The actual data collected (depth measured by sonar at precise locations) over the entire grid was primarily gathered by the ship itself. A pair of sound boats (56 ft twin diesel vessels with a crew of 6 and fitted with sonar and navigation equipment) was assigned to cover close-to-shore, harbor, and island areas. The actual location of each vessel in real time was controlled by on-shore equipment, positioned either from beach (low frequency) or mountain sites (high frequency).

As an Electronics Technician, my month-long rotational assignments included duty aboard ship, on one of the sound boats, or one of the base stations. Each base station had a two-man crew, one an ET and one an engineman. The special navigation gear and radio were powered by one of two portable diesel generators and regularly supplied by the ship’s helicopter.

It was while I was doing a 30 day stint aboard one of the sound boats that we ended up in a small harbor for a weekend rest stop. We were anchored close to a small village. On the second morning of that stay over, I was on deck and saw a small rowboat leave the village and head out ways. In it were two young boys, one about 12 and one a few years older. The boys rowed up next our boat and with lots of hand waving and friendly expressions seemed to be inviting me to join them. In the rowboat was a net piled up between the seats, and I was able to figure out they were going fishing and asking me if I wanted to take part. I checked with our boat commander, got the ok, and climbed into the rowboat. The older boy directed me to sit in the bow. To this day I regret that I didn’t have a camera to take with me.

The older boy rowed while the younger one steered with a rudder, and we headed to the mouth of the harbor. Soon, we were in open water, a few dozen yards off shore, and heading west. Within perhaps a half mile from the harbor mouth, we turned toward an uninhabited area of the shoreline. Just before beaching, the boys turned the boat around 180 degrees and pointed it away from shore. As the older boy rowed, the younger one (his brother, most likely) began paying out the net. It was about 4 feet wide, with bits of flotation attached to one edge and small rocks or pieces of metal along the other. As it was placed in the water, it began floating upright. After some time, having rowed in a large semi-circle and returned to the beach, the half-mile long net was fully paid out.

At that point, the younger boy took over rowing and the older boy pulled out from under the seats a 6 foot long wooden pole, on the end of which was a round piece of wood with a cup-shaped bottom end. The boy stood on a wide seat at the stern and while singing a sort of chant and dancing in his bare feet, began plunging the pole over the transom into the water. Its shape created a sharp crashing sound (almost like a gunshot) as it hit the water, sending out underwater waves and small surface ripples. This went on for nearly an hour, covering a large portion of the area inside the net. Eventually, we returned to one end of the net.

As the older boy returned to rowing, the younger boy began retrieving the net and piling it behind him in the bottom of the boat. As the net reappeared over the transom, it was now well covered with small fish (they looked like small, white perch) whose gills were attached to the netting. The fish were quickly pulled from the net and tossed into the boat. By the time the entire net was recovered, there was a thick layer of fish covering the entire bottom of the boat.

Soon after, we headed back to the harbor and aimed for a good sized wooden pier next to the village proper. Waiting there was a small gathering of village adults (all men, and including some who appeared to be elders), each holding a small woven basket. After tying off, the boys began filling the baskets with portions of their catch. In a short time, all the waiting baskets were filled and the waiting adults returned to their respective homes. The boys then rowed me back to our sound boat and I rejoined my crew. I did my best to thank them for the outing and a chance to witness one of their native customs. I learned later that this was a once-a-week chore for the boys, and that it was their duty to provide seafood treats to the entire village. Incidentally, the women in the village generally remained out of sight, and when they did appear outside they were covered from head to toe in a black hijab with faces covered.

We decided to spend most of the summer in Europe, primarily France, since Barbara knew a great deal about the country’s geography, history, art, and language. Things she studied extensively as an undergraduate. At the time, travel on Icelandic Airlines was a must as their round trip fares were well below any other offers.  The plane was based at LaGuardia in New York. It made the first leg to Iceland with a two hour layover, and then directly on to Luxembourg.

I recall having lunch at the arrivals terminal in Luxembourg and watching a server mix, by hand, a family-sized serving of steak tartare. The children of the family awaiting the meal then shoved fistfuls into their mouths and seemed to love it.

We had arranged to rent a car and schedule our own travel. We tried to get a 2CV, which was introduced in 1948 as a car that 'everyman' could afford, and stayed in production for 42 years, largely unchanged in appearance. It achieved its founders goal and millions were produced, and until very recently were a common sight on the roads in France. Unfortunately, when we arrived at the Hertz office, we were informed that they had none available. In its place they offered a Renault station wagon, a very small vehicle with about a 40 hp engine. It also had excellent gas mileage, although it was only capable of 50 mph—downhill, with a tailwind.

We picked the car up in Rheims, France, just outside the border with Luxembourg, and would return it there just before returning to the US again on Icelandic Airlines. When we asked on which side of the road it was proper to drive in southern France, we were told “whatever side is sunny.”

We used a popular guidebook called Europe on $5 A Day by Arthur Frommer for navigation.  Traveling in our own vehicle was an alternative to RailPass, which might have been less expensive, but more limited.  And we would have had to haul our luggage by hand and navigate congested urban railway stations.  We had saved enough money to last most of the summer with final paychecks left behind and available when or if needed.  It was probably only a few hundred dollars, but money in Europe at that time went a long way, so we felt confident about our finances.

Our first journey was south into Paris where we spend a week or so taking in the sights and sounds.  Barbara had a former student whose grandmother lived in a lovely rooftop apartment in Paris, and we visited with her as a courtesy. 

We stayed in a student hostel, or pension, on the Left Bank overlooking the Notre Dame Cathedral.  The view out our window also overlooked the booksellers area, a famous feature of what was called the Latin Quarter, and we were within walking distance of a number of inexpensive restaurants and cafes.  The Frommers guide was very helpful in identifying such places.  While in Paris we visited the Eiffel Tower, including the elevator ride to the top.

We visited Napolean’s tomb; the Louvre Museum to see the Mona Lisa; the Tuileries Garden; the Champs-Élysées district with its famous department stores; the gravesite of Charles de Gaulle; and a day walking through Montmartre, a neighborhood high above the city with  incredible views.

From there we drove west a short way to visit and tour the 17th Century Palace of Versailles, a former royal residence commissioned by King Louis XIV located in Versailles, about 11 miles (18 km) west of Paris, France.  There is so much to see, and we took in as much as we could for a full day.

After that we headed further west toward Brittany, on the coastline of the English Channel.  This is also close to the area targeted by the Western Allies during the European Invasion of World War II. 

Brittany, France’s northwesternmost region, is a hilly peninsula extending out toward the Atlantic Ocean. Its lengthy, rugged coastline is dotted with beach resorts such as the chic Dinard and walled Saint-Malo, built on rock in the English Channel. The Pink Granite Coast is famed for its unusual, blush-hued sand and rocks. Brittany is known for its abundant prehistoric menhirs (a type of megalith). 

We also visited Mont Saint-Michel in Normandy, accessible at low tide. It is visited by more than three million people each year. Over 60 buildings within the commune are protected in France as historical monuments. 

We stayed overnight in Dinard where I was introduced to a delicious meal of Coq au Vin, a stewed chicken concoction uniquely French.

Following our stay in western France, we headed for the southern coast and the city of Nice.  The main route led to the Marseille region, but after a few days driving we ended up in Nice.  Along the way we tried to visit the Lascaux caves, located in the Dordogne region near Montignac, but they were closed while under restoration.  We found another location and toured a prehistoric cave. 

We also came upon a town with a horse stable, where the Republican Guard animals are raised and trained.  And in another town we also saw a large group of bike riders getting organized for a junior-level Tour de France race.  Later on, we were able to witness the actual Tour de France as it passed by on its third day after starting in Paris. I was stunned to learn that they rode well over 100 miles every day for two weeks.

During our stay in Nice, for about a week, we visited the nearby home sand studios of famous artists, including Picasso, Cezanne, Degas,  Matisse, Renoir and Manet.  We toured the town of Provence, the city of flowers and source of many brand named perfumes as well as the site of Vincent van Gogh’s attic painting. I bought my Aunt Elba a bottle of perfume.

We also had the luck of seeing the Fontaine du Soleil full of soap bubbles, and with Barbara’s coaching I managed to practice some basic French phrases at the cafes.

We made a side trip from Nice to Monaco, the home of Grace Kelly, who was married to the King of Monaco.  We visited the famous Monte Carlo Casino where well-known and wealthy guests gambled. 

Back in Nice, before leaving France and traveling south to Italy, we went to the local Western Union office to retrieve the remaining funds in our US bank.  While there, a tall gentleman in full western garb, clearly from the U.S. and in all likelihood Texas, strode in and placed his briefcase on the counter.  He instructed the clerk to produce his $500,000 payment in hundreds.  It was quite obvious that he intended to spend some serious time at the Monte Carlo Casino.  We stood by watching this scene while waiting for our $750 to be dispensed.

We got lost driving around Rome and ended up in the courtyard of the Presidential Quirinale Palace. Somehow Barbara managed an explanation in broken German with the Italian guards.

Later in Rome, we attended a Wednesday Mass at the Vatican and saw the Pope. We toured Michelangelo's statues and the Sistine Chapel. We traversed the Alps and visited Lugano and Bern in Switzerland.

Heading through London, England, we stopped to see Buckingham Palace.

On our way to Scotland, we shared a ride to Aberdeen with the Agriculture Minister from Barbados (incidentally, Barbados gained independence within the British Commonwealth later that year). We walked our legs off on Aberdeen's granite streets and begged off to escape to a local movie theater for a nap and recovery.

When we departed Europe from Luxembourg, on time of all things, we were stuck in Iceland for 36 hours because the plane was in need of repair. We then landed in the U.S. during the 1966 International Association of Machinists strike against five airlines, which made reaching Boston a nightmare.

After our Navy tour, we attended the University of Maine together. Dick, however dropped out for a semester and was set to return in the fall of 1964 to complete his degree, while I went off to graduate school at the University of Vermont.

Unfortunately, in August of 1964, I got word that he was dead, killed instantly in a car crash near Northeast Harbor on Mount Desert Island, Maine.

A few years ago I arranged to have a marker placed at a Veteran's Memorial Park near the cemetery where he lies. I'll always remember him. Handsome, smart, athletic ... he could have had the world by the tail.

We said goodbye to Paul January 5, 2025. He passed away peacefully in his sleep. You can read his obituary at Lary Funeral Home.

We will remember Paul, Dad, Papa …. for his love of Maine.

He adored Maine, from the sanctuary of wilderness, to the crisp winters and frozen lakes. He loved people. His family, small and close-knit schools and towns, and coastal vacation spots where he worked as a swim instructor. He joined the Navy after graduating Milo High School and traveled around the world, then returned to Maine to continue his education. Because Maine had everything he loved.

We will remember him for his love of sailing.

He was enchanted by ships large and small, the craft, the engineering, and the builders. He was called to water, as a swimmer, sailor, and traveler. He loved the quiet solitude of Ebeemee Lake deep in the Maine woods, and the endless possibilities of an ocean to cross.

We will remember him for his love of music.

His ability to listen to a song and repeat it on the piano, a gift passed down from his mother, Pauline. He picked up the flute to learn alongside Beth, and could strum a few tunes on a ukulele, humming along, just for fun. He loved instrumental music that spanned genres, and he appreciated the mastery that came from a lifetime of practice.

We will remember him for his love of learning.

His dedication to higher education, as a student, teacher and administrator left an indelible mark.

We have always been inspired by his joyful curiosity and drive to understand our natural world, economics, politics—and late in life—health and support for veterans. And if he learned something clever, he couldn’t wait to share it with everyone.

We will remember Paul for his love of writing.

His legacy is his stories—born from his extraordinary life and imagination. It is a singular gift to read a parent’s journal, discover their art, or gain insight into how their mind works and their unique lived experience.

We will remember him for his love of craft and craftsmanship.

He always had a project underway and six more ideas unfolding in his mind …. Or drafted on paper, or his computer. He simply itched to build and create what appeared in his mind. He enjoyed watching and learning about boat building, and he produced many meticulously built model airplanes, boats, and woodpiles. Mementoes we will cherish and pass to our children.

We will remember him for his empathy.

He was endlessly kind and always ready with a story or thoughtful question, and a grin. He delighted in meeting new people. He could strike up a conversation with anyone … and had a knack for crossing paths with people you read about in history books. He loved to travel around the country and visit friends and family, and he held all his grandchildren as infants. Even with physical limitations later in life, he continued to reach out to family members by email and phone, to maintain small but vital connections to people he valued and loved.

We will remember his cheerful chuckle and lopsided smile, his kind and encouraging words, soft Maine lilt, and his strong hugs.

His kindness and compassion made the world a better place, and we are so grateful to have known him, and to now remember him always. He yearned to be laid to rest with Pauline, Wilson, and his Maine family.

Rest in peace, Dad. We love you, now and always.

While Paul has passed on, this may not be the last post on this site. We continue to uncover new stories and will share them as we can.

For context, the Auburn Tigers and U of AL Crimson Tide are long-standing college football rivals. The end-of-season game is known as the Iron Bowl.

For many years Auburn, was the underdog. However in 1993, Auburn had a 10-0 record and was poised to finish the season undefeated. A first, since 1957.

The weekend I arrived on campus was the Iron Bowl.

At halftime, the bookstore manager used an oversized black marker and wrote "11  - 0" on a sheet of copy paper. He then made 2000 copies and distributed them to the 15 checkout counters to be sold for $0.25 each.

Auburn came back and won the game! The after-game rush at the store was huge and the flyers sold out.

Fans taped the flyers to their car windows to show their pride in the weeks that followed.

I had completed my A School training in Electronics at the Great Lakes Naval Training Station in the fall of 1958 and joined the crew of the USS Maury AGS-16 in November of that year. We did a short “shake down” cruise to Cuba in January of 1959, after which we left our home port in the Brooklyn Navy Yard and headed for a 9-month cruise to the Mediterranean. Our primary assignment was to conduct deep sea survey operations along a section of the southern coast of Turkey, part of a long-term project arranged between our two nations.

Over time, the Maury and her sister ship the USS Tanner were to complete a maritime survey of the entire coastline of that country. Our specific area was near the coastal cities of Antalya and Alanya. On our way to that area, we made short visits to ports in Morocco, Spain, Italy, and Greece. We also made a number of side trips over the time of the operation for relief and relaxation, including Athens and Rhodes, Greece and Izmir and Istanbul, Turkey.

That fall, as our work was nearing completion, we received word that before returning to the US, we would be entering the Black Sea and conducting a general underwater survey of the entire area. It was projected to take approximately six weeks. We moored in Istanbul to prepare for the project, which would require taking on enough fuel and food supplies for the duration.

During that short visit, our crew was “augmented” with about 25 men. They arrived in civilian clothes, but within days reappeared in uniform and displaying rank from Commander to ordinary Seaman. They also were dispersed among the several regular units, and while their presence was never officially explained, we presumed they were DIA or NSA agents on temporary assignment.

Of special interest to our division was the loading of electronic equipment, none of which was used for survey operations. The new arrivals commandeered our chart room, which was located one deck above the bridge, into which much of the unusual equipment was installed. We helped carry the gear up to that space, and assisted in its temporary installation, but the room was immediately declared off limits to the regular crew. We were able to observe that most of the equipment was designed for listening and recording. There was an assortment of tape recorders, and hand-held listening devices which were directional.

Every day during our time in the Black Sea, the visiting personnel could be seen scanning the horizon with specialized listening gear, and we presumed they were also monitoring a range of radio transmissions and making tape recordings of them for later analysis.

The day came to enter the Black Sea, and we learned that our ship would be the first US Naval vessel to do so since President Roosevelt made the passage in 1945 to attend what was called the Yalta Conference along with Churchill and Stalin. A Soviet submarine net across the Bosporus Strait was lowered to allow our passage into the Black Sea. During our first day underway a large Soviet Cruiser approached on an opposite course.

As it neared, we could see that it was conducting a man-the-rails exercise, which was a naval custom for ships to formally greet each other. Our Captain immediately ordered our crew to change into dress uniform and line up on our own rails, facing the Cruiser. We passed with less than a hundred yards between us, the crews of both ships coming to attention and holding a salute while we were broadside. The Cruiser then reversed course and began following us for a several weeks, remaining just visible on the horizon.

Two days later a Soviet Submarine appeared and executed the same maneuver. It then dove and disappeared from view, although our Sonar operators could detect that it was also following us.

Finally, three days later, we saw a large Soviet amphibian aircraft approaching. It was only a few hundred feet above the surface, and it passed so close that we could see the plane’s crew. It made the same passage every day for about a week.

