The U.S. Coast Guard Cutter Courier (WAGR-410) was homeported in Rhodes, Greece, from 1952 until 1964 as a floating radio station in the service of Voice of America (VOA). Her primary mission in the eastern Mediterranean/southern Aegean was to transmit radio programs in 16 languages to the Middle East and behind the Iron Curtain.
Signals were transmitted from VOA New York to Tangier and then to a receiving site on a hill called Monte Smith (named after an Englishman) just south of Rhodes. The signal was fed to the Courier at anchor just off the tip of the island via an ultra high frequency (UHF) link. Powerful short- and medium-wave transmitters then relayed the broadcasts to the unseen listeners.
The Courier had her own receiving equipment so that the ship could move about as needed, but she could operate in territorial waters of only those nations that granted permission, since international law prohibited “broadcasting by mobile stations at sea and over the sea.” The UHF link to Monte Smith was the most reliable, so the ship seldom ventured very far from Rhodes.
The genesis of the Courier’s mission began in August 1950, when VOA commissioned a feasibility study for mounting a complete radio relay station aboard a seagoing vessel. The project was known as Operation Vagabond, whose mission was threefold. The ships could: (1) move to a “hot spot” and begin transmitting in a matter of hours; (2) serve as temporary relay bases immediately after consummation of agreements concerning site and frequency for permanent relay bases; and (3) permit operations where permanent shore bases were not warranted.
The 338-foot, 5,800-ton converted coastal freighter was commissioned in the Bethlehem Steel Company ship-yards, Hoboken, New Jersey, on 15 February 1952 and dedicated in Washington, D.C., on 4 March by President Harry S Truman. Dubbed “Vagabond Able,” the Courier immediately set sail for the Caribbean, Mexico, and the Canal Zone en route to her permanent station in Korea. During that six-week shakedown cruise, however, new orders changed her destination to Rhodes, Greece, where she arrived in August 1952.
Rhodes had been under Italian domination from 1912 until the end of World War II. Over the centuries the little island had been part of the Byzantine, Roman, and Ottoman empires and had endured invasions by Turks, Christian crusaders, Germans, Italians, and Englishmen. It was home to the colossus of Apollo, Saint Paul, and Lawrence Durrell. No sooner had World War II ended than Greece was embroiled in a bitter civil war with the communists The King, with the aid of the Truman Doctrine, put down the rebellion after a bloody war, and five short years later the “American Spy Ship” arrived in Rhodes to transmit “American propaganda.” Vagabond Able was not well received by all Rhodians, but in time she became a permanent part of the community.
When the Courier was converted to a radio ship a “flight deck” was constructed forward of the bridge to facilitate the launching of helium-inflated “barrage balloons” used to carry the broadcast band antenna aloft These balloons proved to be more of a problem than an asset, for they were forever breaking loose and drifting; over unfriendly territory like Turkey, just 13 miles distant When such aberrant phantoms touched down, they were attacked with pitchforks and shotguns. The U.S. Government reimbursed several farmers for lost revenue when their cows purportedly stopped giving milk after being scared by a balloon alighting in the pasture. VOA engineers finally devised an antenna strung between the forward and main masts, and the balloons were retired.
As might be expected of a ship in the broadcast business, radio frequency (RF) waves abounded everywhere. All loose gear had to be grounded to the ship or be subject to bombardment by the RF, which often caused fires, injury, or destruction of electronic equipment. Once, the duty coxswain reported that he couldn’t get to the mike boat (a converted LCM used to ferry personnel and sop' plies to and from shore) tethered to the boat boom because the boom was “hot” and the soles of his deck shoes melted. The transmitters could only be shut down in an extreme emergency (down time cost $ 1,000 per second'- so it was not feasible to secure the transmitters, watch standers were stranded ashore. The duty coxswain ended up boarding the mike boat by going down the painter hand-over-hand. When the broadcast day ended and the transmitters were secured, the duty damage controlman welded a bronze strap to the end of the steel boat boom and dropped the strap into the water, effectively grounding the boom until permanent repairs could be made.
Visual signals consisting of three black canisters during daylight hours and red-green-red lights at night were displayed from the forward mast when broadcasting. These signals, published in “Notice to Mariners,” were warnings to other vessels not to close within 1,000 yards due to the danger of RF radiation. Some ships chose to ignore these warnings, however, and on more than one occasion, St. Elmo’s fire could be seen arcing from the Courier's mast to the rigging of the errant vessel. The RF would usually follow the vessel’s radio antenna down, exploding the ship’s radio, or jump to loose cargo on deck, setting it afire. Ships that experienced this phenomenon usually beat a quick retreat and were never seen again.
