“Postcards from Panama”
(See R. J. Karrer, pp. 37-43, Fall 1991 Naval History)
Chief Petty Officer Second Class J. David Perkins, Royal Canadian Navy (Retired)—Although I was very interested in Lieutenant Colonel Karrer’s article, I was disappointed to find no mention of the first passage through the Panama Canal of warships flying the Royal Navy’s white ensign. What makes it even more disappointing is that these ships were part of the Royal Canadian Navy (RCN) and the event was well-publicized at the time.
During the summer of 1917, the British Admiralty requested that Canada transfer two submarines—CC1 and CC2—along with their depot ship HMCS Shearwater from British Columbia to the Mediterranean Sea. The RCN was more than willing to make the attempt, and the little flotilla set out from Esquimau, British Columbia, on 21 June 1917.
To attempt such a voyage with 1912-vintage diesel engines was a pretty tall undertaking, and the submarines certainly had their adventures. On 1 July, they arrived at San Diego, California, where the crews were properly entertained during the celebrations on 4 July. Although the local press described them as British, none of the RCN officers and men took offense. Most of them had British roots, many were on loan from the Royal Navy, and the RCN was very British at the time anyway.
A month later the three ships reached Balboa, Panama, where they made repairs and rested. On 12 August 1917, the Shearwater and her two charges commenced their transit of the canal. As they were the first ships flying the white ensign to do so, the British Minister to Panama and British vice-consul were on board the Shearwater. Upon arrival in Colon, the two submarines joined in some exercises with U.S. Navy submarines. CC2 made an uncontrolled dive during the exercises but executed a successful emergency surfacing. Shortly afterward, the flotilla headed north for Halifax, Nova Scotia, and, after a very rough passage, reached there on 14 October.
The 7,300-mile voyage, the endurance of the submarines’ crews, and the work of their engineers was all for nothing, however. The primitive diesels could take no more. The Admiralty was informed that the boats could go no farther and, after a refit, they were relegated to harbor defense duties in Halifax for the rest of the war.
Although this noble venture ended ignobly, it demonstrated that the seven year-old RCN was technically competent and could be relied upon—provided it was properly equipped.
Lieutenant Colonel Robert J. Karrer, U.S. Army (Retired)—The photographic postcard illustrating page 37 of my article in the Fall 1991 issue of Naval History purports to show the U.S. sailors ashore at Colon, Panama during the 1903 U.S. intervention which made Panama independent. In fact, it depicts the October 1902 intervention in Panama at the end of the period known as the 1,000 Days War. The 1902 landing’s purpose was, ironically, to honor U.S. treaty obligations to Colombia to keep transit across the Isthmus of Panama free and uninterrupted. To this end, U.S. sailors—some of whom are seen in the photograph manning a one-pound gun behind a cotton bale rampart in front of Panama Railroad’s freight warehouse—manned armored trains that ran across the Isthmus. During the 1902 intervention, the U.S. Navy ships anchored in the harbor for protection and to make any bombardment easier. The ship pictured, therefore, could not be the U.S. Navy steamer Dixie. In fact, it is a Royal Mail steamship.
Why did the photographer, Isaac Maduro, Jr. put the false caption on the postcard? Maduro—who always took considerable poetic license—probably reasoned that if he identified the scene as being shot during the more momentous 1903 intervention that he would sell more postcards!
Donald C. Mitchell—The steamer shown on page 37 of Bob Karrer’s article is not the Dixie. The Dixie, formerly the El Rio, had a straight stem. The ship shown has a clipper bow and two stacks, and is probably one of the Royal Mail Steam Packet Company’s Clyde-class, at which company’s dock she is moored.
“The Cuban Missile Crisis Quarantine”
(See F. R. Johns, pp. 12-18, Spring 1991; C. Hall and D. E. Connor, pp. 3-6, Summer 1991; D. W. Abercrombie, p. 6, Winter 1991 Naval History)
Captain James IV. Foust, U.S. Navy (Retired)—As captain of the USS John R. Pierce (DD-753) during the Cuban Missile Crisis, I must set the record straight on the boarding of the SS Marucla.
We had maintained contact throughout the day, helped at night by an S-2 which trained its searchlight on her fan- tail. The Pierce also constantly reported to Commander Second Fleet and Commander in Chief Atlantic Fleet on the high command (HiCom) network. As the plans for the boarding advanced, we heard on the network, “It would be good if the [USS Joseph />.] Kennedy[, Jr. (DD-840)] were assigned to participate in the boarding.”
