“The Norfolk War Scare”
(See F. C. Leiner, pp. 36-38, Summer 1993; M. P. Watson, pp. 4-6, September-October 1993; W. M. P. Dunne, p. 7, November-December 1993 Naval History)
Royana Bailey Redon
I was sorry to see that Dr. Dunne has fallen victim to the old misapprehension that Daniel Frazier—not Reuben James—saved the life of Stephen Decatur.
I have been engaged for many years in researching and writing a biography of Commodore Decatur. Early in my research, I had extensive correspondence with Mr. Stephen Decatur of Garden City, New York—now deceased. A direct descendant of the commodore’s brother, he gave me repeated and convincing evidence that Reuben James was the brave man who saved Stephen Decatur. He wrote me many times that the Decatur family remained positive of Reuben James’s identity and that they stayed in close contact with the James family well into the 20th century.
Alexander Slidell Mackenzie, a meticulous biographer of Decatur, wrote in 1846 that he was aware that Daniel Frazier sometimes was given the credit for saving Decatur’s life, but that, after examining all the evidence, he was convinced that Reuben James had done so. (See Life of Stephen Decatur, The Library of American Biography, 2nd Series [Boston, MA: Jared Sparks, 1846], Volume XVI, pp. 361-362.)
Dr. Dunne cites a later biographer— Charles Lee Lewis—as a major source. Mr. Decatur wrote me that when Dr. Lewis was preparing his book, he, his father, and a cousin—William Decatur Parsons—sought in vain to disabuse him of his erroneous conclusion.
“Back to Flue”
(See D. Novak and M. F. Novak, pp. 10-15, September-October 1993 Naval History)
Colonel Joseph H. Alexander, U.S. Marine Corps (Retired)
Dave Novak may have been one of the last Americans to discover the city before its destruction during the 1968 Tet Offensive. Earlier, during the halcyon days of the initial landings in Vietnam in 1965, I was among the first to see that ancient— and as yet unspoiled—jewel.
I was a member of Amphibious Task Group 76.7, responsible for a pair of “Mike” boats engaged in delivering the 3d Battalion, 4th Marines, 11 miles upstream along the Song Huong (Perfume River) between its mouth on the South China Sea and Hue. Heavily armed and expecting the worst, we were dazed to be greeted by throngs of waving Vietnamese all along the river banks.
Likewise, we found the people of Hue to be proud, sophisticated, and appreciative (“Bonjour, Marine!”). The city itself was clean and lovely—easily the nicest city I ever saw in Southeast Asia. 1 attended Easter Sunday Mass in the great cathedral, feeling self-conscious about wearing a pistol. Nevertheless, the huge congregation seemed to accept me.
Three years later, as the Novaks recount, the cathedral and much of the city were destroyed. Worse, the North Vietnamese murdered 2,800 of its key citizens—teachers, religious leaders, and city officials. I’ve never forgiven the news media for ignoring this massacre.
The Novaks are right. Before 1968, Hue was the epitome of Vietnam’s “legendary beauty and grace.” What happened to Hue in 1968 was like having one’s favorite aunt—elegant, independent, charming— brutally raped and mutilated. The civilized world was a net loser.
“No Place for a Small Cutter”
(See J. J. Leonard and C. L. Gibeault, pp. 25-27, September-October 1993 Naval History)
Robert E. Johnson, author of Guardians of the Seas: A History of the U.S. Coast Guard, 1915 to the Present (Naval Institute Press, 1987) and Bering Sea Escort: Life Aboard a Coast Guard Cutter in World War II (Naval Institute Press, 1992)
I must comment on the dramatic painting of the USCGC Modoc (WPG-46) that accompanied this article. In 1941, a Coast Guard cutter would not have flown the Coast Guard ensign at the peak (gaff). The national colors would have been at that location with a smaller Coast Guard ensign and commissioning pennant at the main truck. Since the Modoc’s captain wanted to establish her identity as a U.S. vessel, it hardly would have been desirable to fly an oversized Coast Guard ensign— certainly, many foreign mariners would have had difficulty identifying it.
