An Ill Wind that Blew USS Yancey (AKA 93) No Good

By CAPT Alexander Monroe, USN (Ret.)
HRNM Volunteer

USS Yancey, laden with ice but apparently undamaged, arrives at Naval Station Norfolk (Virginian Pilot)

On January 21, 1970, the Norfolk Virginian Pilot noted poor weather in the Hampton Roads area. Small craft warnings had been posted since 5pm the day before, and “snow that gave the Tidewater area 1 inch of snow should be on its way to the Northeast.” Weather for the 21st and 22nd would be fair and cold with the temperature dropping to 17 (F). Northerly winds were predicted. It was a severe backdrop for a catastrophic event.[i] USS Yancey (AKA 93), scheduled for impending deployment to the Mediterranean, completed a day’s amphibious refresher training on the 20th and anchored three miles north of the Little Creek Amphibious Base and 1¼ miles west of the south trestle of the Chesapeake Bay Bridge Tunnel. The ship’s commanding officer, Captain Dean R. Johnson, noted that because of extreme cold and high wind conditions, “a full anchor watch was set on the forecastle, and steam was at the throttles.” One anchor was underfoot, and one of two boilers was on line. Yancey had but one propeller and one rudder, making maneuvering difficult under the best conditions. Early on the morning of the 21st, strong, gusty, unexpected winds from 35 to 50 knots caused the anchor to drag. Efforts to put another anchor down were unsuccessful and the 26-year-old ship moved inexorably toward the bridge’s south span stern first. Despite efforts by a Coast Guard tug, it came alongside the trestle, starboard side to. At 1:37am and again at 3:30am, the ship struck and went through the trestle. In so doing, Yancey sustained a four-by-six foot gash in the starboard quarter. A 400-foot gap was created in the roadway. Access to the Eastern Shore of Virginia, a major route for commercial vehicles, vacationers, and commuters who worked in South Hampton Roads, was abruptly gone.[ii] In a statement made just after the collision, the commanding officer noted that the situation developed with such celerity that there was no time to react and that he had done soul searching to consider how he might have reacted differently.

Navy leadership acted swiftly in two areas: the first was to determine how the mishap occurred. In this regard, a service spokesman announced that Rear Admiral Philip S. McManus had appointed Captain J.F. Riley to investigate the circumstances of the incident and submit through the chain of command such findings of fact, conclusions, and recommendations that were warranted. Completion of the investigation might take a month. Of equal, if not greater, importance was relieving the inconvenience and economic distress to Eastern Shore residents and commercial users.[iii] The Navy announced that a regular helicopter shuttle service would operate between the Amphibious Base at Little Creek and Cape Charles. Later in the operation, the Navy initiated a regular sea lift using Landing Craft Utility (LCU craft) with a capacity of 100 passengers between the inactive Kiptopeke Ferry dock and Little Creek (with supplemental bus transportation to gate 2 of the Naval Station on Hampton Boulevard). Subsequently, an airlift using a C 131 Samaritan aircraft, carrying 44 passengers, operated between the Naval Air Station at Norfolk and Melfa, on the shore.[iv] The air transportation function was ultimately assumed by the Commonwealth of Virginia.[v] Concurrently, Chesapeake Bay Bridge Tunnel leaders estimated that restoration of the span would require 3 to 5 weeks.

Navy and civilian authorities worked in tandem to relieve immediate needs and restore normal operations. The Bay Bridge Tunnel District management, with the assistance of Navy divers, surveyed the crash site to locate wrecked trestle debris, although initial efforts were hindered by bitter cold winds and frigid sea water temperature.[vi] They located the span debris by January 29, 1970.[vii] In a providential step, the Bridge Tunnel staff had stockpiled five 75-foot sections of roadway. This meant that Tidewater Construction Company of Norfolk, whose employees would execute the restoration, could work around the clock and not be hindered by materials shortage.[viii] The trestle area was declared off limits to all but essential workers.[ix] Restoration proceeded apace, and had it not been for extremely high winds, heavy seas, and bitter cold weather, the work would have been completed on March 1, 1970. Two days after that deadline, it was reported that the bridge would open on the 5th. The Norfolk Ledger-Star reported that after the scheduled opening, traffic flow returned to normal levels.[x] Additionally, aboard USS Yancey, Captain Johnson was relieved on March 2 because the administrative proceedings in the mishap had not been completed and the ship was scheduled to leave for Europe on March 16. The change of command was considered administrative, not punitive.[xi]

