“Silver Star Airplane Ride”
(See B. Tillman and H. Sakaida, pp. 25-29, April 2001 Naval History)
Frank H. Featherston
Since my older brother received his Silver Star the hard way (killed after the 17th Airborne Division crossed the Rhine in 1945), I always looked askance at the Silver Star button Lyndon Johnson often displayed on his coat lapel. Somehow, flying on a Southwest Pacific air mission during World War II, he displayed personal bravery and gallantry in combat that fell only a notch below the conduct needed to qualify for a Medal of Honor or a Distinguished Service Cross.
Colonel Francis R. Stevens Jr., in a December 1998 American Heritage article (pages 69-72), recalls that Johnson’s seat on a bomber headed into combat was taken instead by Colonel Stevens’s father. Johnson took a seat in another bomber that, because of engine problems, failed to get to the area of possible enemy opposition. Both Johnson and Stevens had come out from Washington to observe operations, and they had no functional roles to play in their respective aircraft.
Unfortunately, Colonel Stevens’s father’s plane (the one Johnson would have been in) was shot down and the father killed. No mention is made in the American Heritage article of Johnson’s medal or the Distinguished Service Cross awarded posthumously to the father. I think rightly so—because both medal awards were travesties. I would be interested to know what medals were awarded to the other crewmembers of the downed airplane. I suspect that Washington, perhaps at the direction of President Franklin Roosevelt, arranged the Silver Star and Distinguished Service Cross for two of its own. After all, Rear Admiral Isaac Kidd was awarded the Medal of Honor just six months earlier because he had had the bad luck to be on board that Sunday morning when Japanese bombers blew the ships of his battleship division into the muck of Pearl Harbor.
“Massacre on Wake Island”
(See M. Hubbs, pp. 30-35, February 2001; R. Austin, p. 17, April 2001 Naval History)
Dave Lotz
In addition to those civilians on Wake Island in December 1941 already discussed, there was another group of civilians stranded on the island. These were the 45 Chamorro men from Guam who were employees of Pan American Airways. Ten Chamorros were killed in the initial Japanese bombing attacks on Wake. The survivors then were abandoned by Pan Am when the white employees were evacuated on the Philippine Clipper. The remaining 35 Chamorros responded by assisting the Navy and Marines in construction of the island’s defenses and were engaged in combat against the Japanese invaders.
After Wake surrendered, the Chamorros were sent on the Nita Maru initially to Yokohama, and then to a prisoner-of-war camp in Shanghai. Some later were sent to Korea and Sendai, Japan. Two died in captivity and the others incurred disabilities. At the end of the war, the survivors were repatriated back to Guam.
After the war, the survivors received two-thirds back pay from Pan Am and a lifetime pass on the airline. In 1982, they were designated the “Wake Island Defenders from Guam” and provided with veterans’ status by the Secretary of Defense. Today, a monument to their efforts is located on Wake, with an identical monument located at Skinner Plaza in Hagatna on their home island of Guam.
“Is This the Real Niagara?”
(See C. Watkins and M. Matusiak, pp. 36- 40, February 2001; G. Deutsch, p. 16, April 2001 Naval History)
Commander Tyrone G. Martin, U.S. Navy (Retired)
Mr. Deutsch seems to have missed the point of the original article, which I understood to be merely to raise questions— not provide definitive answers. His diatribe also repeats the “sins” he ascribes to Watkins and Matusiak (i.e., “weakness ... of arguments and the apparent paucity of original research”).
After noting that Commodore Oliver Hazard Perry recorded the rigs of the ships he had captured, thereby eliminating them as candidates, Deutsch admits that there yet remained more than one possibility. Deutsch also says that the U.S. ships were built hastily and were therefore of rougher construction than the Queen Charlotte— in part because she was a “prewar vessel.” But whose “prewar”? Britain had been at war for two decades and long had been building “rough.” Well-known British author Robert Gardner has made this very point, and I have seen reports on the subject from as late as the 1830s, some of which state specifically that the Americans generally finished their warships to a higher standard.
How much “additional effort” would it have taken to create another gunport in a ship, all of whose gunports were on the weather deck? Isaac Hull cut two in the transom of the Constitution at sea while being chased by a British squadron. And relying on contemporary paintings as authorities on ship details is a chancy practice at best. Even such preeminent artists such as Michel Felice Come at times “got it wrong.” And, finally, Deutsch asks what proof is there that two submerged ships might rot at different rates? Where is the proof that they might not? Is this not a weak argument?
If the authors have provided “absolutely no meaningful evidence . . . that the vessel raised in 1913 is British,” what meaningful evidence has Deutsch supplied that the vessel was not British? I believe the questions raised by Watkins and Matusiak still stand.
