Category: USS Biddle

That lumbering cruiser. Not fair to say “lumbering,” but USS Chicago (CG-11) was big. More than 125 feet longer than Biddle, Chicago displaced 13,600 tons, compared to Biddle‘s 7,930, and the crew numbered more than 1,100. It was the active presence of cruisers like Chicago that prevented Biddle and comparable ships to be called cruisers . . . yet.

LT Libbey and I flew by helicopter from USS Kearsarge (CV-33) to the Chicago in the early afternoon of 25 June 1969. First time in a helo. (Not my last.) According to my journal, I “didn’t mind it that much.” “That much” is telling.

I remember, and my journal confirms, that I was “impressed” with where we were on station. “Didn’t realize we would be that close to North Vietnam,” I wrote in my journal. “You can see it very easily.”

Didn’t have a single room this time. Bunked with an Ensign and JG. The days on the Chicago, awaiting Biddle‘s arrival, were pretty tame. Received intel briefings and observed. On 28 June, I wrote in my journal, “Actually getting homesick for BIDDLE.” As usual, didn’t miss a movie.

We weren’t scheduled to get back on Biddle until 1 July.

Biddle arrived in Subic Bay 24 June 1969. Several days liberty ahead in one of the most infamous liberty ports in Southeast Asia! But not for me. 🙁

I had learned a few days earlier that upon arrival in Subic LT Libbey and I were to depart only a few hours later for the Gulf of Tonkin. We were the advance party to prepare for Biddle‘s relief of USS Chicago (CG-11). 

(Cue the whining. After leaving Hawaii on 12 June, I spent a few hours in Guam and then a few hours in Subic. The next time I would be in port would be 3 August. That calculates to 52 days spent all but several hours at sea.)

We tied up in Subic next to the USS King (DL-10) and to what remained of the USS Frank Evans (DD-754). These ships were poignant reminders of the danger of being at sea, even outside combat. On 23 May, four crew members on the King had been killed in an engine fire that also injured 15 crew members. This picture of the Evans shows the extent of the damage that occurred on 2 June when the ship was cut in two by HMAS Melbourne, an Australian aircraft carrier. Seventy-four crew members, including three brothers from Nebraska, were killed.

At 1230, LT Libbey and I went to Naval Air Station, Cubi Point. At 1445, our C-2 took off on its way to the Gulf, to USS Kearsarge (CV-33) on Yankee Station. I remember the takeoff taking a long time (the plane carrying a lot of supplies as well as some passengers), increasing my concern about the large hill at the end of the runway. I think we banked rather sharply once in the air.

I was not then a “happy” flier. I had not flown much by age 22, but had already had a couple of iffy flights. And I had never flown in such a small plane. Nor had I ever landed on an aircraft carrier. My anxiety level was rather high. As we neared the end of the three-hour flight, I noticed that a member of the aircrew, maybe younger than me, was “lounging,” relaxed at the back of the plane (the passenger seats faced backward), and looking at me.  I believe he sensed my anxiety, and played it a little. He told me that on the last flight to the carrier the pilot had missed the arresting cables and had had to go around. He played me right. Gulp.

Approaching Kearsarge, the plane moved up and down, and the wings tilted each way. As the plane reached the carrier, the pilot pushed the throttles forward to increase speed so he could take off if he missed the cables. Engines roared.  . . . He missed.

As we banked left to try again, I looked back at the crewman, with a look of alarm, I’m sure. He smiled as he said, “Told ya.”

Second time the charm. The plane approached again, accelerated, hit the deck, caught the arresting cable. We were pushed back into our seats, then the plane turned on deck, the rear gate of the aircraft lowered, and we walked out on deck. There was a lot of noise and wind as we were guided to a door and moved off the deck.

I spent the night on the Kearsarge, in the stateroom of its Dental Officer, a Commander, who was apparently TAD or on leave. Cool. Single occupancy Commander’s stateroom. Upgrade! . . . That night I realized being close to the catapult on a carrier is not an upgrade.

Next morning, I took this picture of a helo on the deck of the Kearsarge. Don’t know if it was the one in which LT Libbey and I were to fly to the Gulf. Just a nice scene.

 

Biddle pulled into Guam on 20 June 1969. Maybe it looked like the photo above, another Pacific paradise. I don’t remember it that way. The photo is not of the naval base, so that could have something to do with it.

