Reading a Museum Artifact: What Commander John Graf’s Flight Jacket Can Tell Us

By William Clarkson
HRNM Educator

In addition to providing insight into the past, artifacts help us form a closer connection with a historical narrative. But what if we do not have that narrative context? Today we will look at an artifact on display at the Hampton Roads Naval Museum in the Ten Thousand-Day War at Sea exhibit, our current special exhibit about the U.S. Navy’s role during the Vietnam War. One of two flight jackets in the gallery, this G-1 style flight jacket belonged to Commander John “Jack” Graf, who enlisted in the U.S. Navy in 1945. Graf was a Photographers Mate who commissioned as an officer in 1958. A flight jacket provides a snapshot of an aviator’s service. Using this jacket, we’ll explore how to “read” an artifact and how that examination can be a window into the artifact owner’s career.

CDR John Graf’s leather G-1 style flight jacket, on display at HRNM (HRNM)

At its most basic, this is a leather jacket with a fur-lined collar. Generally, only pilots and aircrew personnel receive and wear this kind of garment. These jackets came about in response to the extreme conditions present when flying at altitude.[i] Based on the materials and design, this is a “G-1” flight jacket (a general designation for a range of variants), which tells us that it was made sometime after 1947 when the “G-1” style came into being.[ii] The leather flight jacket ceased being used during missions as cockpits changed and new fabrics and technologies were developed. Thus, this style of flight jacket became more a status symbol than necessary equipment. The nameplate on the left breast provides the name, rank, and service of the owner. In this case, J.G. Graf, Lieutenant, U.S. Navy, owned this jacket. A close inspection shows the letters “JG” scratched off after the rank, indicating that Graf acquired the jacket while a Lieutenant (Junior Grade), and instead of having a new nameplate made and sewn on, he chose a more expedient remedy.

Steam rises from a vent at a snow- and ice-covered Little America Station during Operation Deep Freeze III (U.S. Navy Seabee Museum)

Visible below the nameplate is a patch from Operation Deep Freeze III (1957-58). Patches of military garments denote service with specific units or participation in certain official operations. The Deep Freeze operations were part of a long-term international scientific effort to perform research and experiments across several stations in Antarctica.[iii] This included atmospheric study, ice-core sampling, and astronomy in the polar environment. This phase of Deep Freeze coincided with the International Geophysical Year, a larger global scientific effort to study both the Arctic and Antarctic regions. Serving in Antarctica is uncommon for Sailors, and the patch’s presence on this flight jacket makes Graf’s career somewhat unique. With the benefit of John Graf’s service history, we know that he did participate in Deep Freeze III, and was part of the “wintering-over” party at Little America Station in Kainan Bay on the Ross Ice Shelf. It was here that Graf commissioned as ensign, making the transition from enlisted to the officer ranks, becoming what is known in the Navy as a “Mustang.”[iv]

USS Independence (CV 62), USS Saratoga (CV 60), and USS Intrepid (CVA 11) celebrate the 50th anniversary of U.S. Naval Aviation (NHHC)

The jacket’s other patches also provide valuable information. The patch on the right shoulder is that of Heavy Attack Squadron 9 (VAH-9), known as the “Hoot Owls.” This patch is datable to the mid-1950s to early 1960s, since the design changed when the squadron was redesignated as RVAH-9 in 1964. On the right breast is the patch of USS Saratoga (CVA 60). Commissioned in 1956, Saratoga was the second aircraft carrier to bear that name. On the left shoulder is the patch of Carrier Air Group 3, known as “Battle Axe.” These three patches are diagnostic due to the overlap of each unit’s service history. VAH-9 was assigned to USS Saratoga from 1957 to 1964 as part of Carrier Air Group 3 (CVG-3). CVG-3 was redesignated as Carrier Air Wing 3, and VAH-9 to RVAH-9 in 1963 and 1964, respectively. Based on this evidence, we can reasonably surmise that Graf served aboard Saratoga as a member of VAH-9 sometime between the years of 1957-1963. With the benefit of Graf’s service history, we know that he served with VAH-9 aboard Saratoga from 1959-1963, during which time USS Saratoga deployed several times to the Mediterranean and was involved in the Cuban Missile Crisis in 1962.

OV-1 Mohawk aircraft of the Vietnam era. It was in this type of aircraft that LCDR Graf was shot down and captured during his second Vietnam tour in 1969. (Nasa.gov)

So, why is this flight jacket in the Vietnam section of HRNM? While this artifact does not reflect CDR Graf’s time in Vietnam, it represents the man who served there. LT Graf first deployed to Vietnam in 1966 as a Naval Intelligence Liaison Officer, during which time he was forced to crash land an O-1 Bird Dog observation plane (with no prior pilot’s training) after the pilot was killed by ground fire. For this action he was awarded the Distinguished Flying Cross. LCDR Graf returned to Vietnam in 1969 where on November 15, 1969, both he and the pilot of an OV-1 Mohawk were forced to eject and were captured by North Vietnamese forces. Graf died during an escape attempt in February 1970. John Graf was declared “Killed-in-Action” in February 1978 and posthumously promoted to the rank of Commander. This jacket stands as a physical connection to the life and career of a Sailor, officer, and aviator of the U.S. Navy who served and was lost during the Vietnam War.



Notes:
[i] This blog about an MA-1 flight jacket on display briefly discusses the origins of the flight jackets, and how they were adapted with changing flight conditions: https://hamptonroadsnavalmuseum.blogspot.com/2020/07/naval-aviators-essential-accessories.html
[ii] The label inside the collar of the jacket is quite worn, so the specific variant is not immediately discernable. Often, artifacts are only datable to a range of time and not a specific date of creation or use.
[iii] The Cruisebook for Operation Deep Freeze (Task Force 43) is available online at: https://www.history.navy.mil/content/dam/museums/Seabee/Cruisebooks/postwwiicruisebooks/antarctica-cruisebooks/DEEPFREEZE%20III%20TASK%20FORCE%2043%201957-58.pdf
[iv] While not official Navy terminology, Sailors who rise in the enlisted ranks and are then commissioned into the officer corps are often referred to as “Mustangs,” or “Mustangers.”

Graffiti on a Vietnam Troopship

Army soldiers prepare to board USNS Barrett (T AP 196) under the watchful eye of a boatswain's mate before the voyage to Vietnam. (Naval History and Heritage Command)

By Alicia Pullen & Elijah Palmer

Educator & Deputy Director of Education

Two artifacts often overlooked in the museum's exhibit, "The Ten Thousand-Day War at Sea: The U.S. Navy in Vietnam, 1950-1975," are the canvas racks from the troop transport USNS General Nelson M. Walker (T AP 125). Canvas was used in the berthing compartments aboard ships dating back to the Age of Sail. During the first half of the 20th century, canvas was attached and spread inside the metal bed frames. This served as cheap, lightweight bedding that could be easily removed or changed. Like military personnel through the ages, soldiers on transport ships to Vietnam passed some of their time expressing themselves through words and art on materials at hand. In this case, they used the canvas racks upon which they spent so much time. 

