A fire was built by the surfmen to serve as a beacon to the people on the vessel and to warm themselves by while waiting for daylight and the arrival of the life-saving appliances.
The crew of Coast Guard Cutter Lawrence Lawson gathers on the newly commissioned cutter during a commissioning ceremony held at Training Center Cape May, New Jersey, March 18, 2017. The Lawrence Lawson is the second 154-foot Fast Response Cutter to be commissioned in Cape May and will conduct missions from North Carolina to New Jersey. (U.S. Coast Guard photo by Petty Officer 2nd Class Nate Littlejohn)
Coast Cutter Lawrence Lawson named for valiant leader of Life Saving Crew
From U. S. Coast Guard History
On 28 November (Thanksgiving Day) 1889 the crew of the Evanston (IL) Station, (11th District) Lake Michigan rendered memorable service in rescuing the crew of the steamer Calumet. Out of Buffalo, NY she wrecked off Fort Sheridan, IL during one of the region’s fiercest blizzards. The achievement reflected great credit upon the boat’s crew who upheld the reputation of the US Life-Saving Service. The highest praise is also due to the garrison at Fort Sheridan and a party of civilians who aided in getting the surfboat down a steep bluff opposite the vessel. These brave men suffered great hardship in helping to launch the boat after it was lowered from the bluff. It may be justly said that without the aid thus afforded them, the station crew may have been unable to reach the wreck. The result was the rescue of every man from the steamer Calumet.
The ship was bound to Milwaukee WI with a cargo of coal. A few days previous, as she was passing through a shallow part of the Detroit River, she ran afoul of an anchor on the bottom and sprung a leak. The damage was so serious that Captain Green, her commander, deemed it prudent to repair as much as practicable and take a steam pump on board to keep the ship afloat. This would have been sufficient to save her had a gale not come on after she passed through the Strait of Mackinac. It was a terrible storm with blinding sleet and snow. The thermometer dropped to ten degrees. The high sea caused the leak to begin anew. It increased with such rapidity that it got out of control even with the pumps working at full capacity. Another element of danger was that they were unable to find the lights of Milwaukee Harbor.
In this dilemma, the captain resolved to attempt to reach Chicago. Before long, however, the wrecking pump gave out. Captain Green decided to run her ashore to save the lives of his crew. The vessel had not run far before she grounded heavily on a shoal about a thousand yards from shore. She lay off Fort Sheridan, some ten to twelve miles north of the nearest life-saving station at Evanston, IL. This was about 10:30 o’clock on the night of the 27th. To save her from pounding herself to pieces, the captain ordered the valves in the ship’s bottom opened to permit her to fill completely. The eighteen on board found themselves in a terrible situation. An attempt to save themselves by the boat was out of the question and no help could reach them before dawn.
Mr. A W. Fletcher, a resident of Highland Park, was the first to discover her and he quickly sent a dispatch to Keeper Lawson around 12:30. The message simply said, “There is a large vessel ashore off Fort Sheridan. Come !” Lawson hurried to the railroad station and asked the night operator when the next train would go north. He replied, “Not before 7:30 A. M.” The operator then added that a freight train from Chicago would pass, without stopping, at about 2 o’clock. A request was immediately wired to the train dispatcher at Chicago to direct this train to stop at Evanston and take the station crew to Highland Park. As it, was too late to couple on suitable cars for the transportation of the apparatus, and as the train would reach Evanston in thirty-five minutes, there was little time for other arrangements to be made.
Lawson dashed off to the nearest livery stable and engaged teams to haul the boat and beach apparatus to the fort. He then went back to the station and mustered his crew. One man was directed to remain behind, with instructions to wait for the north patrol to come in and then to take the boat and other appliances by the county road. These preliminaries settled, he and the other four men hurried to the railroad station. Joined by the police officer who had delivered the dispatch, the party boarded the train. It was 4 o’clock before they reached Highland Park. They were met by Mr. Fletcher, who furnished a guide to conduct them the remaining two miles. The shore at that point was a bold, precipitous bluff some seventy or eighty feet high, with a ravine extending down to the water’s edge. The guide became confused in the darkness and storm and lost his way. This compelled the party to traverse several ravines before they finally reached the place from which they could operate at 5 o’clock.
