“Sentimental Mission to Memphis”
(See E. L. Beach, pp. 16-20, September- October 1993; B. J. Nederhiser, p. 7, March-April 1994; J. B. Lawrence, p. 7, September-October 1994 Naval History)
Captain Edward L. Beach, U.S. Navy (Retired)
Despite the fact that the official description of the phenomenon that caused the loss of my father’s ship used the word “hurricane,” there were no high winds. All the reports of the day’s events commented on this. Pictures taken from shore show the flags of the Memphis (CA-10) fluttering normally—even as huge seas were breaking over her boat deck.
The vocabulary of those days did not include the modern term—which we’ve adopted from the Japanese—for waves caused by an underwater seismic event: tsunami. In 1916, the closest term was “tidal wave,” by which the official accounts described the sudden seas that beset the Memphis that day.
Insofar as the term “hurricane” showing up on the three Medal of Honor citations is concerned, apparently the bureaucrats writing the citations simply didn’t do their homework. Probably to them, only a hurricane could produce waves of the size described; thus that was what, in their small minds, it had to be. Once the “system” had produced the words and sent them up the line, they had to be allowed to stand—even though everyone involved knew they were not right.
“All Life Has a Plot”
(See S. Foote, pp. 36-39, September- October 1994 Naval History)
Scott Rye
I enjoyed the interview with Shelby Foote very much, but I was surprised to read Mr. Foote’s assertion that “no big Navy man” wrote anything about the war. There are several excellent primary sources for those interested in the naval dimension of the Civil War.
It is true that the highest-ranking Union naval officer—and the U.S. Navy’s first full admiral—Admiral David Glasgow Farragut did not write his memoirs. However, David Dixon Porter, the Navy’s second full admiral, wrote two books: Incidents and Anecdotes of the Civil War and Naval History of the Civil War.
The most famous naval officer of the war, North or South, was Confederate Navy Rear Admiral Raphael Semmes. His Memoirs of Service Afloat During the War Between the States is one of the most articulate and readable personal accounts to come out of the war. Commander James D. Bulloch’s The Secret Service of the Con- federate States in Europe details the building and operations of the Confederate cruisers. Other books by naval veterans of the Civil War include works by John McIntosh Kell, the executive officer of the CSS Alabama; Henry Walke; Thomas O. Selfridge; Arthur Sinclair; and James Waddell, the CSS Shenandoah’s captain.
The Official Records of the Union and Confederate Navies of the War of Rebellion remains the primary source for students of the Civil War at sea. Nevertheless, numerous articles were published by both Union and Confederate sailors after the war. Some of them appear in the four-volume Battles and Leaders of the Civil War.
Editor’s Note: Mr. Rye is the author of Men and Ships of the Civil War, scheduled to be published next spring by Longmeadow Press.
“I Don’t Know Anything About Art”
(See B. Tillman, pp. 49-52, September-October 1994 Naval History)
Peter Mersky, Assistant Editor, Approach
Barrett Tillman’s biography of Ted Wilbur was a welcome and long-overdue tribute to one of the pioneers of aviation art. We still leaf through bound volumes of Approach here at the Naval Safety Center and marvel at Captain Wilbur’s facility, imagination, and productivity. We also occasionally rerun his work.
The painting of the F9F pilot ejecting, on page 52, actually was the cover art for the second issue of Approach in August 1955. We used it again for our November 1988 cover for a special ejection theme issue. The cover of the first Approach was a much more mundane image: a photograph of a ground crew working on an F9F.
Ted Wilbur did some amazing work during his years at Approach. Whether he was depicting the struggling crew of a P2V Neptune shot down in the Sea of Japan by Soviet MiGs, or the trials and tribulations of Will Riskit or Francis Maclobber, Ted Wilbur’s hands-on familiarity with his subject as well as his artistic skill were readily apparent.
His comic strips were definitely influenced by the then-new humor magazine MAD, whose stable of artists included Wally Wood, whose work eventually appeared on covers of many news magazines, including Time.
Morgan Ian Wilbur does carry on in his father’s tradition, but he has established his own style. Therefore, I have no trouble juxtaposing this talented father and son with an illustrious family in American art: the Wyeths.
“Patrick O’Brian’s Aubrey/Maturin Novels: An Overview”
(See R. C. Jones, pp. 55-56, January- February 1994; W. J. Shepherd, p. 6, May- June 1994; M. Smookler, p. 7, September- October 1994 Naval History)
Commander Tyrone G. Martin, U.S. Navy (Retired)
Mr. Smookler provided a nice overview of naval historical novels presently available. However, he omitted two American authors from his list:
• Jon Williams, whose fine quintet of titles under the series heading of “Privateers and Gentlemen” (all American heroes, for a change) was issued by Dell Publishing in the early 1980s. The titles are: The Privateer, The Yankee, The Raider, The Macedonian, and Cat Island.
