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A small contingent attended to routine administrative duties. This group was comprised of
Cole
personnel who had been injured in the attack, evacuated stateside, and were recovering from their wounds, led by the supply officer, Lieutenant Denise Woodfin. Although seriously wounded herself, she had recently been discharged from Portsmouth Naval Hospital and taken charge of all matters related to the ship and crew until our return.
As wounded crew members were discharged, she ensured they were able get some leave to visit with their families and assumed command of everyone as they reported back in for duty.

Stacked in numerous plastic post office boxes were letters, cards, and notes written by Americans wishing them well, the thoughts and prayers of a nation, including letters from grade-school children using their best penmanship on thick, recycled paper, double-lined to help them print their letters as perfectly as possible. Every day, crew members would come in just to sit and read. From my office, you could occasionally hear the laughter as they passed the letters around. Some were more thoughtful and many brought the crew to tears. There were also small gifts and tokens of appreciation from small businesses around the country. One company donated over 100 singing white teddy bears adorned with a flat straw hat whose red, white, and blue headband made them more suitable for a political rally than as homecoming gifts for a battle-hardened crew. Nonetheless, the crew eagerly took them home, for themselves or their children.

Within days after our arrival, a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity arose. The White House Military Office, on behalf of President Clinton, extended an invitation to visit the White House for a Veterans Day reception, followed by the annual wreath-laying ceremony at the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier at Arlington National Cemetery. Thirty sailors with one guest each could attend the service. Funding was already arranged, as were buses to transport those who could not drive.

In putting together the list, Chris and I both felt it was important to have as many crew as possible attend this event, so we excluded ourselves from the trip to give the opportunity for two more crew members to possibly meet the President. We specifically received permission for several of the wounded who were ambulatory and up to the rigors of the trip to attend as well. Within a day, we put together a list of attendees and forwarded it to the White House. A few days later, Chris took a call from Navy Captain Phil Cullom, director for Defense Policy and Arms Control in the National Security Council, who said he was very concerned that none of the leaders of the ship—not the commanding officer, the executive officer,
nor the command master chief—were on the list. Chris explained our thought process to him but he was not satisfied with the answer and asked us to rethink our invitation list, which, of course, Chris readily agreed to do.

Chris gave me a call at home that evening to discuss our predicament. My reasons for not wanting to attend were clear, at least in my mind. I knew that the command investigation was still ongoing at that point. I did not want to embarrass the President by attending such a visible national event only to possibly be found negligent later by an exhaustive investigation. At one point, I told Chris that he would attend, as the command representative. He insisted that I was the commanding officer; I had led the crew in saving the ship and numerous members of the crew.

Then the absurdity of what we were doing struck both of us. We were blowing off the President of the United States. That was totally unacceptable, and we quickly agreed that all three of us should offer to attend the event. The White House cheerfully added three additional invitees to the list—the CO, XO, and command master chief.

On November 11, the invited crew members filed through the security checkpoint at the East Entrance to the White House. Once everyone was through, we were not escorted to the reception area where everyone else was gathered but were instead led to the Blue Room, where we were told the President himself would visit privately with us.

As we casually stood in a large circle, the crew took the opportunity to look around. Some had brought their spouses; others, their boyfriend or girlfriend. One sailor, however, was clearly working to improve his luck at this gig by inviting two female friends from his college days in the D.C. area as his guests. The three of them were wide-eyed.

A door opened and Secretary of Defense Cohen entered the room, but his arrival hardly caused a ripple in the flow of conversations. No one immediately recognized him. Quickly, I went over, introduced myself, and made small talk for a few minutes. As we were standing there, suddenly there was an audible gasp from the assembled crowd. I quickly turned my head expecting to see the President. Instead, it was Tom Hanks. He was
in town to promote the building of the World War II Memorial. After the recent release of his latest movie,
Saving Private Ryan
, his presence added a rock-star quality to the day. He kindly took time to walk around the room and meet every one of the sailors and their guests, and then pose for pictures with anyone who asked. Given the reputation of many Hollywood actors, it was clear that he was in a class of his own.

