RECOLLECTION
Chester Hill 1988
In late 1943, in company with Wilkes DD441, we were returning to New York from training exercises up in Casco Bay, Maine. Things being a bit slack in the convoying business right at that time we had a little extra time for R & R, so we were coming through Long Island Sound instead of outside. The first night we spent going ashore in Newport, Rhode Island, where I am sure our two crews renewed some old acquaintances, but with no real disagreements. The second night was in New London , Connecticut where the only means of transportation available between the Naval (submarine) Base and the delights of the city was a rather small ferry boat across the Thames River. On the last ferry run that night there were no vehicles in the spacious automobile deck, but only scores of the crews – officers as well as enlisted men – of our two sister ships, who had always been “friendly” when they got ashore together.(?)
The goodnight festivities developed into such a massive surging to and fro port to starboard that the hapless ferry Captain radioed ahead for the Shore Patrol to meet us at the dock, which they did – in force!
The following Monday morning in Brooklyn Navy Yard, after a night at anchor off Port Jefferson, Long Island (no liberty) there was a very large and interested attendance at Captain’s Mast. Some division officers whose men were accused of various offenses, others of the same who were witnesses, including me, and the main accused culprit, BM3c Pappy Poole.
Coxswain Poole was one of our oldest crewmen. He had been up and down from 3c to 1c many times. I well knew his routine excuse when the Shore Patrol would bring him back aboard with a badly battered façade: “I was hurrying back from liberty when I tripped over a greasy fueling line and fell into the dry dock.”
His time came quickly. “Coxwain Poole,” said Captain Robertson, “you are charged with malicious assault, resisting arrest, and worst of all striking a superior officer. These are serious charges. What say you?”
“Not guilty, Captain.”
“Can you tell me how this fight started?”
“Yes, sir. We were coming back on this ferry boat from a pleasant evening ashore in New London on this here Ferry boat, when I just sort of passed the time of day with this fellow standing next to me.”
“Well, Poole, what started the fight?”
“Captain, you know that Chief Machinist’s Mate in the Wilkes? I mean the one who everybody knows is a low down, no good , so – I mean a not very good ba -, you know a uh – uh – you know what I mean, Captain ?”
“Yes, Poole. I think I remember the man of whom you are speaking .Now tell me, what does that have to
do with how this altercation started?”
“Well Captain, we were just standing there talking so friendly like when this (unspeakable) person said
to me, ‘That Captain Robertson of yours is a first class son- of – a bitch.’ That’s when I hit him, and
that’s how the fight started.”
Barely able to keep a straight face, then Captain turned to us half-dozen officer witnesses and asked each one
in turn if he could verify Pool’s account of the incident.
“Yes, sir. I think that’s about the way it happened.”
“I think he told it right, sir.”
“I honestly didn’t hear every word, but it sort of like that, sir.”
All present, except maybe Poole, were about to burst their veins to keep from laughing, by now.
My turn – the last on, finally. “Mr. Hill, can you verify this story ?”
“Yes, sir, Captain. I was standing right close by, and it happened just like he said.”
A long moment of silence as we all sort of took a deep breath. Then – “Loss of one liberty, and let that be
Port Jefferson. Case dismissed.”
*****************
It’s of no importance to this story itself, but that passage from Port Jefferson to Brooklyn was a memorable
one, on the tide through Hell’s gate, which we all learned was aptly named, to say the least!