Closure and restoration of the bridge tunnel played out amid an outpouring of comment from users. Among those immediately affected—aside from commuters—were commercial trucking firms, whose employees used the route to avoid a time-consuming, expensive North-South inland detour.[xii] In particular, one firm’s president complained that his business was down by 40%. Cape Charles and Northampton County’s political leaders issued a strongly worded statement attributing the accident solely to incompetence of the Navy.[xiii] Eastern Shore business people and citizens even criticized Governor Linwood Holton, demanding that he issue an emergency declaration, the only way the Navy would give more support. Holton, a former Navy officer, visited the repair site with Navy officials and praised the service for support to shore citizens. He opined that every feasible step to restore the span rapidly was being taken. He observed that employees of Tidewater Construction were working around the clock, noting that he and his staff would monitor the situation carefully.[xiv]

Concurrently with reopening the bridge-tunnel, additional matters required action. On February 18, 1970, the investigating officer recommended that Captain Johnson be issued a Letter of Reprimand and if the sanction were upheld, it would effectively end his career. The recommendation was concurred with as it worked its way up the chain of command. The captain unsuccessfully appealed the action, then appealing to the Secretary of the Navy.[xv] He contended in an 11-page letter that his career should not be jeopardized by a single event. The review process was excruciatingly slow, and on June 30, 1971, Secretary of the Navy John Chafee set aside the Letter of Reprimand, substituting a Letter of Admonition, noting the “mitigating effect” of the captain’s otherwise unblemished record. He also noted that there was inadequate advance warning of the storm, that the Yancey’s anchor had been judged defective 22 years earlier and that 6 other ships dragged anchor that night.[xvi] The harshness of the unexpected storm and danger presented to other ships in Hampton Roads was a factor noted in contemporaneous news accounts.[xvii] In the end, as noted in a Virginian Pilot editorial, the punishment for Captain Johnson was in accordance with the tradition that with authority comes accountability.[xviii] Yancey’s career ended somewhat prior to Secretary Chafee’s action in the former commanding officer’s service. The ship entered the Norfolk Naval Shipyard for preparation for decommissioning. One day short of the one-year anniversary of the events of that terrible storm, Yancey was removed from service. While a major challenge for those affected by the bridge-tunnel’s closure, the negative consequences of USS Yancey’s accident were mitigated by the resourcefulness of the bridge tunnel staff in setting aside additional span sections, along with the devotion of those who carried out the restoration under adverse conditions.[xvix] 

Note: The author wishes to thank Troy Valos at the Sargeant Memorial Collection, Slover Library, Norfolk, VA, for assistance locating the images in this article.


Notes:
[i] “Snow to move on” Norfolk, Virginian Pilot, January 21,1970, p. B7.
[ii] “Navy Ship Cuts 400 foot Gap in the South Span,” Norfolk Virginian Pilot, Ken Wheeler, January 22, 1970, pp. A 1-6, “Eastern Shore also feels the bump,” Norfolk Virginian Pilot, James A. Harper, p. A1; “Yancey 4th vessel to strike the bridge,” Norfolk Virginian Pilot, January 22, 1970, p. A6. One incident occurred in 1966, and 2 in 1967. One involved a Navy Ship, USS Churchill County (LST 583). The others involved unpowered barges, one of which was under tow and the other anchored. Each involved winds from the North and Northwest.
[iii] Closing Doors Jar Orphaned Delmarva,” Norfolk Virginian Pilot, Cliff Hubbard, January 23, 1970, p. A1. It was reported that a motel owner in Cape Charles had to lay off all 24 employees, and the manager of a Virginia Employment Commission office in Exmore noted a marked increase in applications for unemployment compensation. Norfolk Virginian Pilot, p. A 1.
[iv] “Air Sea Shuttle to Start,” Norfolk Virginian Pilot, Ken Wheeler, February 7, 1970, p. B1.
[v] “Virginia to Assume Shore Flights,” Norfolk, Virginian Pilot, February 10, 1970, p. B1.
[vi] “Weather hampers bay span probe,” Norfolk Virginian Pilot, January 25, 1970, p. B1.
[vii] “Divers find sections,” Norfolk Virginian Pilot, January 27th, 1970. P. B1..
[viii] “Slab stockpile speeds up span repairs,” Norfolk Virginian Pilot, January 23rd, 1970, p.A1.
[ix] “Trestle area Off Limits,” Norfolk Virginian Pilot, January 27, 1970, p. B1.
[x] “Bay crossing notes healthy traffic rise,” Norfolk Virginian Pilot, October 22, 1970, p. C3.
[xi] “Reassignment for Skipper,” Norfolk Virginian Pilot, March 3, 1970, p. B1.
[xii] “Truckers ask compensation,” Norfolk Virginian Pilot, January 29, 1970, p. C1.
[xiii] “Shore Group raps Holton,” Norfolk Ledger Star, Richard C. Bayer, February 3, 1970, p. B1.
[xiv] “Holton Inspects Bay Span, Navy praised for service,” Norfolk Virginian Pilot, February 8, 1970, Shirley Bolinga, p. A1
[xv] “Yancey’s skipper fights reprimand,” Norfolk Virginian Pilot, May 1, 1970, p. C8.
[xvi] “Skipper’s punishment lessened,”Norfolk Virginian Pilot, June 30, 1971, p. B11.
[xvii] “Wind that blew the Yancey down,” Norfolk Virginian Pilot, March 14, 1970, p. B1.
[xviii] “ In the Wooden Ship Tradition,” Editorial, Norfolk Virginian Pilot, March 10, 1970.