The captain of the Kennedy later told me that his ship had to go to four boilers to make the rendezvous. Frankly, I was confident that the Pierce could have handled the boarding because my executive officer. Lieutenant Commander Dwight Osborne, had been a first mate with the American Isbrantsen Lines. In fact, when the men from the Kennedy boarded the Marucla, Osborne led them.
Many consider the presence of the Kennedy to be political, but she had a destroyer division commander on board; perhaps that justified her use. It didn’t interfere with communications, though; the Joseph P. Kennedy, Jr. didn’t come up on the HiCom circuit until the boarding was completed.
“Hard Aground on Thimble Shoal”
(See M. Muir, pp. 30-35, Fall 1991 Naval History)
Captain R. A. Hundevadt, U.S. Navy (Retired)—When the USS Missouri (BB-63) went aground, I was commanding the Atlantic Fleet Underwater Demolition Teams stationed at the Amphibious Base, Little Creek, Virginia. Early in the morning of Friday, 28 January 1950,1 received a message from the Commander Cruisers Atlantic Fleet that, in part, read:
“...REQUEST UDT REPRESENTATIVE CONFER WITH ORIGINATOR ON MISSOURI TODAY...ON PROBLEM OF BLASTING UNDER SKEGS TO PERMIT PASSING PONTOON CABLES.”
When I went aboard the ship later that morning to meet with Rear Admiral Smith, the Missouri was a center of activity. Her ammunition and fuel were being off-loaded into barges; tugs and other salvage vessels were alongside. Tangles of air hoses for the water jets being used by divers to remove some of the mud from under her hull snaked across her deck.
When I entered the flag quarters, there was the admiral and about 20 officers (mostly captains) seated around a long, oval table. After greeting me (a lieutenant commander), the admiral took me over to a large, plan-view diagram of the ship that was hanging on the bulkhead. It was colored in various places to indicate the progress of the water jetting. One captain then said that more progress had been made in one spot than had been indicated—and almost had his head bitten off for having allowed the diagram to become inaccurate.
We went to the table where the other officers, representing the Navy’s expertise in salvage, diving, construction, and other related fields, were introduced. The captain of the Missouri, Captain William D. Brown, was conspicuous by his absence, undoubtedly relegated to his cabin with no further say in the future of what was still his ship.
Rear Admiral Smith then ran down the efforts, underway and planned, for refloating the ship that included, but were not limited to, using tugs, blimps, caissons, and explosives. After his monologue, he said that, while he was sure that the Missouri would come off Thimble Shoals, he wanted any suggestions that I might have.
He had not mentioned the idea put forth described in his message, but obviously had in mind using explosives to help jet the very adhesive mud from under the ship. While the thought of using explosives so close to the hull alarmed me, I did say that shaped charges might do the job. Since shaped charges were not designed for underwater use and had side forces besides the explosive jet, I said that I would have to experiment to see if damage would result from their use. After getting the weight of the plate at the turn of the hull, I told the admiral that I would have my recommendations the next afternoon. With that I departed that torture chamber.
By mid-afternoon, my men had picked up a plate of the proper weight steel from Portsmouth Navy Yard and it was ready for testing.
I reasoned that if the charges damaged the plate when it had water on both sides, they would cause more destruction on the ship with air on the in-board side of the explosive. So, the plate was stood vertically in the water, and several M2A3 shaped charges were placed a few inches from it.
After detonating the charges, the plate was visibly bowed. I stopped right there and sent a message to the admiral, “Regret the use of shaped charges adjacent to the hull would be inadvisable.” Actually, I had little regret at ending that fused association!
“Ivan Gets Wise”
(See K. Tolley, pp. 12-13 Fall 1991 Naval History)
Commodore Erik Wihtol, Finnish Navy, (Retired)—I would like to correct an error in Admiral Tolley’s interesting article about the Winter War of 1939-40.
A small country, Finland realized that proper intelligence would be instrumental in saving lives in any war. As a result, Finnish radio intelligence had been created in the 1920s and by 1939 was in very good working order. The organization used equipment bought from Italy, the Netherlands, Germany, Great Britain, and the United States and received help from one Swedish and many Finnish mathematicians. With a border of more than 1,000 miles with the Soviet Union, it was excellent at decoding Soviet radio traffic. Finnish cryptographers cracked the Soviet naval code in the early 1930s and, with some assistance from Japan, the Soviet Army code was broken by the end of the same decade.
Thanks to this work, when the war started on 30 November 1939, the Soviet signal to commence hostilities had been intercepted and read by Finnish intelligence before it was repeated to Soviet naval units.