Almost as if on cue, President Clinton walked in just as Tom Hanks reached the last sailor. The President's personal secretary, Betty Currie, escorted him. Lines of worry were deeply etched into his face, and he looked tired and haggard from lack of sleep. Immediately, I stepped forward to introduce myself to him. We spoke only briefly, to give him more time with the crew. Slowly and deliberately, he walked around the gathered circle, shook everyone's hand, and posed for pictures by the White House photographer. As the President finished circling the room, he thanked all of us for the great job we had done to save the ship and expressed the heartfelt appreciation of a nation he said was justifiably very proud of us. It was hard not to get choked up with emotion.

As he left the room, we thought we would be able to join the group outside but instead, Betty Currie asked the group if we would like a tour of the Oval Office. This was almost too good to be true. Access to the West Wing of the White House and especially the Oval Office was strictly controlled and this would be a very special treat. Slowly, everyone filed out of the Blue Room, down the West Colonnade, and into the Oval Office. At first, everyone stood around as stiff and proper as possible. Sensing the mood, Betty told everyone to walk around and have a look at everything but to please not touch anything.

Everyone spoke only in hushed whispers as Betty explained the history of the room, the Resolute desk, and the large oval carpet in the center. With us on the visit were Senior Chief Keith Lorenson and his wife, Lisa. Keith was still healing from the compound fracture to his right leg and while in a bit of pain, he was grateful for the opportunity to make the trip. Using a cane to get around, he sidled up to Betty and, eyeing the President's desk, said offhandedly that he would like to sit in the
President's chair. Betty laughed, immediately pulled out the chair, and offered him a seat. A look of utter surprise, tinged with fear, graced his face before he broke into a big smile and accepted. No sooner had he sat down than everyone realized how uncharacteristic and unusual this was for him. Lisa had already rounded the corner of the desk and was standing in the middle of the room to take Keith's picture. She was not alone. Within a few seconds of assuming a distinguished pose behind the desk in his service dress blue uniform, his discomfort at even being there set in and he pushed himself back up. He had his picture for the memory books.

At the Arlington National Cemetery Amphitheater, it was a cold, bright morning with only a few clouds in the sky as we were escorted to our reserved seats. Our breath came out as slight wisps of vapor in the crisp fall air. The crowd stole glances at us, knowing what we had recently endured. There were combat veterans from every major conflict spanning the last sixty years—World War II, Korea, Vietnam, Beirut, and the Gulf War. We were standing in the presence of heroes who had also safeguarded our nation's freedoms. At least two people in the crowd near the front wore a thin blue ribbon adorned with small white stars and a star-shaped medal hanging around their neck—the Medal of Honor, our nation's highest medal for valor. It was our honor to be in their presence.

The President's speech was moving and powerful. In the middle, however, he caught the crew and me by surprise when he unexpectedly recognized us and asked us to stand. With the President leading the applause, the audience rose to their feet in tribute to us. Like the crew around me, I felt my throat tighten as my eyes brimmed with tears. My crew certainly deserved this honor but I felt oddly detached from the moment and unworthy to be accorded such gratitude. The command investigation, even with this moving recognition and sign of support from other heroes, was still hanging at this point like a sword over my neck.

At the conclusion of the ceremony, several members of the crowd approached the crew, talked about their experiences, and expressed how proud they were that we had saved the ship from sinking. My sailors reveled
in the moment and clearly enjoyed sharing their own experiences with sailors from conflicts past.

Back in Norfolk a day later, there was still some discussion about what to do with USS
Cole
when it returned stateside—whether to decommission it for manning reasons, making it inactive, or to leave it in commission during what was expected to be a one-year repair period. Already, a plan was being formulated for a significant number of the crew to be rotated to other ships or transferred to shore duty. Relying on my experience commissioning USS
Arleigh Burke
, I approached Admiral Foley about the ship's personnel and manning during the repair period.

