FOREWORD
This article was written in the fall of 1941. On December 7, 1941 (December 8 by our time), the author was making his last trip in command of the Burrows. The Burrows, loaded with freight and passengers and towing a heavily laden 1,000-ton steel barge, was headed for and fairly close to Wake when the news of the attack on Pearl Harbor was received. We were ordered to return to Pearl, delivering the barge en route at Johnston Island. After bucking headwinds and heavy seas for a week at an average speed of 5.5 knots, the barge was delivered safely and a large number of evacuees were taken on board. While working the barge in close enough to the lagoon entrance so that the only little tug available could handle it in the prevailing wind and sea, we were unfortunate enough to bend our rudder on an uncharted coral head.
While at anchor that night preparatory to delivering stores at dawn, a Japanese cruiser and destroyer started shelling the island. A small oil tank on the beach was soon set on fire and in its glare we could see “overs” falling all around us. Being hopelessly outranged and outgunned, there appeared to be but one thing to do and we did it as best our ancient Diesels and bent rudder would permit. Our subsequent tactics cannot now be detailed. Suffice it to say that we escaped and, after learning that Johnston had suffered no personnel casualties and had the situation well in hand, we headed for Pearl arriving there safely on December 19, 1941.
The epic story of Wake subsequent to December 7 speaks so magnificently for itself that it would be presumptuous of the author to attempt in mere words a tribute to its defenders—Navy, Marine, and civilian. Suffice it to say that after the Nips have been blasted into ignominious oblivion, he would count it the greatest privilege of a lifetime to carry to Wake Commander Cunningham, Lieutenant Colonel Devereaux, and Dan Teters, General Superintendent, as a pioneer party to raise Old Glory once more over the consecrated ground of that little island where they and their compatriots wrote in words of fire an imperishable page in American history
IN days of old before the advent of commissions on geographic place names and the like, small oceanic islets frequently acquired their titles in a most haphazard fashion. All too often the cognomen was conferred grimly and involuntarily in storm and darkness as some luckless vessel crashed suddenly on a lurking reef and left her bones and her name to her nemesis. If discovered otherwise the chances were excellent that the find would be named for:
- A saint if the discoverer were Spanish or Portuguese.
- An English statesman or politician if located by a subject of His Britannic Majesty.
- The master, his ship, or his home town if sighted by a New England whaler.
- The buxom barmaid at the Crown and Anchor, the ship’s cat, or the mate’s great aunt on his mother’s side in the case of sundry other gentry who prowled the seas.
Since navigational instruments and methods were crude and hydrographic information, until well into the nineteenth century, was not only not interchanged freely between nations but usually guarded jealously for military and commercial reasons, any given island might and generally did acquire a variety of names and alleged positions in the course of a century or so. Thus the small atoll now known as Wake, 2,100 miles to the westward of Hawaii, has borne its full share since it was first sighted by Europeans on the evening of October 2, 1568, from the decks of the Spanish galleons Los Reyes and Todos Santos under command of Alvara de Mendanas. Being badly in need of food and water—a chronic condition of seafaring in those days—the high-pooped wanderers stood off and on through the night only to sail away next day when they discovered that a landing was not feasible. Mendanas determined the latitude quite accurately and named the atoll “San Francisco.” His longitude was, understandably, considerably in error. In view of Wake’s now known isolation, this probably accounts for a later Spanish chart based upon other voyages, showing two other islands in the general area. One was shown as “Lamisa” (Take Care) and the other as “Discierta” (Desert).
The English trading schooner Prince William Henry, Captain Samuel Wake, touched at the island in 1796 and shortly thereafter it was visited by the Halcyon, also under British colors. The latter was apparently unaware of Captain Wake’s visit and English map-makers consequently named the atoll “Halcyon.” By 1828 it had been known variously as Wake’s Island, Waker’s, Weeks, Wreck, Helsion, and Wilson in addition to the aforementioned names. To add a little Gallic spice the French dubbed it “Ecueil.” Lieutenant Wilkes’ arrival in the U.S.S. Vincennes, December 20, 1840, constituted the American Navy’s first visit to the atoll. His naturalist, Titian Peale (for whom Peale Island of the atoll was subsequently named) landed with others and secured a variety of specimens.