Furthermore, the paint scheme shown was highly unlikely. Although I did not see her at the time—indeed, I never saw her—when I reported on board her sister, the USCGC Haida (WPG-45) some six weeks later, the latter was painted white with buff stack, mast, and ventilators—the standard paint scheme for Class A cutters. I have some doubt about the accuracy of certain deck fittings—e.g., the locations of small boats. The fantail bulwark also is questionable. The location of the after 5- inch gun suggests that the Modoc had received her wartime armament by that time; therefore a depth-charge track should be on either side of the flagstaff with solid bulwark between.
Small the Modoc may have been, relative to the Bismarck and HMS Prince of Wales, but after the seven 327-foot cutters, she and her three sisters were the largest cutters the Coast Guard had. Thus, it is somewhat misleading to refer to her as “a small cutter.”
“LSTs: Marvelous at Fifty”
(See K. Kendall, pp. 37-41, Winter 1992 Naval History)
Signalman First Class Patrick J. O'Brien, U.S. Naval Reserve (Retired)
My brief experience with the Landing Ship, Tank (LST) happened in March 1956. A crewman on the USS Roanoke (CL-145), I volunteered to join a transit crew to man three LSTs—all leftovers from World War II that had been loaned to the postwar Japanese government—that were being towed from Tacoma, Washington, to Long Beach, California.
We arrived a week early to prepare the ships for the seven-day trip. Painted pale gray with large faded white numbers with a prefix “Q” (my ship was Q072) and with rust everywhere, they had the forlorn look of ships waiting for the breakers. With their engines permanently down and their rudders welded, they were virtual hulks. Each LST had a crew of six men. Communication would be mainly by walkie- talkie or semaphore. For lighting and heat—we were assigned former officer’s staterooms with a small electric space heater in each room—a large diesel-electric generator was secured to the tank deck. Most important was our chow issue: a side of beef, boxes of cold cuts, coffee, drinking water, a crate of grapes and fruits. We also were issued backup C-rations. Because we had no refrigeration, all of the perishables were stowed in an ammunition box on the bridge.
The comedy of errors on the day of our departure was harbinger of the trouble to come. Our LST, the second in line of a tandem tow, had a towing cable temporarily secured to her starboard side lifeline. A strain was taken up by our prime mover—a large fleet tug—and everybody scattered for shelter as the starboard stanchions and lifeline went over the side.
Eventually, we cleared land and started feeling the long rollers of the open sea. A tremendous banging began below decks— all the watertight doors were swinging free. We spent an hour going through the ship dogging down doors and hatches. That night, the diesel generator went bellyup, putting an end to the lighting and heat. We survived the next day with flashlights, foul-weather gear, and good old Navy-issue blankets. The generator came back on line—just as a storm hit.
The storm quickly worsened, and the chief boatswain’s mate in charge of the LST secured the weather decks and instituted a “buddy” system—whereby anyone traveling around the ship would have a partner. Communications became a farce. Our two walkie-talkies stopped working. We were supposed to send hourly status reports to the tug, but visibility soon fell to zero in driving rain. Therefore, I was able to establish contact by semaphore with the tug every three or four hours. The tug’s signalman would reply with flashing light because it was impossible to read semaphore without binoculars.
Riding a flat-bottomed LST in a storm is not the same as doing so in a cruiser. I didn’t know a ship could yaw and roll at such fantastic angles and degrees. Occasionally, we had quick glimpses of the other two LSTs; they were rockin’ and rollin’ just like us. The big fleet tug was just holding its own.
After two days, the seas began to moderate. Soon, the sun came out and we enjoyed clear weather all the way to our landfall. But, as we entered a warmer climate, our meat ration spoiled and was deep-sixed. We finished the trip eating C-rations.
After entering Long Beach roadstead— five days late—and mooring to a buoy, we inspected the towing bridle. Both wire hawsers had cut into the bows to the depth of about three feet. If we had gone another day, we would have been in deep trouble.
