“Been Blown to Atoms”
(See T. Morr, pp. 34-39, May-June 1996 Naval History)
Paul H. Silverstone
Terry Morr describes the USS Tulip as having been built in New York for the Chinese Navy. In fact, it was being built for Frederick Townsend Ward’s “Ever Victorious Army,” along with two other ships. The Chi Kiang and Kiang Soo were sister ships built by James C. Jewett &. Co. in 1862. The larger third ship, also built by Jewett, was the Dai Ching. All three were purchased by the Navy in spring 1863. The first two were renamed Tulip and Fuchsia; the third ship retained her name. Ward was an American adventurer who had been an officer on the Shanghai government steamer Confucius. In 1861, he organized a voluntary mercenary force for the Chinese government called the “Ever Victorious Army” to help suppress the Taiping rebels. He was wounded in action and died the next day on 21 September 1862. His successor, Charles George Gordon, later died famously at Khartoum. Frederick’s brother, Henry G. Ward, owned the three ships. Because Frederick died before the ships were paid for, they were available for purchase by the United States Navy, which needed ships for the blockade.
“They Did Their Part”
(See J. Bradford, pp. 17-21, May-June 1996 Naval History)
Lieutenant Commander Harold Bere, U.S. Naval Reserve (Retired)
No matter how often told, the saga of the Sullivan brothers is an eternally gripping aspect of U.S. naval history. John Bradford’s retelling of their sacrifice as a new The Sullivans (DDG-68) is scheduled for commissioning stirred my recollection of the fate of the USS Juneau (CL-52). I was in Guadalcanal waters on board the USS Washington (BB-56) at the time. Just days before the Juneau's last action, our navigator, Commander William Hobby, was transferred to her and subsequently lost in her sinking. Some months later, I was transferred to the USS Reno (CL-96), a sister ship of the Juneau. Colleagues, “jealous” of my return to the states, predicted a dire fate for me. I not only was to serve on board a ship vulnerable to destruction by torpedoes but also had to keep in mind the fate of the USS Atlanta (CL-51), the class of which the Juneau and the Reno were members. The Atlanta was lost in the same action as the Juneau. They steamed together on 13 November 1942, and both were victims of Japanese torpedoes in the Battle of Guadalcanal.
The Reno proved to be the third Atlanta-class vessel to be victimized by Japanese torpedoes—but unlike the Atlanta and the Juneau, the Reno survived. On 3 November 1944, while part of the Leyte invasion force, the Reno was torpedoed by an enemy submarine. She was horribly damaged, suffered loss of life, and was subjected to an abandonment except for a skeleton crew—but was successfully towed 1,200 miles through typhoon waters to Ulithi. The ship that according to damage control experts should have sunk completed service as part of the magic carpet fleet.
Commander Tyrone G. Martin, U.S. Navy (Retired)
The Navy had more concerning it than just the announcement of the loss of the five Sullivan brothers on board the USS Juneau (CL-52) when the public was informed of that tragedy early in 1943. What was not bruited about at the time was that when the USS New Orleans (CA-32) was torpedoed during the Battle of Tassa-faronga, just 17 days after the Juneau’s sinking, the three Rogers brothers, Jack Ellis, Jr., Charles Ethbert, and Edwin Keith, had been lost in the severed bow.
Perhaps fortunately for the Navy, the American public and media has a habit of latching on to the first item of unusually good or bad news and rehashing it to a fare-thee-well. The outpouring of public condolences for the Sullivans and President Roosevelt’s quick directive to rename an already building Fletcher (DD-445)-class destroyer in their honor got everyone’s attention. Quietly, and more deliberately, the name “Rogers,” without any hint of plurality, was assigned to a Gearing (DD-710)-class destroyer to be built at Consolidated Steel Company in Orange, Texas. DD-876 was christened on 20 November 1944 by Mrs. Jack Ellis Rogers, Sr., less than six months after keel-laying, and commissioned on 26 March 1945 without much outside notice taken of the honorees.
The original USS The Sullivans (DD-537) served into the 1970s and today exists as a memorial at Buffalo, New York. The USS Rogers, which served as a radar picket destroyer, 1949-1963, operated until 1980, when she was transferred to the Republic of Korea. She continues to serve today as the Jeong Ju (925), having recently celebrated her 50th birthday.
Captain Channing M. Zucker, U.S. Navy (Retired)
My comment and questions concern the photograph of the five Sullivan brothers in Mr. Bradford’s splendid article. A second version of the same photo obtained from the National Archives shows the hatch cover “V” closure fitting plate upside down. Thomas Lahey’s question about this same photo back in 1989 concerned the meaning of the “V” designation, and it was resolved by reader Chester W. Klabe. It signified closed at all times during wartime cruising.