Before the war, Finnish intelligence had located all Soviet formations along the border, and, during the war, could recognize the 46 frontline Soviet divisions right down to their commanders’ names! Coupled with information gleaned from tapping Soviet telephone lines, this capability yielded good tactical results.
Contrary to what Admiral Tolley states, this magnificent work was done entirely by Finns; there were no German cryptographers in Finland in 1939. In fact, while Finland did have contacts with German intelligence, its information was often considered to be inaccurate. Finland also exchanged information on the Soviet Union with Japan (with the results already mentioned), Hungary, Poland, Estonia, Latvia, Sweden, and the United States.
Donald Chaput, Curator of History, Los Angeles County Natural History Museum—Admiral Tolley’s simplistic view ascribes the Finns’ resistance to an exchange of intelligence with Germany, to the detriment of the Soviet forces.
Such intelligence exchanges could have been a factor, but Admiral Tolley does not even hint at some of the more obvious reasons for the Soviet weaknesses. Stalin’s purges of 1936-38 exterminated the Soviet Army’s leading theoreticians and practitioners, that is, tens of thousands of experienced and trained officers. Also, several dozen of the Soviet divisions assigned to the Finnish frontier were made up of Central Asian conscripts who had never seen snow, and went into action with insufficient training, poor weapons, and no knowledge of northern terrain or climate.
One could go on because the Winter War was complicated for all sorts of military, political, and logistical reasons, most of which were not addressed by Admiral Tolley.
Paul V. Hanninen—For over 50 years this American-born Finn has been under the illusion that it was the famous Finnish character trait Sisu—a combination of bravery, guts, grit, and perseverance— that was responsible for the vastly out- manned and outgunned Finnish Army’s overwhelming successes in the early stages of the 1939-40 Winter War. Now comes Rear Admiral Kemp Tolley to shoot down that theory.
Although the admiral’s revelations did deflate my Finnish ego a mite, they more realistically explain the initial successes enjoyed by Finland during that brief war.
The article, however, served another purpose for me. It refreshed my memory of the tension most Finnish-Ameri- cans felt during those fall and winter months. My father, a Finnish-born American citizen and an American Expeditionary Force veteran, was a Lutheran pastor serving a Finnish congregation in New York City. He still admired Finland and anything Finnish. I was 15 years old and attending high school.
In the late summer and early fall of 1939, with war erupting in Europe, Russia initiated its territorial demands on Finland. As the situation headed toward war, Finnish-born American men started to talk about returning to Finland to help in its defense. My father along with others formed an ad hoc committee to coordinate these efforts. The committee arranged travel and solicited funds to pay for travel expenses. My small contribution was to meet individual volunteers as they arrived in New York from where they continued on to Finland by whatever means the committee had arranged. I became so caught up in all this activity that, had my mother not prevailed, I may well have been on one of those eastbound steamers.
Eventually, the Soviet Goliath made short work of the valiant Finnish David. But more sadly, in a little over a year, Finland and its international supporters fell victim to the shifting tides of war and international politics. That small democratic republic that had been lauded by all Americans from President Franklin Roosevelt down to the man in the street for its brave stand in defense of its freedom found itself pilloried as an enemy of the Allies—which, after June 1941, included the Soviet Union.
Admiral Tolley’s fine article spelling out some logical reasons for those early Finnish successes notwithstanding, I still cling to the idea that Sisu was a key element. Sisu sustained Finland as it fought for its independence, as it battled so bravely in 1939-40 to keep it, as it threaded its way through the treacherous waters of international geopolitics, and as it finally regained its place among the community of nations.
“Grim Pelelieu: The Aircraft”
(See R. L. Hillman, pp. 12-18, Spring 1989; V.S. Falk, pp. 10-11, Fall 1991 Naval History)
Admiral O. W. Siler, U.S. Coast Guard (Retired)—Contrary to Dr. Falk’s article, the armed forces did not completely desert Ulithi in 1945 because the Coast Guard built a loran station there that operated until 1965. A visit to that station brought me to Falalop in December 1952. A friend offered a trip aboard the biweekly PBY cargo flight from Guam to Ulithi and I readily accepted.
We landed on the 3,200-foot strip on Falalop, unloaded the cargo, and had lunch at the loran station. When we returned to the airstrip to prepare for the return flight, the King of Ulithi was there with an entourage, waiting for a plane to fly him to a hospital for treatment of the tuberculosis from which he died shortly afterward. We waited some time for the Trust Territories HU-16 amphibian to arrive. Not only were we curious about this waiting group, but we did not want to be on the runway (no taxiways) when it landed.
