A Sailor's History of the U.S. Navy

by Thomas J. Cutler

  A gun crew at work. Naval Historical Center

  For more than an hour, Harvey and the others of Lieutenant Sterett’s division repeated the process. As they labored, the confused sea frequently doused them with wind-driven spray, causing clouds of steam to rise from the cannon’s heated barrel. The noise was deafening, the odors of burning powder and running perspiration filled the air, and musket balls and deadly wooden splinters—some of them several feet long—flew about, threatening to tear off a limb or snuff out a young life in an instant. As Harvey and his mates rolled their gun forward to fill the opening, the young Sailor caught occasional glimpses of the enemy ship and saw the terrifying sight of her cannons winking bright flashes at them.

  And then it was over. With the French ship’s rigging a shambles, her crew decimated and in disorder, her rails shattered, and her hull pierced in many places, l’Insurgente’s captain struck his flag in surrender.

  Loud our cannons thundered, with peals tremendous roar,

  And death upon our bullets’ wings that drenched their decks in gore.

  The blood did from their scuppers run,

  Their chief exclaimed, “We are undone,”

  Their flag they struck, the battle was won,

  By brave Yankee boys.

  When the French captain was brought on board Constellation in the aftermath, Captain Truxtun asked him, “Your name, sir, and that of your ship.”

  “I am Capitaine de Fregate-Citizen Michel-Pierre Barreaut, commanding the French national frigate l’Insurgente of forty guns,” came the reply.

  Truxtun then said, “You, sir, are my prisoner,” and, in the custom of the day, relieved the Frenchman of his sword.

  Barreaut later told Truxtun that “your taking me with a ship of the French nation is a declaration of war.” Truxtun responded by reminding the Frenchman of early transgressions by the French that had led the United States to take such action. “If a capture of a national vessel is a declaration of war,” Truxtun said, “your taking the Retaliation commanded by Lieutenant Bainbridge, which belonged to the United States and regularly placed in our Navy, was certainly a declaration of war on the part of France against the United States.” Barreaut did not respond.

  French casualties were high. Lieutenant John Rodgers was the first to board the defeated ship, and in a letter home he described what he saw: “Although I would not have you think me bloody minded, yet I must confess the most gratifying sight my eyes ever beheld was seventy French pirates (you know I have just cause to call them such) wallowing in their gore, twenty-nine of whom were killed and forty-one wounded.”

  In contrast, just one American died in the battle, but it was a tragic loss. Ironically, while defending the honor of his nation, poor Neal Harvey failed to uphold his own. In the heat of battle, he ran from his post. Upon noticing his absence, Lieutenant Sterett ran him down and then ran him through with his sword. The incident later caused a great deal of debate, and Sterett inspired his supporters and appalled his detractors when he wrote to his brother, “You must not think this strange, for we would put a man to death for even looking pale in this ship.”

  Such passion—however extreme—was no doubt a contributing factor to the one-sided outcome of the battle. “This ship,” as Sterett had referred to Constellation, had won an amazing victory. A fledgling navy had stood up to a considerably more powerful one and prevailed. It was a risky venture for the Americans, considering the world situation and the possible reactions of a much more powerful French nation, which by that time was well on its way to conquering most of continental Europe. But it had been dictated as a matter of national honor. To do otherwise would have jeopardized the new nation’s position in the world. Sometimes respect is earned through diplomacy and restraint, but other times it must be demanded by force of arms.

  President Adams told his cabinet that Constellation’s victory would ensure that American ministers would not again be treated so dishonorably when they came to negotiate. The secretary of war added, “The only negotiation compatible with our honor or safety is that begun by Truxtun in the capture of L’Insurgente.”

  Even in London, where respect for the tiny U.S. Navy was not abundant, the merchants and underwriters of Lloyd’s, the world’s foremost maritime insurance company, sent Truxtun a beautiful silver urn in recognition of Constellation’s achievement.

  When word spread throughout the United States, there was a great out-pouring of appreciation and congratulations. All over the country, parades, cheering crowds, special dinners, and gun salutes honored Constellation’s victory. Toasts were heard everywhere, calling the ship the “vanguard of America’s naval glory” and, referring to the infuriating XYZ Affair, naming Truxtun “our popular envoy to the French, who was accredited at the first interview.”