Canvas racks taken from USNS General Nelson M. Walker on display in HRNM's Vietnam exhibit (Alicia Pullen)

USNS General Nelson M. Walker preparing to debark troops at Vung Tau, South Vietnam in April 1967. (Naval History and Heritage Command)

General Nelson M. Walker was one of many vessels that participated in the "steel bridge" from the United States to the war effort in Vietnam. 98% of all supplies came to Southeast Asia via sea, and while some troops arrived in Vietnam by airplane, many units still arrived in country like their predecessors in earlier wars, by troopship. Built as USS Admiral T. Mayo during World War II, this ship was brought out of the reserve fleet in August 1965 to help with the buildup of American forces in Vietnam. After a refit in the 1950s, the vessel could carry over 3,700 troops. It made numerous trips between the United States and Asia from 1966 through the end of 1967, carrying Army and Marine units. 

This graffiti is most likely commemorating Bruce and Pat's wedding anniversary (Elijah Palmer)

Possible Star of David (Elijah Palmer)

The soldiers transported aboard General Nelson M. Walker had to cope with boredom, cramped spaces, and seasickness during their 5,000-mile voyage. The trip usually lasted close to three weeks, with only a short stop at Okinawa near the end of the passage to Vietnam. The ship also took marines and soldiers back to the United States on return voyages, during which the men faced many of the same challenges of shipboard life. Many of these servicemembers likely never imagined that they would be aboard a ship in the first place. Now they had to share limited spaces--which got hot and smelly--they had to wait their turn for meals and to use the head, and they had to entertain themselves for days on end. Thus, it is not unusual that some individuals turned to drawing graffiti on the canvas which was abundant in their berthing areas.  

Based on the date, this soldier likely debarked at Vung Tau in the picture earlier in the post. An interesting note here is the inclusion of the ETS (Expiration Term of Service) date. (Elijah Palmer)

This soldier also likely marked his ETS date as the ship was no longer in service in September 1968. (Elijah Palmer)

The canvas from General Nelson M. Walker was retrieved by Art and Lee Beltrone from the ship while it lay in the reserve "ghost fleet" on the James River. The ship had not been touched since it came back from Vietnam in December 1967. The Beltrones created the "Graffiti Project" to preserve the history of the ship and its passengers during the Vietnam War. They also graciously loaned the canvas on display at HRNM. Artifacts like these canvas racks provide a tangible reminder of the servicemembers who traveled to fight in Vietnam.

Captured Viet Cong Propaganda

The Hampton Roads Naval Museum’s "Ten Thousand-Day War at Sea" exhibit is home to various propaganda artifacts, such as the one that hangs above the sampan in the Riverine area, which reads: “(1) To the military brothers, don’t listen to the American soldiers. (2) Punji sticks are for the Americans, don’t go in. (3) The military who kills the Americans is patriotic.” This sign was captured by members of the Mobile Riverine Force (Task Force 117). (Naval History and Heritage Command)

By Matthew Headrick
HRNM Educator

In a journal article published in 1973, Lt. Colonel Philip M. Flammer, a professor of military history at Air University and former professor at the USAF Academy, defined the word “propaganda” by quoting the Nazi propagandist Joseph Goebbels, who said that propaganda “has nothing to do with truth…. What matters is that it achieves its purposes.” Flammer believed that, during the Vietnam War, the North Vietnamese embraced some of the same methodologies put forth previously by the Nazis, formatting it to fit the Communist doctrine. However, the mission was not just to proselytize. Propaganda was a way of spreading fear while giving direct orders, such as to protect against an “other.” The fact is, propaganda was used on both sides with the same goals: to promote an ideal and to protect that ideal through the use of violence.   

Vietnamese propaganda came in many different forms. Propaganda was not just comprised of singular messages about the U.S. “invading army.” Nor could it only be found in pamphlets full of anti-American literature. The Viet Cong often used symbols as propaganda. For example, the lotus flower represented a sort of logic or philosophy about the human condition. Then there was the visually striking Communist iconography: a giant billboard of Ho Chi Minh’s face. Artwork portrayed soldiers fighting on the front lines, emerging victoriously against the opponent.

(Courtesy Dogma Collection via CNN)

For the most part, the state controlled all aspects of the media. This is evident in images such as the one below which reads, “We stand ready to fight by our Vietnamese friends!” It infers that Communists around the world are joined together in fighting the enemy. Not only did these messages incentivize war against the U.S., but they were also meant to direct people's attention towards a particular ideology, a selling point on Communism.

(Pritzker Military Museum & Library)

The Naval History and Heritage Command (NHHC) has in its possession numerous propaganda pieces. These artifacts help museum professionals convey a more extensive narrative about the role propaganda played in the Vietnam War. For example, housed at NHHC’s artifact storage facility are the leaflets and banner taken from this Viet Cong propaganda float. The float was captured by PBRs of River Section 523 in the Co Chien River on September 1, 1967. The South Vietnamese had their way of getting messages downriver as well, such as utilizing banana stalks. The U.S. would sometimes resort to floating toy sailboats with messages. 

(Naval History and Heritage Command)

Located in the museum’s Intelligence part of the Vietnam gallery is another piece of North Vietnamese propaganda in the form of a banner which translates to: “We are ready to defeat any night ambush from the RVN stubborn servants.”

(Naval History and Heritage Command)

Also on display at the museum is a two-sided propaganda sign on a piece of wood. On the front, it translates as, “Long live the South Vietnam people’s liberation front, the only and true representative of the people of the south.” On the back side, it reads, “In light of the victory spirit, all young men and women, hold and aim guns straight to the enemies, American puppets, to exterminate them.” 

Front of sign (Naval History and Heritage Command)

Reverse side (Naval History and Heritage Command)

During the Vietnam War, both the U.S. and Viet Cong commonly used radio, posters, signs, symbols, and literature to share their respective messages about the enemy. Today, propaganda is used to influence how we reflect and remember the past, particularly during times of war. Now more than ever, historians are paying close attention to the power of propaganda. Through the study of these types of artifacts, we are better equipped to put conflicts, such as the Vietnam War, into context. Understanding the use of propaganda allows us to gain perspective on more than just the “what,” but the “why” as well. 

From Saigon with Love

This wedding dress was sewn by Beverly O'Shea, from fine silk bought by her husband Mike in Saigon before their stateside wedding. (M.C. Farrington)

By Alicia Pullen
HRNM Educator

The newly opened exhibit at the Hampton Roads Naval Museum (HRNM) titled “The Ten Thousand-Day War at Sea,” houses a display case of a simple, yet elegant wedding dress. Like many of the artifacts, oral histories, pictures, and captions within the exhibit, each demonstrates the U.S. Navy’s involvement in the Vietnam War while sharing their own story. The wedding dress, in particular, reveals a story about love that was challenged by the American war effort in Vietnam. Moreover, the history of this artifact is unknown to the public and deserves its place as a compelling narrative in understanding the lives and sacrifices of those who served in Vietnam. 

