The long hours of the night of March 16, 1956, at Newport, Rhode Island, will live in the memories of Atlantic destroyermen to rank almost as vividly as those of an infamous December 7 half a world away. For in the space of six hours a major segment of a fleet was imperiled by an enemy far more powerful than mortal foe. When dusk settled over the gray ships then secured at Destroyer Pier One on March 16, there was a temporary lull in the flurry of white flakes, and the gusts from the north seemed to be losing their sting. In brief, it appeared that the last storm of winter was blowing itself out. When dawn broke over Aquidneck Island the following morning, however, only a few battered hulls still lay alongside the pier and the rest of the tin can fleet lay either thankfully at anchor wherever their hooks would hold or pounding against the hard bottom of Narragansett Bay, scattered from Coddington Cove to the Dumplings. Almost half of those now safely anchored would have to undergo major hull repairs. Four bluejackets lay frozen in the waters of Narragansett Bay.
The entire story belongs to the province of a naval historian. Essentially, however, it is compounded of the individual stories of a score of ships, each fighting a lonely battle for her survival cut off from all help save those presently aboard. It was a battle fought in many cases by officers who had never commanded a ship at sea and by only a third of the ship’s company who usually handled her. It was in many instances the ultimate test of shipboard organization, of command decision, of sheer courage in the never-ending war against the inscrutable sea. This is the story of one ship and one crew. The Blair had settled down for a quiet weekend when at 1140 a mild storm center about 200 miles southwest of Newport and moving northeast at 20 knots was reported by Fleet Weather Central. Precipitation was moderate; wind about 15-20 knots from the east; barometer 29.64 inches and falling. Though no unusual potential had been noted by forecasting activities, SOPA set storm condition III at 1200 as a matter of precaution. At nightfall there was an apparent diminution in the velocity of the wind-driven snow, and the lights of the War College on Coasters Harbor Island became visible temporarily to the south’ard.
At this time many Command Duty Officers who were in charge of their ships for the weekend visibly relaxed and took a renewed interest in what the wardroom mess was offering for dinner and the title of the movie scheduled for the evening. “Two gongs” and “Blair Departing” sounded over the stillness of the furthest nest as the captain left the ship. Another quiet Friday evening in port had begun.
The Blair's Command Duty Officer was a lieutenant (junior grade), a graduate of Penn State in 1954, a product of the Holloway program. He had been aboard the Blair for twenty-one months and was serving as Engineering Officer. In the Captain’s absence he was in complete charge of the ship and all hands aboard. He was a very competent officer holding a letter of commendation for his efforts as Chief Engineer during Refresher Training, but 1,800 tons of ship is a large responsibility for a young man of twenty-five. Moreover, he had only a bare minimum of key enlisted personnel to assist him in case of sudden emergency, for the Blair was seldom in her home port and all hands who rated it were long since en route to their homes for the weekend. A weekend duty was always a dull grind. There were not even enough officers aboard for a round of bridge. The CDO wished he were home with his family in Newport. He made a few extra tours topside to alleviate his mood of boredom. The snowfall had built up enough by then to require a working party to sweep down the main deck hourly.
Ashore, the Blair's officers and men were scattered over a hundred miles of snow- blanketed New England countryside, thankful for a respite from a month of North Atlantic operations. This fine snow drifting against the windows brought a sense of warmth and security to the families inside. It was good to be home again. At 1930 the Command Duty Officer lay aft to the quarterdeck to take eight o’clock reports. There was a slight difficulty experienced by the senior department petty officers in maintaining a position of attention due to the motion of the deck, but only a mild hint as to the degree of intensification of the storm. The men assembled in the glare of the quarterdeck floodlights were completely unaware that this night would be one of the most terrifying they might ever know.
Although alert to the local weather indication, i.e., the unusual drop in the barometric pressure and recent strong increase in the force of the wind, the Command Duty Officer had no way of knowing that, on this very eve of spring, hundreds of miles away a giant had been formed with strength enough to destroy his ship.
Forecasters at Fleet Weather Centrals had carefully watched the cold lines of frontal weather sweeping rapidly across the country from Montana. This array of isobars and frontal dispositions gave little clue, however, as to the ultimate outcome. The afternoon carried no hint that the gentle easterly winds and slight precipitation would be replaced by a northerly gale and blinding snow. Similarly, as two ships steaming steadily along on diverse courses are sometimes committed to inevitable collision while miles away, the two storms met. A small warm front over Georgia overtook the cold air mass to the north and increased its speed, picking up tons of water as it dipped into the Atlantic. As this front travelled, it grew in strength, and about 200 miles southeast of New York it overtook the cold front from Montana. The two storms, each one negligible in itself, combined to form a vicious, extra-tropical cyclone, known to all New Englanders as an old fashioned “Nor’easter.” This combination of frontal occlusion formed a powerful new storm which rushed along at fifty miles per hour to the northeast, building up winds to hurricane force and dropping tons of water in the form of snow showers. At 2200 the seventy-knot winds of this monster were only two hours away.
