Not all Navy Crosses have been won in combat. One, in particular, which was awarded to an officer on inactive duty, was conferred solely for a matter of judgment.
On October 9, 1939, the U. S. freighter City of Flint—master, Joseph Gainard—was making standard speed for Liverpool. With apples, asphalt, wax, machinery, lumber, oil, grease, flour, and lard in the holds, it was a peaceful cargo, as general a cargo as any merchant ship had ever carried. But in war, flour can also benefit an enemy. It can feed soldiers.
The clean, neat Hog-Islander, her reciprocating engines thumping steadily away, had put 1,500 miles under her stern since departure from Ambrose Light, New York, on October 3. England and France were at war with Germany, and the standing bridge order was to call the captain on sighting anything suspicious.
At 3:42 P.M., with a deceptive haze walled up along the horizon and the smell of rain in the air, a “could be” object was sighted. Studying it with his binoculars, Gainard thought it might be a cloud. The Flint's watch engineer chose that moment to blow tubes and the smoke kited down on the water, coiling ahead of the ship and blocking all vision.
As it cleared, Gainard and First Mate Warren Rhoads, a trusted and veteran seaman, saw the speck again and this time there was little doubt. It was a ship, hull-down, with a superstructure unlike that of glamorous liners or merchantmen. They studied it, and Gainard ventured that it was a warship. Perhaps French?
There was nothing to worry about, Gainard assured the watch, for the United States Lines had been told in Washington that no German surface ships were operating in the area he would cross. Obviously, the ship running down on the Flint was friendly, merely making a routine investigation of all ships on the high seas.
This reaction, to those who knew him well, was typical of Gainard, a wiry New Englander with a hooked nose and sharp eyes. He had been thirty years at sea and took things afloat as they came, with calm deliberation and few words. As a Naval Reserve ensign, torpedoed in 1918 in the President Lincoln, he had spent five days on a raft. Still in the Reserve and now a lieutenant commander, Gainard had never frightened easily. Another few minutes and he said quietly", “She’s German!”
Her bright Swastika was plainly visible. Gainard and Rhoads scanned her closely. They observed that her guns were trained directly on the Flint. Rhoads rang down halfspeed and the Flint slowed. Then Gainard said, “Stop her,” and the old ship ceased vibrating, lost way, and drifted slowly toward the German man-of-war. It was the pocket battleship Deutschland. She was now less than two hundred yards away and the inevitable signal flags broke from her halyards. Gainard had not used his radio, and lucky was he,bbecause the flags on the man-of-war said: Do not use radio.
Followed by: We are sending a boat.
While the cook and spattered oilers and wipers lined the midship rail of the Flint, a boat put away from the warship’s side. Its crew carried rifles and a single officer stood erect in the stern. Rhoads ordered the boatswain to drop a ladder. Soon a German lieutenant clambered aboard and performed a swishing salute.
Gainard was at the rail, a definite breach of etiquette in the eyes of the German, who obviously had expected to be escorted to the bridge by a junior officer and presented formally to the captain. Gainard’s disarming presence and his “Glad to have you aboard, sir,” temporarily unnerved the young visitor.
But the lieutenant recovered, speaking excellent English, and demanded the Flint’s papers. Gainard took him to his cabin. Now apologetic, the Nazi officer asked for the manifest and her cargo stowage plan. Gainard laid them out willingly.
At that moment, he was thinking more about getting underway. Hours lost at sea meant company dollars lost. He was not in the least afraid of the young man in his cabin, nor of the powerful ship on his beam. Neither could alter the fact that a U. S. flag flew at the Flint's stern; U. S. flags were painted amidships and again on the weather decks. Any action, therefore, would be against the United States rather than against a single merchant ship, master, and crew.
But Gainard was plainly annoyed at the painstaking scrutiny of the manifest by the lieutenant. Indicating the 20,000 drums of lubricating oil, the officer shook his head doubtfully. He also took note of the tractor and the white flour. To unload what the German might consider contraband was virtually impossible without considerable rigging.