  And there were songs. In Baltimore there was “Huzza for the Constellation”; in Philadelphia, “Constellation: A Wreath for American Tars”; and in Boston, “Truxtun’s Victory.” And in taverns up and down the coast, there was “Brave Yankee Boys.”

  Now here’s a health to Truxtun who did not fear the sight

  And all those Yankee sailors who for their country fight,

  John Adams in full bumpers toast,

  George Washington, Columbia’s boast,

  And now to the girls that we love the most,

  My brave Yankee boys.

  Two Honors

  So, in the end, Sailors of all ranks in the U.S. Navy must defend two kinds of honor. First, there is the nation’s honor, which must be upheld through various means if this great nation is to remain free and effective on the world stage. Second, there is the personal honor of each individual Sailor, which must be maintained if Sailors are going to remain true to themselves and their shipmates—and to continue to like what they see in the mirror for the rest of their lives.

  Courage

  2

  There are many kinds and degrees of courage. It takes courage for a young man or woman to enlist in the armed forces of their nation; for a Sailor to climb down a Jacob’s ladder to a boat that is pitching violently in a stormy sea; for a petty officer to tell his chief that he made a mistake; for a coxswain to make her first landing; for a corpsman to stop a Marine’s arterial bleeding while enemy rounds are cracking all about; for a fireman to take the test for third class petty officer; for a gunner’s mate to man a weapon as a replacement for her shipmate who was just killed a moment before; for a brand-new ensign to lead for the first time; for an airman to report a case of sexual harassment; for an electronics technician to climb the mast to fix a wiring problem in the TACAN antenna; for a nozzle man to lead a hose team into a compartment full of flames and smoke; for an officer to put his career on the line over a matter of conscience; for a master chief to put in his papers for retirement after thirty years of service. These are all acts of courage that occur every day in the United States Navy.

  The rewards for these acts of courage vary. On rare occasions they result in the awarding of a medal such as the Bronze Star or Navy Cross. Sometimes they result in the achievement of a qualification or a promotion. Often, the only reward is in knowing, “I did the right thing.”

  It is not by accident or random choice that courage is one of the three standards the Navy has chosen to live by. Honor and commitment must be teamed with courage—both moral and physical—if the Navy is going to carry out its many missions and overcome the myriad challenges that arise every day.

  While there have been and always will be moments when courage fails, the long history of the Navy is an impressive record of Sailors having the courage to do what is right, what is needed, what makes the difference between success and failure, what ultimately decides victory over defeat.

  No Exit Ramp

  PBRs 105 and 99 of River Section 531 were closing rapidly on two sampans loaded down with uniformed troops in the middle of the My Tho River. The PBRs were running at full throttle, their American flags stretched taut, great white rooster tails following clo
se behind.

  In October 1966 it was not unusual for American Sailors to be seen on the waterways of Vietnam. The U.S. Navy had expanded its traditional large-fleet, “blue-water” role to take the fight to the enemy in the “brown-water” world of the Mekong Delta and RSSZ. Using modified fiberglass recreational boats powered by jet pumps, many Sailors voluntarily left their jobs as yeomen, signalmen, and the like to “get up close and personal” with the Communists, who were using the waterways to smuggle war-making contraband and to disrupt the vital flow of rice from the paddies to the marketplace along South Vietnam’s vital rivers. Small yet well-armed PBRs patrolled the jungle-lined waterways to keep them open, often boarding and inspecting junks and sampans to make sure they were legitimate commercial traffic.

  On this particular day, there was no doubt that these two sampans were not commercial. Heavily armed men wearing North Vietnamese military uniforms were clearly visible in the craft. The two sampans split up; one headed for the north shore, the other toward the south. The soldiers in the sampans fired at the approaching patrol boats and were almost instantaneously answered by the staccato bark of the forward twin fifties of each PBR. The two American craft veered off after the southbound sampan. When they got close enough, they slowed down to stabilize the careening fire of their gunners, and in less than a minute they had destroyed the fleeing enemy craft. Boatswain’s Mate First Class James Elliott Williams throttled up and banked the 105 in a tight turn that caused the skidding PBR to burrow nose-down into the river before dashing out across the water in hot pursuit of the other sampan. Williams was boat captain for the 105 and patrol officer in charge of both PBRs.

