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The crew had also expressed an almost universal frustration, he told me, at my seeming detachment from how they had experienced the disaster and how they were dealing with it. They felt that I was insensitive, too mission-oriented, and that I was growing more and more angry. With example after example, John patiently walked me through my perceptions and the reality of how I was dealing with the issues affecting the crew and me. Slowly, the truth of what he was saying dawned on me.

As commanding officer, it was my duty and obligation to be the strongest member of the crew. I had to be the strongest for everyone, so that each of them could have those precious moments to take a step back, reflect on what had happened to them, and then stand strong as a crew again. While everyone had had that opportunity, for me it was a luxury that I felt I could not afford to take right now. My time would come when the ship was safely out of port and the crew headed home to their families. It was not that the crew failed to understand me; I failed to understand their perception of me.

Inside, I was hurting just as much as they were. I had already judged myself knowing that seventeen sailors had died and thirty-seven more were wounded while under my command. Accountability may be a harsh master but command of a ship is an unforgiving profession. The crew needed to better understand who I was as their captain. It was now up to me to share what I had been through. It was going to be a long night of thinking about how to lead forward from here. Before long it was dawn, the first boat arrived, and John went ashore to meet with his team back at the Aden Mövenpick Hotel.

At quarters that morning, following Chris's standard litany of announcements and assignments, I addressed the crew. What I shared with them that morning was a part of me they had never seen before. As directly as I could, I told them I felt an immense sense of loss for our shipmates
killed in the attack. I viewed them as my sailors and my responsibility, as a group and as individuals. I also expressed the almost indescribable pride I felt for the job their shipmates, the crew standing before me, had done over the past week. They had saved the ship not only once but twice. They had persevered through incredibly hot and humid days and toiled for hours on end standing watches and working to help the divers and the FBI retrieve our shipmates from the wreckage, so that they could return home to their families. In my eyes, each of them was a hero, just as much a hero as each of their dead shipmates, and I would forever be in their debt for what they had done for our Navy and the nation. It was solely because of them that
Cole
was not going to become a trophy for the terrorists.

A short time later, a large landing craft from
Tarawa
pulled up to the pier. With no small amount of surprise, Chris and I watched as the Commanding Officer of
Tarawa
strode up the brow and introduced himself, as his supply officer and a crew of about ten sailors unloaded breakfast supplies. Within thirty minutes, a smorgasbord of breakfast choices lay ready for the crew to enjoy. The day was off to a great start. By midmorning, John and his team were back on board. But today was different. Their overnight assessment was that the crew did not need much more in the way of intervention. From John's perspective, even after our intense conversation of the previous night, the command was functioning well. The team planned to operate in an “as-needed” mode and conduct one-on-one interventions only as required.

Standing at quarters with us for the first time was one of the most welcome guests to come on board the ship since the attack, Chaplain Loften C. Thornton. Chaplain Thornton, “Chaps” as we liked to call him, was one of the crew's favorite officers. He was the chaplain for Destroyer Squadron 22,
Cole
's squadron in Norfolk. Throughout our time in Norfolk during workups before deployment and during every extended underway period at sea, the crew always looked forward to have Chaps helicopter on board, not just to minister to them but to listen sympathetically to whatever they wanted to say to him outside the chain of command.

Chaps had been embarked on USS
George Washington
in the Mediterranean when the attack occurred, and patiently worked on the chain
of command to allow him to fly into Aden, so he could get out to “his” crew, some of whom had also asked when he could get to the ship. Fortunately, he was going to be with us the rest of our time in port.

With the last of the sailors recovered out of the wreckage the previous afternoon, we had immediately begun planning for the memorial service we would hold this evening, and Chaps was to preside over it.

Later that morning, the task force headquarters radioed us that the Fifth Fleet Commander, Admiral Moore, was on his way out to the ship and that a working party was needed to quickly unload a cargo of ice cream. Through some miracle, Captain Hanna had come through for the crew. Knowing the ice cream must be melting quickly, Chris rapidly got the flight deck ready—for the admiral and the ice cream. We had also received word that
Hawes
had baked a large cake for us. Today, after a seven-day delay, we were going to celebrate the Navy's birthday! (October 13, 1775, was the day the Continental Congress in Philadelphia voted to fit out two sailing vessels as the start of the Continental Navy.)