We had a helicopter on a small flight deck on our stern, and one of its crew was a photographer. He had a large camera normally used to capture aerial landscapes. His assignment was to be on duty whenever the helicopter’s engine was running, to record any anomaly or unusual incident that might occur.

The camera was a wooden boxy unit of Korean War vintage, and contained a large roll of film with about 100 frames. It was held in both hands, with one used to advance the film frame by frame. One day, as the Soviet plane approached, he took his camera to the bridge and began taking photos as the aircraft passed close by. Later, after the film was processed, it was discovered that in one window of the plane a Soviet crewman was shown taking pictures of our ship — using an identical camera!

We didn’t have a particular course to follow, so our route was more or less random. We were supposedly working to obtain an overall general sense of the depths and configuration of the Black Sea’s bottom. We did make one brief stop at a naval port on Turkey’s northern shoreline called Trabzon, near which was located a US Air Force listening station. Our crew was not allowed ashore, but some of our “visiting” crew did so. Several days later word came that we were going to make a stop in Ukraine at the City of Odessa, at the invitation of the Soviet Navy.

Remember, this was 1959 and the height of the Cold War. On the day of our arrival, we passed by a major submarine base, which resulted in a ship-wide order to avoid any use of cameras. It was pouring down rain, and as we reached the pier we noticed Soviet sailors waiting in threesomes, at attention, waiting to catch our mooring lines. They remained in place, soaking wet, not moving until our lines sailed over their heads.

The Soviet pilot, whom we had taken aboard outside the harbor, was very good at his job. He brought us in at an angle, then as the sweep of our bow passed the pier’s edge, went full reverse and maneuvered our ship to settle against the pier in one gentle twisting turn. As crewmen, we were allowed a few hours shore leave starting the next day, with orders to stay in groups of four and absolutely no fraternizing with young females. If we remained aboard, doing our usual work, it was not unusual to receive orders to get into our dress uniform and get onto a waiting bus.

We were then delivered to an opera house, or circus, or theater to be entertained. Our Captain made sure any bus that arrived would be full, to avoid any embarrassment we supposed, so it is fair to say that all offers of entertainment were well received. I went to an an Opera House to see Swan Lake, and on another day to a circus show, and finally to a theater to watch a lively variety show with military bands, costumed dancers and singers. We also held open house every day, during which time local citizens and a few dignitaries toured our ship. We also hosted a visit by a group of local orphans, a custom practiced by our Chaplain during out stops at a number of foreign ports.

What was interesting during these tour hours was the presence at the foot of the gangway of a squad of tough looking guys who checked each visitor. Some, apparently, didn’t pass muster and were rudely turned away. We of course had no idea what criteria they were subjected to, or who they were. We guessed they were either military police or KGB officers. Many of those unable to make it aboard, and hundreds of others who apparently didn’t even try, would gather on the pier close to the ship’s side.

With low tide, they were almost eye level with those of us who engaged them in conversation. It was clear they were hungry to hear and learn about life and times outside the Soviet Union. The ship’s library was close by, and I had an idea — calling on some shipmates to join me in the moment. We went into the library and grabbed all the newspapers and an assortment of slightly dated magazines (Time, Life, etc.) and began handing them out to the locals on the pier. The items were immediately tucked inside coats, clearly for later reading.

At some point the thugs (as we called them) controlling access to the ship took notice of what we were doing, and immediately came to our area instructed all those on the pier to stay back several yards and beyond reach of any more of our gifts.

On the last day of our visit, I was informed that I was to get into my dress blues and join two other shipmates for a trip into town. It seemed that our officers selected the three of us to represent the crew for a telephone interview by the US Press Corps based in Moscow. One was a senior enlisted from Oregon, the next a mid-level enlisted from Texas, and me, the youngest and lowest level enlisted from New England. The officers apparently decided we covered the ranks as well as different regions of the country.

A taxi took us to the Hotel Odessa, where we were escorted to a suite occupied for the occasion of our ship’s visit by an Admiral and his wife. He was the senior military attaché from the US Embassy in Moscow. This was where the pre-arranged phone interview was to take place. What I noticed immediately was how chilly the Hotel’s interior was. It was decorated in marble stone, dated in style, with high ceilings. I remember that the Admiral’s wife was wearing a fur coat, which she kept on the entire time we were there. It was explained that under communism heat in the Hotel was scheduled to be turned on in about a month — a city-wide policy of the USSR for all public accommodations as well as all government housing facilities.

A short time later, apparently preplanned, the phone rang and the Admiral’s aide answered. It was from Moscow, and one by one (I was last) we were asked for our background and then questioned by the press corps on the other end of the line about our visit — what we had seen, how we had been received, what we had done, etc.. As was last to be interviewed, I presumed our task was done.

However, a minute or two later the Admiral’s aide pointed at me and said the press corps had some follow up questions “for the youngest crew member.” One question was “and what did you think of the girls you met during your visit?” Since we were ordered not to fraternize, I had no real answer, so I turned to my shipmates and repeated the question. One of them said, “tell them they look like weightlifters.” I laughed, but then replied to the callers with a quickly made-up response, saying something about how friendly they seemed and appeared to be strong and healthy as farm girls. To my surprise, this “quote” appeared in subsequent news articles about our visit to Odessa in the Boston Globe.

We left Odessa, spent another day or so completing our “survey” work, and returned to Istanbul. The two dozen or so temporary crewmen departed, taking their equipment with them, and a few days later we began our return journey to the States. We made one rest stop, in Gibraltar, and then a last fuel stop in Rota, Spain, after which we headed for the Brooklyn Navy Yard. We were back in the States for only a few weeks when word came that we were being reassigned to a new home port at Pearl Harbor, in Hawaii. The plan was to move on from there to begin operations in the Gulf of Thailand.

When we arrived in Hawaii, we were moored next to the dry docks. Just below us, in one of the docks, was a strange looking vessel. It was clearly an underwater type, but not a submarine. It turned out it was the Trieste, a diving bell, and just two weeks prior to our arrival had made a dive to the deepest known site in any of the world’s oceans. It was call the Marianas Trench, and with two men aboard, it had reached the bottom of the trench at a depth of almost seven miles, or 35,000 feet.

Our Captain apparently was able to obtain the actual coordinates of that dive, and on our way from Hawaii to Thailand, we passed over the site and attempted to record the depth. To no one’s surprise, that depth was beyond the capacity of our sonar gear, but we did make the attempt. We would spend a few months in the Gulf doing a general survey, after which we would return to Pearl Harbor making brief stops in Hong Kong, Formosa, and Guam.

The ship was put into dry dock for a six month stay, during which time it would be air conditioned and undergo other repairs, following which it would return to Thailand for the next three years to conduct a detailed survey. I left the ship a short time after our return to Hawaii, scheduled to return the “48” States for discharge. This was necessary because Hawaii hadn’t been a State long enough for such procedures. I ended my enlistment at Treasure Island in Oakland, California, and returned to Maine as a civilian once again.

A partial list of the more than 150 college and university bookstores I had a hand in designing and furnishing:

• University of Alabama Supply Store Student Center, Tuscaloosa

• California State University, Chico

  

• Colorado College

• Emory University

• Georgetown University

• University of Guam

• University of Richmond

  • University of Richmond Magazine Summer 1991 publication with project details

• Vanderbilt University

• University of Virginia

  • Featured in the May 1995 issue of College Store Executive

In any case, my moment came exactly at that time when I turned 15 years of age.  It involved driving, but you should understand that I had already been driving for a few years.  The driving I had done was in a variety of motor vehicles, from farm tractors to gravel trucks to regular cars.  Most of my driving was off road – on the farm, or in the woods, or on back roads of some kind.  My time on normal roads in ordinary vehicles was limited, and all of it was in the company of an adult.  We didn't have anything like driver's ed in our town.

I was eligible to get a driver’s license at age 15, so I picked up a copy of the preparatory test booklet and began studying it and practicing the driving maneuvers I would be tested on.  My birthday that year fell on Friday, and my dad drove me to Dover Foxcroft [a neighboring town] to take the written and driving tests.  I passed both and returned home with the special document that meant I could now legally drive on my own.

The first opportunity to do that came two days later on the following Sunday.  It was raining hard for the second day in a row, and after our family returned home from church services and we all had lunch, I was going to be allowed to travel on my own to deliver a birthday card and potted flower gift to my Aunt Lottie.

Lottie lived on a farm about 15 miles to the south.  I had spent several weeks there during the summertime when I was younger [as did my two brothers] in her care.  It was a special and favorite place to spend time and I always looked forward to being there with her.  I of course was excited to be able to make the trip and deliver her gifts.

I would be driving my dad’s jeep, a 1943 Navy surplus vehicle that he purchased from his cousin [Lottie’s son].  We were getting the jeep ready to use as a driveway snowplow for the coming winter [I ended up doing the work and eventually had about 50 regular customers].  Since the jeep had no top, we were in the process of constructing one out of wood.  On that day, the top consisted of a hardwood frame – totally open to the weather.  So, since it was raining cats and dogs, I found a piece of ¼” plywood and tacked it over the wood frame above my head.

 I bundled up in a raincoat, baseball cap, and headed out.  I had wrapped the card in plastic and tucked the flower behind my seat.  As I left the yard my dad’s last and only instruction, other than to drive with care in the rain, was to stay on the main road.  You see, between our town and the town where Lottie’s farm was, there was a small hill and the main, paved road went around the bottom of the hill.  There was a dirt road straight up and over the hill that cut off about 2 miles in distance.  My dad was cautioning me to follow the paved road.

So I drove carefully and steadily, fighting the rain [more seemed to be coming in the back and running down my neck than onto the front of the windshield], and arrived at Lottie’s farm in good order.  She of course was pleased that she had been remembered, and we enjoyed a pleasant hour together over tea and some of her mince meat pie.  It continued to rain hard.

On the return I seemed to be the only vehicle on the road, and I felt comfortable upping my speed to about 35 [maybe 40] or so, but the water was still blowing in from the back-draft and I was wiping it off the inside of the front window every couple of minutes.  I soon approached the junction in the road leading to dirt-road-over-the-hill vs the long way around on pavement.  It was late.  Raining hard.  Very cool.  The caution to stay on the main road was there, somewhere, but of course I chose to save a few minutes and get back home and get dry.

So up the hill I went, slowing to about 30 when I hit the dirt section.  This road, incidentally, has a turnoff that leads to a small lake and a number of summer camps.  Otherwise, the only ordinary traffic of note on the road itself comes from one of the two small farms along the road, one just north and one just south of the topmost point of the hill.  On this day, as you might imagine, there was no traffic at all.

As I crested the top of the hill, beginning to think that I was going to be fine and get home safely the piece of plywood covering my head let go and sailed off into the woods.  This only made things moderately wetter inside the jeep, so I decided to forge ahead without it.

A half mile down the homeward side, keeping myself mostly to the center of the narrow, hard-packed gravel roadway, and having more difficulty with my vision [water was now almost flowing down the inside of the front windshield and the small wiper was working overtime to clear the outside], I happened to notice the heavy flow of water in the ditches on both sides of the roadway.

Moments later, I saw a small washout in the dirt road on the right side and steered left slightly to avoid hitting it [it was like a large pothole].  I actually almost lost sight of the road because of all the rainwater, and was wiping it away from the inside of the windshield with one hand, and when I looked out again the road was gone!  It wasn’t in front of me anymore!  Then, I glanced to my right and there it was – almost across the right front seat!  I realized in that instant that I was sliding sideways on the gravel, and remembering my driving lessons [in Maine driving on snow and ice is quite common and being taught how to deal with it is quite ordinary], I turned the wheel in the direction I was skidding: to the right.

I was going about 30 miles per hour, and recognized that I was in gently curving skid, heading for the ditch on my left side.  Glancing at that ditch and seeing all that water running downhill, I had only one thought: I was going to get myself stuck in the mud.  You see, the jeep’s transmission was not the best, and at that time it had no reverse gear.  So, all I was thinking was that in spite of having four-wheel drive, I would be unable to back out of the muddy ditch.

The ditch itself, along that section of the road, was perhaps 5 or 6 feet across, covered in grass, and perhaps 2 feet deep.  Behind the ditch there was a grassy bank, perhaps 10 feet wide, beyond which was a line of trees.  An old wire fence lined the edge of the trees.

I eased my foot off the gas pedal and held on to the wheel as the jeep continued on it’s curved path toward the ditch to my left.  Thinking only at that moment of how long it would take me to get unstuck, if I could do that at all, the jeep dove straight toward the grassy bank. 

Then, the light went out!

When it came on, I found myself lying on my back, behind the wire fence, my head propped up against a large tree.  There was no sound except for the rain hitting the leaves above me.

I sat up and saw that I was within a yard or so of the wire fence.  Standing, I understood that my arms and legs worked fine, and that I was no longer driving the jeep.  The jeep!  Where was it?

I climbed over the wire fence and then I could see down into the ditch.  There was the jeep.  Except that all I could see was its four wheels, pointing straight up, and one of the rear tires was still spinning.  That told me that the light was out for only a minute or two, perhaps less.

Oh boy, am I in trouble now, I thought.  What have I done?  I looked more carefully, and discovered that the jeep was absolutely upside down.  It was suspended across the small rain-filled stream at both ends, and the jeep’s windshield was hanging in space above the water.  It appeared to be undamaged, although the hardwood framing we had attached to the jeep was broken in several places.

I sat down in the wet grass, trying to compose myself and struggling with what to do next.  I of course would have to get help and that meant having to call home.  This was 1953.  There were no cell phones.

Then, I reached my first decision.  Two miles further, at the bottom of the hill, were several homes, and I could have walked there to get to  phone.  Or, less than two miles behind me, back on the dirt road, were two farmsteads, and they certainly would have a phone.  So, I chose to go backward and walked to the first of the two farms. 

There was nobody home.  I supposed it was no surprise, and it turned out I didn’t know that family anyway.  Well, there was still another farm, owned by an older couple who were well known to my family and who surely would be there.  I think it was Mr. and Mrs. John Ford’s farm.

I reached that second farm [by now it was only an hour before darkness would be settling in] and saw that there was no car or truck in the driveway.  I first thought that they, too, might not be home, but when I stepped up onto the back porch and knocked on the door, I was greeted by Mrs. Ford. 

I quickly told her I needed to use her phone and that I had been in a small accident a short distance away, she took my hand and led me inside her shed.  She put out some newspapers on the floor and told me to stand on them.  She said she would take me inside to her phone in just a minute, but first I needed to stop dripping and she needed to fix me up a little.

What?  I was alright.  What did she mean, fix me up?  She had gone in the house for something, having told me to stand in place until she returned.

It was then I happened to look down, and when I saw that the entire front of my raincoat was pink!  As I was trying to puzzle that one out, she came back into the shed with a handful of first aid materials.  She said I had a bad cut on my head, just above my right eye, and she would clean it up and apply a bandage.  Then I could use her phone.

It turned out that that was the only physical wound I received.  I was badly cut, right in the eyebrow, above my right eye.  We were able later to figure out that the cut came from one of the bolts used to secure a flat piece of wood across the top of the windshield frame [part of our framework for the jeep’s wooden top].  The next day, however, both my eyes blackened – I looked like a raccoon, apparently from having hit that board pretty hard when the jeep slammed into the bank of the ditch.

She led me inside and I called home, reporting on what had happened and where I was.  My dad, bless his heart, was only mildly annoyed that I had not followed his instructions about staying on the main road and more concerned about my physical condition.  He told me to stay where I was and that he would be arriving with help in about an hour.

I think my dad understood that I had screwed up but that I had already learned my lesson.  There was no need to pile it on.

Anyway, about an hour later I heard him arrive and together we returned to where the jeep was.  Ken Davis, one of dad’s close friends and owner of a local auto garage and dealership, was waiting there with his wrecker..

We looked the jeep over and saw that it was largely undamaged, except of course that it was upside down.  Ken worked out where to hook on his chains and hoist and within a few minutes had righted the jeep and then pulled it out of the ditch onto the road.  It was still raining hard.  We looked the jeep over and, except for the broken wood of the framing, nothing seemed damaged.  There wasn’t even a scratch or a dent in the thing!  How about that for tough old machines!

Ken checked the fluids and turned the key and the jeep started right up.  He told my dad to have me bring it into his shop in a few days to make sure everything was still ok, and he left.  I had watched all this with one thought: I didn’t want anything to do with that jeep!  What will I do now?

That issue was immediately solved when my dad instructed me to drive it home: straight home.  He got in his car and drove off.  I stood there for a few minutes, realizing what I now had to do.  I had fallen off the horse and had been told to get right back on.  Wow!  So this is what that means!