In 1963, Mike and Beverly O’Shea met at the Naval Station Newport Rhode Island Hospital. Beverly was a corpsman nurse and treated Mike who had been sent to intensive care. Mike’s situation was precarious as he suffered from bleeding ulcers and was in a coma for quite some time. When Mike recovered, he was released back to duty. Following Mike’s recovery at the hospital, the two began dating. Many of their dates were in the morgue, as Mike worked at the Naval laboratory in pathology. During that same year, Mike proposed to Beverly. Prior to that time, neither of them had confessed their love for one another, which made the moment even more of a surprise. About half a year later, Beverly accepted Mike’s proposal.

A close up photograph shows the intricate weave of the silk fabric Mike O'Shea bought while serving as a Navy Corpsman in Saigon. (M.C. Farrington)

During their engagement, Mike transitioned to the reserves and went to Vietnam, while Beverly remained on active duty back in Rhode Island. Mike was stationed at the Naval Station Hospital in Saigon working in the lab. He was in Vietnam from 1964-1965, witnessing the changing scene as the American involvement increased. The hospital in Saigon was very busy with many patients treated for different conditions, so Mike was kept occupied. For instance in March 1965, Mike and his friend were driving back from the exchange, where military personnel could purchase personal items, when they witnessed a Viet Cong car bombing near the U.S. Embassy. Mike immediately jumped out of his cab and ran to help people. Mike recalled seeing many people run out of the embassy covered in glass and seeing chaos on the streets of Saigon. Although they had been very close to the site, Mike and his friend were fortunate not to have been wounded in the explosion. 

In preparation for their wedding, Mike purchased silk and lace fabric in Saigon and mailed the items to Beverly so she could sew her own wedding dress. This type of fabric was found in Saigon due to the French colonial rule that had recently ended in 1954. Beverly recalled being excited when she received the fabric but had never sewn before. This was a task she was eager to take on, and it took Beverly about nine months to sew the dress and a wedding veil. Once Mike’s enlistment ended, he returned to the United States to begin college and start a life with Beverly.

A wedding portrait of Beverly O'Shea in the silk dress made from fabric her groom Mike brought back from Saigon.(Courtesy of Beverly O'Shea)

The wedding took place in Marshall, Michigan, Beverly’s hometown, on August 28, 1965. The ceremony was small with mostly family in attendance, and the wedding reception took place in a barn with food and cake. For Mike and Beverly, their wedding day was memorable as they shared it with friends and family. A year later, Mike and Beverly had their first child. They now have four children, two daughters and two sons, as well as many grandchildren. Looking back, Beverly remembers these years in the Navy as a special and romantic time. The O'Sheas donated Beverly’s wedding dress to the Hampton Roads Naval Museum for visitors to learn about its connection to the Vietnam War.

On opening night for the exhibit, The Ten Thousand-Day War at Sea, in October 2019, HRNM Volunteer Coordinator Darcy Sink talks with Mike and Beverly O'Shea after they found Beverly's wedding dress on display near the exhibit's entrance.  (M.C. Farrington)

Naval Aviators' Essential Accessories

The MA-1 flight jacket Jim Hurston wore on missions over Vietnam.

By  Zachary Smyers
HRNM Educator

The origins of the pilot’s flight jacket can be traced back to the early days of aviation and the open cockpit. Exposed to the elements at high altitude, pilots needed a way to keep warm. Fast forward to the late 1930’s with the introduction of the G1 US Naval Flight Jacket. This all-leather jacket was authorized as the official flight jacket for the U.S. Navy and Marine Corps.

In the post Korean War years and the beginning of the jet age, the flight jacket changed from being made of leather, and instead was made of nylon. The dark brown color was also done away with in favor of sage green (which was felt to be more “tactical” if the pilot was wearing the jacket when they got shot down).

On display currently in the Vietnam exhibit, is an MA-1 flight jacket that was worn by Navy aviator Jim Hurston. The jacket is adorned with various unit patches and logos, as well as Jim’s name and Jim’s unit, Attack Squadron Seventy-Five. “The Sunday Punchers” of VA-75 deployed to Vietnam three times (1965, 1968, and 1972) and eventually received the Rear Admiral C. Wade McClusky award for most outstanding attack squadron.

A route card used for mission planning purposes by naval aviator Bob Ponton. This one happens to take him over Haiphong, the heavily-defended harbor not far from the North Vietnamese capital, Hanoi. 

Adjacent to Hurston’s flight jacket are maps and a route card from Bob Ponton who was a Bombardier/Navigator with VA-115, an A-6 squadron flying from the USS Midway (CVA 41). The maps have detailed accounts of when and where Bob was flying. Included on the maps are specific mission targets such as SAM sites. The maps present visitors to the exhibit with a visual representation of what a typical “work day” was like for A-6 aviators in Vietnam.

A map of Haiphong harbor, one of several maps on display at HRNM that were carried on Bob Ponton's knee board on missions over North Vietnam. 

Necessity was the Mother of Lethality (Part 3): Handmade Viet Cong Carbine

This slide and slam-action carbine, captured from the Viet Cong during the Vietnam War, is from the collections of the Naval History and Heritage Command (NHHC) and is featured in the Hampton Roads Naval Museum's exhibit, The 10,000 Day War at Sea, the U.S. Navy in Vietnam, 1950-1975 .  (M.C. Farrington)

By M.C. Farrington
HRNM Historian
&  Zachary Smyers
HRNM Educator

For this installment of our series on some of the rather unique Viet Cong weapons featured in our current exhibit, The Ten Thousand-Day War at Sea, we were not precisely sure what to call this weapon, but we decided that the safest bet is to stick with "Viet Cong Carbine." 

Viet Cong Carbine, left side. (M.C. Farrington)

Although one might be tempted to call it a rifle because of its appearance, most small arms of its type lacked rifled barrels.  It is of a very simple design, and it definitely looks like it uses slam fire action (based on the spring-loaded bolt configuration), during which a round is fired as soon as it is inserted into the chamber.  

Three-quarter view, close up of right-hand side showing exposed spring-loaded bolt. (M.C. Farrington)

Before North Vietnamese weapons shipments down the Ho Chi Minh Trail overwhelmed American and South Vietnamese interdiction efforts during the latter part of the 1960s, very few factory-made small arms were in the hands of front-line National Liberation Front fighters, known to their enemies as the Viet Cong. 

