In mid-January 1924, the protected gunboat USS Tacoma (PG-32) was ordered to proceed from Galveston to Veracruz, where an army under General de la Huerta occupied the city in rebellion against the Federal Government of Mexico. Arriving off Veracruz before daylight on the morning of 16 January, the ship attempted to enter the harbor, but grounded on a reef about four miles offshore. The grounding resulted from the fact that the characteristics of the unmanned navigation lights on the reef and harbor entrance were not the same as those shown on the charts.
After several days of futile attempts to get the ship off, most of the crew were put ashore for a brief stay until the arrival of the cruiser USS Richmond (CL-9), which embarked the main body of the crew. It was decided to keep on board the Tacoma a group of about ten officers and 50 men, in order to prevent pilferage by the local revolutionary forces. I was one of the officers who remained on board.
By Sunday, 20 January, the ship had swung broadside to the reef and all salvage attempts appeared hopeless. At ten o’clock, a storm warning from Galveston announced the approach of another norther, and all hands turned to in order to batten down for the storm, which we faced with the feeling that it could be no worse than the one which had preceded it three days earlier.
The storm commenced at about two in the afternoon, and within a few hours, it became very obvious that our caulking of the starboard gunports had been wasted effort. The gun shutters, under the force of the heavy seas, buckled so badly that a man could crawl through the opening. The hatches to the main deck were at times completely covered with green water.
The Captain, accompanied by Lieutenant Hungerford and four radiomen, took station in the radio room on the main deck to maintain communication with shore. The rest of us went to the gun deck where we sought shelter from the seas entering through the gun ports and the hatches. Here we had some protection in the lee of the engine room hatch bulkhead. The men found places as best they could, some on top of hammock nettings and mess tables.
The ship now had considerable motion, rolling heavily from side to side. Lieutenant Fitzpatrick, with a broken collarbone, was forced to stand on his cot, owing to the water which swept through the compartment. Conditions grew steadily worse, and the noise of the seas falling on deck was deafening. We found that sick bay was still habitable, as the upper bunks were still dry, and the injured men were sent there.
At intervals throughout the night, I visited with various groups about the gun deck. I had noticed that the heavier seas, which washed over the main deck hatches, came in groups of six or seven, allowing perhaps a minute between groups. Taking advantage of this interval, I climbed a broken ladder to the main deck at half past one in the morning. In the shelter of the charthouse bulkhead were Chief Quartermaster Gillis and two signalmen, crouched on the remains of the chart desk. Conditions on the main deck were then as follows: the starboard wing on the bridge had been carried away entirely, leaving charthouse, wheelhouse, and sea cabin completely exposed. The foretopmast had broken just above the crosstrees, and it now lay over the port bow. The forward stack had toppled over from its base and lay across the deck. The main topmast had also been broken off just above the crosstrees. Nothing could be seen aft except a mass of wreckage, the details of which were hidden by the fallen stack. Everything aft seemed to have been destroyed, and I had slight hopes for the Captain and men in the radio room. After conferring with Chief Gillis about going below, I waited as before until six or seven seas had gone over and then scrambled down the hatch to the gun deck.
On Monday, 21 January, there was no apparent moderation of the sea, but I looked for another chance to get on deck, hoping to see some sign of a break in the clouds to the northward. About nine o’clock, a quartermaster, acting under instructions of Lieutenant Fitzpatrick in sick bay, attempted to signal the radio room by tapping on the pipes, without result. Finding the galley hatch to be somewhat sheltered by the boat skids, he went up to the main deck. He returned in a few minutes, saying that he had seen Lieutenant Hungerford swept away from the after winch, and that the Lieutenant had crawled into the port hammock nettings with Chief Radioman Cooper. It was evident that they could not live there much longer, exposed to the full sweep of the wind and sea.
It was clear that we must get them below, but the galley hatch was too far from their location and the way was blocked off by piles of wreckage. At the time, I was standing under a leaky bunker plate in the main deck, and the water dripping down my neck suggested an answer to our problem. I quickly went up the galley hatch with Carpenter’s Mate Servant close behind me carrying a T-wrench. The seas breaking over the deck gave us considerable trouble as we set about loosening the bunker plate.
We were soon joined by Shipfitter Zember and Signalman Still, who had been first to discover the men on deck. After forcing the bunker plate open, we all four carried Chief Radioman Cooper over the wreckage and passed him below. Although he was quite weak, Lieutenant Hungerford was able to walk to the bunker plate before being passed below.
We searched through the wreckage as best we could and found two bodies, but not the Captain’s. I thought at the time that he must have been swept overboard.
Weather conditions looked hopeful to the northward, although the sea had not abated in the slightest. As night came on, my hopes of being taken off that day dwindled to nothing, although I could see one of our salvage tugs anchored in the lee of an island about five miles to the southward.
The second night was every bit as rough as the first, although the ship did not heave so badly. This was owing to the fact that she was now full of water to above the gun deck. However, the seas still broke over the ship with great force.
During the forenoon of Tuesday, 22 January, men were able to get up on deck in search of blankets and food, which were scarce indeed. At about seven o’clock, it was reported that the Captain’s body had been found, pinned under a mass of wreckage consisting of the rangefinder, vegetable lockers, and so on.
It was now smooth enough for a ship to send boats to us, as only an occasional wave broke on board. At about nine a.m., a vessel was sighted standing in from sea, and proved to be the USS Allegheny (AT-19).
The Allegheny stood around to the lee of the reef, where she lowered her whaleboat, and then returned to our starboard with the boat in tow. The boat was manned by members of our own crew, who had been sent to the tug as members of an armed guard. The seas nearly swept them onto the reef as they attempted to round to in our lee, but Boatswain’s Mate Chambers did a superb job of boathandling, and brought them safely alongside.
The boat made several trips, taking about seven passengers each time. By then, the tug USS Bay Spring (AT-60) could be seen towing another boat to our assistance. Much to our disappointment, however, this turned out to be a Mexican pilot boat, a power boat, rather than a pulling boat.
Here occurred one of those lessons in seamanship which time has drilled into my mind, namely, in heavy weather, use a pulling boat. The pilot launch came alongside and loaded safely, taking several stretcher cases, about 20 men in all. In trying to turn his boat in the smooth water between the ship and the breakers on the reef, however, the coxswain ran broadside into the heavy seas, just before a series of towering waves came piling in. The first nearly upset him, but he came safely through. The second wave was on him immediately, and I saw the bow lifted straight up, while the stern sank in a smother of foam. The boat made a complete backward somersault, and came to the surface capsized. Men swam aimlessly about until the shouts of those on the ship told them to head for the reef. Some swam back to the pilot boat, which the surf had now righted and driven bow-on to the reef. Still others were caught in the undertow and swept back to the ship. Through sheer good fortune, none of the men in this boat were lost.
A surprising incident was the feat of a black-and-white kitten which had been placed in the boat for the trip to the tug. Finding itself thrown into the sea, the kitten at first swam for the reef, but being frightened at the breakers, turned around and swam all the way back to the ship, a good 50 yards. It made the next trip safely in a whaleboat.
The Allegheny’s boat made a third, fourth, and fifth trip without incident. At one p.m., I inspected the ship to see that no one remained aboard, and left with the wardroom mess funds in the pocket of my pants—the only clothes I had left.
The USS Prometheus (AR-3) subsequently sent a salvage party to destroy any weapons which might otherwise fall into the hands of local forces, and this ship returned the remaining officers and crew to the United States. To my knowledge, the wreck of the Tacoma never got off the reef, but was eventually blasted to pieces.