According to CAPT Olsen, writing in Biddlegram #2, “In our 3,300 mile voyage between Oahu and Guam, we encountered only a half-dozen ships. This is not a commercially profitable route and very few merchant ships make the run. In spite of the width and breadth of the oceans, it is a fact that those paths that ships use are relatively narrow and heavily traveled. The route between Hawaii and Guam is not one of those.”

We were in Guam less than a day. It was a stop for supplies, etc. (Perhaps it should have served as a signal for our Guam experiences, as the same thing happened heading east months later. But we thought our route would be elsewhere.)

My journal noted that I went to the Exchange and had one beer at the bowling alley. We left Guam at 1800.

We had been given permission to grow mustaches and beards, which were not normally permitted at the time. They couldn’t be any mustaches and beards, however.  We would be inspected and those found wanting would be ordered to shave.

My journal entry for 16 June did not portend well for my hirsuteness. “Hair on face has been growing for 2 1/2 weeks now. It’s beginning to become noticeable. Actually, the hair that’s there is fairly long, it’s just that seven of them aren’t enough.” There will be a status report on beards later.

I began working more on Intel stuff. I learned that the Intel team would be based in UB Plot, where the sonar technicians worked and, as my journal noted, “is cold,” even for CIC. Nearly all the enlisted guys working with me would be sonar technicians. The Gulf of Tonkin, our ultimate destination, is relatively shallow, which severely limited any submarine threat. That, and the North Vietnamese had no navy really beyond torpedo boats. Sonarmen were available for Intel duty.

 

On 14 June 1969, Biddle crossed the International Date Line — an “adventure” bigger for some of us than for others on board.

The International Date Line (IDL) is basically the meridian of 180 degrees latitude — halfway around the world from 0 degrees latitude, or the meridian in Greenwich, England. That puts it in what amounts to the middle of the Pacific Ocean.

Crew members who had previously had this rite of passage on one or more deployments wanted those who had not to “enjoy” the event by becoming the first of the crew to see the actual International Date Line. Lookouts were posted on the fo’c’sle. Junior officers were brought to the bridge and given binoculars to seek out the buoys marking the IDL. Buoys? Absolutely. You could see them on our radar scopes.

I admit the IDL veterans did a pretty good job. I was skeptical, but . . . lookouts? . . . buoys on the radar? I was beginning to take the hook. Then, as I joined other JOs in CIC to observe the approaching buoys on radar, I glanced to the lower left and saw that the “mode” dial on the NTDS console was on “test.” I had been shown how that mode could be used to create exercises, placing “targets” on the scope. 

Aha! I recognized the buoys were part of a trick. I became a traitor to my fellow JOs and supported the continuation of the ruse. In the picture at the top of the post, LT Morris is pointing the direction of one of the IDL buoys to ENS Curran, who had originally been quite skeptical, too. I am at right, urging Steve to look harder.

The ruse all soon fell apart, but it made for a bit more lively evening than normal. We crossed the International Date Line at approximately 1950. Technically, we had moved from Saturday 14 June to Monday 16 June. June 15 never existed on our cruise. While the next day was a “work day,” the Captain let us have a “Sunday” and holiday routine.

Crossing the IDL has little of the tradition and scale of crossing the Equator, which calls for major day-long ceremony. We expected to “enjoy” that experience on our way home. There is a fantasy “Domain of the Golden Dragon,” which pertains only to those traveling west across the date line.

We had no formal recognition of our “achievement” crossing the IDL. Years after this cruise, I saw that the U.S. Naval Institute offered “certificates” for doing so, as well as other notable moments. I bought one, but then realized I would not be able to have the CO sign it, or have the ship’s seal applied, etc. It’s still ornamental and is a reminder of the event. Here’s a picture of it and below is a presentation of the text.