The six manila mooring lines normally used to tie up the ship had already been augmented variously with anchor chains and wire cable by the four ships which last nested at the end of Pier One. The Hammer- berg was alongside the pier, and the gray hulls outboard were the Coolbaugh, Greenwood, and Blair. The groans of the fenders separating ships had by now become a constant protest, and the manila lines took an increasingly heavy strain.
The seas making up even on the leeward side of the pier made it difficult to maintain footing on the icy fo’c’s’les. In the snow- quenched glare of D.C. floodlights, freezing hands hastily rigged extra breast lines from any part of the ship’s structure that appeared capable of taking the strain. Even the raw recruits sensed the desperation of the struggle. Although taps had been sounded, berthing compartments were empty and a motley crew of various ratings wandered about topside in an unusual assortment of foul weather gear. Even the “snipes” from the engine spaces, unused to the light of day, paced the weather decks. Roaming from fantail to fo’c’s’le after setting the Special Sea Detail and lighting off the main engines, the CDO began to realize that the end of the nest might well be in sight. What to do then in the absence of the Captain and with no navigator on board? The quarterdeck messenger was still trying desperately to reach the Captain and Executive Officer by telephone. By now all brows had been taken aboard and no passageway remained between the ships of the nest. At 2215 the Special Sea Detail was set.
The northwest wind had tripled in force and was whipping an almost solid curtain of finely powdered flakes through the rigging with the howling of a thousand fiends. The world beyond the bow and fantail had dissolved into a white wall through which suddenly emerged the married fantails of the four destroyers from the nest ahead. They were adrift and being borne downwind rapidly. Miraculously they cleared the Blair's stern and almost immediately disappeared in the stormy void beyond. This was the overture to disaster. The ships of the nest ahead reported themselves drifting rapidly with anchors down, and there wasn’t far to go before their keels would find the shoal to leeward. It could then obviously happen to our nest, which was beginning to take a critical strain on all its lines. Still no word from the Captain or the Exec, and travel was becoming impossible even on the main roads. By this time the main engines (only three out of four were in commission) were warmed up, and all hands were mustered on deck to assist in rigging and handling lines. The EMC (normally on duty in the engine spaces) had now assumed the duties of the absent BMC, and the CDO lay to the bridge and began grimly to scan the chart of Narragansett Bay. The parka-clad groups on the fo’c’s’le and fantail huddled against the cold . . . waiting. One strand of “number 3” (an old veteran) had parted. Five minutes later with a frightening crack “number 5” went. Flashlights and portable floods constantly sliced over the reinforced moorings and there was an ominous indication in the still mounting force of the wind.
Gliding by like lights on a merry-go-round, occasional glimpses of truck and running lights could be seen to starboard as tugs and the destroyers from the nest adrift milled around in the sightless gloom. A rumor was current that the Fox had gone aground.
The Exec had at this moment been forced to abandon his car to impassable roads and make a phone call in hopes of catching the Captain (who had been waiting for a cab for two hours) and informing him of the suspected urgency of the ship’s condition. The Captain, by the sheerest good fortune, had been able to promote a ride which likewise ended hopelessly in a snowdrift, but in a matter of minutes was again miraculously picked up by an off-duty taxi driver and finally arrived at Pier One. Even getting aboard was almost impossible. The nest was stretched out like an accordion. The gaps, between four and twelve feet, widened as the ships fought against their moorings. Literally handed from the Eammerberg to the Coolbaugh, hand over hand on a mooring line, from the Coolbaugh to the Greenwood, and by a temporary stage to the Blair, the Captain climbed on board at 12:45 A.M.
The end of the nest was not far off. On the north (windward) side of the pier the pride of the destroyer fleet, the USS Lee (DL-4) was moored and taking a terrible beating against the pier. It was not realized until her departure how much her superstructure had shielded our nest. The Lee's running lights winked on, and we knew she was fighting to clear to sea; her indistinct superstructure melted into the fury of the storm and the frenzied blasts of the gale now beat with full force against the Hammer- berg's portside. Then came the steady, irresistible shove of the giant hand. The Hammerberg was pushed away from the pier —ten, then fifteen feet. At that moment her anchor chain shackle parted like a broken shoestring followed by a salvo of parting manila lines. The nest had broken loose.