This final manning decision was to allow enlisted personnel of the ranks of petty officer first class and higher to remain assigned to the ship through the rebuild period, but only if they agreed to stay with it for at least one year after the ship returned to service. Officer assignments would be handled on a case-by-case basis to ensure junior officers met their qualification requirements and senior officers would not have their careers adversely impacted by an extended shipyard period. All other personnel would be reassigned to other ships throughout the Navy. The Bureau of Personnel agreed that given the unique circumstances surrounding the attack,
Cole
personnel could choose any available assignment, regardless of its fill priority. Crew members who were within six months of rotating to shore duty could opt to have that time waived and pick a shore duty assignment immediately.

Ultimately, just over forty people met the criteria and elected to remain with the ship. They formed the core group that would report to the shipyard in Pascagoula, Mississippi, and manage the influx of new personnel assigned to the ship as it neared completion of repairs in about a year.

At the same time, the command investigation was continuing up the chain of command, and the criminal investigation of the terrorists, headed by the FBI, continued to make progress. While I was on leave, however, the FBI contacted me at home in Nevada. George Crouch, the special agent in charge of the criminal investigation under John O'Neill, had been directed to interview me. A day later I found myself with him in the local
Carson City, Nevada, FBI office, expecting to spend an hour, two at the most, with him.

George was a former Marine officer, and a lawyer. As we sat down and started to talk, we slowly became immersed in the minute details of the attack. Question by question, he slowly drew out my recollection of events, from before our arrival in Aden, until days after the attack as we feverishly worked to prevent the ship from sinking. Time flew by and when it was over, it was dark outside and well past 5 o'clock in the evening.

It was during these precious days at home visiting my mother and father that I discovered how the Navy had informed them of the attack and whether or not I had survived. Like every family with crew members on
Cole
, they had a heart-wrenching wait to learn my fate—and the Navy had not exactly handled its responsibilities with aplomb.

Prior to deployment, every crew member was required to verify and update what is commonly known as a Page 2—Record of Emergency Data. It contained the important information—full name, address, phone number—that the Navy would use to activate a Casualty Assistance Calls Officer in the event of the death or serious injury of a crew member. Once the entire crew had verified their entries, the data was transmitted to and maintained by the Navy's Bureau of Personnel. I, too, had dutifully verified and signed my sheet prior to deployment. Then it became the primary tool the Navy was using to contact all the families of the crew assigned to
Cole
, but my parents' experience told me it wasn't being used effectively.

My father and mother had divorced years before and my father was remarried; I listed my mother as primary next of kin and father as secondary, knowing each of them was living in Carson City, Nevada. By 0730 on October 12, my mother, who was using her maiden name, Staheli, had learned of the attack on the ship from Nicole Segura, who had already received several calls of support from friends and relatives wondering about my fate. A bit later my mother received a call from another informal source, U.S. Army Lieutenant Colonel Marshall Harper, who had been renting my Washington condo since just before I took command of
Cole.

At work that morning in the Army's Command Center buried in the bowels of the Pentagon, Marshall had received some of the first intelligence reports that a U.S. Navy ship, USS
Cole
, had been attacked by terrorists in the port of Aden, Yemen. I had provided him with my mother's contact information as part of our rental agreement, and he promptly got in touch with her to pass along the breaking news. At this point, all he knew was that the ship had been attacked, but he did not know if I was alive. In speaking with my mother, Marshall was astounded to learn that he was the first person in the military to contact her and let her know about the attack on the ship. Nicole had since called my mother again to let her know that she had received similar news from Lieutenant Commander Rick Miller, my former Combat System Officer, who had since transferred from
Cole
and was also assigned to the Pentagon. Thankfully, Rick had provided an additional piece of good news—I was alive. Since I was making the initial voice reports off the ship, he deduced I had not been killed in the attack but did not know if I had been injured. As the minutes ticked by that morning, the Navy had yet to react and contact my mother or father.