Admiral Moore was in a good mood as he quickly crossed the refueling pier and spryly strode up the brow onto the ship. I greeted him at the quarterdeck and we spent a few minutes just catching up on the events of the past week. He had been closely monitoring the reports coming in from the Joint Task Force headquarters, as well as from other ships; but there was nothing like actually seeing a crew in action to get a real sense of the morale and attitude of everyone on board.

John Kennedy joined us for a few minutes on the aft missile deck and the admiral warmly greeted him. He had been providing Admiral Fitzgerald and the Joint Task Force Determined Response staff daily updates on the crew's mental health and outlook, which the staff had forwarded to Admiral Moore. Out of the blue, as Admiral Moore stood looking over the flight deck and the crew as it was assembling, he looked at both of us and asked, “What's happened? This is not the same crew I saw a week ago. I don't know what has happened but this is amazing.”

John just modestly grinned and replied, “Well Admiral, I think you are seeing a crew who has been through a lot and knows what they are capable of surviving.”

Within a few minutes, Chris had the crew assembled back on the flight deck for several events. First, the admiral was asked to preside over our delayed celebration of the Navy's birthday; and second, to participate in a reenlistment ceremony for one of the crew, Fire Controlman Chief Thomas Cavanaugh. Despite the circumstances the crew had survived under during the past week, they had a sense of victory and pride that had been missing over the previous few days. Now, as they went about their watches and helped the FBI and the divers, there was a quiet sense of confidence in their demeanor.

The Navy birthday celebration had to come first—the ice cream was rapidly melting in the hot midday sun. Following longstanding Navy tradition, the oldest crew member, Chief Moser, and the youngest crew member, Petty Officer Foster, would together cut the Navy's birthday cake and help serve it to the crew. As the first slice was made, the crew cheered. Everyone had big smiles plastered on their faces. The admiral and I took our rightful place behind the large tubs of now soft ice cream and started to dish it out. It was quite a sight—a three-star admiral in his pristine Summer White uniform and a commanding officer in his combat-stained blue coveralls, standing side by side scooping out heaping mounds of ice cream and plopping big globs onto Styrofoam plates filled with yellow cake and thick, creamy frosting.

After a hundred or so scoops, the admiral and I were relieved of our duties for a few minutes and went for a short walk. “I need to speak with you privately for a few minutes,” he said. When we were alone and sitting near the ship RHIBs, he said, “Kirk, your crew has been through a lot this past week and I would like you to consider something. The Navy has assembled a team of about a hundred people from Norfolk who have volunteered to come over here and relieve your crew. Most have served on guided-missile destroyers and are familiar with this type of ship. Now, anyone you think you need to keep the ship going will stay behind, but I would like you to consider allowing half or more of your crew to go home.”

I leaned forward on my elbows, my hands clasped in front of me, my chin dropped into my chest as I stared at the non-skid deck that had suddenly become a sea of intense gray ridges and valleys. Inside I knew I had
to stay absolutely calm, but I was in total disbelief. Everyone knew the crew had been through a lot and the emotional toll was tremendous, but without warning, the world collapsed around me again. All I could think to myself was, “This is the Commander of Fifth Fleet, a vice admiral in the United States Navy, and he's asking me to allow my crew to abandon ship because what we've been through has been ‘hard' on them!?” I was utterly astounded that the Navy's leadership would even consider such a thing. The historical roots of the Navy clearly meant nothing to the admirals running the Navy today. They appeared ready to make decisions that flew in the face of generations of sacrifices by others who had also suffered at the hands of the enemy. The leaders and commanding officers throughout the history of the Navy, from John Paul Jones to Chester Nimitz, would never have even contemplated such a decision, and I wasn't ready to, either.