[xvix] “Chesapeake Bay Heroes,” Editorial, March 4, 1970, p. A10.

A Tragedy on Granby: Part 2

(George Tucker/Virginian Pilot/TCA)

By Captain Alexander G. Monroe (Ret.)

HRNM Docent and Contributing Writer

This is the second part covering the December 9, 1958 crash (Part 1 available here) of a Navy AJ-2 tanker airplane into a Norfolk neighborhood. 

(Virginian Pilot/TCA)

The task before the investigators at Naval Air Force Atlantic Fleet, at the Naval Aviation Safety Center, and in the Squadron was to determine what happened and why. The initial thrust of the investigation was reported in the Virginian Pilot on December 11. An unsigned piece noted that “two smashed engines probably hold the grim key to Tuesday’s tragedy in the 8900 block of Granby Street.” An anonymous investigator opined that, “we are not overlooking the possibility that fuel ready for transfer had been commingled with the Savage’s fuel supply.”[i] The aircraft was removed from the crash site and taken to the Overhaul and Repair Department of the Naval Air Station where investigation began. It was colored by the statement of the investigator noted above. Though a reconstruction layout was not possible because of the extensive destruction of the airplane, the wreckage was sifted and components worthy of study were removed and photographed.[ii] Fuel samples from the aircraft were removed for comparison with those taken prior to take off. The upshot of the examinations was that no JP-4 contamination was found in the plane's fuel tanks and there was no evidence of contamination in the pistons, cylinders or carburetor.[iii]

Headline from December 11, 1958 (Virginian Pilot/TCA)

(Virginian Pilot/TCA)

The cause of the engine malfunction and resulting crash remains speculative, and opinions of the entities conducting the investigations and the endorsers have never been made public. Provisions of federal law, calculated to encourage frank discussion of causes and protect the privacy of those whose performance is under scrutiny--and their families--prohibit such disclosure. It is thought that the safety of Naval Aviation could be improved by non-disclosure.[iv] The squadron commanding officer wrote a final endorsement to the accident report on February 13, 1959. Heavy Attack Squadron 15 was disestablished two days later.[v] His endorsement and those of others, to include Commander Naval Air Force Atlantic Fleet, were heavily redacted. There have been at least five other major air crashes since December 9, 1958, at or in the immediate vicinity of Naval Air Station Norfolk (now known as Chambers Field on Naval Station Norfolk). The accidents have resulted in nine fatalities and involved Patrol, Transport, and Electronic Warfare aircraft. The first and last involved crashes into Willoughby Bay and Ocean View Beach, and one involved an approach and “hard landing”[vi] of a P2V Neptune aircraft in rain with visibility reduced to half a mile.

