I enlisted in the U.S. Navy on my 17th birthday. Within four months, I finished basic training, graduated from data processing school, and reported on board the USS Ranger (CV-61), an aircraft carrier homeported out of San Diego, California.
The ship was scheduled to deploy on a Western Pacific cruise (WEST-PAC). The “itinerary” included 12 fantastic port calls. It was so impressive that one would have thought I was stationed on board the Queen Elizabeth cruise ship, instead of an aircraft carrier. On the fateful day of 15 July 1983, it was time for the ship to depart. She pulled out, the sun was shining, and it was an exceptionally beautiful day, even for San Diego. Everyone was looking forward to the “best WEST-PAC ever” All of the hype about our itinerary even enticed some old salty dogs to extend their tour for a year just to hit the liberty ports.
The demeanor changed the second we cleared the harbor and headed south when we were supposed to be steaming west. It was a day or two before the captain told us we were needed off of the coast of Central America in support of national interests. The fun began only three days into the “best WEST-PAC ever” when we collided with the USS Wichita (AOR-1) during refueling operations.
When the announcement came across the 1-MC (the ship’s general announcing system) that we had collided with another ship, we were instructed to man our battle stations. Normally the standard blurb over the 1-MC was “General Quarters, General Quarters! All hands man your battle stations. The flow of traffic is up and forward on the starboard side, down and aft on the port.” This is an efficient way to get more than 5,000 men to their battle stations in less than 6 minutes. After hundreds of drills, the flow of traffic becomes second nature. However, for this particular General Quarters (GQ) we were instructed to avoid the starboard side of the ship. It would be impossible for me to try and explain how comical it was trying to get 5,000 men to their battle stations using only the port side of the ship. Ladders on board the ship are only wide enough for one way traffic and there was a bottle neck at every port-side ladder. I think the Ranger listed an extra degree or so to the port-side when all 5,000 men ran to that side.
It was well more than 30 minutes before the voice on the 1-MC reported from damage control central that the crew was battle ready and all shipboard hatches were secured. A small fire had broken out, which was quickly extinguished; a portion of the starboard flight deck cat walk had been ripped from the ship; and there were punctures to the skin of the ship above the water line. There was also minor damage to the ships refueling equipment. The worst of the damage was to one of the four aircraft elevators, which was out of commission for the remainder of the deployment.
Exactly a month later, we experienced our first fatality. A sailor was blown off of the ship by jet exhaust and subsequently drowned before being rescued. After 30 days of non-stop flight operations, this sailor got complacent around the aircraft and was in the wrong place at the wrong time.
We still had a job to do, and the battle group continued to operate off the Central American coast for over 45 days before being summoned to the Indian Ocean, more affectionately known as the “IO.” Iran was threatening to escalate the war with Iraq by restricting access to the Persian Gulf; our mission quickly pivoted to ensuring the shipping lanes stayed open.
We then steamed due west and only slowed long enough to make a very brief port visit in Hawaii and the Philippines, just long enough to take on stores. There were rumors going around the ship that we would not be hitting any ports once we got on station. Each day was just like the one before, hot, humid and the same chores that needed done today were the exact jobs we did the day before.
While under way, the crew is split up between the day shifters and the night shifters, each pulling a 12-hour shift with 30 minutes or so turnover time between shifts. There were no weekends or holidays. The day of the week is almost irrelevant while under way and on station. This was not what I had expected out of the Navy when I joined only a year earlier. But then again, how was I supposed to know I had volunteered for what even the Vietnam vets were calling the cruise from hell.
Well, I guess it was not all that bad. The other guys in the division looked out for me as if I were their little brother. One thing that I learned from being out there in the IO is the guys you work with every day eventually become your brothers. Yep, life on a ship at sea was for the most part, an exercise in routine repetition. Every day, that is, except for Wednesday, 2 November 1983.
On this particular day, we mid-shifters gave turnover to the oncoming watch relatively quickly. After eating a very large breakfast, I started to make my way to the berthing area to watch a movie. As I was walking through the hangar bay, I noticed that we had a ship alongside and fuel lines were being passed from her to us. I didn’t think too much of the refueling at the time. It was over three months since our refueling collision with the Wichita. The frequency of the refueling operations to feed the thirsty F-14 Tomcats and replenish the ship's fuel oil for our main machinery rooms had become a matter of routine repetition.
Unfortunately, this tedious routine of under-way refueling operations led to complacency on the part of one of our crewmen. On board an aircraft carrier, there are various fuel tanks scattered throughout the ship. To check the fuel levels, a sailor will drop a weighted measuring stick down into each tank until it hits bottom and then roll the measuring stick back up to see where the fuel level is for that tank. On this particular day, one of my shipmates, after taking his readings, neglected to properly fasten the sounding cap to the tank. If the tank is being filled and the sounding cap is not secured to the tank, fuel oil will overflow the tank into that space. This particular tank was located directly below the number four main machinery room (4-MMR) boilers.
It was about 0945 when I finally made it back to my berthing and was patiently waiting for the movie to start. As we waited, I began to notice a strong fuel smell. Everyone else in the room did as well. Immediately following the smell, there came an announcement from the 1-MC: “Major fuel oil leak, major fuel oil leak, major fuel oil leak in four main machinery room. Belay the Nucleus fire party.” The Nucleus fire party is a group of firemen on board who normally take care of minor fires, flooding, and fuel oil leaks. If there were a major fire or flooding, it would be up to all hands to contain the situation.
