Here's the Nashville story mentioned

...in the comments on the earlier Nashville thread.

One correction: In my earlier comments, I said the photo was taken from the starboard bridge wing. It was actually taken from the starboard bow by a machinist mate who happened to be above deck at the time. The date is January 1972, and the location is somewhere off Panama.

When this shot was taken, I was on the 05 level inside the signal shack, as the watch supervisor, some 70 feet sternward, and some 40 feet above the photographer's position. We were doing an underway replenishment drill with our sister ship, Shreveport (LPD-12) (pictured). The exercise required Shreveport to come alongside at close quarters, so that material could be passed from one ship to the other by carrier lines.

My spotter on our starboard flying bridge was Dale Carmon, whom we called Otto, after Sgt Snorkel's dog in the Beetle Bailey comic strip, because of his tenacity, and Melvin Miller was working the flag bag. We were running flaghoist drills (see the hoist on Shreveport), and the action was fast and furious, with flags going up, down, then strewn on the deck with little or no time to stow them.

We took a lot of pride in our skills and our professionalism, and Otto was calling out the Shreveport's hoists loud and clear, almost as soon as the Shreveport guys broke them out of the bag. I was calling Otto's spots down to the conn, and logging them just as fast as he called them, but my back was turned away from the action.

Otto starts calling a new signal, something like (I don't really remember): "First hoist, Bravo Whiskey One Three, tack One Five. Second hoist: Mike November.....". He falls strangely silent. I yell out from the shack "Well, what the f**k is it, Otto?" His only reply was a very loud "Oh Shhhhh*****tttttt!", and I heard Chief Donovan yell "Brace for collision"!

I turned abruptly, and I was staring down the pointed brow of 20,000 tons of amphibious transport dock aiming straight for me. And, if you know how Navy ships steer, you know that a crash was unavoidable. Literally, there is no turning away at such close quarters.

While listening to the call to GQ ringing out, a lot of things passed through my mind in that second or two I had before the collision. Primary was "This can't be happening. I just beat the odds a few months ago with Dr. Death, only to cash in with this?"

Next, my thoughts turned to the Girl Back Home, and then to my folks, who were still recovering from my last close call. And finally, I wondered what would happen to my beloved MG. After all, the Girl Back Home can't drive a manual transmission.

But heed the Chief's call I did, and here comes Shreveport.

The feel and the sound of the collision was an agonizing jolt, grind and shudder, and then a sound of metal being ripped away by Shreveport's left side anchor as it disentangled from Nashville. And then nothing,as both ships managed to separate. There but for the Grace of God......

No one was hurt. Not even the guy who was sitting on the pot in the head two decks down when Shreveport's anchor made its appearance. It gave new context to the old phrase "scared sh*tless", don't you think?

The end result? A Board of Inquiry for the guy who had the conn on Shreveport, and two days early arrival in Colon for liberty and repairs.

Now THAT little stay in Panama leads to yet ANOTHER story............