I was on thin ice. How and what I said next to the admiral would probably make the difference whether or not the crew stayed with their ship. Slowly, carefully, and with great emphasis, I looked up directly into his eyes and said, “Admiral, I could not disagree with you more. This crew saved this ship; this crew saved their shipmates; and, this crew, as a crew, will get
Cole
out of Aden and onto
Blue Marlin
; then, as a crew we will go home. Together.”

Now it was the admiral's turn to think about what had just been exchanged between us. He paused, looked down at the deck himself for a few seconds; then, as if to redeem himself in the eyes of history, he looked at me and with a confident tone, said, “OK, you've got it.”

Longstanding Navy tradition held that no crew surrendered to the enemy or abandoned their ship without a good fight or unless it was absolutely impossible to keep the ship afloat. This was best memorialized at the Battle of Lake Erie when Captain James Lawrence, who was mortally wounded while furiously battling a British frigate, cried out, “Don't give up the ship.” History was about to cast its shadow on us. The crew of
Cole
and I had fought to keep our ship afloat from the moment of the attack until now. They could not be seen as giving up because of a lack of courage on the part of the Navy's leadership or for the sake of political pressure or
expediency—it would have cast a pall of shame on the crew and their captain for time immemorial.

For just a few brief seconds, the history of the crew of
Cole
and the United States Navy had hung in the balance. It was the right decision and for the right reasons. Standing, I extended my hand to shake his and thank him for supporting me. Both of us knew it would be a difficult decision to maintain back in Washington. We also knew, however, that eventually the Navy would back us; too much was at stake otherwise.

As the admiral and I walked back to the flight deck for the reenlistment ceremony, it was apparent that another change within the crew had taken place. With a growing sense of pride, many contemplated their commitment to the nation and their future in the Navy. Already, a dozen people had approached the ship's career counselor, Petty Officer Huber, to adjust and modify their reenlistment dates so as to fall, with symbolic significance, during our time in Aden. Concerned that this life-impacting decision could be misinterpreted, every sailor who reenlisted had to speak with me about the decision, and only after calling home to discuss it with family. Their decision to reenlist would extend an irrevocable vow to continue a life of service to the country, and I did not want the emotions of the moment to blind them to the broader, long-term implications this decision would have on them.

Just before walking onto the flight deck, the admiral mentioned that he would like to address the crew. Unlike General Franks, Admiral Moore was not about flash, pomp, and circumstance. He had done more to ensure the survival of the ship and crew than anyone else. It would be an honor for the crew to hear from him, just as it had been with FBI Director Louis Freeh.

Under the bright sun, the admiral reenlisted Chief Cavanaugh, and as he addressed the crew, he hailed them as heroes for what they had done to save the ship. He made no mention of the discussion he and I had just had, but he said the ship would soon leave port and be taken home on M/V
Blue Marlin
.

While some of the crew had clearly hoped Admiral Moore would confirm the rumor about getting off the ship early, most were grateful for the
recognition of what they had achieved as a team. The crew applauded his remarks and shortly afterwards, he left the ship to go back ashore. It was a great visit but from my perspective, it had been fraught with the potential for disaster. Later that afternoon, rumors began flying that he had come with an offer to let them leave, but that I had quashed the opportunity. This time, however, the undercurrent of discontent seemed to be limited to a shrinking number of the crew.

The flight deck needed to be prepared for the memorial ceremony. As a working party of boatswain's mates set up the cots recently used as beds in row after row of benches, Debbie came up and asked if she could brief me on several items in the central control station. As we walked down the starboard passageway, still dark in the area of the galley and mess decks, just as we were about to turn the corner to walk into the control station, a young petty officer, Engineman Third Class John Thompson, confronted me. Agitated, his voice rising with each word, he said, “Captain, I don't understand why you're keeping us here. We had a chance to go home and you just don't seem to care about our safety.” Debbie, who had been walking behind me, was not about to brook even the slightest hint of disrespect to the captain, and immediately tried to move around me and throttle this upstart. Sidestepping in front of her, I raised my right hand to signal her to keep the wrath that was about to escape her lips buttoned up. Thompson continued, “I think you're going to get us all killed. We've been through a lot,” he stammered. In a pleading tone, he blurted out, “I just want to see my wife and kids again.”