Some authorities maintained that the atoll disappeared beneath the waves from time to time but it was indubitably projecting on the night of March 5, 1866, when the German bark Libelle, bound from Honolulu to Hongkong, crashed on the northeast side in a storm. Her passengers and crew remained on the disintegrating wreck for three days unable to land because of the surf. When all hands had finally got ashore it was only to find that the island held no fresh water. Spurred on by this specter, the next three weeks were spent in reconditioning and outfitting two small boats. Then having cached $300,000 in specie on the island, the boats headed for Guam, 1,400 miles to the southwest- ward. Mme. Anna Bishop, a famous singer of the day, shared the tiny 22-foot longboat with 21 others. During the 18 long days it took them to reach Guam, she is reported to have kept up spirits and morale by her singing—this despite the fact that she was not a young woman and had lost everything she owned in the wreck. No trace was ever found of the small gig which carried Captain Tobias, four of the crew, and three Chinese passengers. A vessel dispatched by the Spanish Governor of Guam later recovered the treasure. Occasionally brass fittings and lignum-vitae deadeyes are recovered from the general area of the wreck while a rusted, old-fashioned anchor lying in the Panair compound perpetuates the memory of the ill-fated Libelle.
Although the island was occasionally sighted and visited, the next event of importance in its history occurred on July 4, 1898, when the transports carrying the Second Detachment of the Philippine Expeditionary Force, commanded by General F. V. Greene, paused long enough for a landing to be made and the Stars and Stripes raised. Formal possession for the United States was taken on January 17 1899, when Wake’s possible value as a site for a cable station on the projected Pacific cable led to its annexation by Commander Edward D. Taussig (father of Rear Admiral J. K. Taussig) in command of the U.S.S. Bennington. When Midway was finally chosen in preference to Wake, the latter again dropped into comparative obscurity. Transports passing there had orders to circle the island and sound their whistles on the off-chance that castaways would hear the welcome sound and occasionally a landing was made as when in December, 1906, General (then Captain) John J. Pershing went ashore and hoisted a small American flag.
In 1922 the U.S.S. Beaver made the first comprehensive survey of the atoll and in 1923 the U.S.S. Tanager spent two weeks there with a scientific expedition sponsored jointly by Yale and the Bishop Museum. The land area was found to comprise about 2,600 acres with a maximum elevation of about 23 feet. As may be seen from a chart, the three islands form a rough “V” with its axis lying in a northwest-southeast direction. They, with the western barrier reef, enclose a shallow lagoon which is about three miles long and one and a half wide. In passing it should be noted that the addition of the names “Peale” and “Wilkes” came about as an aftermath to the Beaver's survey. The whole atoll rises most abruptly from depths of 2,000 fathoms. In fact when taking soundings around it one can almost credit the fanciful story that it stands like a gigantic toadstool on a slender stem and a favorite pastime is to convince timid visitors that they can actually feel it shake under the impact of the never-ending surf pounding on the barrier reef.
In 1934 the growing importance of transoceanic aviation and the strategic value of Wake as an aviation stepping stone to the Far East resulted in jurisdiction over the islands being awarded to the Navy Department. In 1935 additional survey work was done by the U.S.S. Nitro. In May of that year Panair, after arduous labor, established a hotel and base on Peale Island and transpacific aviation became a reality. As a result of the exhaustive report of the Board headed by Rear Admiral Arthur J. Hepburn, U. S. Navy, formerly Commander in Chief of the United States Fleet, Wake was one of the spots recommended for development in the far-flung line of projected air and submarine bases stretching from the Aleutians to American Samoa which, if they are completed, may add immeasurably to our power to control the Pacific.