After reporting back to the Roanoke, we went out a few weeks later with a destroyer division for a gun and torpedo shoot. The targets for the tin cans’ torpedoes turned out to be three old LSTs—painted in a pale gray with large white faded numbers on their hulls. You could just make out the prefix “Q”.
“Hood’s Achilles’ Heel”
(See E. Grove, pp. 43-46, Summer 1993; R. E. Nabomey, pp. 7-8, November- December 1993 Naval History)
Commander Joseph E. Lyons, U.S. Navy (Retired)
Robert E. Nabomey errs when he states that the only time a dreadnought fired torpedoes at another was when HMS Rodney engaged the Bismarck.
According to John Campbell’s book Jutland: An Analysis of the Fighting (Naval Institute Press, 1986), during the Battle of Jutland in 1916, dreadnoughts on both sides fired a total of 21 torpedoes. In at least nine cases the targets were other dreadnoughts. There is no record of hits by either side.
Firing Ship |
Target |
SMS Moltke |
HMS Queen Mary |
HMS Lion |
SMS Derfflinger |
HMS Lion |
Unidentified Battleship |
SMS Lützow |
HMS Tiger |
HMS Valiant |
SMS Koenig |
HMS Malaya |
SMS Markgraf |
HMS Marlborough |
SMS Kaiser |
HMS Revenge |
SMS von der Tann |
HMS Princess Royal |
Unidentified Battleship |
“The USS Silversides”
(See F. M. Tannenbaum, pp. 58-61, Spring 1993 Naval History
Fred M. Tannenbaum, Historian, The USS Silversides and Maritime Museum; Muskegon, Michigan
First, a correction: The USS Silversides (SS-236) received a single Presidential Unit Citation for cumulative action during her fourth, fifth, seventh and tenth war patrols—and not four of the prestigious awards as appeared in my profile of her.
Some of the circumstances that ultimately caused the Silversides to move to Muskegon, Michigan, in 1987 merit discussion as they present a scary precedent other museums would be wise to avoid.
During the Silversides’ Chicago tenure, requests for land and museum space for many years were done under threat of negative publicity. Additional vessels—e.g., revenue-producing tugs and survey boats— were added to the museum’s inventory without the city’s permission. To make matters worse, a city investigation revealed that the Silversides’ operators intentionally deflated tourist counts and revenue. Because of this, city officials saw the Silver- sides and her “fleet” as a commercial business operating under the guise of a non-profit organization and began to seek back rent for pier space.
Furthermore, supplies vital to the preservation of the Silversides were rarely made available to volunteers. Volunteers also were frequently taunted, harassed, and even physically threatened by members of the operating staff until a volunteer crew was deemed no longer necessary in 1985.
The lesson here is those who operate ships as museums must do so in an aboveboard, unselfish manner if the public—let alone the U.S. Navy—is to respect their historical significance. Those which fail to do so either will sail for other cities or go to the scrapyard. The Silversides could have come to a bad end; her reputation tarnished by her previous operators. But she was luckier than many and, since 1987, her organization has rallied a wealth of local community support.
“Pride of the Coast Guard?”
(See S. M. Carroll, pp. 50-52, November-December 1993 i History)
Gail Fuller, Curator, U.S. Coast Guard
In his article on the U.S. Coast Guard Museum at the Academy, cadet Carroll is correct in conveying the sense that the Coast Guard has been concerned about the disposition and preservation of its history for many years. For at least 50 years, a variety of offices in the services have attempted to place artifacts in museums across the country so that they might be enjoyed by the public.
However, Cadet Carroll fails to mention some very important facts about the Coast Guard’s management of its historical collections. Although the creation of the museum at the Academy in 1967—not 1963—was a giant step forward for Coast Guard history, its 6,000 artifacts and works of art do not constitute the Coast Guard’s entire collection. More than 9,000 additional service artifacts currently are spread throughout the United States, some at various Coast Guard facilities, many on loan to museums.
