The Finest Hours

by Michael J. Tougias

  PART III

  17

  BEING LABELED A HERO CAN BE A BURDEN

  In the months following the rescue, Bernie Webber and his crewmen found themselves riding a different wave, one of public adulation. This proved to be an equally difficult task for the young coasties, none of whom had ever sought the spotlight. Their ascension from brave men who merely did their jobs to media darlings was dictated somewhat by the news of the day. The Korean War continued to drag on as armistice talks between the United States and North Korea remained at a stalemate. In fact, on February 18, the day of the Pendleton rescue, 17 American soldiers were killed in action, including seven servicemen from the 224th Regiment, 40th Infantry Division. War-weary American citizens needed something to feel good about, something to rally around. The men of CG 36500 provided them with a diversion from the harsh realities of war.

  Bernie Webber reunited briefly with Andy Fitzgerald, Ervin Maske, and Richard Livesey in Washington, DC, on May 14, 1952. They had traveled to the nation’s capital to receive the U.S. Coast Guard’s highest honor, the Gold Lifesaving Medal. The crewmembers were happy to see one another and knew how fortunate they were to be awarded such a prestigious medal. The ceremony would never have taken place had it not been for the great persistence on Bernie Webber’s part. A few days after the rescue, he had been called into commander Cluff’s office and handed the telephone.

  On the other line was an official from coast guard headquarters who first congratulated Bernie on the rescue and then informed him that he would be awarded the Gold Lifesaving Medal.

  “What about my crew?” Webber asked.

  “They will all receive the Silver Lifesaving Medal,” the official replied.

  Bernie’s anger and exhaustion erupted over the phone line. “I think it stinks,” he shouted into the receiver. “They were there, the same as me, and did all the heavy rescuing. If they can’t get the gold, then I don’t want it.” Cluff was visibly upset hearing one of his men talk that way to an official.

  “You can’t be serious?” the startled official asked.

  Webber said he was and drew a line in the sand. He repeated that if his men couldn’t get the medal, he wouldn’t accept it.

  Coast guard officials gave in to Webber’s ultimatum, knowing the public relations nightmare they would have on their hands if they turned their backs on the new hero. Bernie and his men cherished the medal, which can be granted to any member of the U.S. military who conducts a rescue within U.S. waters or those waters subject to U.S. jurisdiction and who carries out the rescue at “extreme peril and risk of life.”

  * * *

  The wreck of the Pendleton sat off the coast of Chatham, Massachusetts, in two pieces for nearly 26 years, providing boaters a disturbing reminder of the worst the sea had to offer. For thousands of years, the ocean had offered its bounty and collected its debts. That toll would be paid by the men swallowed by the sea and by those they left behind.

  Like the relatives of the other doomed crewmen, the family of Pendleton captain John J. Fitzgerald was left wondering why the ocean that had given them so much had taken even more. Yet instead of being repelled by the sight of the wreck, the captain’s family was drawn to it. Countless times over the next several years, John J. Fitzgerald’s widow, Margaret, bundled her four children into the family car for the 87-mile trip from Roslindale to Chatham. It was Margaret’s way of keeping her husband’s memory alive for the children. Their son John became so enamored with the area that he decided to call it home. He would later raise a family in Chatham, and his own son eventually answered the call to the sea, fishing in the same waters that had claimed his grandfather’s life so many years before.

  * * *

  There had been attempts to salvage the remains of the Pendleton, which had a scrap metal value of about $60,000. During the 1950s, the remains were also a concern for environmentalists, who feared additional release of oil from the fractured tanker would ruin local beaches and destroy wildlife. John F. Kennedy, then a United States Senator, insisted that salvage operations would have to be approved and supervised by both the United States Coast Guard and the Army Corps of Engineers. As it happened, the oil leaked out slowly over the next 30 years.

  The Army Corps of Engineers would later play the lead role in sinking the structures once and for all. The infamous Blizzard of 1978 shredded what was left of the Pendleton’s superstructure abovewater. The wreck became a menace to navigation, since the stern was now submerged and hidden from the view of those piloting small craft in the busy area off Chatham. Contractors were called in to cut away much of the steel before it was blown up by the Army Corps of Engineers and buried where it sat, just three miles off Monomoy.