At the very moment the Captain had directed two extra jury-rigged breast lines secured to the Greenwood’s “K” guns when the cry went up from the ships alongside, “The Hammerberg has broken loose from the pier.” It was true. The Captain ran to the boat deck and saw a widening expanse of glistening water visible between the Hammerberg and the pier, which itself was rapidly receding. This was the terrible “moment of truth” famed in the philosophy of the matador; this stark actuality for a moment paralyzed the comprehension of those in charge of the imperilled ships.
The four ships drifting rapidly toward shoal water became four separate worlds, each fighting desperately for its survival. The Captain had previously decided the only possible course in this eventuality was to back full and clear, stern to windward and safe water, if the ship could make sternway on three engines against the storm.
The reinforced mooring lines and starboard anchor on the bottom, upon which we were depending to save us from going adrift, now became suddenly a cruel trap, binding us to the doomed nest.
“Fo’c’s’le, Fantail, cut all lines with fire axes on the double; heave up starboard anchor; all engines back emergency full,” the captain blared at the phone talker.
“No answer from fo’c’s’le, Captain,” was the talkers returning shout. The fo’c’s’le talkers phone leads had been severed in the snap and whip of the writhing cordage.
“Boatswain’s Mate, all orders over the P.A. system,” shouted the skipper, cupping his hands around the cold brass of the voice tube. Topside speakers muffled partially by weather began to blare into the night. With utter disregard of personal safety (for a parting six-inch line can easily amputate a leg), led by the Command Duty Officer wielding a fire axe, the crew advanced over the icy decks to assault the mooring lines. Only momentarily could the down swinging arcs of axes and the occasional sparking of steel against steel be seen in the total darkness of the fo’c’s’le. By now the temporary floodlight had either been dumped overboard by the thrashing manila or were sliding askew on the slippery deck illuminating nothing but the driving flashes.
The Blair continued to slide to leeward borne by seventy knots of wind into the fatal cove until the RPMs finally built up by the emergency back bell finished the job the line cutting detail had so nobly begun. We began to gain sternway, and with squeals of wounded metal slid and bounced down the Greenwood’s starboard side with a final wrench of parting cable and fraying manila we were clear.
In the anchor windlass room the overloaded motor was burning itself out trying to pick up the anchor. The compartment was filled with an acrid smoke. The Blair’s starboard anchor was ploughing deep furrows in the bottom, raking mud, old cable, and quahog shells from their resting places.
In steering aft the talker cringed against the starboard panel as the reports of snapping lines above punctuated the steady drumming of the grinding hulls and the crash of the seas over the fantail. Sea water dripped in through the partially open scuttle overhead.
In the engine spaces the understaffed black gang threw every RPM they could squeeze out into the death struggle. Exhaust temperatures reached unbelievable heights; dial pointers remained far on the red side of the danger marks. Lights flickered low for a frightening instant, then dimmed once, and yet again, as a generator almost, but not quite, lost its load.
Combat Information Center, a small compartment below the flying bridge, festooned with hundreds of strands of armored cable and bulging with tube laden consoles is normally so crowded at Special Sea Detail that it is impossible to cross the compartment for the press of human bodies. Tonight the space was deserted, save for one man bent over a small metal desk with ear intently trained on the incessant crackling of electronic voices. A lavender-white clutter flowed from the Surface Search Radar scope and the product of the ceaseless turn of the rotating antenna went unnoticed as the duty radarman struggled to record the vocal flood on the voice radio circuit. These voices of command and information were snatched from the atmosphere to final conversion into the words which were now our only link with the world beyond the bow.
On the wind-scoured, open bridge the crack of canvas awnings couldn’t drown out the heartbreaking wrench of the scraping hulls. As soon as the port screw wash cleared, the Captain ordered hard left rudder and stopped the port shaft momentarily as the Greenwood slid off the port bow. Then again “All back emergency full!” “Talker, tell Engine Control to give us all they can!”
We were now alone in the wilderness of powdered snow. The only intermittently visible landmark was the blue of lights on Pier One; but that was enough. Scant minutes before the nest broke loose, in one of his hurried trips to the bridge the CO had carefully checked wind direction versus the configuration of the adjacent land and concluded if he had enough power to keep backing upwind he would be in good water. If he could keep the pier in sight and work the ship to windward of the pier she would be saved—at least temporarily.
Phone buzzers hummed incessantly on the flying bridge, but there was no one to answer them. Call lights blinked, dyeing the streams of snow red in front of the squawk box which squawked incessantly. It was a ruthless, lone struggle at the conn.