Artifacts at Coast Guard facilities enrich the tour of duty for personnel there and often hold special meaning for the local community. Of the hundreds of artifacts on loan, one of the largest groups— 645 items—is in the custody of Shore Village Museum in Rockland, Maine. These are just a few examples of how the Coast Guard shares its history.
For more than a decade, the Coast Guard has sought to acquire a professional curatorial staff. In 1980, we were successful in receiving the authorization for a curator position, but the position was lost to a federal hiring freeze. In every year afterward, the Coast Guard unsuccessfully pursued the position. Finally, in 1990, Headquarters Public Affairs Staff reprogrammed two positions to create a curator and registrar. In October 1991, I was hired as the U.S. Coast Guard’s first curator and Donald L. Canney was hired as its registrar.
Since then, we have written the Coast Guard’s only standard operating procedures for its historical collections, defined methods of identifying and tracking artifacts, redesigned most of the forms used for artifacts, and managed to bring the Coast Guard’s artifact policies and procedures up to professional standards. Thus the Coast Guard has sealed the cracks through which some of its history has fallen.
One of our most important responsibilities is to provide guidance and support to the U.S. Coast Guard Museum and its curator. In addition, Headquarters Public Affairs recently gave one of its billets to the Academy so that the museum curator can be a permanent position.
Cadet Carroll incorrectly states that the museum was in existence in 1964 when Headquarters donated approximately 700 pieces of World War II combat art to non-profit organizations. Furthermore, it also is incorrect to say we have no records of where the art went.
While the loss of historical art and artifacts may be difficult to accept, our perception of this loss must be tempered with realism. Unlike the other armed forces, the Coast Guard has had a curator for only two years. The service’s primary concern has been, and will continue to be, the safety of life and property at sea. Other projects traditionally have taken a back seat.
The Coast Guard should not be faulted for wanting to share its history in the only way it could imagine at the time. At worst, it has lost some of its heritage. At best, it has shared this heritage with others.
The Coast Guard is complying with its legal and moral obligations to protect the service’s history. However, as federal funds become more scarce, private sources and foundations may provide the best opportunity for the future of our museum program.
Cadet Carroll is to be commended for addressing the issues confronting the museum. I share his concerns.
Those of us who love the Coast Guard must work together to shape the U.S. Coast Guard Museum into a national treasure worthy of telling the 203-year story of this country’s most colorful service.
“The Seawolfs Sodium-Cooled Power Plant”
(See R. B. Laning, pp. 45-48, Spring 1992; W. J. Morgan, p. 6, Spring 1993; T. Rockwell, pp. 3-4, Summer 1993; A. Morse, p. 8, November/December 1993 Naval History)
EDITOR’S Note: In the November/December Naval History, we inadvertently published a version of Mr. Anthony Morse’s letter that had not been approved by him. Therefore, we present Mr. Morse’s original letter in its entirety.
Anthony Morse
Mr. Rockwell, without question, speaks with authority on the design of the Sea- wolf s (SSN-575) power plant and the decision making process which finally led to the replacement of the sodium-cooled reactor with a pressured-water plant similar to that installed on the Nautilus (SSN-573).
I think, however, there was one other consideration affecting this decision which Mr. Rockwell omitted from his discussion. That was the problem of caustic corrosion in the superheater. Joe Pierce, the Electric Boat project engineer for the Seawolf at the time, had many a good night’s j sleep ruined by telephone calls in the wee I small hours reporting superheater tubes leaking again—and would he please come down to the yard right away.
From my position on the sidelines, I gathered that the metallurgy problems presented by the high-temperature sodium were finally deemed to be not worth pursuing any further. The superheater was then by-passed and the ship operated on saturated steam from then on until the plant was replaced. This, obviously, was not in the best interest of the turbine buckets and resulted in a lower plant efficiency than originally planned.
I think that this, along with the resounding operational success of the Nautilus, as Mr. Rockwell states, was a large contributing factor to the decision to repower the Seawolf.
