SEA STORY #1

DON'T EVER COME BACK

by

QM1 Bob Nowak (51/53)

        One time in the early 50's, we were on a plane guard tour for the student pilots in Pensacola, Florida, usually a six week tour of duty.  This means following one of the training carriers out in the Gulf of Mexico while the student pilots practiced takeoffs and landings.  It was kind of deadly dull duty unless/until one of the students dumped his plane in the drink, in which case the "plane guard" destroyer (us) would scoot over and pull him out of the water and return him to the carrier.

        The crew pulled liberties on the base in Pensacola, and the nearby town of Warrington.  Many "incidents" were reported to or responded to by the Shore Patrol and local police.  One in particular involved a number of KDB sailors taking over the bandstand in a large bar/dance hall in Warrington.  These rascals took over the musical instruments and gave a musical concert unlike anything heard there before.  It was awful!!!  Some of locals and the bouncers moved in to stop this episode, and a rather wild and exuberant brawl followed.  Rumors were that the bar owner claimed over $500.00 in damages and the local hospital emergency room issued a bill for about $300.00 for care to various participants.  (Big bucks in those days).

        This, and a number of other events, led to the BAILEY being warned quite strongly that further incidents would result in official complaints up the ladder.  Captain Victor B. Graft was very unhappy with this situation.  He intended to freeze liberty for the final two weeks of our tour, but gave in to the exec who talked him out of it.

        As we finished our tour of duty, we were steaming proudly out of Pensacola when the base signal tower raised us up by flashing light and sent us the usual complimentary message from the Air Training Command.  It thanked us for our "smart pickup" of one student pilot and gave us a "Well Done."  After the official message was finished, the signal tower operator sent us a "PVT", which was a private unofficial message between  signal operators.  It read, "The Shore Patrol asks - PLEASE, don't ever come back!!!"  It seems that KDB set a record for any plane guard destroyer for "events" up to that time.  Ah, the good old days!!

        Many ships meet death face to face in combat.  On May 24th, 1951, K.D. BAILEY and others met the Grim Reaper in the supposed safety of their own home port.  The day dawned cool and blustery.  A Nor'easter was whipping Narragansett Bay into a heaving white capped turmoil.  Tied up alongside the USS YELLOWSTONE (AD-27) at one of the mooring buoys (in the outer harbor) were, USS PERRY (DD-844), USS POWER (DD-839), USS GLENNON (DD-840) and USS K.D. BAILEY (DD-713), the outboard destroyer.  A large motor launch from the harbor boat pool was serving the nest as a liberty launch.  The fifty foot launch was covered by canvas rigging, with flaps amidships for passengers to embark and disembark.  Her heavy weather capacity would be no more than 80 passengers.  Her life jackets were stowed under the seats which ran fore and aft along both sides of the launch.

        Unbeknownst to the OOD on BAILEY,  the regular coxswain, an inexperienced man, who had made a few runs in smiling weather, but was not experienced in the heaving storm tossed waters into which he shoved off to pick up the returning liberty parties. The launch made the fleet landing in a protected inner harbor area around 0700.  Here, confusion was the rule of the day.  Sailors clambered into the launch, anxious to get out of the bad weather and back aboard ship.  More and more jammed their way aboard until 159 souls filled the launch.

        The Commanding Officer of BAILEY arrived and looked into the launch.  He ordered non-BAILEY sailors to disembark.  Unfortunately, as many men left others took their places and the launch  was still badly overloaded for the weather conditions she faced.  The CO of the GLENNON took a few men into his own gig for the trip back.  He followed the launch as it motored out into the open harbor.

        Here, she was  struck in quick succession by three huge breakers.  She began to ship water up forward.  Senior petty officers and one officer aboard were trapped up forward by the press of jammed humanity and could render no help to the green coxswain who struggled to keep his launch afloat.  Many men stood on the life jacket stowage areas and passing out life jackets was next to impossible.  The cox slowed briefly, then apparently decided to make a run for it through the heavy going; a fatal misjudgment.  The launch dove into the breakers and began to capsize.  All aboard were hurled into the cold angry waters, and began to struggle for their very lives.  A few hung on to the keel of the capsized launch.  Some were picked up by the gig of GLENNON's skipper following behind.  Nearby ships began to hoot distress signals and any available boat that could be launched was put into the water to assist the swimmers.