The trigger and guard looks as though it might have been salvaged from another weapon.  Note the NHHC accession number affixed to the inside of the guard.  (M.C. Farrington)

Left literally to their own devices during the early years of their struggle with American and Republic of Vietnam forces, Communist cadres in South Vietnam fashioned firearms from old pipes, automotive and even bicycle parts in underground workshops, of which many were literally underground.  Some were patterned after weapons captured from the Japanese when they occupied French Indochina during World War II.  Many were imitations of those captured from the French during their unsuccessful attempt to reestablish their colonies in Indochina after the war.  They also replicated German weapons captured by the Soviets during the war that were given to the Viet Cong's predecessors, the Viet Minh, to aid in their fight against the French.  An assortment of other Soviet, Chinese, and even American designs rounded out the Viet Cong insurgents' small arms stocks by the mid-1960s, but it would be unfair to characterize their efforts as merely imitative.  The guerrilla gunsmiths operating in the tunnels and swamps of South Vietnam were more than capable of creating their own designs, and the weapon featured here just might be one of them. 

The trigger and guard, as seen from below.  (M.C. Farrington)

Although it seems that a pin or bolt once held it there, by the time of the carbine's capture the upper receiver component, if you will, was attached to the stock assembly with a wire, not winning it any longevity contests.

A piece of wire holds the rear of the receiver to the carbine's stock assembly.  (M.C. Farrington)

The magazine well is not too large, and the actual cartridge that this weapon may have fired is vague.  It could have been anything from one of the small pistol calibers like the Soviet Tokarev, which is 7.62x25mm, or possibly 7.62x39 (which is what the AK-47 fired).  As with most firearms of this type, it is safe to say the weapon was designed around whatever ammunition its makers had the most of.  The capacity of the magazine is also hard to say, though it could be compatible with the 10-round 7.62x54mm Soviet World War II-era SVT-40 magazine.

Ahead of the magazine well as seen from under the carbine, the accession number appears to have originally been added shortly after its incorporation into the NHHC small arms collection. (M.C. Farrington)

All that is clear about this weapon is that it was taken off the battlefield just as the Vietnam War was really heating up, in part due to the dramatic surge and variety of weapons, the majority of them from Chinese factories, made available to the Viet Cong by the relentless logistical effort mounted by the North Vietnamese through the Ho Chi Minh Trail.  After the Viet Cong was largely decimated during the 1968 Tet Offensive, soldiers of the People's Army of Vietnam filtered into the south via the trail to replace them, many of them carrying the North Vietnamese K-50M and the Chinese Type 56, examples of which are also featured in the exhibit.  

Necessity was the Mother of Lethality (Part 2): Scrap Wood & Metal Becomes Pistol

Cut off from a reliable source of manufactured goods early in the war thanks in part to U.S. and Republic of Vietnam Navy vigilance, National Liberation Front (also known as Viet Cong) fighters operating in South Vietnam carried primitive firearms such as this single-shot smoothbore pistol, which used a nail as a safety.  It is one of the more unusual weapons featured in the Hampton Roads Naval Museum's exhibit, The 10,000 Day War at Sea, the U.S. Navy in Vietnam, 1950-1975 .  (Naval History and Heritage Command (NHHC) collection/ Photograph by M.C. Farrington)

By Thomas Grubbs
Contributing Writer

The 9mm round is the AK47 of the ammunition world. Widely available, it is fired from literally hundreds of firearms, both pistols and submachine guns. It can be found in every armory and most every gun store or arms bazaar on earth. Their ubiquity has made it the go-to caliber for homemade weaponry. The Viet Cong, denied access to traditional sources of weaponry such as foreign imports or in territory factories, naturally turned to manufacturing their own firearms, such as the pistol seen above.

Like the RC Cola grenade, this homemade handgun is a product of necessity. Small arms, like all other types of military materiel, would have to be transported over the difficult land route known as the Ho Chi Minh Trail or by sampan along the coast. It would also have to compete for scarce space against other equally important war materiel such as medical supplies or spare parts. Both routes were exposed to American air and sea power, particularly units supporting Operation Market Time, which took a steady toll on supplies traveling down them. Therefore, manufacturing weapons on site in South Vietnam was a much safer and more convenient alternative.

Unfortunately, there were no arms factories supplying Viet Cong forces in South Vietnam. Making weaponry in hidden workshops allowed the Viet Cong to have a source of supply of small arms to be close to the, for lack of a better term, front line yet protected from attack. The pistol’s crude construction from commonly available materials belies its effectiveness: at close range it would be just as effective in killing as a pistol constructed in a factory. In this case, necessity is the mother of invention.

This slightly different view shows a serial number painted onto the grip. (NHHC collection/ Photograph by M.C. Farrington)

Editor's Note: Thomas Grubbs earned a master's degree in military history from Southern New Hampshire University and is currently a park ranger interpreter at Vicksburg National Military Park, Mississippi. His research interest is in the history of the dreadnought battleship. 

This and every HRNM blog post by a contributing writer reflects the opinions of the writer and should not be construed as representing the official policies or opinions of the Hampton Roads Naval Museum, the Naval History and Heritage Command, Department of the Navy, or the United States Government.

The Evans-Melbourne Tragedy: Another View

This illustration depicts the collision between USS Frank E. Evans (DD 754) and HMAS Melbourne (R.21) on June 3, 1969, after a navigational error on Evans' part inadvertently put the ships on a collision course.  (M.C. Farrington from elements furnished by Don Darcy and Kev Curtis)

By Thomas Grubbs
Contributing Writer


Introduction

We have all seen this. You’re on the highway, plenty of traffic and plenty of trucks, when a car comes weaving in and out of traffic at a high rate of speed. He dodges in and out, missing other vehicles by inches, not a turn signal to be seen. Then, darting across three lanes of traffic, he exits with inches to spare, leaving a line of outraged drivers in his wake. Most of the time, the perpetrator escapes without a scrape. But on occasion, he misjudges how much space there is and causes a major accident and backs up traffic for miles.

It is bad enough when only private property is at stake, but when ships collide, the consequences, both material and personal, can be catastrophic. Such was the case in the early morning hours of June 3, 1969, when the Australian aircraft carrier HMAS Melbourne (R.21) collided with the escorting destroyer USS Frank E. Evans (DD 754).

HMAS Melbourne steams between flight operations during SEATO Exercise Sea Imp in May 1966, with a weather balloon apparently lifting off near her stern.  Note the Westland Wessex helicopters on deck as well as a Grumman S-2 Tracker near her bow. (Photograph by Bob Westthorp, RAN 1964-1988, via Horatio J. Kookaburra/ Flickr)

HMAS Melbourne (R.21)

Laid down as HMS Majestic at Barrow-in-Furness in Northwest England, the light carrier that would become known as HMAS Melbourne was intended to bolster the Royal Navy’s flagging carrier force during the Second World War.  Changing wartime priorities and the difficulty of securing the necessary equipment during wartime would push back the completion date of the carrier to 1955. By this time, a new buyer for the carrier had emerged: Australia.