Well, I did drive home, and when I got there I put the jeep in the barn and closed the door.  The enormity of what had happened began to hit and I started shaking, confused and most likely suffering from a mild concussion.  In any event, other than my mother treating my wound, and my dad taking a day or so to really calm down, and lots of ribbing from my two brothers, and the start of school coming up and me with the remains of the raccoon look and all the embarrassment of having to explain to friends what happened to the brand new driver and my trying to decide if I ever wanted to drive that jeep again, all was soon well and back to near normal. 

I did, eventually, drive the jeep again [of course] and the following winter plowed more snow than you can possibly imagine.  I came to understand that I had made a huge error, that by doing so I had been tested and by a stroke of good luck [wet, grassy bank, young man being thrown out of the machine into the woods without breaking a bone. . .] had passed the test and, I suppose as a sort of rite of passage, had moved on into young adulthood.  Dealing with the business of not following my dad’s directions and the guilt involved in that took a little longer to overcome.

Anyone earning over $5,000 a year was considered well off.  Gasoline was just under 25 cents per gallon.  Dwight D. Eisenhower was in the middle of his second term as President of the United States.  And I was a sailor in the US Navy on my way to war.

Well, actually, there was no war, but I was aboard a Navy vessel and we were about to enter a truly foreign port – my first.  Oh, I had been to Cuba.  Actually to Guantanamo Bay, but the USA owned that place, so it wasn’t a real foreign port.  There was a little excitement there at the time, however.  Some guy called Castro was apparently about to run off Presidente Batista and take charge of the palace.    

It was 1958 and we had crossed the Atlantic and were about to drop anchor in Tangiers, Morocco.  Did I mention that Alaska would become the 49^th State shortly?  Or that people in the USA would soon be buying Toyotas?  Times were really changing.  One thing that apparently hadn’t changed was the illicit use of drugs, and Tangiers was reputed to be one of the places where the supply of drugs was unfettered.

Every day for the past week we had been lectured to by our superiors on this topic, repeatedly warned to avoid any temptation we were surely going to experience as we toured the city.  We were even put on notice to avoid any and all activity known as bartering over the rail – where locals would approach our ship in small boats and offer an endless assortment of goods for an unimaginably small price.

Now when I joined the Navy, just over a year earlier, I had an older brother serving in the Air Force.  He was traveling all over the south Pacific and had started a family custom that I decided to emulate.  In each different country he visited, he would purchase two gifts: some kind of elephant memorabilia for our dear Aunt, and a cup and saucer for our mother.  He was buying elephants in the form of small glass or stone statues or bookends as well as highly decorated demitasse cups and saucers.

On day two in Tangiers, it was my chance to go ashore and see a different city and culture for the first time.  With a small group of shipmates, when we hit the pier in town we hired a local guide and spent the day touring the city, sampling the food and drink, and rubbing shoulders with ordinary citizens.  It may have been because of all the excitement of actually being abroad in a strange land, or something, but when we returned to the harbor that evening to await our ride back to the ship, I suddenly realized I had made a serious mistake.  I hadn’t bought an elephant or a cup and saucer!

I reached in my pocket and, finding a small wad of leftover local cash – worth about $10 US, I turned in desperation to our young guide, a boy of about 12.  “If I give you this money,” I began, “do you suppose you could find…”  and I told him what I needed and suggested he give it to one of our boat drivers to bring to me on the ship the next day.  Of course, I realized how silly it sounded at the time, and the next morning back aboard ship I accepted the fact that I had screwed up and that the little bit of cash I had sacrificed was no real loss.  I thought that would be the end of it.

My work station on the ship was below decks, about a third of the way back from the bow.  Late in the morning, our final day before leaving Tangiers and heading to a port in Spain, someone yelled down a companionway that I was needed back at the stern deck.  A few minutes later I stuck my head in a machine shop near the stern and asked who might have been called for me.  No one here, I was told, but somebody pointed to a nearby rail.  As I stepped back on the stern deck and approached the rail, I heard a voice from below. 

I peered over the side and, to my astonishment; there were two kids in a small rowboat – one of whom was our guide from the previous day.  The boy was standing up, holding a crudely wrapped package and pointing at me!  Now he was twelve to fifteen feet below, and there was no ladder or stairway.  So, smart guy that I am, I quickly found a small rope in one of the nearby spaces and dropped one end over the rail.

The boy tied the rope around the package and I began pulling it up.  The boy and his friend immediately began rowing back to the pier.  I was thinking that maybe my prayers were about to be answered, at least possibly so, when I suddenly felt a hand grip my shirt collar and a deep voice that said, “What in hell do you think you’re doing, sailor?  What part of ‘no bartering over the side’ instruction didn’t you understand?”

Holding my package in mid air, half way up from the water, dangling at the end of a small rope, firm hand on my collar, I slowly turned and found myself looking directly into the eyes of the ship’s Executive Officer, Commander Wallace.  “Pull that thing up here and come with me,” he sternly instructed.

I followed him two thirds of the way forward and up several decks to his wardroom near the bridge and the Captain’s quarters.  There, he took the unopened package from my hand and placed it on a nearby table.  “Please explain what is going on and what you have in that package,” he said.

There was no place for me to go.  Yes, I knew about the order to avoid any bartering over the rail.  I did recognize the kid who had delivered the package, and had no choice but to trust that it contained what I thought it did.  “Well, you see, Sir,” I began, and as quickly as I could I told him of my plan to acquire two gifts in each port and so on.  I ended with the details of how I had given my left-over money to our guide.  He took it in, his face as serious as could be, and then directed me to “open it up and let’s take a look.”

My hands were shaky, but I pulled back the paper and exposed what I prayed were my gifts.  There, among the wrappings, was a small, white somewhat plain, cup and saucer and a small, wooden carved Rhinoceros!  Well, it wasn’t an elephant, but in this case, close enough. . .

The Commander apparently understood that what I had told him was true, however silly it may have sounded, and after an attempt to remain serious and remind me that I might have been in serious trouble for violating a standing order, he could no longer contain himself and burst out laughing.  “Get that stuff and yourself out of here,” he directed, and I complied forthwith with all due speed.

That might have been the end of the story, except that over the next several months we visited more than a half dozen countries.  I remembered my obligation and had accumulated quite a cache of goodies.  We were in Istanbul, Turkey, at the time and about to enter the Black Sea where we would be ‘out of touch’ with the world for over a month.  There would be no mail, so before leaving Turkey I carefully wrapped my assortment of gifts, each lovingly marked as to origin and time of acquisition, and shipped them home.

Five and a half weeks later, returning from Odessa, Russia, and our tour of the Black Sea, we were given mail that had accumulated during our absence.  I had several letters and a couple of goodie boxes, so I put them in order according to when they had been sent and began reading.  Somewhere about letter 6 or so I learned that my package from Istanbul containing a number of gifts had been received, all unbroken and most welcome.  Thanks very much.

However, about that one from Tangiers.  Yes?  Well, the thin gold stripe on the plate was certainly attractive, but . . . well, we turned it over and there, on the bottom, was an inscription “King Fireware, Made in the USA.”  Anyway, we loved it, and it will go in the collection of course, but you should know that very same cup and saucer is on sale in our local IGA store right now for $2.95.”

Oh well, it was just another foreign adventure, after all.

Paul Sherburne 

It was a mid-February morning in 1960, and our arrival at Pearl Harbor aboard the USS Maury AGS-16 was planned, as it was for all first-time port visits, for 0700.  After a 10-day crossing from San Diego, we eased into the harbor with the morning sun off our stern and got our first view of our new ‘home port.’ 

For many years ‘home’ for the USS Maury was the Brooklyn Navy Yard in New York City.  I had already made two cruises out of that location: one sixty-day trip to the Caribbean; and an Atlantic crossing and a nine-month-long cruise to the Mediterranean and Black Seas.  We were now heading to Thailand on a six month cruise, having left New York, transited the Panama Canal, and visited briefly in California before arriving in Hawaii on our Pacific crossing.

The USS Maury, built in 1943 as the USS Renate AKA-36, an attack transport ship, was renovated and re-equipped to conduct hydrographic surveys.  The ship was named for Matthew Fontaine Maury, regarded as the founder of modern oceanography.  Our job was to collect data from which sea-going navigational charts were produced.  Our special focus was deep water surveys.  We were scheduled to be at Pearl Harbor for only two weeks, after which we would sail to Bangkok by way of Guam.  There was talk about a stop in the Philippines, and a visit to Malaysia with a brief dip below the equator, but neither voyage materialized on the initial trip west. 

Our assignment in Thailand, or Siam as many called it, would be to conduct a broad survey of the entire Gulf of Siam delta including the Gulf-side coastlines of Vietnam and Cambodia.  Incidentally, this was shortly after the death of Major Buis and MSgt Ovnand, military advisors in Vietnam and the first two Americans to die in what came to be known as the Vietnam War.  

Instead of being given a regular portside berth we were tied up next to the dry docks at Pearl Harbor on this first visit.  While it added to the on-base travel distances for those who had a need to go ashore, it placed us in close proximity to one of the most notable and inventive craft in existence – the bathyscaphe called Trieste.  She was in full view on blocks at the bottom of an adjacent dry dock, resembling something between a submarine and an unorganized collection of odd-shaped tanks, pipes and fittings.  From our decks we were able to see her in full view. 

Less than two weeks prior to our arrival in Hawaii, that vessel with two men aboard had achieved what no vessel had before, or since.  She successfully reached the deepest known location in any of the world’s oceans, untethered and without serious incident.  Over a period of eight hours, this Swiss-designed, Italian-built craft with Jacques Piccard, son of the craft’s designer, and US Navy Lt. Don Walsh, aboard, dropped into the Challenger Deep in the Marianas Trench south of the island of Guam in the western Pacific.  After spending just under an hour on the bottom, she resurfaced safely.

Her instruments recorded a depth of 37,799 feet, but this was later revised by Japanese technicians to an official depth of 35,797 feet.  In nautical terms, this is over seven miles – straight down.  Or, if Mt. Everest were sliced off and placed on the ocean at that spot, there would still be over a mile of water above its peak.

The Trieste was later modified and used as a research vessel in the Atlantic.  Among her achievements, she was instrumental in locating the SSN Thresher, a nuclear submarine which had disappeared off the coast of New England.  Today the Trieste rests in the US Naval Museum in Washington, DC.

We left Pearl Harbor bound for Guam a few days later.  Apparently our Captain had spoken to somebody connected with the Trieste, because after leaving Guam and approaching the Marianas he modified our course slightly in order to transit the Challenger Deep location.  We were informed that he wanted to test our on-board equipment against such extreme depths. 

 My job as an Electronics Technician was to maintain and, if necessary, repair such devices as radios, radar, sonar, and specialized navigational instruments used aboard our ship.  I was on duty the evening we approached the Marianas Trench and quickly learned that our transit of the Challenger Deep location where the Trieste made its dive would occur about an hour after midnight.  I was assigned the job of babysitting the sonar recorder for the duration in a special room near the ship’s bridge.

The sonar device had a hinged front with a viewing window, behind which was a metal plate.  A supply roll of graphed paper to the right and a take-up roll to the left allowed the paper to move steadily across the plate from right to left.  Fixed to sprockets above and below the plate, a small chain trailed a wired ‘trigger’ downward across the paper.  The returning sonar echo emitted a pulse in the trigger that was evidenced by a tiny burn mark on the paper.  Remember, this is all 1950’s stuff.

If the ship happened to be crossing over a section of flat ocean bottom, then the return signals would be steady and the resulting marks on the paper would be a straight, horizontal line.  Since most ocean bottoms are irregular, the depth indications recorded on the paper would take the shape of that bottom, moving up and down as the depth changed across a given distance. 

Of course, for hydrographic survey work, it is necessary to know depth and location.  On this night, we were in open ocean, south of Guam, in the dark, with no shore-based references to fix our exact position. Our position this night was as good as our Navigator could make it.  He had us located on a chart plotter begun at Guam, supplemented by sextant readings and star sightings, and we were about to transit the mysterious Trench.

Reaching what we projected to be the Trieste’s dive point, I recall how we watched the line on the paper move steadily downward, eventually reaching the maximum scaled depth on the paper chart of 30,000 feet.  And then it stopped recording!   We were literally ‘off the chart,’ although the stylus kept cycling and the paper kept moving.  After some time the echo returns began to show again along the bottom edge of the paper, this time arching back upwards in the opposite direction.

We later used a ruler and some educated guesses to ‘fill in the blank’ and extrapolate where the lines would have crossed, which turned out to be approximately 37,000 feet!  The depth chart made that night was on display in the mess hall aboard the ship for a short time, but our attention soon turned to more immediate matters.  I have no idea what may have happened to that plot.

We spent most of the next six months sailing around the Gulf of Siam and sampling its depth and measuring its tidal movements, currents, temperatures, floral contents, and salinity.  I recall the finding that the Gulf’s relatively shallow bottom was a sand-covered, featureless mostly flat surface.  The explanation for this was the endless supply of silt washed annually into the Gulf from numerous rivers and inland water systems over the course of uncounted centuries.

The return trip to Pearl Harbor that next summer included stops in Hong Kong, Formosa, and Guam.  Although we passed near the Trench for the second time, we gave little thought to the Trieste or the Challenger Deep.  At Pearl Harbor, the Maury was immediately dry docked and underwent months of repairs and renovations, including new air conditioning.  I didn’t pay attention, of course, but we might well have been in the same dock where we earlier had seen the Trieste.  The ship returned to Thailand and Vietnam while I returned to civilian life back in the States.

Over the years, reminders of the Trieste’s achievement might be an occasional mention of the dive, or a side-bar to some new discovery in the ocean’s depth by Robert Ballard and company.  And of course, there was the Distinguished Public Service Award given to Captain Walsh by the US Navy in 2010.

I have always remembered the first-time visit to Pearl Harbor with fondness, and my appreciation of the achievement of the two men aboard and the support crew for the Trieste has grown over time.  In 2008, on a motorcoach trip to southwestern Washington State to see my daughter and grandchildren, I paused for a night at Seven Feathers RV Resort in northwest Oregon.  More recently, after learning that Dr. Walsh calls this general area home, I realized I was within an hour’s drive from the man with whom I almost once crossed paths in the western Pacific.  I now understand I almost did it again.

June 13, 1957 to July 28, 1960.  Places visited while in the Navy: Bainbridge, Maryland (basic training) / Newport, RI / Great Lakes Naval Station, Illinois / New York Naval Ship Yard / Guantanamo, Cuba / Tangiers, Morocco / Barcelona, Rhoda, Spain / Genoa, Brindisi, Italy / Athens, Rhodes, Greece / Istanbul, Iskendrun, Antalya, Alanya, Trabzon, Turkey / Odessa, Ukraine / Panama Canal / Hawaii / Guam / Bangkok / Hong Kong / Formosa / Treasure Island, California. 

I made my way to the main concourse, which as I remember was one level above the street, and to a large, round information kiosk in the center of the room.  There was one lady on duty.  I was in my Navy uniform, of course, traveling with one handbag and a large sack-like thing that contained everything else.  I had a set of orders, which were contained in an oversized, yellow envelope.  The destination I was assigned and was seeking was the “USS Maury AGS-16 New York, New York.” 

Now, even I, a kid from the country, knew that the ship wouldn’t be right there outside the train station, so I asked the lady if she could give me a hand locating the thing.  Well, she read the destination, and remarked, “No idea.”  As she was fumbling around to figure out who she might ask, a uniform policeman [most likely from the City’s Transit Authority, but I didn’t know that at the time] walked over from someplace along the shops surrounding the concourse area.

He asked if he could be of assistance, and the lady behind the counter was only too happy to be relieved of the chore.  The policeman also looked at my orders and said, as if he might have been either a sailor or a marine, US Navy ships are usually at the Brooklyn Navy Yard.  Let me give them a call and see if it’s there.  So he did, and when he put the phone down, said, no luck.  She’s not there.

Well, he happened to know the phone number of the permanent headquarters of the all-services Shore Patrol in the city, and after calling them he learned that the ship was in fact not in New York, New York, or the Brooklyn Navy Yard, but rather at the Bethlehem Steel Repair Yard in Coney Island.  Now that didn’t mean much to me, as I had visited the city only one time in my life – when I was about 16 years old, and I had never been to Coney Island.

The policeman read the situation quickly and said he knew exactly where my ship was and how I could get there.  He waited for me to retrieve my two bags and instructed me to follow him.  We walked to a long hallway and then down a long flight of stairs, coming out on the street next to a long line of waiting taxies.  There were so many because it was a holiday and there were very few people on the street and traveling that holiday.

Anyway, the policeman went by himself and spoke quietly to the driver of the first taxicab driver in line, after which he said to me, give this guy a ten dollar bill and he’ll take you straight to your ship.  I didn’t now if that was a good deal or not, but as I didn’t know how far we would be traveling, and the policeman had been good enough to make the arrangements, I paid the man and off we went.