  18

  THE INQUIRY

  For the surviving members of the Pendleton crew, the feelings of relief and joy for having lived through the tragedy were now replaced by anger. They allowed their bitterness to flow during a coast guard inquiry hearing that began on February 20, 1952, at Constitution Base in Charlestown, Massachusetts. A three-man fact-finding panel listened as one survivor after another stood up and told how they had been doomed to fail during 12 torturous hours on the open sea. A major concern was that a fracture in the ship had been discovered one month prior, in January 1952, but had gone unrepaired.

  The most scathing testimony came from crewmembers who told the panel that much of the ship’s equipment was in poor working order. For instance, survivors testified that no distress signals could be found on the ship. Witnesses also reported that smoke signals and many of the ship’s flares did not work. Even getting off the ship had proved to be an arduous task for crewmembers, because the single Jacob’s ladder available had only three rungs. The ship’s construction was still the most glaring flaw. After hearing much of the testimony, panel member Captain William Storey surmised that extreme cold and violent motion in heavy sea, combined with locked-up stresses in the welded metal, may have caused the disasters on both ships. The testimony of men such as Fort Mercer crewmember John Braknis supported Storey’s deduction. He told investigators he had heard strange rumblings, like the sound of welds splitting, a full four hours before the tanker broke up.

  With regard to the SS Pendleton, the Marine Board of Investigation concluded that “the tank steamer incurred a major structural failure resulting in a complete failure of the hull girder and causing the vessel to break in two in the way of the number seven and number eight cargo tanks and resulting in the loss of nine lives.”

  Despite testimony to the contrary, the board also concluded “that the Pendleton was manned and equipped in accordance with the certificate of inspection.…” The panel did acknowledge, however, that of four orange smoke signals used by crewmembers on the stern section, only one was able to fire. Investigators also concluded that 12 of the ship’s parachute flares fired into the air normally, but that only a single flare illuminated the snow-swept sky.

  Ultimately, the board concluded that three principal factors led to the break of the SS Pendleton: construction, weather, and cargo loading. Regarding the ship’s construction, investigators concluded, “Due to its welded construction and design, there were many points of stress concentration in the Pendleton.” The board pointed especially to what appeared to be defective welding in brackets in the middle of the ship.

  As for the weather, the Marine Board of Investigation simply amplified what the survivors of the Pendleton and the four men who had saved them already knew. Investigators wrote,

  THE BOARD IS OF THE OPINION THAT THE WEATHER PLAYED A VITAL PART IN CAUSING THE CASUALTY, PARTICULARLY THE TEMPERATURE AND THE SEA. THERE WAS A NORTHEASTERLY GALE BLOWING AT THE TIME WITH VERY ROUGH SEAS AND THE POSSIBLE POSITION OF THE VESSEL WITH REFERENCE TO THE DIRECTION OF THE SEAS WOULD AT TIMES PLACE THE BOW AND STERN OF THE VESSEL IN THE CRESTS OF WAVES WITH LITTLE OR NO SUPPORT AMIDSHIP.

  The panel also concluded that the ship changed to a southerly course after getting pounded by several heavy seas until she fin
ally split in two. They acknowledged that the low temperature of the seawater, listed as approximately 38 degrees Fahrenheit, contributed to the brittle fractures.

  The intense storm was the fault of Mother Nature alone, unlike the loading of the ship, which was the result of human error. The probe found the loading of the tanker had an “adverse effect” that caused the ship to sag, which created more tension at the bottom of the vessel. According to the report, the tanks in the forward end of the ship, excluding 120 barrels of fuel oil in the port deep tank, were empty. The number nine tank was nearly empty as well, and the aft water tanks were only partially filled. This put the majority of the weight in the midship section, where the oil tanks were full. The resulting “sagging effect” was “badly aggravated by the extremely heavy seas.” Despite this finding, the board did acknowledge that the ship was loaded in line with the usual practice in the tanker trade.