  A PBR under way in the Mekong Delta. These dark green craft were a mere thirty-one feet long and were manned by a crew of four. They had no propellers; they were driven, instead, by a water-jet system that allowed them to operate in extremely shallow water. Because their fiberglass hulls provided no protection against enemy fire, speed and armament were their main defenses. U.S. Naval Institute Photo Archive

  Before the Americans could get to it, the second sampan reached the north bank of the river and disappeared into a channel too small for the PBRs. Williams knew that part of the Mekong Delta like the back of his hand, so he radioed the 99 and said in his South Carolinian drawl: “Stay with me. I know where he has to come out. We’ll get ’im.” The two boats raced, prows high, to head off the sampan. A short way down the riverbank they turned into a canal. Some months before, Williams had removed all of the armor from his boat, except that which surrounded the engines, in order to get more speed and to permit the 105 to carry more ammunition. She was a fast boat flying through the canal at about thirty-five knots. The trees lining the banks were a peripheral green blur to the Sailors on the dashing craft.

  As they raced around a bend in the canal, Seaman Rubin Binder, the 105’s forward gunner, suddenly shouted something colorful. Before them were forty or fifty boats scattered over the canal, each carrying fifteen to twenty troops. The sampans were so full of men, they barely had two inches of freeboard remaining. It would be difficult to assess who was more startled—the crews of the PBRs upon suddenly finding the waterway full of an enemy “fleet,” or the soldiers of the 261st and 262nd NVA regiments upon seeing two patrol craft careening around the bend and hurtling down on them.

  Binder’s shoulders shook violently as he opened up with his fifties. The NVA soldiers stood up in the sampans to return fire with their rifles. Williams had merely a split second to think: there was little room to turn around, there were no alternative routes to either side, and they were damned near among the enemy craft already. As he later said in an interview: “Ya’ll got to understand. There weren’t no exit ramp.” He pressed on.

  The banks erupted in heavy fire. The unmistakable thoonk of mortar rounds could be heard in the midst of the chattering of automatic weapons and the cracking of rifles. Williams swerved left a little, then right, as much as the narrow canal would permit, trying to give his after gunner’s grenade launcher a clear shot. The enemy mortar rounds were not up to the PBRs’ speed and missed both boats; the small-arms fire was equally unsuccessful. In another few seconds, the 105 had reached the first of the enemy sampans. Although they were already at full power, Williams leaned on the throttles and ran right over the first boat—then another, and another. The enemy was reduced to chaos as soldiers spilled into the canal from the stricken sampans and still others were rolled into the water by the PBRs’ wakes. Soldiers along both banks fired at the boats as they streaked by, not realizing in the confusion that they were hitting their own men on the opposite banks.

  The waterway narrowed even more, but still the PBRs roared on. Two 57-mm recoilless rifle rounds lashed out from the right-hand bank, hitting the 105 in the bow on the starboard side, but passing completely through, emerging from the port side and exploding among the NVA troops on the opposite bank. Throughout, Binder and his fellow crew members—Castlebury, Alderson, and Spatt—were firing for all they were worth. Brass shell casings rained onto the fiberglass decks as hundreds of rounds spewed out in every direction. The 99 was likewise spraying metal at a phenomenal rate as she followed close behind. The North Vietnamese were suffering staggering losses.

  The two PBRs emerged from the gauntlet practically unscathed. The boats were pockmarked and holed, but miraculously no men were injured, all weapons were still working, and the engines were intact. Williams called on the radio for assistance from Navy Seawolf helicopters. Among the myriad troop-carrying sampans behind him, he had spotted several good-sized junks he suspected were carrying ammunition and supplies. Those and the troops remaining would make good hunting for the helicopter gunships.

