by Joshua Welle
Once we were clear on our assignments, we were ready to disembark USS Germantown and proceed to the vessel we were intercepting. The eleven-meter rubber-hulled inflatable boat, “rhib” for short, was lowered into the water, and my team climbed down two stories on a rope ladder to board the boat. Once on board, we made our approach to the suspect vessel at high speed. With nothing to do but wait as the rhib traversed the gap between Germantown and the suspect vessel, my mind contemplated the potential hazards we might encounter. I felt anxiety like never before.
Questions flooded my mind. What if they opposed the boarding? What if they were trafficking in illicit cargo? Was I prepared for the mission? Would I be able to do my duty? While these thoughts were going through my head I knew I could never let the men see my uncertainty or fear. Many of them were even younger than I was and probably feeling similar anxieties. I had spent years at the Naval Academy learning the importance of confident leadership, so even though I felt plenty of fear, I tried to project the image of a stoic leader as the rhib bounced through the swells toward our target.
The Navy’s protocol for approaching another vessel respects the United Nations’ Law of the Sea. The United States does not have the right to obstruct foreign vessels on the high seas without reason, but within the northern Persian Gulf and Gulf of Oman, we had authority to search. The suspect vessel was expecting us because Germantown’s bridge crew had already established contact with them by radio and had directed them to a safe course and speed in anticipation of our boarding.
Once alongside the merchant vessel, we began to make our ascent on board. By this time, it was easier to put my fears aside and focus on the mission. I would quickly discover that just getting on board the other ship was often the scariest aspect of a mission. While Germantown, with its deep draft, sturdy ladders, and expert seamanship, made boarding the rhib easy, the rickety rope ladder of the suspect vessel was far less steady. Waves swelled treacherously and tossed us about as we tried to grab the rungs of the ladder. My team finally made it on board and hurried to carry out our assignments.
As soon as my feet hit the deck, I began to survey my surroundings. My eyes were immediately drawn to the bow and dozens of gas masks strewn about on the deck. In my anxiety, my overly imaginative mind went to a worst-case scenario, and I wondered if the ship might be carrying weaponized gases. Prepared for anything, our security teams began their sweeps down the port and starboard sides of the ship as the boarding officer and I made our way to the pilothouse. We moved tactically and quickly, aware that danger might lie around any corner of the unfamiliar ship. We also had to trust our teammates, as they proceeded to secure the rest of the ship.
When we arrived at the pilothouse, the boarding officer began interviewing the ship’s master, and I took reports from the rest of the team. Because I was at the highest point of the ship, I could maintain better command and control. Both teams reported all secure, and the whole crew was accounted for. Our engineer began taking soundings in their fuel tanks as the interview with the master proceeded. Fuel tanks could hold illegal substances, and it was a place weapons could be hidden.
The pilot master spoke English, which was pretty common, and he confirmed their cargo and destination. When asked about the gas masks, he offered a very plausible explanation—they were used for hazardous materials handling. The engineer’s inspection took about thirty minutes, and as it progressed Germantown steamed on a parallel course to provide cover for us and the rhib; we frequently radioed them on the bridge-to-bridge radio to update them on our status and progress. Finally the engineer reported that he had completed his soundings and hadn’t discovered anything unusual. We thanked the master for his compliance and headed back to the ship.
Such search missions were only half of our duties. Other times we clearly offered charity, which required an entirely different leadership mindset. Quarantined in a ten-by-ten-mile grid of ocean, affectionately known as the “smug box” (as in smuggler), some ships sat at anchor for months at a time while authorities ashore made determinations as to their status. While the ships’ owners and masters might have been smuggling illicit cargo, their crews were impoverished victims. They were often third world citizens that had signed on with a ship to make a meager wage to support their families.