Coral reefs grow naturally but air bases do not. And in eons past the industrious little polyp was not at all co-operative regarding the inclusion of natural harbors in the atolls which rose slowly above the waves to crown what were probably ancient volcanoes. Hence considerable rearranging of local topography is generally necessary before an atoll can blossom out as a full-fledged air base. All of which leads us to Pier 31-A, Honolulu, the day after Christmas, 1940, and to my ship, the U.S.S. William Ward Burrows, formerly the Grace Line motorship Santa Rita and now known variously as the “Willie B.,” the “Weary Willie” and the “Dierdorff Maru.” The ship is named for Lieutenant Colonel William Ward Burrows, a veteran of the Revolutionary War and the peppery first Commandant of the Marine Corps, 1800-04. She had orders to carry a pioneer party of 80 men and 2,000 tons of equipment to start the conversion of Wake into a naval air station.
All through the holiday season stevedores had been cramming cargo down the Burrow's four hatches—trucks, tractors, road scrapers and road rollers, cement and cement mixers, lighting plants, air compressors, stoves, refrigerators, boilers, distilling plants, steel, lumber, dynamite, gasoline, lubricating oil, beans, bacon, popcorn, cigarettes, chewing gum, and candy—everything needed to set up a self-sustaining community for eighty men and to pave the way for hundreds more and thousands of tons of building materials. The holds were now full and the final lashings were being placed on the towering deckload. Number One hatch was buried beneath a load of Diesel oil drums. Across Number Two lay the artillery lighter YCK-1 filched from the Marines and already a veteran of the Johnston and Midway Island jobs. On top of it rested the 36-foot motor sampan Hopei (Hawaiian for “Hurry Up”) in a timber cradle. Number Three hatch bore a load of “reefers”—large, portable, cold-storage boxes each with its own refrigerating unit developed especially for the island base projects. Grimly flanking the “reefers” was a smaller but similar mortuary box which one of our unregenerate passengers had already insisted would constitute his sleeping quarters at Wake when the weather got warm. Across Number Four lay two small steel pontoons each of 5-ton capacity. Because of the arrangement whereby they could be joined and used as one they were known as the “Siamese Twins.”
Astern but already coupled to our towline lay the 40'X100' wooden barge “Wake No. 1.” On its deck were secured an 80-ton Diesel crane on caterpillar treads, two heavy “bulldozers” or scrapers, a large tractor, two Diesel-driven 3-drum hoists and two 6,000-pound anchors with their mooring buoys and chains. To warn of leakage an amber-colored traffic light had been set on top of the crane cab and connected through a float-operated switch in the hold to a storage battery. Her running lights were also connected to storage batteries. Ahead of us lay the 55-foot Diesel tug Pioneer manned by a crew of two. Even her deck was submerged beneath an icebox, water-breakers, and a life raft. Looking over the scene I felt a sense of kinship with old Captain Noah of the Begat, Begat and Ararat Line.
The pioneer party had been checked off and were coming aboard—some laden with leis, some with hang-overs and some with both. On the pier below wives and sweethearts craned their heads upward wondering uncomfortably what next to say. “Main engines stand by to answer bells!—Slack all lines!—Let go all lines!—Port engine ahead slow!” a hurried wave to the family (some day someone should write a fitting tribute to Navy wives) and the expedition was under way.
Lacking a towing engine we planned to tow with 40 fathoms of our 1¼-inch stern anchor chain, 80 fathoms of 15-inch Manila and a 15-fathom shot of 2-inch chain at the barge’s bridle. For leaving the harbor most of the Manila was faked down clear for running on the bow of the barge and stopped off with 8-inch. Once clear of the 100-fathom curve, the Manila was streamed, and the anchor chain veered. A second towline comprising 60 fathoms of 8-inch Manila having been passed from our port quarter chock to the starboard bow of the Pioneer, speed was picked up slowly as we answered the three farewell blasts of the assisting yard tug. Then as the cavalcade headed into the sunset, Diamond Head dropped slowly astern.