Finally, the German pronounced the Flint guilty of carrying contraband. Gainard was stunned, but his protest went unheard as he followed the officer to the rail where orders were issued to semaphore the Deutschland. A flashing light from the warship’s bridge answered and the signalman spoke to the lieutenant in German. “Can you accommodate thirty-eight male passengers of a very undesirable type?” the lieutenant translated, quoting the Deutschland’s signal. Gainard, relieved that this might be the only hardship, quickly agreed. More messages crossed the narrow strip of water separating the old beef boat from the Nazi raider. Then the German officer repeated, “Do not use your radio,” and departed.
Gainard’s temptation to have “Sparks” pound out a message to alert New York gave way to a feeling of helplessness as he looked at the guns of the Deutschland. The pocket battleship was still at battle station.
A larger boat put away from her side and as they drew alongside the Flint, Gainard counted three officers and eighteen enlisted men. Two of them threw a line down and others helped haul up a machine gun. Several grenades were strapped to the hips of each sailor. Gainard knew then that his ship was a prize of war. He believed it was illegal, but nonetheless he was hopelessly and completely captured.
Another boat stood away from the Deutschland. It contained the “undesirables”—ill- clothed and bedraggled, but physically in good shape. As they came aboard Gainard quickly learned that they were from the British Stone gate and were survivors of a Nazi submarine attack.
The senior German officer, a lieutenant- commander, was pleasant but firm. He informed Gainard that the City of Flint would sail for Germany immediately and requested that the crew be summoned. The sun was setting and there were shadows across the deck as Herr Pussbach addressed the gathering. Those present remember him saying, “This ship is a prize of war. We will sail for Germany. If my orders are not followed, it will be blown up. You will lose your lives.” He spoke English with only the slightest accent. Meanwhile, the Deutschland had steamed off into the dusk and Gainard was alone on the high sea, with a German in command of his ship.
Still hoping that the situation might be better than it looked, Gainard argued with Pussbach, insisting that the Flint was still his ship until court adjudication. The prize crew commander agreed that this was possible, at least technically possible, and also agreed, surprisingly enough, to Gainard’s nominal control.
Soon afterward, Gainard learned that the Flint's radio transmitter was damaged beyond repair, severing any communication between Pussbach and the Deutschland. Gainard did not know whether to be angry or pleased at what was obviously the handiwork of his own crew. But Pussbach, learning of the incident, immediately ruled the radio shack off-limits. At the same time, he conceded use of the chartroom to Gainard.
Two guards were placed on continuous patrol of the ship. Two lookouts were stationed on the bridge, serving also to monitor the helmsman and the mates. Pussbach assigned his engineer officer to safeguard the Flint’s power plant, and his next move was to turn out the deck gang to coat the ports black. Meanwhile, the steward’s department draped heavy blankets over the doors to prevent light seepage.
In the chartroom, Pussbach and Gainard talked. The lieutenant had laid out a course taking them north of the Orkneys. Gainard, thinking of his own responsibility, no matter the prize crew, objected, “We can’t get through. It’s too dangerous.” Darkened, sailing under conditions that made recognition confusing, he felt that the City of Flint might be torpedoed by either German or British subs. Instead, he recommended a course almost due north, well away from the British Isles. “That’s all I wanted to know. I see you’ll cooperate,” said Pussbach.
With each watch the weather grew colder. Greenland was not too far off. The Arabs from the Stonegate’s crew went to the engine room and refused to leave its warmth. But Gainard was more concerned that trouble might break out between his crew and the British guests. It had often occurred ashore, in quick fights followed by friendly make-ups, but this was not the time or place. It could trigger other action.
On the other hand, Pussbach’s prize crew, mostly in late teens or early twenties, were business-like, polite, and seemingly well disciplined. Unknown to the men in the Flint's crew mess, however, several understood English. These men stood around with blank looks on their faces, but they listened well.
