For years instructors and teachers have been dogged by the saying, “Those who can, do. Those who can’t, teach.'” The fallacy of this saying was emphatically proved on one overcast summer day in 1953 when a group of U. S. Navy instructors not only proved their ability to practice what they preach, but succeeded where the “do-ers” refused even to try.
The night was clear, if a bit chilly for the season, and on the bridge of the SS Pan-Massachusetts the watchstanders turned up their heavy peajacket collars against the cool, night air. The tanker, owned by National Bulk Carriers, Inc., of New York, was proceeding up the Delaware River, bound for refineries at Marcus Hook, Pennsylvania, heavily laden with 80-octane gasoline valued at more than a million dollars. Despite the late hour, channel traffic was brisk. Further up the channel, the watch officer observed another tanker heading towards them. It was a sister ship, the SS Phoenix. She rode high in the water, having off-loaded her cargo earlier. Her tanks carried only enough ballast to insure maneuverability, but, as it was determined later, there was something else in those tanks—the highly explosive fumes of her last cargo of gasoline. As he started to exchange passing signals, the watch officer glanced at the clock. It was just past midnight 6 June 1953.
It happened quickly, as all such incidents do—the crossed signals, the confusion, the belated evasive action and, finally, the collision. It was reported later in Life Magazine that the explosions could be heard for twenty miles. Aboard the Phoenix there was no time to lower boats. Men jumped into the flaming water as three separate explosions rocked the ship. In the space of a few minutes, she broke up amidships and came to rest on the shallow river bottom.
The Pan-Mass, damaged only at the bow, remained afloat; however, she was engulfed in flames from the Phoenix explosions and now her fires raged uncontrollably, fed by high- octane gasoline through ruptured plates and buckled hatches. The magnitude of the holocaust forced immediate abandonment of the ship. The blaze lit up the night sky, as the crippled vessel drifted about the busy channel, a highly dangerous hazard to shipping.
Coast Guard cutters and local fireboats rapidly converged on the scene, picking up survivors and attempting to fight the blaze. Time and again several fireboats attempted to bring the flames under control, only to be. driven back by the intense heat. Finally, they were forced to give up altogether. Additional fire fighting facilities from the surrounding area were contacted and brought to the scene., They refused even to attempt to extinguish the fire, and everyone agreed that the ship was lost. The hulk continued to drift aimlessly, still blazing from all of her eight tanks. It was estimated that she would burn for more than two weeks before her cargo would be consumed.
The only people who had not given the ship up for lost were the representatives of the owner company itself. Naturally unwilling to allow several million dollars worth of ship and cargo to go up in smoke, they exhausted every possibility in attempting to line up fire fighting aid. But in each case, the answer was the same—“Not a chance!” Nobody was willing to risk their boats and their lives in what they were sure must be a losing cause. Finally, they called upon the Commandant of the Fourth Naval District for help. This was considered a last resort, because they knew the Navy had no fireboats in the area equipped to fight this type of fire. However, they knew well the excellent reputation of the fire fighters school at the Naval Damage Control Training Center at Philadelphia. Many of their own personnel had undergone training there, by special arrangement with the Navy, as had innumerable refinery crews and city fire department teams. They hoped, almost against hope, that the school could send some aid.
COMFOUR quickly passed on the request to the Commanding Officer of the Training Center, and on Monday, 8 June, Lieutenant Commander Louis O. Lindemann, Jr., the Officer in Charge of the Fire Fighters School, was despatched to make a preliminary survey of the situation. What he saw was not encouraging. Though two days had passed, the fires were still burning fiercely. Using a river tug, he made several trips around the burning ship, as close as the tug captain dared approach. He examined the holocaust from as many angles as possible. Calling upon his long experience, he weighed the possibilities of explosion, the heat, and the wind, and considered several courses of attack, personnel available, equipment, and a thousand other pertinent factors. He considered the danger— this would involve a high degree of risk. Only volunteers could be used this time. But most of all he considered the challenge. Experienced “smoke eaters” had failed to diminish the flames. Less intrepid (but possibly wiser) men refused even to try. In a small, but very real way, the reputation of the Navy was at stake. A thought flashed through his mind, “Those who can . . . ’’—and his decision was made.
