The Attack on the Liberty Read online

  The torpedo boats had not yet disappeared over the horizon when a helicopter approached the Liberty’s portside, hovering at five hundred yards. A second helicopter followed a minute later. The helicopters circled the battered ship as close as a hundred yards. McGonagle noted the Star of David markings and read the hull numbers as either 04 or D4 and 08 or D8. The helicopters departed and the torpedo boats returned at 3:37 P.M., approaching the Liberty’s starboard side at high speed at a range of five miles. McGonagle also spotted two fighters. The bridge alerted the crew again to stand by for a possible attack. McGonagle ordered a signalman at 3:40 P.M. to hoist the international flag symbol for “Not Under Command,” meaning the Liberty maneuvered with difficulty and advising the torpedo boats to remain clear. The fighters did not attack and the boats reversed course two minutes later, but periodically returned over the next hour and a quarter.

  The threat of another attack loomed as Liberty crewmembers rescued the injured, fought the last of the fires, and treated the wounded. The torpedo had knocked out power along with much of the Liberty’s navigational systems and communications. Engineers hustled to restore power. Damage control crews, who had sealed the watertight hatches, systematically searched compartments for leaks and hammered wooden cones into shell holes to prevent flooding. At 3:19 P.M. the engine room restored power to the bridge, but the rudder still did not function. The log shows that crews steered manually from the rear of the ship as the Liberty steamed northward to clear the area at speeds varying from zero to eight knots. Four minutes after power returned to the bridge, the Liberty lost lube oil suction and again came dead in the water until engineers could restore oil pressure.

  Radiomen reestablished communications at 3:55 P.M. The only functioning transmitter—one that previously had been designated for repairs—was down in the transmitter room on the main deck near the rear of the ship. The radiomen grabbed all the necessary gear and relocated below. McGonagle, now weak from blood loss, stretched out on the deck of the bridge to prevent blacking out. A sailor tied a tourniquet around his right thigh as the skipper dictated a message to the Sixth Fleet. An officer jotted it down on the back of a teletype printout of news headlines. “Request immediate assistance. Torpedo hit starboard midship. Flooding. List was stopped at nine degrees,” the message shows McGonagle dictated. “Approximate casualties four dead, three seriously wounded, 50 wounded. Radar, fathometer and gyroscope inoperable. Will require navigational aid consisting of sea and air escort.”

  Two aircraft reconned the ship at 4:15 P.M. Torpedo boats returned at 4:33 P.M. The men on the bridge identified one of the hull numbers as 204. The log shows McGonagle confirmed his previous identification when he stated: “Boats are believed to be Israeli.” The Liberty slowed from eight knots to five after the crew struggled to control the ship. The skipper determined that his course could be off by as much as thirty degrees in either direction. The ship’s fathometer, which for a while only functioned on the hundred-fathom scale, revealed the Liberty entering shallow waters. The skipper feared the ship was off course and might ground. He ordered Lucas to recruit volunteers to prepare to drop the anchor. McGonagle decided to wait until nightfall when he could sight the North Star and determine the ship’s position. He then changed his mind and at 5:04 P.M. reversed the Liberty for approximately twenty minutes into deeper water.

  In the mess deck below, Armstrong struggled. The executive officer, who had been hit on deck as he tried to knock gasoline drums overboard, stretched out on a table, both legs broken by shrapnel. He clutched a bottle of Terry brandy, a Spanish label picked up in a Rota liquor store. The ship’s second in command remained pale and weak though he joked with the sailors on neighboring tables to elevate morale. Officers and enlisted men alike stopped by to visit. Despite his injuries, Armstrong comforted his men. He assured them the worst was over. The Liberty and its crew would survive. The sailors who visited Armstrong felt confident that he too would survive, but the executive officer sensed otherwise. He slipped off his Naval Academy ring and handed it to his favorite steward. “Here,” he said. “Give this to my wife.” Moments later, Armstrong died.