Pussbach’s butcher-boy mien hid considerable guile. His “ears” in crew’s mess told him that revolt was nearing. Quite simply, the British and American sailors were joining forces to heave the prize crew overboard. The details had not been worked out to any extent but the primary plan was to use wrenches, axes, and steel bars on the Nazis. Its simplicity gave it a chance to work. In a surprise attack, the odds were rather good.
Pussbach went to Gainard with a warning. In turn, Gainard went to the crew several times and reasoned them out of it in order to avoid bloodshed.
Around October 15, Gainard instructed his chief engineer to begin talking of a water shortage. Even with guests aboard, the Flint had plenty of water but Gainard knew enough of international maritime law as it related to the Flint’s position to upset the Nazi scheme for getting her to Germany. He knew, for instance, that if the ship went into a Norwegian port on the ruse of requiring water when it had sufficient, complications would develop.
Tissues of doubt were dropped daily. The chief engineer always voiced his concern over water when one of the English-savvying Germans was about. Soon, Pussbach began to worry. With the coast of Norway some fifty hours ahead, he ordered the deck gang over the side to paint out the American markings. Soon he unfurled a Danish flag from the stern and one of the German boys swayed over the bows and at the stern to rename her. By nightfall, she was the Danish ship Alf. The life-rings were flipped to hide the Flint’s markings.
On October 18, steaming down the wintry, rocky coast of Norway the weather was dusty. Line squalls fell upon the Alf, blowing snow across her decks and covering the windlass with ice. Soundings were taken every fifteen minutes. That night speed was dropped to navigable revolutions. Some of the time she drifted.
After daybreak, with Gainard fervently hoping that the Norwegians would sound his fresh water tanks and toss his ship into a legal crosspatch, the Alf, or Flint, steamed slowly between the snow-blanketed sides of a long fiord. Pussbach then broke the Nazi man- of-war ensign from the signal halyard over the bridge. It was difficult for Gainard to understand this move since the Danish flag was still at the stern. Whatever the reasons, the dual or triple nationality of the vessel was certain to cause head-scratching ashore. A pilot boarded at Hammerfest for the tricky lap to Tromso. The anchor went down in early evening of October 20.
Perplexed Norwegian customs officers, naval officers, and then officials from Norway’s state department boarded. Immediately, they recognized in the Alf, or City of Flint, 8,015 deadweight tons of headache. Germany had seized a ship belonging to a friendly nation, had disguised it in the flag of still another friendly nation, and had temporarily deposited it in Norway’s hands.
Throughout the harangue, Gainard vainly tried to make contact with any U.S. official ashore. There was no consul in Tromso. He asked that the Norwegian government contact the American embassy, which apparently was done. Meanwhile, a water barge topped the Flint’s tanks, but no one had checked the supposed water shortage. Norwegian officials made certain that no one did.
Ordered to sail, Gainard and Pussbach climbed to the bridge in the afternoon of October 21. The ship put to sea with a Norwegian escort plowing along on the quarter. Pussbach wanted to stay inside territorial waters but the Norwegian Navy ship demanded that she depart to the open sea.
The prize commander then ordered a southerly course, deciding to try the run for Germany. It was certain that his visit to Tromso had alerted both the British and U. S. governments. The stiff afternoon breeze rolled solidly into a southeast gale by dusk and Gainard, foxing at every' turn, reminded the German officer that mines might break loose and pile up against the ship. Actually, the wiry Naval Reservist could think of nothing worse than meeting a brace of British destroyers on patrol. His ship, by possession if not by law, was now German. He argued for a course to the north and at midnight Pussbach consented. The Flint, in wild weather, slowly walked the compass to almost due north.
Back in Washington, between the United States government and the German embassy, and then to Berlin, messages were flowing. State department experts on international maritime law were building briefs and advising section heads on procedure.
