Winter 1990 Naval History
(See Winter 1990 Naval History)
Laura F. Brown, University of Baltimore Library—In addition to the fine article covering the John W. Brown, the issue contained many interesting articles, including the “Last Cruise of the SS Central America” and “President Truman’s Yacht.”
In August 1989, the Columbus-America Discovery Group presented us with a lump of anthracite coal recovered from the Central America wreckage in appreciation of our research efforts. There was no gold bar or coin, but I was thrilled with the coal. By the way, I thought the wreck was located at a depth of 8,000 feet; your article cited the depth at 800.
Editor’s Note: The correct depth was 8,000 feet.
“Politics, Politics”
(See P. H. Nitze, pp. 42-45, Spring 1990 Naval History)
Captain John W. Crawford, Jr., U.S. Navy (Retired)—I am grateful to former Secretary Nitze and Naval History for having recorded what happened when the Navy decided that I should be recalled to active duty as Admiral Rickover’s deputy in Naval Reactors. The decision and the associated arrangements, of course, had the agreement of Under Secretary Paul Fay, the Chief of Naval Operations, and the Chief of Naval Personnel.
However, I regret the indication that Admiral Rickover had previously forced me out of Naval Reactors. When I submitted my request to retire, he had forwarded it with an endorsement, which said that he did so with regret and only because such retirement was permitted by Navy policies. He also offered me the opportunity to remain on in a civilian capacity, which offer I declined.
The reason I requested early retirement was quite straightforward; no engineering duty officer of long, continued service in Naval Reactors had ever been promoted above the rank of captain. Moreover, my engineering officer contemporaries in Naval Reactors and I were all convinced from substantial evidence that the prospects for further advancement beyond captain were very small indeed.
The reason I agreed to being recalled, in full awareness of the consequences, was quite simply that the Navy had requested it. It seemed to me that it was a matter of placing loyalty to the Navy above that to any organization or individual.
These considerations aside, however, Mr. Nitze’s assessment is an accurate one. Admiral Rickover would not have countenanced a rear admiral as deputy in the Naval Reactors organization.
“Some Thoughts on Naval History”
(See J. Valle, pp. 5-6, Winter 1988; P. V. Hanninen, M. F. Kirk, W. T. O’Neill, and T.G. Martin, pp. 2-4, Spring 1990 Naval History)
Lieutenant Charles R. Landrum, U.S. Navy—Dr. Valle has suggested major changes that will transform Naval History into a journal for professional historians. Restricting the topics to those of current interest to naval historians would no doubt reduce the interest of the general readership. A magazine with little circulation, no matter how good, ceases to be of value.
Naval History provides a forum for anecdotes and historical footnotes that would probably not make it into a journal for historians. Dr. Valle should not discount the value of the anecdote. Anecdotes and firsthand accounts, no matter how seemingly insignificant, are meaningful in that they contribute to our understanding of the broader picture. Anecdotes lend perspective to historical events by adding the human element. The anecdote helps the reader relate to historical events and increases his or her comprehension. As a case in point, the current debate in Proceedings and Naval History on the Pueblo (AGER-2) incident has generated great interest.
One change to consider is making Naval History a bimonthly magazine. I am sure that the magazine has a tremendous backlog of submissions. Increasing the number of editions could reduce this backlog and gain more flexibility in featuring specific topics of interest.
Do not change the content of Naval History. It is a rich, vibrant, and valuable magazine that exposes its readers to the full breadth of the field of naval history.
“Life as Employed Enemy Personnel”
(See H. Rauman, pp. 28-34, Summer 1989; J. R. Phillips, p. 11, Fall 1989; G. W. Lucky, pp. 10-11, Winter 1990 Naval History)
Captain Philip R. Osborn, U.S. A/W (Retired)—I was particularly interested in the article as I was one of the participants involving the Prinz Eugen and the other German ships, including the Horst Wessel (now the U.S. Coast Guard training ship Eagle). I was operations officer on the staff of Commander Naval ForcesGermany, and officer in charge, ex-Kriegsmarine Administration, Bremerhaven, Germany, 1945-47.
The operations connected with collecting, administering, and disposing of the remaining German Navy vessels after their surrender received very little publicity at the time, being swallowed up by larger world events. The period covered situation entirely different from that following World War I; no incidents of sabotage or hostile acts occurred, which sharply contrasts with the scuttling of the High Seas Fleet at Scapa Flow in 1919.
