Thirty Years Ago: A Ghost in the Working Party?

About this time each year we like to roll out a nautical ghost story or some other tale broaching the supernatural. There are few left, however, that have not been brought forth over and over so many times from multiple sources until there is hardly a person alive with an interest in the subject who has not heard about nor read them. With this in mind I am dusting off an old story that I have only repeated to a few people over the years. While not a believer in such things myself, I will grant that the unexplainable can sometimes happen. One such event reportedly happened to a fellow Sailor on a working party I was assigned to aboard the aircraft carrier Forrestal (CV 59) some years back.

Originally photographed in 2011 by Mass Communication Specialist Seaman Nicholas A. Groesch aboard USS Ronald Reagan (CVN 76) in the Western Pacific Ocean, this working party passing along chemical, biological, and radiological (CBR) kits, with an extra ghostly member inserted, serves as a convenient illustration for this Halloween-themed article. (Photo illustration by M.C. Farrington)

During the entirety of the history of the U.S. Navy, ships have never been entirely self-sufficient. While the dismal and dirty drudgery of loading coal disappeared a century ago with the ascendance of fuel oil-fired boilers and, later, gas turbines and nuclear reactors, the basic staples required by those manning war vessels the world over have not changed. Sooner or later, provisions must be taken aboard, whether from a pier or underway. Today, the Navy has logistics specialists to oversee the efficient procurement and management of those provisions, but there has never been enough of them on any ship to take these supplies onboard by themselves. Taking on essential supplies that all hands use has always been an all-hands effort, disproportionately allotted to lower-ranking Sailors, of which I was one aboard Forrestal.

On the Forrestal, there were few mechanical conveyors to bring frozen packages down into the refrigerated “reefers” below. Most of a large shipment of food and other consumables would be taken down into the hold using only Sailor power. Four or five decks down into the neither regions of the carrier, wax-coated cardboard packages, taken from palletized cargo hoisted onto the hangar bay during underway replenishment, were passed from hand to hand for what seemed like endless hours, down a vertical access trunk plunging straight to the refrigerated reefers of the hold. As one might expect, the spaces at the bottom were cold, dark, and a little slippery after the humid air of the North Arabian Sea reached them.

During most of the working parties I was assigned to, there wasn’t much talking. At least, it wasn’t the kind of talking that would pass for polite conversation. Every so often, however, the pace would let up as an empty pallet up in the hangar bay was moved aside and a new one staged. During the few minutes of respite, the Sailors of the working party could sit down, stretch, or even talk. The topic of conversation one particular day was an entity called “George,” the existence of which had been recently confirmed to the news media by the ship’s public affairs office.

The Sailor working closest to me claimed that he had an experience with George. He had been working with one other man at the bottom of a vertical access trunk that terminated at two reefer spaces. They had just finished filling up one reefer and had just opened the hatch leading into another empty one. One new problem that developed was that they could not get the lights in the space to turn on, but a much worse problem quickly became apparent. Despite having to traverse a further 25 feet to place the boxes along the opposite bulkhead of the newly-opened space, the petty officer overseeing the work above had refused to send down any more men to bridge the gap. The man at the end of the chain would have to quickly run each new box across the reefer from the entrance after receiving it from the second-to-last man (the teller of the tale) at the bottom of the trunk. 

Meanwhile, a box continued to come down about every five seconds.

U.S. Navy Damage Controlman Fireman Josh Steiger hands a frozen goods package to Electrician's Mate 3rd Class Joseph Spangenberg in a storage freezer aboard the aircraft carrier USS Harry S. Truman (CVN 75) at sea in an undisclosed location Sept. 23, 2010. The material condition of the freezer, not to mention the food being stored within, appears to be of markedly higher quality aboard this Nimitz-class carrier than it was for the author doing similar work aboard USS Forrestal. (U.S. Navy photo by Mass Communication Specialist Seaman Apprentice Tyler Caswell/Released)

Despite the new challenges they were facing, the Sailor at the doorway tried to keep up with the pace. After handing off the first box to the Sailor inside the darkened space, he pivoted upward to catch the next box being handed down from above, but he was shocked when a pair of hands emerged from the pitch-black doorway and grabbed it from his hands when he pivoted downward again. After the following box dropped into his hands, he pivoted back down to the Sailor who was again back in the doorway and asked him, “How’d you do that?” as he handed over the box.

“How’d I do what?” the man replied breathlessly.

“How did you get back here so fast?”

“I got back just now.”

“No, you grabbed the last box just a few seconds ago and now you’re back again.”

“No I didn’t. I just got back.”

Meanwhile, more boxes were coming down the access trunk unabated, so the two had to put their argument on hold, yet neither of them were able to keep the pace after that, nor were they ever able to sort out just what had happened.

Neither could I, after hearing the tale that day down at the bottom of a similar trunk near a similarly dank, dark reefer space. But there’s one thing I did know.

“George is supposed to be an officer; a ‘khaki,’ right?”

“That’s what I heard,” replied the Sailor.

“Then it can’t be George,” I said, “because no khaki, living or dead, would ever come pitch in all the way down here.”