Old salts can find many an ingenious way to welcome newcomers to a ship. Left-handed monkey wrenches, buckets of blue steam, golden rivets, and mail buoys were some of the items a tenderfoot might be sent to fetch or and on most ships. Not on board the Courier! Newcomers to this floating lightning bolt were introduced to the “fluorescent tube connected to nothing.” While the ship was broadcasting, the old salt would hold the tube at one end with both hands. A gentle shake of the tube would agitate the neon gas (energized by the RF waves), and the tube "'Quid light up. Very carefully, the salt would move one band up the tube, and the light would follow his moving band. He would then slowly bring his hand back to the base of the tube and make contact with his other hand (never breaking the circuit). The light would go out and the tube was handed to the novice to duplicate the feat. Invariably, the new man would carry out the procedure as he had observed, except he would remove his hand with a smug look on his face when he had brought the light up the tube, breaking the circuit and causing an arc to jump from the tube to his hand. The resulting mild RF shock taught him a lesson about his new bunk mate—RF radiation—he would remember for the duration of his tour aboard ship.
Although volumes could be written about the Courier, one particular incident involving her in a humanitarian mission to another small island in the Dodecanese stands out in my memory. The commanding officer, who was also the ranking State Department representative on Rhodes, was once asked by the government to deliver a well-driller, associated equipment, and drilling crew to the parched island of Simi, less than a day’s journey away. Like all terrain in the Aegean Basin, Simi is a mountainous island dotted with a few natural springs that were not, at that time, providing sufficient drinking water for the populace. Catching and storing rainwater was the chief source of potable water, occasionally augmented by purchases from the Turks on the coast just eight miles across the Aegean Sea.
As preparations for the mission got under way, someone came up with the idea of inviting a troop of Greek Boy Scouts and their leaders on the short trip. This would allow them to observe Americans in action while fostering Greek/American relations. Although the Coast Guard was then a part of the Treasury Department, the State Department (through VO A) had operational control over the Courier, and all requests for operational changes had to be directed to that department’s chain of command. Foggy Bottom approved the mission, but it was reluctant to authorize civilian passengers on board a U.S. ship on an operational exercise. Permission was granted, however, when worldwide media made much ado about Greek Crown Prince Constantine hosting an international Boy Scout jamboree in Athens that year (1963). After all, VOA was in the propaganda business!
The day of departure was a typical Mediterranean spring day, full of sunshine, blue skies, and fleecy clouds. The weather report promised continued good weather, but warned of a possible sirocco. The well-drilling equipment was stowed on deck with the landing craft that would haul the gear ashore. The Boy Scouts were assembled on the fantail waving to their parents, the crew manned their special sea detail stations in undress blues (dungarees were the normal uniform of the day), and a festive mood prevailed over the whole ship as her white hull plowed through the blue-green waters toward the welcome change of scenery and routine.
The village that was our destination lay at the foot of craggy hills on the rocky shore of a deep blue grotto-like harbor, accessible only through a narrow cut from the sea. Once carefully maneuvered through the tricky entrance, the ship was then surrounded by high, rocky hills. The picturesque village of white-washed stucco houses and narrow streets radiated up the steep hills from the village square on the waterfront that was dominated by the church and its tall bell tower. According to our pre-World War II charts, there was plenty of deep water right up to the village—the harbor was 100 fathoms deep at its shallowest point—but there was obviously no pier that could accommodate the Courier.
Using the Fathometer, we commenced an expansive search for an anchorage within range of our chain, but it began to look like the ancient charts were correct. About that time, a Greek Icy eke (fishing boat) put out from the village and moored to our accommodation ladder. The Greek captain told us, through our interpreter, that the entire population of the island was gathered to welcome the first American ship ever to visit Simi. Our skipper replied, “It will be a short visit if we don’t find a place to drop the hook!”
When the interpreter translated the skipper’s remarks to the Greek captain, he leaped toward the helm, pointing-trying to turn the wheel, and jabbering in Greek faster than our translator could understand and repeat in English. Finally subdued, he explained that there was a submerge mountain peak in the harbor where the water was shallow enough to anchor. He showed us how to line up with contain landmarks and, after a few fruitless passes, the Fathometer registered a steep incline in the bottom that leveled off for a short distance at about 30 fathoms. After crisscrossing the area several times, and making numerous unsuccessful attempts to drop the anchor with precision we securely embedded and set the anchor. With the ship safely at anchor, all attention turned to off-loading the drilling equipment and the Greek workers who would operate it. Then the skipper, Boy Scouts, and all nonessential crew members went ashore to enjoy the festivity planned to celebrate our official visit.
For those of us who remained on board it was busing-as usual. The receivers were tuned to the UHF signal from Monte Smith, the generators were fired up, and normal broadcasting commenced on schedule. I was relieved my duties at 2200 and retired to the chief petty officers’ quarters for a few winks before the midwatch.
Whoopa! Whoopa! Whoopa! Clang! Clang! Clang! All hands to general quarters! Man your GQ stations! This is no drill! All hands man your GQ stations! GQ! GQ! GQ
“What the hell?”
Get your pants on! Get to the bridge! Everybody morning, bells clanging.
“Where the hell did those little kids come from?” Pandemonium on the bridge.
“All ahead full—right full rudder—give me beatings!” yelled the officer of the deck.
