This is my small contribution to Claud Jones lore:
Man Overboard!
Mid-August, 1973. Another one of those interminable SpecOps. This time we had been observing Soviet naval maneuvers in the Western Pacific and had broken away to follow a Russian sub as she ran on the surface back towards Mother Russia. For one-and-a-half weeks we followed her at 9 knots as she plowed steadily northward about a mile or so off our port bow. The tedium was broken only by the insipidness. What was the purpose of the Cold War? To wear each other down through sheer boredom? Clearly both sides were winning this one. Trying to gauge any sense of our mission from the CT ‘Spooks’ holed up among all the listening devices in their lair in the after deckhouse would only reward the interrogator with a blank stare, or at best a shrug of the shoulders. After all, deck apes existed solely to keep up the appearance of the ship, not to garner any knowledge about national security.
It was 1615 and as usual the deck force was working past knock-off. As was custom we had started painting at the bull-nose and were slowly working our way aft towards the fantail, whence we would pick up our hammers and scrapers and buckets of red lead and deck gray and haul them up to the foc’sle to repeat the process again (and again). This particular afternoon I was painting scuppers and the waterway along the upper edge of the hull, just forward of the starboard torpedo tubes. Reaching outboard I was leaning on the middle (belly) lifeline when TWANG! the wire rope parted and over and out I went, paintbrush in hand. It seems the threaded turnbuckle that was supposed to keep the line taut was held in by only 1or 2 turns and it came undone. Everything went into slow motion. Falling headfirst 15 or so feet into the Pacific Ocean seemed to take an hour. A wall of haze gray steel plating was broken by the black boot topping of the waterline as I went downwards and then SPLASH! I can’t believe this is happening!
I came to the surface facing the ship, wide-eyed. An overboard discharge washed over me. I hope that’s not what I think it is! I glanced towards the stern. Oh Christ, I’m going to be chopped up by the propeller! Instinctively I turned to swim when I was picked up and pushed away by the bow wave as the ship cut through the water. Turns out I need not have worried as it clearly states in Chapter 14, page 263 of the Bluejacket’s Manual, “The screws will not suck you under as they are too deep in the water”. Good to know, although the BJM was the last thing on my mind as this giant gray wall slid past me only feet away.
Suddenly it was very quiet. I became aware of how warm the water was, perhaps the warmest ocean water I had ever been in. It must have been 80 degrees. Up to my neck in the water I saw people moving about on deck as the ship serenely sailed away.
Jesus, what now? I began to think of my boot camp training – dungarees off, cuffs knotted, sling over head to fill with air and instant flotation device. As I was reaching down to remove my shoes I saw a guy in my division, SN Roger McCall, remove a life ring from the deckhouse and slowly walk aft. Pausing at the break at the O-1 level he went into a semi-crouch, not unlike a discus thrower in the ancient Greek Olympics. He held that pose for a second and then let fly. Good old Roger, I thought, I’ll never give him any crap again! His aim was true and after a short swim I grabbed the ring. This is better. . .now what?
As I went into the drink several people saw me, and one of our Filipino shipmates, SN Limbo, raced up the starboard ladder to the bridge and burst into the pilothouse jabbering so excitedly that nobody knew at first what he was gesturing towards. Then things began to happen. Man overboard! I saw the ship slow and go off to starboard. Flags fluttered up to the yardarm. People filtered out of hatches onto the deck, curious as to what was happening. Evidently the Soviet sub came to All Stop and went DIW as they wondered what the decadent capitalists were up to now. Another Yankee trick?
Holding on to my life ring I took stock of the situation. I thought if I feel something brush against my leg I swear I’ m gonna run back to the damn ship! All things considered I felt quite secure. The sun was out, the water was warm, the ship was in sight and I had a life ring to keep me afloat. I was told later that it was a different situation on the bridge. The seas were running about 5 or 6 foot swells and as the ship began to circle they lost sight of me in the glare of the sun setting low on the water. By now 10 minutes had gone by and I noticed I was still clutching the paint brush in my left hand. What the. . ??? and away went the paint brush, never to be seen again. The ship had now come full circle and was slowly being conned so that it could be moved up close to my position in the water. It appeared that the entire crew, except for those actually on watch, had sauntered to the starboard side and were manning the rails. Laughing, jeering, pointing and snapping photographs, I could hear their catcalls:
“Hey Captain, let’s leave the dumb bastard here!”
“ Rudder amidships, all ahead full! See you back in Hawaii, Penny!”
“Put this man on report! Unauthorized swim call!”
