Captain George W. Farris, USN, was a mustang with WWII service—a man who had first served in the Navy as an enlisted sailor. As a mustang, he had an understanding of his ship and his crew that could have only come from his having had the experience. Captain Farris highly respected his Chief Petty Officers, depended on them, and had little use for his Ensigns and not much more use for his JGs. He knew the successful operation of his ship depended on the performance of his Chiefs and their sailors. The junior officers were fresh out of college and they came and went regularly to and from the ship.
Captain Farris had a commander’s presence and in early 1968 when I joined the O’BRIEN’s crew, he was in his 26th year of Navy service. The Captain (actually he was a 3-stripe Navy Commander) had been the ship’s captain for just over a year and had taken the ship on a 7-month WESTPAC cruise to Vietnam the year before. Two sailors had been killed when the ship had been hit by North Vietnamese shore batteries during an operation called
Sea Dragon. The O’BRIEN had a long history of being in the thick of sea battles dating back to shortly after its launch in 1943. After D-Day it had been hit by the big shore batteries at Cherborg, hit again by a kamikaze off Okinawa, again by shore batteries at Wonsan during the Korean War, and most recently by North Vietnamese shore batteries near the DMZ.
Regular sailors didn’t have much to do with Captain Farris. He spoke to his Executive Officer, who spoke to his department heads, who spoke to their division officers, who spoke to their chiefs, who spoke to their first class petty officers, who spoke to their second class petty officers, who got their sailors together and got the jobs done. There was quartermastering to do, boilers to tend, machines to run, radar & radios to operate, electronics to fix, DASH to fly, torpedoes to tend, guns to fix & fire, personnel to record, food to cook & serve, decks to swab, superstructures to paint, and on, and on.
Every member of the crew had regular jobs to do both underway and in port. And in addition, each crew member had their general quarters stations where during combat conditions the ship was prepared to not only fight, but to repair itself while fighting. It was an elegant organization that was not only practical, but steeped in centuries-old traditions.
“Pops” Churchwell was called “Pops” because he was one of the oldest sailors in the OI Division--Radar. He was 26. And most of what I recall about him was his sardonic assessment of Navy service, succinctly summed up in one of his favorite maxims, “Nav sucks.” His delivery of anything he uttered, which for Pops was not much, always came out low pitched, from the side of his mouth. My sense of humor at the time, quickly meshed with Pops’ dry Montana wit. With a shared glance and one word, we could sum up and convey our thoughts about a complex observance, “Sucks” he would say, to which the quick response was a nod and a word, “sucks.”
“The destroyer is different from the rest of the ships. It is small, fast and personal. No other ship offers the experience that a destroyer does in any sea state. Long after they are gone, their crews remember.” These are words posted to a destroyer website and they are quite true.
At the end of our deployment to Vietnam, by some circumstance, the Captain arranged to take our ship to Australia for his change of command ceremony. There, he would turn the O’BRIEN over to another Captain for the return trip home. Our Australian odyssey was, until that moment, unplanned, and presented some tough choices for some of us. A number of reserve sailors, including me, were advised in September that we would be eligible for early release from our active duty commitment as soon as we got home; some of the guys got up to a year taken off their active duty hitch—my reduction amounted to about 11-months. In the Philippines we reserves were given the option to ride the ship to Australia for a 2-week vacation, then take it home, or leave the ship at Subic Bay and fly home for immediate release. I took the Australia trip, never having been one to pass up an opportunity for an adventure.
For the first time since leaving Long Beach, we detached from our squadron for a ship movement and sailed alone for the rest of our time at sea—about 10,000 miles across the South Pacific. Our route south from the Philippines took us to Manus in the Admiralty Islands for fuel. Manus was a British Naval installation and for some reason, we were not to let anyone know we were there—so
mething to do with political problems was the rumor. The island was hot, dry, but with lush vegetation and the Brits wore tropical white shorts. And for the first time, we saw South Sea natives row their outriggers up to the side of the ship to try and sell some of their handcrafts...it was right out of a Captain Cook tale. After Manus, we sailed through the Solomon Sea and the Coral Sea, both locations of huge sea battles during WWII, and continuing south to Brisbane for a week, then another week in Sydney.
