November 20th, 2020

Today, I am continuing in the  telling of my near death experiences; Drowning At Sea and Ramming of the Banner.  This Banner story is the first of 3 experiences I had on that ship that I have included in my memoirs.  Look for them in the future.

DROWNING AT SEA (1965).  I am not sure when this next event occurred.  But I do know that it was early in my career, perhaps around 1965.  I also now know that I was incredibly stupid.  I was on a navy oceanographic ship working in the so-called Tongue Of The Ocean (TOTO).  TOTO is a deep water area near the Bahamas that is located between Andros and New Providence islands.  It is of interest to the navy because of its depth, accessibility, and clarity of the water.  We had to suspend our data collection operations because a tropical storm sprang up out of nowhere and surprised us.  We were trying to reach a port of safety, perhaps Nassau.  The swells were incredibly high between trough and crest (perhaps 30-40 feet), and the ship was going up and down like a rollercoaster ride.  I love rollercoasters, and I was sitting on a ladderway on deck just thoroughly enjoying the up and down ride.  When suddenly out of nowhere, a wave crest broke, and a wall of green water engulfed me.  I was totally at the mercy of this wave, and I found myself floating free headed for the side of the ship.  I was helpless and knew that in a second or two, I was going to be carried over the side and into a hurricane-like sea.  I grasped for anything I could get ahold of, and fortunately, as “luck” would have it, I hit a bollard (See Figure 5) and grabbed frantically.  I held on for dear life until the water on the deck returned to the sea where it belonged.
I was considerably shaken up by this event.  I realized that I should have been in my rack (bed) where everyone else was, trying to avoid sea sickness.  I also realized that no one knew where I was, and it could have been hours before anyone realized that I was missing.  The other act of incredible stupidity was that I was not attached to a lifeline.
            
Figure 5.  A Bollard Similar to the One that Saved My Life
                           SEE FIGURE 5 BELOW

I was considerably shaken up by this event.  I realized that I should have been in my rack (bed) where everyone else was, trying to avoid sea sickness.  I also realized that no one knew where I was, and it could have been hours before anyone realized that I was missing.  The other act of incredible stupidity was that I was not attached to a lifeline.

RAMMING OF THE BANNER (1967).  In 1967, the US Navy began surveillance, spying missions of the Soviet Union’s naval base at Vladivostok located in the northern Sea of Japan.  For this program, the navy converted small, light cargo resupply ships into state-of-the-art intelligence gathering platforms.  The first ship of this class was the USS Banner (AGER 1) (See Figure 6).  The cover story for the Banner to be operating in the Sea of Japan was that it was an oceanographic research vessel.  The real reason, of course, was to collect acoustic, signal, and photographic intelligence information of the Soviet naval base and of the submarines operating from that base.
To do the oceanographic work, we had outfitted the Banner with a small oceanographic winch, an A-frame with a meter wheel,

Figure 6.  The USS Banner (AGER 1)
                        SEE FIGURE 6 BELOW

and a small analysis laboratory to determine physical properties of the water column.  A bathythermograph (BT)  (See Figure 7) capability was also installed to provide a temperature profile of the water vs depth to determine the thermocline.  The thermocline is the depth of the water where the temperature drops sharply with depth (important information for determining acoustic properties).  So, yes, we were actually collecting oceanographic information important to the navy.

Figure 7.  A Bathythermograph Temperature Profiling System
                     SEE FIGURE 7 BELOW

