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MM3 Jeff Powrozek

Engine Room #2

Of Understanding Importance.

It was the end of an era, or so they said. For me, it couldn’t happen soon enough.

“For 48 years”, the neatly printed program in my hands read, “the aging battleship USS New Jersey has been protecting our oceans at home and abroad. We retire her with the deepest respect due a surface warrior.” These words rang hollow in my mind. ‘Firepower For Freedom’ was our motto, yet after two and a half years of walking these decks, I was ready for my next assignment. Just thinking about it made me giddy. Soon, this behemoth of a ship would be behind me. Towed to some museum, probably. I didn’t care. Sink it, or better yet, turn it into razorblades. I was ready to move on.

Lord, could these people get on with it?

Another man walked up to the microphone and began speaking. I wiped sweat from my forehead as I sat. The day was balmy for a standard February day in Long Beach and the sun beamed down brightly, reflecting off the ship berthed in front of us. Luckily, I was able to attend this event as an onlooker and had dressed down in jeans and a tee shirt while the rest of my shipmates perspired in their thick winter dress uniforms. I laughed mercilessly at them as they stood in formation, still as statues. I had taken a day of shore leave so I could be with my parents who were visiting from out of town. I would have avoided the decommissioning altogether, but my superiors had made it perfectly clear that I would respect my former duty station by attending whether I liked it or not. So there I sat, on our white folding chairs in the audience feeling just slightly uncomfortable, as one person after another dragged on and on at the microphone. I started to daydream.

The heat brought back memories of a morning I had been sunning myself on the deck of the New Jersey as we sailed into port. I was shirtless with my dungarees pulled up to my knees, lying on the hot teakwood when a great alarm sounded. A fire had started somewhere inside the ship. I dashed away, hurriedly dressing myself as I found my way into the ship. I followed passageways I’ve taken hundreds of times; past the galley, empty except for the smell of breakfast in the air; through the mess hall, with people scrambling over tables to get to their stations; and down into the bowels of the dreadnaught, following a profusion of pipes and wires that would lead me to my final destination. I descended a long set of steps and headed through a large hatch. Reaching up and grabbing a large piece of piping I swung myself through the open door. A sharp pain blazed through my head as it hit the corner of a large pipe hanger, staggering me. I barely got my legs under me before I fell to the floor. I felt befuddled and the lights seemed dim, but I numbly descended the last flight of stairs into my destination. I remember someone grabbing my arm and telling me I was bleeding. I recovered slowly, gathering my wits about me as the pain receded. Though the fire was easily put out, the situation lasted several hours. I never got stitches, and my head healed well. But I will never forget my pain that day.

“Yep, goodbye and good riddance to you.” I thought.

An elderly man I hadn’t seen before stepped up to the podium. He was a veteran who was on the very first commissioning crew of the New Jersey in 1943, and had sailed her on her first shakedown cruise in preparation for her part in WWII. He talked about the ship as if she was listening, sharing his tales with such profound sadness in his voice, as if she were leaving him.

I thought of this time we were sailing through the Indian Ocean on our way to Dubai, UAE just before Desert Shield took place. It was around two in the morning and I had just gotten off watch. Though we were restricted from exiting the hull of the ship after dark, I hadn’t been outside for almost a week and decided to head out for a quick breath of fresh air. The door resisted me as I pushed, massive air currents blocking my attempt at respite. Eventually yielding, the door opened wildly, creating a vortex that literally sucked me outside, into utter blackness. It was if I had suddenly gone blind. I closed the door, clutching it intensely, feeling the wind whipping and pulling at my clothes. I dared not move for fear the gusts might lull me overboard in my sightlessness. It seemed several minutes before my eyes started adjusting to the darkness around me. I waited until the ship started to take form before me. Then the waves presented themselves. And then the stars came out. First five, then fifty, then fifty thousand! Never in my life had I seen the stars so vividly. I believe I never will again.

Finally the Captain of the New Jersey ascended the podium. He looked proud in his fine white uniform, the creases crisp and sharp. Many medals adorned his breast and glinted in the sunlight. Only the sadness on his face betrayed his authoritative attire. He spoke to us. He spoke of how proud he was to have served on the most decorated ship in the navy. He spoke of his own sadness in leaving this icon of naval history. And he spoke of a loss. For this ship was more than just a ship. It represented freedom, for our country and those willing to fight for it. And I realized I had not served aboard this ship; she had served me as well as the rest of my shipmates. And with tears; mine, his, ours he read:

“The hour cometh and now is to say farewell.

But, before doing so, my last order to you

--- Battleship NEW JERSEY ---

is rest well,

yet sleep lightly, and hear the call,

if again sounded,

to provide ‘Firepower for Freedom.’”

And with that, a man standing next to a large black cannon hefted a sack, placing it inside the barrel. . .

And there was that day I snuck up to the very top deck of the ship during weapons testing. Somewhere in the middle of the Pacific Ocean, I had decided to crawl up to a restricted platform outside to observe the firing of the ship’s sixteen-inch cannons. It was rare enough to be able to view the bombings let alone from a hundred feet above. But this was a very special day. I was in store for a ‘nine gun broadside’ where all nine cannons would be fired simultaneously to one side. It was a beautiful cloudless day, with only the sound of the ship cutting silently through the waves. I listened intently as an announcer called shrilly over the P.A. for all items to be secured. Minutes later, he announced for the drill to commence, fueling my anticipation. Several red lights around the ship began flashing, indicating something big was about to happen. Finally, the monotone voice called, “Three . . .Two . . .One . . .”

“BOOM!” And my heart wrenched.

“BOOM!” And my gut ached.

“BOOM!” And the tears fell.

Ten years and I can still hear the cannons roar. Whenever I try to explain her magnificence, my speech gets shaky and there never seem to be enough words. She is sorely missed, but the void in my heart reminds me that some times the things we take for granted are the very things that mean the most.