Master Chief (36 page)

In early February, while we were preparing for our upcoming mine readiness certification inspection, Gunner George got a case of the bends while diving the MK-VI
scuba rig with a mixture of sixty-eight percent helium and thirty-two percent oxygen at a depth of ninety feet.
^*

Gunner, like the rest of us, had remained well within his allowed bottom time. Sometimes those things happen, especially after years of diving. Fortunately, we were located only a little more than three-quarters of a mile out in the Saratoga Passage just southeast of Forbes Point, Whidbey Island. Once we notified the NAS duty officer, a helicopter picked us up and took all four of us at about fifty feet altitude south to the Navy’s recompression chamber located near Bremerton at Naval Undersea Warfare Engineering Station. After the Navy’s diving-specialist doctor asked Gunner a few questions and examined him, Gunner was placed into the recompression chamber table with an attendant for two hours and fifteen minutes. After his treatment, Gunner said, “Man, I feel fit as a fiddle. Let’s pick up a case of beer for the road.”

In late February our detachment was required to undergo a mine recovery certification inspection. The inspection team were all EOD personnel assigned to the Mine Counter Measures Inspection Group located at Charleston, South Carolina. Their primary responsibility wasto inspect Navy EOD Detachment’s operational capabilities in the location, destruction, or RSP (Render Safe Procedures) and recovery of underwater mines in a variety of tactical situations using regular air and the MK-VI mixed-gas scuba rigs. Gunner George had all of us busily preparing for the inspection. As was normal for
that time of the year, an Arctic storm came down through the Gulf of Alaska and struck the Northwest. In spite of the storm and the accompanying rough seas, we continued with our mine recovery rehearsals by diving in the somewhat sheltered Crescent Harbor, just west of Oak Harbor Bay near Polnell Point. Our diving platform was our outboard-motor-powered Zodiac—a rubber boat with a plywood deck and stern—which was soon coated with a thick layer of ice. Because we were diving with rubber wet suits and rubber gloves, our maximum diving time was no more than thirty-five to forty-five minutes. If we extended our bottom time, our minds, bodies, and especially our hands began freezing up from the effects of hypothermia.

Later, Gunner managed to convince the Whidbey Naval Air Station to purchase dry suits for the four of us, extending our time to well over an hour in the water during extremely adverse conditions. We also put on several layers of woolen longhandles and socks under our dry suits to extend our diving time.

Once the inspection team arrived, we worked fourteen to sixteen hours a day for six days searching for, destroying, or recovering rendered safe mines of one form or another on land, in the surf, and in black, muddy Puget Sound waters. All four of us made as many as four dives per day. Because of the weather, tight schedules, and long hours, we were very tired by the end of the sixth day and relieved that the inspection was over. Not surprisingly, the inspection team gave us very high marks for all of the MRCI scenarios.

On March 15, 1982, we flew to Honolulu and reported aboard EOD Group 1, Barbers Point, Hawaii, for five weeks of detachment/team training.

The worst part of the training was having to wear the chemical warfare Butyl rubber suit, M-3 TAP
(Toxicological Agent Protective) with the M-9A1 protective mask during surprisingly hot and humid weather. The experience reminded me of the summer I worked for the Bridwell Hereford Ranch. When we weren’t hauling hay and alfalfa bales from the fields, I was stacking them in an incredibly hot metal barn’s second-story hayloft. The only difference was that the Butyl rubber suit and mask were worse—I couldn’t even chew my Skol.

The most enjoyable portion of the training was parachute operations: four day water jumps that included one equipment jump and one night, water jump. Because of my past experience in airborne operations, Gunner George graciously allowed me to jump-master all five jumps. The first four day jumps took place from Marine CH-46 helicopters into the West Loch of Pearl Harbor. Interestingly, an honest-to-goodness fifteen-foot—some claimed it to be at least twenty—hammerhead shark was often seen cruising about the West Loch seeking tasty EOD divers and jumpers for dinner. Fortunately, we never saw the man-eater during our stay. (I didn’t watch the movie
Jaws
until after I had retired from the Navy.)

Our last jump took place outside of Pearl Harbor near Po Kai. On that particular night I had to drop Gunner, Jim, and Tony off first, then have the helo swing around and jump when the pilot gave me thumbs-up. All of us enjoyed our week of parachute operations—it beat the thunder out of walking around in hot, humid weather trying to view a chemical piece of ordnance from a fogged-up gas mask and fighting off a heat stroke in a Butyl rubber suit.