Before the King’s plane arrived, he presented me with a locally handwoven mat that had an attractive purple pattern on each end. No one could tell me the significance of the gift or why the King gave it to me. I was only the copilot on the flight and of equal rank to the pilot. The crew of the PBY was wearing flight suits, and the Ioran station’s Coast Guardsmen were in dungarees or khakis and they were relatively permanent residents. So I had to assume I caught the King’s eye because he thought I was the best looking of the Coast Guard group.
Lieutenant Commander R. William Clark, U.S. Naval Reserve (Retired)—From 2 November 1944 through 3 March 1945, my ship, LCl(G)-77, was on duty in and around Ulithi Atoll. From 22 December 1944 to 26 January 1945, we were ordered a number of times to check on Japanese activities on nearby Fais Island which was suspected of being a midget submarine base. A phosphate mining operation on Fais included some warehouses and a marine railway; it was thought that the subs were stored in the warehouses and launched down the railway.
Upon our arrival at Fais during the afternoon of 22 December (it was about a five-hour trip), a small native outrigger canoe came out through the reef. The fellow stopped about 20 yards away, dove in, and swam to the ship. He was in his late 20s, wore a snappy mustache, had garlands of flowers on his head and around his neck, and wore a flowered breechcloth. Using pidgin English, he introduced himself as the crown prince of Fais, Mool (rhymes with pool). After speaking with him (and by radio with Commodore Oliver Kessing), it was decided that the following day his father and some of the chiefs would be brought out to the ship and taken back to Ulithi to meet with the atoll commander. The picture on page 10 is that of my old friend Mool of Fais (not Ulithi).
We made three more trips to Fais. On the first trip, we took over the island with a ragtag collection of landing craft and a quickly collected group of Marines and Seabees. The few Japanese on the island were quickly captured and brought to Ulithi.
On our last trip, 25-26 January, we brought a doctor, dentist, chaplain, and some Seabees with their equipment on board LCTs. The doctor held a sick call and, since many of the natives were Catholics, the chaplain took care of their religious needs. The Seabees dismantled the warehouses and salvaged anything worthwhile. The islanders gave us a victory party that included dancing and much singing by them and drinking of some sort of island “kickapoo juice.” While the party was going on, some of the older folks took the chaplain for a tour of the island.
Of course, a few of us—I was the executive officer at the time—remained on board. When our people returned as they had gone ashore—via island canoes—Mool insisted that those of us left on board be entertained also. The captain had orders to return to Ulithi immediately with all naval personnel and any natives who needed further medical treatment. He told me to get the natives off the ship as we had to get under way. I told Mool this, and he complied by shoving the other natives overboard. But Mool had decided to go to Ulithi again. Since we didn’t want to cause any hard feeling with the natives by throwing their crown prince over the side, we let him stay.
Upon our arrival at Ulithi, Commodore Kessing was most “disturbed” about Mod’s unscheduled return. As a result we never went again to Fais.
“An Explanation at Niirnberg”
(See J. P. Bracken, pp. 16-17, Fall 1990; A. Niestle, pp. 8-9, Fall 1991 Naval History)
Commander Jack O. Bruce, U.S. Navy (Retired)—Many readers of Captain Bracken’s article about the sinking of the Laconia may well wonder why the U-boats rescuing survivors from a British ship were attacked by American aircraft. They may also wonder why the British did not attempt to rescue the Laconia’s survivors.
I put the questions to an English friend of mine who is an author and World War II expert. He explained that there was no British rescue attempt because they lacked the wherewithal to mount one. As to the repeated air attacks on the U-boats, he pointed out that in early 1942, because of U-boat successes. Great Britain was near collapse. This, coupled with the fact that every German submarine sunk meant six precious Allied merchant ships saved, meant that the British were in no mood to observe niceties.
“U.S. and Canadian Naval Ship and Museum Exhibits”
(See B. Humphrey, pp. 71-78, Summer 1991 Naval History)
Merritt A. Edson, Jr.—The Constellation currently exhibited at Baltimore, Maryland is not, as the text indicates, the frigate USS Constellation, the “First Navy warship” that was built at Baltimore in 1797. That famous ship was broken up in Norfolk, Virginia, in 1853.The ship at Baltimore is actually an incorrect reconstruction of the first-class corvette (or sloop-of-war) Constellation, built in 1853-4.
