Sea Story: A Quiet Night

Underway and alone. The USS Kansas City (AOR-3) had been sent out to sea, an unusual mission to test out an experimental strobe lighting. The Navy had tasked the job of assessment to an officer that for many years reported on the worthiness of ships to Congress, the Board of Inspection and Survey. Kansas City had returned earlier that year from a successful deployment operating with USS Missouri (BB-63) and others that had been part of Operation Earnest Will, where a successful strike was executed against Iran in the heart of the Persian Gulf. The year was 1987. Now the test complete, the ship hung out southwest of the Farallons off the Northern California coast. Commanding the team that had been evaluating this was that Giant of Giants, Vice Admiral John D. Bulkeley. For those who care to know, here was at the time the Navy's most respected living salt, a senior among seniors. He had earned the Medal of Honor at the beginning of his Navy days, having evacuated General MacArthur from Corregidor during dark days in World War Two. Now a living legend was still serving through a special appointment authorizing service past normal retirement age. He was in his seventies. This was the oldest man ever to wear the uniform on active duty in my Navy.

Kansas City had been scheduled underway a single night to test the devices then return to port after sunrise the next day. The tests had been completed before my watch. The Admiral had been assigned the Captain's Sea Cabin, leaving the CO of the ship in his in port cabin that night. He had declined the more comfortable in port cabin in favor of the at sea cabin.

It was just before midnight and time to assume the watch. Passing through Combat, one could barely feel motion, radar repeaters showed little but the largest of the Farallon rocks painting brightly at the edge of the scope. Turnover was quick. The watch was to maintain safe navigation, stay in a rectangular box and perform periodic racetrack turns. At the end of watch we were make way past the Farallons to approach San Francisco bay. It was a clear, moonless night. Just us and the stars.

The bridge was totally dark. My station; it was behind the centerline pelorus. While scanning the horizon for smaller vessels, the door to the pilothouse slowly creaked open then slammed shut. "Admiral's on the Bridge!" called out the Boatswain's Mate of the Watch. Seawolf had stepped on deck and was somewhere in the pilothouse. I stood at attention and saluted but did not move from my station. I could not see where he was. A decision was made. Don't fuss. Don't make small talk. Stay the course. The clatter of watch turnover may have been rousing. He was unable to slumber. He could have been missing that which brought him to wear the uniform. All of the above.

Keeping eyes ahead for faint lights on the seas ahead I called out "Boats"! The Boatswain's Mate of the Watch stepped forward to where I stood. "Offer the Admiral coffee or another beverage. The messenger can be sent if we don't have it up here. Take care of him."

He remained for nearly ten minutes. Not a caw from a seagull, not a squawk from the bridge to bridge radio, which had some traffic at the beginning of the watch. Nothing. Only steady ticks from the chronometers to be heard. Tick, tick, tick. Suddenly, Boats called out to me: "Admiral's off the Bridge". The pilothouse door had been held up to close more quietly. I reflected a few moments then took a look at the plot near the door to the bridge. It was time for a turn to set up our return. I called over to the Junior Officer of the Deck. "Ensign, we are on the turn in two minutes. Check the bridge wings then if it is clear, turn starboard. Use only ten degrees rudder so we come about easy."

Next morning after quarters was reviewing morning message traffic in the Operations Office. Shortly after colors, the quarterdeck rang eight bells rendering honors. He was gone. The short time he had spent on my bridge he had not been disturbed. Boats told me he had peered out one of the port bridge wing windows that for most of his stay on the bridge. He did not want anything to drink. Up there he could contemplate a bygone day. Up there he could remember his ships and those who were on them. Up there he could remember the position of the Southern Cross as it guided him in the mission that resulted in a Medal of Honor. Up there, he could remember and be well. It was a quiet night.

As long as he had been in the Navy, he knew those orders were coming to orders for him home. They did, the very next year. A few years later he went to rest in Arlington where he sleeps today.

The inscription on his MOH citation is below:

"For extraordinary heroism, distinguished service, and conspicuous gallantry above and beyond the call of duty as commander of Motor Torpedo Boat Squadron 3, in Philippine waters during the period 7 December 1941 to 10 April 1942. The remarkable achievement of Lt. Comdr. Bulkeley's command in damaging or destroying a notable number of Japanese enemy planes, surface combatant and merchant ships, and in dispersing landing parties and land-based enemy forces during the 4 months and 8 days of operation without benefit of repairs, overhaul, or maintenance facilities for his squadron, is believed to be without precedent in this type of warfare. His dynamic forcefulness and daring in offensive action, his brilliantly planned and skillfully executed attacks, supplemented by a unique resourcefulness and ingenuity, characterize him as an outstanding leader of men and a gallant and intrepid seaman. These qualities coupled with a complete disregard for his own personal safety reflect great credit upon him and the Naval Service."