By Larry Nader, US Navy Veteran
As the Vietnam War came to an official end in 1975, I met with a Navy recruiter that fall, a couple of weeks following my 17th birthday, to discuss enlistment options. In school I was in my second year of Electronics, so they had me take their basic tests to see where I would fall. The results were that they could offer me a guaranteed Electronic Technician position, on a delayed entry program to allow me time to complete high school. As part of the program I would hold the rank of E4 following basic training but had to commit to a six-year enlistment.
The only issue was, since I was 17, I needed to have a parent’s signature on the the paperwork for the Delayed Entry Program. Additionally, I would still only be 17 when I headed to boot camp in July of 1976. So, I headed home to see about getting my parental permission to join.
My father had served in the Army during World War II and, like most wartime veterans, never really talked about his service time except when talking about the more humorous stuff that happened with his friends and brothers. I expected it to be a slam dunk getting his signature, which was not the case.
When I presented my father with my plans for life after the 12th grade I never expected him to be opposed to it. He would not tell me directly why he was against my enlisting and only said that I didn’t know what I was getting myself into. Of course, being the typical 17-year-old, I thought I knew better and pressed the issue. Eventually he would reluctantly agree to sign the papers under one condition; that was that I never would blame him for signing the enlistment docs. I jumped all over that deal and headed back the next day to the recruiting office on Grand River Avenue in Detroit, MI to officially enlist in the delayed entry program.
As the school year progressed and graduation time got closer, I did start to regret the decision to join a mere 4 weeks after high school graduation; a time when my friends were all planning camping trips to northern Michigan. One of the other benefits I had with the delayed entry program was that I could choose where I wanted to attend basic training – Great Lakes Naval Station (Chicago), San Diego Naval Training Center, or Orlando Naval Training Center. When I found out that Orlando was the only location where they trained both men and women, my location choice was made up. Orlando it would be. It never crossed my mind that we would never be within 100 yards of any females.
Following basic training, which was completed over the summer in Orlando (ugghhh how horrible that was), I went on to Submarine Training School in Groton, CT for 8 weeks of training before being sent to Dam Neck, VA for the next year and a half to complete Basic Electronics as well as training for Ships Inertial Navigation Systems (SINS) for both Polaris and Poseidon missile subs.
Following my schooling, I received orders to report to the USS Proteus (AS-19), a submarine tender out of Guam, where I was stationed aboard for the next nearly 2-1/2 years riding her to the Long Beach Shipyard in late 1978 and then back to Guam in early 1980. After another 5 months on Guam, I received orders to report to the USS Turner Joy (DD-951) in San Diego, CA.
Once I was aboard the Turner Joy, I found out that she was in bad shape engine-wise (she was 22 years old at the time) and we failed to make the next five attempts for a West-Pac due to boiler and engine issues. Eventually, they finally pieced her together for what would be her final West-Pac before decommissioning.
It was on one of the long nights out at sea between Guam and Japan in April of 1982 where I started to ask myself what the purpose of my service was. We, as a country, had gone the full six years without any major skirmishes or wars so most of my time was enjoying shore leave wherever I was. Our West Pac took us to Hawaii, Guam, Japan (Sasebo and Kagoshima), Korea (Pusan and Chinhae), Philippines (Olongapo), then on to Pattaya Beach Thailand before heading back to the Philippines where I was scheduled to travel to Manila by bus to grab a military flight back to San Diego for discharge processing. The ship, however, would continue on their West-Pac for a couple more months before heading back to San Diego and then, with the help of a skeleton crew, head to Bremerton, WA (her original birthplace) to be mothballed.
The question of my purpose for my service was eventually answered in early June of 1982 when we were steaming back to the Philippines after and amazing four day stop over the Pattaya Beach. During the time, Vietnam was telling the United Nations that they were declaring 12-mile territorial waters, something that the UN was not in agreement with due to, at the time, the violent nature of Vietnam and their aggression towards their own people. They were granted 5-miles which Vietnam refused accept.
It was a Sunday night and roughly 9:38pm when a peaceful cruise back to Subic Bay turned into a night that almost reignited the Vietnam War all over again.