        Crash boats from Quonset Point at the north end of the harbor were dispatched to assist in the rescue.  Bob Keating and I (Bob Nowak), made separate trips in rescue boats as signalmen; his group pulled out two swimmers; cold and shaking from exposure.  The area was littered with debris; white hats; items of clothing; life jackets, etc.  A nearby crash boat took in two drowned shipmates; the bodies of others  were carried away by the strong currents).

        Fortunately, an MSTS gas tanker, USS NODAWAY (T-AOG-78) under charter to the Navy, was in the area.  Seeing the disaster  and hearing the men screaming for help, she swung around to create a lee and began to pull survivors aboard.  Without a doubt, if NODAWAY was not in the area,  the death toll would have been monstrous.  As it was, 18 brave destroyermen perished in this sad event.

        Bodies washed up on the Torpedo Station shore for days thereafter.  Courts-martial and reprimands were handed out to BAILEY's then skipper and the OOD and the coxswain who abandoned his duty.  The survivors were taken ashore to the base hospital for care and treatment.  They were outfitted  in dry dungarees, and later that day were returned to the nest by an LCI.

        It was a sad and distressing moment for those of us aboard to watch for familiar faces to return, only to find they were among the missing. Bill Harvey, a young Seaman Apprentice, one of our bridge gang strikers was among the lost.  Bill was a fine young man and a good buddy.  Other BAILEY sailors who died that day were Seaman Apprentice Joe Richeck, Jr.., RD2 Ray Turner, and Francis Skerlak.  It was not a happy time for the BAILEY.   Days later, our skipper was relieved and CDR Noel A. Burkey, Jr., reported aboard as CO.  He had been the exec on USS JOHNSTON (DD-821).  He began his tour of duty with the job of reconstructing the morale of his new crew and after only about 10 days, BAILEY was underway for her third overseas deployment in a twelve month period.  But the day of disaster in Newport Harbor has never left the minds and memories of those who were there that tragic time in May of 1951.

The above picture shows the liberty launch after it was
retrieved by the USS YELLOWSTONE (AD-27).

     In early 1956, the KDB was directed to the Red Sea and the Indian Ocean during a Suez Canal crisis.  After picking up supplies in Naples, KDB set sail, the crew thinking they were headed home.  Soon the CO announced their destination and purpose.  Then, in one of her many career "accidents", KDB ran aground in the Canal, fouling up the port screw and shaft.  They were now only able to show 8 knots.  Orders were to look and behave like a fighting ship.  GREAT if nobody tried to outrun her!!

        While a new prop was being flown to Gibraltar, KDB was directed to "challenge" merchant ships and  photograph them as well as any aircraft flying nearby.  Spotting a merchant ship low on the horizon, the CO directed the signal bridge to "challenge" the vessel by flashing light in order to learn her identity.  Repeated attempts brought no answer from the merchie.  Finally,  messages were transmitted threatening shots across the bow...shots across the midsection...shots across the stern...as the silent merchantman steamed past the limping KDB.  Finally, a light gleamed on the bridge of the other ship...the message was typical, street corner American slang which will not be repeated here (because ladies do read these articles) but suffice to say the "F" word was clearly used.  The CO said, "Let him go, he's an American all right!!"

        The Gibraltar shipyard replaced KDB's bent screw, but the problem of vibration still remained, and so the trip back to Newport was at a painful 8 knots.  KDB finally arrived near Newport on March 17th (St. Patrick's Day) and were to be treated to a hero's welcome, except that a hugh gale struck the area, and she was directed to ride out the storm outside the anchorage.  It was a piece of real seamanship for KDB's veteran OOD's to keep her afloat and headed into the wind during this blow...and we all know what  it's like living on a destroyer in heavy weather...finally, permission was granted to enter Coddington Cove.  Here the crew saw other ships stranded on the beach and on rocks, having been tossed there during this great storm.  Finally, after docking, KDB's exhausted crew was cut loose to the arms of waiting family and friends, without the "Hero's Welcome."

        I can remember being in heavy weather in the North Atlantic in 1951, and all of a sudden there was a crashing, rolling noise on the fantail - everyone leaped out of their bunks back aft, figuring one or more depth  charges had broken loose and were thrashing around on the fantail.  Fortunately, all it turned out to be  was a stray GI can which hadn't  been recovered from the previous night's garbage disposal.