Because of the late hour and approaching darkness, it was decided to commence operations early the next morning, Tuesday, 9 June 1953, to insure as much daylight as possible for the attempt.
Though the flames aboard the Pan-Massachusetts raged unchecked throughout the night, the battle was already underway. The preliminary inspection had been made and the plan of attack had been drawn. At the Philadelphia Naval Base, preparations continued throughout the night. The Navy tug Toka (YTB-149) was made ready and her crew alerted. Hoses, nozzles, and other fire fighting equipment were checked and tested. Supply personnel, both Navy and civilian, worked long overtime hours to break out huge quantities of foam and to transport it to the tug. Before daybreak more than 1,200 gallons of mechanical foam and 1,500 pounds of chemical foam had been loaded aboard.
Although most of the ten volunteers slept, Lieutenant Commander Lindemann stayed up most of the night directing preparations. It would not do to arrive at the scene with a leaky hose or defective nozzle, and so he checked and rechecked everything to his own personal satisfaction.
Dawn came early, Tuesday morning, and first light found preparations already completed on the Toka, and before long the volunteers and crew had assembled and gone aboard. As the tug pulled out, a small knot of wellwishers gathered on the pier. During the two and one-half hour trip down river, there was little apprehension among those on board. In fact, as they lounged on the broad fantail and swapped sea stories, there was almost a picnic atmosphere.
Shortly before 0900 the tug arrived at the Pan-Massachusetts. The crippled ship was still ablaze from all eight gasoline tanks. Flames were roaring from tank tops, vents, and torn deck plating. In addition, there appeared to be several Class “A” fires in the forecastle, bridge, and poop-deck areas. Lindemann gauged the wind, which was of moderate strength and came from the bow of the burning vessel. He then gave orders for a slow pass up the starboard side from stern to bow. His men stood by the four fire fighting monitors installed in the tug. As they approached, Lindemann remembered the departing admonition of his C.O., “The lives of your men are in your hands,” he had said. “Bring them all back with you, or don’t bother to come back yourself.” These initial passes to cool the decks with water would provide the first stiff test. If she were going to explode at all, it would probably happen when the cold water hit the red-hot deck. Powerful streams of water leaped from the tug’s fire stations and with a loud hissing noise burst into billowing clouds of white steam. The Toka continued forward to the bow, pouring water on the blaze all the while. On reaching the bow, they stopped engines and drifted back down the starboard side, continuing the cooling process. The tortured metal gave voice to unearthly noises, but there was no explosion.
As they drifted astern of the Pan-Mass, they secured the water and broke out four foam lines. Lindemann directed the tug’s civilian pilot to pull in close on the starboard side. With the tug only a few feet from the burning ship, great streams of foam hit the fire with prompt results, but as the tide pulled the Toka away, its effectiveness was greatly diminished. The hoses could not be directed accurately, and large quantities of foam went to waste on non-burning areas, or into the river itself. Lindemann ordered the pilot to come alongside the blazing vessel and make his lines fast to her side. The pilot, realizing his responsibility for the safety of the tug and its crew, refused to come in close to the blazing ship, much less tie up to it.
For a short time, the fire fighting took a back seat to the fight on the bridge of the Toka. The battle continued through most of the morning. The pilot compromised by coming in as close as he dared, but he would not tie up. The tug would lie in close for a few minutes and the fire fighters would gain a great deal of headway. Then it would drift back with the tide, and the progress gained so arduously would be lost.
Lindemann’s men, incensed at these tactics, shouted insults at the bridge. Finally a chief petty officer, speaking for the men, urged Lindemann to take the team aboard the Pan-Mass itself. “That’s the only way we’re going to get anything done,” he said. The other eight agreed vociferously and began to gather equipment together for the move. Lindemann had seen many fires of this type, both in the Navy and his earlier experience as a lieutenant in the Baltimore Fire Department. Twice, he had seen burning ships blow up with men aboard. He felt that there was still too much danger of explosion to allow the men aboard.