After what seemed like an eternity, relative calm settle on the bridge. It seems that a sirocco suddenly blew into the harbor, whipping the big ship about like a sailboat in a gale. The anchor had dragged, and the ship set toward the sheer rock wall. The OOD’s quick action in sounding GQ saved the ship from certain disaster, although it scared the hell out of everybody, especially the Greek Boy Scouts who were huddled on the 01 deck praying. The windstorm abated almost as quickly as it had materialized, and the damage control parties reported no injuries to either the ship or personnel.
The skipper had been rousted from his sleep shortly after returning aboard. The crisis passed, he assessed the situation and thought of the difficulties we encountered in trying to drop anchor and what problems we would have in attempting to reestablish that mooring. He decided to take his chances on going through the narrow cut to open water in the black of night rather than try to drop the hook on that mountain peak again. The cabin steward brought the skipper’s shoes and a piping hot cup of coffee as he settled in his chair. “Secure from GQ and set the special detail,” he ordered. “Weigh anchor” was passed by the OOD to the forecastle.
When the steward brought the captain his third cup of coffee, he asked the OOD what the delay was in getting the anchor aboard. The question was passed to the forecastle and the first lieutenant replied, “The windlass can’t handle the strain; the anchor is fouled on the bottom!” When the captain heard that, he leaped out of his chair and bounded over to the Fathometer. “What bottom?” he cried. “There’s 100 fathoms of water under the keel. Are we using a rubber band for an anchor chain?”
Smoke poured from the ancient windlass as it strained in its thwarted efforts to pull in the chain and the obviously fouled ground tackle. The searchlights from the bridge beamed onto the forecastle. The flashlights held by the anchor detail did little to help; in fact, they cast eerie shadows where light was desperately needed.
The ever-resourceful young lieutenant in charge on the forecastle, knowing where to get the needed illumination, sent a man below with instructions to return with as many fluorescent tubes as he could carry. The tubes were distributed to the detail, who were then strategically placed about the area. In a booming voice that could be heard from bow to stem, the lieutenant yelled, “Let there be light!’’ The tubes burst into brilliant radiation as the neon gas, agitated by shaking the tubes, was energized by RF from the transmitters. The Boy Scouts, intently watching every movement on the ship, gaped at the sudden profusion of light and, crossing themselves as if witnessing a miracle, gasped Kyrie eleison (Lord, have mercy).
Although the men of the anchor detail could now see what they were doing, the added light did nothing to free the anchor from the inexplicable force that was keeping it from being winched aboard. Unless the ship could maneuver to free herself, the chain would have to be slipped, having a perfectly good anchor and most of our starboard chain forever at the bottom of that 600-foot deep harbor. The OOD swung the bow and moved the ship in every direction while the smoking windlass labored to retrieve 'be reluctant anchor.
Suddenly, the strain was gone and the chain came racing through the hawsehole. “Anchor’s aweigh,” reported the forecastle, and the OOD, checking the chronometer, instructed the quartermaster of the watch to log “Anchor aweigh at 2359 hours.” The skipper breathed a sigh of relief and turned his thoughts to the next tricky maneuver— getting the ship through that narrow cut to open water. His relief was short-lived, however, and soon turned to astonishment and apprehension when the lookout on the starboard wing of the bridge yelled, “The lights have gone out in the Greek village!” while, simultaneously, the port lookout shouted, “The lights have gone out in the Turkish village!”
The captain sprang from his chair, spilling his sixth cup of coffee and colliding with the navigator as they both converged at the chart table. “There’s no cable crossing indicated on this chart?” roared the skipper. “What the hell happened?” Earlier that day he had been sitting on top of the world. No other Coast Guard command came under the direct control of the State Department or had the opportunity to become involved in international events. Actions that he commanded could have far-reaching effects on U.S. foreign policy, and positive actions, like the Courier being the first American ship to visit Simi on a goodwill mission, could feather his nest and would be weighed heavily by the flag selection board. Conversely, negligently severing the only electrical power cable supplying a Greek island by a Turkish generating plant could set already strained Greek-Turkish relations back a thousand years and result in a once-promising Coast Guard captain inspecting coal barges on the Missouri River.
As it turned out, the captain had nothing to fear. The Courier crew members, some weeks later, met a couple of the Greek well-drilling team who had just returned from Simi, having established a fine artesian well on the dry island. As they sipped their Ouzo and Metaxa, they told how, the day after Courier departed, waterlogged pieces of a long-sunk fishing boat had washed ashore after some mysterious force (our anchor) had loosened it from the harbor bottom. They also complained about the short evenings on the island because every taverna closed at midnight (the time the Turks shut down their power plant every night without fail).
In 1964, VOA completed construction of a permanent shore transceiver on Rhodes, and the Courier was returned to the operational control of the Coast Guard. After a lengthy overhaul at Piraeus, Greece, and many stops at ports-of-call in Europe, Vagabond Able journeyed across the Atlantic to her new homeport at Yorktown, Virginia, where she was pressed into service as a reserve training ship. If tradition was observed on the return voyage, the Courier's homeward bound pennant must have stretched all the way to the fantail, one star for every six months she had served overseas.