Well, it turned out it was quite a long trip indeed.  Thankfully the streets were not crowded and we were able to travel at a pretty good speed.  Twists and turns and runs down many side streets and we were soon in Brooklyn, heading past LaGuardia Airport and on to the shipyards near Coney Island.

We arrived at the yard, the driver was told where to find the ship, and off we went.  He dropped me at the foot of a hellishly long gangway leading from the pier up to the first deck of the ship.  I thanked him and he drove off, apparently satisfied with his fare [maybe the only one of the day].

The USS Maury was about 600 feet long, and seemed monstrous to me as she sat next to the pier on that cool November morning.  There was no one in sight, either on the pier or on the ship.  I grabbed my handbag containing my orders and my large ‘seabag’ and proceeded up the gangway.  I remembered that protocol required that I pause at the top, before stepping aboard, to salute the American flag which was most likely flying somewhere at the stern of the ship.

As I reached the top, I placed the handbag down, saluted, and retrieved my orders.  Waiting for me near what I learned later was called the quarterdeck was the duty officer and his aide.  In this case, the duty officer wasn’t an officer at all, but rather he was a 6’-4” tall Chief Petty Officer, with a chest full of ribbons and gold braid stripes and hash marks on his sleeve.  The gold, I learned, denoted a twenty plus year career in the Navy without a blemish to his record of good conduct.  The stack of ribbons denoted that he had seen some serious duty, most likely some of it in combat, over his career.

He was apparently not too busy, so my arrival might well have been the highlight of his morning.  He walked part way to where I was standing, accompanied by his aide, a young seaman not unlike myself.  The aide held out his hand, pointing to my orders, and I handed them over to him.  He immediately went to a nearby stand and began recording information contained in the materials.

I came to attention, as I remembered I was supposed to do, and asked in my best voice, “permission to come aboard, sir.”  Ordinarily enlisted men are not called sir, no matter how many stripes or how many ribbons, but I figured this guy was on this duty because the regular bunch of officers were taking the holiday off, and he got stuck as next in line of rank or seniority or something

I remember that he grinned, and said something like “permission granted, son” and so I proceeded to step off the gangway and board the ship.  I reached back for the heavy, large seabag behind me, and stepped aboard.  As it turned out, I had forgotten that the handbag was in front of me, and when I stepped forward I ended  up tripping myself and fell forward onto the deck in a kind of spread-eagle fashion, face down and hands out.

Well, the duty officer, the Chief, a WWII and Korean War veteran, and one of the Navy’s true ‘old salts,’ was apparently neither surprised nor alarmed by what had just happened.  In fact, while I was in the process of gathering myself back together, I think I heard him chuckle and maybe mutter something like ‘what in hell are they sending us now. . .’ or words to that effect.

Anyway, in short order I was given a firm handshake, welcomed aboard, and directed to follow the aid, who would lead me through the maze of interior passageways to my assigned space in a forward bunkroom.  I ended up on that ship for the next two plus years, and when I left her in drydock in Pearl Harbor, Hawaii in the summer of 1960, we had traveled together for almost a year to and through the Mediterranean [including a trip into the Black Sea and a week-long visit to Odessa, Russia], a transit of the Panama canal, and across the Pacific for a 6-month long tour in Thailand. 

I will always remember that Armed Forces Day fondly.

Paul Sherburne   491-29-75  

US Navy    6/57 to 8/60 

A cousin of my father, Jane Callahan Thiel, was an engineer.  Jane lived on Long Island, and worked on Dr. Gilbreth's staff in New York City.  

I visited with Jane and her husband in 1958 when I was stationed at the Brooklyn Navy Yard.  In the mid-1960s, when I was at the University of Vermont, Wilson and Pauline visited with Jane in New York. While there, they made a trip to the city and had lunch with Dr. Gilbreth. The subject of my being at UVM came up, and several months later, Dr. Gilbreth came to Burlington, VT to address the medical faculty and receive an honorary degree from the university.  It was during this visit that I received a call to report to the President's office. When I arrived, I was greeted by Dr. Lillian Gilbreth herself.  

She shared the story of having lunch with Jane and my parents, and said she was anxious to meet me! We chatted for almost an hour (no, I can't remember what we talked about), at which point she went off to her speaking appointment at the Medical School.  She did mention a second colleague, along with Jane, who was retired and living in Vermont. Your mother and I looked her up and paid a visit. I don't remember her name, I do remember she was in a wheelchair, and it was a nice visit.

I came across a book about Dr. Gilbreth by Jane Lancaster:  

Making Time: Lillian Moller Gilbreth -- A Life Beyond "Cheaper by the Dozen"

Nov 17, 2015 update  - I have made contact with Dr. Lancaster at her home in England. She is about to return to Brown and I'm hoping will be able to fill out the association between Dr. Gilbreth and cousin Jane. What I don't know is when Jane and Dr. G worked together, what projects they collaborated on, or the details of the work she did.

Audio of Paul sharing this story with his younger daughter

At the time, I was paying my way through college with a job as dormitory director. I had my own apartment on the first floor, and was responsible for supervising the eight floor counselors — two per floor, and about 400 students in residence. That particular semester I was spending each week day as a student teacher in nearby Bangor High School, completing my requirements for teaching certification.

I was also beginning my term as President of the Senior Skulls, a men’s honorary service organization that was often called on, among other things, to serve as hosts for campus visitors. We were given word that our group would serve those traveling with the President, with details to follow.

During the short time leading up to the event, we learned that the President’s travel that day would begin at the Kennedy compound in Hyannis on Cape Cod. He would first travel to Portland, there to be joined by Maine’s Governor and congressional delegation along with a small press corps. The group would fly in three helicopters, first to Campobello Island to visit Roosevelt Park and Cottage. That facility was undergoing restoration, having served as a summer retreat for the Roosevelt’s in the 1920’s and 30’s. The Island itself is actually in New Brunswick, Canada, accessible by bridge from the town of Lubec on Maine’s eastern-most tip of land. It’s 1,000 or so residents could reach their homeland by seasonal ferry service; otherwise, they had to return to the US and drive north to a border crossing.

A fly-over of the Bay of Fundy was to follow, giving the President a view of a recently completed tidal power complex stretching across the Bay and taking advantage of both incoming and outgoing tides to produce electrical power. Following these visits, the helicopters would bring the assemblage to the Orono campus, landing on a practice football field adjacent to the stadium.

With the President’s arrival just days away, I learned I was to serve as host for the White House Physician, Retired Vice Adm. George G. Burkley. My task was to welcome him to the campus and escort him from the helicopter landing area, across the football field, and show him to his assigned seat on the speaker’s platform. Following the President’s address and honorary degree ceremony, I was to escort him back to the helicopter (Dr. Burkeley died in 1991 at age 88).

There was great excitement on the day the President arrived, Saturday, the 19th of October, 1963. The three, large, loud and identical aircraft arrived in trail out of a cloudless northern sky and landed and shut down without incident. I introduced myself to Dr. Burkley, we chatted for a few minutes as the rest of the party deplaned, and then he and I walked across the field to the speakers podium. The stands at the stadium were filled with students and members of the public who wanted to see and hear the famous President.

Dr. Lloyd Elliott, University of Maine President, welcomed President Kennedy at the landing site and escorted him to the podium. They were surrounded by a dozen or so Secret Service agents at all times. The President spoke after receiving an honorary degree of doctor of laws. In his opening words he referred to Dr. Lloyd H. Elliott, president of the university, to Governor John H. Reed, and to U.S. Senators Margaret Chase Smith and Edmund S. Muskie, and U.S. Representatives Stanley R. Tupper and Clifford G. McIntire, Maine’s Congressional delegation.

The address was well received. I had listened from the ground next to the podium, where I awaited the re-appearance of Dr. Burkley from his seat on the stage. We met once again, and the two of us returned to the helicopters. He was one of those riding with President Kennedy in the lead aircraft. I said goodby to him and walked a short distance back to the opening between the two fields.

At that point, I looked across the field toward the stands, where I saw both President Kennedy and Dr. Elliott moving slowly along the low, chain-link fence in front of the stands. They were surrounded by the Secret Service agents, and President Kennedy was shaking hands with people from the audience who were lined up on the opposite side. Apparently this was not an uncommon occurrence. This went on for several minutes. I glanced back to the helicopters, noticing that most of his traveling party had already re-boarded and were waiting for the President’s return.

When I turned my attention back to the field, I saw that President Kennedy and Dr. Elliott had moved away from the fence and were proceeding across the field — directly to where I was standing. The Secret Service agents had formed a loose circle around the two men. As I was deciding which way to move — left or right, to allow them passage, one of the agents in the front of the circle reached his arm toward me. I think he was going to politely yet firmly direct me to step aside (which I was already doing). Just then, a hand came from inside the circle, over the agent’s arm, and grabbed my shoulder. It was Dr. Elliott, whom I knew well. He held me in position as he and President Kennedy stopped walking. The agents paused while surrounding the three of us.

Dr. Elliott then introduced me to President John F. Kennedy, explaining briefly who I was and why I was there that day along with my fellow Senior Skulls. The President shook my hand, spoke a few words, and I in return spoke a few words. (Unfortunately, I have no recollection of what exactly was said by either of us). It was all over in a few seconds, and Dr. Elliott, ever the smooth gentleman, suggested it was time to get the President to his helicopter and remain on schedule.

I stood in place as the two men and the circle of agents moved away through the opening and onward toward the aircraft — which now were starting their engines. I remained there until they departed, flew over the campus, and disappeared from sight.

What I couldn’t have known is that two days later, in Dallas, Texas, a young ex-Marine named Lee Harvey Oswald was hired as a part-time worker at the Texas School Book Depository in Dealey Plaza.

Thirty four days later, on Friday November the 22nd, I was in the University’s Planetarium with a busload of my math and science students. We were on a mid-day field trip to the Emera Astronomy Center, enjoying a very well done show illustrating the orbital movement of the planets and our moon. The room was pitch black, and we were watching images of the stellar bodies moving across the domed ceiling while listening to a pre-programmed narrative.

Suddenly, without warning, someone opened a door along an upper wall and a shaft of bright light cut the room in half. Then, whoever was out there yelled: “The President’s been shot!” and shut the door again. What was that all about? What was going on? We, of course, had no idea. It was almost unimaginable.

The light show, on automatic, continued. After several minutes, the clearly rattled students began to quiet down, although they continued to murmur and had clearly lost all interest in the production, as had I. When the show ended, we quickly exited the facility and returned to our school bus. Less than an hour later, we had returned to the high school in Bangor where the class was dismissed for the day.

I immediately returned to campus, although I’m sure I listened to my car radio along the way for more news. Eventually, back in my dormitory, I was able to find a television set and got up to speed with what had happened in Dallas, Texas, on that fateful day. All the while, I kept thinking: what if he dies? I shook that man’s hand just a few weeks ago. And, now he might have been assassinated? It was difficult to imagine such a thing.

I left campus that evening, now knowing that the President was dead, and traveled to my home, where for the next several days the television remained on continuously. There was the swearing in of Lyndon B. Johnson as the new President; the return of Kennedy’s remains to Washington, D.C.; the bloody dress of Mrs. Kennedy; the capture and arrest of Lee Harvey Oswald; the casket on display at the White House and later at the Capitol; the appearance of Oswald in the Police Headquarters and his murder at the hands of Jack Ruby; and of course the funeral and burial at Arlington National Cemetery.

And, then the questions began. How could this have happened? And, in spite of an investigation by the Warren Commission, and several subsequent investigations, and answers supplied, for many the questions continue.

For me, there will always be the memory of that face-to-face meeting, and of the momentary pause and brief handshake on the green field of the football stadium at the University of Maine. For many of us of that era, John F. Kennedy was an inspiration, a man with whom I shared time in a Naval uniform, who established the Peace Corps, and who encouraged us to “ask not what your country can do for you, ask what you can do for your country.”

Here’s a clue: imagine documenting the work involved in making strawberry shortcake. In 1929, in Brooklyn, New York, that’s exactly what was done. There was once a local gas utility company called Brooklyn Borough Gas Works, led by a young woman named Mary Dillon (the first and only female CEO in that industry at the time). She determined that to grow the business, she needed to focus on women’s needs and interests. As part of this plan, in her new headquarters building she installed a laboratory/showroom called the Home Modernization Department. It featured gas appliances, of course, but also offered demonstrations and classes on cooking, decoration, cabinet and counter design, and food preparation and storage.

Mary arrived at work one morning unhappy about an experience she had in her own kitchen while baking a cake. She felt it took far too long, tired her out, and she was convinced that her kitchen was totally disorganized and seriously lacking in design. She and her Home Modernization Department consultant, named Jane Callaghan, reached out to an expert for help (Jane was my father’s cousin). That expert was Dr. Lillian Gilbreth, famous for her work in workplace efficiency and research on time and motion studies.

Together, they created a design plan for a model kitchen, which they called Kitchen Practical. As a demonstration of its performance, they analyzed and compared making strawberry shortcake in a typical kitchen to their design model. The work involved was reduced from 281 steps to 45, which was a remarkable achievement and proof of the model’s efficiency. While the inherent value of the triangular arrangement of stove-sink refrigerator remains true to this day, particularly in smaller kitchens, the actual function of the kitchen has evolved, reflecting the lifestyle of the homeowner. The range of appliances has expanded to include dishwasher, microwave oven, trash compactor, and so forth, and there are many more gadgets available. Kitchens have become areas for food preparation and storage, cooking, eating, as well as family entertainment centers. While the triangular layout of key kitchen appliances is a mystery solved, we often take this triangular concept for granted. All credit, however, must go to the work done nearly a century ago in Brooklyn, New York, by a team of very talented ladies.

Read Part 2 —>

John F. Kennedy, 35^th President

Served: 1/60 to11/63

Met while visiting UMaine-Orono campus in May 1963

Had rededicated Campabello Island retreat for Park Service, once home owned by FDR; gave a foreign policy address to the public

ACTUALLY GOT TO SHAKE HIS HAND AND TALK WITH HIM

Muhammad Ali, formerly Cassius Marcellus Clay

Olympic Boxer 1960; professional 1961 to 1981

Met while visiting George Washington University in 1969; he had been stripped of his title and was on a speaking tour.  He was also featured on the front page of Sports Illustrated at the time of his visit.

SHOOK HIS HAND AND HE SAT ON MY LAP ON RIDE TO RECEPTION

Hans Conried, Actor

Star of radio, stage, TV and film.  Born 1917, died 1982

Met in Ogunquit, Maine, while he and his acting company were  performing at the Ogunquit Summer Playhouse in the summer of 1963

HE AND I TIED THE LUGGAGE OF HIS CAST ONTO THE BACK OF A

TRUCK USED TO TRANSPORT THE GROUP FROM LOGAN AIRPORT TO THE MAINE COAST

Spring Byington, Actress

Star of radio, stage, TV, and film.   Born 1886, died 1971.

Met when I picked her up in a limo at the Lakewood Theater and drove her to Ogunquit where she was to perform the following week

SHE RODE RIGHT NEXT TO ME IN THE CENTER OF THE FRONT SEAT AND LISTENED INTENTLY TO A RED SOX BALL GAME FOR MOST OF THE TRIP

Dr. Lillian Gilbreth, considered to be the ‘mother’ of Modern Industrial Management  

Born 1878, died 1972

She is arguably the first true industrial/organizational psychologist. She and her husband Frank were pioneers in the field of industrial engineering. Her speciality was time and motion studies.  The books Cheaper by the Dozen and Belles on Their Toes were based on their real lives

IN 1965 SHE INVITED ME TO SPEND AN HOUR WITH HER WHILE SHE WAS VISITING THE UNIV. OF VERMONT TO RECEIVE AN HONORARY DEGREE FROM AND GIVE AN ADDRESS TO THE MEDICAL SCHOOL FACULTY.  ONE OF HER PROTEGES IN THE 1940’S WAS MY FATHER’S COUSIN JANE CALLAHAN.

Andrew Svenson, author and famous ghost writer

Hardy Boys, Bobbsey Twins, and the Happy Hollisters children’s books

Born 1910, died 1975

WHILE LIVING IN BLOOMFIELD, NJ, IN 1972, ACROSS THE STREET FROM THE SVENSON’S, HE INVITED MY DAUGHTER BETH TO VISIT, TALK ABOUT CHILDREN’S STORIES, AND SHARE SOME READING TIME.  ONE OF HIS TWIN DAUGHTERS, LAURA, HAD A SUMMER COTTAGE IN MAINE NEXT DOOR TO MY PARENT’S COTTAGE ON SCHOODIC LAKE.

