"General quarters, general quarters! All hands to battle stations! This is not a drill. Repeat - this is not a drill!"

      

I was sitting on the mess deck having bug juice and lunch when the klaxon rang. I’d heard it many times, but this time was different. Rather than all hands leisurely finishing a drink or mouthful of food, the mess deck exploded with trays flying and men running in all directions. This was the real deal. This was no drill. This was all hands to battle stations aboard the USS Robert H McCard that day, DD822.

      

 

 

From the flag deck far above the rest of the ship I watched the barrels of big guns and the subroc rocket launchers swivel and raise up and down in preparation for who knew what. But this was no drill - this was war. What else could it be? Why else does a ship go to battlestation war readiness? I imagined the greatest fear of my youth had at last come to pass - that I might see attacking bombers, jets, or missiles overhead, racing toward America, my home, my family, my little town, and all would be destroyed as WWIII began. I envisioned nuclear mutual self-destruction and that only we at sea might survive. I had a vivid imagination. 

 

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