A Sailor's History of the U.S. Navy (26 page)

Through the ship's PLAT system, fire can be seen erupting on the deck of the aircraft carrier USS
Forrestal.
Sailors can be seen running toward the fire to fight it.
U.S. Naval Institute Photo Archive

Flames engulf the entire after half of
Forrestal
's flight deck. Exploding ordnance tore holes in the deck, and flaming fuel poured down into the ship's interior spaces. Only through the crew's great courage and determination not to give up their ship was
Forrestal
saved from destruction.
U.S. Naval Institute Photo Archive

The ship's PLAT system confirms what Shaver witnessed. There, in stark black and white imaging, is Chief Farrier charging headlong into the fire, spraying his extinguisher, undeterred by the raging flames and the imminent danger of explosion, putting the lives of his shipmates before his own. And in a blinding flash that momentarily overwhelms the PLAT system, this courageous Sailor is committed to the ages, personifying the Navy's creed of honor, courage, and commitment in a manner that is both sobering and awe-inspiring. “It takes one's breath away,” said one observer.

Pieces of shrapnel from the exploded bomb tore into McCain's legs and chest. But he was among the more fortunate; other pilots and flight deck personnel, as well as most of the men in Repair Eight, were lost in that early detonation, the first of many explosions that day as the fire spread out of control across the after half of the huge aircraft carrier. With the experts of Repair Eight gone, it fell upon amateurs to continue the fight. Sailors with little or no prior training stepped up to man the hoses and fight back the inferno that now threatened to destroy the ship. Planes burned everywhere,
pilots ejected from them, and men jumped off the flight deck to escape the flames. More bombs cooked off, tearing great craters into the flight deck and allowing flaming fuel to pour down into the spaces below. Rockets and missiles ignited and streaked across the deck, cutting a deadly swath among the firefighters and slamming into other aircraft. A huge column of black smoke climbed into the sky, visible for many miles. There could be little doubt that
Forrestal
was in mortal danger.

But the carrier's crew was not about to let their ship succumb. The same PLAT system that captured Chief Farrier's selfless heroism also shows Sailors running
toward
the wall of flames despite the showers of shrapnel and large flying chunks of burning wreckage from a massive detonation just seconds before.

A third round of detonations cleared the deck of men and destroyed much of the firefighting gear, yet moments later more Sailors appeared to fight the inferno. Ignoring the chain reaction of exploding fuel tanks and ordnance, men wrestled with hoses, rolled hot bombs across jagged decks, and muscled aircraft over the side before their fuel tanks could ignite. One Sailor plugged a hole in a plane's fuel tank with his finger to keep the fuel from spilling out as a group of men rolled the aircraft toward the side for jettisoning. Below decks, men lit off pumps, set up fire barriers, searched for the missing, rescued fallen shipmates, and performed first aid despite the clouds of choking smoke and the cascades of burning fuel pouring down through holes in the decks above. In a display of incredible professionalism and courage, the men in the port after steering compartment were cut off beyond rescue but continued to keep their equipment working and maintained their composure on the sound-powered phone lines until they died.

For thirteen hours,
Forrestal
's crew fought the conflagration until the last fire was out. By great courage, exemplary sacrifice, and sheer determination, they had saved their ship. At a cost of 134 lives and hundreds of injuries,
Forrestal
would serve the Navy for many years to come. With most of her after flight deck gone and charred wreckage strewn over much of the ship, she left Yankee Station under her own power and returned to her homeport in Norfolk for extensive repairs. She would return to duty and make another seventeen major deployments to the Mediterranean and Arabian Seas, participating in a number of important operations, including Earnest Will (keeping the sea-lanes open in the Persian Gulf during the Iran-Iraq War) and Provide Comfort (deterring Iraqi attacks against the Kurds in 1991).

Many who survived confided that they were certain they would have to abandon ship before the day was over. The loss of Repair Eight so early on had been a near-fatal blow. The ship had been saved primarily by the
willingness of so many volunteers to carry on when shipmates had fallen or disappeared before their very eyes, to pick up the hoses that had been dropped by men burned beyond recognition, to jettison heated ordnance over the side despite the tremendous risk, to stand up to smoke and flames when running away was still an option.

The Navy learned some valuable lessons that day. Despite their great courage and sacrifice, some of these untrained men had made costly errors—such as washing foam away with water, allowing fires to reignite—that could have been avoided had they received adequate training beforehand. Never again would a ship sail in harm's way with just part of her crew trained in firefighting. After the
Forrestal
fire, the Navy decreed that every Sailor, from seaman to admiral, would be trained in firefighting before going to the fleet.

Today, the survivors of the
Forrestal
fire look back with mixed emotions. Many have difficulty recounting the experience: Charlie Rodgers, a yeoman who worked in a ready room below the hangar bay, recalls watching the events on the PLAT system, saying, “I can't tell you how I felt,” as he chokes back tears. Gary Shaver, who saw Chief Farrier run “full gate to what was to become our hell on earth,” remembers with awe that “there was never a look of fear or doubt in [Farrier's] eyes as he fought the growing fire. Only the look of determination to do his job!” Today, the firefighting school in Norfolk, Virginia, bears the name of that courageous chief who paid the ultimate price trying to save his ship and his shipmates.