Pussbach had decided on friendly Murmansk and the hospitality of the Soviet Union to give him breathing time and a chance to communicate with Berlin. This had been refused in Tromso. On October 23 the headlands of Kola Bay arose out of grey skies. Russian customs officials checked the Flint’s cargo, and Gainard was not disappointed to see the German prize crew boated ashore for internment, although he was surprised. Meanwhile, he was informed that his “ship was free, but couldn’t sail.” Each day, he tried to send a message to Ambassador Lawrence Steinhardt. None of them left Murmansk. The Russians, hoping to avoid differences with Germany over such a small matter, found themselves in a diplomatic web as Washington began to exert pressure.
Steinhardt, in Moscow, was trying to reach the Flint for the “purpose of checking the crew’s welfare.” He requested permission to send an embassy secretary to Murmansk as an observer. This was denied. In Berlin, Ambassador Kirk issued a strong protest to the Nazi government. But when Tass, official Soviet news agency, broke the story of the ship’s arrival in Murmansk, the German Admiralty played dumb. A few hours later, they reversed course, claiming that inadequate charts had brought the ship to Murmansk, holding, however, that the Flint was a legitimate prize of war.
At the same time, Germany demanded the Flint’s freedom and asked Russia for the release of the prize crew. The USSR, with scant deliberation, decided to settle their part by ridding themselves of the old Hog Islander and every person she had brought into port.
Gainard heard the news from a short wave receiver in the officer’s dining salon. Twenty minutes later, a chagrined Pussbach and his crew reboarded. The ship sailed that day, October 27. The American flag, which Gainard had hoisted on Pussbach’s departure, was hauled down and the Nazi ensign was two- blocked again.
Beyond North Cape, two Norwegian pilots climbed aboard and the Flint proceeded southward again, well inside Norway’s territorial waters. Back at Tromso, the anchor chain rumbled out. Again, with no orders from Berlin, but hopeful of securing advice from the Wilhelmstrasse, Pussbach sought refuge and claimed that wiper Allison Sellars had hurt his leg. It was only a shin bruise. Next, Pussbach hinted engine trouble. The net result was the weighing of anchor and a southward trek again.
During the short Tromso stay, the German ambassador in Washington assayed the case of the City of Flint. Feeling was rising, he cabled Berlin.
Weary, utterly confused, and now convinced that he might end up in a German internment camp, Gainard was on the bridge when the German schoolship Schwaben overtook the Flint. The message to Pussbach was passed by voice: “Proceed to Haugesund.”
Gainard was mystified. He had expected the German ship to direct them to a Baltic port. The North Sea port of Haugesund was a baffling choice unless something had been prearranged. The Norwegian mine-layer Olav Tryggvason was riding with the Flint, on her quarter. Her presence was reassuring. Once again, sparks flew from the wildcat as the Flint's rusty anchor chain rattled out of the locker. The minelayer dropped her hook scarcely three hundred yards away. Again, the rounds of official visits began.
Gainard felt something was up. There was no indication from Pussbach, or the Norwegians, but the air had changed. When the shore party headed back for the beach, Pussbach and his entire crew, except for a small security watch, turned in for the night. Gainard remained awake.
At midnight, a boat left the side of the Olav Tryggvason and made the Flint's accommodation ladder. Its crew was armed, and commanded by two naval officers. They awoke Pussbach and his officers, informing them that the Flint had been anchored without cause. Then they disarmed the prize crew and took them ashore. The command was at long last returned to Captain Gainard.
After discharging and loading iron ore, Gainard1 sailed for home, and entered her arrival into the log on January 6, 1940, with Cape Henry, Virginia, as his landfall.
His Navy Cross citation, won without a shot, reads as follows: “For distinguished service in the line of his profession so ably demonstrated while master of the steamer City of Flint at the time of its seizure upon the high seas and during its detention by armed forces of a belligerent European power. His skill, fine judgment and devotion to duty were of the highest order and in accordance with the best tradition of the Naval Service.”
1. Captain Joseph Gainard, USNR, died while on active duty in 1943 of a heart attack.