“The Indestructible XMAP”
(See J. D. Alden, pp. 44-47, Winter 1988 Naval History)
Lieutenant Commander A. E. Hammarlund, U. S. Navy (Retired)—The technical report mentioned various systems for sweeping pressure mines, but did not include the P Mark 3 device, a predecessor of the XMAP. The P Mark 3 was a single-purpose sweep.
In 1949, the USS Towhee (AM-388) was assigned to work with the P Mark 3. The device was appropriately named the Loch Ness Monster, for, like the XMAP, it was an unpredictable dinosaur that was difficult to control. Made of heavy multilayered nylon, the bottle-shaped drogue was 230 feet long with a maximum diameter of 30 feet, an inlet ten feet in diameter, and an 18-inch diameter discharge. The maximum diameter was approximately two-thirds from the inlet. The inlet and outlet openings were attached to steel rings. Supported in the water by standard minesweeping floats, the Loch Ness Monster was towed by a bridle attached to the inlet ring. This unwieldy device was transported, rigged for deployment, streamed from, and recovered in the LCT-667. A trained crew from the Towhee streamed it in 15 minutes and recovered it in 45 minutes. Additional time was required after recovery to arrange the parts of the device for the next streaming.
Moving through the water, the drogue generated a pressure signature sufficient to actuate a pressure mine mechanism. In theory, the nylon would deflect a mine’s detonation and the Loch Ness Monster would be destroyed.
The large size of the drogue and the water resistance it encountered imposed handling problems similar to those of the XMAP. At one time during the evaluation, a shore activity tracked the drogue on a course 120° divergent from the towing ship. Another problem was the tendency for parts of the drogue between the floats to settle to the sea bottom when the Towhee attempted to change course in shallow waters. One P Mark 3 was destroyed when its sagging portion hit an underwater obstacle.
After leaving the Towhee, I served in two other minesweepers. But I heard no more about our Loch Ness Monster.
“A Ship for All Seasons”
(See J. M. Waters, pp. 34-41, Winter 1988 Naval History)
Lieutenant Commander William L. Johnson, U. S. Coast Guard—I certainly enjoyed the pictorial on the Coast Guard’s Secretary-class cutters. Having served in the Ingham (WHEC-35) as operations officer from 1979 to 1981, I have a special feeling for the 327s. During my time on board, the Ingham made a variety of deployments, including the last cadet cruise in European waters in 1981. One of the highlights of my time in the Ingham was the summer of 1980, during which we made two deployments to the Straits of Florida on the Cuban Refugee Operation. It is on that operation that I would like to add some comments to Captain Waters’s fine article.
The Ingham was the only 327 involved in this operation. The other three East Coast 327s, the Bibb (WHEC-31), the Duane (WHEC-33), and the Taney (WHEC-37), were on cadet cruises and, therefore, not available. We had just finished our first week of refresher training at Guantanamo Bay when we received orders to proceed to an area between Key West and Mariel, Cuba. On our first day there, a squall line moved through and, within a few hours, we had six boats in tow and about 27 people from those boats on board. This was typical of the first few days for most of the cutters assigned to the operation. The Coast Guard had to assist people who had never been on a boat before and were therefore getting into trouble. I don’t know how many people were lost in those days, but I do remember seeing lots of derelict boats. Many of them were cast off by cutters after the people had been removed. Some of those boats were destroyed later, but many were allowed to drift out to sea to become hazards to navigation.
For the first two weeks of the operation, the Ingham was positioned 13 miles off of Mariel to count the boats and people entering and leaving that port. Seeing 200-300 people packed onto a 65-foot shrimp boat headed for Key West was truly an amazing sight. It was also sobering because of the potential loss of life should the boats founder.
Probably the most telling moment came late in our second deployment. Early one morning, our lookout spotted an object in the water that turned out to be a homemade raft. It was composed of two air mattresses held together by a framework of 2x4s. Propulsion was provided by two plastic oars and a cloth sail. On board were six Cubans who had launched their raft from a beach outside of Havana, hoping to be picked up by a passing ship. They did not exit through Mariel because they were professional people (merchant mariners, an engineer, etc.), and the Castro government would not allow them to leave. These folks took quite a risk and were fortunate that we just happened to see them. I was very impressed with their willingness to risk their lives to live in the United States.
