Fair Winds and Following Seas for My Friends, My Shipmates, My Brothers

About a month ago, I heard this Gulf War story from Christophe Ames. I’ve cleaned it up a bit, but that’s it. It is his story and history. The story is both a sad one, and one of heroics. More than anything, it’s a true story. Here is Christophe’s narrative…

Today is the 30th anniversary of what I now consider the first day of my true adult life. The time of innocence is only a memory now. A few days after the deaths, as we stood in formation in Hangar Bay 1, aboard the USS Saratoga CV-60 in our Dress Blues, there wasn’t a dry eye aboard. We stood at attention for the reading of the names of the fallen and laying of the wreaths in the water.

That’s when it finally hit me, exhaustion abated, adrenalin subsided, my brain allowed me to think instead of only reacting. Boyish ignorance was never again to be of solace to me at the realization I was not “invincible”. I thought time might dull my recall, but as I think of it today, the memory is clear as a bell.

…It’s Zero dark hours on 22 December 1990, in the port at Haifa, Israel. It was my first deployment on the Saratoga during Desert Shield/Desert Storm. Airman Brent A. McCreight, Petty Officer Michael L. Bellevue, Petty Officer Mike Bray, and myself among others, had been further inland and were working our way down to the Israeli shoreline. Brent ALWAYS volunteered for the mission, but I had also asked Michael to go with us on that fateful night.

We were to rendezvous with three small egress boats piloted and crewed by Israeli Nationals. They were to take us out of the harbor, into open water and back to our ship. It was a moonless night, very cold, and the seas were rough.

The first boat filled and departed. As the second boat boarded, they only had two spots left and there were four of us from the unit. A debate ensued on who would stay. The third boat was delayed and had not yet arrived and none of us wanted to leave anyone behind. We knew the third boat could be canceled.

I spoke up and said “Brent and Mike have seniority so you guys go. Bray and I are best equipped to stay on shore in case Boat 3 doesn’t make it before dawn breaks.” At that, they boarded and departed.

After hunkering down under tarps and debris on the dock to protect us from the weather, the third boat finally arrived. We loaded the remaining sailors and departed. The seas just outside the breakwater were so rough, we actually caught up to the other two boats which were fighting to make it to the fantail aft of the carrier. Outside the harbor in the open waters, the current and waves picked up fiercely.

As Boat 1 was attempting to moor and off load people on the Saratoga, Boat 2 was in a tight holding orbit. As we approached, we were getting ready to start a wide orbit. It was pitch black and the Saratoga was at minimal lighting. All you could see of the small boats were the faint nav lights bobbing up and down in the waves.

Then it happened. The middle boat, Boat 2, went up on a wave and then just disappeared, gone in an instant. There was no warning, the lights were there one second and gone the next.

By the time we fought to get to the site of the capsizing, Boat 1 had turned around to assist, but Boat 2 was gone. It sunk so quickly, all hands aboard went under instantly. There wasn’t anything we could do except search and rescue. We were listening for survivors calls against the noise of the stirring seas and roaring wind. We didn’t know it yet, but many of the sailors went to the bottom with the boat.

There was nothing normal about what was happening. They weren’t even our boats. They were Israeli boats and crews who were familiar with the seas. Hardly any of us was wearing life jackets, let alone our normal issued life vests with chem lights.

We pulled survivors and bodies from the water. MAA3 (MAA is a Navy Military Police designation) Delwin Delggado jumped from the top deck of the boat into the cold dark waters for his shipmates. He selflessly saved seven people before succumbing to the icy waters, making the ultimate sacrifice.

Bray and I pulled aboard survivors and even performed CPR on one, until we hit bingo fuel (no fuel) in our boat and had to head back. I never saw Brent or Michael alive again.

The next few hours turned into days. I was the first one offloaded while I was giving CPR to a shipmate. I’ll never forget the person who grabbed us both, hauling us aboard. As the boat pitched and rolled in the 3-5ft swells, the fantail seemed as steady as a pier. The man who hauled me out was the EOD Diver, who also ran the hangar bay calisthenics.

He looked like the SEAL Senior Chief from the movie “GI Jane” played by Viggo Mortensen. I immediately recognized him because I’d attended most of his workouts. He hadn’t really ever invited us non-divers, I’d just show up every day, form up in the back and then try not to puke. Over time, I recruited a couple of other non-divers to come with me. After awhile, there were a bunch of us and the good natured ribbing began. We brought towels to lay on the deck because the divers didn’t share exercise mats. He’d see us coming and say, “Here come the Airedales & they brought their towels, because if they came close enough to the water they will dissolve… Bunch of sugar britches.” When we formed up with them, he’d look at me and say, “HI SUGARCUBE keep up the pace & try to stay dry.”

… That night he was half in his dry suit and a kapok (a kapok is a rudimentary military life vest), strapped to the fantail landing. He was perfectly timing his pulls, as he yanked guys off the small boats while they pitched and rolled. We picked up my fallen shipmate and put him over my shoulder, as I leaned over the side of the wildly moving boat. The Sr Chief and some medics hauled the two of us aboard. The medics grabbed the guy and took him to the Medical Bay. I’m not sure who he was, and I never knew if he made it.

I didn’t follow them. I turned and looked at Senior Chief and he said “Strap in SUGARCUBE and lend a hand” as he commenced to putting safety straps around me. A Boatswains Mate manning the boat lines threw me a Kapok. I suddenly realized the medics that had helped me off were now away and attending to my injured shipmate. Senior Chief was the only one left and needed help getting other sailors onboard. We unloaded the rest of Boat 3 and then Boat 1. The last living sailor was finally hauled aboard. 21 sailors, friends, and brothers in arms were lost that night.