We still approached charitable boarding with the same preparation as for uncooperative vessels—weapons ready. One time as we approached the coordinates of a vessel for which we were providing provisions, I was struck by the putrid odor in the air. As the vessel became visible through the polluted haze of the northern Persian Gulf, the odor became stronger. I realized with shock that it was emanating from the ship we were about to board. Sanitation standards are not the same in the Middle East as in the United States. We had to follow strict environmental laws as part of our seagoing practices, but it was not uncommon for some foreign vessels to dump sewage and food waste, or slaughter a calf on the deck of a boat, leaving its remains to float in the gulf’s waters.
Coming alongside the vessel, we had our first glimpse of its dire circumstance, as the ship wallowed in spilled oil and human waste in the stagnant water. Braving the noxious odors, we boarded the vessel with flour, fresh water, and some other meager supplies. An appreciative crew of six men greeted us. They were a sad sight, completely emaciated and wearing torn and stained clothing. They obviously had not bathed in months, choosing instead to drink the precious little water that was provided to them. As was our practice, we inspected the vessel to ensure their safety and ours.
Once we were certain there were no weapons or other hazards on board, we proceeded with distributing supplies. We conducted health and wellness checks on the crew members if they wished. They lined up, and our corpsman listened for symptoms they might have, while also visually assessing if they needed treatment. As the doc attended to the crew, and members of my team unloaded the supplies, a gunner’s mate who was providing my security briefly surveyed the ship. Our visit was during the holy month of Ramadan, and we had boarded in the late afternoon, so we saw the cook preparing their evening meal to break their fast. With the flour and water we had provided, the cook made unleavened bread in a fly-infested kitchen. It was nothing short of filthy, and the food was meager.
I had never seen poverty of that kind before. I realized that these men were guilty of nothing, just hoping to make fifty cents a day to send to their families. Theirs was a simple case of bad luck—signing up to serve on a vessel whose proprietor was smuggling oil. It occurred to me at that moment that what separated my relative wealth from their poverty was not any ability or work ethic, but our circumstances of birth. I had the good fortune to have been born in the United States. I didn’t fully appreciate it at the time, but I have since come to regard those charitable missions, providing food and comfort to the world’s underprivileged, as one of the most rewarding aspects of my naval service. Further, that our nation and naval service continued to focus energy and resources on benevolent charitable missions—and that I had the opportunity to serve in this capacity—imbued me with a sense of purpose and pride.
Jason Jackson preparing to debark a rhib from the USS Germantown for boarding operations. (Courtesy Jason Jackson)
While leading fellow sailors under arms into potentially dangerous situations on VBSS missions, I had to call upon my Naval Academy training to overcome the unique leadership challenges, anxieties, and uncertainties that came with the diverse missions we were assigned. Inspections of suspect vessels forced us to focus on preparedness and judgment, while the charitable aspects of the mission imbued us with empathy and led to a newfound appreciation for the blessings we enjoyed because of the missions our Marines were performing. This perspective furthered the partnerships of the sailors and Marines of the 1st Expeditionary Strike Group and led to mutual respect between the Marines embarked on board ship and the VBSS sailors of Germantown.
Lending a Hand in Tsunami Relief
John Cauthen
On December 26, 200
4, a massive earthquake ruptured the sea floor of the Indian Ocean, triggering a devastating tsunami that struck the shores of India, Indonesia, Sri Lanka, Thailand, and countless other islands and atolls. The U.S. Navy responded, arriving on the scene within days to assist with relief efforts for nearly a month. This is one junior officer’s story of flying nearly one hundred hours, delivering thousands of pounds of supplies, witnessing the rescue of hundreds of injured people, and grappling with the destruction of one of the Navy’s aircraft as part of Operation Unified Assistance.
