Thirty Years Ago: A Ghost in the Working Party?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“How did you get back here so fast?”

“I got back just now.”

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

“No I didn’t. I just got back.”

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

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

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

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

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

Seventy-Five Years Ago: A Submarine is Lost,Yet its Legend Persists

By Joseph Miechle
Hampton Roads Naval Museum Educator

Oberleutnant Hans Sanger was the highest ranking of 29 Kriegsmarine personnel whose bodies were recovered from the Atlantic Ocean after the destroyer Roper (DD-147) sank their Unterseeboote (U-Boat) early on the morning of April 14, 1942.  They were buried at Hampton National Cemetery the following evening, where they remain to this day. (M.C. Farrington)  

Shortly past midnight on April 14, 1942, USS Jessie M. Roper (DD-147), a WW1-era Wickes-class destroyer, made radar contact with a suspected German submarine operating on the surface. “The night was clear, with many stars visible; the sea was very nearly calm,” noted the Roper’s captain, Lt. Cmdr. Hamilton W. Howe. The destroyer continued a nearly due south pursuit of the target it was now tracking off the North Carolina coast. The crew of Roper was ordered to general quarters as the old destroyer closed the distance with the unknown target. When the ship was approximately 700 yards from the still unidentified vessel, a torpedo was observed passing Roper close down the port side, immediately making clear the severity of the pursuit. 

+
ABOVE: A sketch from an after-action report by Lt. Cmdr. H.W. Howe, who would later be awarded the Navy Cross for his actions against U-85. (War Record of the Fifth Naval District, 1942) BELOW: A painting of U-85 turing sharply to starboard in an attempt to evade Roper.  (Robert Hurst via Navsource.org)

When the distance between the vessels was only to 300 yards, the unknown vessel “cut sharply to starboard.” The darkness was suddenly pierced by Roper’s 24-inch searchlight as it illuminated the hull of U-85 as the submarine attempted to evade the rapidly approaching destroyer. As the two vessels circled each other like boxers in a ring, the combat became a race to see who could man their guns faster. As crewmen poured from hatches aboard U-85, Chief Boatswain's Mate Jack Edwin Wright aboard Roper responded with accurate .50 caliber machine gun fire, sweeping the U-boat deck of would be assailants. Shots were then fired from Roper’s starboard 3-inch guns, and despite numerous misfires, Coxwain Harry Heyman, Roper's junior gun captain, scored a hit just aft of U-85's conning tower. "This hit undoubtedly contributed markedly to the final destruction of the submarine," Howe wrote in his after-action report.

A sketch from an after-action report by Lt. Cmdr. H.W. Howe.  Drawn the day after the battle, it shows the frantic 20-minute engagement. (War Record of the Fifth Naval District, 1942)

A combination of this hit, and likely the remaining U-boat crew scuttling the ship, culminated in the rapid sinking of U-85, the first German submarine sunk by the United States Navy in World War II. Roper circled back through the last location of the U-boat where it proceeded to deploy 11 depth charges into the water. The action from the first spotlight contact aboard Roper to sinking had taken less than 20 minutes. The victorious destroyer remained on station until morning but was unable to stop and render aid to any possible survivors, as Howe feared that U-boats operated in pairs and his ship could be in danger if it slowed. The bodies of 29 German sailors recovered afterward became the first foreign combatants interred in American soil since the War of 1812.

USS Roper as seen from above in this 1942 photograph.
The starboard, aft 3-inch gun struck the fatal blow to U-85.
Notice the abundance of depth charges on the stern as well
as amidship. (Naval History and Heritage Command)

Sometimes a myth surrounding a ship is harder to destroy than the ship itself. Case in point: A U.S. Naval Institute Proceedings article by Parke Rouse Jr., from June 1982 contains what today might be called, “fake history.” 

Rouse claimed that when some deceased submarine crewmembers were recovered, they were “wearing civilian clothes with their wallets filled with U.S. currency and identification cards,” inferring that their mission was clandestine in nature. This is only partly true. German U-boat sailors often wore civilian clothing in conjunction with their military issued gear for comfort and functionality. The reports compiled by the Navy on April 15 and 17, 1942, described the type of clothing that was recovered as a mix of civilian and military garments. The reports also listed the pocket contents recovered from the crew. While identification tags and currency were recovered, there were zero instances of U.S. currency or identification documents being found.

