assistant.

  As a personnel specialist, Martin was well known on board for his upbeat, cheerful attitude. He had a taste for sports cars and had purchased a bright yellow 1992 Mazda sports car in Japan, the steering wheel on the right side.

  At 8:22 a.m., the divers raised Sonar Technician Third Class Ngoc “Tan” Truong Huynh, twenty-five, of Oakville, Connecticut. He was found beneath a television, though the divers assessed that he had not been trapped there.

  Huynh had celebrated his twenty-fifth birthday one day before his death. A naturalized citizen who was born in Vietnam, he was the oldest of four siblings. He loved to watch soccer, and his favorite video games were Fallout and Lethal Weapon.

  At 8:28 a.m., Noe Hernandez, 26, was found near the starboard lounge. He had a laceration on his head, its cause unknown.

  Hernandez, a deeply faithful Roman Catholic, loved spending time with his wife, Dora, and three-year-old son. The family traveled extensively during downtime from their navy lives. He was a strong swimmer, worked out constantly, and was an avid outdoorsman.

  At 8:35 a.m., the final body was brought to the surface. It was Gary Rehm, thirty-seven, of Hampton, Virginia. He was found inside the bathroom, its door closed—the last place he had been seen by Mead, who credited Rehm with saving his life.

  Rehm was the oldest sailor in the berthing and considered one of the best watch standers on the ship. A married man, grandson of a World War II navy veteran, he was quiet, professional, reserved. He had served in Iraq and was nearing retirement from the navy.

  * * *

  Dora Hernandez was in the crowd when the Fitzgerald had at last arrived, desperate for news about her husband, Noe. The navy had not released any information. Rumors flew, but nobody officially knew who was alive or injured or dead.

  For loved ones, the return of the Fitzgerald had been a macabre lottery. As sailors began to disembark, Dora watched several friends explode in joy at the sight of a loved one. “I was so happy for them,” Hernandez said. “But it was hard.”

  Late that evening, after everyone had departed, Dora found herself left on the pier with a few friends. She decided to stay. For the rest of the night, she paced the concrete pier, back and forth along the 505-foot length of the Fitzgerald. In the morning, she brought fresh coffee to the sailors who stood watch. When told that navy divers had arrived to search the Fitzgerald and that the bodies would be taken to the hospital, Hernandez jumped into a car with a friend and raced off.

  At the hospital, a navy officer delivered the news that the divers had retrieved Noe’s body. Feeling numb, Dora had one request: could she see her husband one last time?

  A navy doctor agreed on one condition. Dora could not touch her husband. The sailors were supposed to be examined by a coroner in the exact condition they were found.

  She went into a hospital room. Her husband lay on a metal table in a body bag. It was unzipped to reveal his face and chest.

  Dora and Noe had been high school sweethearts. They had grown up together in Weslaco, Texas, a suburban town that sprawled along the Rio Grande, the brown, serpentine river that formed the border between Texas and Mexico.

  It looked to Dora like her husband was sleeping. She leaned close to him and prayed.

  “I was torturing myself, sitting there. It was very surreal,” she said. “Once I knew he was gone, there was nothing else I could do.”

  On June 20, the men were to be flown home. Navy leaders planned a small ceremony at the U.S. Air Force base near Yokosuka to send the men on a military transport plane to Dover Air Force Base outside of Washington, D.C.

  Fitzgerald family and crew members begged to be allowed to attend the dignified send-off. The navy rounded up several buses to make the trip to the air base.

  The crew gathered on the broad gray tarmac. The seven coffins sat on a makeshift bier in front of the transport plane. Hernandez was there with three-year-old Leon in a baby carrier strapped to her chest.

  Adm. John Richardson, the head of the navy, had flown in from Washington. He delivered brief remarks.

  When she heard Richardson, Hernandez decided she wanted to say something. He had not known the crew personally. But she had.

  She stood nervously in front of the group, unused to being the center of attention. She looked out on the sailors of the Fitzgerald. Benson leaned against a cane. The sailors’ faces were exhausted and worn. The disaster could have been so much worse. But they had worked together. They had saved each other.

  “I was on the dock waiting for a miracle to happen, for my husband to come home,” she told the crowd. “And then I realized that the miracle was you guys, the crew.”