As the Blair’s screws continued to churn at hitherto unheard of RPMs and the crashing seas thumped against her counter, the two officers, their work on deck completed, burst into the flying bridge, clearing the chart of snow, and slapping the parallel rulers clean. There was still nothing save the pier on which to fix the ship’s position.
Slowly, sometimes gaining a half a degree, sometimes losing (or was it just a trick of the night and storm?), the Blair worked closer to the pier where we could see the bearing of the pierhead was increasing steadily. We were clawing to windward with every fraction of three main engines’ worth of horsepower. We backed full for an agonizing fifteen minutes before we fought the ship to windward of Pier One.
But there could be little comfort in our present situation. Blasts of wind tore the chart from the CDO’s hands. Thumb tacks spaced every two inches failed to secure it. The howling, wind-driven snow made conversation impossible.
The confusion after our nest broke up was indescribable; there were at least five other ships attempting to maneuver within the space of 2000 yards—something that even on a calm day would cur! the hair of the boldest sea dog. The question, “What the hell is the ship on the port bow doing now?” was asked a hundred times in the course of this terrible night. Unidentified shapes slid by often as close as only ten yards away.
The overworked radio circuits in Combat reported the Fiske and the Fox were already aground. The Blair continued to back full for three miles up the bay, heading to the westward of the now visible destroyers nested at buoy Mike 12. Wave crests plunged over the fantail, jarring the ship from stern to stem, and the radar scope was constantly being compared to the erratic visual fixes which were hampered by the snow blanketing the chart. Navigation as the precise science to which we were accustomed had suddenly become the basic matter of successful use of seaman’s eye to stay off the beach. At the height of the storm the radar scope itself was so badly cluttered as to be of little use. It later cleared and was used as an additional position check when, hours later, we finally rode to anchor. Even though we were now clear and backing successfully into good water, our problem was far from solved. Each time we tried to anchor, the hook would not hold, and we started to drift down on other ships. In two instances the Blair almost fouled mooring buoys which were invisible at the time of anchoring and hove into sight at one extreme of yaw. Ominous reports from CIC punctuated the course of events on the bridge. Three men were adrift in the Preston's gig. The Coolbaugh was aground and taking water in her engine spaces. The Lee was on the rocks near the Jamestown Ferry landing. To a mind which views a single grounding as a major calamity, the enormity of this catastrophe was not immediately comprehensible. The luminous dial of the bridge clock now read 0200.
Three hours after breaking away from the nest, it was decided to try to hold position by dropping the anchor, veering to full scope, and steaming against it as necessary. Although wind velocity was a steady 55, gusting to seventy, visibility had improved which allowed us to set up an anchorage on an east-west range which, combined with bearings on the end of Pier One and a thousand yard minimum radar range at Coddington Point, permitted us time to warm our insides and hands with a cup of coffee. With the port shaft ahead and the five-second flashing green light on Gould Island steadied over the quick-flashing white of buoy “3TTR”, the frozen crew was called into shelter in the wardroom.
Most of the deck personnel were too frozen to move easily. The icy hours in the seventy-knot gale had caused borderline cases of frostbite among all of the hastily recruited fo’c’s’le gang composed of as many duty yeoman and stewards as seamen. All except a small anchor watch were given a shot of brandy and bedded down fully dressed on the wardroom chairs, transom, and carpet. Bodies sagged against each other in attitudes of exhausted sleep. A boatswain who had spent the night in heroic efforts on duty to save the ship was still struggling to keep his eyes open. He was in charge, he would not sleep.
As soon as it lightened in the east sufficiently to keep the mooring buoys in easy view, the Captain slid down the ladder to his cabin. In the skipper’s cabin the duty stewardsman set down a large cup of coffee on the desk with a smile. No word was spoken, but a great measure of understanding had passed between them.
It was hard to believe that the ship had escaped. Even more difficult to realize that four of our fellows were aground. It still could be given credence only as a nightmare. Even though the quartermasters and OOD were taking five-minute visual fixes and the radarman was checking them, the Captain couldn’t refrain from leaning across his undisturbed sack and watching the warm winks of the flashing white buoy surmounted every five seconds by the longer green flash of Gould Island Light. The ship was sailing to her anchor chain like a kite, but the yawing seemed to be lessening.
Then there was a slight variance in the vibrations of the hull, and the buzzer rang.
“Stopped port shaft, Captain; wind has dropped to about thirty knots and is continuing to back. She’s riding very nicely, sir. Request permission to send the anchor detail below.”
“Granted,” the Captain replied and wrestled the phone back into its bracket, by the desk. The deep comfort of the warm cabin and the pleasure of a pipe were unbelievable ecstasy. Sleep was still out of the question.