In September 2004, I departed San Diego on board USS Abraham Lincoln on a deployment to the Western Pacific that was scheduled to return to port by January. On Christmas Day, my squadronmates and I found ourselves waiting out the remainder of our deployment in Hong Kong. We all would have rather been home for the holidays, but we tried to make the best of the situation and celebrated together late into the night in our hotel room. The next day, I awoke to the familiar odor of stale tobacco smoke, the sight of my sleeping fellow officers scattered around the room, and the sound of the television someone had left on the night before. The television was turned to an English news channel, which was reporting an earthquake and tsunami in the Indian Ocean. Having grown up in the San Francisco area and experienced the 1989 World Series earthquake, I wondered how bad it could be. At that moment, a more experienced officer muttered, “Shit, so much for going home on time.” When I realized what he was saying, it felt as if a crushing weight had been placed on my shoulders. Would the carrier really be ordered westward? Why would anyone think that the Navy could be of any use in this situation? The United States was a nation at war. Why would we distract ourselves with this additional burden?
Each of these questions would be answered in time, and my conception not only of the Navy’s capabilities but America’s benevolence as well would be forever altered. The tsunami killed nearly 200,000 people throughout the Indian Ocean region from Indonesia to East Africa. My squadron was one of the first American air assets on the scene to render assistance and hope to those still clinging to life on the northern tip of Sumatra. The U.S. Navy occupied the world’s stage for nearly a month as it entered Indonesian waters, and by the end of the mission it had become clear that the efforts of so few would be the salvation of many.
USS Abraham Lincoln and Carrier Strike Group Two (CVW-2) arrived on New Year’s Eve just off the coast of Banda Aceh, the capital of Aceh province on the Indonesian island of Sumatra. The seas were calm, the air clear, warm, and humid; from a distance the island looked peaceful and idyllic. There was no indication that a monstrous hundred-foot wave had torn into the unsuspecting population just days earlier. The only hint that something terrible had occurred was the flotsam passing the ship as it meandered to and fro, awaiting the vagaries of diplomacy and politics to be agreed to by military and civilian officials. Aceh province had been in active revolt against the Indonesian central government at the time, and following the earthquake and tsunami, a tense peace had to be brokered. As the hours passed, we began to see and smell the bloated remains of people washed out to sea along with shattered timbers from houses, palm thatching, plastic bottles, clothing, and so many objects we couldn’t begin to identify. As I took in all the destruction, I wondered again what the Navy’s mission would be here.
Indonesia, the fourth largest nation in the world, consists of 17,506 islands, of which Sumatra is one of the biggest. Bounding the Strait of Malacca, Sumatra also has one of the busiest sea routes in the world. Islam is the dominant religion in this vast archipelagic nation with a population of 230 million people who speak three hundred different languages. To say that Indonesia is a diverse nation would be an understatement. With so many languages and peoples separated by seas and volcanic mountain ranges, influenced by Europeans, and joined loosely by Islam, it should come as no surprise that the identity of Indonesia is difficult to comprehend at a glance. The area is truly a crossroads of old, new, European, Islamic, and modernizing forces and traditional, indigenous cultures.
The juxtaposition of recent devastation and nature’s new calm struck us as our two-aircraft section approached terra firma at a cautious three hundred feet and seventy-five knots to survey Aceh’s landscape for the first time. The stark beauty of the verdant province and its coastal turquoise waters were contrasted by the destruction wrought by the tsunami. Lush green jungle abruptly met the denuded western coastline of Sumatra for hundreds of miles. Brown rot and decay replaced vibrant greens, and blue waters were sullied by mud and debris. Concrete pads marked where homes and buildings once stood; almost nothing remained. The singular north-south highway that once linked villages along this coastline was shattered and in some areas had been completely swallowed by the sea.
Banda Aceh’s infrastructure was in ruins; in addition to the problems on land, there was no air traffic control. I was assigned co-pilot in the trail aircraft of a two-aircraft section on the first sortie of the start of operations. Beginning our flight brief at 0430 on January 2, 2005, we decided to locate the airport and ask what help they needed. The flight crew made its way to the flight deck and began preflight checks on the aircraft as the sun began to break the horizon. The Air Boss—the ship’s air traffic control—cleared our section to depart, and within seconds we were clear of the aircraft carrier and on our way to land.