Because of the shortage of berthing at Barbers Point, we were “forced” to reside in individual rooms at the Holiday Isla Hotel in the heart of Waikiki on Kalakaua Avenue and Lewers Road, only a couple of blocks from the beach. We were also “forced” to eat at the many fine restaurants in the area. I even had time to visit the Davy
Jones Locker for a couple of cool ones one evening for old times’ sake. While there, I gave a toast to the memory of my UDT teammates and my very good regular Navy friend John Bagos. I couldn’t help but reflect on the good times John and I had had together over the years, and especially when I visited his home for a couple of days while he was stationed at Pearl Harbor’s communications center. That visit took place when I was chief of Alfa Platoon in September of 1974 while traveling on board the USS
DuBuque
on our way to Subic Bay.

Our detachment/team training was generally enjoyable, but after five weeks it was time to return to Whidbey Island and cooler weather.

In July 1982 Detachment Whidbey spent two weeks aboard the USS
Constellation
(CV-64) in support of the Third Fleet exercises. It was my first time aboard an aircraft carrier, and my last. During the F-14, F-8, and A-6 aircraft launches, I learned the value of using ear plugs and the Navy Mickey Mouse ear protectors to reduce the incredible jet blast reverberations that seemed to penetrate all of my body. The blast was especially severe just before the steam-powered cable jerked the jet forward at a tremendous rate until the aircraft gained enough speed to shoot off the ship’s bow under its own power. More important, I also learned that during the frantic activities of men and aircraft moving about the flight deck in preparation for individual aircraft launching, it was easy to get sucked into jet engine intakes or get blown over the side. It was a simple matter of being in the wrong place at the right time or, on the other side of the coin, the right place at the wrong time. Fortunately, everyone watched out for each other. Even so, fatal accidents were fairly common during launch and recovery operations. Those flight deck airdales and pilots don’t get hazardous-duty pay for nothing.

In October 1982 Detachment Whidbey had to endure EOD Group 1’s ORI (Operational Readiness Inspection) for a period of six days. The purpose of the ORI was to examine every facet of our detachment’s administrative and operational capabilities in airborne and diving, conventional, unconventional, chemical and nuclear ordnance, and so on. When the inspection team arrived, I was delighted to discover that my old Alfa Platoon commander (1973–74 with SEAL Team 1), Lt. Jim Lake, was the OIC. After six days of intense and arduous administrative and operational activities under the watchful eyes of the inspection team, Detachment Whidbey had been judged very capable of performing our mission area responsibilities with ratings high above the norm.

During March 1983 Detachment Whidbey was tasked to support the Secret Service in Seattle during Queen Elizabeth’s visit aboard the royal yacht for the better part of a week. We were required to swim underneath the dark piers and inspect all spaces with flashlights for any signs of terrorist activities or bombs. We also inspected the bottom of Puget Sound within a hundred meters or so of Her Majesty’s yacht. Interestingly, a SEAL Team 1 platoon was hidden in a structure near the yacht. The platoon’s tactical objective was to immediately neutralize any terrorist attack against the queen and/or the royal yacht.

After our waterborne search activities, Detachment Whidbey was utilized by the Secret Service to inspect all cameras and baggage in the lobby of the Westin Hotel, plus all of the rooms that were visited by the queen and her entourage for every type, design, and form of bomb. It was an awesome responsibility and required long, tiring hours of searching under beds, inside closets, commodes, under carpets, and in all areas that could possibly conceal a bomb and its supporting or diversionary devices.

Some of the more sophisticated terrorist bombs, which
had generally come out of Ireland and Libya, had a combination of collapsing circuits, photoelectric cells, magnetic, mercury, trembler, and pressure switches as the primary and/or secondary modes of triggering the detonation. Also, infrared and laser beam systems were sometimes used, alone or in combination with radio firing devices. It was a game of schemes and psychology when dealing with terrorists. The EOD profession was not an easy one, as was well-demonstrated in the movie
Juggernaut
with Richard Harris and Omar Sharif. However, an EOD technician never had to worry about finding a job after leaving the military.