Gradually, however, the pilot gained more confidence in the abilities of these Navy men, and before long he was holding the tug along-side using engines rather than lines. At one point, part of the buckled side plating on the Pan-Mass gave way and gas poured into the water. Flames sprang up and quickly covered the area between the ship and the tug. The wooden sides and gunwales of the Toka began to catch fire. They beat a hasty retreat, as the hosemen turned the foam on their own craft. The pilot, now completely won over, came back alongside after his decks had been thoroughly wet down.
After about an hour and a half, most of the fires on the starboard side had been extinguished by foam blanketing, and so they shifted operations to the port side. By this time Lindemann judged the ship safe for boarding, and the fire party went aboard with three foam lines.
Shortly after they had gone aboard, Lindemann had good reason to doubt his judgment. The decks were so hot that they were forced to stand on one foot and then the other. It seemed that the flames roared louder and larger than ever. Clouds of highly explosive vapor could be seen rolling across the decks, and strangest of all, the decks and bulkheads themselves moved up and down, in and out, with an eerie creaking and heaving sound. It was as though the ship was a living thing, breathing heavily, and groaning in its agony. Suddenly a heavy foam nozzle slipped from a man’s tired hands and fell to the deck with a resounding noise. Two men ran for the side, another shouted involuntarily; all of them jumped and about a thousand gray hairs were manufactured on the spot. Although epithets were hurled at the offender, the over-all effect was one of great relief.
Starting at the forecastle area, the men worked aft, blanketing each tank with foam as they went. By 1115, they had extinguished all fires up to and including the bridge area. However, the early waste of foam had taken its toll. They ran out of foam now just when the end was in sight. For fifteen more minutes they cooled down the decks using water fog, to reduce the possibility of a reflash. Then, back aboard the tug, they proceeded to Reedy Point, Delaware, to pick up more foam.
Early that morning it had been estimated that the initial load of foam might not be sufficient, so the owners of the Pan-Mass had already contracted for a truckload of foam to be delivered to Reedy Point. Lindemann fully expected the truck to be waiting for them at the dock, but when they arrived there was not a sign of the truck, nor any word of when it was expected.
Most of the men picked a comfortable spot and stretched out for a much needed rest. Meanwhile, many miles away, the much sought after truck driver was having his troubles. He had been sent off on this trip without a spare and a flat tire had occurred about halfway to his destination. Luckily, this happened near a service sation, but the driver had no cash to pay for having the flat fixed. After much arguing and pleading, he finally left his watch as security and set out on his way.
At the harbor master’s office Lindemann had been filled in on the truck’s progress, or lack of progress, and he returned to the dock to keep his men informed. By the time the foam had arrived and had been loaded aboard the tug, it was nearly 1530. Already four hours had been lost. On returning to the fire scene, they found that the Pan-Mass had swung with the tide till its port quarter was resting against the grounded Phoenix. During the four-hour layoff, many of the fires previously extinguished had rekindled. The tug made fast to the starboard side and the fire party boarded with the same equipment as earlier. As before, they started with the forward fires and worked their way aft.
Most of the fires were quickly extinguished except for the one in No. 4 tank. The No. 4 tank top had not been blown off, so the only way foam could be introduced was through cracks or other minor openings. This took a great deal of time and was very difficult, and so the fire party split into two groups, one to concentrate on No. 4 tank and the other to extinguish the remaining fires.
By 1720, all of the fires were out. Lindemann ordered the fire areas to be thoroughly overhauled to prevent the possibility of a reflash. Finally, he inspected the entire ship, along with a company representative. At 1830, the fire party secured and headed home to a well-earned rest.
In salvage operations, which commenced shortly after, more than 80% of the cargo was saved. In addition the ship itself underwent extensive repairs and was later returned to service. All told, the Fire School Instructors had saved the company over four million dollars. It goes without saying that all volunteers received letters of commendation for their outstanding performance beyond the call of duty.
The bravery, technical skill, and “can-do” spirit displayed by Lieutenant Commander Lindemann and his men in saving the Pan- Massachusetts is an unusual and highly dramatic example of outstanding performance by instructors throughout the Navy. Because of the quiet, commonplace nature of their jobs, those in instructors’ billets often go unnoticed. But on that hectic day on the Delaware, ten heroic men proved for all time that, “Those who can, . . . —teach!”