“The ‘Dynamite Cruiser”’
(See M. C. West, pp. 31-J4, Spring 1993 Naval History)
H.H. Caldwell
Commander West’s statement that the USS Vesuvius was “the only compressed air gun ship ever designed from the ground up and commissioned” is not quite accurate. A submarine—the Holland VI—was built by John P. Holland on speculation at the Crescent Shipyard in Elizabethport, New Jersey, and first put to sea on 17 March 1898. Her armament consisted of a torpedo tube and two pneumatic dynamite guns, both on the centerline—one pointed forward, one aft.
In 1899, Charles A. Morris, superintending engineer for the construction of the Holland VI, wrote a descriptive specification of her which included the following:
Directly above this expulsion tube [the bow-mounted torpedo tube] is placed the Holland Pneumatic Dynamite Gun of 8.425 inches bore, having a fixed elevation of 15 degrees, but by filling or emptying the trim tanks this can be increased or decreased. The muzzle of the gun is fitted with a water-tight cap. It will discharge a projectile of 222 lbs. weight, charged with from 50 to 80 lbs. gun cotton, giving a range in the air of 1,000 yards or 30 Yards when fired under water. It is operated by air and gun-powder and is quickly handled. Six or more of these projectiles can be carried.
The pneumatic dynamite gun was invented by Edmund L. Zalinski, a U.S. Army artillery officer and ordnance expert. In 1884, with Holland as his partner, he founded the Nautilus Submarine Boat Company in order to build a submarine for the purpose of testing the dynamite gun and other inventions. The partnership foundered for lack of capital, but Holland remained a champion of the dynamite gun and later took out a patent for such a weapon, which may explain why it was included in the Holland VI. The Navy was never enthusiastic about the dynamite gun as a submarine weapon and omitted it from the specifications for future boats.
As for the Holland VI, her after dynamite gun was removed during the winter of 1898-1899, after her shakedown. She was bought by the Navy on 11 April 1900 and was commissioned on 12 October 1900 as the USS Holland (SS-1).
“Inside Semmes”
(See C. Newton, pp. 6-10, Summer 1993; D. C. Nilsen, V. N. Wing, p. 9, November-December 1993 Naval History)
Kurt Eberly
It is obvious that Mr. Nilsen does not understand commerce-raiding strategy or Captain RaphacLSemmes. Attacking an enemy’s merchant marine was not a new idea in 1861 nor a cowardly one—as Mr. Nilsen seems to think. He should review the USS Essex’s cruise during the War of 1812 and the U.S. submarine offensive against the Japanese merchant fleet in World War II.
Does Mr. Nilsen mean to suggest that the CSS Alabama should have shown her colors to every ship that she sighted? As with any captain, Semmes’s primary responsibility was the safety of his ship. The Alabama was one of the handful of seagoing warships that the Confederacy had.
As to the character of Semmes himself, he was a product of 19th century Southern society and tradition. Mr. Nilsen makes the mistake of judging Captain Semmes from a 20th-century perspective.
“Painter of the Sea”
(See P. Bombo, pp. 35-39, September-October 1993 Naval History)
John R. Fluker, Jr.
The caption for the picture at the bottom of page 38—which says it depicts “a[n Italian] U-boat sinking a Royal Navy frigate”—is incorrect. The painting actually shows an incident from the night battle at the Kerkenah Bank off Tunisia on 15-16 April 1941. In this action, four British destroyers of Malta-based Force K— exploiting their advantage of radar and the deficiencies of the Italian organization— ambushed a convoy of five transports, escorted by three destroyers. All the Italian ships were sunk or run aground.
However, at the end of the fight, the Italian destroyer Luca Tarigo—decks awash and apparently totally out of action—sank HMS Mohawk with two torpedoes and would have hit another British ship had not a torpedo run too deep. This is what the Claudus painting depicts.
Also, unlike U.S. Navy hull numbers, Royal Navy pennants of the period did not indicate ship type. In fact, the Mohawk's pennant had been changed in 1940 from “G 31.” But Mr. Claudus had no way of “F 31”—as shown in the painting—to knowing that.