When the war ended, all the ex-German ships that were to be divided according to the terms of the Tri-parite Naval Commission were berthed mostly at Kiel and Wilhelmshaven under British control. The British had already set up a German Naval Administration, utilizing the existing facilities and administration of the former Germany Navy. When we began to receive our share, it was essential that a similar organization be created.
With the invaluable help and advice of Captain A. H. Graubart, U.S. Navy, Kapitan H. J. Reinicke, and others already involved, Kapitan zur See Helmuth Giessler, former commanding officer of the cruiser Niirnberg and executive officer of the Scharnhorst, was appointed “Senior German Naval Officer.” He selected a staff to administer the various naval activities required, under the control of Commodore Charles R. Jeffs, U.S. Navy, the Commander U.S. Naval Advanced Base, Bremerhaven. This organization was called the “Marine Dienst Gruppen.” The crew of the Prinz Eugen remained separate as “Employed Enemy Personnel,” and they departed for the United States in early January 1946. Another category, the “German Minesweeping Administration,” remained under British control at Wilhelmshaven under Captain E. R. Conder of the Royal Navy.
The conduct and performance of duty of all these services was remarkable, and many strong personal friendships resulted which continue to this day. A comprehensive monograph on this subject was submitted to the Director of Naval History in 1971 and is on file in Building 57 at the Washington Navy Yard.
Everett M. Carey—The Summer 1989 issue had an excellent story of the capture and joint occupancy of the German cruiser Prinz Eugen.
I am not conversant with your historical accuracy early in the story but can state that, based on the portion relating to the atomic bomb testing at Bikini Island in 1946, your story is excellent. One small variation in facts exists: The Prinz Eugen was not towed up on Carlos Island and beached. I was on the medium harbor tug that was to do the towing, and we were trying, but she rolled over too fast, and we lost her about one mile west of Carlos.
One last piece of naval trivia—and I apologize if the facts are not 100% correct. Carlos Island was famous during World War II for another reason: the Japanese had one of the largest radio towers in the world located there. It was almost 700 feet tall. We blew it down in 1946. Before that they could relay messages from Japan to anywhere in the South Pacific.
“The Argentine Navy Revisited”
(See F. Milia, pp. 24-29, Winter 1990 Naval History)
Rear Admiral Fernando A. Milia, Argentine Navy (Retired)—The biographical note at the end of the article states that the Boletin del Central Naval is “one of the world’s oldest reviews and the oldest naval magazine of the Americas.”
As far as I am informed, the age ranking of the world maritime reviews is as follows: Morskoy Sbornik, 1848, Russia; Revue Maritime, 1866, France (discontinued during World War II); Anais do Clube Militar Naval, 1870, Portugal; U.S. Naval Institute Proceedings, 1874, USA; Boletin del Centro Naval, 1882, Argentina.
According to this seniority table, the review, of which I am the editor, is not the oldest of the Americas but the second oldest; Proceedings is actually the senior American publication.
“LST—Large, Slow Target”
(See A. Pace and M. Leva, pp. 19-23, Spring 1990 Naval History)
Commander Warren B. Randall, U.S. Naval Reserve (Retired)—The article struck a familiar chord.
While on the LST-2YS in the Central Pacific, we doubled the LST designation to mean “large, slow target: loosely stuck together,” as well as tank landing ship.
Twice we went into the Pacific for over-the-side launching. One of the crewmen was somehow sleeping in his bunk when the landing craft was launched the second time. Fortunately, he was unhurt—the launching was fat less explosive than one would expect.
On another note, I agree wholeheartedly with the publisher’s page response to the professional historian’s criticism of Naval History’s orientation. You are on the right track.
This Eagle Wasn’t Flying
Commander L. D. Chirillo, U.S. AW (Retired)—In the latter part of World War II, after leaving the merchant marine for the U.S. Navy, I sailed as chief engineer in an eagle boat. The eagle boats were Henry Ford’s quick solution to the imperative need for more escort vessels during World War I. In other words, they were sawed-off four-pipers. Habitabilityas it then existed, was the same as in the four-stack destroyers.
Officers’ country and chief petty officers’ quarters weren’t too bad, but I sure pitied the crew. The original enlisted complement was 68. During World War II it was more than 80. The men were jammed into one large compartment located between the engine room and a lazaret right above a 14-foot diameter single screw. Our maximum speed was 18 knots, but even when practicing creeping attacks, propeller noise was enough to keep everyone awake except the totally fatigued. At higher speeds, “pounding” would be more descriptive.