On close examination of the National Archives photo, however, another question arises. The upside down “V” looks to me suspiciously like an “A” with the horizontal part of the letter missing. There appears to be a blob in the middle of it that has also blanked out a part of the inside of each of the two diagonal legs at the points where the horizontal part would connect. Comparing the two photographs, it is clear that the one illustrating Mr. Bradford’s article, taken from a recruiting poster, has been retouched. Mr. Klabe, before he found an official Navy reference explaining the “V” classification, thought it to be either the victory symbol or perhaps the Roman “five” for the five Sullivan brothers.
Another photograph was taken from a slightly different angle within seconds of the one mentioned above. It appears, among other places, in Steve Ewing’s American Cruisers of World War II. The “V” is again upside down, just as in the National Archives photo. The shape and position of the suspected obliteration are precisely the same. This pretty much eliminates the possibility that either of these two photographs was retouched. The obliteration, if real, had to have been on the closure plate itself.
There is a second reason to believe the letter is an obliterated “A." The compartment designation plate to the right of the closure plate is clearly readable in both the Archives and Ewing photos. It is oriented in the same direction as the suspected obliterated “A” (opposite from the “V.”) Normally all plates on a closure fitting are oriented in the same direction.
Old hands at the Philadelphia and Norfolk Naval Shipyards noted use of the letter “A” to specify the forward principal division of a ship and as a one-time battle readiness material condition—but not as a closure classification. My research at Navy libraries has also failed to turn up any reference to an “A” closure classification; and I have been unable to locate any USS Juneau (CL-52) documentation that might shed light on the matter.
If the letter really was originally an “A,” but no such fitting closure classification existed, 1 can only surmise that the builder erroneously procured some “A” plates and, to save time and money, reconfigured them as “V”s by blanking out the cross member. More likely, to my way of thinking, is that if the letter was indeed an “A” and this was a legitimate (though I must say obscure and short-lived) closure classification, perhaps a mischievous Juneau sailor thought he could stir up questions like mine more than 50 years later by doctoring this one to look like a “V.” The recruiting poster artist only compounded the confusion by inverting it to fit the theme of his patriotic rendition.
Was it or was it not originally an “A,” and if so, what was its meaning? I am hoping that once again a sharp reader of Naval History can come up with the answers.
“Get It Up, Get It On, Get It Down”
(See J. F. Kirby, pp. 11-15, May-June 1996 Naval History)
Thomas P. Garrett, Jr., Ph.D.
I had the pleasure of attending the Blue Angels’ first public exhibition at Craig Field in Jacksonville, Florida, on 15 June 1946. At that time, I was stationed at Naval Air Station Jacksonville, where I served as plane captain on PBY-5 flying boats. A photograph of the four F6F Hellcats flown by the Blue Angels was taken on the ground at Craig Field that same day.
Although I was not a Navy pilot, I held a civilian pilot license at the time, and the PBY pilots were very generous in allowing me to spend many hours at the controls. I have remained an active pilot, now for more than 50 years. Since 1990, I have flown the PBY-6A Catalina owned by the National Warplane Museum to numerous air shows throughout the eastern United States. In September 1994, we flew the Catalina to Naval Air Station Memphis for an air show at which the Blue Angels were featured; it was the first time I had seen them since their initial public performance at Craig Field in 1946!
“Fisher’s Naval Revolution”
(See J. Sumida, pp. 20-26, July-August 1996 Naval History
C. P. Hall II
Let us begin this consideration of the evolution of the British capital ship with a questionably accurate generalization. For the first 30 years of armored battleship development, changes made were matters of design rather than technical innovation. Broadside competed with casemate, turret with open barbette, guns became larger in size, fewer in number, and slower to fire. Armor was slathered all over the hull in ever thicker gauges, then concentrated upon central citadels so massively that gauge seems an appropriate description.
Late in the 1880s, science began to influence significantly the options of designers. Metallurgy changed the nature of both guns and armor though not necessarily concurrently. Chemistry changed the nature of propellant and the contents of explosive shells. This coincided with France’s and Russia’s renewing their interest in naval construction. Britain faced abandoning naval supremacy it had established 80 years before. Instead, it established a policy of maintaining a Royal Navy superior to the combined fleets of any two European powers.
