 At sea, in action, the modern aircraft carrier is certainly one of the most awesome weapon systems ever devised by man. In the past 30 years, her performance, her presence on the oceans of the world, has undoubtedly altered the course of history. As seen from the air, even when she's not launching aircraft, her clean, flat deck, run with waiting planes, is a picture of power. Yet for all this vast strength, as real as it is apparent, a carrier at sea is extremely vulnerable. Since her striking arm requires the use of exotic fuels and powerful weapons, she's forced to carry with her the potential for her own destruction. It's all around her, on and below decks, waiting, waiting for a miscue, a careless error, or a tragic accident. On Saturday, July 29, 1967, the USS Forest Hall was at Yankee Station off the coast of Vietnam. She was safely out of range of any hostile fire. For the men working topside, the break-in period passed quickly. Beginning with her initial combat strikes on July 24, the Forest Hall completed 700 sorties in four days. Now, on the 29th, the fifth day, she was getting ready again. In light of what eventually happened on deck that afternoon, it's only natural that some had looked back and questioned, wondered specifically about the lack of safety procedures, the fueling that went on while some of the ordinance was still being armed or undergoing last-minute inspection, crewmen strong-backing bombs into position instead of using the available hoist to do the job. The seemingly casual or relaxed attitude, with many of the men out of place or in areas where they didn't belong, more than a handful of them out of uniform or without protective gear of any kind. How important were these factors? Were they part of an overall pattern that could end only in tragedy? Or weren't they important at all? The chances are no one will ever know the full story. Even with written testimony, the passage of time has a way of veiling or obscuring important facts. In the Forest Hall's case, however, there is another record, a visual one, recorded by Navy film cameraman and by a television or plat camera mounted on the bridge. During launch and recovery operations, it's not unusual for a carrier to use several plat cameras to record take-offs and landing. Their electronic readout, which is fed to various parts of the ship, including the command plot, the bridge, and the communication center, is also recorded on magnetic tape for delayed playback at debriefings and critiques. Using that visual record, let's go back now to July 29, 1967. The time is 1351 and counting. There, on deck. Somehow a Zuni rocket has been triggered, roaring across the flight deck and hitting an A4 skyhawk. A sheet of flame from the A4's ruptured fuel tank has enveloped the skyhawk and her immediate neighbors. Behind that curtain of smoke, two 1,000-pound bombs have already dropped from her wings onto the burning deck. Here, almost at mid-screen, we see a crash crew chief moving toward the flames with a purple-k fire extinguisher. His only thought, the trapped pilots in those planes. In order to control the fire, the captain orders the forest doll to slow speed. Back on the flight deck, with precious seconds ticking away, things have started to go wrong. Fire has completely blanketed the stirring fire main loop, making its plugs inaccessible. And the next to the last loop aft has developed pump trouble. The only alternative is to haul Hose's aft from the forward stations. And this takes time, precious time. 1352 and 43 seconds. The two main fire parties are now on deck working close to the flames. But so far, only one hose is actually operating. Carries a message. The forest doll is in deep trouble. It won't end here. The chain has started. And yet those who have survived it turn around and head back. There are buddies back there. And the chief with the purple-k is dead. It's not night care for any safety. You can't run away from it. There's nowhere to go. It's a fight for survival. Your instincts have to be right. Your courage can dawn like a badge. Following the third explosion, the first two fire parties had been virtually wiped out. The fire was not completely out of control. A great ship was on the verge of dying. To save her, other men were going to have to go back on deck. Most of them without sufficient training and firefighting techniques. Down below, fuel was pouring through holes in the flight deck caused by the continuous 1,000-pound bomb explosions. The fire had chased after the fuel, spreading quickly to the O3, O2 and O1 gallery decks and into the after-end of Hangar Bay 3. Topside, the only hope was that the explosions would somehow subside. Until we did, no firefighting team could possibly survive on deck. In all, during the fire's first five minutes, nine major explosions would take place on the flight deck. As the first of the injured were brought to safety in a sponsored area, another relief party was already forming up, and they knew what they needed most on deck, the foam hoses. For some unknown reason, one or more of the fog foam stations hadn't been initially charged. Some of the firefighters either didn't know that it was necessary to perform certain manual functions on the flight deck and hangar decks to get the foam systems operating, or they were injured or killed before they got to. On deck, the relief party's first move was to lay down a curtain of foam between the flames and the Forest Halls Island. Once this buffer zone was established, some of the damaged flames could be moved safely. Along the port side, where most of the armed aircraft were parked, things were still out of control. Trapped in close quarters, between a constantly exploding inferno and the edge of the deck, several men had no choice. They went overboard. Some were