To add to the din, a steam-powered steering engine was mounted on the after engine-room bulkhead, with only the thin bulkhead separating it from the forwardmost bunks. The steering cables passed through the crew’s compartment to a tiller aft. Whenever the helm was moved, very often during zigzag operations, the steering engine would sound like a team of horses stomping on the bulkhead.
Folding mess tables and benches were used, and when assembled for each meal, they barely fit between the bunks—no hammocks. The galley was in the forward deckhouse, so mess cooks used tureens to carry hot chow aft.
Since we operated out of Key West, there was one misery that everyone shared, officers included—the pervasive heat. Air-conditioning just didn’t exist for us. Everyone suffered from heat rash. The sea temperature was above 80°F and since our potable water was in an inner bottom tank, it too was above 80°, except when the distilling unit was discharging into it, or into the boiler-feedwater tank next to it. Then the temperature of our drinking water was more like 100°, but we could depend on our water cooler to get it down to almost 80° whenever we wanted a drink of “cold” water. Fortunately, we had a “Coke” machine. It was located on the main deck aft, and consisted of an ice-filled tank bearing the Coca-Cola logo. Our operating circumstances were such that we could get ice from ashore often enough to avoid a mutiny.
The fresh water system consisted of a 700-gallon gravity tank located against the galley overhead. It was fitted with a sight glass and an overflow into the galley sink. When it was depleted to the 1/4 level, the cook was supposed to notify the black gang. This meant walking aft and banging on the engine room hatch with a huge spoon. Then the distilling system condensate pump was used to refill the tank. The cook was not that reliable. It seemed to me that the tank would always go dry when the skipper was in the shower. He’d go berserk. Also, when the tank filled, the cook was in no rush to notify the black gang. Potable water that we had distilled was overflowing and being wasted. Then I’d go berserk.
We had two 30-kilowatt generators that probably would not be enough to operate the hair dryers and stereo systems in today’s frigates.
I saved the best recollection for last. Instead of separate commodes, the crew’s head consisted of a single trough spanned by six toilet seats. The firemain provided continuous flush water, which came in from one end and ran out the other like a mountain stream. There were no partitions so that when six bases were loaded, all six sailors could easily join hands. There were two sets of seats so that one set, after a daily scrub, was left on deck to bleach in the sun.
It was dangerous for those with hangovers to sit downstream, but by definition they were in no condition to pick their seats after a wild night ashore and there were no seat reservations. Frequently, some wise guy who was probably stuck aboard the night before would occupy the upstream seat, and without attracting attention would make a ball of toilet paper, set it afire, and gently set it afloat. Five sailors would pop up in succession regardless of their individual circumstances. The same boozers always got caught.
“New Life for a Liberty”
(See T. A. Dietz, pp. 54-58, Winter 1990; A.J. Horn and R. Kuchen, p. 10-13, Spring 1990 Naval History)
“Jeremiah O’Brien: A Ship That Wouldn’t Quit”
(See L. Dirksen, pp. 76-77, Winter 1990 Naval History)
Brian H. Hope, Chairman, Project Liberty Ship Baltimore—I can tell you who John W. Brown was. Michael Gillen, Project Liberty Ship’s New York coordinator, wrote a brief history about Brown in the Liberty Log #18:
“Through the effort of the United Brotherhood of Carpenters and Joiners of America, the man for whom the SS John W. Brown was named has finally been identified. Born in Canada in 1867, John W. Brown was a joiner at the Bath Iron Works. He was an organizer for the UBC, United Mine Workers and Local 4, Industrial Union of Marine and Shipbuilding Workers of America. Brown, who lived most of his life in Woolwich, Maine, died in a hunting accident on his farm in Woolwich on June 21, 1941.”
Similarly, Log #21, page 6, contains information about Brown’s daughter and grandson.
One of our members knew Mr. Brown back in the Thirties, when he was involved with organizing one of the shipbuilders’ union locals. He describes John Brown as a great speaker and a real American patriot.