As the pioneer party acquired their sea legs, we became better acquainted with them and a fine crowd they were—each man an expert in his line. Dan Teters, General Superintendent, Lieutenant Harold Butzine of the Civil Engineer Corps, who had spent the preceding summer at Wake with a survey party, Pete Russel, Harry Olsen, John Polak, and the rest. They had worked at Boulder, Bonneville, Grand Coulee, and a hundred other places. Sitting around in the wardroom yarning, we often had to ask them to translate their rich and racy technical slang into comprehensible terms as they recounted their experiences in revising the topography of the United States. It soon became evident that we could count both upon their full cooperation and their warm friendship.
Plugging along with a following trade wind and sea, the ship and the barge made good weather of it but the tug was as lively as a cork. Her crew had to sleep alongside the engine and were soon seasick. Her bilge pump clogged and her sea-phone went out of commission. Despite the steep sea we had to bring her alongside two or three times to shift crews and clear up her troubles.
New Year’s Eve saw us well toward the International Date Line. At midnight the traditional sixteen bells were struck—eight for the old year and eight for the new. “Shag” Cullen, the Chief Engineer and former Navy football star, had the mid-watch. Vying with Paymaster Helfrich for the post of poet-laureate of the Burrows, Cullen scored a touchdown by logging the first watch of the New Year as follows:
Jan. 1, 1941, 0000-0400.
Heigh Ho! Heigh Ho! It’s out to Wake we go.
Heigh Ho! Heigh Ho! With a tug and a barge in tow.
From Honolulu we took our start.
With the hope the towlines wouldn’t part.
The course we steer is two six eight.
The speed is slow so we’ll be late.
Number Two boiler is in use
While Number One and Four generators furnish juice.
The sea is rough; the sky is clear.
So to one and all—“A Happy New Year.”
We had just finished luncheon on New Year’s day and all hands in the wardroom had settled back for a good session of “Now when I was in the old Tuscarora,” when the bridge messenger—a lad from way down South—dashed in to announce breathlessly, “Sir! The barge’s done busted loose!” There she lay broadside to the swells, with 80 fathoms of 15-inch Manila and an indeterminate length of chain hanging straight down. Stopping the engines, we cast off the tug to fend for herself, worked up to windward and sent a party of our own and contractor’s men to the barge in a motor whaleboat. Approaching gingerly to leeward they finally managed to make her bobbing deck. Starting the hoists, the slow and laborious task was begun of heaving in the towline 6 or 8 fathoms at a fleet. It was late in the afternoon ere the “bitter end” came in view and we were ready to couple up. Backing the Burrows up into the wind and sea until her stern was abreast the barge, a line was shot to the latter. Using this as a messenger, heavier lines were worked across until at length the hawser had been passed. About dusk the tow had been made up again, the whaleboat hoisted in, the tug put on her leash, and the voyage resumed. Apparently the swivel had jammed allowing the stern anchor chain to kink when we stopped to care for the Pioneer and this resulted in a sheared connecting link—an wholly unexpected casualty.
All went well until the succeeding Sunday morning about 0600 when I was awakened by the unwelcome report that the barge was again loose. The sea having moderated, we used the Pioneer to transfer the working party. Finding that another connecting link had sheared, these were all replaced with shackles before the tow was again made up. About noon we were under way once more with Lieutenant Commander McQuiston, the Executive Officer, vowing that not again on that trip would he write “Holiday Routine” in the morning orders, as the barge invariably misinterpreted these instructions.
Our first view of Wake, through intermittent rain squalls on the late afternoon of January 9, was not a reassuring one. Skirting the low-lying shoreline with its forbidding and unbroken fringe of white surf, it could readily be seen that a landing would have to be deferred. We hove to off the island that night, drifting for about 15 miles, and raised it again next morning under clearing skies. A motor whaleboat was launched and, with the rest of the reconnaissance party, I clambered into it. Towing a skiff it headed for the southeast end of Wilkes Island where Panair had landed their equipment—a job for which we acquired a great and increasing respect as our own progressed. Until the two typhoons which swept Wake in the fall of 1940, Panair had maintained there a floating pier of sorts buoyed by gasoline drums, and a marine railway on which their boats could be hauled out in the face of threatening weather. Off the cove—a shallow, boulder-studded break in the reef about 30 feet wide—the reconnaissance party transferred to the skiff, two or three at a time, and managed to gain the shore.