• Dewey Lambdin, a U.S. Naval Institute member, has written five books—published by Donald I. Fine— featuring Alan Lewrie who serves in the Royal Navy of the late 18th century. This series is not for the priggish; the first book in the series—The King’s Coat (1989)—opens with a scene more reminiscent of Tom Jones than Horatio Homblower.
The activities of the “navy” of the Honorable East India Company—otherwise known as “The Bombay Marine”—have inspired at least two authors—an American and an Englishman—to enter the genre. Ellis K. Meacham’s three works—The East Indiaman, On the Company’s Service, and For King and Company—were published between 1968 and 1976 on both sides of the Atlantic. They follow Captain Percival Merewether’s service during the Napoleonic era. Between 1959 and 1973, English author James Dillon White wrote four books about Roger Kelso’s exploits in the Bombay Marine during the Seven Years War.
A pair of English authors not mentioned, who teamed up under the pseudonym of “Anthony Forrest,” produced two highly original naval stories featuring Captain John V. Justice. The books—Captain Justice and The Pandora Secret—were published in the United States by Hill and Wang in 1981 and 1982, respectively. Sadly, I know of no sequels.
Yet another English author in the genre is Simon White. His hero is Captain Jethro Penhaligon Cockerill and he has appeared in three books: The English Captain (1977), Clear for Action! (1978), and His Majesty’s Frigate (1979)—all published in the United States by St. Martin’s Press.
Readers might be interested to know that Victor Suthren, the Canadian author mentioned in Mr. Smookler’s comments, has completed his Mainwaring series with the fourth volume, Admiral Monsoon (Thorndike Press, 1993).
“Flying the Barrier”
(See W. J. Sinfas, pp. 15-16, March-April 1994; R. C. Peniston, pp. 7-8, September-October 1994 Naval History)
Lieutenant Commander John P. Blair, U.S. Navy (Retired)
This article brought back many memories of my career as a naval aviator. I joined Airborne Early Warning Squadron-11 when it was based at the Patuxent River Naval Air Station and moved with the squadron—and my wife and children—to Argentia, Newfoundland. The quarters were new, but the best benefit was to come home to my family—instead of a cold bachelor officers quarters or barracks.
The author neglected to mention the enormous hangars that were used for maintenance of the “Warning Stars.” After landing, we would taxi directly into a hangar; there, the aircraft would be serviced and turned completely around to be ready to taxi out for its next mission.
During the winter of 1958, Argentia was closed because of bad weather. The three or four aircraft on the barrier when the storm hit could not return to Argentia nor could relief aircraft take off. The aircraft kept the barrier going by landing at the Air Force base at Saint John’s, Newfoundland, which was not closed. The aircraft would stay on the ground only long enough to refuel and reprovision and, then, they went back up.
“He Who Sees First Lives Longest”
(See A. van der Moer, pp. 35-40, July- August 1994; M. C. Jones, p. 4, September- October 1994 Naval History)
Editor’s Note: We regret that we introduced, an error into Vice Admiral van der Moer’s excellent article. The last sentence in the second paragraph of the Admiral’s original manuscript read: "... I remember listening to Adolf Hitler making one of his ominous speeches on the radio just before he got started.” The last two words were changed to “ascended to power,” which is in error.
“What Did Farragut See?”
(See G. Cornelius, pp. 11-17, July-August 1994 Naval History)
H.H. Caldwell
I took great pleasure in reading Commander Cornelius’s article on the Battle of Mobile Bay. It appears that 5 August 1864 was quite a day for notable pronouncements. Admiral Farragut got off two beauties: one which revealed his fearless character; the other expressing his exasperation—in remarkably mild terms— at the ineptitude of a subordinate.
Nevertheless, the most inspirational saying of that day was uttered by Commander T. A. M. Craven, the captain of the ill-fated monitor USS Tecumseh. According to the U.S. Naval Academy’s Reef Points, 1940-1941:
“After you, pilot,” [said] Commander T. A. M. Craven, as he and the pilot both turned to the ladder, the only means of escape from the sinking Tecumseh during the Battle of Mobile Bay. The Commander’s noble courtesy cost him his life.
Commander Craven’s selfless heroism exemplifies the highest degree of personal integrity and illustrates a standard of behavior to which all naval officers should aspire.
Captain Benjamin T. Brooks, Jr., U.S. Naval Reserve (Retired)
In a report written shortly after the Battle of Mobile Bay, Admiral David Farragut stated:
As I had an elevated position in the main rigging near the top, I was able to overlook not only the deck of the Hartford but the other vessels of the fleet.
An account of the battle on page 185 of U.S. Navy: An Illustrated History (Naval Institute Press, 1977) states:
The Admiral himself mounted the lower main rigging of the Flagship so that he would be able to see above the smoke of battle and was tied in place for safety.
In the opening illustration of the article—a well-known painting of the battle— the Admiral is striking a heroic pose in the mizzen rigging just over the port rail— hardly “in the main rigging just under the top.” Furthermore, with Fort Morgan to the starboard of the Union battle line, Admiral Farragut probably is depicted on the wrong side of the Hartford.