In our squadron were guided missile destroyers the USS Lynde McCormick (DDG-8) and the USS Benjamin Stoddert (DDG-22), as well as the USS Sterret (CG-31), a guided missile cruiser. I remember the time very well as I oversaw operation of the ship’s close circuit television and had just started the final show of the evening, Benny Hill, when all hell broke loose.
As I stated before, my nearly six-years of service at the time was all under peace time situations but I knew immediately that we were taking fire when I heard what sounded like a handful of ball bearings hitting the steel deck above where I was laying in the Electronics Room. Within seconds it was announced over the PA, “All hands to battle stations, this is NOT a drill.”
We later learned that the McCormick had sent orders to our ship that they needed us to investigate a flashing light signal aboard what appeared to be a small fishing boat. This was near Con Son Island. As the Turner Joy approached the vessel, they fired two sets of flares across our ship’s bow and then opened fire with a small caliber machine gun at a range of about ½-mile. One of the rounds fired on the Turner Joy pierced our hull at the officers’ quarters where four officers were playing cards. The bullet passed across the middle of the table between these four officers and lodged in the far bulkhead.
When the McCormick came to identify the vessel that fired on the Turner Joy the fishing boat opened fired on them as well. The McCormick responded with 50-caliber machine gun fire at which point the Vietnamese vessel stopped their attack. Washington DC was radio immediately regarding the attack and Regan ordered our squadron of ships to surround these boats (two fishing boats and one junk boat) and hold then until morning to verify they were indeed Vietnamese. When contacted by Regan, Vietnam’s Prime Minister, Phạm Văn Đồng, denied any involvement by Vietnam or their citizens.
Just before sunrise we were able to observe the three vessels which included one boat flying the Vietnamese flag. Upon notifying Regan of this finding, we were ordered to release the boats, break formation and return to the Philippines.
Several hours following the release of the Vietnamese boats we were contacted by the McCormick, once again, this time regarding some sort of debris on the horizon that was in the commercial shipping lanes. They needed us to investigate and destroy the debris so that commercial ships sailing in the region were free of any danger from it.
As we approached the “debris” we found that it was a homemade wooden raft with what appeared to be 12 Vietnamese Boat People that were willing to defy death in order to secure a better life outside of Vietnam. As we established contact with the boat people, we learned that they were out of water and food and several were very sick as a result.
We were given permission to rescue all aboard the raft, quarantine them on our ship’s fantail (aft main deck), provide them with food, water and medical care and then destroy the raft. After all refugees were rescued, our gunners eventually blew up the raft and we steamed full speed back to Subic Bay. The picture with this blog article is a photo that I took as we were approaching the raft.
Despite all that day’s and previous evening’s excitement it still never hit me for several weeks that my question about the purpose of my service time had been answered. Following my return to San Diego for discharge, I learned that each and every one of the 12 Boat People survived and were being relocated to various places around the world where they had family, When I looked at the photo of those we had rescued, it finally hit me. The reason for my service. My purpose if you will.
While my involvement in the rescue was secondary at best, without the hundred of men that served aboard these ships (this was before women were allowed aboard combat vessels), the boat people could very realistically have died of hunger and dehydration under the blazing sun over the South China Sea. While I do not consider myself a hero for the obvious reasons, I do take great pride in knowing that 12 people didn’t die on my watch because of those of us that served aboard those ships.
I have carried this photo with me ever since that day and often look at it when I have had a bad day or week or month. It always brings a smile to my face when I look at it. Part of the pride I feel with this photo is that, while I have no way of knowing for sure, I prefer to think that several of these amazing people went on to do great things to help others in the world. It’s called the ripple effect. One act of kindness, no matter how small, can create a ripple of good deeds that grows over time.
Obviously, the Navy is full of rescue stories like this one and greater ones and I know that my purpose was not greater than many others’, but it is mine and I carry it with me proudly. I keep These amazingly strong people in my mind and my heart every day knowing that they gave my six-year career meaning and purpose.
Now, in my 60s, I am sure that I will probably never get to meet any of those who were rescued that day, but I still wonder everyday what happened to them. Which ones became doctors, or social workers or activists for greater humanitarian causes. I prefer to think that they all went on to make those of us who rescued them very proud by helping their fellow humans and saving countless lives.
The Ranting Vet 