The beach head and adjacent area were a sorry looking sight. All of Panair’s equipment had been swept away and the beach was a tangled rat’s nest of steel rails, wire cable, timbers, coral boulders, driftwood and debris of all sorts. High up on the shore line lay the wreck of a fine, new Panair boat, the battered remnants of their float and the wooden lighter which they had used in handling supplies. Throughout the scrub trees, which had been swept bare of leaves by the gale, lay several hundred drums of aviation gasoline plentifully interspersed with sticks of “mushy” dynamite from what had been the Panair powder house. One of our first tasks was to break up this unholy alliance by collecting all of the visible sticks and carrying them gently down the beach where they were exploded. Jack Bonami, the Panair manager, greeted us soon after we landed and offered the use of their one small tractor which was even then coughing asthmatically around the area in an effort to bring some order out of the chaos.
The major task facing us was to widen and deepen the landing cove and to remove outlying boulders and coral heads so that the barge with its essential cargo could be beached safely. Unless and until the big crane had been landed, many of the other heavy and important lifts could not be put ashore. Should we be so unfortunate as to lose the barge, the expedition would be practically stymied. Returning to the ship we went into a huddle.
The morning of January 11 brought a fairly calm sea and sunny skies. We launched the Hopei and sent her to the beach with a 49-man working party to clear the landing area and assist otherwise. Then came the ticklish job of hoisting out the artillery lighter. Resembling a shallow box with one end knocked out, it is about 20 feet wide and 40 long. Slowly the deck force inched it over the side with steadying lines held taut to prevent its crashing into the ship’s side as she rolled in the swell. Once safely in the water, they held it alongside while an air compressor and other equipment were lowered into it. A mooring buoy floated near its open end. The 15 fathoms of chain which connected this to the 3,000-pound anchor dangling from a davit over the stern was faked down in the bottom of the lighter. The Pioneer then towed it inshore to a point just clear of the breakers and abreast of the break in the reef. Here the anchor was tripped, the buoy planted and the lighter moored. Using skiffs, air hoses from the compressor were run in through the surf to the beach. After jack-hammers and dynamite had been landed, the work of drilling and blasting commenced. Very intriguing work that —running dynamite and caps through the surf in a skiff. (This was my observation, not my experience.) Working in water up to their shoulders and often knocked down by the waves, the drillers and powder men turned to. The water soon became a milky white from the coral silt and obstructions could only be located by the touch system.
That day a report came in indicating that a typhoon was brewing between Wake and Guam and the efforts to prepare the beaching area were redoubled as the prospect of riding out a typhoon with a heavily and valuably laden barge and a small tug in tow was not attractive. Fortunately the report proved to be erroneous. A survey late that afternoon indicated that with luck, the beaching could be attempted at high tide the following afternoon, Sunday, January 12. Meanwhile the ship’s boats had managed to land sufficient food, water, and material to permit setting up a temporary camp on the beach. This enabled the work to go on without interruption night and day.