actually blown over the side. Luckily for the ones who survived the experience, rescue helicopters from the carrier Ariskeny and two destroyers had arrived on the scene. As quickly as they could, they swept into the Forest Hall's wake to make pickups. Here on the lower left-hand corner of the flat camera picture is further evidence of a successful team effort. Notice that a fog nozzle has been correctly brought into play over the heads of the firefighters to protect them as they work. Leadership and on-deck communications were early casualties of the Forest Hall fire. Damage control and repair party personnel were often unidentified for long periods of time. As a result, when some of the more inexperienced people did lend a hand, they made several well-intentioned but nearly disastrous mistakes. At one point close to the island, two water hose teams were working in tandem with the foam hose team. The end result, the water washed away the foam and the fire continued blazing away. But whatever their faults, whatever mistakes they made, it's impossible to fault their courage. Before this day was over, 134 of them would pay with their lives or be listed as missing. The fire's suddenness and intensity, the sick they'd filled up quickly with the injured so quickly, in fact, that an emergency battle dressing station had to be set up on the folks. Less than an hour after the fire broke out, word came from Danai that the hospital ship Repose was on its way and would be there the following morning. Meanwhile, the two destroyers in the immediate vicinity took turns moving in to supply what they could and continued picking up firefighters who had gone overboard. Four minutes after the fire started, the divisional doors between hangar bays one and two and two and three had been closed, effectively isolating each of the bays and preventing the spread of the fire. In hangar bay three, the sprinkler system and some effective work with the foam hose kept the fire confined to the engine shop and the after-end of the bay itself. Here, as everywhere on board, air group personnel and air department personnel all men not assigned to any specific firefighting duties pitched in to help. In those hangar areas still untouched by the fire, regular crew teams and all available personnel worked feverishly to bring aircraft topside and all the way forward on the flight deck. In one of the sponsor areas, the firefighters had decided to stay with it. There were only two ways out, through the fire or over the side. They took the fire. There was no way of knowing that the fire boundaries had already been firmly established. If everyone played his cards right, it wouldn't spread any further. The flames could now be fought out progressively, compartment by compartment, textbook fashion, until the fire was out. On deck, the first sign that the battle was being won was the presence of white smoke. Obviously, the foam and fog nozzle teams were doing an effective job. But, here and there, several glaring errors were also being committed. Several hose teams had men who were without shirts with protective gear of any kind. A fuel tank explosion close up, no matter how small, would have burned most of them to a crisp. And almost unbelievably, some of the water hose teams were still hard at work, washing away the protective blanket the foam teams had laid down. Here and there, black smoke had actually started rising again. In the words of one observer, a veteran firefighter, they climbed on the forest doll when the men seemed to be using water for water's sake. If they found an open hole caused by one of the bomb explosions, they just kept pouring water in it. As a result, the forest doll suffered thousands of dollars' worth of damage to its onboard computers, and several other pieces of intricate gear which hadn't been directly threatened by the fire. Back in the old helicopters from the carriers Arisconi and Bonhomme Richard were arriving on deck with fresh foam and OBA canisters, and then taking the overflow of the forest doll's wounded back with them to their sick bay areas. Fire on deck would end on the afternoon it began. The fires below would rage on through the night and into the evening of the following day. The obvious lessons to be learned from the forest doll tragedy are these. Original in-depth training in firefighting is vastly important, but so is constant retraining. Every man onboard should have been familiar with the ship's firefighting gear and its use. Some men never reached their general quarters stations. Others, unsure of alternate exits or ways out, were trapped below and died. Many of the firefighters lacked leadership. The chain of command had to be rebuilt on the spot after the first two firefighting teams were decimated. Too much time was spent struggling with items like the OBA. Some of the men actually had to stop and read the instructions before they could use them. Only untrained men would spray water across a foam blanket that was doing its job. Only untrained men would hot handle unexploded ordnance or kick it across the deck with their feet. These are things that can't be learned on the spot or after a fire starts. The fact that the men of the forest doll pulled it off is a tribute to their coolness and courage. But we'll never know how many men were lost because some things were done the wrong way. In all, 134 men were listed as killed or missing. Damage to the ship, exclusive of aircraft and other air equipment, was estimated in excess of $72 million. The forest doll fire is a story of extraordinary heroism, trial and error under unbelievable pressures and tragic death. It's a story that the Navy clearly would rather not live over again. So learn your firefighting techniques, then relearn them. But learn, learn or burn, baby, learn or burn.