Murphey's ship

[Ace Pace]

Murphy's ship:

From November 1943, until her demise in June 1945, the American destroyer
'William D Porter' was often hailed - whenever she entered port or joined
other Naval ships - with the greetings: 'Don't shoot, we're Republicans!'
For a half a century, the US Navy kept a lid on the details of the
incident that prompted this salutation. A Miami news reporter made the
first public disclosure in 1958 after he stumbled upon the truth while
covering a reunion of the destroyer's crew. The Pentagon reluctantly and
tersely confirmed his story, but only a smattering of newspapers took
notice.

Fifty years ago today, the Willie D as the Porter was nicknamed,
accidentally fired a live torpedo at the battleship Iowa during a practice
exercise. As if this weren't bad enough, the Iowa was carrying President
Franklin D. Roosevelt at the time, along with Secretary of State, Cordell
Hull, and all of the country's WWII military brass. They were headed for
the Big Three Conference in Tehran, where Roosevelt was to meet Stalin and
Churchill. Had the Porter's torpedo struck the Iowa at the aiming point,
the last 50 years of world history might have been quite different.

The USS William D Porter (DD-579) was one of hundreds of assembly line
destroyers build during the war. They mounted several heavy and light
guns, but their main armament consisted of 10 fast-running and accurate
torpedoes that carried 500-pound warheads. This destroyer was placed in
commission on July 1943 under the command of Wilfred Walker, a man on the
Navy's fast career track. In the months before she was detailed to
accompany the Iowa across the Atlantic in November 1943, the Porter and
her crew learned their trade, experiencing the normal problems that always
beset a new ship and a novice crew. The mishaps grew more serious when she
became an escort for the pride of the fleet, the big new battleship Iowa.

The night before they left Norfolk, bound for North Africa, the Porter
accidentally damaged a nearby sister ship when she backed down along the
other ship's side and her anchor tore down her railings, life rafts,
ship's boat and various other formerly valuable pieces of equipment. The
Willie D merely had a scraped anchor, but her career of mayhem and mishaps
had begun.

Just twenty four hours later, the four-ship convoy consisting of Iowa and
her secret passengers and two other destroyers was under strict
instructions to maintain complete radio silence. As they were going
through a known U-boat feeding ground, speed and silence were the best
defence. Suddenly, a tremendous explosion rocked the convoy. All of the
ships commenced anti-submarine manoeuvres. This continued until the Porter
sheepishly admitted that one of her depth charges had fallen off her stern
and exploded. The 'safety' had not been set as instructed. Captain Walker
was watching his fast track career become side-tracked.

Shortly thereafter, a freak wave inundated the ship, stripping away
everything that wasn't lashed down. A man was washed overboard and never
found. Next, the fire room lost power in one of its boilers. The Captain,
by this point, was making reports almost hourly to the Iowa on the Willie
D's difficulties. It would have been merciful if the force commander had
detached the hard luck ship and sent her back to Norfolk. But, no, she
sailed on.

The morning of 14 November 1943 dawned with a moderate sea and pleasant
weather. The Iowa and her escorts were just east of Bermuda, and the
president and his guests wanted to see how the big ship could defend
herself against an air attack. So, Iowa launched a number of weather
balloons to use as anti-aircraft targets. It was exciting to see more than
100 guns shooting at the balloons, and the President was proud of his
Navy. Just as proud was Admiral Ernest J King, the Chief of Naval
Operations; large in size and by demeanour, a true monarch of the sea.
Disagreeing with him meant the end of a naval career. Up to this time, no
one knew what firing a torpedo at him would mean. Over on the Willie D,
Captain Walker watched the fireworks display with admiration and envy.
Thinking about career redemption and breaking the hard luck spell, the
Captain sent his impatient crew to battle stations. They began to shoot
down the balloons the Iowa had missed as they drifted into the Porter's
vicinity.

Down on the torpedo mounts, the crew watched, waiting to take some
practice shots of their own on the big battleship, which, even though
6,000 yards away, seemed to blot out the horizon. Lawton Dawson and Tony
Fazio were among those responsible for the torpedoes. Part of their job
involved ensuring that the primers were installed during actual combat and
removed during practice. Once a primer was installed, on a command to
fire, it would explode shooting the torpedo out of its tube. Dawson, on
this particular morning, unfortunately had forgotten to remove the primer
from torpedo tube #3. Up on the bridge, a new torpedo officer, unaware of
the danger, ordered a simulated firing. "Fire 1, Fire 2," and finally,
"Fire 3." There was no fire 4 as the sequence was interrupted by an
unmistakable whooooooshhhhing sound made by a successfully launched and
armed torpedo. LT H. Steward Lewis, who witnessed the entire event, later
described the next few minutes as what hell would look like if it ever
broke loose.