To all Sailors wherever ye may be: and to all sea serpents, crabs, mutineers, pirates of the Yellow Seas, and other other derelicts of Far Eastern seas, Greetings:

Know ye: On June 15, 1969 within the boundaries of my Draconic Realm there appeared the USS Biddle DLG-34

Be it known: that said renowned vessel crossed the 180th meridian in latitude 20°N

And all her Officers and Crew have been duly inspected and passed upon by my Venerable Body of Judges it is therefore my privilege to proclaim, with all the authority of my Sphere of Influence that ENS William McDonald having now been found worthy, he has been gathered into my fold and duly initiated into the

Silent Occult Mysteries of the Far East

And be it further understood: that he is now a member of my August Retinue and is therefore entitled to all the Rights and Privileges accorded such personages

Disobey this order under extreme penalty of my royal displeasure

On 10 June 1969, Biddle arrived in Pearl Harbor. At 0700, according to my journal, Diamond Head was visible in a hazy sky, “but it still looks beautiful. It’s too bad we’re only going to be here a day and a half.”

Yup, 36 hours in paradise after 15+ days underway. And it was raining when we pulled in. Still, it was Hawaii. First time I had ever been there.

During the several days before, steaming from the Panama Canal, I was standing CIC watches and getting into the wonderful world of intelligence reports. My journal entry for 2 June included “Spent all afternoon changing sub reports to conform to PACFLT.” On 3 June, I noted that I spent the day preparing an intelligence brief, but also reported that Biddle had had to slow because of “gyro loss” and engine problems. Perhaps that cut into our Hawaii liberty. On 5 June, I gave a briefing (to wardroom? Ops officers?) on special tactics to use against Soviet intelligence ships.

Back in Oahu, Jack Roberts and I went to the Pearl Harbor Officers Club, then downtown. I enjoyed filet mignon at Fort DeRussy, described in my journal as “the R+R center here.” I also noted that “You see a lot of guys around there on crutches.” We later walked around downtown and still later I joined other officers in attending the Romani Hotel’s “Topless Revue.” I noted in my journal: “Two dollars a beer.” Did I mention the price because it was high?

Five of us — Jack, Steve Curran, John Berquist, Frank Fox, and I — toured the island on 11 June. We had rented a 1969 Dodge Dart for $6.50 a day and $.06 a mile. 🙂 It was a state holiday — Kamehameha Day, honoring the king who first unified the islands — so things were crowded. First stop was Hanauma Bay and then Makapu’u Beach at the easternmost point of Oahu. 

At Makapu’u, some or all of us tried body-surfing. I hope the others were more successful than me. Here’s my journal report: “. . . [T]his wave’s coming in, I wait, then start swimming down the crest. Next thing I know, my shoulder and head smash into the sandy bottom, and I’m flipped over and around, finally ending up being pulled back to the next wave by the undertow.” First time last time body-surfing.

Watched some real surfers at Sunset Beach. Then we went through Kolekole Pass, where we had an amazing view of mountains like none I had ever seen. On to the famous Makaha and Mauna Lahilahi Beach on the western shores of Oahu. Final stop before returning to the ship was Nu’unau Pali lookout, where, even at 2300 when we were there, you got a great view of the Windward Coast at night.

Hawaii photos from the cruise book

Among the supplies Biddle picked up in Pearl was $148,000 in cash, to be disbursed to the crew on payday. (No automatic deposits back then.) The ship also loaded 420 gallons of milk, 200 pounds of bread, and 50 gallons of assorted ice cream, among other things.

At 0800, 12 June, Biddle got underway for Guam.

During the overnight of 31 May and 1 June, 1969, Biddle transited the Panama Canal and entered the Pacific Ocean. I took the picture above of passage through the locks at sunset.

We had arrived at the canal early on 31 May. Biddle was anchored at the entrance by 0630. According to my journal, we were anchored adjacent to a Soviet merchant ship, named something like Siltan Stanski.

A previous post had estimated that on 30 May we were somewhere between Jamaica and Panama, which are about 1,000 miles apart. At breakfast on 31 May, according to my journal, Biddle navigator LT “Bud” Daniels had commented, “I really don’t think the Captain believed me last night when I told him I didn’t know where we were.” Apparently, I wasn’t the only one kinda guessing.

We ended up where we were supposed to be and on time . . . maybe. Based on where we were in line to go through the Canal, we were not going to start to do so until 1630, which meant no liberty ashore in Panama City. For many of the days before we arrived at the Canal, those who had done it before and had enjoyed liberty ashore shared with us newbies lurid — and I mean, disgusting — tales of what we might see. I think it is probably fortunate that, not having seen what they described, I have no memory of stuff I wish I had never seen . . . at least, not from Panama.