Though it has taken time to issue regulations that would reduce the likelihood of aircraft accidents in a high density area such as Hampton Roads, initial steps have been taken with the publication of Air Installation Compatible Use Zones studies with respect to Naval Station Norfolk’s air facility Chambers Field. The studies set forth regulations applicable to various governmental entities in the vicinity of Chambers Field. They also establish zones in which construction and occupancy are constrained by existence of the airfield. It assigns various functions and responsibilities to certain entities. For example, in certain areas, such as the approach end of runway 10/270, development is prohibited. On the departure end, the intensity of use of existing structures in the civilian community may not be increased. Such regulation would be within the authority of the Building Commissioner of the City of Norfolk. The Plans of Development would be reviewed by Navy staff to determine if they were in conflict with aviation operations. The resulting apparatus has evolved over a number of years, though its operations have not been without some turbulence as Norfolk has grown.[v]

The 1958 crash was the first in Norfolk in which civilians died (Virginian Pilot/TCA) 

At the time of the December 9, 1958 crash, it was opined that diverting the aircraft to the Naval Air Station at Oceana in what was then relatively pristine farmland might have been a preferable course of action, rather than attempting to reach the home station. However, the area around the station has been built up over the years, and aircraft operations now present a hazard to nearby residents. Although most citizens in South Hampton Roads accept the risk of accidents, they do occur occasionally with devastating results. Since 1967, over 25 air crashes have occurred on the station or in the vicinity of Oceana.[viii]

An F-4 from VF-41 flies over NAS Oceana in 1971. The area was even more rural in 1958. (Wikimedia Commons)

As happens in the Navy, those whose lives were touched by the events of December 9, 1958, moved on, and many are now deceased. A major thoroughfare overlooking Hampton Roads on Naval Station Norfolk is named for Admiral Hughes, who died on December 23, 1960, while on active duty. The CO of VAH-15, Commander Shepard (later Rear Admiral), went on to the staff of Commander Naval Air Force Atlantic Fleet, as Air Operations Officer in USS Essex (CV 9), as Naval Aide to President John F. Kennedy and Commanding Officer of USS Aucilla (AO 56)[ix] and USS Princeton (LPH 5). The squadrons configured for refueling, VAH-15 and 16, were disestablished about 60 days after the terrible crash. In fact, by the summer of 1959 all VAH squadrons had been re-designated RVAH (reconnaissance) Squadrons. What is admirable and lasting is that various Navy and civilian organizations have taken action to lessen the risks and problems that emerge when, as Admiral Hughes aptly expressed it, “we have aircraft continually flying over our heads,” though there may, as a practical matter, be only so many preventative steps that may be taken.

 Endnotes

[i] “Wreckage studied for clues to crash,” Norfolk Virginian Pilot, December 12, 1958, p.1.

[ii] AAR 1-58,  p.96.

[iii] Ibid.,pp.70-73; See also CO NAS NORVA(Code 98E/310/869 F11 Ltr of 24 December 1958.

[iv] United States Code, Section 552(b)(5) and United States Code Section 552(b)(6)

[v] The West Coast Heavy Attack Squadron, VAH-16, was disestablished fifteen days earlier. 

[vi] Bureau of Aircraft Accidents (B3A) entry in the case of Norfolk Chambers Field NAS; “Neptune Crash Hurts 6,”  Norfolk Virginian Pilot, Al Edmonds, July 22, 1964.

[vii] For some recent friction see Official Warns about Threat to Naval Station’s Airfield,” Eric Hartley, Norfolk Virginian Pilot, March 17, 2016, p.1.;“Norfolk business owner says she’s broke, stuck in limbo after debate over Navy’s flight path,” Norfolk Virginian Pilot, Eric Hartley, p.A1. September 8, 2016; “Seven months later, banquet hall back on track to open in Navy Crash zone,” Norfolk Virginian Pilot, Eric Hartley, p.A1. September 10, 2016.

[viii] “Life in the flight path, noisy, unnerving,” The Norfolk, Virginian Pilot, Alec Klein, Sherrill Evans and Angelita Plummer, June 20, 1992. p. A9; “Mayhem from above, amazingly no deaths reported in Navy Jet crash; dozens displaced after Hornet’s  crash destroyed Beach apartments,” Mike Hixenburg and Kate Wiltrout, Norfolk, Virginian Pilot, p.A.1., April 7, 2012; “Oceana has had 25 plus crashes over 4 decades,”  Norfolk, Virginian Pilot, Bill Sizemore, April 7, 2012.

