Admiral Roland Cathcart stood on the bridge of his flagship, the battleship Massachusetts, enjoying the cool spring breezes that traversed the open bridge. With his binoculars fixed on the two buoys, he awaited the first salvo from the cruiser Philadelphia, the fourth ship to participate in the annual gunnery competition. The two boats carrying the scorers for the competition, called raking crews, had signaled their readiness so that the Philadelphia could commence firing at will. A moment later, a thunderous boom erupted from the cruiser’s eight-inch gun. The ship remained dead in the water, and it fired its second round five minutes later.
Cathcart remained miffed that afternoon as the competition progressed. He knew that the Indiana had been off on some sort of secret training mission, and no one had heard from her since she got underway weeks ago. What exasperated him even further was the fact that the Indiana was scheduled to be the fifth and final ship to take part in this gunnery competition, and there was no sign of her. Cathcart had heard rumors that the famous Lieutenant Sims had been working with the ship in his capacity as the Inspector of Target Practice. If the rumors were true, it would seem highly irregular, if not blatantly insulting, for the ship to fail to show for the competition. As Cathcart watched the Philadelphia prepare for its third salvo, he heard the officer of the deck announce, “There is a small ocean-going tugboat approaching the port buoy!”
The commanding officer of the Massachusetts raised his binoculars and scanned the area indicated by the officer of the deck. He, too, saw the small boat, and it appeared to be towing a raft behind it. “Signal that damn fool to stay away! Does he want to get killed?” shouted the CO. “What in the name of God is going on here?” he shouted rhetorically.
Cathcart observed this dilemma, cynically thinking to himself that, in fact, the tug would be in little danger of being hit by any of the projectiles fired that day. After all, there was so much chance involved in gunfire. Suddenly, the bridge speakers exploded with the shouting of the lookout who announced, “Ship approaching from starboard bow! Approaching at flank speed! It appears to be a large warship!”
“Identify immediately!” bellowed the CO.
“Sir, it appears to be … yes, it is. It’s a battleship! It’s the Indiana!” The ship rapidly came into view just as the Philadelphia fired its last salvo and signaled that it was withdrawing from the firing line.
“Sir,” shouted the lookout, as all binoculars now focused on the approaching ship. “The Indiana’s signal flags indicate that she is about to fire!” Just as the Indiana was raising her guns, the tugboat positioned the target raft near the port buoy and slowly began to tow the raft across the target area.
Aboard the Indiana, Captain Robinson ordered the ship to remain at its maximum speed of fifteen knots as it knifed in front of the other ships, which remained two thousand yards from the targets. The sea state remained calm, with an occasional five-foot wave under bright and sunny skies. The target sat off the ship’s starboard bow, and both of Indiana’s turrets were aimed directly at it. With Sims beside him on the bridge, Robinson saw that the ship was now in position and called down to Morrison who stood in the forward turret. “Mr. Morrison, the show is yours. Commence firing at will!”
Hearing the CO’s order, Morrison turned to Gunner Trask, whose eyes remained glued to the officer’s face. All of the other men concentrated intently on their jobs. Morrison grinned at Trask and spoke, “Petty Officer Trask, commence firing!” Trask turned to gun team number one and screamed, “Fire! Fire at will!” Immediately, the first salvo from the thirteen-inch gun erupted with a roar as the gun captain pulled the lanyard. Then, what Morrison called “the coordinated ballet” began. Once the big gun had recoiled, the breech man slammed open the breech to expel the shell casing, and the loading crew immediately followed with another thirteen-inch shell. Then the rammer shoved the powder bag in while the breech man rammed the breech shut. All the while, the pointer never took his sights off the target, the large plywood wall between the two posts on the raft with the large red circle. Trask again yelled out, “Fire!” and the gun captain again pulled the lanyard, hurling another projectile into the clear sky. The whole process took less than twenty seconds. The ballet continued for several minutes.