        There were a lot of soiled skivvies in the laundry that day!!  Bill Mullane and others remember our food shortage when the meals were the same for four or five days; grapes and bread and spaghetti sauce.  Now, Milt Crow and Merlin Place probably  were not responsible and it may not have happened "on their watch."  But, slightly stale bread, dipped in spaghetti sauce, did help on those lonely mid-watches.

        Sometime during 1960, the KDB was assigned as a blockade ship off Puerto Limon, Costa Rica.  She was to intercept any ship leaving there to ascertain its cargo and destination.  After about a week of this activity, KDB spotted a ship leaving Limon, and started to hightail after it when suddenly the engines quite due to a bad load of water-logged fuel and the other ship escaped.

        The only movie on board at this time was "Jailhouse Rock", starring Elvis Presley, and it was repeated so many times, we even ran it backwards one night for variety.  It was with great relief when we finally off-loaded "The King" in Cristoval, CZ!!

        In the early 1950's, the KDB transited the Corinth Canal, making it the first warship to transit the ditch since WWII ended.  This is a very scary canal; about 4 miles long; about 80 feet wide, with towering cliffs about 250 feet high on both sides.  It is in the northern area of Greece.

        As we approached the canal mouth, the regular steaming watch was on duty.  Our gang was back on the signal bridge, drinking coffee as usual, when the Skipper (Capt. Burkey) had the OOD set the Special Sea Detail.  Don "Mac" McCully was the SSD helmsman, and he got caught short because he didn't get a chance to "hit the head" before he took over the wheel.  Mac was a hugh and powerful guy with the sweetest disposition of any human alive, until you got him angry.  No one could handle him in an angry mood.  I mean NO ONE!!

        Anyway, as we are about 2 miles into the canal, Mac is dancing at the wheel and he catches my eye and waves me into the pilot house.  "Sloak" he says (my nickname) "I gotta go.  Grab the wheel for a minute and I'll be right back...she's taking three degrees right rudder in here..." and he runs our the port hatch towards the mast.  At the base of the mast was an open air urinal for use by us and the gun crews on the 01 level and that's where Mac was headed.  I'm scared witless because this relief is not reported to anybody in the formal and proper way, and I'm hoping the Skipper doesn't turn around and see skinny little me instead of big hulking Mac on the wheel!  Much to my relief, within three or four minutes, Mac is back and takes over without incident.

        Most all of us on the bridge had plenty of "wheel time" at one time or another...one of the great experiences was to be on the wheel at flank speed while reorienting the screen with multiple course changes of 25 degrees or more every couple of minutes with other ships whizzing around within what looked like yards of each other; everybody hoping to hell the other guy knew where he was going...or trying to keep on course in a full gale in hugh waves with winds blowing in every direction...who said the job was easy???  Those who earned the title "Helmsman" had to do it the hard way and you could feel the cold sweat upon being relieved after a couple hours of high speed maneuvers.

        At the completion of the '58 - '59 Med Deployment, units of the U.S. Atlantic Fleet were moored at Gibraltar.  Some were departing March 4th for their respective homeports.  The morning of departure, I completed my watch at about 0330.  Because an abnormally early sea detail was scheduled, I had just enough time to visit my brother, Len Budzynski, FT1, aboard the USS JOHN W. WEEKS (DD-701), moored near the BAILEY.

Shortly after returning to BAILEY, reveille was held and the sea detail was announced.  The BAILEY was the 7th of 14 destroyers to get underway commencing at 0600.  I recall having to check something in the starboard storeroom located beneath the 2nd Division berthing compartment.  As I walked into the compartment, the Executive Officer, LCDR Griswald "was on my heels" making his rounds to clear out everyone so that the sea detail stations would be manned.  I distinctly remember him waking several crew members, among them YNSN Kelly.

        After the XO completed his rounds aft and was satisfied that everyone was up and about, he proceeded forward through the starboard hatch.  At that time Kelly made a comment to the effect that he was a short timer with less than four days, then climbed back into his bunk.  Unfortunately,  Kelly was more of a short timer than he knew.