[ix] Captain Alexander G. Monroe, USN (Ret.), author of this blog, served as an Ensign as Gunnery Officer on board Aucilla during the period of Captain Shepard’s deep draft command tour.

A Tragedy on Granby Street: Part 1

 

The tragedy was covered on the front page of the Virginian Pilot on December 10, 1958. Note the tail of the plane visible in the picture, as well as the four air crew killed in the crash. (Virginian Pilot/TCA)

By Captain Alexander G. Monroe, USN (Ret.)
HRNM Docent & Contributing Writer

Just after noon on December 9, 1958, an AJ-2 Savage (Bureau number 130416) aircraft assigned to Heavy Attack Squadron Fifteen (VAH-15) crashed near the intersection of Granby Street and Bay Avenue on its return to Naval Air Station Norfolk. The entire aircrew was lost and two infants in a nearby house also perished. The accident was the first in the city in which civilians were killed.[i] It led citizens, Navy and civilian, to consider the hazards of military aviation in a congested area and to further develop ways to reduce these dangers. The Commandant of the Fifth Naval District, Rear Admiral F. Massie Hughes, an experienced naval aviator, opined that dangers “would be a continuing problem as long as we have aircraft flying over our heads…”[ii] Concurrently, he stated that there would be a need to “look progressively and constructively in order to stay ahead of such heartbreaking trouble.” Editorial opinion was similar,[iii] though the Norfolk Virginian Pilot’s editors said that an important ingredient in the investigations underway would be determining whether the decision to bring the aircraft home was “sound doctrine.”[iv] In the years since 1958, certain steps have been taken to lessen danger, including publication of Air Installations Compatible Use Zones Study for Naval Station Norfolk. The difficulty of conducting high density aviation operations in the area shared by three military air facilities and a major civilian airport remains vexatious to this very day, just as Admiral Hughes observed in 1958.

The same AJ-2 Savage (Buno 130416) that crashed in Norfolk is seen on the runway at NAS Glenview, Illinois in 1958 (Naval History and Heritage Command)

There was nothing to suggest that there was anything inherently dangerous about the local refueling mission of December 9, 1958, which was to service naval aircraft from NAS Oceana. The plane was in a mechanically sound “up” status. From September 9 to November 14, the plane had flown thirty six and a half hours in local training flights and some farther afield (Chicago and Newfoundland).[v] The maintenance history was “one of relatively little trouble.”[vi] Further, the pilot, Lieutenant Commander George Wilson, had a strong record of 3,500 flight hours and “could be expected to handle any emergency in a correct and positive manner.” His co-pilot, Ensign Fred Melton Clancy III, who replaced his regular co-pilot, had been involved in a situation necessitating an emergency landing at NAS Oceana in October that year and had reacted well to it.[vii] Their plane, with the radio call sign “3 Revolver,” departed NAS Norfolk on runway 28 at 10:40am with 10,000 pounds of 115/145 aviation gasoline and 8,000 pounds of JP-4 jet fuel on board, climbed to 22,000 feet and joined aircraft waiting for refueling at 11:00am near Weeksville, North Carolina.

An AJ-2 Savage refuels a F3-H2 Demon in 1958. (National Naval Aviation Museum)

The mission proceeded as briefed until about forty-five minutes into the evolution, when the pilot reported to the NAS Norfolk tower that he was experiencing engine trouble, discontinued refueling of a Navy jet, began dumping JP-4, and reported that he was returning to base. The first receiving aircraft’s pilot reported that the refueling hose known as the drogue was still deployed and dumping was in progress. No indications of engine malfunction such as vibration, smoke, and fire or other unusual conditions were observed. At 12:03pm the VAH-15 base radio received a call noting that both engines were cutting out at 17,000 feet and one minute later notified Norfolk Tower that both engines were cutting out at 6,000 feet. He was 3 miles east of the Naval Air Station and requested immediate landing. The pilot was given an altimeter setting, instructions for left turns, and a track that would bring him over Willoughby Bay and safely into runway 10.[viii]

A hand drawn map featured in the newspaper on December 11 to illustrate the flight path of the stricken AJ-2 plane, and its crash site. (George Tucker/Virginian Pilot/TCA)