A real carnival atmosphere seemed to be developing.
Nearer now, heaving lines were arching out towards me. The swells were running towards the side of the ship, and as they broke against the hull the water would flow backwards, pushing me away and preventing me from grabbing a hold of any lines.
I called out:
“I can’t get in any closer!”
I heard one of the officers (I think it was Mr. Balint) shout back:
“Keep your head, Penny, we’ll get you!”
Now that was truly annoying, as I wasn’t panicked at all. By then it seemed that floating in the middle of the Pacific Ocean was as normal as going to the club for a beer. The Captain finally decided to hell with it and ordered the motor whaleboat launched. Sure enough, after a few minutes the whaleboat appeared from around the stern and headed my way, SN Gouveia at the helm. As it pulled alongside, SN Barnes, our ship’s boxing champion leaned over and in one swift movement hauled me into the whaleboat. I looked around. Everyone was staring at me. I stared back. Nobody said a word. Away we went back to the port side of the ship and hooked up to the boat falls. Once the whaleboat was hoisted up and cradled in the davits I climbed down on deck and Mr. Kesson was there.
“Captain wants to see you on the bridge. Now.”
I climbed the port ladder and entered the pilothouse, soaking wet. My ball cap was folded in my back pocket and I put it on. The Captain was peering forward through the bridge windows. By now we had resumed base course, as had the Soviets, and it was as though nothing had happened at all. I stood there for a few seconds, dripping water. Finally the Captain turned and looked me over fully. He did not appear to be happy. His eyes seemed to narrow.
“Well, Penny, have you learned your lesson?” he inquired brusquely.
That surprised me. Heck, none of this was my idea! I didn’t recall volunteering to work past knock-off. I was just doing what I was told to do.
“Yes sir,” I blurted, “I’m never going to trust your (rhymes with trucking) life lines again!”
His eyes narrowed more.
“That’s right, and maybe next time you’ll wear a lifejacket!” he fairly shouted, and turned away.
Obviously the Captain was not amused by this situation, as the rest of my mates on watch seemed to be. And who could blame him? After all, they weren’t the ones who would have to send a radio message reporting this to Fleet Headquarters. Quickly I exited the bridge and headed below decks to 1st Division berthing compartment. Along the way someone said:
“Doc wants to see you in sickbay.”
I reported to sickbay and Doc Summerour asked if I was cold.
“No, not really, in fact the water was quite warm.”
He asked again and I caught on.
“ Well, maybe a little.”
He smiled and out came two small bottles of medicinal brandy, one for me and one for Doc. I was actually beginning to enjoy the whole thing. We knocked those back and I departed sick bay and headed forward to the berthing space. After I had changed into dry dungarees I emerged into the passageway and someone sidled up to me and asked:
“Penny, what happened?”
I then spent 5 minutes going through the whole escapade, detail by detail.
“Oh,” he said, and took off.
Another 10 feet down the passageway and somebody else asked:
“Penny, what happened?”
Everyone had to have the straight scoop it seemed. Once again I explained in detail. After going through this for what seemed to be 20 or 25 more times I began to tire of it. The next time somebody asked I snapped and said:
“I hate this damned ship. I hate the Navy. I jumped over the side on purpose and was swimming to the Russian sub. I would have made it if the whaleboat hadn’t cut me off.”
“Go to hell, Penny, you’re an idiot,” that person said and stormed off.
That’s the way it is on a small ship sometimes. Nobody wants to be snubbed when it comes to getting the dope first hand.
To make the story short, the next day the deck force was back at it, working well past knock-off, wearing life jackets and tethered to the deckhouse with manila line. We followed the Soviet sub for another half week and finally parted ways. The ship turned about and headed south. Later, QM3 Jarvis pointed out to me on the chart where this had occurred. It was about 900 miles SE of Tokyo, in water 19,000 feet deep.
We had a port call in Yokosuka and then returned to Pearl. That morning, after we moored, I encountered the CO’s wife on the O-1 level forward and she said:
“Oh, you’re the famous one, aren’t you?”
Sheepishly I was admitted I was. But as I had heard the recovery rate for ‘Oscars’ was only about 15 percent, I decided I would take that kind of infamy any day.
And for the next 16 months I served aboard Claud Jones, whenever a man overboard drill was to be held, the mocking words would echo throughout the ship:
“Now Penny, drill dummy, lay to the quarterdeck!”
And to this day I still have the Oscar (man overboard) flag given to me by one of the signalmen.
Eric Penny, January 20, 2009
