Front Burner (27 page)

By now, the crew knew the routine, and, within an hour of each recovery, assembled topside for the honors departure ceremony. After the second one Tuesday, Don told me that, while they had located more sailors in the wreckage, they wanted to wait until the next day because each successive extraction was going to take longer, given the amount of debris and metal surrounding the remains. Everyone knew that families back home were anxiously awaiting news of their loved ones, but accomplishing the recovery properly was supremely important.

Just before departing the ship that evening, Don asked what happened with the Fifth Fleet surgeon. He looked somewhat bemused by my explanation, but thanked me for taking care of the problem so decisively. Later that evening, there was also the inevitable call from Captain Hanna seeking an explanation. Methodically, I walked him through what the surgeon had done and why the FBI had asked for my help. After patiently listening, he used some rather colorful language to emphasize that he would make sure the surgeon never set foot back on the ship the rest of the time we were in port.

On Wednesday morning, Don and the FBI/NCIS team approached Commander Scholley and the divers with a request. In the middle of the cavernous area blown away by the explosion, a sailor's “boondocker” boot along with some clothing hung by a shred of cloth from the overhead. There was no easy way to reach these partial remains except by sending the aluminum paint punt back into the engine room with a team member who could then step out carefully where there was good footing and use a pole to unhook the remains of this sailor and lower them into the punt.

Within about an hour Commander Scholley and one of her divers crawled down the ladder that was still hung over the side of the ship to the paint punt and then slowly maneuvered to enter the ship from the hole in the side. Carefully, the diver stepped out of the boat and up onto a narrow piece of bent deck. Using a long six-and-a-half-foot boat hook and holding onto a piece of twisted steel to steady himself, the diver leaned out into the middle of the cavern and slowly stretched out to get the boat hook into position. At the same time, members of the FBI recovery team were working from a piece of narrow ledge at the edge of the blast hole in the middle of the galley. Using the same technique as Commander Scholley and the diver below, John Adams and Tom O'Connor slowly leaned out over the edge with another boat hook. As both groups leaned out, Commander Scholley tried to steady the punt and maneuver into position. The diver's boat hook could not quite reach, but the hook from the FBI found its mark as the sailor's remains fell straight down into an open body bag set out in the well of the boat.

Shortly afterwards, the crew assembled for another honors departure ceremony. Later that afternoon, the pace picked up with the recovery of two more sailors' bodies. The difficult task of identification continued within the draped-off area and by the end of the day, only three sailors remained in the wreckage.

The next day, Thursday, was a day of extreme highs and lows. At the start of the day, the crew was increasingly upbeat about the pace of recovery of their shipmates. Everyone hoped today would be the last day for rendering honors in the remaining three departure ceremonies. These last recoveries,
however, would prove the most difficult. To date, all the sailors found by either the divers or the FBI recovery team had been relatively easily extricated.

The FBI had located two more remains in the galley, but access was extremely difficult. They were pinned between the bulkhead and the overhead in the area separating the galley from the chiefs' mess, with large pieces of unrecognizable debris blocking any easy path to reach them. These last two recoveries were so difficult, they could reasonably have been put off until the ship returned to the United States, but by now, all the FBI and NCIS agents on board
Cole
had developed an unspoken bond with the crew and knew that no one should be left behind.

Once again the Norfolk Naval Shipyard workers were called into action to cut away the pieces of mangled rubble in the galley. John Adams, dressed in full protective gear, slowly worked his way up into the small area where he could reach the remains of the two sailors trapped there. There was no way to pull either sailor straight out; both would have to be dragged across his torso and handed out to the waiting team. It was dark, hot, and humid. Portable lights only partially illuminated the area and cast odd shadows as other FBI agents tried to light the crevice. Lying on his back, John slowly and carefully reached over himself and slid each of the two sailors across to Tom O'Connor and Kevin Finnerty, waiting below him. The honors departure ceremonies for these last two sailors were held about an hour apart to allow the FBI to complete their forensic analysis work.

But one sailor was still frustratingly missing somewhere in the engine room. The MDSU-2 divers began a detailed and methodical search. Time ticked by with agonizing slowness. Although work and watches continued normally, the crew grew increasingly anxious. By mid-afternoon the sailor's remains were found. Commander Scholley and her divers notified everyone that a body had been located trapped under machinery that had been blown on top of it by the explosion, but that it would take some time to pry it out. Word quickly spread and an air of tense anticipation took hold.

Over the past four days, the crew had endured the emotional toil of knowing friends and shipmates were dead and trapped in the wreckage
on the inside of the ship. Most had seen the bodies in the wreckage of the mess line, and everyone had struggled to understand how they had escaped death. In their own way, every one had gone through the mental exercise of wondering what their own families would think if they had been killed, wondering how and where they were trapped and what was being done to get them out. The crew worked hard to come to terms with what had happened to them. They intuitively sensed that the recovery of the bodies would naturally lend a degree of closure. They anxiously looked forward to the recoveries, to be able to say good-bye, but also to know that a family back home could begin to deal with the unimaginable tragedy of losing a loved one.

Finally, the moment came when Don Sachtleben motioned for me to come up to the staging area to help with identification. Minutes later, Chris assembled the crew for the last honors ceremony.