“‘Hell Roaring Mike’ on Trial”
(See D. Noble and T. Stobridge, pp. 34-39, April 2001 Naval History)
Commander Louis D. Chirillo, U.S. Navy (Retired)
I know there was at least one other “hell roaring” officer in the old Bear because of a story told to me by the late Captain Harold Wood, U.S. Coast Guard. As I recollect it, Captain Wood was a trainee in the Bear during a transit of the Northwest Passage, probably in the late 1920s. A walrus was butchered on the main deck aft and the remains, consisting of much blood and other matter, plugged the nearby scupper. Young Wood was one of those ordered to clear away the mess. In his eagerness to get the unpleasant job done, he quickly drove the handle end of a swab into the scupper to unstop it and was greatly relieved to see the bloody mess suddenly drain away. Soon after, there was roaring hell when it was discovered that trainee Wood had punctured the scupper, a large pipe elbow made of sheet lead. Instead of going over the side, the gore had drained onto the executive officer’s bunk.
“Historic Aircraft”
(See N. Polmar, pp. 12-14, April 2001 Naval History)
Donald G. Kloenne
In Norman Polmar’s article regarding the Chance-Vought VE-7, he mentions earlier shipborne aircraft, including the “Sopwith 1 Strutter.” I am sure that what is meant is the Sopwith 1-1/2 Strutter. This nickname was derived from the “W” arrangement of the struts supporting the center section of the top wing. The outboard struts of the “W” were about half the length of the outer interplane struts, giving rise to “1-1/2 Strutter.”
Officially, this was the Sopwith Type 9700, and it first flew in 1915 With a 110- horsepower Clerget rotary engine, producing a top speed of 106 mph at sea level. The type generally was referred to as the “Sopwith Two-Seater” by the Royal Flying Corps (RFC), going into service with the RFC and the Royal Naval Air Service in 1916. In naval service it was among the types selected for launching from “flying- off platforms” located atop the gun turrets of major warships.
Editor’s Note: Reader Kloenne is correct. The error is ours, not Mr. Polmar’s.
“Historic Fleets”
(See A. Baker, p. 8, February 2001 Naval History)
Robert A. Murphy Jr.
Although it was only toward the end of World War II in the Pacific, I served on the USS Arctic (AF-7), commissioned in 1921 and almost as old as the Bridge (AF-1). The Arctic spent a small amount of time early in the war in the Atlantic, but spent most of her life in the Pacific, from the Aleutians to New Zealand and as far out as Japan just as the war ended. I was on board her in New Orleans in April 1946, when we placed her out of commission. She also was recognized by having a new replenishment ship (AOE-8) named after her, and a group of old shipmates were fortunate enough to be at Norfolk when she was commissioned into the Navy. I suppose the real claim to fame of the Arctic was the fact that we rigged sails (two spankers and a jib) on her to help speed our return from Japan to Pearl Harbor and then San Diego. We had lost a significant number of blades from our steam turbine, which greatly reduced our speed going out to Japan.
“Henry Ford’s Sailors”
(See J. Williams and E. Logue, pp. 44-46, April 2001 Naval History)
Frederick H. Heuss
This article sure brought back some distant memories. I was part of a later bunch who went through the Naval Training School at Dearborn. Things had changed a bit from the period described in the article, but the general schooling had not. I went there from boot camp in Newport, Rhode Island, in February 1943. What a difference it was from New England; Detroit seemed the largest city in the world to me at the time. They took us by bus from the train station to the gates of the school. We mustered in and found that we would be going on seaman guard duty for a month before even starting school. The enlisted men were in barracks, still using their hammocks and living out of sea bags. I can remember standing guard duty on the banks of the Rouge in the coldest weather I ever had remembered. We even had a machine-gun emplacement—with no gun, however. The hammocks were replaced with double-decked bunks about halfway through the course.
When we started, we had the Henry Ford apprentice books to work from, and they covered all kinds of machinist work. The school also had a cooks and bakers class, so we all had good meals most of the time. As I recall, there also was an aviation machinist school available. We spent half a day in classes and the other half in the River Rouge plant working with basic machines or with an experienced civilian worker. A large number of the production machines were in a balcony overlooking the rolling mills—to see the red hot steel coming out of the furnace and being rolled down to size was a constant wonder to those of us who never had seen anything like that.
The steam theory and practice came along in the third month with a lot of classroom work on the layout and operation of marine steam installations. We rode back and forth to the plant in the old New York World’s Fair busses, passing by some of the huge slag heaps in the area. Every once in a while one of the heaps would have a big explosion. They told us not to worry, as some rain water had reached a hot spot and it would explode below the surface. The red-hot hopper cars full of slag would be pushed to the top of the pile and dump out molten slag.