Biddle started its transit even a little later, at 1700. My journal entry for 2200 31 May reported that Biddle was in the middle of Gatun Lake, not even halfway through the Canal. By the time I awoke on 1 June, we were through the Canal and in the Pacific Ocean.

CAPT Olsen, in a section of BIDDLEGRAM #2, gave a much more lyrical account:

“. . . [W]e arrived at the Atlantic end of the Panama Canal on a lovely, sunlit day and anchored at Colon to await our turn to start our transit which began about 4 o’clock in the afternoon. We were lifted through the first series of locks, entered Gatun Lake just about dark and anchored because ship traffic up ahead was moving slowly. About two hours later we weighed anchor and began the first night transit of the Canal I have ever experienced. I shall always remember it. [I, on the other hand, was probably in the rack.]

“It was a windless, starry night; the temperature was just right; and the ship glided through the ghostly silence, in many areas seemingly just a dozen feet from the bank of the Canal. It was what I’d imagine the Garden of Eden would be like – without Eve, of course! As we neared the Pacific end, the channel narrowed and we found the sides of the Canal brightly-lighted with closely-spaced, blue florescent lights, just three or four feet high, which made the water glimmer like a mirror.

“We completed the transit at 3:30 in the morning, moored at Rodman Naval Station, but stayed only long enough to fuel before departing for Hawaii. [No chance for the swimsuit detail mentioned in his earlier BIDDLEGRAM.]

“As we left the Canal Zone and steamed south into the Gulf of Panama, we came within 400 miles of the Equator. Crossing the Equator is an historic event in the lives of men who go to sea and though we didn’t cross it this time, we hope to later in our cruise.” (But that’s another story, for later.)

 

 

CAPT Olsen sent several BIDDLEGRAMS to members of the crew’s families and friends of the ship during the deployment. The first was titled “BIDDLEGRAM #1 – 29 May 1969 – At Sea.” (I apologize for being a day or two tardy in posting this. Just lost track of date.)

“This is the first of a series of Familygrams which I will address to you during our cruise to the Western Pacific, for the purpose of keeping you personally informed of what your Biddleman and his ship are doing.

“As I write to you now, we are just 36 hours from arriving at the Panama Canal to begin the transit which will take us into the Pacific Ocean.

“The Canal, completed 55 years ago, is truly an amazing engineering achievement. You may be interested to know that when we enter the Atlantic side, we will be maneuvered into three locks in sequence, each of which will be flooded after we are inside. As we depart the third lock, we will have been raised 85 feet above the level of the Atlantic Ocean and will then be at the same level as the huge man-made, fresh water lake which is the central part of the Canal. Once we are at this level, we can steam at speeds of up to 18 knots until we reach a series of locks which we will enter in turn and be lowered to the level of the Pacific Ocean. The Canal is 44 miles long and curiously, the Pacific end is to the east of the Atlantic end!

“One of the benefits of periodically going through the Canal is that we can flush out all of our salt water piping, thereby ridding it of the sea weed and small sea life which thrive in salt water. We also will have a chance to wash down the entire ship with fresh water which we didn’t have to make with our own distilling plant! The uniform for this operation will be swimming trunks!

“By the time you receive this, we will have left Panama and be headed across the vast Pacific. You can span the gap with your letters. At the outset, with long distances between ports, it will largely be feast or famine. So, don’t lose heart, but keep writing and I can assure you that your Biddleman will be doing the same. Please note our San Francisco address and Zip Code.

“Before we sailed from Norfolk, we received several messages, two of which I would like to share with you. The first came from Congressman and Mrs. William H. Bates of Massachusetts. Mrs. Bates is our ship’s sponsor, that is, she is the lady who smashed the bottle of champagne on our ship’s bow and christened her:

“AS YOU DEPLOY AGAIN TO ADD TO THE PROUD RECORD OF BIDDLE, MAY WE WISH YOU AND YOUR HARD CHARGERS GOD SPEED, FAIR WINDS, AND FOLLOWING SEAS. MAY YOUR POWDER ALWAYS BE DRY.

