Ship of Ghosts - James D. Hornfischer [7]
On the morning of July 14, 1938, as the ship was approaching San Francisco, the rumor circulated that the president was readying himself to join them once again. As the Houston eased into the harbor, some sharp-eyed sailors on deck could see the dockworkers breaking out the telltale fittings that heralded the arrival of a special visitor. FDR drew a rousing crowd at the new San Francisco–
Oakland Bay Bridge. Shortly after the Houston tied up to a pier, another crowd began to form. At 2:30 p.m., the ship’s loudspeaker announced, “All hands shift into the uniform of the day: officers, full dress blue; crew, dress blue. Affirm.” Less than an hour later the crew was manning the rail, the honor guard and band assembled on the quarterdeck, the quartermaster standing ready to break the presidential flag at the mainmast.
When the crowd began cheering, a sailor named Red Reynolds spotted the presidential limousine. He was surprised to see that FDR’s wheelchair was already on board the ship. It sat empty on the quarterdeck, at the end of a forty-foot-long ramp, a steep “brow,” reaching down to the dock. The limousine pulled up on the pier and stopped at the brow’s base.
“I was wondering, What now?” Reynolds wrote. “The President is paralyzed. His legs were shriveled. No larger than my arms. How will he come aboard? Then, to my amazement, I watched him lean from the back seat, reach out, grab the brow rails with both hands, and, hurtling through the air, draw himself to an upright position. Then hand over hand, he slowly progressed up the brow, his feet dangling inches above the deck of the brow. Stopping occasionally, smiling and nodding to the crowd. Saying a few words to the crowd and leading off with his old familiar words, ‘My friends.’ As he reached the top of the brow, he reached out, grasping the arms of his wheel chair, swinging his body into the air. Raising his right hand to a smart sailors’ salute to ‘Old Glory,’ as she waved back from her station on the main deck aft. As he dropped the salute all honors were rendered and his first words were, ‘It’s good to be back home again, Captain.’ The feelings of the crew were perhaps best expressed by all shouting, ‘What a shipmate!’”
Further out in the harbor, the battleships and heavy cruisers of the United States Fleet awaited their commander in chief’s review. They were lined up in four rows, “so evenly spaced that a giant ruler might have been laid among them, touching each,” observed Reynolds. It was said to be the largest concentration of U.S. naval power assembled to date. At 3:45, the Houston backed away from Oakland Pier. Roosevelt parked himself on the communications deck to take in the spectacle.
Steaming beneath the San Francisco–Oakland Bay Bridge and turning west, the Houston stood out of San Francisco Harbor, making ten knots. As she came abreast of the fleet flagship, the Pennsylvania, the battleship let loose a full broadside in salute. The roar had scarcely faded when the Houston passed by the Idaho. She issued a salute with a blast from her own battery. The fleet review progressed in a stately, thunderous rhythm, the baton of the ceremonial cannonade passing from one battleship to the next as the Houston slid past, the band on her quarterdeck playing “The Star-Spangled Banner,” crews on all ships lining the rails, officers resplendent in full parade dress, epaulets, braid, and buttons shining gold against deep blue in the afternoon sun. When the last battleship had discharged its honors, the heavy cruisers of the Scouting Force picked up the powder-charged tribute. When the majestic show ended, the Houston set course for San Diego.
On arrival there, the president left the ship on some matter of business, then returned to make yet another grand entrance, thrilling the crowds on Kettner Boulevard. This time Eleanor Roosevelt was on hand, sitting dockside on one of the bollards around which the mooring lines were slung. Bantering with sailors through open portholes