Just after he saw the torpedo hit water on its way to the Iowa and some of
the most prominent figures in world history, Lewis innocently asked the
Captain, 'Did you give permission to fire a torpedo?' Captain Walker's
reply will not ring down through naval history.. although words to the
effect of Farragut's immortal 'Damn the torpedoes' figured centrally
within. Initially there was some reluctance to admit what had happened, or
even to warn the Iowa. As the awful reality sunk in, people began racing
around, shouting conflicting instructions and attempting to warn the
flagship of imminent danger. First, there was a flashing light warning
about the torpedo which unfortunately indicated it was headed in another
direction. Next, the Porter signalled that it was going reverse at full
speed! Finally, they decided to break the strictly enforced radio silence.
The radio operator on the destroyer transmitted "'Lion (code for the
Iowa), Lion, come right." The Iowa operator, more concerned about radio
procedure, requested that the offending station identify itself first.
Finally, the message was received and the Iowa began turning to avoid the
speeding torpedo.

Meanwhile, on the Iowa's bridge, word of the torpedo firing had reached
FDR, who asked that his wheelchair be moved to the railing so he could see
better what was coming his way. His loyal Secret Service guard immediately
drew his pistol as if he was going to shoot the torpedo. As the Iowa began
evasive manoeuvres, all of her guns were trained on the William D Porter.
There was now some thought that the Porter was part of an assassination
plot. Within moments of the warning, there was a tremendous explosion just
behind the battleship. The torpedo had been detonated by the wash kicked
up by the battleship's increased speed.

The crisis was over and so was Captain Walker's career. His final
utterance to the Iowa, in response to a question about the origin of the
torpedo, was a weak, "We did it." Shortly thereafter, the brand new
destroyer, her Captain and the entire crew were placed under arrest and
sent to Bermuda for trial. It was the first time that a complete ship's
company had been arrested in the history of the US Navy. The ship was
surrounded by Marines when it docked in Bermuda, and held there several
days as the closed session inquiry attempted to determine what had
happened. Torpedoman Dawson eventually confessed to having inadvertently
leaving the primer in the torpedo tube, which caused the launching. Dawson
had thrown the used primer over the side to conceal his mistake.

The whole incident was chalked up to an unfortunate set of circumstances
and placed under a cloak of secrecy. Someone had to be punished. Captain
Walker and several other Porter officers and sailors eventually found
themselves in obscure shore assignments. Dawson was sentenced to 14 years
hard labor. President Roosevelt intervened; however, asking that no
punishment be metered out for what was clearly an accident. The destroyer
was banished to the upper Aleutians. It was probably thought this was as
safe a place as any for the ship and anyone who came near her. She
remained in the frozen north for almost a year, until late 1944, when she
was reassigned to the Western Pacific.

Before leaving the Aleutians, she accidentally left her calling card in
the form of a five-inch shell fired into the front yard of the American
base commandant, thus rearranging his flower garden. In December, 1944,
she joined the Philippine invasion forces and acquitted herself quite
well. She distinguished herself by shooting down a number of attacking
Japanese aircraft. Regrettably, after the war, it was reported that she
also shot down three American planes. This was a common event on ships, as
many gunners, fearful of Kamikazes, had nervous trigger fingers.

In April, 1945, the destroyer was assigned to support the invasion of
Okinawa. By this time, the greeting "Don't Shoot, We're Republicans" was
commonplace and the crew of the Willie D had become used to the ribbing.
But the crew of her sister ship, the USS Luce, was not so polite in its
salutations after the Porter accidentally riddled her side and
superstructure with gunfire.

On 10 June, 1945, the Porter's hard luck finally ran out. She was sunk by
a plane which had (unintentionally) attacked underwater. A Japanese bomber
made almost entirely of wood and canvas slipped through the Navy's
defence. Having little in the way of metal surfaces, the plane didn't
register on radar. A fully loaded Kamikaze, it was headed for a ship near
the Porter, but just at the last moment veered away and crashed along side
the unlucky destroyer. There was a sigh of relief as the plane sunk out of
sight, but then it blew up underneath the Porter, opening her hull in the
worst possible location.

Three hours later, after the last man was off board, the Captain jumped to
the safety of a rescue vessel and the ship that almost changed world
history slipped astern into 2,400 feet of water. Not a single soul was
lost in the sinking. After everything else that happened, it was almost as
if the ship decided to let her crew off at the end.