        It was about the crack of dawn when we got underway.  The main deck appeared deserted, with the exception of a very small number of people in the chow line that formed port side aft of the weather breaker.  Excluding the underway watch, I suppose that most of the crew went back to their compartments.  Having some channel fever and not being really tired, I was walking aft on the port main deck, then walked to the starboard side.  As I turned to walk forward,  I saw this gigantic bow directly in front of me bearing down on Bailey and heard an unusually loud propeller/water noise typical of a hard reverse.  Everything happened in mere seconds; it was a nightmare being played at fast speed.  With both ships in motion, the Haiti Victory immediately collided with Bailey in the aft section, near the center of the Second Division compartment.  Simultaneously, the collision alarm sounded, and the propeller noise that I heard was the Haiti Victory in full back down.  However, with its forward momentum, it still cut and crushed very close to halfway through Bailey stopping at the keel.  For a short period, it remained lodged in Bailey's side, trapping about 15 crew  members in the 2nd Division Compartment.  On the main deck, there was severe point of impact damage, as well as buckling of the surrounding deck.

        My immediate reaction was to go below into the aft compartments to assist with damage control or medical support.  Seconds later I was below deck and saw both watertight doors leading to the 2nd Division compartment shut and dogged, and  the "quick throw wheels" being held in the shut position by a few crew members.  I heard voices coming from the port damaged/flooded area, as well as attempts  by the trapped crew to open the port door.  However, there was no doubt in my mind that whatever the cost, watertight  integrity was going to be maintained in the adjacent undamaged compartment(s).

        I believe the 2nd Division deck hatch was normally dogged shut from the outside when underway which prevented the trapped crew from escaping to the main deck.  The fact is, with the significant damage, this deck hatch was not damaged and was later opened for access to the compartment.  If any good came from this travesty, possibly it awakened naval architects to install deck hatches with access doors on furure new construction, as seen years later.

          Regardless, with the exception of YNSN Kelly dying instantly in his bunk when the Haiti Victory penetrated the hull, the trapped crew survived and  walked away with only two or three having minor injuries.  A few days later, one of the men confided in me that he gave up trying to open the compartment door that was being held shut and just quit because he believed it was useless and that he was going to die.

        At this point, for those of you that didn't know Kelly, he was ship's company for about two years; and a friendly, and well liked person.  Prior to our arrival in Gibraltar, he mentioned that with only four days remaining on his enlistment, he would be sent to the Naval Activity at Port Leyotte, French Morocco for air transportation to the States.  If that was the case, apparently the command had reconsidered its decision and opted to keep him aboard until we returned to Newport.

        Besides major structure and water damage, there were also personal losses. Destruction included, but was not limited to  the degaussing cable being cut;  starboard propeller brace cracked/snapped, dry food storeroom cut open - although relatively full that morning, every case and can (even those between the frames) were sucked out as Haiti Victory separated from Bailey.  The Ship's Store storeroom had bulkhead and hatch damage (usable personal items were given to the crew who experienced losses).  Looking back, had Haiti Victory not been backing down, the collision would have been much worse, such as - cut in two or hit amidships.

        The Haiti Victory suffered absolutely no visible damage, including no sign of paint abrasion, which is evident in photographs.  It's my understanding that many tons of concrete were poured into compartments/voids in the bow section (at and below the water line) to strengthen the hull for light ice breaking.  Whether hearsay or not, I was told that the Haiti Victory had a track record of collisions, the BAILEY being the third. One was similar to the BAILEY collision, while the worse had been with a British frigate in the English Channel, resulting in the loss of at least 30 British sailors.

        The Bailey returned to Gibraltar for a period of two weeks for emergency repairs and the convening of a Navy Board of Inquiry to investigate the collision.  Essentially, temporary repairs consisted of not much more than steel plates over the damaged hull and main deck areas supported by braces but sufficiently strong enough to make the ship sea worthy.  Personal comforts or convenience were definitely not considerations, and the below deck damaged area had a musty odor.  Afterwards, a Navy ship arrived to escort the Bailey back to the States.  Once at sea, it didn't take very long before comments began to flow that our escort was just too slow.  It may have been "channel fever" talking but one thing was for certain, it felt great when we parted company.  Our escort headed south, while Bailey "kicked into high gear" which seemed to be a "semi-speed run" north on one screw.