The ship cast a growing shadow on itself and late afternoon sunbeams streamed across the harbor. And as the final zodiac with the Marines slowly departed the refueling pier carrying the final casualty ashore, I could almost hear the crew breathe a collective sigh of relief. It was not lost on anyone that there had been thirteen departure ceremonies, for twelve missing shipmates, but the last of the seventeen USS
Cole
sailors killed in the attack had begun their journey home. We were all emotionally drained and exhausted, knowing that our shipmates had paid the ultimate price for our freedom. But we would not let them down in the days to come.

It had been a trying week in many other ways, as well—the most trying week of my life.

T
HE SPECIAL PSYCHIATRIC RAPID INTERVENTION TEAM (SPRINT) that was mobilized by the Navy the day of the explosion to provide help to us was led by Lieutenant Commander John Kennedy, a Medical Corps psychiatrist. The team, including a Medical Service Corps administrative officer, a family physician, an inpatient ward nurse, a substance abuse counselor, two independent duty hospital corpsmen, and two other hospital corpsmen, one a specialist as a psychiatric technician and the other a patient administration specialist, had some difficulty getting diplomatic clearance to Aden but had finally been able to board the ship on Sunday evening, at the height of the crisis caused by the loss of electric power.

Walking up the brow, all of them were struck by the darkness. Crew members lay about the ship in a tense state of rest, ready for the next crisis that seemed sure to come. The portable JP-5–fueled air compressors were running loudly in the background to recharge the high-pressure air flask that would be used to restart the generator that had failed.

Commander Kennedy requested permission to come aboard, and I warmly greeted him at the brow. “What can we do to help you?” I asked.

John was stunned by the question. He was here to help the crew, not the other way around. Nevertheless, I grew up with a father who was a psychologist in the field of stress management. I viewed the team's arrival as a force multiplier, not a distraction from our mission to save the ship and the crew. Soon Commander Kennedy and I were on first-name terms. He had trained with experts from Walter Reed Army Hospital in Washington and the National Naval Medical Center in Bethesda, Maryland. He had had access to Army combat stress training and to lessons learned from ground combat in World War II, Korea, and Vietnam. “Shell shock” trauma was not something the Navy had to deal with often, but he was an expert on it and that was exactly what
Cole
's crew had experienced.

John laid out the mission of the team for me: minimize stress symptoms, foster unit cohesion, and facilitate normal grieving. The primary focus would be the well-being of the crew, and John was well aware at the time he first came aboard that twelve bodies were still entombed in the wreckage of the ship. We worked out an approach and he went back to the Aden Mövenpick Hotel, where his team was housed, to consult with the two Fifth Fleet chaplains who had also come to do counseling on the ship, Commander George S. Ridgeway, a Protestant minister, and Lieutenant Commander Michael Mikstay, a Roman Catholic priest.

When the crew was briefed on the team's visit, some of the officers openly expressed skepticism about how a “bunch of touchy, feely types” could “help” them work through their traumatic experiences. As delicately but firmly as possible, it was patiently explained to everyone that the Navy didn't send teams like this to help each individual get in touch with his or her inner self. Their job was to enable the crew to get back to normal and to the work that needed to be done—and that included us officers as well. We were still Navy professionals, and standards of performance, cleanliness, and grooming would be adhered to.

But things were not anywhere near normal. In the heat, a powerful odor of putrefaction lingered in the air, especially in the blast area. To avoid the awkward complication imposed by military rank, the team members walked around the ship on Monday wearing civilian clothes to encourage open communication.
Cole
's career counselor, Navy Counselor
First Class Christina Huber, escorted the team on their way. They found an organizational structure of the ship that had been dramatically altered by the blast. Between deaths and injuries, there were personnel missing in almost every division. Coping with the loss of power on Sunday and the flooding further disrupted what semblance of organization had reinstituted itself since the blast. Huber told the team members that the crew was functioning more as a mass group that performed tasks in randomly assembled groups, not by division, as a military unit should.

We were finding ways of providing relief for the crew. Thirty sailors per day were receiving nights of “liberty” on one of the ships that had come to support us—
Camden
,
Hawes
, and
Donald Cook
. This way, they had a chance to take a hot shower, get into clean clothes, enjoy fresh chow, and spend a few precious moments without the stress of responsibility or the odor of the attack. John helped Chris select those who seemed most urgently in need of the option to decompress and recenter themselves.

Commanded by Captain John L. “Turk” Green,
Camden
was a favorite for these liberty visits. After stepping off the boat and climbing the accommodation ladder, each
Cole
crew member was greeted with a “welcome” corridor of four sailors on each side. Two strokes of the ship's bell sounded and the Boatswain's Mate of the Watch announced, “
Cole
hero, arriving.” Many wiped tears from their eyes after these demonstrations of support and sympathy. Some felt guilty at being immersed in the attention and “luxury” of normal shipboard life, and volunteered to stand a watch on the ship hosting them.

Hawes
and
Donald Cook
continued to provide excellent Navy food and support personnel to us, and by late Monday evening the air conditioning, lighting, and sewage systems had been repaired enough to allow most of the crew to use their own personal bunks to sleep at night. But some showed signs of anxiety about returning to the inside of the ship, preferring to sleep outside. We had survived the weekend and kept the ship from sinking, but crew members still seemed distrustful of the ship's overall structural integrity. Some wondered aloud if we could survive until it was time to get the ship out of port.

On Monday, at the end of the team's first day aboard, John stayed behind to share some of their observations with Chris and me: