Not All Who Wander Are Lost: USS North Carolina

My jaw dropped and hung that way as I drove through the parking lot near the giant battleship. It was thrilling to see its immense size and signature 16 inch gun turrets fore and aft. The striped paint scheme, designed to make it difficult for submarines to identify the lines of the vessel, helped to add different routes for the eyes to follow.

The tour was a self-guided one and you went the direction of certain arrows. I instead walked about randomly and where there were no people. I walked the fan tail, looking at the wood on the deck of the ship, the single pontoon plane, crane and 40mm gun turrets. I then walked up the port side of the ship, discovering that you had to weave around the big 5-inch gun turrets in order to reach the forward deck.

The superstructure extended straight up and you had to crane your next to view it. The radar was spinning and flags of every color and sign dressed up the metal hulk. I climbed the stairs and towers, peaking in everywhere I could find accessible. I had to check the helm and what instruments I could.

I then climbed down and went below deck, through the hatches and examined one of the berths. This one in particular was for sailors of the 4^th division. These men manned the 40mm guns, one of the same my grandpa was a Gunner’s Mate with.

I found the 16-inch gun turret (those are the really big ones) that you could climb up into. To ascend up into the hulk you must climb a step ladder. Although the gun itself was immense the space inside the turret was minimal. It presented a kind of numbness to my mind, Dials and knobs, indicators and toggles switches with purposes unknown. Metal, metal and more metal with small hatches separating the crew compartments from the others.

One of my greatest disappointments was my feeling of complete ignorance. While it’s great to wander on your own across this great metal playground, it would be great to have an interpreter there explaining things. There were occasional signs which were helpful, but I could find no staff. Instead of dummies there were blank white forms in the shapes of people, wedged into positions. This cheapness bothered me and scared little kids. But I suppose it gave you some reference.

I spent the most time in the 16 inch gun. People came in and out but I waited for some lone quiet time to reflect. I was somewhat dumbfounded by the operation. I remember grandpa telling me of the six or so giant cylindrical powder bags they would put in the spanning tray (I think that’s right?) behind the giant projectile. The bags would then be rammed into the barrel, the big metal door shut and then they would fire. The concussion rising you up in the air for a moment.

The compartments were something out of a clausterphobic nightmare. While the majority of the turret was composed of metal forms you had to duck around and knobs, sights and all that other stuff, the loading compartments of each of the 3 barrels were contained behind separate hatches. While not a clausterphobic person, I looked at some of these and thought ‘that can’t be right!’ The space was minimal and jagged metal gears and whatnot stuck out from everywhere.

Well, I looked, filmed and took pictures. I tried to soak it all in. One thing that held my attention was, the fan that pumped in air. It had this tone to it that made me wonder, did my grandpa hear that same humm? So, I let the camera catch the low tone for a while, just so I would have record of it. I also looked through one of the gun sights and include a picture of it here.

It was all very much worthwhile but it left me wanting to know more. I wish my grandpa was with me to explain things and if anything, it made me kind of lonely. Overall, the thing that stuck with me, besides the unpleasant thoughts of the cramped gun stations, and the wonderful hum of that turret fan, was… the smell. I breathed in deeply in the room below the 5-inch guns. Packed with shells, it gave an oily odor that I know has lasted the ages. I smelled this same smell in the 16-inch turret. The kind of thing I know would bring back memories and I almost felt as though they brought latent ones back within myself.

Before I left, I had to jump up into one of the 40mm quad stations. One either side of the guns there were seats you could sit in and operate cranks. The left side crank pitched the guns up and down and the one on the right rotated the whole quad. I sat on each side and cranked, watch the barrels go up and down and then on the other side, whipping whole array in a circle. I looked up at the feeders, where you would drop in giant clips of 4 into the gun, and remember grandpa talking about the misfires that you would have to throw over the deck before their fuse ignited. And of course the one that he dropped on his foot at a time he was a loader. Finally, imagining the days he lead his crew, I took a final glance around and head for the shore.