  In the end, the sinking of the SS Pendleton would be chalked up to fate, and no one would be held accountable by the Marine Board of Investigation. They concluded, “There was no incompetence, misconduct, unskillfullness or willful violation of the law or any rule or regulation on the part of any licensed officers, or seamen, employers, owner or agent of the vessel or any inspector or officer of the Coast Guard which contributed to this casualty.” To many of the survivors, the report appeared to be a governmental whitewash.

  The panel did recommend a study be conducted on the best way to load T2 tankers to minimize sagging. Investigators also recommended that a vertical ladder be installed on the forward side of the bridge structure to allow the captain and crew an emergency exit from the bridge to the deck or the catwalk forward.

  Finally, the board noted it was in hearty accordance with the commendations that were being awarded to “various officers and men of the Coast Guard who participated in the successful rescue of members of the Pendleton crew.”

  A similar inquiry into the Fort Mercer split came to the same conclusions.

  19

  THE RESTORATION

  November 1981

  She sat unnoticed, this once proud vessel, now a mere shell of her former self. Those who walked by paid little mind. If anything, she was a nuisance, and no doubt there were some who thought she should have been scrapped years ago. Her canvas was rotted, and her paint had chipped away. Squirrels and other small creatures had built their nests in her manifold, and the tops of her cabins were badly worn by years of neglect. The CG 36500 had been put up on blocks and left unprotected from the elements for 13 years behind a maintenance garage on the property of the Cape Cod National Seashore. Surrounded by sand, shrubs, and small pine trees, the historic boat that had saved so many lives was in need of being rescued herself.

  The “old thirty-six” model lifeboat had been decommissioned in 1968 and replaced by the newer 44-foot twin 180-horsepower diesel all-steel lifeboat. Although the 36ers were still considered reliable, the 44-footers were faster and could carry nearly double the number of passengers. Most 36-footers were destroyed, but the Chatham lifeboat had been given a reprieve. Because she was a Gold Medal lifesaving vessel, the CG 36500 was handed over to the Cape Cod National Seashore, and initially, there were bold plans to preserve the lifeboat. Officials there wanted to make the vessel part of a small museum, but a lack of funding and foresight doomed the project. The boat was now nothing more than an eyesore taking up space on government property. The CG 36500 had been victimized by the blazing sun of more than a dozen summers and the snow and sleet of those raw Cape Cod winters. Her caregivers had even neglected to provide any kind of protective tarp cover. It was a sad sight. Something that had meant so much to so many had outlasted its usefulness and its own legend. The story may have faded away into the heavy fabric of outer Cape folklore if it had not been for the determination of a group of local men who fought to restore the boat to its former glory.

  Their leader was Bill Quinn, a freelance television cameraman and longtime friend of Dick Kelsey, the photographer whose pictures of the Pendleton rescue remain etched in the collective memories of those fortunate enough to remember the Gold Medal Crew. Quinn first saw the boat while he and his son were attending an auction of used vehicles sponsored by the Cape Cod National Seashore. He was looking for a sturdy automobile with room to store his camera equipment and a big engine that would allow him to respond rapidly to any breaking news story. As he was inspecting the jeeps, trucks, and other vehicles, the tired old boat caught his eye. Being a former navy man with a fondness for boats and ships, Quinn was immediately intrigued. He walked over for a closer look and noticed the faded numbers painted near her bow. Quinn could barely contain his excitement and waved his son over. “Look at that!” he said, pointing. “That’s the boat that saved all those men.” The need for a new vehicle seemed like an afterthought now. Quinn knew he had been brought here for a reason. Shocked by the lack of care and attention paid to the historic vessel, he dreamed up a plan on the spot; he just had to save the lifeboat. The question was, could she be saved?

