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About Medford mail tribune. (Medford, Or.) 1909-1989 | View Entire Issue (July 21, 1963)
I v i; mmw- 1 Ij s -VIA ' if i. t ' u Lieutenant and Mrs. Raymond McCoole read to baby Kerry, 9 months old, at their home in Dover, N. H. The McCooles' other children are (left to right): Kevin, 9, Michael, i, Daniel, S, and Timothy, 7. I'll Still Sail Nuclear Subs! (Continued from page 5) was because when I pulled up in front of his home, he said: "I've never seen a better ship and crew especially your 'E Division. You've done a good job, so don't worry. It'll be good to have you aboard." I was grateful for that compliment, and I went home feeling a lot better. Less than 48 hours later Captain Larcombe called me. As each nuclear-submarine captain completes his training, Vice Adm, Hyman Rickover, who pioneered the development of this type of craft, presents him with a bronze plaque that says: Oh God, Thy sea is so great And my ship so small. It is an old Breton fisherman's prayer, but it sums up the feeling of all seamen and their families. The sea brings a sense of humility and acceptance of God's will, and in the next days I would see how this faith brings strength. I left the message center at 8 Thursday morning, still refusing to believe a growing fact. When I opened the door, of my home, I found Barbara and Kay listening to radio reports. They hadn't slept all night. Barbara asked only one question: "Is there any further word?" "You know as much as I do," I said and went to shave. My wife is not a talkative woman in any case. A couple who are very close don't have to talk about some things. We have never discussed the Thresher, for cxnmple, or the fate that left me behind the day she went down. Relatives, friends, reporters have said to me: "Wasn't your wife's accident lucky? . . . How do you feel about it? . . . Why do you think such ihings happen?" At home, I haven't had to answer these questions. In an hour or so I was back at the shipyard and later began helping call relatives of the Thresher's complement. At first we had said she was "overdue." At 2 a.m. Thursday, however, we had further word from Washington. "The Thresher is missing." we said then. "The Navy holds little hope." The voices at the other end of the line were tight but composed, and the phrases strangely hollow: "I see . . . thank you for calling us . . . let us know." By Friday the Thresher's loss was accepted even by me. "We ought to build a memorial," somebody was saying. "What do you think, Lieutenant?" I mumbled something I don't know what but a hunk of concrete or a statue just didn't seem important then. Later I got into my car and began calling on as many of the families as I could. I drove down the same street I had many times before with John Lyman and stopped at his house. As I did, I kept remembering the well-wishers who told me how lucky I was. And, truly, I realize this. Nobody wants death. But that old phrase kept coming back: "An extra pair of hands, an extra pair of eyes." Mine? If mine had been the extra pair of hands and eyes, would the Thresher somehow have survived? Probably I'll never know, and that thought will haunt me the rest of my life. JOAN LYMAN greeted me at the door. I told her there was no hope now. She nodded under standing'. Her three children played, too young to realize their loss fully. Joan explained what she had been doing. From the first, she had worried about the other wives. Some had nobody to turn to at this moment; others might have specific problems money, baby sitters, trans portation. Joan planned a meeting. She would get all the wives together and let them know they weren't alone in their loss, that they would feel better helping one another. I visited John Smarz' home, too. Barbara and I had spent almost as much time there as at our own place. Our five kids and John's and Joyce's three really could make a home ring out. Now it was quiet, but Joyce was too concerned with others to feel sorry for herself. Death had to be explained to the children; there were arrange ments to be made, relatives to see. I asked if I could do anything, but Joyce was in full control. No, there was nothing I could do. These were families of friends and shipmates. They were suffering deep personal loss, but all I could do was say, "I'm sorry," and wonder if there wasn't some way I could provide an extra pair of hands and eyes to those to whom I felt so bound. I don't think it has been publicized much, but more than 200 children were left fatherless whea the Thresher went down. Children without fathers need help being fatherless myself, I especially know this. But how could I help? One wife I visited was deeply broken by the tragedy. She was Mrs. Jo Ann Brann, and she had good reason for tears. In a few weeks she expected a baby. "What will we do?" she asked. "Where will we turn?" When I got back to the shipyard, I thought there might be an answer for her as well as myself. "We were talking about a memorial," I said. "But what good does a monument or something do? Now if we raised funds for scholarships for the kids' education, that would mean something." The next weeks were crowded ones: a court of inquiry, efforts to locate the Thresher 8,400 feet below the Atlantic, my temporary assign ment to New London, Conn. But nothing could get that scholarship idea out of my mind. Here was something we could do, and a lot of us started to work on it. Funny, some people think you can memorialize heroes just with inscriptions and granite. But the men in the Thresher were more than heroes to me. They were men like ourselves, husbands and fathers whose main concern was their chil dren's future; it was what gave them their greatest purpose and satisfaction. If anybody didn't agree with the scholarship idea, we had a clinching argument more than 200 fatherless children. A few weeks ago I got this notice: "mHE thresher Memorial Fund Committee Dose and establish fldminiHf.rflt.ivp nrocedures for mittee meeting that this mnnev would be used ." n. , . , r , r 1 1 . j A pi mini lijr aa ail CUUtttUUUUI 1U11U llfl Hie uwiu ent children of both Navy and civilian personnel lost on l hresher . . . The nnnnunmns action on wn. wiiui uiailjr lllUlVlUUCIlo HIIU 1UU)J3 Ulivufc" out the country, as wall na nprsnnnel within the military services, brought this lund into Deing. Incidentally. I visited Jo Ann Brann not long ago. She is verv hnav nnwnHnvR taking care of a babv srirl. There re nn mnrs tears. She told me she "was looking to the future now, and 1 guess that is what all of us are doing. My own future is still the sea and subs. As soon as possible, I hopefully requested assign ment to one of the Thresher's sister ships. Just about the time I learned about the Thresher Memorial Fund, I got some other good news. It seems I will soon get a ship. I'll be happy to be back where I belong. And I will take with me always some words Admiral Rickover said after the Thresher went down: "I pray that those of us responsible for sub marines will learn to design, build, and operate them in a manner worthy of the men who gave their lives in the Thresher." Editors' Note: If you would like to contribute to the educational fund for the children of the. men lost aboard the Thresher, please send your donation to: Thresher Memorial Fund eo Dolphin Scholarship Foundation West Virginia House, Norfolk 11, Va. Family H'Ktl, Inly tl. I9CJ