One of the memorable moments was the tour through the large generating plant on the base. This had a five-story-high boiler and turbines that worked away producing the electricity to run the plant. We also had a day on Henry Ford’s yacht, a steam- powered boat with boiler and reciprocating engine that gave us a taste of the teal thing. The whole school was long on machine tool work, but short on the actual practice of marine steam plants.
Graduation day was a big production, and as I recall old Henry made it to the event. There was more brass than many of us ever had seen, even with a band. I was one of the fortunate ones who graduated near the top of the class, so I got the chance to go for another two months at diesel school. With new rates of firemen first class, we were something.
The school again was in the plant, where they had set up a series of diesel engines for us to work on, troubleshooting some ill that an instructor came up with to make us think a bit. School now was in a fancy brick building near the gate, and we marched to everything, even training classes. We were well grounded in basic theory, enough to give us a real head start on board ship. The training there prepared me for work as a motor machinst’s mate second class, and finally as a first class petty officer in charge of the steaming watch on a destroyer escort.
It was a good start to a long career in machine work; I ended up in a General Electric plant here in New Hampshire. One of the sad things that goes with the past is that we never struck up any long- lasting friendships, and the only memorabilia that I have are the certificates of completion from the schools and some fond memories of liberty in Detroit and other nearby cities.
Editor’s Note: Our apologies to Vice Admiral Williams and Mr. Lague; their portraits were switched on pages 45 and 46.
“LST Means Nostalgia”
(See P. Stillwell, p. 4, April 2001 Naval History)
“Old Salts Bring Old Ship Home”
(See “Naval History News,” pp. 52-53, April 2001 Naval History)
Fred Tannenbaum
Bravo Zulu to the crew of the LST-325 and their heroic effort to save one of these unique ships. They demonstrated not only pluck, but healthy doses of chutzpah and testicular fortitude as well. They certainly were fortunate that winter seas that could have doomed their voyage chose to look the other way.
While wishing them Godspeed throughout their voyage, though, I wondered what plans are in place for the ship once she reached U.S. waters. My concern has not waned, as I have yet to hear of the LST’s ultimate fate. It is great these youngsters were able to bring this beloved ship home. It does not appear, however, that any comprehensive long-range plan for the ship’s preservation was in place before the voyage began, and that worries me. In the absence of a realistic plan to display or tour her, I fear she could suffer a fate similar to the light carrier Cabot (CVL-28), which is being scrapped. God forbid it should happen, but it would mean a historic treasure and the efforts to save her would be lost. Any plans need to be publicized.
LSTs are the last large class of World War II warships to join the museum community. The first concrete efforts to preserve one, the LST-393, started recently in Muskegon, Michigan. The return of the LST'325 furthers this noble endeavor.
“‘What I Say, I Mean”’
(See J. Foss, pp. 22-24, April 2001 Naval History)
Thomas P. Powers
I concur fully with General Foss’s picture of Admiral William F. Halsey. I never met the admiral, but he was to become a part of my life forever. It all transpired while I was recuperating from a head operation at the Philadelphia Naval Hospital in late June 1946. I am sorry I cannot remember the commander who operated on me; he was the best. I was in a large ward with sailors who were much worse off than I. Whenever the doctor came in, I would pester him to let me go home to Concord, New Hampshire, for a weekend. The answer always was no. I could see, hear, and eat, but the rest of my head was covered with bandages.
One day, a captain of the line came into the ward and ordered all the patients to stand up. When we did so he told us we would be marching in a parade on the weekend to honor Admiral Halsey. Later, the doctor came in and I told him I would sue him if he did not let me go home for the weekend. He said, “You can’t sue me.” Then I told him that the captain had ordered us to march. “You must be kidding,” he said incredulously. All the other patients verified my story. The doctor asked us what the captain looked like and we described him and his ribbons, as we did not know his name. The doctor left and returned a few hours later to tell me I was not going home, but we would not be marching in the parade, either.
He had talked to Admiral Halsey and told him the story. The admiral’s response was to order the captain back to the Pacific immediately.
Merlin Dorfman
As much as I respect Joe Foss for his wartime accomplishments, I am very disappointed at his final comments. He says “all of these people are here compliments of the gun . . . from the Revolution to the present.” We also are here compliments of artillery and tanks, battleships and aircraft carriers, fighter aircraft and bombers, and, arguably, nuclear weapons. Is he in favor of unrestricted private ownership of those as well? He also equates lack of privately owned firearms to missing sexual organs. I find the analogy instructive as to the mindset of this past president of the National RifleAssociation.
