Gone

USS Bon Homme Richard
Wikipedia Photo

  "We don't want no **##&##** boots in here!", said the bearded man in dungarees and chambray shirt, as he hurled the stool across the shop floor. It was my first day aboard the USS Bon Homme Richard, an aircraft carrier operating in the South China Sea in 1966. A  recent grad of the US Naval Training Center at Great Lakes, IL, I had flown to the Philippine Islands, and after a wild ride through the mountains on a bus from Manila to Subic Bay I boarded the Bonny Dick.  There were six of us "boots" assigned to the Electronics Division. The ships  berthing compartments were full, so-o-o, no racks or bunks for us to sleep in. We were given cots to set up in the forecastle of the ship for our berthing area. It wasn't so bad except for boatswain's mates waking you up in the middle of the night when coming back from liberty while under the influence.

Since we had no skills as electronic technicians we knew we would be performing menial tasks. The technicians onboard thought us to be useless. We were insulted by the term "boot". After seeing the action in the shop I maintained a low profile.  During this heavy buildup for the war effort in Vietnam the Navy could not train electronic technicians fast enough to fill the demand. Consequently, all the technicians had their enlistments extended. This made for some very unhappy sailors. Morale was at an all time low. I didn't speak unless spoken to. But, one of our group did keep a very low profile. He was a young man from the midwest; Jacob Swenson was his name. He was tall, slim, and blonde, a prime example of his Nordic ancestry. A rather likable fellow, Jake got along rather well with us "boots", although he tended to brag too much about his knowledge of electronics. He had an Associates degree from a technical college. The  "old salt" technicians seemed to take offense when he offered unsolicited technical advice.

After a few days aboard the time came for the "boots" to be assigned their duties. Some were assigned to the laundry and other tasks, but I, being fortunate to have a last name beginning with the letter "Y"  was told that I would be working in the shop. (I found that my name being near the end of an alphabetical list was always to my advantage in the Navy.) It was no surprise that Jake was assigned mess deck duty. Aboard ship, mess deck duty was probably the worse duty you could have. Usually it meant scrubbing pots in the scullery, peeling potatoes, or carrying  hundred pound boxes of frozen meat up from the refrigerated locker far below decks.  Jake complained to deaf ears and was told to move his gear to his berthing compartment on the mess deck. At least he

would have a rack and not be sleeping on a cot.

We were at sea and all seemed to be well.  The ship was underway for San Diego**, her nine month deployment coming to an end.  On those brilliant sunny days the ship's wake would appear as a straight line west to the horizon. We were going home.  Everyone seemed to be happy except

for those unhappy about Navy regulations requiring us to be clean shaven when entering port. I had been assigned the task of keeping the repair shop tidy. My most important duty was to keep the fifty cup coffee urn full and the coffee urn area clean. A standing order was never wash a coffee cup.  The WestPac OE Division scudzy coffee cup contest would not end until we tied up in San Diego. There were things growing in some of those cups!

I was in the shop when a Chief Petty Officer called from the mess decks asking when was Swenson was going to report to him. I thought Jake was already there.  I had helped him pack up his stuff three or four days previously. The shop watch relayed the message to our Division Officer, Lt. Robinson*, and he assured the chief that Swenson had been sent below to him. Our Division Officer called the Division to muster and asked us all to look in our area for Swenson. We did not find him. Soon we heard the message over the 1MC, the shipboard intercom, "Man overboard! Man overboard! All hands to your muster stations!" Over one thousand sailors and officers gathered in assigned spaces to be accounted for.  Helicopters were launched to search the sea near the ship. Everyone was accounted for... except Swenson. Designated crew members continued to search the ship but no one found Jacob Swenson.  Of course my mates and I discussed his disappearance.

Robbie said, " 'E ran off at the mouth too much!"

"Yes, he did.  He liked to tell everybody how smart he was," I added.

"The ship's investigator is looking into it. That's the scuttlebutt," added Jamison, trying to sound like an old salt.

"Yeah, I hear they questioned Celick," Okie chimed in.

"And the Eskimo, too!" Robbie said.

"You think they think somebody pushed him overboard?" I asked.

"Dunno, but cain't nobody swim cross no ocean," Okie added.

We heard the bosun's pipe over the 1MC " Lights out, Lights out, about the ship.  Maintain quiet about the decks!"

"'Night, guys," I said, as I wiped a drop of sweat from my brow and tried to go to sleep.

About a week later the Old Man, the Captain of the Bon Homme Richard, came on the 1MC and said, "Seaman Jacob Swenson, if you are aboard the ship, please make your presence known. I'm preparing a letter to inform your parents that you were lost at sea. That is all."  Swenson did not make his presence known to the captain, or anyone else for that matter.  A few days later I was in the shop in the early morning trying to organize some technical manuals on a shelf over the aft workbench when I found a curious thing. Amongst the books was an old black dial telephone. A most interesting note was attached to the handset. It read, "This phone is dead and so is Swenson." A chill ran down my spine.  A shipmate had left that note...