        The first 2 missions of the Banner went without any significant events taking place.  I was the assigned oceanographer on the third mission, and as you will see, things were not so uneventful for me.
The typical Banner mission went like this: (1) Meet the ship at the US Naval Base located at Yokosuka, Japan; (2) Sail to the operating area in the Sea of Japan and operate for 3 weeks; (3) Return to Yokosuka for 4 or 5 days of rest and relaxation (R & R); (4) Return to the operating area for 3 more weeks; and (5) Return to Yokosuka completing the mission.
A day or so after we arrived on station for the first 3 week deployment, we were welcomed by a Soviet ship that followed us or shadowed us the entire 3 weeks that we were on station.  This ship that shadowed us was called a “tattletale”.  Often, the tattletale would harass me when I was taking a BT.  It would closely pass our stern trying to sever the wire attached to the BT.  They were never successful.
Several times, beautiful but ominous, Soviet warships would confront us and notify us that we were in the middle of a naval exercise and had to leave the area.  Well this was why we were there; to be in the middle of an exercise.  But I must say that it was very disconcerting to me when these warships would circle us at point-blank range with their rather large guns aimed right at us.
However, we survived these incidents, completed our first 3 weeks of deployment, and returned to Yokosuka for some R & R.
We arrived on station for our second 3-week deployment as planned.  As before, a tattletale arrived on the scene on about day 2.  However, this time, the ship that arrived was an older, less impressive ship.  We thought that they were losing interest in us and had sent out the “B” team.
During the second week of our deployment, an exciting event took place.  I was suddenly told to suspend all oceanographic operations immediately.  The Banner then sprang into action at full speed ahead.  Apparently, we had caught the tattletale napping and had left it in the dust.  It seems that we had detected a Soviet submarine leaving Vladivostok or that it was involved in a Soviet naval exercise.  The latter was the most likely because there were several Soviet warships in the area.  When I looked back at the tattletale, black puffs of smoke were now billowing from its stack, and it was beginning to gain on us.  Meanwhile, the warships saw us coming and were picking up speed.  It was not too long before they were disappearing over the horizon.  They were much faster than us.  The tattletale had now overtaken us.  When it finally was slightly ahead of us, it cut sharply in front of us trying to “cut us off”.  Our captain, CDR Robert Bishop, simply steered a course slightly to port leaving the tattletale going in the wrong direction.  To us on the bridge, this was hilarious.  The tattletale was making a desperate U-turn, and she was leaning over at what looked like a 45 degree angle.  By the time she righted her course and caught us again, the Soviet ships were long gone, and the excitement was over.
I was on the bridge during this whole event, and it was quite exciting.  Little did I know that this excitement would pale in comparison to what would happen several days later.
With less than a week to go before we had completed our mission and headed back to Yokosuka, I walked out on deck one morning and saw the “B” team tattletale had been replaced by the “C” team.  An old, rust-covered ship was now following us.  We laughed at what we saw.
However, later that day, I was on the bridge talking with captain Bishop.  During this time, someone noticed that the “C” team rust bucket was heading for us on a possible collision course.  Immediately, the captain radioed the tattletale demanding that it change course because we had oceanographic equipment in the water and had little maneuverability.  “C” team did not change course.  The captain repeated his plea for the ship to change course.  Meanwhile, the bow of “C” team loomed larger and larger.  In fact, it was coming right at us to midships.  Once again in my life, I sensed sure death.  There was nothing I could do but watch the imminent collision of the huge bow into our ship.  At the last possible second, the captain yelled out “Right Full Rudder”, and he himself grabbed the wheel helping to turn the ship.  We began to turn slightly to starboard, and “C” team slammed into our port bow and bashed it in.  The Banner shuddered violently.  At that time, I did not know how badly we were damaged.  Needlessly to say, we immediately headed back to port and began assessing our damage.
We made it back to port safely.  As far as I knew, we had no major damage except a smashed-in bow on the portside.  When we were tied up at the pier, I noticed that there were several naval officers and civilians waiting to board us.  Soon afterwards, a civilian took me aside and instructed me to forget that this deliberate ramming had ever taken place.  I was to talk to no one about this, even my fellow oceanographers back home, and especially to the press.
One thing to note about this event.  It took place in February, off the Siberian coast in the northern Sea of Japan.  If the collision itself did not kill me, it is likely that I would not have survived more than a few minutes in the frigid sea water.

  FIGURE 5.  A BOLLARD SIMILAR TO THE ONE THAT SAVED MY LIFE

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   FIGURE 6.  THE USS BANNER (AGER 1)

       FIGURE 7.  A BATHYTHERMOGRAPH TEMPERATURE PROFILING SYSTEM

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