Jennie Grossinger, owner with her husband Harry of Grossinger’s Resort in the Catskills

[the Resort no longer exists]

Born 1892, died 1972

IN 1959, WHILE ON DUTY IN NEW YORK’S BROOKLYN NAVY YARD ABOARD THE USS MA Jennie Grossinger URY AGS-16, A SHIPMADE AND I GOT TO SPEND A WEEK AT THE GROSSINGER’S RESORT AS GUESTS OF THE OWNERS.  WE WERE REPRESENTING THE US NAVY.

Eddie Albert, actor and star of stage, screen, TV and radio

Born 1906, died 2005.  Best known for his role on the TV show Green Acres.

IN 1960, WHILE STATIONED AT PEARL HARBOR, HAWAII, I MET AND SAT NEXT TO MR. ALBERT AT THE WIAKIKI SHELL OUTDOOR THEATER AND ENJOYED A VARIETY STAGE SHOW STARRING BOBBY DARIN.

Elsie Masterton, writer, gourmet chef, hostess, entrepreneur 

Owner with her husband John of the Blueberry Hill Farm and Inn in southern Vermont, she had just published Nothing Whatever To Do, non-fiction tale of their family’s adventures moving from New York City to the Vermont countryside.  Died in 1966.

WHILE ATTENDING THE UNIVERSITY OF VERMONT [1964-1966] WE VISITED THE INN AND MET AND TALKED ONE FULL AFTERNOON WITH BOTH ELSIE AND JOHN [THEN A RETIRED STATE COURT JUDGE].  WE WERE PLANNING ON RETURNING FOR A DINNER, BUT LEARNED OF ELSIE’S UNTIMELY DEATH.  JOHN’S DIED NOT LONG AFTEWARD.

THEY HAD THREE YOUNG CHILDREN.

K.C. Jones, professional athlete and Coach, Boston Celtics

K.C. WAS A CLOSE FRIEND AND BUSINESS ASSOCIATE OF MY BUSINESS PARTNER, JOHN BATTAGLINO OF BOSTON.  JOHN WAS A MEMBER OF THE NASHAWTUC COUNTRY CLUB AND INVITED ME ON TWO OCCASIONS TO PLAY THERE.  K.C. WAS MY PARTNER ON BOTH OCCASIONS.

Nathanial ‘Nat’ Crosby, seventh child of Bing Crosby

Winner of US Amateur Championship in Golf in 1981.  Turned pro and later restored his amateur status.

WHILE LIVING IN EASTERN MASSACHUSETTS, I WAS INVITED TO PLAY GOLF IN A TOURNAMENT ON CAPE COD FOR A WELL-KNOWN INVESTMENT COMPANY, TUCKER ANTHONY.  NAT CROSBY WAS THE THIRD MEMBER OF OUR TEAM, AND WE COMPETED FOR TOGETHER FOR TWO DAYS, LOSING OUT EVENTUALLY TO JIM RICE OF THE BOSTON RED SOX AND HIS TEAM.

Liza Pulitzer (left), daughter of Lilly and member of the family

Pulizters owned St. Louis Post Dispatch newspaper and 13 other news chains and sponsor of the Pulitzer Prize.  Liza, and her brother Peter and a sister Minnie, as children, were members at the Bar Harbor Club on Mt. Desert, Maine. 

I WAS THE SWIMMING INSTRUCTOR AND LIFEGUARD FOR TWO SUMMERS AT THE BAR HARBOR CLUB IN 1962 AND 1963.  LIZA, THEN ABOUT 6, WAS ONE OF MY FAVORITE PUPILS AND A YOUNG DIVER OF SOME TALENT.  PETER, SOMEWHAT YOUNGER, SIMPLY HUNG OUT AND WATCHED HIS SISTER AT PLAY.

Buzz Aldrin, Astronaut, and the second man to step on the moon in 1960 behind Neil Armstrong

IN 1973, BUZZ ALDRIN AND HIS WIFE WERE THE HONORED MARSHALS OF THE FOURTH OF JULY TOWN PARADE IN MONTCLAIR, NJ.  ALDRIN GREW UP THERE AND ATTENDED THE LOCAL COLLEGE BEFORE ENTERING THE AIR FORCE.  MY HOME WAS DIRECTLY ACROSS FROM THE VIEWING STAND AT THE END OF THE PARADE.  MID MORNING OF THE 4^TH, HE KNOCKED ON MY DOOR AND ASKED IF HIS WIFE COULD USE OUR BATHROOM, AND WE SAID, CERTAINLY.  WE CHATTED FOR SOME TIME ON THE FRONT PORCH BEFORE HE AND HIS WIFE RETURNED TO THE VIEWING STANDS.

As I was Dean of Men at George Washington University when Ali arrived on the campus, I wrote a a letter to Eric Mink having just read his article on Ali’s stop at GWU. Mink is a freelance writer and editor who teaches film studies at Webster University and a former columnist for the St. Louis Post-Dispatch and the Daily News in New York. Contact him at ericmink1@gmail.com.

Dear Eric:

I read your piece about your having heard Ali speak in 1969 at George Washington University, with interest.  I, too, was there, and no less impressed with the man.  I was, in fact, Dean of Men there at the time, and only two years older than he was.  I was directed to make myself present at the event and monitor things, as part of my job.  I contacted the local student leaders of the event and was escorted backstage before the speech.  

In a small ready-room, I was introduced to the man himself.  He was dressed in a nice suit and was sitting on one end of a bench in the center of the room.  On the other end of the bench was a reporter from the University newspaper, interviewing Ali for a story.  There might have been two or three other students in the room at the time.

The interview was already underway when I entered, so after the greeting, I stepped to the side to listen to the remainder of the interview.  Among the questions the reporter asked was a reference to Ali’s cover photo on Sports Illustrated that had been published just a short time before.  There was chit chat about the number of times Ali had been on that cover, and at that point, Ali opened his briefcase, which was sitting on the bench mid-way between the two men.  From it, he took out a copy of that magazine with the photo in question on the front cover.  [He had at least a half dozen copies in his briefcase, by the way]  The photo illustrated the speed of Ali’s jab, which as you know, he described as ‘a sting like a bee.’  When the reporter asked, ‘just how fast is it?’ Ali took off his suit coat and sat down on one end of the bench, with legs on either side, several feet from the student-reporter.  He handed the reporter the magazine and asked him to hold it with both hands in front of him, chest high.  There was perhaps four to five feet between them.  Then, while speaking his usual fight-banter, he didn’t move — except for his fist, which flicked out and snapped against that magazine with a speed that was not only almost impossible to see, but which was eye opening to say the least.  Then, he did it again.  The reporter, and all of us, were speechless.

The student leader who had taken me back then explained that after the address, Ali was going to be the guest of the Black Student’s Organization in another building a short distance away, and that I was invited to attend.  I said, sure.  Then Ali gave his address, which you heard.  I can’t recall the details as you were able to do, but I do remember being impressed with his speaking talent and his ability to charm his audience while informing them of his topics.

Some minutes after the address, the BSO leaders and Ali and I met on the sidewalk, next to a Cadillac sedan driven by one of the students.  It was only two blocks, as I recall, but they wanted to make a good impression.  As the small group got in the car, it seems that there was only space for one left, and Ali and I were left standing next to the open door.  I offered to walk, but Ali said, ‘Naaw.  You get in first.’  And he proceeded to follow me and ended up in my lap.  That, of course, brought out the laughs from the other five passengers.  There’s this white guy, squashed under world-renown heavyweight champion, for the three minute ride to the reception party.  If it did nothing else, it certainly broke the ice.  I recall his making some reference to the ride when he told a joke about Oreo cookies.

I think I was the only white person in the room, but Ali, in his usual fashion while relating stories of his struggles and telling very funny stories of how black and white things can be turned upside down, as in ‘there’s nothing better than eating all the white icing off a cake to get at the best part — the chocolate,’ never once made me feel anything but accepted in the group.  He left the campus that day, heading off to another campus engagement somewhere, and left behind good feelings, lots of encouragement and good wishes for success for our students, and an example of what a true gentleman can be — even when dealing with forces intent on bringing him down outside the ring.  He will be missed.

Dr. Paul Sherburne, Ed.D.

Dean of Men, George Washington University 1968-71

Audio of Paul sharing this story with his younger daughter

In late September of 1968 I was at home on lunch break when I received a call from Dr. Elliott’s office.  My home at the time was on the campus, in a historic residence known as the Lenthal House, adjacent to the GWU Law School.  I was asked to stop by Lisner Auditorium on my way back to my office to investigate what was going on there.  It seems word had reached the President’s office that a sizable group were about to occupy the Auditorium without permission, with the possibility of disrupting ongoing renovation work at the facility.

These activities would eventually lead to the seizure of “Maury Hall, home of the Sino-Soviet Institute, to protest University complicity with the Vietnam War” (source).

When I reached the Auditorium, a short walk away from my residence, I recognized several students from GWU and asked if they knew what was going on.  They were the leaders of GWU’s student organization known as the SDS, or Students for a Democratic Society.  They explained that their group, joined by other SDS members from area colleges and universities, had invited a small group of visitors from out of town to address their organization and it’s guests. They recognized that renovation work was underway and promised to be out of the building in one hour or less.  There were approximately 100 or so people involved in the activity.

I communicated this to the President’s office and was directed to remain at Lisner and monitor the activities, as well as to caution the GWU students that action would be taken if they didn’t vacate the premises by the agreed time.  At the point, I was invited to follow the GWU students backstage to meet the individuals who would be speaking.  When we reached the green room, I was introduced to a group later known as The Chicago Seven and one or two others who had made national headlines protesting, among other things, the Vietnam War.  

I learned The Chicago Seven were in Washington D.C. because they had been subpoenaed by the House UnAmerican Activities Committee of Congress (HUAC) to appear as witnesses before them over the course of the next several days.

Finally, Dr. Elliott and I were later subpoenaed to appear before the HUAC Committee as witnesses to protest events that occurred in and around GWU and were being investigated by the Committee.

Incidentally, the activity I am describing did conclude on time and no action had to be taken by the University as a result.

I was approaching high school graduation in 1957 with the military draft still in effect, a left-over from the Korean War. I had done well in high school, and had been accepted by two universities, but had no firm idea what I wanted to do with myself for a career.

In my class of 34 students (the entire high school had 110 students), one of my best friends had decided to join the Navy. He, too, was a good student, but like me, had no real sense of direction for the future.

I chose to join him and enlist in the Navy to give myself time to figure out what to do with the rest of my life. My friend’s father was a WWII Navy Vet, and I suspect that was what influenced his choice. I had an older brother already in the Air Force, but wasn’t enamored by what I was hearing about his experiences. I somehow didn’t find the Marines, Army or Coast Guard to be that attractive, either.

The Navy, on the other hand, was appealing in part because nobody knew anything about it. We were raised well inland, in rural northern Maine, and almost all the veterans we knew from WWII or Korea had been in the Army or Marine Corps. There was a certain charm to the idea of heading off into the mysterious unknown. We took our pre-enlistment tests and physicals in the final months of high school, leaving only the swearing-in ceremony to be completed after graduation. My friend’s birthday was June 13th, so we arranged to be sworn in on the 12th. My birthday wasn’t until August. So, that meant my friend would serve exactly three years (we were entering on a minority enlistment, or before our 18th birthday, guaranteed to be discharged on the day before our 21st birthday). I was to serve three years and three months.

We left town on the appointed day on the train, bound for the city of Portland, where we would be sworn in. After the brief ceremony, and now set to enter basic training in Bainbridge, Maryland, we were given our travel orders. The officer who had sworn us in took a second look at the orders and noticed that our service numbers differed by only one digit. I was 4912975, and my friend was 4912976. He handed them to us and said, since my number was lower, I was senior, and therefore ‘in charge of the group’ as we traveled. The ‘group’ was just the two of us, of course. We both thought that was pretty funny.

We were placed in the same 96-man training squad and spent the next three months in the hot, muggy coastal Maryland swamps outside Bainbridge completing our ‘boot camp’ training. I got to be the guidon bearer, so I had no rifle to carry around. I always marched in front of the unit wherever we went, ‘showing the way.’ Sometime in the final weeks, we were informed that based on our test scores, we had been selected for what the Navy called NAPS, which was a fifth-year, post high school program. Successful completion of that program led directly to entrance into the Naval Academy from the Fleet.

Within days of the end of basic, however, we were called back in and informed that the cutting scores had been raised. My friend was to stay in by a margin of .01, while I had been cut by a margin of .01. He went on to attend NAPS, and I was sent on to Electronics School. As it turns out, although my friend completed the program, he declined the offer of admission to the Naval Academy (it would have meant signing on for six more years). He was sent to radio operator’s school and we both were discharged in the summer of 1960. Sadly, right after we both completed our degree programs at University of Maine in 1964, my friend was killed in an automobile crash.

Arrival Aboard Ship

In late fall of 1958, I successfully completed what the US Navy calls ‘A’ school in electronics at the Great Lakes Naval Station, Illinois, on the western shore of Lake Michigan. The equipment used in our training labs was representative of what we could expect to find in the field. The radio, radar and sonar equipment was WWII and Korean War-era, made up of vacuum tubes, resisters, capacitors, and lots of soldered wiring. This was before the age of transistors and integrated circuits and miniaturization, so the equipment was generally large and bulky. Stereo was a new concept, and while television was developing as a new medium in American households, it was not used on Navy ships. There was no such thing as cell phones, personal computers, CD players, or wireless devices of any kind.

I entered ‘A’ School in February, and would have finished in September except for having contracted scarlet fever in August. After 30 days in an isolation ward in the base hospital with twice-daily penicillin shots, I recovered and completed the training course with a different group.

A day or so before leaving the base hospital, an orderly showed up with a new set of pajamas, a bathrobe and slippers. He also gave me a small mask to wear over my mouth. You’re going for a ride, he said. He then led me outside and pointed to a waiting bus. Keep the mask on, he instructed.

There were about a dozen other patients on the bus, some with crutches, some with body casts. We rode for an hour or so to the South side of Chicago and ended up at Soldier Field. There, we were escorted inside as special guests of an unidentified host to seats on the 50 yard line, close to the field.

Before the game started, the public address announcer actually pointed us out. We were being treated to a pre-season exhibition game between George Halas’s Chicago Bears with Willie Galimore, Rich Casares, Larry Strickland, and Ralph Anderson against Paul Brown’s Cleveland Browns with Chuck Noll, Ray Benfro, Bobby Mitchen, Lou Groza and Jim Brown. It was the very first football game I had ever seen.

Chicago went on to an 8 – 4 season, finishing in second place in the Western Division. Cleveland ended with a 9 – 3 season, tied for first place in the East but they lost in the playoffs to the Giants. Jim Brown was that year’s League MVP and rushing leader.

After completing my training I took a 30-day leave at home in Milo, Maine, with my next assignment in hand. A week or so before the end of electronics school, the time came to receive our duty station assignments. We were given a form to indicate our preferences (Its other name was the dream sheet). We were to make three choices, in rank order.

As this was most likely the one time in my life that I would get to travel and see the world, my choices were: (1) anything in the Pacific theater, (2) anything on the west coast, and (3) anything west of the Mississippi River.

Someone, apparently, didn’t like my preferences, and I was assigned to a ship in New York — on the east coast. The ship was the USS Maury AGS-16. It did hydrographic surveys, whatever that meant. Someone said the ‘A’ in AGS meant ‘auxiliary,’ although that didn’t help either, except to clarify that it would be unarmed. I had visions of a tugboat, or barge. Nobody at Great Lakes had ever heard of it.

I was now at the end of my leave, traveling with a package containing a copy of my service record and orders to report aboard in early November. My immediate thoughts were that I would not be escaping the east coast.

After a full day on the train, with stops in Bangor, Portland, and Boston, I arrived at Grand Central Station in New York City late in the afternoon on the 11th of November. It was Veteran’s Day, a national holiday, and there was a limited number of trains operating. I was traveling with a large sea bag, which contained all my military issue clothing, and a small duffel bag which held my toilet kit and a few personal items. I had no civilian clothes, as enlisted men weren’t allowed to have then on the ship.

Taped to the outside of the package containing my service records was my travel order. It read: “Report no later than midnight 11/11/1958 to the USS Maury, AGS-16, New York, N.Y..” After leaving the train platform, I made my way up to the main concourse, which was all but vacant. I felt lost in the cavernous space with its massive constellation ceiling, and had no clue how to begin the process of finding my ship.