  * * *

  Quinn left the Cape Cod National Seashore and returned later with a friend who specialized in boat repair. The friend had brought an ice pick and began jabbing the vessel from stem to stern. Quinn’s dream of restoring the lifeboat would be dashed if the vessel had rotted out. But despite its ragged outward appearance, the men were surprised to find very little rot in the wooden boat. The only small areas of concern were in the engine room and the stern’s tow post. Underneath her rough facade, the CG 36500 was still a healthy lifeboat. For once, Quinn was thankful the boat had been in the possession of the Cape Cod National Seashore for all those years. Although it had been left outside, the vessel sat on government property and therefore had never been vandalized. Yes, this once proud lifeboat could rise from the ashes, but Bill Quinn knew he couldn’t do it alone.

  Quinn first approached the Chatham Historical Society to see if it would be willing to take guardianship of the dilapidated lifeboat. Despite its clear historical significance, society members feared that restoring and maintaining such a boat would be like free-falling into a bottomless money pit. “Who’ll pay for the restoration and the continuous upkeep?” they asked. Chatham’s loss turned into Orleans’s gain as the neighboring town’s historical society agreed to accept the vessel if the Cape Cod National Seashore was willing to give it up. Quinn met with government officials, who at first agreed to turn the boat over, but only on permanent loan. Quinn kept after them, though, until a deal was worked out giving him legal ownership of the lifeboat. He deeded the vessel over to the Orleans Historical Society and began enlisting local craftsmen for the important job of rebuilding the boat.

  Quinn had no shortage of volunteers and needed very little effort to galvanize them for this mission. To the people of Chatham, Orleans, and Harwich, the small lifeboat was not only a legend, it was a testament to the spirit of Cape Cod. Ruggedness and reliability were shared traits of both the boat and the hardy people who carved out their lives along the sandy, windswept shores at the easternmost tip of the United States.

  A small group of men gathered at the National Seashore on a chilly November morning in 1981 to witness the rebirth of this vessel. They watched intently as a large crane hoisted the lifeboat from its cradle, awakening her from a 13-year slumber. The small craft was placed on a flatbed truck and taken to a garage in Orleans, where the volunteers went to work. They realized quickly the amount of sweat and skill it would take to pull the project off. The goal was to finish it in five to six months, and that would mean thousands of hours of labor. It was a community coming together for a common cause. These volunteers spanned generations; they were both young and old, and yet all had been touched in some way by the CG 36500. One volunteer remembered being towed by the vessel as a kid when his boat ran into trouble on the Bass River. It was now time to repay that debt and preserve this floating piece of history for generations to come.

  The first order of business was to see if the boat’s GM-47
1 engine could be saved. Surprisingly, it was still usable, although in need of some serious work. The engine was taken out and shipped up to Boston, where it was rebuilt by marine mechanics free of charge. The engine block’s crane shaft was reconditioned, and the cylinders, connecting rods, and bearings were replaced. Every screw in the lifeboat’s hull had to be taken out and replaced with a larger one. Workers used scrapers to chip away what was left of the paint, and then sanded the vessel down to the bare wood before refurbishing both the side and bottom planks. All of this hard work nearly went up in smoke when the Orleans Fire Department was called to the garage one evening. An oil burner had malfunctioned, and many feared the lifeboat would burn like kindling. Fortunately, she suffered no real damage, apart from being covered with oil that was easily cleaned off.

  While the volunteers were busy with the boat, Bill Quinn was saddled with the equally difficult task of finding money to pay for materials, upkeep, and the like. He contacted a reporter at the Cape Cod Times, who wrote an article about the restoration project, and soon the much-needed funds started flowing in. The Chatham Historical Society even chipped in some cash to keep the project afloat. Quinn and his group raised more than $10,000, and an equal amount in materials, to realize their dream.

  After six months, the volunteers had met their goal. The lifeboat was fully restored and repainted, with her famous letters reappearing boldly near the bow. It was now time to see if the “old thirty-six” was seaworthy. An official relaunching ceremony was held at Rock Harbor in Orleans, where the lifeboat resides today. The relaunching of this famous boat would not be complete without the presence of its equally famous coxswain. Bernie Webber took time off from his job as a tugboat captain and, with his wife, Miriam, drove up to Cape Cod from their home in Florida to be reunited with the small craft that had saved the lives of so many on that torturous winter night years before.