Meanwhile, several sailors on the carrier had prepared messengers of light line with lead-weighted “monkey fists” attached, which they attempted to manually heave across the seventy-foot chasm separating the two ships. A monkey fist is made of twine or light line braided into a two-inch-diameter ball around a piece of lead or iron. Usually about half of these heaves successfully reached the oiler. When a throw was too short, the sailor would make up his line and try again.
In less than a minute there were half a dozen messengers across and the oiler’s crew hauled them in to bring on board the heavier and stronger lines that were attached. These would carry the weight of the full hoses and pallets of ammunition.
One of the first messengers brought over was a sound-powered telephone line for bridge-to-bridge conversation. The carrier’s captain was first on the phone, usually to determine the identity of the oiler’s skipper, also a Navy captain. More than half the time it would be a friend or contemporary, often a naval aviator on his qualifying deep-draft ship. After a few brief remarks and greetings, the two COs relinquished their phones to their respective supply officers, who conferred with each other on the fuel, ammunition, supplies, and services to be transferred.
Exchanging movies throughout the fleet during replenishment was a sacred ritual at sea. Every ship had a “movie officer,” usually a junior officer whose reputation would be based upon his skill in trading up for grade A movies in exchange for the class Bs in his temporary custody. Movies were shown in the wardroom, the chief petty officer (CPO) mess, the first-class mess, and on the sailors’ mess decks every evening after dinner. But with a watch system of four hours on and eight hours off, the showings were not well attended and few sailors saw a movie from beginning to end. The movies were a modest diversion for a crew who only got ashore for four days for every thirty days at sea.
After several hours alongside the oiler, the Enterprise’s aviation fuel tanks were topped off with JP-5, which for safety reasons was the Navy’s standard fuel. It was a little less volatile than the JP-4, which was used with shore-based jet aircraft and had a very slightly higher energy content. When the JP-5 replenishment had been completed, and without any waste of time, the rigs were sent back to the oiler, the lines cast off, and the Enterprise increased speed to twenty-five knots to pull up ahead of the formation, swing out to the side, and repeat the entire process, making an approach on the ammunition ship on the right wing of the formation.
Alongside the ammo ship, the bombs, rockets, and missiles were transferred in pallets by the high-line method. The individual loads were heavy — two 2,000-pounders or four 1,000-pounders to a pallet — and had to be swung across the seventy- to one-hundred-foot distance between the two ships and then gently put down on the hangar deck of the carrier. There the boatswain’s mates turned over the payload to the ordnance-men who, with their bomb carts, moved the ordnance from the hangar deck to the ammunition hoist to strike down the explosives to the magazines. These were in the bowels of the central part of the ship, where they received the maximum armor protection.
At the completion of the ammunition reload, the Enterprise again increased speed to depart the formation out ahead and, if necessary, make an approach on the third replenishment ship in the UnRep formation, the general-stores ship. This was necessary only every second or third replenishment because the crew consumed a great deal less food, toothpaste, and candy than the air wing did bombs and jet fuel.
The captain usually remained on the bridge during the actual transfer of fuel and ammunition, often dozing in his comfortable armchair. The captain is the only person, through custom, who can be seated while on the bridge, and only those actually on watch are welcome to spend any time on the bridge for other than routine errands and visits.
As captain I normally took the conn for most approaches during the night and in periods of fog and low visibility. The senior department heads, however, were given the opportunity to take the conn during replenishment approaches in daytime and also scheduled for periods of conning the carrier while alongside the replenishment ship during both day and night operations, unless the weather was severe or the replenishment group was having to change course frequently. This experience was very important for the career of the department heads aboard carriers and was a useful qualification for boosting their chances for a carrier command.
In the small hours of 27 April, I had seen the last aircraft recovered at 0037, rendezvous with the URG, and receive replenishments from an ammunition ship and an oiler before leaving the bridge to turn in at about 0400. From 0400 to 0830 it was a quiet night. The captain of the ship retires when he can to the “sea cabin,” a very small compartment just aft of the bridge on the carriers, spartanly equipped with a bunk over a built-in set of drawers, a desk, and a primitive head (toilet). One hundred feet below is the captain’s inport cabin, which is a relatively elegant suite consisting of a sitting room/office, with a comfortable bedroom and head attached. But the commanding officer remains in his sea cabin when the ship is underway. He cannot afford to be that far away from the bridge, as it is his responsibility to take over if necessary as events arise during the watch of an officer of the deck.
At 0830 on the morning of 11 April, I climbed into my armchair on the port side of the pilothouse, which overlooked the flight deck, and after a cup of the quartermaster’s “joe” from the small coffee mess on the bridge, I was brought a tray of breakfast: two eggs sunny side up on whole wheat toast. Normally, after a breakfast on the bridge, the captain will call for his dispatches, the message traffic that has come in during the night that he must necessarily review as soon as possible. The action copies of the important messages had already been routed directly to the department head with cognizance over the matter, but it was essential that I see virtually all of the messages addressed to the Enterprise for action and for confirmation, so that I was informed enough to make the proper decisions as events might arise.
On this particular morning, my phone call to the ship’s office to bring up the messages resulted in a responding delegation consisting of the regular communications messenger, the executive officer, the communications officer, the captain’s Filipino steward, his Marine orderly, and a few hangers-on. The communications officer said, “Please read the first message, captain,” and with some trepidation I took the message folder, wondering whether the war had ended, the Enterprise was going home early, or what. Instead, the top message was from the secretary of the navy to AllNav (all Navy). The subject was the “results of the 1966 flag selection board.”