  Epilogue

  In the hours and weeks after the crash, the Fitzgerald’s crew members were besieged—by doctors, reporters, investigators. They gave firsthand accounts for formal inquiries. They spoke with therapists concerned about their mental health. They tried to reconnect with family and with one another.

  They did not get much rest. Within weeks, the navy had begun to scatter crew members to other ships in the Seventh Fleet. Navy leaders needed their bodies to plug staffing shortfalls on other destroyers.

  Some found it difficult to return to their old jobs. The trauma was too fresh. The navy supplied scores of additional psychologists, therapists, counselors, and chaplains. Many sailors were diagnosed with post–traumatic stress disorder, although the navy has never released a formal count.

  Will Marquis, a petty officer first class who escaped Berthing 2, found himself unable to concentrate on even simple paperwork tasks. He was diagnosed with PTSD and is currently receiving treatment.

  “A lot of people are having issues,” Marquis said. “They didn’t want to get help because they didn’t know what it would do to their career or they figured they would get past it.”

  Felderman wrote a harrowing seven-page account of the ordeal. He illustrated it with haunting black and white drawings: bunkmates lining up for the inescapable starboard exit, sailors bobbing in seawater up to their necks, a body floating in the floodwaters. Felderman has returned home to the United States with his wife and daughter.

  Some sailors were eager to get back to work. Vaughan limped around on his fractured thigh for several days until his own sailors told him to see a doctor. He did not go home for two months, crashing with friends on base.

  “It definitely helped me to have people around,” Vaughan said.

  Vaughan, Tapia, Breau, Schrimsher, Stawecki, Ogilvie, Perez, Caldwell, and White were among the three dozen sailors given commendations for their actions in helping save crew members. Most remain in the navy and have moved on to different posts.

  The navy’s search for accountability made healing more difficult, especially after the collision of the McCain in August 2017. Suddenly, navy leaders had to explain to Congress how two American warships had crashed with two cargo vessels in the space of two months.

  The navy’s investigators concluded that sailors bore the primary blame for the collision. Benson, Coppock, and the bridge and combat information center watch teams had failed to use basic seamanship skills to escape an “avoidable” accident. They had been “excessively fatigued” and had not taken steps to rest. Coppock had ignored basic rules of the road and the captain’s orders.

  Shortfalls in training, the lack of personnel, and overconfident leadership were deemed contributing factors to the collision. Senior navy leadership
fired several officers involved in the readiness of the Seventh Fleet. Aucoin, the Seventh Fleet commander, was relieved of command. Adm. Thomas Rowden, the navy’s senior surface warfare officer, was forced to retire and stripped of a rank.

  The navy explicitly ruled out problems with any of the ship’s radars.

  The investigation into the Fitzgerald sailors resulted in accusations of prosecutorial overreach and high-level interference. For instance, the navy charged Benson and other officers with negligent homicide—then abruptly withdrew the accusations without explanation last summer. Defense attorneys said navy officials were scapegoating low-ranking officers and sailors to conceal poor decisions made by senior navy leadership.

  Coppock was charged with dereliction of duty and pleaded guilty. She remains in the navy and is expected to be a witness against Benson and Combs in their trials. Navy investigators have praised her candor and cooperation. She has a tattoo on her left wrist with seven shamrocks. It features the coordinates of the crash.

  Combs has pleaded not guilty and continues to fight the dereliction of duty charge against her. Her trial is also scheduled for the spring. She remains in the navy.

  Criminal charges against Woodley were dismissed, though he was referred for possible disciplinary action.

  Babbitt was relieved of duty and given a formal letter of reprimand, effectively ending his chances for promotion. He has transferred to a new duty post in Europe.

  Benson continues to struggle with what happened on the Fitzgerald and its aftermath.

  After the crash, he was diagnosed with a traumatic brain injury and post–traumatic stress disorder. He remains in the navy and is currently receiving weekly treatment in Washington, D.C.

  Talking about the accident is not easy for him. He has trouble remembering details. He is often seized by emotion. Sometimes he tears up. Sometimes he flashes the fierce, angry glare that he once reserved for errant sailors.