Wartime experience had proved beyond doubt the value of the aircraft carrier to navies and the Royal Australian Navy was no exception. Ambitious plans to acquire three small carriers had to be pared back to just two vessels on grounds of economy. Majestic and sister ship HMS Terrible (renamed HMAS Sydney) were acquired in June of 1947. As neither ship was truly ready for sea, the Royal Navy loaned HMS Vengeance to cover for Melbourne’s absence until the latter was ready for delivery on August 12, 1955. On the bright side, the lengthy construction of the ship allowed for the incorporation of the latest in naval technology (angled flight deck, steam catapults) before her completion. Interestingly, she would be the third aircraft carrier (after HMS Ark Royal and USS Forrestal) to incorporate an angled flight deck while her advanced landing systems made her the only military airfield in Southeast Asia capable of operating aircraft at night or in poor weather. With an air group between 22 and 27 fighters, anti-submarine planes and helicopters, she was small by American standards but massive by global ones with a length of 702 feet and a displacement at full load of 22,000 tons. As the largest ship in the Royal Australian Navy, she was both the physical and psychological centerpiece of the fleet and a potent display of Australian naval power. As the flagship of the fleet, she deployed 35 times, visited 22 separate nations and many of her captains would go on to admiral’s rank.

Such a vessel would ordinarily be expected to be a paragon of naval etiquette and power. But fickle fate would have other plans. HMAS Melbourne’s career would be tarnished by not one, but two separate collisions. The first, on the night of February 10, 1964, would see the destroyer HMAS Voyager sliced in half by the carrier as the two maneuvered during night flight operations. Tragically, 82 of Voyager’s men including her captain and the majority of the bridge crew would go down with their ship. Two subsequent Royal Commissions into the collision, the first time that such a thing had occurred, absolved the carrier’s command crew of responsibility for the destroyer’s sinking. The second collision would involve a ship belonging to the fleet of one of Australia’s closest allies: the United States of America.

USS Frank E. Evans (DD 754) takes on fuel from the carrier USS Princeton (CVA 37) somewhere in the Pacific in 1953.  (Photographer unknown.  Courtesy of Douglas Price/ m20wc51/ Flickr)

USS Frank E. Evans (DD 754), a member of the 58-strong Allen M. Sumner class, was commissioned at Staten Island, New York where she was commissioned on February 3, 1945. Named for Marine Corps Brigadier General Frank Evans, who had led part of the American Expeditionary Force to France in the First World War, this hard fighting destroyer would see action in the Second World War, Korea and Vietnam, earning no less than six battle stars along the way. Like most destroyers, she was a jack of all trades, doing everything from escorting carriers to shore bombardment and controlling air strikes along the Korean coast. After finishing her final shore bombardment in support of the 101st Airborne Division near Phan Thiet, South Vietnam, the destroyer turned her bow southeast towards Australia and upcoming exercises, code named Sea Spirit, with over 40 Southeast Asian Treaty Organization (SEATO) ships, most belonging to the naval forces of the British Commonwealth.

The Collision

Melbourne, under the command of Captain John Philip Stevenson and embarking Flag Officer Commanding Australian Fleet, Rear Admiral John Crabb, met up in the Philippines with Evans, two other American destroyers, the New Zealand frigate HMNZS Blackpool and the British frigate HMS Cleopatra at the end of May, 1969, for Sea Spirit. This entailed a journey southwest consisting of convoy and anti-submarine warfare operations through the South China Sea halfway between Vietnam and the island of Borneo before reaching their ultimate destination in Thailand. Captain Stevenson, during a welcome dinner onboard the carrier in Manila Bay, recounted the story of the HMAS Voyager collision and emphasized that caution on the part of the smaller ships would be necessary when operating near the considerably larger aircraft carrier, while also distributing written instructions on how to avoid a similar situation during the upcoming exercise. Admiral Crabb further instructed that any repositioning maneuvers by the escorts had to begin with a turn away from the carrier.  Despite these precautions, on the night of May 31, the destroyer USS Larson, while moving to take up the plane guard station astern of Melbourne, narrowly avoided a collision with the latter vessel. Worse was to follow just three days later.

In the early morning hours of June 3, 1969, the combined battle group began an anti-submarine warfare exercise. HMAS Melbourne, preparing to launch a Grumman S2 Tracker patrol aircraft, ordered USS Frank E. Evans to take up the plane guard (also called the rescue destroyer) position astern. This was to be the fourth time that the destroyer had assumed such a role during the exercise and had completed the three previous assignments without incident. The destroyer, positioned to the port side of the carrier, turned towards the larger ship to begin the maneuver in violation of standing orders regarding change of position by escort vessels. Following protocol, a radio message was broadcast to the destroyer warning her that she was on a collision course with the carrier. This message was acknowledged but the destroyer remained on course for HMAS Melbourne. A desperate dodge hard to port by Melbourne failed as USS Frank E. Evans turned hard astarboard in an attempt to avoid the approaching aircraft carrier only to find herself directly in the path of the onrushing Australian warship. Each bridge crew claimed that they only learned of the other vessel’s turn after they had started their own.

At 3:15 am on June 3, 1969, HMAS Melbourne cut USS Frank E. Evans in half amidships. The bow section sank almost immediately, taking with it the majority of the 74 men lost in the collision. Quick work by the crew of the carrier located all 199 survivors within 12 minutes of the collision and rescued them all within 30 minutes of the accident. Many of HMAS Melbourne’s crew entered the water to rescue survivors as the ship’s boats and Wessex helicopters recovered those further away. The American sailors, after being provided with clothing, blankets and beer from the ship’s stores, were entertained by the ship’s band on the flight deck in an effort to distract them from recent events. Rescue operations would continue another 15 hours to ensure that all survivors had been located. Initial reports, later confirmed by the board of inquiry, indicated that Commander Albert S McLemore, captain of the destroyer, had been asleep in his cabin at the time of the collision, having left the ship in the hands of two junior lieutenants, James Hopkins and Ronald Ramsey. The former was at sea for the first time while the later had failed the watch officer’s qualification exam before recently earning his officer of the deck qualification. All three were rescued.

The stern section of USS Frank E. Evans rests in the auxiliary repair drydock USS Windsor (ADR 22) at Naval Station Subic Bay, Philippines, three days after colliding with the Australian aircraft carrier HMAS Melbourne in the South China Sea on June 3, 1969.  Note that a temporary jackstaff has been installed as Evans remained a commissioned naval vessel.  After her decommissioning on July 1, 1969, the destroyer's remains were sunk that October. (Photograph by Personnelman 2nd Class Ralph Tresser/ Naval History and Heritage Command image) 

Aftermath

The still-floating stern of the USS Frank E. Evans, after being evacuated of all survivors, was towed to Subic Bay in the Philippines, arriving there on June 9. The stripped and decommissioned hulk was subsequently used for target practice and sunk. The carrier, badly mangled bow and all, arrived in Singapore on June 6 for a temporary bow to be fitted. She returned to Sydney’s Cockatoo Island Naval Yard on July 9 where she remained until November of that year while being fitted with a permanent bow. The efforts of 817 Squadron’s Wessex helicopters in plucking survivors out of the water earned them a U.S. Navy Meritorious Unit Commendation while HMAS Melbourne’s crew received a further five medals for their own efforts.