  Clear of the havoc, Williams slowed the patrol, intending to move on down the canal a safe distance and wait for the Seawolves before taking on that armada again. The PBRs cruised on for about 150 yards. The men on the boats were just beginning to relax when, after a right turn, they found themselves confronted by yet another imposing concentration of junks, sampans, and troops, even larger than the first. Prudence might have dictated that the PBRs should back off and wait for the Seawolves, but Williams never hesitated. He jammed on full power and headed in for an encore.

  With the roar of the engines resonating off the banks of the canal, guns hammering relentlessly, and wakes boiling up behind them, the PBRs charged into battle. As in their previous encounter, they caught the NVA unprepared. The canal erupted in shooting, shouting, and explosions. Bullets slapped the water on both sides of the 105, and fragments of fiberglass flew in every direction. Death was poised everywhere. But the Americans roared on through, their weapons chewing up sampans and felling enemy soldiers.

  PBRs 105 and 99 emerged from the battle area, once again essentially intact, leaving a swath of destruction in their wake. But the battle had not yet ended. The radio came alive, announcing the arrival of the Seawolves. The pilots had made a pass over the two enemy staging areas that Williams’s PBRs had passed through, and the lead pilot told Williams that the NVA was still there and that there were plenty of them left.

  Williams replied, “I want y’all to go in there and hold a field day on them guys.”

  “Wilco,” agreed the helicopter commander, adding, “What are your intentions?”

  Williams hollered, “Well, I damn sure ain’t goin’ to stay here! I’m goin’ back through.” And once again the 105 and 99 tore through the North Vietnamese regiments, this time with Seawolf support.

  The helicopters swooped over the area again and again, 7.62-mm ammunition cascading from their M-60s. Rockets leaped from their side-mounted pods into the troop-infested jungle. Williams took full advantage of the PBRs’ extraordinary maneuverability as he ran his craft among the enemy like a skier on an Olympic slalom. He had guessed right about the junks: the secondary explosions that erupted from the four that the PBRs and the helicopters nailed sent debris rocketing one thousand feet into the air. Williams pressed the attack relentlessly, unde
terred by the maze of bullets and rockets and mortar rounds. As darkness came, the battle raged on, and Williams ordered the PBRs’ searchlights turned on. When the water was finally devoid of targets, Williams drove in close to the shore seeking the enemy.

  The whole battle had lasted more than three hours. The final assessment revealed that the NVA had lost hundreds of men. Sixty-five enemy vessels had been destroyed, and many prisoners were taken. Williams discovered a small piece of shrapnel in his side after the battle was over. Binder had taken a bullet through the wrist, which passed cleanly through the flesh and had not broken any bones. These were the only American casualties.

  On 13 May 1968, in ceremonies held at the Pentagon, President Lyndon Johnson was having difficulty fastening the snaps at the back of the cravat of the Medal of Honor as he attempted to place it around the neck of James Elliott Williams. The struggling president said into Williams’s ear, “Damn, Williams, you’ve got a big neck.” It’s a wonder that Williams did not have a big head as well, for that Medal of Honor was placed in good company: along with his previously earned Navy Cross, two Silver Stars, the Navy and Marine Corps Medal, three Bronze Stars, the Navy Commendation Medal, the Vietnamese Cross of Gallantry (with Palm and Gold Star), and three Purple Hearts.

  Operation Seadragon

  Long before the carrier-centered fleets and amphibious task forces marched across the Pacific during World War II, U.S. submarines took the war to the Japanese by operating well behind enemy lines, even in the home waters of Japan. The courageous crews of these tiny, incredibly cramped warships took on the Japanese navy when they could and relentlessly attacked logistical shipping, slowly but surely depriving the enemy of fuel, food, and other necessities of war. It was a campaign that required a special kind of Sailor who was able to endure hardships for long periods of time, to face the dangers of the sea and the violence of the enemy on a regular basis, and to be ever adaptable and resourceful. Indeed, early in the war, the submarine Seadragon barely escaped from her base in the Philippines when the Japanese invaded, yet she returned time and again to the island of Corregidor, leaving her torpedoes behind to make room for food and other supplies desperately needed by the Allied forces trapped there.