  Another helicopter approached the Liberty at 6:40 P.M. McGonagle identified it as Israeli and the quartermaster recorded the tail markings in the ship’s log as SA 321-K and the fuselage number 06. The helicopter signaled that it wanted to land. McGonagle considered the request, but realized that the various antennae and other obstructions on deck made it impossible. He only risked an accident and more injuries. He waved the helicopter off. A package dropped to the Liberty’s deck. Sailors delivered it to the skipper on the bridge at 6:52 P.M. From a bag weighted with oranges, McGonagle fished out a business card belonging to Commander Ernest Castle, the American naval attaché in Tel Aviv. McGonagle flipped over the card. On the back, Castle had scrawled a three-word message that made many of the men question how the attaché had failed to spot the dead bodies, the blood streams, and carnage littered below: “HAVE YOU CASUALTIES?”

  Miles above the Liberty in the back of a Navy spy plane, Petty Officer 2nd Class Michael Prostinak tuned the dials on his receiver in search of Israeli communications. The Hebrew linguist had lifted off from the Athens Air Base in an EC-121 that morning for an eight-hour mission over the Middle East to eavesdrop on the fourth day of the war. The U.S. Air Force Security Service, working in conjunction with the NSA, had established an intelligence-processing hub a year earlier at the international airport in the Athens suburbs. The main runway was all that separated the Olympic Airlines terminal from the Greek military base that housed the NSA’s secret operation. In a compound protected by a double hurricane fence and guard patrols, American analysts reviewed intercepted communications of the war and tipped off Prostinak and other airborne spies about certain call signs, unit identities, and frequencies to monitor.

  Before the war, the Navy and Air Force each flew about eight spy missions a month over the Middle East, soaking up radio communications and zeroing in on radar installations. That all changed on May 23, the same day the NSA decided to reassign the Liberty from West Africa to its patrol off Egypt. Since then the Navy and Air Force had flown missions daily. The Navy’s missions even jumped to twice daily when the war began. Unlike the Liberty, which could troll for days or even weeks offshore, planes wasted time and fuel traveling to and from targets. To maximize intercept time, the NSA staggered missions. Air Force planes took off at approximately 5 A.M. and the Navy followed five hours later. The propeller-plane—dubbed the Willy Victor—served as the airborne equivalent of the Liberty, a plodding cargo plane that could fly approximately three hundred miles per hour with a range of more than four thousand miles when stripped down. Crews had installed so many antennae that its navigator remarked that it was a miracle it flew at all.

  Strapped in the back with Prostinak sat an intelligence evaluator, intercept operators, and other Arabic and Hebrew linguists. A twenty-four-year-old West Virginia native, Prostinak had enlisted in the Navy right out of high school to earn money for college. During the Cuban Missile Crisis in October 1962, the Navy realized it lacked Spanish linguists. Prostinak, who had studied Spanish in high school, landed in language school and discovered that he picked up Spanish easily. A two-year posting in Puerto Rico helped him master it. When he reenlisted, Prostinak opted to study a third language. He thought Hebrew might prove a challenge. For more than six months, he studied under a Lebanese teacher at the NSA’s secret language school in Maryland. He learned to read and write the distinctive Hebrew alphabet, memorized vocabulary, and translated Israeli newspaper articles.

  Prostinak had had ample opportunity to exercise his Hebrew skills in recent days. Normally based in the Spanish city of Rota—the same spot the Liberty had docked to take on supplies—Prostinak and other members of his squadron had received emergency departure orders within hours of the start of the war. The men each packed a bag and climbed aboard the Willy Victor for the eight-hour flight to Greece, the temporary staging area f
or the Middle East missions. Soon after landing late that afternoon, the men hopped a shuttle to the Hotel Seville in the Athenian suburb of Iraklion. With a kitchen and bar open twenty-four hours, the hotel proved a natural fit for the spooks and aircrews, who routinely flew odd hours. Before the men had a chance to unpack, commanders summoned them back to the base to fly the first mission. When the sun rose the second day of the war, Prostinak listened over his headphones as Israeli pilots climbed into the skies for more combat.