The 327s were (and are) outstanding ships. They have proved their worth over the years that they have operated. I know that I shall always cherish the years that I served in the Ingham as two of the best and most active years of my life.
Anthony Stolze, World War II U. S. Coast Guard veteran of PTC Flotilla One, Southwest Pacific Area—These cutters indeed have earned their place in U. S. history. I would like to expand a bit on one of them, namely the Inghant (WHEC-35), the last of the lovely old ladies to remain in commission.
After a fantastic life that included sinking a U-boat on 15 December 1942 in the Battle of the Atlantic, she transferred to the Pacific theater. The Ingham served as flagship in 11 landings in the Philippines including: Iloilo, Zamboanga, Sanangi Bay, Panay, Mindanao, Corregidor, and Subic Bay. After the war, the Ingham served as flagship for the South China Naval Force during the occupation of Shanghai, Hong Kong, and Formosa. In 1968, she once again answered the call of her country when she was ordered to operate off the coast of South Vietnam. For a year, the ship conducted naval gunfire support missions and participated in operation “Market Time,” the naval blockade of the South Vietnam coast. During this time, the Ingham participated in two major naval operations, “Sea Lords” and “Swift Raiders.” The ship received two Presidential Unit Citation awards for this service.
On 1 August 1985, the Ingham became the oldest active commissioned naval ship serving the United States. As such, she is entitled to wear her hull numbers in “gold.” The Ingham is also the most decorated vessel in the U. S. service with 18 decorations and campaign ribbons. Despite such a long and distinguished service, she is no museum piece; she is a working cutter.
The Forgotten Shangri-La
Jerry Elam—I recently completed a cruise on board the USS Clark (FFG-11). As we moved down the Delaware River, after departing Philadelphia, 1 noticed a decrepit, rusting hulk along the shore. As we got closer I identified this hulk as the Shangri-La (CVA-38). 1 could hardly believe my eyes. There were actually weeds growing on the flight deck. I was appalled. We should be ashamed that we have let this proud warship deteriorate into this condition. She served her country well and is being forced to die slowly and painfully. Obviously, no one gives a damn!
Maybe if former crew members of this veteran ship knew of her condition there would be an outcry heard from coast to coast. I pray so.
“Who Chopped the Flukes, and Why?”
(See J. A. Miller, pp. 3-4, Premier Issue Naval History)
Captain Ernest W. Peterkin, U. S. Naval Reserve (Retired)—Having recently returned from 19 days of documenting the wreck of the USS Monitor off Cape Hatteras with the Navy’s remote-operated vehicle, the Deep Drone, I was intrigued by Mr. Miller’s conclusions regarding the missing flukes of her anchor—that half of two adjacent flukes of the anchor’s four arms had been removed so the anchor would fit into its cylindrical well. I do not agree with this conclusion.
The distance between the ends of the opposite flukes is four feet ten inches and the diameter of the anchor well is five feet. Therefore, there are two inches of clearance between the ends of the flukes and the well. Removing half of two flukes would not have helped fit the anchor into the well, because it would not have changed the diameter of the four flukes.
The two broken flukes were on the arms that protruded above the bottom when it was located in 1985. I suggest that the flukes could have been broken off if they struck the bottom edge of the anchor well while being hoisted in, or could have been lost during the nine months of anchoring operations in the James River from March to December of 1862. Any of a multitude of hostile environmental assaults could have dislodged the halfflukes, which were on those arms that were exposed to the sea for 122 years after Monitor's sinking.
Although the Monitor was built quickly, she was built with care and first-class materials. I find it difficult to believe that a naval engineer of John Ericsson’s experience would make a design blunder of such magnitude or tolerate a “fix” that would reduce the efficiency of a device as vital as a ship’s anchor.
He Started the U. S. Navy
Captain J. Robert Lunney, U. S. Naval Reserve—The “Father of the U. S. Navy” is Commodore John Barry, not John Paul Jones.
In 1775, Captain Barry, an early champion of the patriot cause, promptly volunteered his services. With nine years’ experience as a seagoing captain and five successful commands to his credit, the young Irishman was warmly welcomed and given command of a ship purchased by, and under the authority of, the Continental Congress.
On 7 December 1775, eight months after the first shots were fired at Lexington, Captain Barry took the helm of a 14- gun vessel aptly named the Lexington. He quickly trained a crew and began the task of supplying and supporting General George Washington’s ground forces.