My attention was immediately drawn to the landmark information kiosk in the center of the room. Topped by its four-faced opal clocks, I spotted a middle-aged lady on duty inside the circular counter. I was certain she would be able to help me with directions. I reached the counter and retrieved my travel orders from my duffel bag. I showed them to her and asked if she might know where I would find my ship. She rolled her eyes, I recall, probably thinking, aren’t all you Navy guys supposed to know your ships are based at the Brooklyn Navy Yard?

“Gotta be Brooklyn,” she said with a wink, and reached for the phone. “I’ll check for you,” she said. She was being very polite, and I was relieved to think she would shortly be giving me the directions I so badly needed. Instead, after a few minutes, she turned back to me and said, “How about that? It isn’t there. They don’t seem to know where it is.”

Now I was more than concerned. What do I do now? How was I going to find my ship? Who to contact? I was beginning to imagine the ship at sea, somewhere, out of reach with me stranded in a strange city.

Just then, a man in a Transit Police uniform appeared. He said he was a WWII veteran, and seeing me in uniform and apparently in some difficulty, offered to help. After explaining that my orders contained no address beyond New York City, and that the lady behind the counter had already confirmed that the ship was not at the Brooklyn Navy Yard — where it should have been, he said he might be able to find out where I was to go.

He used the phone at the information booth and made a call. I didn’t ask whom he was calling, but eventually he was able to reach someone who reported that the Maury was at the Bethlehem Steel Repair Yard in Coney Island! I had no idea where Coney Island was, but when he said “follow me” I was more than happy to comply.

We went to the eastern end of the Concourse and he led me down a wide flight of stairs to the street level. Outside, I saw a long line of vacant yellow cabs arranged along the nearly empty sidewalk and extending around the side of the building. The policeman directed me to stand where I was just outside the doorway, while he stepped over to the first cab in line and spoke to quietly to the driver. When the policeman turned back to me, he waved me forward and said, “This gentleman will take you directly to your ship. Give him a $20,” and as he walked back toward the stairway, said over his shoulder, “Good luck, sailor.”

The meter was never turned on.

In spite of the holiday and light traffic, it required nearly an hour through city streets, over bridges, through tunnels, and endless stop lights to reach the piers at Beth Steel repair yard. As we approached the waterfront, I was picturing a rusty old tub, but instead found tied to the pier a huge, freshly painted ship with over-sized ‘AGS-16’ proudly displayed near the bow. I had my first look at the Maury, riding high on its hawsers and spring lines. I learned later that she had been built in 1943 as an Attack Troop Transport.

She was 456 ft long, had a 17,000 ton displacement, a beam of 60 ft, and a draft of nearly 30 ft. She began life transporting troops and cargo in the Pacific during WWII. In 1946 her armament was removed and she was converted to a hydrographic survey vessel, first deployed to the western Pacific, then later transferred to the Atlantic Fleet. While I was aboard, our home port at Brooklyn Navy Yard was changed to Pearl Harbor, so she returned to the Pacific once again. She ended her life in support of the Vietnam War, eventually retiring to California and decommissioning in 1969. She was scrapped in 1973.

The Maury was named after Mathew Fontaine Maury, the ‘father’ of oceanography. There was an identical sister ship called the USS Tanner AGS-15, which performed the same type of surveys. I never did see that ship, and I have no idea where it operated or where its home port was. I did get to meet one of its crewmen, however, years later.

I stepped out of the cab with my bags at the end of a long, steep gangway connected to the ship’s main deck. After watching the cab leave the docking area, I turned my attention to boarding. I tried to remember what I had learned at boot camp, or perhaps from one of the ‘A’ school instructors, about the ritual. The gangway was narrow, so with my duffel bag in my lead hand, I dragged my seabag behind me as I began the long climb.

About midway, I remembered I was supposed to salute the ensign (flag) and then ‘request permission to come aboard’ from the Officer of the Deck. I could see the OD up ahead, decked out in dress blues, but I couldn’t see the ensign. It was apparently back there, somewhere, but out of sight behind the massive superstructure. I was asking myself if I should salute anyway, or not if I couldn’t see anything, but I decided I would salute.

At the top of the gangway, I retrieved my orders taped to my travel package, tucked them under my left arm, and placed my duffel bag at my feet in front of me. I turned to the ship’s stern, came to attention, and rendered a salute. I then half-turned to face the OD and repeated the salute, adding “Request permission to come aboard, sir.” I then handed him my orders. The salute was returned, “come on aboard” was spoken, but not by an officer. Rather, it was delivered by a Chief Petty Officer.

After a few seconds, I realized I was frozen in place. After a pregnant pause, the Chief said, “Something the matter?” “Oh, no, sir. I mean, this is my first ship, and I thought all Officers of the Deck were supposed to be Officers of the Deck,” I replied. “It’s a long holiday weekend, the Captain and all the officers are ashore. In fact, most of the crew is ashore.”

He handed my orders to a young Quartermaster seaman behind him, directing the seaman to show me to my quarters. “Come aboard, son,” the Chief said again, somewhat impatiently. “And you don’t have to call me ‘sir’ any longer.” He was about 6 ft 4” tall, slim, and wearing his dress uniform. He looked to be at least 40 years old, with dark features, gray hair, and was an obvious ‘old salt.’ He had several rows of campaign ribbons signifying service during WWII and Korea, and his Chief’s stripes and his eight hash marks (each one representing three years of service) were gold — indicating good conduct. He was an Engineman, with well worn hands and grime permanently embedded in his knuckles and under his nails — clearly from having spent so many years in hot, greasy engine rooms.

In some ways, he reminded me of the instructor Chiefs I had known at Great Lakes, most all of whom were career enlisted men in an assortment of trade ratings before converting to electronics and becoming classroom teachers.

With the boarding ritual completed, and boarding invitation granted, I proceeded. I turned to grab my seabag and stepped aboard. Unfortunately, I had forgotten my duffel bag, which was still at my feet in front of me. As I began to step onto the deck, I tripped over it, and took a header straight onto the cold, steel surface. I ended up spread-eagled flat on my face, staring directly into the black, spit-shined toes of the Chief’s shoes. To his credit, the Chief didn’t laugh, although I am convinced he was biting his tongue and probably thinking, Where in hell do they find these people? All he said was, “Move it along, now” as I gathered myself. I was ushered to my bunk room, where I was directed to choose any one of the empty, numbered lockers to stow my gear. A matching numbered bunk was identified, which in my case was third from the bottom in a tiered-rack of four bunks suspended on chains from the overhead structure. There were 56 bunks in that room, slightly larger than a one-car garage. I was to spend the next two years as the occupant of that bunk. The bunk room itself was just forward of the bridge, and thus in the ship’s forecastle area.

Because the ship was a WWII-era vessel, with a flat bottom, and (we imagined) vulnerable to breaking apart in rough seas, we often thought that if it were to fracture, it would be right at the bulkhead at the rear of our space — leaving us to drift off helplessly in the ship’s bow. That thought required some time getting used to, especially when talk of an impending Atlantic crossing was brought up.

As a postscript, the Chief who was the acting OD when I came aboard became a friend over the next several months, although our working paths aboard ship rarely crossed. I think he was privately hoping I didn’t fall down again and make a fool of myself. He was the most senior of our crew’s half-dozen Chiefs, and rarely talked about himself or his Naval career. I did enjoy, however, the few occasions when I was able to get him to talk about his wartime days on fighting ships.

First Foreign Port of Call

The Maury remained at the repair yard on Coney Island until mid-December, after which she settled in against her home pier at the Brooklyn Navy Yard. She had been at the Beth Steel Repair Yard for several weeks, and I learned that one of her last stops before arriving back in the States was in Antwerp, Belgium. The crew got to visit Expo 58, also known as the Brussels World’s Fair. Maybe I would get to see something like that, I thought.

The ship’s complement was about 300, with 20 officers, 6 Chiefs, and the rest enlisted men. The ET unit included 15 technicians, a Chief and a Division Officer. Our Division Officer was a mustang, meaning he had begun his career as an enlisted man and received his commission later on. He was an excellent leader, and I stayed in touch with him for several years after I left the service. We were responsible for the maintenance of equipment in the radio shack, the cryptology shack, bridge radar and radios, and an array of sonar and depth recording devices used for survey work. Some of the same equipment was installed on the two sound boats, and several of the smaller work boats and barges. And then we had the shore stations, which will be explained later on.

A week into the new year, we departed New York for a short ‘shakedown’ cruise to Guantanamo Bay, Cuba. After nearly a year at sea, the ship had undergone a variety of repairs at Coney Island. With several civilian engineers aboard to check on the their repair work, we set out for Gitmo. This was to be my first trip ‘abroad,’ to a foreign country, although as it turned out, we weren’t allowed off the base in Cuba during our month-long stay there.  So, as it happened, my first trip to a foreign country wasn’t really to a foreign country.

The reason for our confinement to the base could be seen by glancing toward the mountains in the near distance beyond the perimeter. On many days ‘smoke’ would erupt on the hillsides, which we immediately learned was the remnants of fighting between the revolutionary army of Fidel Castro and Fulgencio Batista who had been battling for control of the island nation since the early 1950’s. Castro had actually won a few weeks before we arrived, and would remain in power to the present day (Fidel eventually relinquished control to his younger brother Raul).

We returned to Brooklyn, and were kept busy for the next two weeks preparing for a 9 month cruise to the eastern Mediterranean. Now I was at last going to experience real travel beyond the east coast. I began thinking that this assignment might just work out after all. Just prior to our departure, one of my fellow ET’s and I chipped in on a barber set. We decided we would cut our own hair, and anyone else in the unit who wanted one. We had only one barber aboard, and sometimes there was a long wait to get an appointment. Almost all the guys in the unit participated in our haircut service, and after a while we got pretty good at it. In time, however, my friend said he was giving it up and so I continued alone. Our Division Officer even stopped by one day for a haircut, and afterward said he would see if I might use one of the empty chairs and professional equipment in the barber shop (there were three, but only one barber). Then, one night a week, I could go there and do a few haircuts at a time. I got the ok, and began working there. Only those guys in my unit were to be served, supposedly.

So, after a few weeks of this, a radio operator showed up in line and asked if I could do him a favor — he had an upcoming inspection and not enough time to wait for the regular barber. I relented, and said, just don’t tell anyone. He had dark hair that grew straight out of his head, and I went at it. Very quickly, however, I recognized that I was making ‘holes’ in his hair, which of course I tried to smooth out, only to make it worse. By the time I was done, there were several patches of nearly bare skin showing. He didn’t look good, to say the least. As you might imagine, he received some very negative comments at his inspection, and word was passed back to my unit Officer. I was never, ever, to cut anyone’s hair outside the guys in my own unit. Lesson learned.

The winter crossing of the north Atlantic, all thirteen days of it, was rough. At times, the tops of the swells rose 50 feet or more above our main deck level, and there were occasions when both the bow and stern of our ship were out of water at the same time. I recall on day 9, when we were just over half way across, and the seas were really rolling, and the sun was shining brightly, I asked a weatherman on the bridge for the weather forecast. He replied, as he always did to such inquires, with, “Hot and dusty.”

Eventually, however, we sighted land, which was the Straights of Gibraltar — or the entrance to the Mediterranean Sea. We knew we were to make our first stop in Tangier, and as a result, for fully a week before arriving we were drilled and lectured to repeatedly about the city’s reputation as a drug capitol.  Apparently, it was all too easy to be tempted by street sellers offering cheap and readily available drugs. We were even warned about suspicious smaller boats visiting the ship’s sides while we were at anchor.

Before entering the Straights, we made a right turn and headed for the port of Tangier, Morocco. Something I learned just before we left the States was going to make this first foreign port of call special.

It seems that my older brother John, now in his second year in the Air Force, was traveling extensively throughout the Pacific region. At each different country he visited, he took the time to acquire two gifts: a mini cup and saucer for our mother Pauline (who collected them), and a miniature elephant statue, or bookend set, or decorative platter — something depicting an elephant, for our Aunt Elba (who collected them). I decided that I, too, would contribute to the collections, by adding my own gift set from each of the countries we would be visiting.

After we were safely anchored in the harbor (apparently there was no available space at a pier for our three-day visit) we were told we would be granted leave to tour the city, with one-third of the crew allowed ashore at a time from noon to 9 PM. I got to visit on the second day. Two of my fellow ET’s (electronic technicians) and I decided to stay together, and after exchanging our American money for Moroccan currency (about $30 worth) we were delivered to the foot of a commercial pier by one of the ship’s small boats along with a few dozen other shipmates.

From some of the crewmen who had visited the previous day, we were prepared for the ‘routine’ awaiting us as we arrived. As reported, we were immediately surrounded by a clutch of young boys standing by. They were guides-for-hire, and it was considered rude not to use their services. My two friends and I selected a 12 year-old, who fortunately could speak a little English, and he asked what we would like to see. I knew nothing about the City, except what I had heard about the famous market known as the Casbah, and asked to go there. One of my friends wanted to have dinner at a good French restaurant, and the third friend wanted to ride a camel.

Off we went, spending several hours at the market, enjoying a wonderful meal, and even getting to ride a camel. We had walked a long way and were tired, and by 8 o’clock, we headed back to the pier to await our ride back to the ship. Within minutes after arriving, I realized I had made a mistake: in my excitement, I had forgotten all about buying a cup and saucer and an elephant statue!

I then did something that could easily have made things worse. I called our boy-guide back and took him off to the side, out of earshot from my friends. I had about $12 left in Moroccan currency, and showed it to him. I asked him if he knew where to find a miniature cup and saucer as well as a miniature elephant (further explained with a lot of hand waving, sipping gestures, and attempts to describe African creatures). “Sure, sure,” he said. “Can do.”

I told him I would not be returning to the City, but instructed him to deliver them to one of the small boat drivers, who would bring them to me on the ship. He said he understood, and would carry out the errand. Of course, all the way back to the ship, and all the next morning aboard, I was fully aware that the whole idea was silly. What was I thinking, I kept asking myself. That money was gone, and I was forced to admit that I had failed on my first gift acquisition attempt.

Our electronics shop was two levels below the main deck, reached through deck openings and ladders attached to a bulkhead. At noontime on our third and final day in port, I was deep into the repair of a sonar machine when someone yelled from above, “Hey, Sherburne! You’re wanted on the fantail!” We had no electronics gear back there, and I wondered who could be asking for me. I made my way up to the main deck, and walked to the fantail. There was a machine shop, a carpenter’s shop, and a rope locker back there, so I asked one of the crewmen who was looking for me. A second crewman nearby turned, got my attention, and pointed to the rail. What? What is going on? I stepped across the deck to the rail, looked out, and then down. There, almost 20 feet below me, next to the hull, was a small rowboat. There were two boys in the boat, one of whom I immediately recognized as our guide from the day before! He was holding a package in his hand, waving it at me. It was about the size of a loaf of bread, crudely wrapped in dirty brown paper and tied with ragged string. Oh my goodness, I thought. He did it! He must have found what I asked him for.

Now, the question is, how do I get it up here? I returned to one of the shops, found a short line, and lowered it down to the boat. The boy tied the bundle on the end and I began to slowly pull it up. I watched the boys in the boat disappear behind the stern, and moments later I felt a hand grip my shoulder, firmly, and a deep voice just behind my shoulder said, authoritatively, “What part of the instruction against bartering over the side didn’t you understand?” (Yes, indeed: we had been fully warned to avoid this practice — repeatedly) I stopped puling in the line and said, “Well, sir (I now knew that it was the hand of the ship’s Executive Officer gripping my shoulder), you see . . . I’m not bartering . . . I’m just . . . “ “Shut up, bring that thing up here, and follow me,” he directed.

Minutes later, in his wardroom, with the package sitting on a small desk, he asked me to explain what was going on. I laid out the whole tale, the brother in the Air Force buying gifts and my plan to copy him, the day in town, my oversight, my stupid idea to give money to the kid-guide, my surprise that he had actually carried through. All of it. I was sure he only half believe me, equally convinced that that package could have been stuffed with a kilo of heroin, or a large bag of marijuana. “Alright,” he said. “Open it up.”

I began untying the package, inside of which were two small bundles wrapped in layers of newspaper. A good sign. I opened the first, to find a tiny cup and matching saucer, white, with a thin gold band around the edges. Just what I would have bought myself. My mother was going to love it. “See,” I said. “That’s just what I asked the kid to find.” I then opened the second bundle, inside of which was a tiny, wooden statue of a . . . Rhinoceros! Surprise! It was expertly made, with excellent detail. “Well, it’s not an elephant, but at least it’s a close cousin,” I said, trying not to laugh out loud. I was remembering the difficulty I had trying to describe an elephant to a Moroccan kid.

The XO was also trying not to laugh, but finally he couldn’t hold it in any longer. He burst out laughing. I joined him, but only momentarily. When he recovered, he said, quietly, “Get that stuff out of here, and get back to work. And, don’t ever let me catch you doing anything like this again.” As I quickly scooped up the paper wrapping and gifts and exited his wardroom, I could hear him still giggling behind his door.