Rouse's article also states, “They had been preparing to row ashore in a rubber raft when the submarine was discovered.” There is no mention of a raft in Howe’s after action report, nor was a raft documented as having been recovered by the Navy. Also the submarine was 14 miles from the coast when sunk, a long distance to row at night with no coast visible. It is safe to say this bit of information can hold no credence and after scrutiny, ought be discarded unless some primary documentation can be found supporting the claim.

Although some military intelligence was gathered from the 29 recovered crewmembers inspected at Naval Operating Base Norfolk after the battle, much of what they carried, such as this photograph, was personal in nature. (War Record of the Fifth Naval District, 1942) 

Of the German bodies hauled aboard Roper, Rouse wrote, "Two were officers, [and] one of them the U-85’s captain.” This is categorically false. Naval intelligence officers positively established the identities of all 29 bodies. The original Navy report of April 15 states that it was believed that one of the bodies recovered may have been of the captain, but eventually only one casualty was identified as an officer: Oberleutnant Hans Sanger. The body of the U-85’s captain, Oberleutnant (possibly Kapitanleutnant at time of sinking) Eberhard Greger, has never been recovered. Once we put the various pieces together, it is safe to state that U-85 was not involved with any type of spying operation.

Among the personal pictures found among the belongings of the ill-fated submarine crew is this image of U-85 taken sometime before her fourth and final war patrol (War Record of the Fifth Naval District, 1942),  To the right is a photograph by Brett Seymour of the National Park Service's Submerged Resources Center, taken from a similar viewpoint in 2009, which shows a possible penetration of the pressure hull from USS Roper’s gunfire. The wreck of U-85 is considered a war grave by both the United States and Germany. (Courtesy the National Oceanographic and Atmospheric Administration (NOAA))  

Among the articles recovered by the Navy in the flotsam was the diary of Erich Degenkold, a sailor aboard the U-85. In it he records a short statement describing each day. The night before he was killed, his final entry ominously foreshadowed the events that would soon unfold. “American beacons and searchlights visible at night.”

After the 29 bodies recovered from U-85 were brought back to Hampton Roads aboard USS Roper, they were transferred to Naval Operating Base Norfolk (now known as Naval Station Norfolk) aboard USS Sciota (ATO-30). After an intelligence investigation was conducted on the evening of April 14, 1942, Sailors at a hangar at nearby Naval Air Station Norfolk prepared to transport the bodies to Hampton National Cemetery. (National Archives and Records Administration (NARA) Still Picture Branch via NOAA)

Sailors from Naval Operating Base Norfolk (now known as Naval Station Norfolk) move a box containing the body of a U-85 crewmember to a truck during the transport of the deceased sailors from Naval Air Station Norfolk to Hampton National Cemetery. According to an intelligence report dated April 17, 1942, the US Naval Hospital in Portsmouth did not have enough caskets for such a large mass-burial, and neither did local funeral businesses. The Veterans Administration in Kecoughtan (Hampton) came through, however, and supplied enough caskets and shipping boxes to ensure a proper burial. (NARA Still Picture Branch via NOAA)

On the evening of April 15, 1942, 29 sailors from U-85 were buried Hampton National Cemetery, Hampton, Virginia, with military honors. Fifty-two prisoners from Fort Monroe, Virginia, prepared the graves, and Soldiers from the fort acted as pallbearers. At 8 pm, the burial service was read by a Catholic chaplain, followed by the Protestant chaplain, Lieutenant Junior Grade R.A. Lundquist. A firing party of 24 Sailors from the Naval Operating Base fired three volleys, and Taps was sounded. The event attracted dozens of onlookers outside the cemetery walls. (NARA Still Picture Branch via NOAA)

The area of the Hampton National Cemetery containing the U-85 graves, as it looks today.  Union soldiers from nearby Fort Monroe were some of the first to be buried at the cemetery in Hampton, Virginia, but it is also the final resting place for Confederate soliders from the Civil War, as well as German and Italian prisoners from World War II. (M.C. Farrington)  

--For additional information about the USS Roper and U-85 please visit the NOAA website, and the Naval History and Heritage Command website. Special thanks to the folks at Uboat.net who maintain an excellent website full of links to primary sources about U-85 and many other German submarines. Several artifacts from U-85, including an enigma machine, can be seen on display at the Graveyard of the Atlantic Museum in North Carolina.