        After returning to Newport (my younger brother Joe, ETR3, reported aboard BAILEY for duty), we headed for Boston, our second homeport, for repair and overhaul.  Shorty thereafter, BAILEY (DesRon 14), switched homeports to Mayport, FL, becoming the first destroyer squadron to make Mayport its homeport.

        Ironically, some years later, while walking down a pier at the PhilaNavShipYd, the USS NEW JERSEY (BB-62) was moored on one side awaiting refurbishment for active service. On the other side was the Haiti Victory painted entirely white.  It was equipped with a hugh geometric sphere on its main deck.  Shipyard workers said it was converted into a satellite tracking vessel.  When I showed this article to a very close friend (retired Air Force intelligence officer), he seemed to think that several years after the initial conversion, the Haiti Victory may have had a name change, another type of paint job and was operated by the U.S. Air Force for tracking missions.

Webmaster Note:  Name was changed to LONGVIEW on 11-27-60.

It was 1950 and the KDB was underway from Norfolk to Gitmo for refresher training with the rest of division.  The Commodore (William Truesdale) had ordered some night time exercises involving the radar tracking of each ship in a different zigzag pattern.

After the exercise was completed, the ships were to return to the standard "column open order" formation and resume standard speed at about 500 yards apart.  LT Toby Butler was the OOD at this time, and he had the "conn", meaning he was in charge of the ship's maneuvering.  The helmsman and lee helmsman were to take orders only from him.  Mr. Butler gave the order to steer a certain course at flank speed to return the ship to her original station.  These orders were acknowledged, but for some reason, CAPT Victor B. Graff decided to countermand the course order, which he did.  The Captain then left the wheelhouse to go onto the open bridge, and LT Butler went onto the starboard wing to keep lookout on the opposite side of the bridge.

I was the CIC officer down in the radar shack, where the crew were plotting courses and speeds on the maneuvering board to get KDB back to her station.  Recommendations were sent up to the bridge, but Captain Graff preferred to navigate by "seaman's eye" (or by the seat of his pants), instead of using the mathematical solutions sent up from CIC.  Unfortunately, the skipper was not navigating but reading the message board on the bridge.  By now, KDB was bearing down at high speed on USS GEARING and a collision seemed imminent.  At this point I hollered into the 21MC speaker up on the bridge.."Bridge; Combat..if you don't do something now, we are headed for a hell of a collision!!"

Apparently the skipper looked up from the message board and saw what was happening and orders "HARD RIGHT RUDDER!"  and "ALL ENGINES BACK FULL!"  KDB skidded around and shot by the GEARING's port side close aboard.  The Captain ordered "HARD LEFT RUDDER" and KDB passed under GEARING's stern and fetched up on the far side of the column.  The Commodore who was embarked in the GEARING radioed over to KDB..."Battlecry, this is Goatfish Uncle...were you intending to exchange mail by hand?"  I later learned that when the Captain had changed Mr. Butler's course order to the helmsman, Mr. Butler thought the Captain had assumed the conn which was not his intention.  The bottom line was nobody was driving the ship!!

This poem was printed by the XO (LCDR Norm Smith) in the Plan-of-the-Day.  After that scary experience,
great attention was paid on the bridge as to "WHO HAS THE CONN!!"

Having spent the last 10 months aboard the USS GEARING (DD-710), I was transferred to the
KDB the weekend before the 4th of July in 1949.  The first thing I noticed was that we were being
served beef three times a day.  Steaks of all kind; beef chunks in sauce, etc. etc.  I decided that
the BAILEY was a helluva feeder, but I had to ask why this was happening.  I approached Chief
Commissaryman McKenzie and asked, "Why all the beef"?  He told me that he had filled out a
chit for 300 pounds of beef, but the Navy delivered 3,000 pounds.  So, the best way to use it up
was to serve it up, and that's what he did.

In the early part of 1951, we had a mustang named LT Charles Yuhas, who had been a young
machinist's mate aboard the submarine SQUALUS (SS-192).  The SQUALUS, a diesel-powered
attack submarine, was laid down on 18 October 1937 by the Portsmouth Navy Yard, Portsmouth,
NH, launched on 14 September 1938, and commissioned on 1 March 1939.

On 12 May, SQUALUS began a series of test dives off Portsmouth.  After successfully completing
18 dives she went down again off the Isle of Shoals on the morning of 23 May.  Failure of the main
induction valve caused the flooding of her after engine room, and the submarine sank stern first to
the bottom in 40 fathoms of water.