Early on, a standard battleship pattern was established. The pattern was to have two main battery turrets, one forward, one aft, each containing two 12-inch guns. An armored citadel amidships contained a secondary battery of 6-inch guns with mixed smaller pieces to deal with various lesser threats. With an occasional exception, this pattern was the norm for about 15 years, however, science continued to provide improvements to the constituent parts.
Eight years before, Britain had mounted two 16.25-inch, 25 caliber 110-ton guns able to pierce 32 inches of iron at 1,000 yards on each of three new battleships. The nine ships of the Majestic class each mounted four 12-inch, 35 caliber 46-ton guns that could pierce 33 inches of iron armor at 1,000 yards. Improved 40 caliber 12-inch guns were next introduced in the Canopus class.
Armor also improved during this period. The resistance power of 15 inches of iron was equaled by 12 inches of compound armor, 7.5 inches of Harvey armor, and finally 5.75 inches of plate made by the Krupp process. Belt armor was thinned, without reducing its power of resistance, from a maximum of 18 inches on the Royal Sovereign to 9 inches on the Majestic to what was described as 9 inches to 4 inches on the last pre-dreadnought class, King Edward VII.
Technology continued to improve naval artillery. 45 caliber 10-inch guns were in service, and 45 caliber 12-inch guns were planned. The capped armor-piercing shell and increased muzzle velocity rendered the armor of the King Edward VII and her seven sisters inadequate before they were complete. When the Majestic came into service, her armor could resist 12-inch gunfire at any range beyond 3,000 yards; the King Edward VII was vulnerable at 5,000 yards. Previous models were similarly inadequate.
This coincided with other events around the turn of the century. The original two- power standard referred to France and Russia. Now two new, more robust powers were interested in naval construction, Germany and the United States. It was into this situation that Admiral Sir John Fisher stepped when he became First Sea Lord.
Britain retained naval superiority based upon having the largest number of vulnerable obsolescent battleships. Technology demanded larger ships that could carry thicker armor and mount more guns large enough to deal with modern armor. Germany was considering an improved Deutschland design, mounting eight 11-inch guns. The United States planned the Michigan (BB-27) mounting eight 12 inch guns and actually began construction before the Dreadnought.
Admiral Fisher wanted to build the Dreadnought. He had been working on design concepts for at least four years, and, in any case he had no choice because of German and U.S. initiatives. The Dreadnought was superior to both German and U.S. concepts. Her turbine power gave her speed superiority over reciprocating engines in U.S. and German designs. She had ten, 12-inch/45 caliber guns, six of which could be fired over the bow and eight in broadside. She was launched six months after being laid down and began trials in one year, entering service barely 15 months after the first rivet was driven home. This was how superiority was initially maintained.
Admiral Fisher’s conundrum was that an aggressive competitor for naval supremacy could design a Dreadnought equivalent, build with vigor, and soon achieve and maintain numerical equivalency with the Royal Navy. As new craft were added to the lists, the old pre-Dreadnoughts would be too slow to engage except on the enemy’s terms, adding nothing to a fleet engagement. How would the Royal Navy retain superiority in the event of numerical parity?
The answer was the battle cruiser. Carefully kept out of the publicity spotlight in which the Dreadnought was basking, it retained the designation “armored cruiser” and was initially mis-described as mounting eight 9.2-inch guns. The Invincible class would provide the tactical edge during the transition years when the Dreadnought and three sisters, backed by eight Edward VIIs, might be challenged by a comparable number of German dreadnoughts backed by six Deutschlands. In this scenario, both fleets would be preceded by scouting cruisers both “armored” and “light.” Three Invincibles, armed with 12-inch guns, would roll up any number of lesser cruisers, thus blinding the enemy fleet. Once the battleships engaged each other, Invincibles were fast enough to swoop in and add their firepower to force the decision. The enemy’s line broken and fleet order lost, Invincibles again had the speed and firepower to overwhelm stragglers one after another.
Without detailing building programs over the next several years, suffice it to say that Britain proceeded to build battleships, while Germany was slower to react than in even the worst-case scenario. When a German building program finally did develop, it began with battleships, then slowly included battle cruisers.
The two Lion-class battle cruisers, armed with 13.5-inch/45 caliber guns, of the 1909 program of eight capital ships were designed to counter the first German models. Four Lion-class ships were built.
