1. © 2008 Jeffrey T. Naas All Rights Reserved
USS BENNINGTON – MEMORIAL ADDRESS
By Jeffrey T. Naas
As told from the ship’s perspective
I am the USS Bennington.
I was born on 3 June 1890; in Chester, PA.; and commissioned at the New York Navy
Yard on 20 June 1891. I am captained by Commander Lucien Young. He is a good man,
and performs his duties with the dignity and competence. He handles me well, I trust him,
and he trusts me.
My military designation is PG-4, which means I am a small patrol gunboat. Although I
lack the size and firepower of a battleship; my job is nonetheless important. With my
small size, speed, and agility, I can outrun my big brothers, and often maneuver in places
they can’t.
I may not have the big guns, but my half dozen six-inch guns provide the firepower I
need when called upon.
I am 230 feet long, 36 feet wide, and displace 1,730 tons. I am easily distinguishable by
my single funnel, smaller size, and white color. When at sea, I am home to 197 men and
officers.
I began my service in the Atlantic and Mediterranean. After three years I was transferred
to the Pacific, where I have been on duty ever since.
I have spent much of my service in the Spanish-American War. Recently I have been
called upon to help put down an insurrection in the Philippines. We are now heading
toward beautiful San Diego, where I hope to get a few days’ rest.
It is July 19, 1905, a beautiful summer day as I steam toward San Diego. The bright blue
sky is clear and cloudless, the cool, gentle afternoon breeze is refreshing as it caresses my
flanks and whistles happily in my rigging. The sea is calm and smooth; I slip through it
easily. I can see the shore now. It won’t be long. I am happy.
Deep in my hull my crew scurries about, busily trying to finish their myriad tasks before
we finally anchor. Up on the bridge the captain barks orders. They crew responds
quickly; there are good men – young, energetic, and eager to perform their tasks well.
I enter San Diego bay. On the bridge, my skipper reaches for my telegraph and moves the
lever to “HALF.” In the engine room, the order is transmitted with a resounding
“CLANG.” The engineer opens valves, moves levers, and my machinery begins slowing.
The air on the bay is sweet and clean. My speed decreases, the anchorage is in sight. I
finally anchor, my men finish last-minute chores, and go ashore for some well-deserved
rest and relaxation.
It is now Friday, July 21. My rest is cut short as I’m told I am to escort a ship called the
Wyoming to San Francisco. Something about a thrown propeller blade.

2. © 2008 Jeffrey T. Naas All Rights Reserved
I blast a signal on my horn and watch as my crew returns from their abbreviated shore
leave. Soon men are on my decks filling me with coal, readying me for another voyage.
They complete their tasks quickly, then set about washing the black coal dust off
themselves, and off me. We prepare to get under way. A man hurries down a ladder into
my engine room. I don’t recognize him. He is young, much too young to be down here.
I can see from his dirty, sooty clothing that he is a fireman. He begins shoveling coal into
my boilers’ fireboxes. He pauses a moment, and then…
“What’s he doing? Why is he closing THAT valve? No! That’s the steam pressure
gauge!”
He resumes his work, unaware of his error. The reading on my gauge drops to zero. He
has no idea what’s happening inside me, no idea the danger he’s put me in.
“No! Stop! Open that valve!”
I try to tell him, but he’s not listening.
“Please stop! Don’t you know what you’re doing? Stop!”
With my straining, groaning boilers, I plead with him to stop. But he still ignores me.
“Please, please stop! I plead again. Open that valve! Can’t you hear? Stop! Before it’s too
late!”
“BOOOOOOM!”
Something wrenches deep inside me, and then my innards erupt. Instant death repays the
fireman pays for his mistake. In seconds, dozens of young men are horribly burned to
death in an agonizing shower of searing, white-hot death. The lucky ones die quickly.
Others scream in pain.
“No! It’s not my fault! It’s an accident!” I try to tell them, but the damage has been done.
A second explosion rips a hole in my starboard side, and I am opened to the sea. Water
rushes in, and I list to starboard.
“Help me! Someone please help me!” I cry, but no one responds.
I am dying. I can feel it. Deep within me my strength is slowly ebbing away. Yet even as
life ebbs out of me – and my men – I see heroics.
“It’s this way out! It’s this way!,” an injured sailor screams.
Men follow his direction and jump into the cool, soothing water of the bay.
“Help me!” I cry.

3. © 2008 Jeffrey T. Naas All Rights Reserved
Now a fire breaks out and begins heading toward – No! The magazine!
A sailor runs down the ladder to flood the magazine with water.
“No! You can’t go down there!” A man on deck yells after him. But he keeps coming. He
extinguishes the fire, saving me from further damage.
“Please, please help me!” I scream, as I continue to exhale scalding steam.
Finally, a tugboat hurries to my side, and slowly pushes me onto a muddy bar. At least
I’m saved from drowning. I watch helplessly as men die, in, on and all around me. I am
safe, for the time being. But my crewmen are not. Now the townsfolk rush to their aid. I
weep as covers are pulled over lifeless bodies. Others, horribly burned, are carried away,
screaming and writhing in agony, to the nearest hospital. Many will die tonight.
As the sun sets on this terrible, tragic day, I hear someone whisper the awful truth:
65 dead, 46 injured.
“How could this happen? To ME? To them?” I shed a tear, close my eyes, and try to
sleep.
It is a long, long sleep. I languish in Mare Island Shipyard another five years before
someone finally buys me and nurses me back to health.
“I will never serve in war again” they say. They are right. I serve out my last ten years
ungloriously as a barge, before they finally cut me apart and sell me for scrap. But even
as the cutter’s torch does its heinous work, I hear someone say,
“Medal of Honor – for extraordinary heroism displayed at the time of the explosion.”
Eleven of them. They were good men. They were my crew. The words echo in my ears…
“Medal of Honor… Medal of… Medal... Med…M… M….”
As my eyes slowly close for the last time, and everything fades to black, my final thought
is…
“Will they remember? Years from now, will they remember? Will they?”