Her sister ship, SCULPIN (SS-191), located the stricken ship and established communications.
SCULPIN stood by while the submarine rescue vessel FALCON (ASR-2) rescued the survivors.
The newly developed McCann rescue chamber, a revised version of the Momsen diving bell, was
used in rescuing the 33 survivors, but 26 men were trapped and lost in the flooded after portion
of the ship.

Shipmate Yuhas spent very little time in his bunk at night; preferring to prowl the ship.  While on the bridge
one night, he told us a few anecdotes about being on the bottom in 250 feet of water, hoping and waiting
for rescue.  The worst part was the damp gnawing cold inside the sunken submarine, which had no power.
He was one of the first crewmembers taken off, and had been badly affected by the experience.

LT Yuhas had relieved the engineering officer who was OOD at the time of the boat accident in May of 1951
(Joe Coleman), who was put ashore while the Court-of-Inquiry was held, and departed when Joe Wiebush
came aboard as Engineering Officer after we returned from a northern Europe cruise.

As to what happened to the SQUALUS, she was refloated using cables passed underneath her hull and
attached to pontoons on each side.  After overcoming tremendous technical difficulties in oneof the most
grueling salvage operations in naval history, SQUALUS was raised, towed into PortsmouthNavy Yard on
13 September; and formally decommissioned on 15 November.  She was then renamed SAILFISH on 9
February 1940.  After reconditioning, repair, and overhaul, she was recommissioned on 15 May 1940.

She went on to see much action during WW II and was eventually decommissioned on 27 October 1945.
She was originally scheduled to be a target ship in the A-bomb tests or to be suck by conventional ordnance.  However, she was place on sale in March 1948 and struck from the Navy list on 30 April 1948.  The hulk was
sold to Luria Brothers of Philadelphia for scrap on 18 June 1948.

She was awarded nine battle stars for service in the Pacific and received the Presidential Unit Citation for outstanding performance on her tenth patrol.

Many of you read the report of the sinking of a motor launch that was assigned to our ship in May 1951.  The stories that made up the report, which appears at our website (Sea Story #2), was prepared after reference to first hand survivors; the Tin Can Sailors paper, and an official Navy report.  One important element was not included:  the story of the coxswain who handled the motor launch that day.  Thanks to BOB LEVINE, we have located former striker, JIM D. EGLER, who was the substitute coxswain on the launch the day of the accident.  Jim has read the website report and does not feel it fairly tells the entire story of what led up to the capsizing of the launch.

Jim agrees that while he may not have been the most experienced coxswain aboard ship, he had made other runs at Newport and had been to the training school as well.  He points out that when he brought the launch in to the Fleet Landing, it quickly filled up with sailors, despite his warning that people would have to get out because it was overloaded.  No one would respond to his demand.  He saw the Captain's gig near the launch, and reported to the Captain (Victor B. Graff) how rough the  harbor was, and the overloaded condition of the boat.  As originally stated in our report, some men got out following the Captain's orders, but others slipped aboard, leaving the launch overloaded.  Jim states he once again protested to the Captain, who got down on one knee to examine the waterline of the launch, and said it looked fine to him.  Jim continued to request that others be ordered out of the launch because of the rough conditions outside of the fleet landing area.  (It is important to note that the Fleet Landing was in a sheltered area, where it was not possible to see the conditions in the outer harbor beyond Goat Island).  After an extended amount of discussion between the two, which almost amounted to an argument, the Captain stated, "Return to the ship; that's an order".  Jim, then an 18-year old seaman, felt he had no choice but to obey his Captain.  Jim disputes the part of the report that says he tried to "make a run for it" into the heavy weather.  He states he slowed down, rather than speeding up, and the launch just filled up with water and sank.

Jim feels the published report makes him seem like he wasn't very bright and used poor judgement.  He points to the fact that after he left the Navy; he attended college and obtained not only his Bachelor's degree, but two Masters degrees as well.  He had an outstanding career as an educator, both as a teacher and later as a school principal.

All in all, the issue of fairness requires we give Jim's version of the affair.  Personally, I never heard anyone lay
the blame at his feet for what happened.  The same doctrine would apply to Captain Graff.  Should  he see these remarks, he is certainly welcome to have his say.