On 7 April 1776, Barry provided a necessary boost to the morale of the Continental forces—just as he would do so many times when it was needed most— he captured the British ship, the Edward, and her cargo. This was the first American war prize. On 6 June, he was given command of a new cruiser, the Effingham, and captured two more British ships.
In spite of Barry’s successes, the war was not going well for the Americans. The British held Philadelphia; the British Navy had bottled up the Delaware River; General Benedict Arnold had betrayed West Point and gone over to fight for the British; and General Washington was in dire need.
A victory was essential to boost the troops’ sagging morale. Barry provided this victory, and more. He captured an armed British vessel when ammunition was scarce, and a supply ship when food was at a premium. He came to Washington’s aid just as the leader was planning to cross the Delaware. He organized seamen and joined the land forces that crossed the Delaware at McKonkey’s Ferry. Barry’s friend, Patrick Colvin, supplied the boats.
Barry was held in such high esteem that, after the victories of Trenton and Princeton, in which he served as aide to Washington. Lord Richard Howe made a flattering offer to Barry to desert the patriot cause. Barry replied, “Not the value or command of the whole British fleet can lure me from the cause of my country, which is liberty and freedom.”
On 5 January 1778, while the Delaware was occupied by the British fleet, Barry organized the famous Battle of the Kegs, in which small kegs were loaded with explosives and sent floating down the river at the fleet. Shots were fired into the explosive kegs, throwing the British into a panic.
In addition to commanding naval operations for the Continental Congress. Barry supervised the building of its ships. In command of one of those ships in 1781, when Washington was again in need, he captured four important British ships. Washington personally thanked him for the boost it provided and sent his fearless captain back into the fray.
During a confrontation on 28 May 1781, Barry was wounded and had to be taken below. Subsequently, his first officer informed him that the battle was turning against them and Barry demanded to be carried back on deck. When the British demanded his surrender, Barry defiantly refused and sparked his crew on to victory.
The wounded captain returned with yet another prize. In the last sea battle of the American Revolution, 10 March 1783, Barry was returning from Havana with a shipment of bullion and was set upon by three British ships. The resourceful Barry engaged and destroyed one and outdistanced the other two, returning with the precious cargo that was used to establish the Bank of North America.
Even after the war, this tireless seaman assisted the United States by transporting Virginia tobacco to Holland to repay U. S. war debts.
When, at the 1787 Convention, the Constitution was in danger because of the absence of 19 Convention members. Barry again came to the rescue. He organized a group called “the Compelled'' and physically forced enough of the seceding members back to form a quorum. The vote was taken and the Constitution was finally approved. People cheered and church bells rang as Barry scored yet another victory—this time over indifference.
On 14 June 1794, Washington sent for his most dedicated and popular naval hero to form and train a class of midshipmen to be commissioned as ensigns and form the nucleus of the new U. S. Navy- Barry was awarded Commission Number One and was given the rank of commodore, the first in the U. S. Navy. Formal acceptance took place on Washington's birthday in 1797.
Commodore John Barry had many firsts to his credit in his long and dedicated career, from being the first to carry the new American flag into battle to escorting America’s famous ally. General Gilbert Motier de Lafayette, back to France.
Indeed, by special act of the New York legislature, 13 September, the anniversary of his death in 1803, has been designated “John Barry Day” in New York. His service to his adopted nation clearly merits the recognition as “Father of the U. S. Navy.”
“USS North Carolina Memorial”
(See R. R. Sartore, pp. 68-70, Winter 1988 Naval History)
W. A. Winston, 1943-46 crew member— I appreciate so much the Museum Report feature in the magazine about the USS North Carolina (BB-55). It was well done, but there were two small errors.
On 6 April 1945, not 1944, the ship was accidentally hit by a 5-inch projectile that a friendly ship had fired at a low- flying kamikaze, killing three men, wounding 44, and disabling the Sky 2 director. Also, the ship earned 15 battle stars, not 12, during the Pacific war.
Ernest J. King—Nonperson?
Glen C. H. Perry—One of the ways in which a navy honors its heroes is to name its most important warships for them. And so it was that all but one of our seven nuclear-powered aircraft carriers were named for super-heroes. But none of them was named for Fleet Admiral Ernest J. King. He presided over the transformation of a disheartened, half-ocean navy in a two-ocean war, its battle line sunk, into the most modern and most powerful force ever to sail the seven seas. At the end of the war the U. S. Navy was stronger than the combined fleets of all the world’s other navies put together. These accomplishments, however, made no difference to his enemies in the service, who waited until he was dead to take their revenge.