A joint USN-RAN board of inquiry met at Subic Bay naval station in the Philippines from June 9 to July 14 to hear 100 hours of testimony from 79 separate witnesses. Despite the preponderance of evidence assigning blame to the Evans, only partial blame was assigned to the destroyer, this despite the fact that international law required that the smaller ship had to maneuver out of the way of the larger vessel in the event of an impending collision. Furthermore, great irregularities in the conduct of the American officers on the board (improper questioning of witnesses, barring of an RAN lawyer by an American officer, separation of sinking and rescue testimony, favoritism shown to American witnesses and unnecessary focus on the brightness of the carrier’s anti-collision lights) cast doubt on the fairness and impartiality of the proceedings.

Captain Stevenson was court-martialed for allegedly failing to order USS Frank E. Evans to steer clear of his ship and failing to order full astern on the engines prior to the collision. He was honorably acquitted of any wrongdoing but was posted as chief of staff to a minor flag officer. Stevenson subsequently requested to retire in protest and was allowed to do so. Commander McLemore was also court-martialed for dereliction and unnecessarily hazarding his ship. He pleaded not guilty and was issued a formal written reprimand. This effectively ended his naval career. In 1999, he publicly claimed responsibly for the collision, having left two unqualified junior officers in command of his vessel. Lieutenants Hopson and Ramsey pled guilty to negligence and dereliction and had their positions on the promotion board moved down. Sadly, the 74 men killed in the collision are not listed on the Vietnam War Memorial: it was determined that the ship was outside of the defined combat zone and engaged in activities not linked to American operations in that country. Attempts to introduce legislation to add their names to the memorial, have as of this date, been unsuccessful. A memorial to the ship stands in Neobrara, Nebraska. Reunions of Evans’ survivors and HMAS Melbourne crewmen are held annually.

Conclusion

Every job on a warship is of importance. From the captain responsible for dozens of lives and millions of dollars of equipment to lowly seaman apprentices still trying to figure out who to salute and how to get from their berthing to their battle stations, each has a job to accomplish. Only by working together as a team can the crew of a warship hope to make full use of the immense capabilities of a modern warship while remaining safe. The job of the watch officers are amongst the most important: on their shoulders rests the responsibility for the entire vessel and its crew during their watch. Their training and qualifications must be of the highest standards and they must be held responsible when things go wrong. When they fail to discharge their duties in a competent fashion, a catastrophic collision can result. Just like driving, situational awareness and following the rules of the road are crucial to avoid an accident.

Editor's Note: Thomas Grubbs earned a master's degree in military history from Southern New Hampshire University and is currently a park ranger interpreter at Vicksburg National Military Park, Mississippi. His research interest is in the history of the dreadnought battleship. 

This and every HRNM blog post by a contributing writer reflects the opinions of the writer and should not be construed as representing the official policies or opinions of the Hampton Roads Naval Museum, the Naval History and Heritage Command, Department of the Navy, or the United States Government.

Fifty-One Years Ago: 74 Souls are Lost in Three Minutes

As seen from the aircraft carrier USS Princeton (CVA 37), USS Frank E. Evans (DD 754) takes on fuel somewhere in the Pacific in 1953.  Named for a Marine Corps general who had seen combat from the Philippines at the turn of the last century to France in World War One, the Allen M. Sumner-class destroyer was originally commissioned in February 1945, just in time to participate in some of the last battles against the Japanese during the Second World War.  Just before the tragic accident that would send this section of the destroyer to the bottom of the South China Sea during Exercise Sea Spirit in 1969, Evans had just wrapped up her fourth deployment to the gunline off the coast of South Vietnam.  (Photographer unknown. Courtesy of Douglas Price via Flickr) 

By M.C. Farrington
HRNM Historian

The evening of June 2, 1969, had been a quiet one for USS Frank E. Evans (DD 754). There was unrestricted visibility over the South China Sea and the nearly full moon shone down from the broken clouds silently gliding by. Despite the peaceful weather, this was no time for her crew to relax. Evans was part of a screening group that included four other vessels from three other navies, protecting the flagship of the Royal Australian Navy, the aircraft carrier HMAS Melbourne (R.21).

Evans was practicing to hunt a “submarine pack” made up of American and British submarines playing a simulated undersea enemy as a part of Southeast Asia Treaty Organization (SEATO) exercise Sea Spirit in preparation for a possible war in the future, yet the danger involved was real.

Before dawn, one-third of her crew, and half of the ship, would be gone

As the final hour of the evening ticked away, Evans’ captain, Commander Albert Sydney McLemore, retired to his sea cabin for the evening. After all, the captain of any U.S. Navy warship cannot be on the bridge 24 hours a day, 365 days a year, nor can a single navigator, helmsman, or any other member of the bridge team. It is for that reason that on a set schedule, usually every four hours, aboard every ship in the fleet, a new team assumes the watch to perform critical day-to-day duties that would exhaust an individual. The most important watch stander aboard any vessel is the Officer of the Deck (OOD), who is specifically responsible for the safety of the ship.

Lieutenant Junior Grade Ronald Ramsey, the ship’s communications officer, took the watch at midnight. He was the most recently qualified OOD serving aboard Frank E. Evans, having earned his qualification just a few days before the beginning of Exercise Sea Spirit.

Since 20:00 local time, Evans and the other screening vessels kept station around Melbourne while making a complicated series of course changes, or zigzags, practicing for a scenario in which they had to thwart a submarine attempting to torpedo Melbourne. The task group would frequently change course, in unison, making a zig-zag pattern. Each vessel had to maintain position in its assigned zone in relationship to the carrier as each turn was made.

In this case, the zigzag plan dictated that the base course for all vessels began at a course heading of 220 degrees. Imagining that zero degrees is north, 90 degrees is west, 180 degrees is south and 270 is west, a 220-degree heading was slightly south-southwest. Following the plan, the ships of the group would turn every 30 minutes to a new heading that could vary from the base heading by as much as 90 degrees. The zigzag pattern, however, would be suspended during flight operations, upon which time the carrier would orient itself appropriately with the wind, which could also diverge from the base heading by a large margin. The position of the screening ship selected as plane guard within the group would also change at this time, because the rescue destroyer had to post itself astern and to port (behind and slightly to the left) of the carrier.

For the first couple of hours of June 3, Evans was serving as point destroyer ahead and slightly to starboard of Melbourne, but Evans had changed position, turning further to starboard wide and around the carrier, to take the rescue destroyer position three times that evening without incident.

At a little before 02:00, Ramsey handed control of the destroyer to his Junior Officer of the Deck (JOOD) Lieutenant Junior Grade James A. Hopson, a former Navy corpsman who had earned a commission and assignment to Evans two years before as electronics officer, although by that time he was the destroyer’s assistant engineering officer.