There was a knock and the ice covered parka of the Command Duty Officer entered the cabin.
“All secure, Captain. I’ve been properly relieved and I stayed topside long enough to be sure my relief is familiar with the navigational references,” the CDO reported. “The duty boatswain has most of the mooring lines eye-spliced, so we can go alongside as soon as the boss lets us.”
“Thank you; go below and turn in—it’s a hell of a way to make a living, isn’t it?”
The CDO smiled back: “Good night, sir.” “Good night,—and well done!”
As a faint glow silhouetted the low ridges of Aquidneck Island, the storm became a memory. In the first light objects which had only been indistinct blips on the radar scope the night before resolved themselves into hull forms. The Fox could be seen broadside onto the beach at Coddington Cove; the Coolbaugh was nosed diagonally onto the shoal, and there was also a tug aground in the vicinity. The Fiske was still stuck on Gould Island. Far to the southwest the hugh flare of a DL bow hung suspended over the rocks at the “Dumplings.” Many of the survivors were not in much better shape. As the sun rose over the scene of the disaster, the Calcaterra and Harveson disclosed their twisted frames and dashed in hull plating. The Greenwood was safely anchored, and the Hammerberg was seen still “Med-moored” to the end of the pier; evidently her stern lines had held.
The Blair's sleepy deck gang began to square away topside. Extensive soundings were taken disclosing no hull damage below the waterline. Except for some scraped paint there was no structural damage. There was, however, a suspected mooring line remnant wrapped around the port shaft. Later on Saturday afternoon the Blair nosed alongside the Harveson at East Dock, Goat. Island. Back again to the routine of in-port ship keeping.
This is only the story of one of a dozen ships which were engulfed in that night of snow and wind. A similar tale could be told for each of the ships which fought for her life during the night of March 16. Acts of heroism were commonplace; examples of outstanding devotion to duty were routine. Everywhere one looked there was inspiring evidence of an unbeatable team spirit and a determination to bring the ships safely through the night. There are those who would say that the concept of “duty” is at present outmoded. No one who was in Narragansett Bay on that fateful Friday night will believe it.
This incident was in many instances an expensive object lesson in the absolute necessity for constantly ensuring that the watch aboard at any given instant is fully qualified to take the ship to sea. The question that the captain and the exec must constantly ask is: “Am I satisfied to have the ship put to sea in an emergency with my CDO at the command and my duty section on deck?” If not, the captain had better stay aboard. The CDO must be a qualified alternate in fact. This requires demonstrated maturity of judgment and forehandedness (preparation is 90% of the battle). This is unfortunately not a corollary of chronological age or educational background. A necessary adjunct to the aforementioned is proved ability to handle the ship under any condition of foreseeable emergency.
How does one find junior officers of this skill? One doesn’t. These traits must be developed by intensive training and frequent practice. Tactical School sessions should be directed to providing the theoretical knowledge necessary. Actual shiphandling experience at each and every opportunity (along the line of a progressive qualification check-off list, i.e., conning alongside, getting underway, coming alongside the nest, etc.) should be extended to each line officer in the ship. The author feels that far too little I.S.E. (independent ship exercises) opportunity is granted for such a program. It is further felt that the noose around the commanding officer’s neck is still a little too tight relative to leniency in regard to minor ship damage during junior officers conning. (For it is of the utmost importance that we realize the simple fact that the CDO will only take command when the captain or the exec are not aboard. They, as we know, make it a point to be aboard for all normal evolutions. It follows then that the CDO takes command more often at the abnormal time; the times when unusual circumstances prevent the usual captain to be at the conn, the times when only a thorough well-rounded training program can substitute for the lack of years at sea.)
It is strongly suggested that more emphasis be placed on training in the practical aspects of combating wind and tide. It is submitted that certain damages resultant from this last storm, for example, would not have occurred had the erstwhile conning officer ever clawed off a lee shore in a catboat or had to sail a keel sloop through the “race.” The dependence that many captains (without personally having set up a system of shore tangents and buoy ranges affording a rough check of ship’s position) place in the neat track of the QMC’s well sharpened pencil gives cause for pause.
In the light of the events of the night of March 16, it is urged that each captain decide (preferably in writing) what each Command Duty Officer must know in order to qualify as his representative in full charge of the ship in his absence, not on a dull Sunday in port but in the full flurry of a sudden “Nor’easter” and proceed to teach him to the limit of his ability and experience.
This again is one of the responsibilities which sometimes perch like vultures on the shoulders of those who command at sea. It is also that responsibility which in its execution gives us the greatest pride in our profession.