For King, they named a missile destroyer, plus a mess hall at the Naval Academy as a bonus. This man, whom the late Arthur Krock (fabled head of The New York Times's Washington Bureau for many years) hailed as one of history’s greatest naval officers, ranked with Maarten Tromp, Michel De Ruyter, Horatio Nelson, and David Farragut in a naval pantheon. The service he served so long and so well damned him with faint praise. Why?
Taking into account his record of achievement, compiled over almost half a century, ranging from raising sunken submarines to fighting off British efforts to steal away the tools of war essential to keeping Japan on the defensive, the failure to rate King at least equal to the others honored by having the world’s most powerful ships of war bear their names is incredible. Admiral King deserved the everlasting gratitude of his country, and richly earned the gold medal awarded to him by the Congress, which demonstrated that the nation for which it spoke did not share the Navy’s dim opinion of what he had accomplished.
Captain Edward L. Beach, U. S. Navy (Retired) has written a fascinating quasihistory of the service in which he served with distinction—The United States Navy: 200 Years, 1986. Beach is a great admirer of Fleet Admiral Chester Nimitz, on whom he heaped justified adulation.
But in this fine volume, I found a curious thing. The name of Fleet Admiral Ernest J. King does not appear in text, notes, or index. A good friend of mine, who helped Bull Halsey write his report to the American people on his naval career, equated this omission with producing Hamlet without the melancholy Dane. After all, Nimitz reported to King, who pushed through the nomination of Nimitz as his successor as Chief of Naval Operations over the opposition of Navy Secretary James Forrestal by going directly to President Harry Truman.
Such tenacity was typical of King. One major question he had to face in World War 11 was that of materiel. He had to agree that Germany was the prime target and had to be beaten first. But he also knew that once we had gained momentum on Japan at Midway and in the push that would end in Tokyo, we had to keep applying the pressure. If we relaxed, the Japanese would turn on their own pressure. The Soviets were not much interested in anything but land and air materiel. But Britain wanted more and more landing craft, without which the U. S. Navy could not maintain its island hopping across the Pacific, not to mention General Douglas Mac Arthur’s drive to retake the Philippines.
Discussions in the Combined Chiefs became acrimonious. In one meeting the debate between Field Marshal Alan Brooke and Admiral King grew so heated that it seemed they would settle their dispute with their fists. King and General George Marshall stood together through it all, and the result was that eventually the various suitors for the materiel got what they needed.
Since King had a splendid record of achievement over, on, and under the sea, as well as on land, one must look elsewhere for reasons why there seems to have been a desire to make him a nonperson. An obvious area is that of personality. As a midshipman he was blessed with superior intelligence and was well aware of it. Confident that he could be the top scholar in his class, for example, he avoided that distinction lest it create unwarranted expectations when a graduate. He felt third or fourth place would be sufficiently prestigious. On the other hand, he wanted very much the post of battalion commander in his final year in Crabtown, and won it.
He won it because he was gregarious, active in class affairs, popular with classmates, respected by the faculty, an excellent dancer, and a favorite with the ladies. At the same time, it was his ambition to become Chief of Naval Operations, not unusual in outstanding midshipmen.
While still a midshipman. King took a cool and calculating look at himself. As Tom Buell’s excellent biography Master of Sea Power (Boston: Little, Brown and Company, 1980) said,
“Eventually King established his own personal standards. He lacked toughness, he decided. He never would progress in the Navy unless he got a grip on himself, or so he reasoned. His concept of softness probably included the admirable traits of sympathy, understanding, and tolerance— all parts of King’s innate character. He decided he would have to suppress such compassionate emotions. Despite his best efforts, his humanity sometimes slipped through his stem facade as the years passed. Ambition now drove King, and he knew he would need assignments regarded within the naval service as ‘career enhancing.’ ”
I was pleased to read this, for early in my friendship with King I decided that his “shaving with the blowtorch” approach was a front that he had decided was best calculated to do his job as a naval officer, and that there was, in fact, a more gentle man hiding behind the iron face and the furious temper.
The result was a man with a hard-hitting, ruthless approach to his work. He set the highest standards for those working with him. Those who measured up received loyalty and support. Those who did not were swiftly transferred elsewhere. He had no time for tact, held tenaciously to his views, and would support them no matter who his adversary might be. His outward appearance was cold and forbidding.