  The mission this afternoon marked the third in as many days. Like the Liberty, the spy planes remained over the Mediterranean and outside the territorial reach of Israel and Egypt. When the plane arrived at a point off the coast of the Egyptian city of Alexandria, the pilot banked to the northeast, paralleling the Egyptian and Israeli coasts at altitudes as low as ten thousand feet. After passing Tel Aviv, the pilot hooked north, flying as far as the Lebanese capital of Beirut. The pilots turned south and repeated the track until fuel ran low. The workstations Prostinak and other linguists used—shielded by security curtains—included radio receivers designed to intercept air and ground communications. A four-track tape recorder that logged the time and frequency of intercepts allowed the spooks to capture communications that might have an intelligence value.

  Though his Hebrew lagged behind his Spanish skills, Prostinak had learned to pick up on key words, such as “tanks,” “artillery,” and “mortar fire.” He eavesdropped on a frequency long enough to get a basic understanding. If it had potential intelligence value, he recorded it. If not, he tuned the dials. More than the language, Prostinak listened for the excitement in a voice that almost always indicated action. That’s what grabbed his attention this afternoon as the Willy Victor roared along the Egyptian coast. The flurry of Hebrew made it impossible for Prostinak to discern whether he heard aircraft or ground forces. He could sense from the excitement that something was going on far below. He strained to listen and translate. He then heard something that shocked him. He flipped on the secure intercom to his supervisor. “Hey, Chief. I’ve got really odd activity,” Prostinak called out as he hit the record button. “They mentioned an American flag.”

  Radiomen on the aircraft carrier Saratoga approximately five hundred miles west of the Liberty forwarded the spy ship’s distress calls to the commander of the Sixth Fleet and the London headquarters of the Navy’s European and Middle East command. With each call, the desperation intensified. At 2:35 P.M.—the exact moment the torpedo split open the side of the Liberty—the Saratoga broadcast the first details of the attack. “Following received from Rockstar. I am under attack. My posit 31.23N 33.25E,” the carrier’s message read. “I have been hit. Request immed assistance.” Saratoga radiomen relayed another message two minutes later that foreshadowed the horror the Liberty now faced. “3 unidentified gunboats approaching vessel now.” The carrier followed that message at 2:45 P.M. with the relay of a five-word distress call. “Under attack and hit badly.” Nine minutes later, the carrier forwarded the first confirmation that the Liberty had been torpedoed. “Hit by torpedo starboard side. Listing badly. Need assistance immediately.”

  Vice Admiral William Martin, the commander of the Sixth Fleet, sailed on the cruiser Little Rock as the attack unfolded. The three-star admiral’s flagship had joined the carriers Saratoga and America for maneuvers off of Crete. Soviet warships had harassed the fleet, prompting Martin the day before to warn a Russian destroyer to remain clear. Over the open airwaves, Martin heard the desperation in the voice of Liberty’s radioman. At 2:50 P.M.—fifteen minutes after the torpedo killed twenty-five sailors—the admiral ordered his carriers to turn into the wind. “America launch four armed A4’s to proceed to 31–23N 33–25E to defend USS Liberty who is now under attack by gunboats,” Martin instructed. “Provide fighter cover and tankers. Relieve on station. Saratoga launch four armed A1’s ASAP same mission.” The Sixth Fleet sent a message to the Liberty at 3:05 P.M. to assure the defenseless ship help would arrive soon. “Your flash traffic received. Sending aircraft to cover you. Surface units on the way.”

  On the bridge of the America, Captain Donald Engen chatted with NBC News reporter Robert Goralski. Engen’s 77,000-ton carrier—completed less than three years earlier at a cost of $293 million—had become the temporary home for as many as thirty reporters from major television networks, wire services, and newspapers, all eager to cover the events of the Middle East war. When the Combat Information Center alerted Engen of the attack over the squawk box, the skipper ordered the reporter off the bridge. News of the attack had arrived at an inopportune time. Not only did reporters swarm the carrier, but the America also was in the middle of a nuclear weapons drill. The drill required sailors to bring nuclear weapons up the bomb elevators and simulate arming the planes. Not until the weapons could be safely stored belowdecks and planes rearmed with conventional munitions could the America launch, a process Engen estimated would take approximately one hour.