The next day we pulled anchor, entered the straights and headed for Barcelona, Spain. After that two day visit, we made stops in Genoa and Naples, Italy, Athens, Greece, and Izmir, Turkey. I made it my business to acquire a gift set in each city.

Shortly afterward, we proceeded to the southern coast of Turkey where we would be doing an extended survey. The area we set up on extended east about 600 miles from Antalya to Antalya. After three months operating in that area, we broke off and headed to Istanbul. We thought it was for a short R&R, but word quickly spread that instead of returning to our survey work, we were going to interrupt our schedule or a side trip into the Black Sea. We would be out of touch with the outside world for about six weeks.

It was about this time when I was captured by the Chaplain. We had in our crew a professional piano player from New York. He was very talented, and from time to time would entertain the crew along with a guitar, drum and base player. He also was the organist for weekly services. He was going to be leaving the ship, however, before we left Istanbul, which would leave the Chaplain without an organist.

One quiet Sunday morning, after services, one of my fellow ET’s, from Minnesota, decided to break out an accordion which he had acquired in Italy on our earlier stop there. He was a polka player, and a good one. He had actually bought two, one of which he was going to take home for a friend. There were three or four of us sitting around the Shop, and he asked if any of us knew how to play the piano. I had grown up in a home where my mother taught piano and violin lessons, and I had also played in the school and community bands. (drums) I had also sung in the church choir. While I couldn’t read music, I did have a good ear for it, and I did know how to play a few simple songs on the piano. I said I might be able to pick out a few notes, so the second accordion was broken out and soon we were having fun. I would play the melody on the keyboard, and my friend would fill in with accompaniment and bass notes.

Just then, the Chaplain appeared. He was a full Captain, a four-striper, and was nearing the end of his career. He had heard the music and made his way down to our Shop (not an easy task). He could immediately see how well my friend was playing the accordion, and obviously knew music well. He pointed to him and said, would you be willing to take over playing the organ for church services? My friend declined, telling the Chaplain that he, too, would soon be leaving the ship for a new assignment. So the Chaplain turned and pointed to me, saying, well, you’re it. You’re my new organist. I’ve scoured this ship from bow to stern, and you’re the only one I’ve found who can play a melody. It’ll be easy. You’ll enjoy it, he said.

Non-denominational services were held in the library on Sunday mornings. The organ was a small, portable instrument contained in a folding box. It didn’t have a full keyboard, and was powered by two foot pedals that produced enough air to make sound. I had seen pictures of the instrument, strapped to the side of a donkey, being carried up some mountain by a Chaplain on his way to conduct field services during the Korean War. The hymnal was filled with familiar songs, and the Chaplain said I could select any that I was already knew. There were many, but as it turned out, I could only play them in the key of C (almost all white notes).

After a few hours of practice, I was able to manage things, and began what turned out to be a regular activity for the next year or so. The most difficulty I had was with the Navy Hymn, which was not written to be played in the key of C, so on the hard parts, I resorted to one-handed fingering and made it work.

My Division Officer spoke to me about playing for church services some time later, and was curious how I had gotten involved. I told him the story about my friend and his accordions, and he asked, so, how much is the Chaplain paying you? I said, What do you mean, paying? My Division Officer said, well, he’s got a slush fund and should be paying. I’ll speak to him. So, I went on the ‘payroll,’ as a church organist, for $5 a week, paid retroactively!

My mother, when I related this to her much later, was absolutely dumbfounded, knowing I couldn’t read music and had never had a lesson — from her or anyone.

I decided that prior to our trip into the Black Sea, I would send my gift’s home, and put the several sets together into a single package. I mailed it from Istanbul, and a day or so later we were off on our new adventure. No US Naval vessel had entered the Black Sea since Roosevelt attended the Yalta Conference in 1945, and we had to wait for the sub nets installed across the Bosphorus Strait by the Soviet Navy to open and allow our passage.

Six weeks later, we returned to Istanbul and, after a day or so, headed back to Turkey’s southern coast to resume our survey. I had received a stack of letters (all mail had been suspended while we were in the Black Sea), and began catching up on news from home.

In the third letter down, my mother wrote that they had received my package. Nothing was broken, and she and Aunt Elba were pleased with their gifts — getting a special kick out of the little Rhino. Regarding the companion cup and saucer set from Tangier, she wrote, you might want to know that when we looked on the bottom of the saucer, it said Made In USA by King Fireware. Incidentally, the same thing is on sale right now at our local IGA store for $2.95!

Cold War Hosts

Over the course of several days in Istanbul, preparing for our trip into the Black Sea, our crew grew by about 20 strangers. They arrived without explanation and immediately distributed themselves into our crew of 300, appearing in uniforms as both officers and enlisted. Five or six of them were added to our electronics group, and we were put to work helping them to install a number of large tape recorders, antennas, and other radio receivers in a special space above the bridge normally used by the survey specialists.

After the equipment was installed, the room was placed off limits to everyone except those six men. We weren’t told, of course, but we were all certain the new crew members were from the CIA. We were cautioned, however, not to discuss this openly, or to get too curious about what we were seeing.

We left Istanbul, traveled northward through the Bosphorus narrows into the Black Sea, and began what was known as a ‘rough survey.’  That meant we would be making an irregular course, sampling depths and trying to get a feel for the entire area.

Within hours, we spotted a large Soviet Cruiser coming toward us on a parallel track. As it passed close by, we saw that its crew had ‘manned the rails,’ standing shoulder to shoulder in dress uniforms, and saluting as it passed. Our Captain quickly put out the word that we, too, would ‘man the rails,’ and a number of us were directed to quickly got into our dress blues and form up on our port side.

The next morning, a Soviet Submarine appeared and passed close by just as the cruiser had done the previous day. It, too, had its crew standing on the deck in close formation, so we repeated our ‘man the rail’ routine. The cruiser showed up in trail on our radar, about five miles behind us, and remained there. The submarine disappeared, but we guessed it, too, was back there, somewhere, following our random movements. Unless someone explained to them what we were doing, they must have thought our steering system was broken.

A few days later, a large Soviet flying boat amphibian flew past, just above the water, and within three hundred yards to our port side. It reappeared the next day, and for several days after that. We could see that they were photographing our ship on each pass. A photographer attached to our helicopter crew decided to return the favor, and began taking pictures of the plane with his large camera. When he developed the film and enlarged the pictures, he discovered in a window on the aircraft a crewman holding the exact same camera! They were filming each other.

With all this activity, we couldn’t decide if the Soviets were trying to intimidate us, showing off their power and reach, or were convinced we were a spy ship. We had no guns, but we certainly had an impressive array of antennas that would have been of interest.

After two weeks or so, word was passed that we were going to Odessa in the Ukraine for four days, as guests of the Soviet Navy. This was about the time President Kruschev was visiting the US, so our visit was described as some kind of diplomatic exchange by the powers that be. The quartermasters put a large map of the Black Sea up in the mess hall, where we could see the City of Odessa as well as the countries surrounding the Black Sea. They included Georgia, Russia, Ukraine, Moldova, Turkey, Romania, and Bulgaria — the first four of which were part of the USSR. We had to keep reminding ourselves that this time was at the height of the cold war. Just visualizing how close we were to these communist nations helped explain the reason our mysterious crewmen kept themselves busy collecting information on USSR radio and radar systems.

Sometime during our Black Sea tour we made a brief stop at the Turkish port of Trabzon, located very close to the border between Turkey and Georgia. To my surprise, there was a USAF listening station located near that small city.

On the morning we arrived in Odessa, it was raining cats and dogs. As we approached the pier, under the direction of a Soviet pilot, we noticed several pairs of Soviet Sailors arrayed along the pier, standing at attention in full dress uniform — and soaking wet. They didn’t move until our ‘monkey lines,’ linked to our hawsers, cross over their heads.

At that instant, they broke rank and ran for the lines to pull in the larger hawsers and loop them over large bollards. We set up our gangway, and the next day in better weather began receiving visitors. We were open for public tours of the ship for about 4 hours each morning, but anyone who came aboard had to pass a gauntlet of a three or four screeners. These were large men, dressed in trench coats and wide-brimmed hats, who stationed themselves at the foot of the gangway. Only those who passed muster (party members?) were allowed to join the tour. About one out of five who approached were turned away. At low tide, with the gangway raised only about 10 degrees, the aft decks were slightly above the level of the pier.

We soon discovered that 75 to 100 ordinary residents of the city would gather there each day (these were people not allowed aboard for the tour, or perhaps didn’t even attempt to board). They were curious and most willing to engage in small talk with our crew. I was out there one day and decided to try something to enliven the scene. Our ship’s library was close by, and I went in and grabbed an armful of magazines (Look, Life, Newsweek, etc.) and newspapers (NY Times, LA Times, Washington Post, etc.) — all dated of course, but from US publishers. I started handing them over the rail, and the people rushed to grab them and immediately hide them under their coats. It was like tossing candy to a group of kids.

With the help of a couple of shipmates, the library was quickly emptied of magazines and periodicals. Then I noticed that the people on the pier who had caught them began quickly leaving the area. It turned out that what we had done had caught the attention of the screeners, who started moving our way. It suddenly got very quiet, and the shift in mood was very noticeable. We had given them information they would never have been able to acquire otherwise. It felt strange, and somehow mysterious, and yet satisfying.

As we did at every port of call, our Chaplain arranged for a large group of orphaned children to visit the ship. Occasionally, a group of us would join the Chaplain for a visit ashore to an orphanage. On board, we treat the youngsters to ice cream, cake and soda, along with some token gifts. I, along with several other shipmates, served as hosts. We took two or three at a time on a walk-around, showing them our helicopter, our ‘steering wheel’ on the bridge, and our mess hall.

Our hosts, the Soviet Navy, filled most of the afternoon hours and evenings with invitations to the opera, ballet, circus, variety shows, and a tour of the city. A bus with 40 seats would appear to take a group of us to such an event, and our Captain decided it would be full of US Sailors when it departed. Officers would run about the ship asking if you were on duty, and if you said yes, you were ordered to stop whatever you were doing and get into dress uniform and get on that waiting bus! I personally got to see a ballet performance (Swan Lake), an opera, and a variety show featuring the Soviet Army band with leaping and twirling dancers, jugglers, and tightrope walkers.

Whenever we weren’t off to some special event or show, we were allowed to take a few hours leave to go into town. This was on condition that we would swear to travel in groups of four and avoid any type of fraternization with young females.

On one such visit, our group made its way to the Hotel Odessa, a city landmark, where we enjoyed a very nice dinner of the local fare. We quickly discovered that the local citizens thought we were Germans (our uniforms are quite similar), in part because a visit to their city by a large number of Americans was a surprise to them. Apparently there had been no announcement of our arrival in the local media.

Quite often, as we were walking around, we were stopped by someone who could speak English. They had lots of things they wanted to know about our country, and in minutes, we would be surrounded by dozens of other people. Our discussion was immediately translated for the newcomers, and quite frequently a brief question or two evolved into a hour-long group chat. I did manage to find a gift shop and selected a small cup and saucer set as well as a set of elephant bookends to add to my gift-gathering collection, and in a nearby music shop, purchased a balalaika for myself. This is a Russian stringed musical instrument with a characteristic triangular wooden, hollow body and three strings. While I envisioned learning how to play it one day, I unfortunately failed to learn how it was tuned. It never did get much use back at home later on, and I think I may have given it away at some point. I did buy a pack of the local cigarettes to take home, mostly because of how strange they were. If they were 3” long, 2-1/2” was an empty, paper tube with no filter. And the tobacco was awful. You could smell the thing from yards away. But, of course, they were cheap.

On the last day of our visit, my division head approached me and directed me to get into my dress blues. It seemed that I and two other shipmates would be making a visit to the Hotel Odessa (the second visit for me) to join a US Navy Admiral and his aide for a teleconference with a group of American newsmen and women based in Moscow. The Admiral was the Naval Attache from the US Embassy in Moscow, who had come to Odessa to welcome our Captain and the ship’s crew to the Soviet Union.

I and my two shipmates were selected to represent the crew on this occasion. I was from the northeast, the most junior in rank, and the youngest of the three. The second was from Texas, one rank higher, and a little older. Finally, the third was from Oregon, a senior enlisted man, and the oldest of the group. Apparently, we covered all the bases: rank, age, and geographic location. I knew my fellow crewmen only in passing.

We arrived at the hotel in a taxi, and were immediately ushered to an upper floor and the Admiral’s suite. His aide greeted us and welcomed us in, where we introduced ourselves and, in turn, were introduced to the Admiral and his wife, and the aide’s wife.

Across the room, we noted a young man from the hotel staff sitting next to a telephone. He was a translator, as it turned out. Within minutes of arriving, we noticed that everyone had their overcoats or fur coats on and were wearing gloves — as if they were about to leave for some destination or other. In fact, it was because the rooms in the large suite were cold. The only heat came from a small fireplace. It was explained that all central heating in all public buildings in Odessa was turned on by a calendar date — a day in early December, per order of the Kremlin. The room was ornately decorated with marble finishes and stone flooring, which itself made everything seem even colder.

After a few minutes, on a pre-arranged schedule, the phone rang. The translator completed his formalities and announced that the press corps in Moscow was ready. The Admiral pointed to me, indicating I was the first to be interviewed. It was explained by the caller in Moscow that I was on a speaker phone, so a number of reporters on his end would be listening. I was asked to give my name, where I was from, how long I had been in the Navy, and how it felt being in a cold-war country. The two other enlisted men with me were questioned in much the same way. The Admiral then spoke to the reporters, and I thought we were finished.

However, the Admiral pointed to me and said, “They want to ask you some more questions.” When I got back on the phone, a reporter asked, “So, you being the youngest of the group, tell us what you think about the young ladies you’ve met during your visit?” I didn’t have an immediate answer. Remember: we weren’t allowed to fraternize at all.

So, I placed my hand over the mouthpiece, turned to my two friends, and said, “they want to know what we think of the local girls. What shall I tell them?” One of them said, “Tell them they look like weightlifters.” I said to the reporter, “Well, the few we met were nice. Very healthy. Like farm girls, or something.” It was the best I could think of at that moment.

Weeks later, back in Istanbul where we received all our backed-up mail, there was a letter from home with a couple of newspaper clippings attached. One was from the Boston Globe and the other from the NY Times. The headline of the AP article read: Maine Boy Finds Russian Girls Athletic, and went on to report on our ship’s visit to Odessa and history-making tour of the Black Sea.

Lost Helicopter

The ship had a small flight deck at the stern, and a helicopter and five-man crew operated there to ferry men and equipment to and from the beach or mountains in the area where we were surveying.

To explain this further, I’ll give you a quick overview of the survey process. A typical deep-water survey operation covered an area approximately 300 nautical miles in length, and approximately 180 miles in depth (starting 5 to 6 miles from shore). Prior to our arrival, a land survey crew would have installed cement markers in the ground — either on the beach, or in the mountains. The beach stations were used for low-frequency equipment (AM signals and long distance work), while the mountain stations were used for high-frequency equipment (FM and line-of-sight, or closer work). There were a series of three markers placed on the beach and two in the mountains, 100 miles apart from each other. The land surveyors also prepared a scale drawing of the coastline, indicating the exact location of each set of markers. Prior to beginning the survey, men and equipment was delivered by helicopter to each marker site.

On one occasion, four of us were taken to a mountain site. It was rocky and covered in brush, and the helicopter was unable to land. We were lowered on a cable, armed with saws and axes, and told to clear a landing space for the equipment. The helicopter then returned to the ship to bring its first load, carried on a drop-sling beneath the aircraft.

We began hacking away at the bushes to make a cleared area when, to our surprise, we were suddenly surrounded by a half dozen native farmers holding shotguns — which they were pointing at us! We stopped our work, held up our hands, and tried to indicate that we were no threat. Not sure what to do and unable to communicate, we remained in place until the helicopter returned. It did, with a large diesel generator hanging below its skids. When the pilot looked down and saw what was happening, he immediately reversed course and flew back to the ship with the generator still attached.

Several minutes later, it returned sans generator and came to a hover nearby. A man was lowered on a cable, and as the helicopter moved a short distance away and remained in a hover, he walked over to where we were still standing in place with our hands up. He turned out to be a Turkish Navy liaison officer, assigned to our ship for the duration of our survey work. He spoke to the farmers, got them to lower their weapons, and was able to explain who we were and why we were there. Apparently, when the farmers saw that we were all dressed in at the same uniforms (dungarees and matching shirts, arriving unannounced by helicopter), they assumed we were going to take over their farms. At the Turkish Naval Officer’s suggestion, we were subsequently provided with a small booklet that explained what we were all about in the native Turkish language.