Aboard the Massachusetts, Admiral Cathcart, along with all of the other observers, watched in stunned silence. The Indiana had rapidly fired off twelve rounds from its starboard gun of the forward turret, and it hit the towed target every time! The accuracy was beyond belief. To their further amazement, all twelve salvos had been fired in under five minutes. Adding to the astonishment of all was the fact that the target was moving and the Indiana was sailing at flank speed! While the speechless observers tried to understand what they had just witnessed, they didn’t notice that the Indianahad changed course, right full rudder, and was approaching the firing line from the opposite direction. Her turrets now turned full port to the target. This time, the forward turret’s port gun fired twelve times and duplicated the feat just accomplished. All twelve projectiles successfully hit the target.
Almost to emphasize the point, Sims had convinced Robinson to repeat the demonstration. This time, with the target still off the starboard bow, the starboard gun of the aft turret would now provide the firepower. “Mr. Harramore,” ordered Morrison, “You’ve got the conn. Show them what you can do!” Immediately Harramore ordered the aft teams to commence firing, and once again, twelve rounds sequentially hit the target. It seemed almost anticlimactic when the Indiana had again reversed direction and allowed the port gun of the aft turret to deliver twelve rounds on target.
There was total silence aboard the bridge of the Massachusetts. All binoculars now focused on the target raft that had recorded forty-eight direct hits. Almost symbolically, as they all counted the hits for themselves, the wooden target crumbled into pieces and fell into the sea around the raft. Finally, Admiral Cathcart broke the silence. Gentlemen,” he began softly, “I am nearly sixty years old, and I am set in my ways. I have always thought that I was too old — you know, you can’t teach an old dog new tricks, that sort of thing. I hope you realize the importance of what we’ve all witnessed today. Nothing will ever be the same. The performance of our ship today was a disgrace compared to what we’ve just seen. And I, along with many other people in the navy, am to blame for this disgrace.
“It’s a new day, gentlemen, and let us adjust accordingly.” He turned to leave the bridge, but when he reached the door, he stopped and said loudly enough for all to hear, “Lieutenant William Sims, you are a genius,” and left the bridge.
Aboard the Indiana, Captain Robinson called down to the turret. “Mr. Morrison, congratulations and well done! Bravo Zulu to your gun crews!” He turned to the Officer of the Deck. “OOD, plot a course for the Philadelphia Navy Yard. We’re going home.” He also sent word for every officer not on duty to assemble in the wardroom at 1800 that night.
* * *
To describe the mood in the wardroom that evening as jubilant would have been a gross understatement. All of the officers beamed with pride, ecstatic over the Indiana’s history-making performance that afternoon. They all realized that they had just set the standard for the United States Navy. They would now be the model of the can-do team that the rest of the navy would strive to emulate. At 1800 sharp, the cry, “Attention on deck,” rang out and the officers snapped to attention. As Captain Robinson strode into the wardroom, he ordered them at ease and requested that they all be seated. He stopped in the front of the room and simply smiled at his men. “Gentlemen, I can’t tell you how proud I am of every single one of you!” Cheers and applause erupted from the wardroom. “I want to thank all of you, and I personally want to shake hands with every man in this room. But first, let me acknowledge the real heroes of the day’s events. On your feet, Lieutenant Sims and Lieutenant Morrison!” As the two officers stood, the applause grew. Soon, the entire wardroom was on its feet, cheering wildly. Sims and Morrison faced each other and embraced in a bear hug. They gave each other a Russian-style kiss on both cheeks, as the other officers roared their approval.
As Captain Robinson moved to the wardroom door, the men formed a line so he could shake every officer’s hand as they departed the wardroom. Just as he began, he announced, “I almost forgot! We’ll tie up at pier-side in Philadelphia about 1500 tomorrow. Every one of you is invited to have drinks with me tomorrow evening at the officer’s club. The first two rounds are on me!” Once again, the wardroom erupted into cheers.
* * *
By the time the Indiana docked at Philadelphia, they had been at sea and anchor detail for several hours as they transited up the Delaware River. The men, excited and thirsty, finally departed the ship and headed for the officer’s club. In the words of the executive officer, “We have some heavy-duty partying to do tonight!” Before departing the ship, Lieutenant Sims had said his good-byes to the gun crews and had personally thanked each of them. Shortly afterwards, the officers, dressed in their choker white uniforms, departed the ship.