  The Saratoga’s communications officer personally delivered the news of the attack to Captain Joseph Tully, Jr., on the bridge of that carrier soon after radiomen picked up the Liberty’s distress calls. Unlike the America, the Saratoga had a strike group ready within minutes. Tully would later write that he immediately turned into the wind and launched fighters only to have his superiors order him moments later to recall the fighters and wait for the America. Tully wrote that he instantly readied a second strike group. Commander Max Morris, the Saratoga’s navigator, who later would rise to the rank of rear admiral, confirmed Tully’s account of the launch and recall in a letter to his former commanding officer. The Saratoga’s deck log does not reflect the launch, but does show that at 2:41 P.M. the carrier began a series of course and speed changes that could indicate flight activity.

  Deck crews raced to prepare the fighters. The Saratoga had been ordered to launch A-1 Skyraiders, a propeller plane with a slow speed of only about 350 miles per hour but a range of three thousand miles. The America in contrast had been ordered to launch A-4 Skyhawks, a jet that flew nearly twice the speed of the A-1 and at an altitude of almost fifty thousand feet, but had a range of less than one thousand miles. Ordnance crews retrieved rockets and missiles from the magazines below. Intelligence officers briefed pilots on weather conditions and used maps of Egypt to highlight port facilities, antiaircraft batteries, and surface-to-air missile sites. The Saratoga messaged Martin at 3:22 P.M. that it planned to launch its four A-1s at 4 P.M. The Saratoga’s deck log shows that the carrier increased speed to twenty-five knots at 4:01 P.M. and started the launch sequence one minute later as fighters zoomed down the flight deck. The America’s deck log failed to record the launch, but Engen wrote in his memoir that planes lifted off soon after the Saratoga.

  “We are on the way,” the America’s flight leader announced over the departure frequency. “Who is the enemy?”

  No one knew. The Liberty had not identified the nationality of the attackers in its distress calls. Many of the senior commanders, who had monitored the Soviet fleet for days off Crete, doubted the U.S.S.R. had done it but could not rule out Egypt. Because Egypt was allied with the Soviets, Navy commanders had to be careful. The officers wanted to protect the Liberty without provoking a larger confrontation with another country. Even the small number of planes launched was designed to signal that purpose. “Not too large and warlike,” Engen later wrote in his memoir, “but still large enough to protect Liberty.” Rear Admiral Lawrence Geis, commander of the Mediterranean’s carrier strike force, repeated Martin’s launch order at 3:16 P.M. and instructed pilots only to protect the ship. “Defense of USS Liberty means exactly that,” Geis ordered. “Destroy or drive off any attackers who are clearly making attacks on Liberty. Remain over international waters. Defend yourself if attacked.”

  At 3:36 P.M., Martin issued combat orders for the pilots that again reflected his intention not to provoke a larger conflict: “Ensure pilots do not repeat do not fly overland.” The admiral also ordered the Saratoga t
o relay a message to the Liberty, asking if the spy ship could identify the nationality of the attackers. Martin outlined more detailed rules of engagement in a message at 3:39 P.M. “You are authorized to use force including destruction as necessary to control the situation. Do not use more force than required. Do not pursue any unit towards land for reprisal purposes. Purpose of counterattack is to protect Liberty only,” Martin’s message stated. “Brief pilots that Egyptian territorial limit only 12 miles and Liberty right on edge. Do not fly between Liberty and shoreline except as required to carry out provisions.”

  Martin waited for his fighters to reach the Liberty. The Saratoga had estimated its propeller-driven Skyraiders would take approximately three hours to cover the distance to the battered spy ship. Martin had told his superiors that he expected the faster jets to arrive in half that time. Soon after the fighters left the carriers, a flash message from the American naval attaché in Tel Aviv rolled off the ship’s teletype. “Israeli aircraft and MTB’s [Motor Torpedo Boats] erroneously attacked U.S. ship,” Commander Ernest Castle wrote in the 4:14 P.M. message. “IDF [Israel Defense Forces] helicopters in rescue operations. No other info. Israelis send abject apologies and request info of other US ships near war zone coasts.” The admission that Israel had attacked the Liberty by mistake changed everything. The assault was over. Fighters were no longer needed. Martin ordered the mission aborted before the planes ever reached the Liberty: “Recall all strikes repeat recall all strikes.”