However, before we arrived at Manus, we held a second Equator crossing ceremony northwest of the Admiralties. As a result of the earlier equator crossing south of Singapore, most of the crew were “Shellbacks” and the unfortunate few that had joined the crew since late July were severely outnumbered. The Captain proclaimed that only a few of the “Shellbacks” would initiate the “Polywogs” into the mysteries of the deep, thus protecting them from potential injury.
It is a serious Navy “no-no” to lean or pull on the lifelines and protective railings if you really don’t need them. As the afternoon initiation ceremony unfolded, the Captain decided to observe the festivities from the helicopter deck, one level up from the main deck where the initiations were taking place. Surrounding the helicopter deck was a series of adjustable life lines/railings that could be laid horizontal when flying a helicopter, but brought up to a vertical position, providing a safety rail while underway. These railings were to be locked with pins when they were upright in order to fix them into position. Someone had forgotten to pin them, and when the Captain leaned on one of the rails, some said he did a very nice half-gainer off the port side and quickly disappeared into the wake.
The ship was underway at its usual 17-knot cruise speed, the officer of the deck (OOD) on the bridge was the least experienced Ensign on board (due to the Shellback festivities), and the aft lookout was a black sailor whose enunciation was difficult to understand when he was unexcited. There was a yell, “Man Overboard” and the aft lookout began screaming to the bridge through his sound-powered phones—his screams were utterly unintelligible on the bridge and the ship steamed on at 17-knots. When the word was finally understood on the bridge, the inexperience of the young OOD kicked in.
A normal man overboard recovery involved a 60-degree turn, quickly followed by a 240-degree turn in the opposite direction to establish a straight-line course back to the man in the water (a Williamson turn). There was no reduction in speed until making the final approach and it normally took about 10-12 minutes to recover your man. Unfortunately, the young OOD was apparently unfamiliar with this procedure and ordered “Full Reverse” to the engine room. The ship shuttered to a very, very slow stop—it takes quite a bit of time and distance to halt 3000 Tons doing 17-knots. Then, it takes quite a bit more time to get it going again. I think it took us about 30-minutes or more to recover our Captain, during which time he was treading water, alone in the South Pacific, no life jacket or life ring, and about 200-300 miles from the nearest land. Good thing for him, he wasn't a Captain Bligh...the crew liked him.
Crew members had certain pre-assigned duties in the event of a man going overboard and as a part of our continuous training, we had conducted a number of drills where a dummy was thrown overboard for practice recoveries. So on this day, almost everyone else (except the young OOD) went about their jobs without confusion and of course we had plenty of time to get to our stations. Radarmen marked the approximate spot and continuously called out bearings and ranges, Lookouts kept their binoculars scanning the surface, Gunnies went for the rifles to shoot sharks, others went for life rings, and I think there might have been some recovery swimmers as well. Other members of the crew were available for whatever was needed. I didn’t have a specific assignment for these events, unless on underway watch, and so I went down to the berthing compartment for my camera—this event had to be recorded. I believe I was the only one to do that, and may have come away with the only visual record of this most unusual event—a United States Navy Captain falling off his own ship in peaceful waters.
When I returned to the berthing compartment, Pops glanced at me, spotted the camera and out of the side of his mouth growled, “You get it?” “Yep,” I replied. He rolled his eyes a little, and out of the side of his mouth exhaled, “Nav sucks.” I grinned, lowered my eyes, and shook my head. Not much longer for me, I thought.
Captain George W. Farris was pulled back aboard his ship, and the Equator crossing festivities were ended. We continued on to Manus, and then to Australia where Capt. Farris relinquished command and headed for an assignment in Washington, D.C. I have not spoken with very many Navy veterans of that time, but I did hear there was, for a long time, a sea story circulating through the 7th Fleet that a Captain had fallen overboard from his own ship, but it was an unconfirmed rumor.
However, there is this one picture. . .
***
They that go down to the sea in ships,
that do business in great waters;
These see the works of the LORD,
and His wonders in the deep. . .
For He commandeth,
and raiseth the stormy wind,
which lifteth up the waves thereof.
They mount up to the heaven,
they go down again to the depths:
their soul is melted because of trouble.
They reel to and fro,
and stagger like a drunken man,
and are at their wits' end.
Then they cry unto the LORD in their trouble,
and He bringeth them out of their distresses.
He maketh the storm a calm,
so that the waves thereof are still.
Then are they glad because they be quiet;
so He bringeth them unto their desired haven.
Psalms, 107:23-30