The officers of both the Philadelphia and the Massachusetts had already arrived at the club and had a head start on the festivities. As soon as they saw the Indiana’s officers arrive, they swarmed around them to offer congratulations. They seemed just as jubilant as Captain Robinson’s officers were, and it obviously pleased them to be a part of the history-making event, even if their competition had gotten the glory. The most commonly asked question to the Indiana officers was the obvious, “How the hell did you guys do it?” This was always asked in tones of awe and envy. Shortly thereafter, the officers of the other two ships, the battleship Texas and the cruiser Raleigh arrived, adding to the party-like atmosphere. Nonstop toasting, singing, and sea stories soon wafted through the club. True to his word, Captain Robinson bought the first two rounds of drinks for the entire assembly of officers in the club.
One officer present wasn’t feeling particularly jubilant. He had heard about Admiral Cathcart’s comments from the day before and had taken them as a personal affront. As gunnery officer aboard the Massachusetts, he had fine gun crews and he had trained them well. How could anyone have anticipated the new tricks the Indiana had developed? Why hadn’t Lieutenant Sims come to his ship so they could have gotten the glory? As he downed his third drink at the bar, Massachusetts’ gunnery officer, Lieutenant Junior Grade Derrick Parsons, sat there, determined to get very drunk, to ease the pain and humiliation he now felt. It only exacerbated his humiliation when he heard the Indiana officers over in the corner of the club loudly toasting themselves. Parsons ears perked up when he heard the toast, “To the man of the hour — the finest gunnery officer and leader in the fleet — Lieutenant Stephen Morrison!” Thunderous applause and shouting immediately followed the toast.
Both Morrison and Captain Robinson had become slightly tipsy at that point. Robinson tousled the young officer’s hair and then playfully grabbed him in a mock headlock, proclaiming, “See, I can still lick this tough guy!” The men roared with laughter, and Robinson whispered to Morrison in a low voice, “Stephen, let’s go to the bar and buy another round!” Grinning widely, Morrison replied “Aye, aye, sir! I would never disobey such a brilliant, well thought-out order!” The two men strolled over to the bar, and the captain informed the bartender that he wanted to order another round for the entire bar. As Stephen Morrison leaned against the bar, he didn’t notice that sitting next to him was his Naval Academy classmate, Derrick Parsons.
Morrison had his elbows on the bar and his right foot up on the bar railing when he heard a voice next to him say, “You fucking kike.” He immediately turned his head to the right and recognized Derrick Parsons, who appeared to be drunk.
“What did you say?” demanded Morrison.
“Still up to your dirty Jew tricks, aren’t you, Morrison?” asked Parsons, his words slightly slurred. In a single motion, Morrison grabbed Parsons’ choker whites with his left hand, spun him around, and then delivered a solid blow to Parsons’ face with his right fist. Parsons sprawled backward, knocking over several other officers as he hit the floor.
Although slightly drunk himself, Morrison immediately pounced on his old adversary and began delivering devastating blows to the man’s face. The other officers, well on their way to becoming drunk themselves, reacted slowly. As Morrison repeatedly smashed his fists into Parson’s face, he taunted him, “This is for four years at the academy! Why not share this with that prick, Russell, you spineless little bastard?”
By this time, the others had overcome their shock and descended on Morrison, pulling him off the prostrate Parsons, who lay on the floor unconscious, his face a bloody pulp of torn flesh and broken bones. As they pulled Morrison away, Captain Robinson, who had overheard the entire exchange, stood there with a puzzled expression on his face. Why, he thought to himself, did that other officer call Morrison a Jew?
* * *
As the ranking officer present, Captain Robinson convened an investigation into the fight that had erupted at the officer’s club. Fortunately for Morrison, his commanding officer not only was there, but had overheard the remarks that had provoked the incident. When the investigating officer took Morrison’s statement, Morrison decided to relate the entire story of the harassment he suffered at the Naval Academy. He also revealed the facts of the beating he had received at the hands of Jared Russell and his cronies, including Derrick Parsons. All of this factored into Captain Robinson’s decision to give Morrison a non-punitive reprimand.
On the other hand, when he recovered from his injuries, Derrick Parsons went to captain’s mast and received a formal counseling statement in his service jacket. Due to the unusual circumstances of the incident, Robinson referred the entire results of his investigation to the navy’s Judge Advocate General, Captain Samuel C. Lemley who concurred with the findings and with the decisions rendered by Robinson. The matter was considered closed.