Though the pilot acknowledged the instructions, he did not communicate his intentions. Before the crash eyewitnesses James H. Miller and W. W. Mason noted that the left engine and the centerline jet engine appeared to have failed and that the aircraft was in a ninety degree bank with the right wing down. There was no fear or urgency in the tower tapes as the co-pilot, Ensign Clancy, went down the pre-landing checklist according to Commander Tazewell Shepard, Jr., the squadron’s commanding officer. It was assumed that the aircraft commander was attempting to land on runway 28.[ix] Tragically, the AJ-2 Savage crashed near the intersection of Granby Street and Bay Avenue about one half mile short of the runway. In so doing, it demolished or destroyed homes at 8935, 8939 and 8954 Granby Street, the residences of, respectfully, T. H. Hill, W. C. Poore, and Lieutenant and Mrs. Joseph Tondera and their three children. It also damaged a load of 750 fifty-pound bags of potatoes in a truck operated by Charles Sheppard of Suffolk.

(Virginian Pilot/TCA)

Potatoes lay strewn across the road from the cargo truck struck by the plane, as naval personnel watch firefighters try to douse the flames. (Virginian Pilot/TCA)

Initial efforts and action focused on survival and rescue of those in the aircraft and homes struck by the plane and in the resulting fire. Admiral Hughes and Navy rescue crews responded rapidly. Mrs. Edna Bellamy, the maid for the Hills, was the only occupant of the house at 8935 Granby Street. She was terrified by the fire all around her and was rescued by two Navy sailors. Though badly shaken, she had the presence of mind to rescue the Hill’s shivering fourteen-year-old cocker spaniel, Tag, and wrap the frightened animal in her coat.[x] The Poore home at 8939 was unoccupied because the owner and his family were at DePaul Hospital where he had been scheduled to have surgery. Neighbors of Lieutenant and Mrs. Tondera attempted to rescue the two infants, one of whom was but fourteen days old, but were driven away by a sudden explosion. Both Mrs. Wilson, the pilot’s wife, and Mrs. Tondera were treated for shock at the NAS Dispensary, and Lieutenant Tondera was airlifted ashore from the submarine USS Requin (SS 481). The scene documented in the Virginian Pilot was one of devastation and poignant sadness to include one image of Father Philip Shannon, NAS chaplain, giving last rites of the Roman Catholic Church to the Tondera children.[xi]

(Virginian Pilot/TCA)

The post-crash period was one for recovery and perseverance in the face of tragic loss of the entire aircrew and the Tondera children. Kind neighbors gave the Tonderas shelter and seclusion, as other neighbors did for the Poore family. In time, the grieving Wilson and Tondera families traveled to their hometowns to lay their deceased to rest. The squadron held a memorial on December 11 at the NAS Norfolk Chapel in the Woods. High Requiem Masses were concurrently held for enlisted men Patrick Toomey and John Delaney at the Chapel of the Immaculate Conception at the Naval Station. Ensign Clancy rests in the Arlington National Cemetery.[xii]

Check back next week for the second part of this story.

Special thanks to Troy Valos at the Sargeant Memorial Collection, Slover Library, for his assistance providing scans of the Virginian Pilot's coverage of the accident. 

---

Endnotes

[i] “ 2 Infants, 4 Airmen Die in Crash on Granby,” Norfolk Virginian Pilot, December 10, 1958, p.1.

[ii] The Plane Tragedy, Product of the Air Age,” Norfolk Virginian Pilot, Richard Mansfield, December 11, 1958.

[iii] “Tragedy at Ocean View,” Norfolk Ledger Star, Editorial Page, December 12, 1958.

[iv] “Search for Causes in a Tragic Crash,” Editorial Page, Norfolk Virginian Pilot, December 12, 1958.

[v]   OPNAV 3750 Aircraft Accident Report 1-58, December 31, 1958 (hereafter cited as AAR 1-58)

[vi] See above at enclosure (19).

[vii] See again AAR1-58, pp.100.

[viii] Ibid., p.101., See also, drawing from Norfolk Virginian Pilot of December 11, 1958, p.1

[ix] “Last Minute Engine Trouble Cause of Navy Plane Crash,” Norfolk, Virginian Pilot, Richard Mansfield, December 11, 1958, p. 1.

[x] “Stories of Fright, Heroics on Granby Street,” Norfolk Virginian Pilot, December 10, 1958, p.1. 

[xi] See again endnote x above and also “Pilot’s wife saw crash,” Norfolk Virginian Pilot, Betty Bradley, December 11, 1958, p.1.

[xii] See again note above

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.