During one of the days that we were working in the hotel lobby inspecting baggage and cameras, I ran into Captain Gormly, my past CO of UDT-12, and a friend. He was at that time the command staff officer of Naval Special Warfare Group 1. Captain Gormly told me that two of my old teammates, R. E. Saliant and Chief Paul McNally, had recently died of heart attacks, and that Capt. Maxi Stevenson had drowned.

Maxi Stevenson was the XO of UDT-12 when I first reported aboard after graduating from UDT Training Class 36 on December 3, 1965. Maxi stood about six feet tall, and weighed approximately 230 pounds the last time that I had seen him in 1980. Captain Gormly went on to explain that Maxi had been scuba diving with two friends in Hawaii when he made a slashing motion across his throat with his hand, indicating that he was out of air, followed by pointing toward the surface, indicating that he was going to return to the surface. Because Maxi’s signals didn’t indicate an emergency, they acknowledged and continued on their dive. Later, when they returned to the boat, they discovered that there were no signs of Maxi having returned from his aborted dive. The two men dove back to the vicinity where they had last seen him, and found his
body a short distance from his scuba tanks. Obviously, Captain Stevenson had ditched his tanks and weight belt and tried to free-ascent to the surface, but apparently he blacked out before he could reach the surface.

Chief Paul McNally was one of the true legends of the West Coast UDT teams. Chief McNally had been one of my instructors while I was a member of UDT Training Class 36. Over the years, Paul and I had developed a type of a father/son relationship and were very close. Paul had always been a legendary long-distance swimmer, and delighted in competing with the occasional UDT line officers who competed as collegiate and Olympic swimmers. Much to their chagrin, Paul never failed to soundly defeat all of them until he was well into his forties.

Capt. Maxi Stevenson, Chief Paul McNally, and Petty Officer 1st Class R. E. Saliant were some of the last and best of the old-timers. In accordance with naval tradition, they had been piped over the side for the last time and passed over the bar for eternity.

In parting, Captain Gormly also told me that UDT-11 would become SEAL Team 5, and UDT-12 the new SDV (Swimmer Delivery Vehicle) Team 1 effective May 1983. On the East Coast at Little Creek, Virginia, UDT-20 would become SEAL Team 4, and UDT-22 the new SDV Team 2. Somehow I felt some sadness at the change—the UDTs were now history.

In August 1983 EOD Detachment Whidbey was tasked to support the Secret Service during Vice President Bush’s visit to Glacier National Park during the national “Outdoors Week.” Surprisingly, for us, the ambient temperature reached over 100 degrees throughout the week; however, the temperature dropped down into the fifties during the night.

That week, the four of us worked sixteen to eighteen hours a day crawling under beds, searching closets, the
basement, and all of the other nooks and crannies of the old Lake McDonald Lodge and Apgar campground. We also donned our scuba gear—because the water’s temperature was about 40 degrees, we naturally elected to wear our wet suits—and dove under and around the pier in back of the lodge, searching for any form of bombs or terrorist activities before the vice president and his wife toured the lake by boat. We were also utilized by the Secret Service to search under small bridges and the surrounding terrain prior to Vice President Bush’s and Senator Alan Simpson’s (Wyoming) fly-fishing trip by canoe down the McDonald Creek toward the middle fork of the Flathead River. I didn’t have the time or opportunity to speak with the vice president, but I did get to speak with Senator Simpson for a few minutes about trout fishing, hunting, and backpacking. It didn’t take me long to realize that Mr. Simpson—slender of build and about six feet four inches tall—was a knowledgeable fisherman and outdoorsman, and, most important to me, he was never condescending in tone or vocabulary and very enjoyable to talk to.

On two other occasions, Detachment Whidbey supported the Secret Service: during Mrs. Nancy Reagan’s visit to Seattle in support of that administration’s “War Against Drugs,” and during Senator Gary Hart’s visit to the Seattle area during his run for the Democratic candidacy for president. Fortunately, we never encountered any terrorist problems during any of the occasions that we supported the Secret Service.

In October 1983 Detachment Whidbey spent a few days at the U.S. Army’s Yakima Firing Range to dispose of a large amount of retrograde munitions. While there, we had the opportunity to hunt for Hungarian partridge (called Huns) and prairie chickens for the better part of one day. It was a great day for varmint hunting, too.