“The second was from the Representative of the Commander Cruiser-Destroyer Force in Norfolk, Rear Admiral John R. Wadleigh:

“I HAVE FOLLOWED YOUR PREPARATIONS FOR YOUR SECOND DEPLOYMENT WITH INTEREST AND PRIDE. I AM SURE THAT YOUR CREW OF HARD CHARGERS WILL DO ANOTHER OUTSTANDING JOB. I WISH YOU EVERY POSSIBLE SUCCESS, SMOOTH SAILING AND A SAFE RETURN HOME. GOOD LUCK AND GOD SPEED.

“In closing, I’m attaching a fact sheet of key addresses and phone numbers, should you need assistance or desire information during our absence.

Very sincerely,

ALFRED R. OLSEN, JR.
Captain, U.S. Navy”

Among the addresses on the “fact sheet” was Biddle’s “telegraphic address,” to which telegrams would be sent:

John Doe, (RATE), (DIVISION)
USS BIDDLE (DLG-34)
Care of U.S. NAVAL COMMUNICATION STATION
SAN FRANCISCO, CALIFORNIA

30 May 1969 was Memorial Day. Began the day with my first midwatch (0000-0400). Got skunked — not a single “skunk” (surface contact) found on radar. Then, after a few hours sleep and breakfast, a surprise.

At 0930, the ship held man-overboard drills. A dummy was thrown off to either port or starboard and an officer with the conn, i.e., the only person on the bridge authorized to give speed and course orders to the helmsman, tried to bring the ship around and alongside the target, in a manner that allowed shipboard personnel to retrieve the dummy.

It was our fifth day at sea and, after the regular Officers of the Deck had taken their shot, Captain Olsen decided to let the new Ensigns (two in addition to me) give it a try. As a special duty officer, I was not authorized to be a ship-driver or to qualify as an Officer of the Deck Underway, so I expected just to watch. But noooooo . . . Captain Olsen, for whatever reason, ordered me to take the conn, too. 

This would be the first time I had had control of even a motorboat, let alone one with the motors this one had. Thank goodness I was maybe last to have the conn for the drills, so I had seen and heard several officers before me. I was very nervous. I figured I had been tossed the opportunity to become a funny story for the rest of the deployment. “You shoulda seen what our Intel Officer did in man-overboard. Oh my gawd!”

I remember with awe what happened when I heard “Man overboard, port side!” and gave the order “Left full rudder (to move the ship’s propeller away from the “man overboard”), all ahead flank (top speed).” The stern of the ship lowered, the bow came up, and this man-of-war, nearly two football fields long, just leapt ahead. It was so amazing to me that it took a few seconds to come back to the issue at hand. I had to run to the portside bridge wing and find the dummy using binoculars.

The ship kept turning to port, increasing in speed. The officer with the conn (me), at just the right point, had to slow the turn and the ship’s speed so that the ship would approach the dummy, coming to rest alongside it, if at all possible. During the turn, I would have said something like “Rudder amidships” (put the rudder on the centerline, no angle) or “Meet her” (check but not stop the ship’s swing by putting the rudder to the opposite side). Then “Steady as she goes,” then “All stop.” In what I described in my journal entry that day as “One of the best examples of beginner’s luck I’ve ever seen,” the ship nearly stopped next to the dummy and it was “rescued” easily. It was the best recovery of the day.

Don’t remember for sure, but I think just about everyone on the bridge was in stunned silence.

On this day, we were “somewhere between Jamaica and Panama,” according to my journal. (That’s about a 1,000 mile distance.) We had slowed to arrive at the Panama Canal at the appropriate time on the following day.

Don’t worry. There is not going to be a post about each day of this deployment.

I wrote my first letter home on 27 May 1969. I don’t think I posted it, though, until we arrived in Hawaii two weeks later. It repeated the concerns I had about seasickness and added a little detail.

“Well, just completed my 27th straight hour at sea. It’s not too bad. I haven’t thrown up yet, but I did pass up most of last night’s supper. I hit the rack at 7 p.m., stood a watch from 3 to 7 a.m., hit the rack again from 8:30 to 1130. [Besides CIC watch-standing, I still didn’t really have a job on the ship.] Boy, this motion makes you sleepy. It’s like you’re in a hammock all the time, swinging gently back and forth, back and forth, back and forth gulp. No, today, I’ve felt very well. I ate a big breakfast and a good-sized lunch. Of course, the sea has been quite calm, I understand.”

This image of the beginning of that letter shows one of the examples of Biddle stationery.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

In my journal that same day, I noted we had progressed to “N. Florida.”