A fire was built by the surfmen to serve as a beacon to the people on the vessel and to warm themselves by while waiting for daylight and the arrival of the life-saving appliances. The boat and gear arrived at 7 o’clock. It was then light enough to see that the people on board the ship could not hold out much longer. The keeper decided to attempt to reach her by line rather than risk the lives of the men and the destruction of the boat. Two shots were fired, but each fell a long distance inshore of the vessel. This showed that she was much farther out than had been estimated and, therefore, beyond working range of the lines. Boat service was therefore the only alternative.
Discarding the gun, the men made immediate preparations for a launch. The place selected for sliding the boat down to the water was the ravine in which the fire had been built. Axes were soon at work cutting away through the brush wide enough for the boat. Once this was done, the boat was started down the ravine. Soldiers from Fort Sheridan and others eased it to within a few feet of the water. The gully was about three hundred yards to the south of the point directly abreast of the wreck. It was, therefore, necessary to drag it along the narrow shelf of beach at the foot of the bluff.
With the heavy surf rolling in, it was only by watching for their chances between the breakers that any progress could be made. Even then the gallant fellows were half the time waist-deep and over in the cold icy water, the boat completely filled three times and emptied out the same number.
With the heavy surf rolling in, it was only by watching for their chances between the breakers that any progress could be made. Even then the gallant fellows were half the time waist-deep and over in the cold icy water, the boat completely filled three times and emptied out the same number. There was also a danger of the men on the inner gunwale being crushed or maimed when the sea struck the craft on its broadside and hurled it against the bank. In spite of this danger and difficulties, the boat was finally gotten to a point a little to the windward of the steamer. As soon as its bow could be pointed lakeward, the crew sprang to their places at the oars. When the next sea lifted the craft, the soldiers pushed it out and the oars were put in motion. The rescuing party was off on their perilous errand.
In crossing the inner bar they met an immense breaker which nearly threw the boat end over end. The shock of its impact was so great, Keeper Lawson was almost thrown overboard from his post at the steering-oar. Before he could recover, a second wave dashed over the boat and filled it to the thwarts. This made the boat almost unmanageable, but with strong and steady pulling of five of the oars they managed to keep going and soon were beyond the heaviest line of surf.
In the meantime, however, the current had put them far to the leeward. This gave them a long, hard pull directly in the teeth of the gale. The oars were constantly slipping from the rowlocks as both became encased with ice. In the annals of life-saving effort, there can be found few instances so fraught with such hardship and peril as it was the lot of these brave men to encounter. Yet not a man quailed. It should be noted that the members of this crew were not regular surfmen. Instead, they, with the exception of the keeper, were students of Northwestern Academy (later Northwestern University). Yet nobly, they stuck to their work.
Recovering the ground lost in passing through the breakers was a rough and arduous task. An eyewitness from the bluff declared that at times he thought they would never succeed. The steamer’s crew was clustered about the pilothouse. The vessel was literally encased in ice and the men were stiff after so many hours of exposure. At last, after one of the most perilous trips ever undertaken by a lifesaving crew, they got near enough to the bow of the steamer for Captain Green to throw them a line. Every watcher on the shore, as well as those on board, breathed easier when the boat got alongside. Six of the castaways were, with some difficulty, taken into the boat. After putting a life preserver on each man, a start was made for the shore. Owing to the strong current, the landing was made fully a quarter of a mile south of the point of starting. As soon as the sailors were helped out, they were conducted to the fire on the bluff where the ice was beaten, from their frozen garments and they were supplied with hot coffee.
While this was being done, the boat was emptied and dragged to a point where it could be launched for another trip. Much refreshed by the coffee provided them by the soldiers, the surfmen, after a brief rest, again made their way down to the boat. Another launch was made in the same manner as the first. With the knowledge gained by their previous experience, the boat was from the start headed more to the current and they were not swept so far to the leeward. Consequently, the wreck was more quickly reached and the trip was made in much less time. Three trips in all were made, six men being landed each trip. Thus the entire crew of eighteen men were saved and without any of them being seriously frostbitten. By the time this work was accomplished, the station men were almost in as bad a plight as the men they had saved.