At each location, a portable, aluminum transmission tower was erected directly above each marker. On the ground, at each ‘station,’ a pair of tents was set up. One tent contained cots, a water drum, and cooking equipment, and the other housed a radio as well as a special transmitter. The equipment was powered by a pair of portable, diesel generators. The generators would be run, on an alternating cycle, for 24 hours at a time, providing continuous power.

The special transmitter was built by the Sperry Corporation, and called Shoran. It was commonly used by oil companies to locate oil drilling rigs offshore. It operated on the same principle as Loran, a system of long-distance navigation in which position is determined from the intervals between signal pulses received from widely spaced radio transmitters. The ‘center’ station transmitter produced alternating AM signals at slightly different frequencies. Its job was to key each of the ‘end’ stations. The (left, arbitrarily called red) ‘end’ station’s receiver was tuned to the lower of the frequencies, while the (right, arbitrarily called green) ‘end’ station was tuned to the higher. Those ‘end’ stations then produced their own continuous stream of low frequency radio signals (keyed by the ‘center’ station’s transmitter).

The ship had a special receiver in a room above the bridge where those two signals were captured. A ‘red’ dial denoted the distance from the ‘left’ station’s tower, and a ‘green’ dial denoted the distance from the ‘right’ station’s tower. The distance measurement was based on the speed of radio waves traveling through the air, a known quantity. To confirm that the distance was accurate, the helicopter, with a matching receiver aboard, would fly over the ‘left, or red’ tower, zero out its receiver dial, and then pass over the ship’s antenna, calling out “mark” and report the distance. The dial reading on the ship’s receiver would then be calibrated to match the distance reading. The same thing was done for the ‘right, or green’ tower.

On a large paper chart, nearly the size of a pool table, a graphic representation of the coastline and the three tower locations was displayed along one edge. In red ink, around the ‘red’ station, circular lines were drawn over the water. Each line represented the scale distance for each transmission cycle, beginning at zero at the beach antennas. The lines were then numbered out to the end of the survey ‘plot’ of 150×300 miles. The same thing was done in green ink for the second end tower. The result, on the oversized chart, was a two-color grid map made up of curved, numbered lines. Then, using a straight edge, a black line was laid over the grid parallel to the shoreline approximately five miles from the beach.

The ship was then steered onto that black ‘sounding’ line, following it for it’s full 150 mile length. A depth reading would be made every 30 seconds as the ship moved along the course line at about 7 knots. Both the specific location and depth were manually recorded on the chart for every sounding. At the end, the ship would shift 600 yards seaward and follow a parallel line back to the starting point. This was repeated until depth readings for the entire area were collected and recorded.  The ship’s location could be confirmed at any point along that line by following the red-green grid (example, 59.3 red, 94.1 green).

Of course, those reading were constantly changing with the ship’s movement. The Maury would remain on these survey ‘tracks’ for weeks at a time.

In the end, the oversized charts with their recorded data were rolled up and sent back to the States for dissection and conversion to a sea chart by cartography specialists. Supplemental information such as water temperatures, tide heights and sequence, bottom samples, water color, etc. were also added to the finished product.

At each transmitter station on land (whether beach or mountain sites), two men were assigned for 30 days at a time. One of them was always an Electronics Technician, who operated and maintained both the ship-to-shore radio gear and the special transmitter gear. The second man maintained the generators. Both shared cooking and cleanup duties. And both were supported by weekly visits by the helicopter which brought food and water supplies as well as the occasional treat.

A 30-day assignment in addition to the beach or mountain stations was on one of the two ‘sound boats,’ used for survey work. These boats were 56 ft long, twin-diesel powered, with a 6 man crew. The boats were fitted out with the same receivers as the big ship, and using its sonar, surveyed around islands, in harbors, and areas within the 5 miles from shore that the big ship didn’t cover.

We also would beach the boat from time to time, and collect ground samples. We would walk into the water up to our shoulders and collect a bottom sample and put it in a small jar. Then we would wade ashore, taking a sample every 20 feet or so, until reaching the high tide line. We weren’t sure why this was necessary, or important, but someone came up with a plausible answer to this mystery.

If someday in the future, it was necessary to send a landing force to that particular beach, would the composition of the surface be capable of supporting a heavy tracked amphibious vehicle — such as a tank. Whether correct or not, it sounded good. It was just another case of “ours is not to reason why . . .”

On one occasion while on a sound boat, away from the big ship for over ten days, we spent a weekend in a small harbor next to a local village. On a Sunday morning, I was enjoying a cup of coffee while sitting on the foredeck in the sun. A wooden rowboat approached carrying two young men. One appeared to be in his late teens, and the other much younger — perhaps 12 years old or so.

With grunts and much hand waving (there was no way to communicate otherwise), the older boy was inviting me to join him and his young friend on what I worked out was a fishing trip. I accepted and asked our boat captain if it was ok. He said I was free to go. I regret to this day I had no camera with me.

I took a seat in the bow and the older boy rowed the three of us out of the harbor and traveled a mile or so down the shoreline. He stopped the boat and used the oars to back its stern close to the beach. At that point, he changed places with his young companion, who manned the oars and began rowing straight away from the beach.

As the boat moved, the older boy began paying out a gill net. The net was about 4 feet wide, with pieces of cork and wood attached to the top edge and chunks of metal and rocks attached to the lower edge. The net floated on edge behind us as we moved out, and I noticed that we were moving in a wide half circle.

Eventually, we returned to the beach, and now the net was fully set. We remained inside the net and began moving back and forth parallel to the shoreline, steadily shifting our position outward. As we began moving, the older boy reached under the seats and pulled out a wooden pole. It had a round block of wood on one end with a cupped bottom — similar to a plunger. He stood on the wide seat at the stern, held the pole above the water, and began to sing a chant in a deep voice while dancing in bare feet on the wooden seat.

Every few minutes he would stomp his heels and at the same time drive that wooden block hard onto the water. It would make a booming sound, and I could see the resulting concussive ripples escaping underwater. It sounded a lot like dynamite going off. He repeated this for almost a half hour as the boat traversed the area inside the net.

Finally, he stopped and put the pole away. He took over the oars and we returned to the beach and one end of the netting. As the boat was rowed along the line of the net, the younger boy began retrieving and piling the net in the boat’s bottom near the stern. As he pulled it in, I could see that it had captured a sizable number of small fish — with looked like perch, about 10” long. He pulled fish after fish out of the net and tossed them onto the boat’s bottom. By the time the entire net was back in the boat, there was a layer of fish inside the boat was about 2 feet deep.

We went back to the harbor to a small pier, where a long line of male adults were waiting for us. Each one had a small bucket, which the boys filled until the boat was empty. What I figured out was that the boy’s job, at least for that day, was to serve up a daily supply of seafood for his village. I could only assume that one of the adult males was his own father, or perhaps an uncle. Afterward, he rowed me back to the sound boat. I shook his hand and did my best to thank him for the outing.

One other usual task was gathering data on water color. This was done by one of the hydrographers in the survey group. He had a set of painted wooden disks, about a foot in diameter, spaced 18” apart and linked together on a weighted chain. The coloring went from light gray through greens and blues to near black, and each disk was numbered. He would suspend the array of disks over the side on a pulley, and wait for someone to walk by — at random.

I happened along one day and was stopped by this officer. He explained briefly what he was going to do and asked me to watch a particular disk — in this case, #8. He lowered the string of disks into the water and I was to tell him when I could no longer see that particular disk. He would then mark a ledger, noting the observed depth. We were curious as to why he was doing this, and someone suggested that his data would be sent to the people responsible for deciding what color to paint submarines.

In other words, if the US Navy were to operate a sub in these waters, and it was to travel so many feet below the surface, what color should the top be in order for it to be undetected from the deck of a ship or from the air? This guy could tell them. Or at least that was what we supposed he was able to do. He didn’t say, of course. It was just another part of the mystery in some of our ship’s work.

I enjoyed the assignments off the big ship, at beach stations or mountain stations as well as the sound boats. The land locations were typically in remote areas, some distance from any local towns or villages, although on some occasions we were close enough to have visitors from nearby farms or ranches.  In one mountain station, we were close to a village where local farmers brought us fresh fruit or vegetables form time to time.

From time to time, it was necessary to repair one of the radios, and one of the ET’s aboard ship would put together either replacement parts or perhaps an entire radio to send via helicopter to the shore station. The shipboard ET would then ride along and make the repair or do the replacement. I was scheduled for such a trip, to replace one of the radios, due for departure at 5 am. Late in the afternoon of the day before that trip, however, the ship’s main radar system went down, and I was assigned to help fix it. The radar was old and very complicated, and working with another ET, we struggled to identify the problem.

As midnight approached, and the solution not yet in sight, I was pulled off the helicopter flight. One of my fellow ET’s was to go in my place. It was almost 4 AM before we finally identified the problem with the radar and got it back on line. I went to my rack exhausted. At 5:45 AM I was rudely wakened by a loud call over the ship’s intercom. “Anyone with a photograph of the helicopter crash report to the bridge immediately,” it said. What! A helicopter crash! The same helicopter I was supposed to be on?

I quickly dressed and rushed outside to find out what had happened. I saw dozens of crewman lined up on the port side, looking out at . . . nothing. We were 20 miles off shore. A small boat was just returning to the ship, with five men aboard besides the two-man boat crew. Those five included the helicopter pilot, its copilot, the Crew Chief, and two passengers — one of whom was my replacement.

I then learned that the helicopter had departed on schedule, but for some reason its engine had not produced the power necessary for it to fly normally. It was a Korean War-era, three-bladed aircraft, which would take off by hovering above the flight deck, move sideways, and then drop toward the water to gain lift. On this occasion, it reached the water and was unable to fly upwards. Its wheels were dipping in and out of the water, struggling to maintain flight. The flight crew aboard recognized it was in trouble and immediately called for the rescue boat and its two-man crew, already suspended over the side and ready to be dropped into the water, to move out.

On board the helicopter, which that morning had the copilot in control, the crew chief went into action. He was a big man, and immediately signaled to the pilots that he was going to get in the water — hoping the loss of his weight would allow the helicopter to fly. He popped his vest and jumped. It did not help, as it turned out. At that point, my replacement and the other passenger (a diesel mechanic, sent to service one of the generators) looked at each other and decided they had better get off, too. They let the pilots know what they were doing, popped their vests and then jumped into the water.

The copilot then continued moving the machine away from the ship and men in the water behind him, and then following ditching protocol, directed the pilot to exit the aircraft. The Pilot did so, and with the helicopter now well away from everyone in the water but still unable to gain flight, the copilot rolled the machine to knock off the spinning blades. It immediately settled into the water, nose down, and began to sink. Its huge engine was mounted in the nose of the aircraft. About the time it reached vertical, the copilot popped up from below the water. Within a few seconds, the helicopter disappeared.

Meanwhile, the rescue boat was moving along and picking up the men in the water, one by one, until all were aboard. It then began its return to the ship — which was about the time I reached the railing. I soon learned that the aircrew’s photographer, who was on duty with his camera at the ready before the helicopter even started its engine, had begun taking photos just as the problem began.

Unfortunately, his shutter had locked open on his first shot, and he ended up with a blank film. Thus, the call for anyone thoughtful enough to have grabbed a personal camera and filmed the incident. It so happened that a young seaman in the deck crew had grabbed his Brownie and taken one picture. It was the only visual record of the event. It showed a lighter blue sky, a dark blue sea, and something dark sticking out of the water. That ‘stick’ was one of the tail rotors, and seconds after he took the picture, the aircraft went to the bottom. We were in 600 fathoms of water at the time, or 3,600 feet from the bottom, where the helicopter came to rest — and where it remained (and probably still does to this day).

A day or so later, we left the area and headed to Brindisi, Italy, to pick up a new helicopter and replacement flight crew. The original crew were returned to the States, where (we were told) they would be kept busy for some time filling out forms and doing their best to determine why their helicopter had failed to fly.

After a week’s travel, we made a wide circle off the port of Brindisi to await the arrival of our new helicopter. It came straight out of the port, low to the water, and seemed to be going very fast. It passed by on our port side, perhaps 50 feet high, and made a loop around the ship. Then it approached the flight deck, came to a nose-high halt, and almost ‘leaped’ onto the ship.

The new helicopter looked somewhat like the first one, except that it had four blades and was considerably larger overall. It had three times the lifting capacity as the earlier one, a much more powerful engine, and was able to take off straight up rather than have to drop over the side to gain lift. The pilot was an older man, wearing Lieutenant’s bars, and always had a stub of an unlit cigar in his mouth when he flew. I was told that he had been ranked as high as Commander at one time, had more than 30 years of service, and was one of the original test pilots for resupplying ships at sea by helicopter during the final days of WWII. He was something of a cowboy, apparently.

Several times, as he returned to the ship after a trip to a shore station, he would approach the ship and when he got parallel amidships, he would spin the helicopter around and fly backwards — keeping pace with our movement. He and his crew remained aboard until we completed our survey work off Turkey’s southern coast. When we headed back to the States, making stops in Athens, Gibraltar, and Rota, Spain, he and his crew and the helicopter remained behind.

The Deep

We returned to Brooklyn from our Mediterranean cruise in late fall, only to be scheduled for another cruise early the next year. In fact, we would be leaving the east coast altogether and making our new home port at Pearl Harbor, Hawaii. It was during this brief stay in New York that I had a side adventure that I’ll always fondly remember.

Final Days

We spent several months surveying the Gulf of Siam during the spring of 1960, making two or three R&R visits up the Chao Phraya River to the City of Bangkok. There were some things that I found particularly interesting while we tired up the central pier. One was the passage of a monstrous dredge, making daily runs downriver and keeping the channel open. The river itself was the color of mud, and looked like you could walk on it (someone quipped that it was too thick to drink, but not quite thick enough to farm), but it was because of the enormous amount of silt it carried — especially during the monsoon seasons.

As a postscript, this is a contemporary definition of the work done by the USS Maury and its sister ship the Tanner. Note the introduction of survey-by-air, rendering obsolete the methods we used back in the day.

Hydrographic survey is the science of measurement and description of features which affect maritime navigation, marine construction, dredging, offshore oil exploration / offshore oil drilling and related activities. Strong emphasis is placed on soundings, shorelines, tides, currents, seabed and submerged obstructions that relate to the previously mentioned activities. The term hydrography is used synonymously to describe maritime cartography, which in the final stages of the hydrographic process uses the raw data collected through hydrographic survey into information usable by the end user. Hydrography is collected under rules which vary depending on the acceptance authority. Traditionally conducted by ships with a sounding line or echo 42 sounding, surveys are increasingly conducted with the aid of aircraft and sophisticated electronic sensor systems.

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The drive down 95 toward NYC was uneventful with little traffic, and I crossed over the George Washington Bridge a little before sunrise.  By the time I reached the NJ wetlands ahead of the tolls to the NJ Pike, the eastern horizon was beginning to lighten to the point that I could easily take in the NYC skyline.

All looked as normal as it ever did that morning.  I took a break at the first rest area for some breakfast and a driving break, and resumed my trip south.  Toward the lower end of the NJ Pike, I started hearing alerts over the radio about a plane hitting one of the World Center Towers.

By the time I reached the Delaware tolls, there came the report of another plane hitting the second tower.  What is going on? I thought.  This can’t be an accident.  The talk of an intentional hit by someone unknown, grew and became increasingly scary.

As I passed the Maryland tolls and hit the beltway around DC on the east side, going clockwise to the south, there was more talk about more planes that might have been hijacked to destinations unknown at the time.

As I reached the intersection for the turn south onto 95, word came about a third plane hitting the Pentagon.  I looked in my rear-view mirror and sure enough, there was the smoke rising from the explosion — not too many miles right behind me.

Now it was getting really scary.  I’m driving right under these damn things.  Will one go off somewhere ahead of me?  Not long after, word came that a fourth hijacked plane was down outside Shanksville, PA.

By the time I crossed the North Carolina line and began looking for a good stopping point, it was just a after midday.  At that point, from the TV in the motel, it was clear that the passengers aboard the fourth plane had taken control and forced the crash, preventing what might have been an attack on the White House or the Capitol.

Only after several more hours of coverage and the apparent end to such events by hijacked planes, was I able to begin to relax enough to think it was over, at least for that day.

Thousands died in the Towers and on those planes and in the Pentagon, and they will forever be on my mind.  Of course it would take days to work out the true extent of the horror caused by those behind the incident, and a little more time to figure out who the person was behind it all.

I called both daughters to let them know I was okay, having driven right through the areas where three of the four planes crashed.