Please note that in the same painting, the colors of the Hartford and the CSS Tennessee are boldly flying in a beam breeze. Isn’t it strange then that in the accompanying sketch, the smoke of the ships rises almost vertically into sooty clouds, while their colors stream prominently in a nonexistent air? Perhaps, the article should have been entitled: “What Did the Artists See?” Insofar as Admiral Farragut’s attitude toward the Confederate minefield is concerned, according to his after-action report, the admiral knew of buoys marking the minefield. Indeed, his flag-lieutenant had made several night reconnaissances of the harbor—albeit without being able to discover the mines themselves. However, Admiral Farragut stated in his report:
[W]e had been assured by refugees, deserters, and others, of [the mines’] existence, but believing that, from their having been some time in the water they were probably innocuous, I determined to take the chance of an explosion.
Finally, judging from the fact that the Union fleet was prepared to fight its way into Mobile Bay, I find the assertion contained in the caption on page 16—i.e., “Union skippers were surprised by gunfire from [Fort Morgan]”—more than a little amazing.
“Normandy: Why and How?”
(See S. Ambrose, pp. 7-9, May-June 1994; W. S. Shepherd, p. 7, July-August 1994; I. Marshall, pp. 4-6, September-October 1994 Naval History)
Commander Joseph Lyons, U.S. Navy (Retired)
In all the discussion and commentary about D-Day, no one addressed two of the biggest questions concerning the landings that June morning. Why was there no meaningful close air support on the beaches? Why weren’t amphibious tractors (LVTs) used in the first few waves?
Confining discussion to the U.S. beaches, more than 1,000 sorties were flown against beachhead targets by the U.S. 8th and 9th Air Forces; however, virtually none of them contributed to the taking of the beaches. On Omaha Beach, the 30-second delay in dropping bombs— caused by the weather—meant that the bombs dropped by B-17s and B-24s of the 8th Air Force landed some three miles inland—and away from the beach defenses. A similar effort by 9th Air Force B-26s at Utah Beach did put bombs on the beach. However, in the words of the U.S. Army’s official history of the operation—Cross Channel Attack—the overall bombing “achieved little in neutralizing the coastal fortifications.”
Given that the set-piece bomber sorties could have failed, why had no organization been developed to direct close air support for Allied ground forces? Refusing to have the close air support directed from command ships off the invasion beaches, the 9th Air Force set up an elaborate close air support center at Uxbridge, England. On 6 June, a total of 18 requests were received; five of which were turned down because of a “lack of aircraft”—an incredible statement given the thousands of warplanes poised in southern England for the Normandy invasion.
Concerning LVTs, it’s hard to avoid comparing Omaha Beach with the assault on Saipan which also occurred in early June 1944. Saipan was no cakewalk for the Marines in the first waves; casualties were heavy. However, virtually none of the casualties was caused by men stepping off the ramps of landing craft into water over their heads or being left at water’s edge to cross several hundred yards of open beach under heavy fire or because there was no direct-support artillery up with the troops. The Marines’ LVTs, of course, made the difference. So, why did the Army not use LVTs at Normandy?
“Greatest of All Sea Battles”
(See T. J. Cutler, pp. 10-18, September- October 1994 Naval History)
Harold T. Berc
The cover illustration of the September- October 1994 Naval History of the sinking of the USS Princeton (CVL-23) on 24 October 1944 by the USS Reno (CL-96) brought to mind a memory of mine—from when I was the Reno’s combat-information center officer.
It was on a sad day when the Princeton was hit by a Japanese Judy glide bomber. The USS Birmingham (CL-62) and the Reno were in a light force deployed to help her. In Leyte—Volume XII of his monumental History of U.S. Naval Operations in World War II (Little, Brown and Company, 1958), Samuel Eliot Morison describes what happened:
The wind had now risen to 20 knots’ velocity and the sea was making up. Captain [W. H.] Buracker [of the Princeton] requested [the] Reno to take [the] Princeton under tow, but she had no towing gear on board. So Captain [T. B.] Inglis, after conferring with Captain Buracker . . . decided to close again to render aid until the fires were out, and then act as tugboat. The cruiser was just closing at 1523 when a tremendous explosion in the carrier’s torpedo stowage blew off most of her stem and the entire after section of the flight deck. Steel debris rained down on [the] Birmingham, then in the path of greatest destruction, her topside crowded with fire fighters, antiaircraft gunners and sailors preparing to pass lines and rig the tow.
On the Birmingham, 229 men were killed instantly; 424 more were wounded.
The untold part of this story is that ten days earlier, the Reno had been attacked by a “Jill” torpedo bomber and had shot down the aircraft. However, the aircraft struck the fantail and went over the side. When it did, it took with it the Reno’s towing reel. This was why, on that fateful day, the Reno could not take the crippled Princeton under tow.
Therefore, an early kamikaze spared the Reno from the tragedy that was visited on the gallant Birmingham. The Reno’s luck, however, did not hold for long—ten days later, she was torpedoed by a Japanese submarine.