Admiral Fisher retired in 1910, and Winston Churchill became First Sea Lord soon after. Churchill wanted to build fast battleships armed with 15-inch guns. Churchill consulted Fisher, who agreed and offered encouragement, such that the ships of the Queen Elizabeth class were laid down in 1912, the year after the last Lion-class battle cruiser, the Tiger. Five slower, less ambitious battleships—armed with 15-inch guns and known as the “R” class—were laid down In 1913; no battle cruisers were started. The 1914 program included more “R”s, one of the Queen Elizabeth class, and again, no battle cruisers.
When the war began, Admiral Fisher was again made First Sea Lord. British battleship superiority was overwhelming; at least it was when the 1912 and 1913 ships were completed. The battle cruisers and “large light cruisers” ordered by Fisher were inspired by his pet project of landing an army on Germany’s Baltic coast and a desire to place available 15-inch guns on usable hulls in the shortest possible time.
During the war, battle cruisers proved to be everything their creators desired, and less. They proved quite capable of overwhelming any number and class of pre- Dreadnought cruisers. In a fleet action they did effectively blind the scouting arm of the German High Seas Fleet at considerable cost to themselves. During the major fleet engagement they could do no more than slug it out with their opposite number at such a cost they could not perform either their pursuit or reconnaissance functions when the antagonists disengaged.
The battle cruiser was a hybrid type designed to provide tactical advantage over a transitional period by complicating any potential enemy’s problems if he endeavored to take advantage of the opportunity to compete with the Royal Navy on a basis of numerical equality. The period of this transition was over by about 1910. Had there been no war, Britain would not have built another battle cruiser except to match someone else, which was the reason for the 1920 battle cruiser Hood, which fought the battleship Bismarck 21 years later.
The battle cruiser was more expensive, less well armed, and less well protected than the comparable Dreadnought battleship. This was to obtain a four-knot designed speed advantage. It served its purpose and more, but it was never an end unto itself. During this period, the battleship was always the point of the exercise. From 1914 through 1916, the British Battle Cruiser Fleet was commanded by Vice Admiral David Beatty. No man’s leadership style was better personified by the craft he commanded. No man believed more in the battle cruiser. When made Commander-in-Chief of the Grand Fleet, Admiral Beatty transferred his flag to the Queen Elizabeth, because the battleship was the raison d’etre, and the battle cruiser was not.
“Looking Back”
(See P. Stillwell, p. 4, May-June 1996 Naval History)
Paul Southwick
I was particularly impressed with Paul Stillwell’s comments in which he calls attention to the memoirs of E. B. Sledge as a Marine private first class in the incredibly cruel fighting of World War II in the Pacific. As an author of two recent articles in Naval History (See “A Skate Shoot,” pp. 25-27, November-December 1995, and “An Exotic Bird’s-Eye View,” pp. 27-31, May-June 1996), I have been concerned that I may have contributed to an impression that war is a great adventure. It’s true I led a charmed life through World War II, but my stories that portray exciting experiences were not typical. I knew a lot of guys like Sledge on the spot in the South Pacific. My heart went out to them then, and it does now every time I think about them. Thanks to Mr. Stillwell and the Naval Institute for helping to preserve reality.
“The Vietnam Fault Line”
(See R. Timberg, pp. 15-19, July/August 1996 Naval History)
Eric C. Olson
Robert Timberg makes some interesting and valid points in his article. As a former sergeant in the U.S. Marine Corps Reserve from 1967 to 1973, however, I take offense at his statement associating National Guardsmen with people playing the “deferment game.” I do not agree with the inference of equating reservists with draft evaders. My own enlistment situation was one of entirely being in the “right place at the right time.” I was very fortunate, because I had zero influence at the time.
Timberg’s attitude reminds me of one of our drill instructors, who kept riding another reservist boot, just because the reservist’s father was a career reservist. The DI became very friendly when he discovered that the boot’s father had won the Medal of Honor at Guadalcanal (Colonel James Swett, U.S. Marine Corps Reserve [Retired]).
The question is left open about regulars who served but never went to Vietnam. I know of several. One spent three years with the 6th Fleet in the Mediterranean. Another was stationed for three years at Naval Air Station Beeville. Another was at Travis Air Force Base, just 40 miles from his home town. One artilleryman spent two years in Germany, and an Army medic did the same. Both were draftees! Should we think less of them because they did not volunteer to go to Vietnam?
The day after the USS Pueblo (AGER- 2) was captured, we were advised to “stand by” for activation, but it never happened. Navy squadrons were called instead. The Air Force Reserve was activated along with some Army Reserve and National Guard units. Some of these units went to Vietnam. Yes, National Guardsmen fought and died there.
In my squadron (VMA-133) nobody talked of going to Canada; we just realized that we might be called and that was the way it was. By and large, reservists were not draft evaders.