I heard a soft, purposeful, immediately recognizable voice behind us say, “OK Senior Chief you can get ready to go get my boys.” Senior Chief replied “Yes sir” and mumbled, not so quietly under his breath, “It’s about time.” I turned and saw Captain Mobley, who had been close behind us the whole time. Later the OOD would say the Captain was at the Bridge moments after the man overboard alarm was sounded and then immediately went to the fantail once he heard the boats were coming in.

It came out later that the Captain had to stop Senior Chief and his SAR swimmers from just jumping in the drink as soon as they heard the “man over board” alarm. Until they knew what had happened and exactly where, going in dark with no specific direction and under a possible threat would have been disastrous. They would have most likely just added to the victims list. If that happened, no one would be left to go in after the SAR Swimmers or anyone else. The Captain made the right call, the hard call.

After our two boats were unloaded, they suspended boat operations to evaluate what happened. I went up, changed to dry clothes and headed back to the fan tail. That’s when I saw Brent one last time in the Hangar Bay. I positively identified his body and made a silent promise to NEVER forget him and to make sure EVERYONE else got back aboard. I said my goodbye and headed Aft.

Dawn broke and I arrived at the fantail which, at this point, was roped off and secured except for the small quarter deck entrance to the fantail ladder. I beelined straight there. Right as an MAA was motioning to stop me, I looked past him and said in a loud voice “Captain Mobley.” I looked at the MAA and said, “Excuse me” and walked right past him and up to the CO who was talking to the XO, and Admiral Boorda. I looked at all of them, and then right past them. Never stopping, I said with a nod for each, “Sir, Sir, Sir.” I proceeded past them and down the ladder to the landing.

I suited up and strapped in as if I’d been ordered to a duty station for the impending arrival of the first retrievals of the day. No one asked any questions. There wasn’t anyone from the earlier crew, because Senior Chief was now coordinating diving operations. They were retrieving our shipmate’s bodies still trapped in the sunken boat more than one hundred feet below.

I didn’t leave the fan tail for almost two days.

I ate brown bags in between boats unloading. Senior Chief and his crew retrieved all but one of our shipmates. We pulled every sailor’s body off those pitching and rolling boats until everyone was back aboard. Senior Chief and I saw each other a couple of times that day during his required out of water time between dives. He came over and checked on me, and made sure I had food and people to help for the remainder of the time…

…The next time I saw Senior Chief was a few weeks later before a work out. He didn’t raz me as usual. He read my name tape and from then on, he only called me “Ames.” Everyone else was teased except me. He actually asked me to lead some of the workouts when he was not available. We exchanged brief pleasantries, but never spoke of that night.

The last time I saw him was a year later when I was promoted to Petty Officer and he said, “Hey Ames, I see you got your crow. It just proves even a blind squirrel gets a nut every now and again.” He was the last to “tack” it on, he grabbed my arm, raised it up high…and then hit me in the stomach! He said, “Divers hit DEEPER.” Not being a diver, I didn’t realize at the time the honor he bestowed upon me.

That night we lost 21 Sailors and Brothers in Arms. A part of me never left that Fantail, that Harbor, that Hangar Bay. A large part of me was forged on the Saratoga, especially that night. I think of my shipmates often and have survivor guilt to this day. I was the one who had asked Mike to go. What if I hadn’t? What if I had picked someone else? What if I went on Boat 2, or Bray had? Would I have somehow survived, would he have, or would I have succumbed to the same fate as my friends? What if…What if…but I digress…

I had the opportunity to meet Brents family the summer of ‘15 at his Memorial. It was deeply meaningful for all of us and helped me immensely. This year, thirty years after the event, is just as vivid and memorable. The bite is just as deep, although now a little less sharp.

I’m keeping my promise from more than a quarter of a century ago. My shipmates, you are NOT forgotten. You fulfilled your duty, and we have the watch now. Fair Winds and Following Seas My Friends, My Shipmates, My Brothers. “Until we meet again in Valhalla, in the house not built with hands, but eternal in the heavens.”

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A list of those fine young men who gave their Last Full Measure that night:

BELLIVEAU, Michael L., 24 years old, Lakewood, Colo.

BROWN, Christopher B., 19, Leslie, Ga.

BROWN, Darrell K., 19, Memphis, Tenn.

CARRINGTON, Monray C., 22, North Braddock, Pa.

CLARK, Larry M., 21, Decatur, Ga.

DELGADO, Delwin, 26, Jacksonville, Fla.

FLEMING, Anthony J, 25, Buffalo, NY

FONTAINE, Gilbert, 22, Spring Valley, N.Y.

HUYGHUE, Wilton L., 20, St. Thomas, Virgin Islands.

JACKSON, Timothy J., 20, Anniston, Ala.

JONES, Alexander, 19, St. Louis, Mo.

KEMP, Nathaniel, 18, Greenwood, Fla.

McCREIGHT, Brent A., 23, Eminence, Ky.

NEEL, Randy L., 19, Albuquerque, N.M.

PLUMMER, Marvin J., 27, Ponte Vedra Beach, Fla.

SCHIEDLER, Matthew J., 20, Hubbard, Ore.

SEAY, Timothy B., 22, Thomaston, Ga.

SETTIMI, Jeffrey A., 25, Fort Wayne, Ind.

STEWART, Roderick T., 20, Shreveport, La.

SHUKERS, Jeffrey W., 28, Union, Iowa

WILKINSON, Philip L., 35, Savannah, Ga.

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