Everyone in the berthing area thought the Nucleus fire party was going to evacuate us from this part of the ship and we would all miss the movie. It could not have been five minutes later when the voice on the 1-MC came across again. This time the announcer was very frantic: “Fire, fire, fire! Fire in four main machinery room (4-MMR). All hands stand clear of all decks, ladders and passageways.” At that moment, my fears of missing the movie took a drastic change. Before I could move, the irritating voice came back. The aggravating voice shouted over the 1-MC: “General quarters, general quarters! The fire is out of control! All hands man your battles stations!”
When I reached my GQ station, located on the flight deck, we were instructed to go down to the hangar bay to help fight the fire. My heart instantly hit the floor with grief. The last thing I wanted to do was to wander around in pitch black darkness with a fire hose, an oxygen breathing apparatus (OBA), and a coal miner–looking helmet with a flashlight on top.
As the fire raced through the 4-MMR, it ravaged everything in its path, including the electrical systems for that area of the ship. When the lights went out below decks, we were stranded in total darkness. Even in areas where the lights were still operational, the thick black smoke from the JP5 fire was rolling down the passageways like a large steam roller, enveloping everything in its path.
Under normal circumstances, the ships in our battle group would place themselves around the carrier in a protective pattern. When I looked out of the hanger bay doors, I noticed the other ships decided to steam away from us as if they were expecting us to explode. This intensified the panic I was experiencing. I became very worried about an explosion that might penetrate the hull of the ship, or even the intense heat from the fire burning through the ship’s hull. If this were to happen in a space as big as a main machinery room, the ship could go down in minutes. I also imagined the ship sinking and 5,000 sailors simultaneously trying to swim away from her. It even crossed my mind that if the ship was to sink, all 85,000 tons of her, the whirlpool created would probably pull down any swimmers within several hundred feet of the ship. In the midst of my panic, for a split second, I entertained the idea of just jumping overboard and taking my chances in the Indian Ocean. I never thought that my destiny was to die on this ship shortly after joining the Navy.
Just then, my friend Pete and his repair locker arrived. I think my panic would have gotten the best of me if Pete had not arrived when he did. He suggested that we get closer to the repair party that was suiting up to go down into the main space to fight the fire. I reluctantly agreed, but only because I wanted to stay close to someone that I knew and trusted. As we made our way through the hanger bay we saw the ship’s chaplain. He was yelling at a few of the Marines to take six bodies that had been removed from the space, put them somewhere out of the way, cover them up and then to stand guard over them. I did not know who these guys were, but I found out afterward they had been in the space during an explosion that preceded the fire. So far, no one had died while fighting the fire.
Luckily, Pete and I were given the job of suiting and resuiting the more experienced firefighters on board with fresh OBA devices. We were tasked with hauling five-gallon plastic bottles of Aqueous Film Forming Foam (AFFF) from the flight deck to the hanger deck. AFFF is used to fight fuel oil fires and is supposed to be mixed, with 96% water. Apparently someone was mixing it wrong or we just simply used all that we had because our helicopters were bringing the AFFF from other ships in our battle group over to our flight deck. I was relieved that I did not have to fight the fire directly. That thought inspired me to work even harder.
It took several hours to extinguish the fire. At least 35 people were treated for smoke inhalation, second-degree burns, and other injuries. The group Pete and I worked in resuited more than 300 people with OBAs and restocked countless containers of AFFF to the sprinkler system. I could not believe how much my fears subsided once I actually started to be involved in the process of fighting the fire. But I am still glad I did not have to go down into the main machinery room.
The galley was closed for more than two days after the fire because of the heavy smoke damage. I went down into the destroyed main space sometime after the fire, and what I saw shocked me. The four-inch-thick reinforced-steel bulkheads were warped and bowed so badly that when we eventually returned to the states they were completely replaced. Most of the deck plates used for flooring in the main space melted and fell through the floor into the bilges making traversing the main space a scene straight out of Ninja Warrior.
Two of the ship's eight boilers, one propulsion engine, an evaporator for making fresh water, turbo generators, air-conditioning equipment, and other miscellaneous water and fuel pumps were destroyed. The ship was operating at half capacity. Regardless of how badly damaged the ship and crew’s morale were, we still had a mission to do. We went on to set a new record for the most continuous days at sea for a conventional aircraft carrier—121—without hitting port.
We spent an additional four months at sea after the accident in the 4-MMR space. The ship and crew completed the mission. The biggest lesson learned on the cruise was that no matter how routine and boring a job may seem, do not allow the boredom of a routine “day-in and day-out job” make you complacent, especially because the lives of your fellow sailors depend on you.
When we finally returned to our homeport, seven and a half months later, it was 29 February. Although the “best WEST-PAC ever” turned into the WEST-PAC from hell, when I look back on it, what I remember the most are the good times and the friendships that I made. I did not know it then, but on Wednesday, 2 November 1983—the day of the fire—was when I learned to face my fears in a new way. The only options any of us has in the face of adversity is fight, flight or fright. If this life throws you a curve ball, fight it until the end. Regardless of the outcome, at least then you can hold your head high knowing you gave it your all.