Now you know the other half of the story.

I too was aboard the BAILEY during the 58/59 Med cruise that MCPO BUDZYNSKI described
in Sea Story #7.  After the collision, the ship limped back into Gibraltar for repairs.  We entered
the British Naval Shipyard, and as you might expect after we were successfully dry-docked, we
came under the scrutiny of all the British sailors in port at the time.  The comment of the day was,
"What's the matter yank, don't your skipper know how to drive"?  Some of the British were
unmerciful in their effort toward us even knowing that we had lost a shipmate in the accident.
I was a friend of YNSN KELLY, as he was the Engineering Log Room Yeoman, and I had close
contact with him on a regular basis.

The badgering came often as we would also see British sailors ashore as well as being on base during the day.  That is until we received word that two British destroyer types had been involved in a similar collision somewhere near Gibraltar and they were on their way to the naval shipyard for evaluation and repair.

Suddenly the British sailors became unbelievably quiet.  The silence was deafening, much to our relief.  About two days later the two British destroyers came limping into port and the sight was not a pretty one.  The first had a hole in her starboard side unlike ours, about 100 feet from the stern, and she was listing badly about 10 to 12 degrees to that side.  We found out later that she took a direct hit in a Rum Locker of all places.

The second ship was not in very good shape either.  The bow was missing from the bullnose back almost to the forward gun mount under the forecastle deck.  The deck was in fact bent down so the bullnose was cutting a path through the water in front of the ship.  All the deck equipment and anchor chain could be seen from shore.  Both had sustained serious damage, and although I do not recall the exact number of casualties, the number eight seems to stick in my mind.

It was a sobering time for both Navies, and we came together and offered sympathy to each other for the loss of our fellow men of the destroyer navy.

God bless all those who go down to the sea in ships.

At times shipboard life was peaceful, at times confusing, and at any given time could become a very serious matter.  At other times it was like something from a "McHale's Navy" TV script.  Case in point...

We were docked in our homeport at Mayport, FL.  "Condition Sweat" had been set, as we were to stand an Admiral's Inspection.  Now being a First Division "deck ape" our mentality was that if we got past the quarterdeck to go on liberty  then we were good enough.  However, admirals had a different mind set.

First Division Personnel Inspection was first on the admiral's agenda, followed by an inspection of all compartments and work areas.  Our personnel inspection went off without a hitch.  It was after the inspection that things went awry.  A friend of mine in second division had failed to get his shoes shined, so at his request I let him use mine with explicit instructions to return them to me ASAP so I could stand compartment inspection in the forward head.  We had been ordered to stand by our cleaning stations immediately following personnel inspection until the admiral inspected our compartment.  I did not.  Reason is, I had no shoes.

There was about a 10-inch hole in the deck just inside the forward deck housing.  From this vantagepoint I could see the door leading to the head and be able to see the admiral approaching, and at the same time give my "buddy" time to return my shoes.  I would run out the hatch and look aft then run back in and look down the hole, and all the while my posted look-outs were keeping me informed as to the admiral's whereabouts.  Then the inevitable happened.  Someone hollered, "The admiral's coming!"  I ran back inside and looked down the hole and all I could see was the "scrambled eggs" that comes with an admiral's hat.

I think at this point that "man overboard" went through my mind.  Instead I scurried down the ladder, ran into the head right behind the admiral and dutifully sounded off my name, rate, division, and why I was there.  He looked me up and down and went on his way never noticing I had no shoes.  My shoe size is 7, and by bending me knees slightly, the bell-bottoms covered my feet.

It was April 1950 and we were tied up in Arichat, Nova Scotia.  Liberty was up at midnight for all enlisted men.
Having just gotten off the 2000-2400 watch, I went topside to get some fresh air before hitting the sack.  Suddenly
someone noticed something moving in the water.  It was a horse coming toward the ship and a sailor on her back.
Just as the horse reaches the gangway, the sailor jumps off, gives the horse a little pat, and off she goes toward shore.

The sailor climbs the gangway, gets to the main deck, salutes the OOD and says, "Permission to come aboard, sir."  The OOD was Lieutenant John "Black Jack" Kearns from Gunnery, who just so happened to be the sailors division officer.  "Go hit your rack and I'll see you in the morning"! exclaimed LT Kearns.