Up to this point there does not seem to have been any confusion among the members of the bridge team, but a misunderstanding about basic heading, and a lack of communication between Evans and Melbourne would result in tragedy after Evans was ordered once again to assume plane the guard position for flight operations.

When their current operational plan took effect a few hours before, the base, or starting-off course heading was 220, five degrees south of due southwest (225 degrees).  Melbourne signaled to her screening vessels to resume the zigzag plan at 02:15 in relation to that base course. But at 02:52, the carrier signaled the formation to turn together at heading 185, which was only five degrees west of due south. One minute later, Melbourne signaled for the formation to resume the zigzag course once again, centered upon the original base course.

Aboard Evans, however, Lt. j.g. Hopson had mistaken the order of 02:15, believing that the new base course was 185 degrees. The 35-degree divergence in base course between Evans and the rest of Anti-Submarine Group 1 would result in tragedy exactly one hour later.

At 03:07, Melbourne and her screening vessels were to come to a heading of 260, 10 degrees south of due west. Evans, still proceeding under the mistaken assumption of the base course, turned to heading 225, exactly southwest, drifting to port (to the left) in relation to Melbourne and the other screening vessels from its original location ahead and slightly starboard of the carrier. At 03:15, the zigzag plan called for a turn south to 240. Lt. j.g. Ramsey, believing in error that the base course was 185, thought that Melbourne’s heading was 205, a full 35 degrees south of her actual heading.

Evans was already drifting rapidly off course about 3,800 yards ahead of Melbourne, crossing her bow and into the adjacent zone of HMNZS Blackpool, when Evans received the signal to once again assume rescue destroyer position. “When I checked to see if we were on station before I started helping Mr. Hopson,” Ramsey said later, “we had the carrier bearing approximately 044 degrees true at about 3,800 yards.” In preparation for the turn, Lt. j.g. Hopson checked the radar repeater on the bridge and found Melbourne at bearing 084 and 3,800 yards away. This was 40 degrees off a reading Ramsey had reported a short time earlier. As Evans began coming about, Hopson stepped outside the bridge and took the first and only visual reading of his watch. Looking aft, the carrier should have been drifting behind them slightly to the right. Instead, Melbourne was heading left in relation to them.

“The ships were at darken ship and all I could see of the Melbourne was a shadow,” recalled Hopson. “I could see no aspect at all. I then told Mr. Ramsey that she was drifting left and the I applied 5 degrees left rudder.”

After checking bearing and range of the carrier, Hopson testified later, “I then informed Mr. Ramsey that my intention was to come around to the right and pass down the starboard [right] side of the Melbourne and fall in astern of her at 1,000 yards… At this time I would have been on her starboard bow.”

If Evans had been off Melbourne’s starboard bow at the beginning of the maneuver, coming about to starboard and slowing down to let the carrier pass safely by before executing another starboard turn to take the rescue destroyer position would have been the appropriate course of action. Because the divergence in heading of the last half-hour had actually placed Evans ahead and to port (the carrier’s left-hand side), Evans would be turning into the path of the carrier. Despite both officers being wrong about where they were in relation to Melbourne, neither felt the need to call the Combat Information Center (CIC) watch officer or send the messenger of the watch to wake the captain.

Meanwhile, Evans came around to starboard, which from above would look like Evans was making a giant fishhook a mile in circumference. But instead of Melbourne moving past Evans at a safe distance into the middle of the fishhook’s arc (as the officers on the bridge assumed), Evans came around on a northeast heading to find Melbourne’s giant dark outline dead ahead.

Suddenly, the carrier’s flight deck lights flashed on. To the bewildered Hopson, this meant that flight operations were already commencing before he or Ramsey had confirmed that Evans had taken up the rescue destroyer position. More confusingly, although Melbourne’s flight deck lights were on, her navigation lights were not and one couldn’t be absolutely sure whether they had already reached rescue destroyer position with the carrier heading away from them, or, terrifyingly, the carrier was heading straight at them at a combined speed of 38 knots! Hopson blurted to Ramsey and the rest of the bridge crew, “I don’t get it.”

Moments later, it suddenly dawned upon Ramsey that the carrier was indeed coming right at them. Although he had not gotten a positive visual bearing, he ordered right full rudder. It was a rash but decisive move designed to take Evans out of the rapidly oncoming carrier’s way at the last second.
Ramsey couldn’t have known that at the same moment he was ordering right full rudder, Melbourne had also decided to take evasive action because of a lack of response from Evans to their warning messages.

Both ships turned simultaneously, but even more towards each other, at 03:14. If Evans had turned to post or Melbourne to starboard, there might still have been contact and damage. Possibly an international incident would have had to be smoothed over afterwards. But the collision might not have been an existential threat to Evans and her crew. As it happened, the two ships could not have set a more devastating course, exactly perpendicular to one another.

“[Melbourne’s] next and last transmission,” recalled Ramsey, “was ‘My rudder is hard left.’ I can’t understand this. I stood frozen in the center of the bridge… Mr. Hopson yelled out several times, ‘She is going to hit us. She is going to hit us.’”

Both officers stood motionless for a moment, failing to grasp what had transpired in the last ten minutes, not to mention what they should do in the next ten seconds. A collision was imminent, yet they did not sound the collision alarm. Cmdr. McLemore was still in his sea cabin asleep as was two-thirds of his crew. The last order Ramsey belted out as they presented their broadside to the Melbourne’s looming bow was “Engines, all back full!”

Evans’ machinist’s mates on duty in the engineering spaces struggled to comply with the order, but before they could do anything, Melbourne’s bow struck the center of her port side, at the location where the only other officers who might have known where Melbourne was in relation to Evans, those in her CIC, were on duty.

Melbourne’s collision alarm sounded during the last few seconds before impact at 03:15, rousting a few of Evans’ crew from their racks before the rest were violently tossed onto the deck or against the bulkheads. Evans rolled violently to starboard, almost capsizing under the carrier’s 22,000 tons of momentum. With a sound described as being like "50 automobile accidents happening at once," the 3,200-ton destroyer broke in two.

An artist's depiction of the collision between HMAS Melbourne (R.21) and USS Frank E Evans (DD 754) in the early morning hours of June 3, 1969. (Frank E. Evans Association) 

Evans’ forward half, which held ten officers and 101 enlisted crewmen at the moment of impact, remained with a heavy list to starboard while drifting past Melbourne’s port side, while the aft end began to right itself while drifting along the carrier’s starboard side. Lieutenant Commander George McMichael, Evans’ XO, was thrown violently from his bed and was able to escape his stateroom. “The first thing that caught my eye and I think–well, it captured my attention and I couldn’t look away for a matter of several seconds–was the sight of the mast lying flat in the water. The mast appeared to be intact and I just looked at it and said, ‘Oh, my God’”

Without thinking, Melbourne’s diving officer, Lieutenant Robert Burns, jumped from the flight deck some 45 feet above into the black water and swam over 200 yards to save three Evans survivors. Leading Seaman Peter John Varley coxswained Melbourne’s port side cutter while members of his boat crew also dived into the water, ultimately bringing 29 Evans survivors back to the carrier. Overhead, two of Melbourne’s Westland Wessex helicopters still in their anti-submarine warfare configuration used their landing lights to look for Sailors who had been thrown overboard while others equipped with rescue winches were being rushed to the flight deck.  As they took off, “Some aircrew were still wearing their pyjamas[sic] under flying overalls,” wrote a reporter for the Royal Australian Navy News.