“Ernie Harwell for Leatherneck”
(See J. Wukovits, pp. 42-44, July-August 1996 Naval History)
A. Wesley Gould
Regarding the article about Ernie Harwell in the July-August issue, the picture of the dinghy with Colonel Walter L. Bayler stepping ashore is one of my shots. I was a photographer for the Marine Corps in World War II, and Wake Island was one my best coverages.
On the Wake surrender landing, our team also included a Mr. Green from the Associated Press and a Hollywood movie man named Fred Claveria. I also did some shots for David Douglas Duncan, and Eliot Elisofon from Life magazine.
Ernie Harwell also did an article for Leatherneck on the 170th anniversary of the Corps, and most of the shots in his article are mine. I did Speed Graphic 4x5 stills and 16-mm movies with a Cine Kodak Special. During my tour with the Corps, I landed on 21 Islands and got to China for the surrenders at Tientsin. I also served some duty in Japan.
“Easter ’45: Incoming”
(See R. H. Spiro, pp. 47-50, January- February 1996; L. Steiner, pp. 8-10, O. K. Poulson, p. 10, July-August 1996 Naval History)
Joseph P. Pomykala
According to the article, on 6 April 1945, the USS Morris (DD-417) was hit by a kamikaze plane, and the USS Leary (DD-879) came alongside to help in fighting fires on the starboard side of the Morris. However, the Leary was not commissioned until 7 May 1945, a full month after the incident took place. The name of the ship actually involved was the USS Richard P. Leary (DD-664). This ship also took off the wounded and escorted the Morris to Kerama Retta for repairs. We must remember the heroic effort of the men of the Richard P. Leary.
“Putting Naval Before History”
(See K. J. Hagan and M. R. Shulman, pp. 24-29, September-October 1995; W. B. Hayler, p. 8, May-June 1996 Naval History)
Commander John R. Norris, U.S. Naval Reserve (Retired)
Captain Hayler recalls seeing two fast battleships leave Admiral William Halsey’s unfortunate bull run and head south. I was on Admiral Badger’s Battle Division 7 staff in the battleship USS Iowa (BB-61), and I can confirm that the Iowa and the USS New Jersey (BB-62) were those two ships. We steamed south at 28 knots for 300 miles but were three hours too late to help Vice Admiral Thomas Kinkaid’s valiant struggle in the Battle of Samar.
Suppose, for a moment, that you were in charge of the mightiest armada in history and were directed to support Admiral Kinkaid’s 7th Fleet (which was under General Douglas MacArthur) to assist in the seizure and occupation of objectives in the central Philippines and to destroy enemy naval and air forces that may threaten the area. Your orders further provided that if opportunity for destruction of a major portion of the enemy fleet offered, or could be created, such destruction would become your primary task. Wouldn’t you take the bait offered to destroy a carrier force to the north? That is what Admiral Halsey did, but of course he should have sent up some flyboys to ascertain that the fleet they had previously mauled was not still a threat. He also should have touched base with Admiral Kinkaid before taking the entire 3rd fleet away. As a result, the area of the San Bernardino Strait was unguarded by either Admiral Kinkaid or Admiral Halsey and was saved from being a major disaster only by heroic fighting by Rear Admiral Clifton Sprague’s light forces, which caused Vice Admiral Takeo Kurita’s superior force with the Yamato to retreat. Navy Historian Admiral Samuel Morison called Admiral Halsey’s action a blunder. When Admiral Halsey complained, Admiral Morison said that in the future he would refer to it as “an unfortunate error of judgment.”
“Only Her Crew Kept Her Afloat”
(See R. H. Tibbetts, pp. 46-50, May-June 1996 Naval History)
Alfred Rodriguez
The article on the Alchiba (AK-23) in the May-June 1996 issue of Naval History brought back memories of that fateful day. As a crew member of the Bobolink (AT-131) I was disappointed that she was not given enough credit for the initial rescue of the Alchiba. Our skipper, Lieutenant James L. Foley, was awarded the Silver Star for the ship’s action.
An untold story of the Guadalcanal campaign was the loss of the crew of our sister ship, the Vireo (ATO-144). She was en route to Guadalcanal, towing a barge and being escorted by the destroyer Meredith (DD-434). She was about to be attacked by both sea and air forces of Japan. The Vireo crew was evacuated to the Meredith to make a run for it, but the Meredith was sunk by a Japanese air attack. A total of 75 men from both ships survived. Ironically, the Vireo was not damaged in any way.