The assisting party took charge of the boat and after hauling it back onto the bluff saw it safely on its carriage in charge of the teamster en route to the station. While this was being done, the surfmen again refreshed themselves with coffee. They then took the first train for Evanston, where they arrived early in the afternoon. A few hours after the rescue of her crew, the steamer broke up completely and on the following morning nothing was left of her but the stem and sternpost. It was the opinion of all who were present that, but for the heroic conduct of this student crew, every man belonging to the Calumet must have perished. In recognition of their noble devotion to duty, each man was presented with the Gold Lifesaving Medal, the highest token of its appreciation that the Department can bestow. Thanksgiving Day 1889 (28 November) will doubtless ever be remembered by the crew of Calumet, as truly a day for thanksgiving. For on this day the student surfmen of Northwestern and their fearless keeper kept them from a watery grave.
Petty Officer 1st Class Edward A. Burke warms up his chops before the Coast Guard Cutter Lawrence Lawson commissioning ceremony held at Training Center Cape May, New Jersey, March 18, 2017. The Training Center Cape May band played during the ceremony held for the cutter, whose crew will conduct missions from North Carolina to New Jersey. (U.S. Coast Guard photo by Petty Officer 2nd Class Nate Littlejohn)
Medal of Honor awardee Harvey C. “Barney” Barnum, Jr.
First Lieutenant, U.S. Marines Corps Company H, 2nd Battalion, 9th Marines, 3rd Marine Division
At the Cheshire, Conn., high school military assembly in 1958, representatives of all branches of the military made presentations to the student body. After the Navy, Army and Air Force speakers were all interrupted by hoots and catcalls, the Marine recruiter stood up and gave a tongue-lashing to the rude students, as well as to the faculty members who had made no effort to correct their behavior. As he began to stalk out of the auditorium, he was surrounded by students eager to sign up. Among them was senior class president Harvey C. “Barney” Barnum, Jr.
In late 1965, Barnum a first lieutenant arrived in Vietnam with the Ninth Marines. On the morning of December 18, as the battalion was moving through the heavy overgrowth in Quang Tin Province south of Da Nang, the area suddenly exploded with the fire from enemy rockets, mortars, and machine guns. Barnum’s company of about 110 men was cut off from the rest of the American force; the company commander was down, his radioman alongside him. Barnum ran to help them, but the radio operator was already dead, and the captain died in Barnum’s arms. It was clear that the enemy had targeted the two men to destroy the company’s command and control and overwhelm the survivors of the initial attack. Barnum took the radio off the dead operator, strapped it on his back, and assumed command.
Estimating that the marines were outnumbered about ten to one, Barnum quickly organized defenses, called in artillery fire, and led a counterattack on the enemy trench lines to destroy the machine guns that had his men pinned down. He saw that they weren’t facing Vietcong but North Vietnamese regulars, troops disciplined enough to have let the bulk of the Marine battalion pass through before triggering the ambush.
At close to 6:00 p.m., after nearly eight hours of continuous fighting, the battalion commander radioed Barnum that it would be impossible to mount a rescue for his cut-off marines. Barnum knew that if he tried to hold out through the night, his dwindling force would be wiped out by morning, so he ordered the company engineers to blow a space in the heavy tree cover to allow two H-34 helicopters to land for the evacuation of the dead and the wounded. Then he ordered the rest of his men to move out in fire team rushes. Perhaps because the maneuver was so unexpected, they were able to break through North Vietnamese lines, crossing five hundred years of fire-swept ground to rejoin forward elements of his battalion before darkness.
Barnum was told two days later that the commanding general was recommending him for the Medal of Honor.
He was presented the medal on Feb. 27, 1967, by Secretary of the Navy Paul Nitze. But it would take months, even years, for the fragments of this day to come together in his memory. When they did, it was often only with the help of messages he occasionally received from the men he had commanded. “Somebody gave me your name,” one Marine e-mailed him decades later. “I think you’re a lieutenant who fought beside me with a .45 caliber pistol and a 3.5 rocket launcher for a while back ’65. If so, thanks for saving my life.” Until this communication, Barnum hadn’t remembered the incident.
First Lieutenant Barnum left Vietnam in February 1966. He worked as a military aide in Washington on the condition that he be allowed to pick his next assignment. When it came time to make the move, he chose Vietnam. He was the first man who received the Medal of Honor in Vietnam to return to action there.