At 0845 next morning the Burrows cast off her unwieldy tow and the Pioneer towed it inshore to a point about 300 feet off the landing area. Here two 6,000-pound anchors with their buoys were kicked overboard, one on either side of the entrance to the little cove. Two wire cables from her Diesel hoists were led each to a buoy while two more were run ashore and shackled to “deadmen” planted on the beach. This held her at all four corners pointed approximately at right angles to the beach. Although the tidal range at Wake is only about a foot and a half, inches counted in beaching the barge and unless we could be ready by high tide about 3:30 that afternoon, the operation would have to be postponed another day. A couple of dynamite charges failed to explode and had to be laboriously rewired. Two or three recalcitrant boulders offshore refused to disintegrate properly under “bulldozing” shots, in which the dynamite is laid on top of the obstruction, held down by sand bags, and fired. A final blast! Was it successful? The deadline had already passed and there was no time to take soundings or allow the water to clear. So at the suggestion of and led by Lieutenant Butzine, about 15 men joined hands at the water’s edge and waded out into the turgid, milky surf sweeping with their feet for obstructions. Wading until they were up to their necks and several had been knocked down by the swells, the human fathometers reported that the bottom seemed reasonably clear. The barge was accordingly signaled to head in. She moved slowly toward the beach, her Diesel hoists roaring, and then grounded about 50 feet offshore—too far out by a disheartening 40 feet. This did not stop Harry Olsen who was directing the operation. The two heavy “bulldozers” which were forward were backed aft along her deck and this changed the trim sufficiently so that with the next heave of the hoists, she grounded about 10 feet from the water’s edge with her bow hanging about 8 feet above the low-lying beach head, exactly where we wanted her.
Ensued then one of the prettiest displays of teamwork that I have ever witnessed. Scarcely had the barge touched than “Scotty” McLennan, the crane operator (and an artist at it) hooked onto a ramp on the deck and deftly dropped it into place to bridge the gap between the bow and the beach. This was rapidly secured in place and one after another, the tractor and the two “bulldozers” chugged forward, teetered precariously on the brink of the ramp and then scuttled with sputtering exhausts down its steep incline.
The ramp was not strong enough and lay at too steep an angle to permit the 80-ton crane traversing it safely. Hence as soon as the second “bulldozer” had been landed, the tractor darted in to snake it up the beach and out of the way. Then with perfect co-ordination the two “cat-skinners” (the title is a mechanization of the old Army term “mule-skinner”), started to push up with the “bulldozers” a gently sloping fill of coral rock and rubble between the bow of the barge and the beach. One would rush up to the brink pushing a load before its scraper while the other backed up the beach to fill up. Back and forth they roared clearing each other and missing toppling over into the water apparently by inches. It was a sight to delight the honest heart of Alexander Botts of Earthworm Tractor fame. Night came and the work continued under their headlights and a full moon. At length the fill was completed. Working like a gigantic elephant the crane hastily paved it with 8 by 12 timbers laid athwartships. These had been loaded on the barge for the purpose. Finally about nine-thirty while we watched breathlessly, the crane inched its way off of the barge. The crossties sank into the coral but the fill held up and with engines snorting and his boomlight and the headlights of the “bulldozers” garishly illuminating the scene, “Scotty” drove her ashore as all hands cheered through sunburned lips.
No sooner had the crane been landed than the “bulldozers” scuttled up the beach like giant crabs, and by next morning had filled in a combined dike and roadway across the shallow channel between Wilkes and Wake, cleared a roadway to the camp site, and started to clear the site itself.
We backed the barge off next morning and moored her offshore apparently none the worse for her beaching. The prospect of repeatedly running heavy wire lines through the surf, the very narrow quarters and the impossibility of reaching most of her deck area with the crane, indicated that she could not be used efficiently in unloading the ship’s cargo. Hence this task fell to the artillery lighter, the two 40-foot motor launches, and the pontoons. So strong was the swell and current and so close the quarters in the cove, that boats could not be run directly into the beach without dire danger of being thrown on the jagged reef to leeward. Accordingly we led a wire span over sheer legs on shore to an offshore buoy where the boats stopped, passed bow and stem “lizard” lines around the wire, and then slid in guided by it until the boom of the crane could plumb them. In spite of this precaution the “belly” of the wire plus green crews resulted in both motor launches hitting the reef during the next few days and bilging themselves. Fortunately we were able to get them off and to control the water with the pumps until they returned to the ship and were hoisted in for emergency repairs. The Hopei, not to be outdone, hit so hard that she had to be lifted off with a crane. Finally, to lessen the sag of the wire and to provide a working platform, the hastily repaired Panair wooden lighter was pressed into service at the buoy.