It was not a personality destined to make friends, and in the course of his career, he made more enemies—in the armed services, in Congress, and in dealing with other branches of government— than any man could want. King had unlimited contempt for the officers he identified as “fixers,” and it is not surprising that they returned the feeling. While those who worked with King admired and respected him, his enemies had long memories.
I suggest that the very qualities that made him enemies were the qualities most in demand when the guns began to shoot. It is worth noting that Dwight D. Eisenhower was a light colonel before we got into the war. Admiral King himself was ordered to the General Board, that way station on the road to retirement, in July 1939. But when the war in Europe began, all of a sudden he was Commander Patrol Force, U. S. Fleet. Less than two months later, on 1 February 1941, he sprouted two extra stars on each shoulder board and two extra stripes on his sleeves. He was Admiral, Commander in Chief Atlantic Fleet. And on the last day of that year he was Commander in Chief, U. S. Fleet (CominCh). King himself said it best: “When they get into trouble, they call for us sons-of- bitches.”
I have heard and read some nasty things about Ernest King. The least savory was the charge that he promoted naval officers in return for sexual favors from their wives. I have never seen documentation of such charges, and until 1 do 1 simply do not believe it. Considering his great love for the Navy he ultimately headed, 1 cannot envision him ever considering promoting anyone, friend or relative, unless he believed the move was warranted by the officer’s record.
The other chief charge was that he was a heavy drinker, and the Buell biography reveals that there was a great deal of drinking in Navy wardrooms before Josephus Daniels put a stop to it. King, who enjoyed a well-meant potation, got himself into some scrapes. But whatever his drinking habits before we got into the war, I know that for the duration he drank nothing stronger than beer, and not much of that. He also smoked cigarettes in a long holder, but was certainly not a chain smoker.
He was my guest at the victory dinner of the Gridiron Club in late 1945 or the spring of 1946, which was preceded by a number of cocktail parties. Several wines were served during the dinner, and after the singing of “Auld Lang Syne” we repaired to the Phelps Adams suite for conversation and nightcaps. Admiral King was the star of the occasion. I do not know whether or how much he drank.
I do know that when the party finally ended, at about 3:00 a. m., he left in excellent shape.
Moreover, I cannot imagine President Roosevelt making King CominCh if he had any concern at all about his drinking habits.
Adding up all this, I believe that King’s contributions to the crushing of the Axis were so great that he deserved the deep gratitude of the Free World, his country, and, yes, of the officers and men of the U. S. Navy, no matter what his private life was. 1 hope and pray the day will come when the Navy to which he gave his adult life will recognize that loyalty is a two-way street and make suitable recognition of that fact.
I even have an idea about rectifying the situation. As of now we have five nuclear carriers commissioned: the Enterprise, the Eisenhower, the Nimitz, the Theodore Roosevelt, the Carl Vinson; two building, the Washington and the Lincoln; two planned and as yet unnamed. For these, I suggest the names Ernest J. King and George C. Marshall, America’s highest ranking officers in World War II.
Editor’s Note: Mr. Perry, Assistant Chief of the New York Sun A Washington Bureau during World War II, wrote “Enlisting Words for Victory” (July 1987 Proceedings, pp. 38-42) about King's relationship with the media.
LST Memorial
Eugene Dreger, president of New York Chapter of U. S. LST Association— Members of the U. S. LST Association would like to establish a memorial to honor those men who served on board tank landing ships in World War II, Korea, and Vietnam.
The U. S. LST Association, which was founded on 1 December 1984 in Toledo, Ohio, is planning to procure a World War II LST that was in action in the Pacific and to declare her as a memorial. We would like to honor those who have served in this “sea workhorse” of the Navy and those who serve in the LSTs of today.
We hope to collect $1 million for the purchase price of the LST and the cost of moving the ship to a permanent location.
So far, the association has more than 2,100 members, and we plan to organize a chapter in every state. We estimate that present and former LST crewmen number more than 100,000.
To date, according to our records, our LSTs have received 1,723 battle stars for World War II, 187 for Korea, and 365 for Vietnam. Other LST landings have assisted in refugee relocation and provided humanitarian assistance. At times, LSTs have even served as hospital ships. Such long and versatile service should not go unheeded.