The original Constellation was drawn up into dry dock at the Gosport Navy Yard (Norfolk, Virginia) between 11-24 February 1853, as indicated in the yard’s log. The log further indicates that from 16 May through 24 May 1853, the original Constellation was cut up and dismantled. The 24 May entry states that 169 laborers were used to “burn up timber” and for “splitting and piling wood.” Therefore, by 24 May 1853, the frigate Constellation no longer existed.
The same log indicates that on 25 June 1853, a work crew “[l]aid the keel of the frigate Constellation in ship house (B)”— a ship actually designed as a corvette. Whether portions of the original Constellation's keel were used in this new ship cannot be determined, although it is possible. Possibly, too, some of the timber from the original Constellation was used in the new Constellation. Nevertheless, the new ship was completely dissimilar to the first U.S. sailing vessel of the same name.
The yard’s log indicates that from 1 March through 29 June 1854 work was done on the new ship’s masts and rigging. Entries from 28 July through 18 August indicate preparations for the launch of the new ship which occurred on 26 August 1854. The related entry for the day reads: “At 15 minutes to 12 N[oon] new Sloop of War [my italics] Constellation was launched from Ship House (B) without any accident.” Therefore, based on information in the yard log, this Constellation was new construction—not a refit of the old frigate.
An article—’’Naval Improvement: The Old and the New Ship Constellation”— published in The Monthly Nautical Magazine in 1854 further supports this conclusion. The article contains a chart that gives the dimensions of the two ships:
Constellation |
Old |
New |
Length Between Perpendiculars |
164.00 ft. |
175.00 ft. |
Beam Moulded |
40.06 ft. |
41.00 ft. |
Hold to gun-deck |
19.06 ft. |
21.00 ft. |
Length on load-line |
162.00 ft. |
176.00 ft |
The length between perpendicular measurements indicate that the new ship was 12 feet longer at this point than the old, and the length on the load[water]- line is 14 feet longer for the new Constellation. This illustrates a completely different hull profile for the corvette than for the frigate. While the six-inch difference between the two beam moulded measurements could be accounted for by additional wood sheathing, the additional 1.5 feet in the corvette’s hold over that of the frigate’s would have been impossible to add without major rebuilding.
“Zeppelin Hunters”
(See F. Contey, pp. 37-41, Spring 1990; D. Buckley, R. D. Layman, and P. MacDougall, pp. 6-7, Spring 1991; R. D. Layman, p. 5, Fall 1991 Naval History)
William G. Key—The Lewis machine gun had a life far beyond zeppelin hunting.
In 1942, while writing articles on the war effort for the Atlanta Constitution, a photographer and I were embarked on the shakedown cruise of a 40-foot, 12- knot shrimp boat that the U.S. Navy had converted for antisubmarine patrols and sent to sea out of Mayport, Florida. It had two jury-rigged depth charges in the stem area and a vintage Lewis gun was affixed atop the wheelhouse to engage any surfaced U-boat. The cruise was to include rolling-off a depth charge and firing of the Lewis gun.
Both were interesting experiences. According to the book, the charges would detonate at 12 seconds. After discussion as to actual time, six seconds became the consensus. After his feet stopped vibrating from the explosion, the skipper’s first command was loud—and pertinent: “Check the bilges!”
The crew had apparently not been briefed on the Lewis gun’s discharge of casings. The results were yelps of surprise and some minor injuries as the gun’s magazine turned and hot metal casings were distributed widely.
“Steel Ships, Iron Crosses, and Refugees: The German Navy in the Baltic, 1939-1945”
(See K. P. Czech, pp. 6i-62. Fall 1990; G. B. Thamm, p. 8, Fall 1991 Naval History)
Lieutenant Daniel S. Poliak, U.S. Naval Reserve—Gerhardt Thamm is clearly mistaken in claiming that the success of the Kriegsmarine served a higher good by delaying the end of World War II by several months. The “most fearful barbarity and atrocities” did not result from German defeats, but from German victories. Any implication to the contrary is disservice to the millions of victims of the Nazis. Americans should not forget that the “glorious” Nazi successes directly resulted in the deaths of Americans who would not have died if the war had ended in late 1944.
“Why Don't We Do This More Often?”
(See C. B. Laning, pp. 55-60, Winter 1991 Naval History)
Editor's Note: The Pearl Harbor diagram on page 58 and listing of ships on page 59 originally appeared in Samuel Eliot Morison's The Rising Sun in the Pacific: 1931-April 1942, Volume III of History of United States Naval Operations in World War II, published in 1948 by Little, Brown and Company.