The boats, tugs, and lighters shuttled busily from daylight until dark between the ship drifting offshore and the beach. As the loads were lifted from them with the crane, these were dropped on waiting trucks which had been landed via artillery lighter early in the show. Hence at no time was there any appreciable congestion at the landing. This orderly flow of materials which had been loaded and were landed in the order of their necessity, greatly facilitated the building of the camp and the whole project. In fact as one who has viewed it closely but from the sidelines, I honestly believe that the whole Wake project has been characterized by careful and intelligent planning, orderly handling of materials and topnotch utilization of the same. But to get back to the story. In the course of the unloading, one lumber truck had received the last of three heavy slingloads, whereupon the driver climbed into the cab and let in the clutch. The beach was rather steep and the load too far aft. The truck’s front end promptly rose about 8 feet in the air until the projecting load struck the beach and halted its ascent. I shall not soon forget the driver’s surprised and injured look as he gazed unbelievingly first at the hood and then at his contrary cargo. At night the crane was hooked up as a drag-line outfit and spent the hours of darkness widening and deepening the landing area.
Unloading cargo offshore had its moments as the ship rolled and pitched in the swell. On January 16, a load of steel beams slipped out of its slings and plummeted toward the pontoon alongside. Our two men on it had just time to dive overboard as one length drove through the pontoon, which had to be beached for repairs after the swimmers had nonchalantly clambered aboard again. Later in our stay the guy to Number Three boom parted allowing it and its load to swing wildly across the deck. The boom was slightly bent but by great good fortune no one was struck or knocked down the hatch. Then too the ship drifted rapidly offshore while boats and lighters were alongside and the engines could not be used. This resulted in long, slow, choppy runs for the floating equipment. The prevailing inshore set of the current and the narrowness of the coral shelf before it dropped off to 2,000 fathoms, practically precluded riding to a single anchor. I had talked over this possibility with two merchant masters who had delivered cargo for Panair and both testified that this was a splendid way either to lose an anchor if it fouled in the coral heads or to the pull the anchor windlass out by the roots if the hook suddenly dragged off the shelf—all this providing the stern had not already swung in and hit the reef. Still, cargo operations would be greatly expedited were we able to “stay put.”
With a view to mooring or at least determining what gear was necessary, I spent several days being paddled around the area in a skiff, looking at the bottom and making an estimate of the situation.
After much juggling of a small cardboard “stand-in” for the “Willie B.” over our somewhat sketchy blueprint of the area, it appeared that by setting one more anchor and buoy near the edge of the shelf, utilizing the buoys we had already planted and one of our own anchors, mooring bow and stern was feasible although the quarters were far too close for comfort. Having sacrificed the stern anchor chain to the cause and set the required anchor from the invaluable YCK-1, we circled slowly next morning to approach the cove on an easterly heading. Our Diesels are of a somewhat ancient vintage and had on occasions now happily past shown decided touches of temperament when maneuvering. At any rate, as we slid in toward the reef, my eyes were watching the brown and green patches which marked the coral heads while my mind reviewed the several instances when the engines had failed to back—notably the one on our maiden voyage when, in shaking the dust of Weehawken from our feet, we had nudged a ferry in her slip—rather gently I thought—but were thereafter accused by her of everything from mayhem to seduction. However the Burmeisters were on their good behavior and we brought up safely with about 150 feet of good water between us and the nearest coral head—a greenish fellow which leered malevolently at us from broad on the port bow. Lines were quickly led out fore and aft and brought back on deck for easy slipping. Axes stood handy by them in case of a jam, while the bridge and engine-room were kept fully manned. The starboard anchor was backed out and the Pioneer kept close at hand to aid us if necessary in getting clear. In order to gain every possible foot of sea room, we secured the buoy from the offshore anchor on our port or inshore side abreast the after well-deck with its chain leading under the ship. Insofar as I know this method is not described in any standard work on seamanship, but neither is the task of mooring and unloading alongside a coral reef. However, it worked satisfactorily.