Apparently the horse was grazing in a nearby field when this sailor, who had a bit too much to drink, decided to bum a ride back to the ship.

Does anybody remember WHO WAS THAT MASKED MAN?

After thirty years in destroyers, and my 82 years of age, I can hardly remember specific crewmembers (officer or enlisted).  However, the CPOs I recollect do match the characteristics of the email descriptions.  Never met a chief I didn't have great respect for his guidance.

I remember being shifted from USS H. J. ELLISON (DD-864) as Operations Officer to USS K.D. BAILEY as Engineering Officer, when everyone seemed to be getting out of the Navy on "points".  Being an Naval Academy "know it all"
type officer, I was smart enough to confess right away to the Chief that all I knew about engineering plants was what I had at the "Canoe College".  The senior Chief told me that, having confessed, he would see to it that I learned how to light off all by myself and that if I took care of the paperwork, he would see that the department performance was topflight.

Later, on the way to Brazil, we cooked up a plan to win the efficiency run to South America  in the task force.  I would keep up on the future speed requirements and know when we would run steady speeds, and the chiefs would shut down and run on one crossconnected boiler and sometimes on a single screw.  Then when I learned we would be speeding up, they would put everything back on line; even bringing us up to superheat for the exercises we had to run at times.

When we got to Buenas Aires, the cans refueled and we required a third less than the others and won handsomely - and never told them how we did it either as far as I know.  The skipper, G. F. PITTARD, swore by his Engineering Department after that, and we could do no wrong.

On November 16, 1956, I reported aboard the BAILEY fresh out of boot camp at Great Lakes, Illinois.  It was a chilly Friday night, and I remember overhearing the quarterdeck watch say we'd be "getting underway on Sunday."  Our orders were to rendezvous with the USS FORRESTAL (CV-59) off Cape Hatteras for plane guard duty.

Within the week, gale force winds were picking up when we got the word that a plane was down.  As the BAILEY headed for the rescue, a helicopter could be seen in the distance hovering over the turbulence.  Up on the forecastle, Boatswain's Mate striker GENTS, in wet suit, was tying a line around his waist that I was assigned to hold fast with a party of deck force seamen.

As the ship approached, we could see that the pilots parachute lines were fouled with that of the hook that the helicopter had lowered to rescue him.  As the battering waves crashed over him, the pilot struggled desparately, but the heavy hook and cable were dragging him under.

As our ship maneuvered closer, GENTS jumped overboard into the raging sea.  GENTS, a strong man and a good swimmer, managed to grab the pilot's life jacket by the collar.  He thought he had him, but as a wave washed between them, the pilot slipped from his fingers, and in an instant was sucked under the ship's keel and into the deep.

The BAILEY searched for a while longer but without luck.  GENTS, a dedicated seaman, who had fought so hard for the pilot's life, was distraught.  Crewmembers offered their consolation, and I remember later when Captain REGAN came down into our quarters and was speaking softly to GENTS.

The gale winds had not abated, but that was not the main reason we found it so difficult to enjoy that Thanksgiving Day.

One turbulent night, Seaman Larry Weiler and I were broken out of our racks with seawater spilling down into our first division compartment.  In our skivvies and shoes, we were ordered to secure a door in the Mount 52 passageway two decks above that had been pounded open by the battering waves.

The door was clanging open and shut as the ship pitched and rolled.  With every roll to port, the open door took in water.  With every pitch starboard, water drained two decks below.  The only way to grab the swinging door was to climb onto the main deck as the ship poised  at the height of her pitch.  Tying a line around my waist, Weiler held fast as I maneuvered through sloshing water towards the open door.

As we rolled to starboard, I climbed out onto the deck into the warm night.  In those few seconds, as I stood almost naked in the elements, close to the ocean, with the wind roaring around me, there was a break in the clouds.  A field of brilliant stars shown through, glowing in the dark water, reflecting the phosphorescence that ran over the deck and through my feet.

The ship shuddered strongly.  In a minute, there would be more sea pouring in.  Against the howling wind, I pulled the door shut.  Weiler and I secured it with heavy line, swabbed out the passageway, and returned below.  Strapped back into our racks, the waves slammed against the quarter inch steel bulkhead that separated us from the sea as I was lulled to sleep.