“Day of Deceit”
(See M. Mandeles, pp. 66-67, June 2000; R. Richards, p. 18, October 2000; C. Pavel, pp. 16-17, December 2000; L. Jewell, pp. 14-15, February 2001; C. Pavel, pp. 18-19, April 2001 Naval History)
Robert C. Whitten
The debate concerning the responsibility for the success of the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor has been going on for many years. One of the hypotheses that will not die is the conspiracy theory that the Roosevelt administration had advance warning and deliberately hid the knowledge of the attack from the public to bring the United States into the war. The latest suggestion of this old theory comes from Robert Stinnett’s Day of Deceit, although the author is somewhat circumspect in his accusations. A conspiracy is quite unlikely to succeed as a reasonable explanation simply because it is almost impossible to ensure absolute secrecy over an extended period.
Another explanation revolves around incompetence and chaos in the nation’s capital. The situation in Washington in the fall of 1941 was quite disorganized. Superimposed on this state of affairs was a very weak link in the Navy Department chain, the newly promoted Rear Admiral Richmond Kelly “Terrible” Turner, one of the most unpleasant and irascible officers ever to wear a Navy uniform. Turner was smart, even brilliant, and he never let anyone forget it. I was not fully aware of the significance of Turner’s character until I reread (after 40 years) Marine'General H. M. Smith’s memoirs, Coral and Brass. In this book, Smith recounted his struggles with Turner for adequate naval gunfire support during amphibious operations. The latter refused on the ground that the battleships might be needed to fight the Japanese Navy when it came out; in any case, Turner thought he knew better than Smith did.
Turner was the head of the War Plans Division of the Navy Department at the end of 1941. When he took over, intelligence analysis was the province of the Office of Naval Intelligence, a very competent organization and quite superior to its Army counterpart. Turner persuaded the rather weak-willed Chief of Naval Operations, Admiral Harold Stark, to transfer analysis to him. From then on the Office of Naval Intelligence simply collected and disseminated intelligence information. When the information that might have led to the details of the attack was assembled, it was sent to Turner. Apparently, he did almost nothing with it and the opportunity to at least blunt the attack was lost. Turner went on to four stars by the end of the war. Part of the recent legislation recommending the restoration of the ranks of Admiral Husband Kimmel and Lieutenant General Walter Short should have contained a provision reducing Turner’s rank to captain. But then maybe such an action would be like exhuming Cromwell and hanging the corpse.
“The Log of Matthew Roving”
(See D. Wallace, pp. 32-36, October 2000; M. Penilla, p. 6, December 2000; C. Davis, p. 13, February 2001; J. Meehan, pp. 17-18, April 2001 Naval History)
Stephen Howarth
In episode four, set in 1772, Matthew “hauled down the Union Jack, [and] rehoisted it upside-down in the universal signal of distress.” A little later, the (presumably British) Marine alongside shouts, “Fever? Krikey! Shove off!”
I don’t think so. First, the flag of the United Kingdom, the Union Jack (correctly, the Union Flag), is not displayed by British warships at sea, but only in harbor, when it is displayed on the jackstaff at the bow. Nor it is normally displayed by British merchant ships at all (such as Matthew’s Falmouth packet). The National Maritime Museum at Greenwich, London, contains a picture of an East Indiaman (the True Briton, which made four round voyages in 1760-1769, a period close to Matthew’s) apparently under way and wearing a Union Flag at the bow, but this is very unusual. Second, the modern Union Jack is composed of the three overlaid crosses of England (St. George), Scotland (St. Andrew), and Ireland (St. Patrick). The last is slightly offset from center, so it is possible—but to an unfamiliar eye difficult—to tell if it is upside-down. Ireland, however, only became part of the United Kingdom with the 1800 Act of Union, effective 1 January 1801. Before that date (i.e., in Matthew’s time), the Union Flag was symmetrical and looked the same either way, up or down. When hoisting the “universal sign of distress,” Matthew could have been using only an ensign (probably, but not at that time necessarily, the red one) with the Union Flag in the upper corner. If upside-down, the difference is seen easily.
As for “krikey,” the exclamation is spelled “crikey” (a euphemistic alteration of “Christ”), and although it may have been in spoken use as early as 1772, it first was used in writing in 1848—76 years after Matthew’s frightened Marine.
“Salty Talk”
(See T. Martin, p. 57, April 2001 Naval History)
James D. Ferguson
I take serious issue with Commander Martin’s feature regarding the role of “loggerheads”; I believe he is seriously off beam.
Having actually caulked and paid more than a few seams in my time, I reckon the loggerhead was the metal “ball on a pole" that was heated and then put into the tar or whatever to keep it at the required temperature. Some folks call this item the “loggerheat” and like me suggest it was used to ensure the minimum of potential for a fire. The tar or pitch (what a lovely smell) was poured from a ladle of suitable size with an open spout and then scraped off and the deck concerned made over to the sailors for holystoning.
Obviously, a well-heated loggerhead was not the thing to have ’round the ears in a dispute.