Although not more than a ship’s length from the surf and so close in that an incoming Clipper captain excitedly asked what ship was aground when he landed, I firmly believe that we would have ridden there safely had the allegedly prevailing northeast wind done any prevailing. After puffing uncertainly from all directions for three days, it finally decided to annoy us by hauling to the southwestward, thus putting us on a lee shore. As the breeze freshened a swell began to build up in the cove and nothing remained but to slip and run for it on the afternoon of January 22. Our plans for clearing worked out smoothly. Lines were slipped as the port or inshore engine backed smartly with hardover rudder to throw the stern away from the reef and up into the wind. The starboard anchor was dragged at short stay to prevent the bow from falling off inshore. Without being forced to set any speed record, we were well clear in about nine minutes from the time word had been passed.
On the night of January 23, the small and waterlogged Panair lighter fetched adrift and disappeared. When possible to resume unloading on January 25, barge Wake No. 1 was moored off the landing and a wire cable from one of her hoists shackled to a similar cable from a tractor hoist on the beach. This proved the ideal arrangement for handling floating equipment. Running alongside of the barge, each unit secured its bow and stem lines to the in-haul-outhaul line—the beach hoist heaving in while that on the barge veered at the same rate thus keeping the line taut. Coming out the process was reversed. By now the show ran quite smoothly. Our crew manned the boats, pontoons, and lighter and did the stevedoring. Despite this hard and dangerous work, they demonstrated once more the adaptability and versatility of the American bluejacket. They let their beards grow and uniform regulations were forgotten. They slept and ate when and where they could. But the cargo was being landed steadily and in good condition.
On shore the pioneer party did not miss a stroke either. By January 18 the boiler and distilling plant were operating as the Base Camp rapidly took shape. The 20th saw the lighting plant in commission. Water tanks were erected and a radio station established. The ubiquitous “bulldozers” had pushed “Wilshire Boulevard” as far around the island as “Malibu Beach.” By January 27, with the mess-hall and galley completed, the camp was fully self-supporting and running harmoniously.
The last sling load of cargo went overside into a waiting motor launch about eleven on the night of January 28 as a weary gang climbed out of the hold. Facing threatening weather, we had worked right through to clear before it got worse. I was considerably worried and circled toward the island as midnight passed with no sign of the boat returning. Wind and sea were steadily increasing while rain squalls cut down the visibility. Finally about one o’clock the motor launch came bouncing over the waves in a smother of spray, its lights shorted out but otherwise all right. Hooking on and hoisting in were tricky jobs but resulted in nothing more serious than a smashed side light. Then, flashing “Farewell” to the boys on the beach with the searchlight, we headed for Pearl Harbor at full speed and declared “Holiday Routine” for the next two days to catch up on sleep.
The Burrows entered Pearl Harbor on February 5 after a 42-day jaunt. Her sides were scarred, dented, and red with rust. One could almost hear the comments of the lads on the spick and span battleships and cruisers as we passed them.
We’ve been back to Wake many trips since and feel a proud and paternal interest in watching it near completion. We’re plugging back from there now bucking a head sea and making slow time of it. The darkened ship is hot as Hades despite the wind. If I ever see another canned string bean or breaded veal cutlet, I’ll scream. But taking from the desk drawer one of the little boxes that Dan Teters handed out just before we left Wake, I forget all that. The box holds a little gold pin with the outline of Wake raised in its center. The V of the tiny gold atoll is flanked by the words “Pioneer Club—Wake Island.” All of the pioneer party who completed their 9-month contract received one. I count it a real privilege to be an Honorary Member of that Club.
Author's Note.—The author wishes to acknowledge his indebtedness to the pamphlet, Uncle Sam’s Pacific Islets, by David N. Leff (Stanford University Press) and to Mr. Homer C. Votaw’s excellent article on Wake in the January, 1941, Naval Institute Proceedings, for historical matter used in the present article. He regrets that the current international situation precludes giving any details of the excellent work done by the Pioneer party on shore. They are deserving of great credit for their splendid teamwork. Suffice it to say that they set the pace for the whole project, which has proved a model of intelligent planning and organization and of swift execution.