                            
All names are fictitious, but the incident is a true event which happened in January, 1966.
** the ship was home ported in San Diego and went into the shipyard in San Pedro where every part of the ship was given an overhaul before the next deployment--no sailor was found.

The Mill on the Bridge

"There's a covered bridge not far from here," Aaron said as I was finishing my second cup of coffee.  Claudette and I were at the Edenhouse Bed and Breakfast in Swainsboro, Georgia. This was our second day at Edenhouse, and we were planning our day. Swainsboro is about 70 miles from Savannah and not much of a tourist attraction, so we were surprised that there would an example of Americana nearby.

"Tell us more," I said.  Our rotund innkeeper was sitting at a nearby table. We had enjoyed conversation with Aaron since our arrival.  As a retiree of the U.S. Air Force he had many interesting stories.

"It's just a few miles from here, near Twin City.  It's at the George L. Smith State Park.  There's a grist mill, cotton gin, and sawmill too. And, you know what the best thing about it is?" he asked.

"Nope," I said.

"A four hundred acre lake," he replied.

"Wow," I said and turned to Claudete to say, "Let's get movin'".

Claudette knows all about my fondness for old grist mills and the like.

We left Swainsboro on Highway 80  for Twin City, and there we followed the sign pointing to the George L. Smith State Park, but we never saw the entrance to the park.  When we reached Metter, Georgia, we realized we had missed the entrance. We took an alternate route back to Highway 80 and found another sign indicating the direction to the park. There is not actually an entrance to the park. As you drive through a pine forest you see signage indicating the locations of campsites and cabins. Eventually we saw the lake and followed the road beside it until we found some buildings by the lake. The small one was labeled restrooms. My second cup of coffee was making itself known, so we stopped in the parking lot under trees which gave credence to the old expression, "higher than a Georgia pine".

Across the road was the lake, studded with cypress and tupelo trees. The waters of the lake were held back by an earthen dam with a covered bridge in the middle of it.

"Claudette, didn't Aaron say there was a sawmill, cotton gin, and grist mill here?"

"Yes, he did, but I don't see anything but a bridge," she responded, "and he said something about railroad tracks going over the bridge, too".

"Well, let's just look at this bridge then. Maybe those fellas fishing can tell us something," I said as I grabbed her hand and walked across the dam to the covered bridge.

About twenty feet inside the bridge, which seemed as wide as the northbound lanes of I-95, I realized that the bridge housed the mill. There were some odd looking wheels about two feet in

diameter over on the side toward the lake under one of the windows.  "They look a little like railroad car wheels," I mused aloud.

"I know what they are!" Claudette said.

"Oh, really," I said.

"Yes I do.  When the horses would  pull wagons onto the bridge they would sometimes get spooked and bolt. So they put those wheels on the wagons and the horses could not pull the wagons in any direction but straight ahead," she said as she gleefully shared her new found knowledge. "See, it says so right here on this plaque mounted on the wall."

"I'm not sure of exactly how that would work...but I guess it would," I said.

Along the wall there were windows so that you could see the interior workings of the grist mill. The history of the mill was told on the wall mounted plaques as well as the technical data about how the grist mill and the former sawmill and cotton gin had operated.  The sawmill had been used to saw some of the timber from which the bridge was built.  The grist mill had begun operation in the 1880's and continued to grind corn until 1973.
Actually, it could grind corn at the rate of two hundred pounds per
hour.  That's a lot of cornbread and hushpuppies!  The mill is currently operated on a limited basis.  I was particularly interested in how the water powered turbine operated.  The older one was on display.  It's about five feet in diameter.  The speed at which the turbine and subsequent mill stone turns is determined by the pitch (angle) of the turbine blades.  It must have been a busy place with everything operating.  We exited the other end of the bridge, and I thought I would see if the fishermen were having any luck.


I walked down the stairway about thirty feet to water level. There were about four fellows fishing there. Just as I walked down, a fisherman pulled out a fish that was black and about fifteen inches long.  The young man in the John Deere cap deftly took the fish off the hook and released it back into the foaming water.

"What's the matter? Was that one too big for the frying pan?" I asked.

"Naw," he said, "That's an old blackfish.  Ain't no good to eat.  Too many bones. Some people call 'em a freshwater shark 'cause they got so many teeth."

"What other kind of fish are in here?" I asked.

"That fella up there caught some bream and crappie," he answered.

"Yeah, a bream's a good eating fish," I said.

"Amen, to that.  Ain't nothin' better," an old timer added.

"Y'all don't catch 'em all now," I said in parting.

We had enjoyed our visit to George L. Smith State Park.  It was a good outing, and we learned a bit, but it was time to head north to our home in the lowcountry of South Carolina.