A HELMSMAN AND A HERO

Decisions made by Evans’ OOD and JOOD over the last hour had played themselves out to a calamitous conclusion. Manning the helm during that time was Seaman Robert Petty, standing as Boatswain’s Mate of the Watch (BMOW). He had complied with every order he had been given at the wheel and had even jumped into action during the last seconds before impact when the lee helmsman failed to react to Ramsey’s last order to place the engines into full reverse. Upon impact, the 19 year-old had been thrown starboard through the air off the bridge into the sea.

Petty smashed his head against floating debris when he landed. When he regained his senses, he thought he heard a voice. The voice said, “The hatch. There. Go.” Petty mustered the strength to clamber up upon the overturned side of Evans’ forward section, un-dogging a hatch that led down to the messdeck and pulling it upward while a group of frightened Sailors who and been in their racks below only moments before pushed upward. Sixteen disoriented and injured Sailors emerged.

For those still down below in the capsizing forward section, the overhead and decks (the celling and floors) were now the bulkheads (walls), the lights were out and the compartments were rapidly filling up with water. Chief Hospital Corpsman Charles Cannington had the presence of mind to retrieve his penlight from his locker and give it to the first man out of the chief petty officer berthing. Six men made it out and to safety using that penlight, but its owner did not.

One of the chiefs to make it out was Senior Chief Gunner’s Mate Lawrence Reilly, Evans’ master-at-arms. Although he was alive, his thoughts quickly flew towards another Lawrence Reilly—his son. Many fathers among the crew understandably thought of their children at home, but Chief Reilly and his son shared the same home: USS Frank E. Evans. The younger Reilly had joined the Navy only two years before and served as a Boiler Tender 3rd Class in the destroyer’s Engineering Division.

The forward section continued to capsize, as men scrambled out through steel hatches that had now to be pushed upwards instead of outwards, and at 03:18, just under 90 seconds after the collision, the bow section sank so suddenly that the last few men to make it clear were sucked back under the water.

By the time Senior Chief Reilly made it to Melbourne’s flight deck where survivors from Evans’ forward section were gathering, he knew the aft section of his ship had been lashed to the starboard side of the carrier to give every surviving Sailor aboard the chance to escape before it too sank. His son’s berthing area was in that section, and for a moment, he felt a hint of relief. That is, until a fellow chief broke the news that the night before, the watchbill had changed and that his son had been on watch in the forward engineering spaces below the Combat Information Center. It was exactly where Melbourne’s bow had smashed into Evans and broken her in two.

Boiler Technician 3rd Class Reilly, along with 72 other shipmates in the forward section of the Frank E. Evans, were on their way to a final resting place 1,100 fathoms below.

Three of those shipmates were also brothers: Boatswain’s Mate 2nd Class Gary Sage, Radarman 3rd Class Kelly Sage, and Seaman Apprentice Kelly Sage, who had all grown up on the same farm in Niobrara, Nebraska. Also among the victims was Yeoman 3rd Class James R. Cmeyla, who was born in Norfolk, Virginia, when his father Richard was stationed there. Another American Sailor lost in the forward section that morning was Radioman 2nd Class Christopher J. Carlson, who had been born 23 years before in Queensland, Australia.

Only one dead Sailor was found in the water, Seaman Apprentice Kenneth Glines, who had been standing watch as the port bridge wing lookout.

On the morning of June 3, 1969, SH-3 helicopters from USS Kearsarge (CVS 33) perform search and rescue operations over the stern section of USS Frank E. Evans (DD 754) as USS Everett F. Larson (DD 830) stands by to offer assistance.  A British Commonwealth frigate, probably HMS Cleopatra (F.28) can be seen just behind Evans' remains, which were towed to Naval Station Subic bay, Philippines.  After her decommissioning there on July 1, 1969, the destroyer's remains were sunk that October. (Naval History and Heritage Command image NH 98649) 

CONCLUSION

The last major incident between a screening vessel and a carrier occurred between the carrier John F. Kennedy (CV 67) and the cruiser Belknap (CG 26) on November 22, 1975, which killed eight Sailors and injured 48. Most of Belknap’s aluminum superstructure melted in the ensuing fire, and the damage was so extensive, the cruiser was decommissioned the following month. She was finally recommissioned in May 1980, after a four-year rebuild.

Although such incidents have thankfully not occurred since then, a number of other American naval vessels, including submarines, have been involved in collisions, many of them with merchant vessels. One such incident happened to USS Dwight D. Eisenhower (CVN 69) on August 29, 1988, just as she was returning to Naval Station Norfolk from a routine and safe six-month deployment.  Merchant vessels such as bulk cargo vessels and oil tankers have not only proliferated in number but grown much larger during the last half-century, jamming the world’s strategic chokepoints and making navigation and watchstanding arguably more treacherous today than at any time other than wartime.

On August 12, 2012, USS Porter (DDG 78) collided with Japanese-owned oil tanker MV Otowasan in the Strait of Hormuz, ripping a 10 by 10-foot gash in the main deck and superstructure that ultimately cost $50 million to repair. Five years later and nine weeks apart, twin disasters involving the Arleigh Burke-class destroyers Fitzgerald (DDG 62) and John S. McCain (DDG 56) killed a total of 17 Sailors in the Western Pacific, grabbing the world’s headlines and depicting the U.S. Navy as being in crisis.

While combat has sporadically afforded historians some of the most dramatic chapters of the Navy’s long story, preparing for combat has also provided perilous passages. Common to them both has been the valor, bravery, and service before self practiced by the Sailors when faced with peril upon the sea. It is with this in mind that we remember the 74 lost in the collision between HMAS Melbourne and USS Frank E. Evans, as well as the American and Australian compatriots who swiftly came to the aid of those who survived.

The USS Frank E. Evans Association maintains a detailed listing of the crew members who were lost that morning 51 years ago.   There is also a tribute video segment to the lost Sailors on the Hampton Roads Naval Museum YouTube Channel.  

For decades after the accident, a training film about the Evans-Melbourne collision called I Relieve You, Sir was required watching for young surface warfare officers. 

For more on this tragic incident and its aftermath:

—Unsinkable Sailors: The Fall and Rise of the Last Crew of USS Frank E. Evans by Paul Sherbo. Niceville, Florida: Patriot Media, 2007.

—American Boys: The True Story of the Lost 74 of the Vietnam War by Louise Esola. Temecula, California: Pennway Books, 2014.