A few years after enlisting in the U.S. Navy, Jeff Pierce rated an E-3 seaman, serving as a yeoman working administration in the ship’s office aboard the mighty USS Iowa. The Iowa was the first battleship in her class, commissioned for WWII. She has a long, distinguished history, and Jeff spoke of her with pride.
But because of the terrible events of April 19, 1989, his pride is forever mingled with pain.
The ship had been conducting gun tests, experimenting with different gunpowder loads for various firing ranges on 16-inch guns that fired 2,000-pound shells.
“Like shooting a Volkswagen 30 miles.”
He had been working the night shift, consolidating information from several different guns into one comprehensive document. Early on April 19, Jeff’s good friend Mike Helton entered the office to check the mail.
“Why are you up so early?” Jeff asked.
“Heading to turret 2 as an observer,” Mike replied.
It was the last time Jeff would see his friend alive.
His shift over, Jeff went to his rack to try to sleep through the gun exercises. Gun shoots are always loud, but one sounded even louder, different. As Jeff soon realized, this was because it was internal.
The alarm for general quarters sounded. All sailors were to report to battle stations. The ship’s captain came on speaker. “Fire in turret 2. Dead shipmates on the ground.”
Jeff flew from his rack to his station in the combat information center. There, he monitored communications to all turrets and gun control stations.
An explosion was immediately confirmed, but nobody yet knew the extent of the destruction. If fire reached the gunpowder on the lowest deck, the Iowa would be destroyed. A gunner’s mate quickly flooded the No. 2 powder magazine, saving the ship.
An admiral handed Jeff a book. “Write down everything you hear. This is now a legal document.”
For the next six hours, Jeff transcribed all the nightmare communication. When he was at last relieved, he returned to the ship’s office. “I literally crawled up under the TV area and went to sleep.” An officer yelled at him for this. “Hey!” A warrant officer fired back. “You leave that son of a b—- alone! He’s been up for 46 hours!”
After a brief rest, he joined other sailors in the office, completing paperwork and closing the service records of the 47 fallen sailors.
Shocked and exhausted, he and some friends took a lunch break. But there was no escape from the day’s horror. As they ate, others began bringing bodies down through the mess deck on their way to medical.
Jeff struggled to tell his story.
“The day after the explosion … turret 2 was ordered to be cleaned and painted.”
Jeff was assigned to that detail.
“It was ugly.” He said. “It smelled really bad.”
The USS Iowa returned to Norfolk, Virginia. There followed a series of memorial services. Jeff attended 16 funerals in a month and a half.
Finally, the ship was deployed for six months to the Mediterranean.
“Probably the best thing the captain did,” Jeff said. “Getting us out of the endless funerals.”
The USS Iowa was decommissioned for the final time on Oct. 26, 1990. Turret 2 was never repaired. Although the explosion was most likely caused by the overpacking of substandard gunpowder, the official cause remains undetermined.
What is certain is how deeply Jeff Pierce cares about the 47 sailors who were killed on that horrible day, how much the loss of his friend still grieves him. “The Iowa explosion shaped my life … I think about Mike, I see his face, every day. Good guy. I wish you could have met him.”
It falls on us to remember and honor him, the 47 who died, and those who sailed with them, including my friend, Jeff Pierce. May God grant them all peace.
Trent Reedy served as a combat engineer in the Iowa National Guard from 1999 to 2005, including a tour of duty in Afghanistan.