All the flight crews were briefed on the mission, but none of us was given instructions for how it would be accomplished. Aviation training prepared pilots to operate helicopters technically and tactically, but it was anyone’s guess how this would translate during an unorthodox mission. It turned out that the unknown allowed us the freedom of action necessary for a dynamic and constantly changing mission. We learned by doing, and we cataloged and passed down these lessons to the crews that came after us. Mission objectives became clearer with each passing day, and the efficiency of operations took on a rhythm all its own. Operation Unified Assistance was truly a massive team effort; we were simply one part of a larger machine. Every level of the Navy was involved in the operation, from the coordination between regional flag and general officers to the sailors who were ferried from ship to shore to load our helicopters.
Within days of the 2004 tsunami, John Cauthen and a squadron of rotary-wing aircraft brought massive quantities of supplies to the needy citizens of Indonesia. (Courtesy John Cauthen)
We often had to descend into a sea of people who would slowly part to accommodate the heft of our aircraft. As soon as we touched down, we would be mobbed like celebrities. We distributed the food and water in a matter of minutes; the most able-bodied grabbed as much as they could carry and fled the scene. This process improved over time, as Indonesian soldiers began to make their way to villages and set up distribution points. What never changed, however, was the cheerful exuberance of the children, no matter where we went. A helicopter to them was not only a savior appearing from the skies, but also an opportunity to be playful. As we prepared to depart, children would gather under the rotor arc and time a collective jump with our liftoff. The downwash would throw their small frames backward and down to the ground. Their smiles and laughter were reminders that hope and optimism remained very much a part of the individual communities we visited.
Within days, the chaos and confusion we encountered the first few days began to take on order. Fixed-wing aircraft brought massive quantities of supplies to the airport. Their cargo was marshaled, sorted, and then staged to be loaded onto awaiting helicopters at a soccer field that doubled as a landing site. Within a week of the start of operations, the Navy had created a system reminiscent of a factory assembly line. Helicopters would land, be loaded, be given tasking, and take off. All of this occurred in a matter of minutes and continued during daylight hours for the remainder of January.
The pilots of Helicopter Anti-Submarine Squadron Two flew continuously for nearly a month, amassing so many hours that we were required to get waivers to continue flying during January. (A hundred hours a month is typically t
he maximum allowed.) This took a toll not only on the pilots and mechanics but also on the machines we operated. Our procedures and manuals help us avoid making mistakes, but because humans are fallible, some mistakes are inevitable. For me, one of the most eye-opening mistakes was when one of our helicopters, side number 613, crashed in a rice paddy near the staging area. It was one of the longest days of my Navy career. Due to a combination of luck and pilot skill, all crew and passengers survived, but the aircraft was destroyed. Standard operating procedure mandates stopping flight operations in the event of aircraft loss, but on that day, I logged ten hours. Our mission continued; these were extraordinary times, and we were required to continue flying and deliver aid.
I remember arriving the morning of the crash to a frenzied ready room: the phone was ringing, the computer was flooded with emails and chat messages, people milled about offering speculation to fact, blurring the reality we desperately sought to find. We began our flight around mid-morning and headed straight to the staging area at the airport in Banda Aceh. We cleared the beach, and in a few short minutes we passed over a ground checkpoint in preparation to enter the makeshift helicopter pattern that had been created to regulate entry into the soccer field. The pattern was controlled by Australians operating from a makeshift location on a portable radio. I remember the controllers being competent and humorous, but on this day they were dour.
As we entered the pattern, we were met with a full view of the crash scene: The helicopter was on its side covered in mud and filth; the tail boom was cracked in half and barely attached to the main fuselage; the windscreen and chin bubble were shattered; and the four blades, upon impact, were flung hundreds of yards away from the site. People were perched atop the fuselage, and a great many more were in waist-deep mud surveying the rest of the crash site. I remember thinking that the aircraft, having crashed from more than three hundred feet, looked remarkably intact.