“Australia’s Stake in America’s Civil War”
(See R. Kennet, B. L. Fuqua, and C. S. Fuqua, pp. 50-54, Spring 1989; J. R. Wadleigh, p. 4, Fall 1989 Naval History)
Lieutenant Colonel Edward W. Spalding, U.S. Army Reserve (Retired), Fort Point Volunteer, Colonel, 2nd Virginia, Confederate States Army—The CSS Shenandoah was never surrendered as stated in the caption. Had Captain James Waddell made port in the United States, he stood to be hanged as a pirate. He had sunk some two-score whalers flying the Stars and Stripes in the North Pacific long after his government had surrendered. The return of his ship to the Laird Yards in England, whence it had been set into Confederate service, was a feat of seamanship deserving honor rather than the halter.
Here at Fort Point National Site in San Francisco, California, we honor Captain Waddell when we tell the history of the fort defending the Port of San Francisco. Luckily for this city, his plan to sail in, ram the USS Camanche, and turn her guns and those of his own ship on the city in order to demand ransom “from the [rich] U.S. mint” was conceived too late to be feasible.
As a small boy, I admired the USS Shenandoah (ZR-1) over the shoreline of New Jersey before she was destroyed by the fatal winds of Pennsylvania. But the CSS Shenandoah never went down and never struck her flag. In her, it might be said the Confederacy still lives.
“LST—Large, Slow Target”
(See A. Pace and M. Leva, pp. 19-23, Spring 1990 Naval History)
Colonel William P. Jones, Jr., U.S- Army (Retired)—The authors describe the use of steel pontoon causeways to carry tanks and other vehicles ashore from tank landing ships (LSTs) in the Mediterranean, which solved the problem of operating over the very flat underwater beach slopes. An LST was about 300 feet long, and, as I remember it, drew about 12 feet aft and 3 feet forward when it beaching trim. If the underwater slope was 1 in 100, the stem would ground 1,200 feet from shore with the bow 900 feet out and in nine feet of water, and the problem was aggravated by runnels. At Oran in November 1942, the Army's floating treadway bridge on pneumatic floats was used to span the gaps between LSTs’ bows and shore, but the sea was dead calm. Any sort of heavy sea would have broken the treadway bridges.
In the spring of 1943, in a suburb of Algiers, a British-American group called Force 141 was planning the invasion of Sicily, and the flat beaches were among the major problems to be solved. It was suggested that causeways be made of the Navy’s steel pontoon cubes, but nobody was sure that they could be used successfully. The respective merits of treadway and pontoon causeways were debated until a decision had to be made in order to obtain them in time for the invasion.
Lieutenant Colonel Charles H. Bone- steel III (who eventually became a four-star general and Commander in Chief of the United Nations Command in Korea, 1966-1969) was Deputy to the British Chief Engineer of Force 141, which became British General Alexander’s headquarters, 15th Army Group, for the invasions of Sicily and Italy. He persuaded the command to order from the United States enough of both Army treadways and Navy pontoons on the grounds that if the pontoons proved to be the answer to the problem, the treadway would be needed for stream crossings, especially in Italy. As it turned out, the pontoon causeways worked perfectly, and the treadway was the principal floating bridge used by the Army in Italy.
“Last Cruise of the SS Central America”
(See R. J. Duhsé, pp. 50-53, Winter 1990 Naval History)
Captain Harry L. Mathis, U.S. Navy (Retired)—The quartermaster on the last cruise of the Central America was David Raymond, my maternal great-grandfather. He played a heroic role in that tragedy.
On 23 February 1896, almost 40 years after the Central America went down with heavy loss of life, the San Francisco Chronicle published an article that in- duded firsthand recollections of some of the survivors. It also had the following to say about my ancestor:
“One of the heroes of the wreck was David Raymond, the quartermaster of the Central America. He took charge of the boats that carried the women and children who were saved before the vessel sunk, making the passage back and forth between the ships in safety through a raging sea. He was afterward honored with the presentation of a large silver medal in honor of his services, and a resolution was also passed by Independent Lodge, No. 185, Free and Accepted Masons, expressive of its gratitude to him for his services.”
After the tragedy, David Raymond lived quietly in San Francisco, where he died about 1889. He fathered two sons and three daughters, one of whom was to become my grandmother. Another daughter married a seaman who spent years as a ferryboat captain on San Francisco Bay. They had a son who also went to sea and was the captain of a Standard Oil tanker. Following David Raymond’s death, my great-grandmother donated his testimonials, including his silver medal and an oil painting portraying the rescue of survivors of the Central America, to San Francisco’s M. H. DeYoung museum, where they were displayed for a time and are presumably stored in its archives.