Chief Petty Officer Gerald Farrier charged headlong into the fire on
Forrestal,
armed with just a fire extinguisher, determined to save his shipmates. Today the Navy's firefighting school in Norfolk, Virginia, bears this heroic Sailor's name.
Courtesy of USS
Forrestal
Association

Shaver, McCain, Rodgers, and the others who survived that terrible day on Yankee Station many years ago carry with them the memories of lost shipmates and the responsibility of living a good life—something that was denied Farrier and 133 others. They also carry with them a wisdom not granted to all, an understanding that fate sometimes deals us difficult hands and the only way to prevail—or, in some cases, simply to survive—is to find in ourselves the kind of courage and determination that Sailors commemorate in their traditional saying:
Don't Give Up the Ship.

There have been many other occasions when Sailors have carried on the tradition of not giving up their ship. From patrol craft to capital ships, courageous, committed Sailors have heeded the words spoken by a dying man in the War of 1812.

In World War II, the aircraft carrier
Franklin,
operating closer to the Japanese homeland than any other U.S. carrier, suffered incredible damage when a single Japanese plane came through the cloud cover on a low-level bombing run and hit the ship with two armor-piercing bombs. One struck the flight deck centerline, penetrating to the hangar deck, which it devastated. The bomb also ignited fires through the second and third decks and knocked out the CIC and air plot. The second bomb hit aft and tore through two decks, spawning fires that detonated ammunition, bombs, and rockets.

Franklin,
within fifty miles of the Japanese mainland, lay dead in the water, with a 13-degree starboard list, all radio communications lost, and enveloped in flames. Seven hundred and twenty-four crew members were killed and another 265 were wounded. Many others were either blown overboard or driven over the side by the raging fires. Remaining were 710 Sailors who, by sheer valor and tenacity, miraculously saved the ship.
Franklin
had the dubious distinction of being the most heavily damaged aircraft carrier in the entire war, yet she remained afloat and eventually proceeded under her own power to Pearl Harbor for repairs.

While there are numerous examples of Sailors who have not given up their ships, there is another tradition in the U.S. Navy that has never been
articulated in the same way as Captain Lawrence's inspiring words, but it could just as easily be emblazoned on a flag for posterity: Don't Give Up the Sailor.

In 1939, USS
Squalus,
the eleventh in the new
Sargo
class of submarines, was conducting sea trials off New England when her main engine air induction valve failed and water poured into the boat's after engine room. The submarine rapidly sank stern first to the bottom, coming to rest keel down in sixty fathoms of water. During the disaster, twenty-six men were trapped and died in the flooded after portion of the ship. This left thirty-three men alive in the forward compartments of the submarine. The survivors sent up a marker buoy and then began releasing red smoke flares to the surface in an attempt to signal their distress.

USS
Sculpin,
another
Sargo
-class submarine sent to the area later that morning, spotted one of the smoke signals at 1241 that afternoon and marked the spot with a buoy. She was joined in the afternoon by a number of other vessels that had been sent to find a way to rescue the Sailors trapped in the crippled sub. Divers and submarine experts, including the Experimental Diving Unit from Washington, D.C., also converged on the location.

During this preparatory period, the thirty-three survivors spent a cold night trapped inside
Squalus
and began to suffer from the effects of chlorine gas seeping out of the battery compartment. Despite the knowledge that never before had the victims of a submarine sinking ever been saved from such a depth, no one in
Squalus
caved in, and discipline, if not spirits, remained high.

Ashore, the wives and families of the
Squalus
Sailors awaited news. A Morse-code message tapped out from the sunken submarine—“condition satisfactory but cold”—was interpreted most hopefully. Interviews with relatives nearby and at distant locations were published and broadcast by reporters. One group of newsmen rented a boat for the fifteen-hour journey to the scene and back and learned that not all the crew had survived. When they brought this news back, the impact on the wives and relatives was devastating.

The would-be rescuers had three options. One was to pump out the flooded compartments to bring the
Squalus
to the surface; this was risky because the reason for the sinking was still unknown. The second option was to have the men come to the surface using their individual Momsen Lungs (at that time, the lungs were a recently invented rescue device for situations similar to this); but the sub's depth was greater than the 207 feet for which the lungs had been tested. Also, the men were extremely cold and undoubtedly weak from the foul air and tension. The decision was made to take the
third option, which was to use a revised version of a diving bell, also invented by Commander Charles B. Momsen, to descend to the sub and attach to her deck above one of the hatches. A few of the trapped men could then climb up into the bell and be transported to the surface. It would take several trips under uncertain conditions to get them all out, but it seemed the best plan available.

At 1130, the dramatic rescue operation began, and at 1247 direct contact was established with the trapped crew. With the bell positioned over the submarine's hatch, the first group of men climbed up into the tiny chamber. The bell was hauled to the surface and, for this first group, the ordeal was over. Those who waited below must have felt a powerful urge to rush up into the safety of the rescue chamber when the hatch opened each time; but naval discipline—both admirable and necessary—prevailed, and the evacuation was both orderly and logical, with those in the worst shape and more junior in rank going before the others. Over the next six hours, twenty-five survivors reached the surface in three trips. After serious difficulty with tangled cables threatened to prevent the rescue of the remaining seven survivors, the fourth trip finally rescued them just after midnight. All thirty-three were recovered.