“The Earhart Tragedy: Old Mystery, New Hypothesis”
(See J. Riley, pp. 20-29, August 2000 Naval History)
Chief Warrant Officer Third Class A. A. Adams, U.S. Coast Guard (Retired)
John Riley’s findings are one-sided and without consideration of the technology or military protocol used in 1937. In those days, even the weather reports to the fleet were encrypted. Military radio was so bad that ham operators were more efficient, because naval long-range radio used antiquated spark gap transmitters. No career Coast Guard or Navy officer would put less than his best effort into helping Earhart or any aviator or seaman in distress. This would be doubly true because this event received maximum notoriety and scrutiny. In addition, if her publicity stunt brought unwanted attention to U.S. activities in those islands, logs and documents for public consumption may have been purposely vague.
What is Riley’s point? A slap in the face of the uniformed service most capable for saving lives?
Randy Jacobson
Trying to discredit those on the scene, and those who followed immediately, is a gross misuse of the media. Reviewing ordinary ship’s documents, putting them out of context after more than 60 years, and delivering pronouncements of criminal activity is beyond reproach. It is disgusting. At the time of Amelia Earhart’s disappearance, it was accepted that the fundamental cause was Earhart’s failure to use and understand her radio equipment. A review of her career reveals the endless accidents, crashes, and incompetent flying of the much-vaunted woman pilot.
John Riley’s article offers some interesting viewpoints—some correct and not articulated before, and others that are patently wrong. He is essentially correct regarding the use of “military service politesse” and the generally one-sided series of Navy/Coast Guard reports regarding the disappearance of Amelia Earhart and Fred Noonan that are largely self-serving. Riley writes that the Coast Guard stonewalled the release of many documents, but failed to state the actual reasons. First, Coast Guard regulations prohibited the release of any radiotelegrams from civilians without their express consent. Since Earhart was not available to provide consent, a fair amount of work would be needed to go through all the documents for redaction. Second, while the reports indicate that Earhart failed to follow orders (i.e., radio protocol), this leads to the usual interpretation that release of the documents would sully her reputation. In fact, as Riley points out, it was the Itasca (WPG-321) radiomen, more so than Earhart, who failed to follow radio protocol. Nevertheless, these two reasons likely were the cause for both Rear Admiral Russell Waesche and Treasury Secretary Henry Morganthau’s unwillingness to release the various Earhart documents.
Riley writes about the improper use of 500 kHz radio beacons for direction finding. In fact, there never was any discussion between the Coast Guard and Earhart immediately prior to the final flight that either party was to use 500 kHz. What was confusing to the Itasca radiomen was that they had documentation that Earhart was going to use 500 kHz on her attempt to land at Howland Island in March 1937, but her crash on Luke Field in Hawaii and subsequent repairs to her plan changed the radio protocols to be used. The trailing wire antenna that was to be used for 500 kHz transmissions by Earhart was removed in California during repairs, and neither George Putnam (Earhart’s husband) nor the Coast Guard was aware of the removal of this capability.
Riley makes an excellent analysis of the Itasca's search pattern, clearly demonstrating many exaggerated claims by Captain Warner Thompson. Except for the first afternoon, however, the ship’s position was dictated by the Navy and the Coast Guard station in San Francisco, which caused the Itasca not to make a persistent search of the proper areas. Much of this blame should be put squarely on Thompson’s superiors at the Coast Guard station in San Francisco.
Riley, like almost every other Earhart researcher, makes much of the various Howland Island locations. In fact, the true location was classified “confidential” by the U.S. Hydrographic Office until its maps could be updated (eventually in 1938 or 1939). The person who actually reported the revised locations to the Hydrographic Office was William Miller, an employee of the Bureau of Air Commerce, who was intimately involved with the planning of Earhart’s world flight in early 1937. It is inconceivable that Miller would hold back that information from Earhart, but there is no documentation of her receiving the proper coordinates.
Much of this article is devoted to the Howland Island radio logs and the possibility of those logs being bogus. While those logs contain a fair number of discrepancies, most are innocuous. I am much obliged to the author for pointing out that Yau Fai Lum’s name is spelled incorrectly on the radio logs, as I failed to catch that in my own research. I have examined both the smooth and rough Howland logs, located in the National Archives, and neither version contains any handwritten signatures.
Examination of the Howland Island diaries of the colonists, also located at the National Archives, clearly indicates Lum, Henry Lau, and Ah Kin Leong stood nightly radio watches. While the diaries do not mention Radioman Second Class Frank Cipriani by name, enough contemporaneous documentation by non-Coast Guard personnel exists to document that Cipriani was on Howland from 1 to 18 July. A simpler, and better, explanation for the Howland Island radio log discrepancies is that Cipriani would not allow civilians to record their observations on official Coast Guard logs. Instead, Cipriani probably transcribed the civilians’ notes onto the official logs, and typed their (misspelled) names on them as well.
While researchers can make many interpretations of the documents, it is only when one collates and examines all pertinent information together that the real facts slowly emerge. The disappearance of Earhart and Noonan was a typical transportation accident, caused by a series of small mistakes, none of which by themselves was catastrophic. The actions of the U.S. government were in good faith, and no conspiracies are evident; in fact, what becomes clear is a fair amount of incompetence on the part of both the government and Earhart. Unfortunately, there was nothing like the National Transportation Safety Board back in 1937 to examine this particular air accident. In addition, the classification of the documentation left too much information beyond the reach of researchers for far too many years.
“The Big E Goes Where the Action Is”
(See J. Holloway, pp. 36-43, August 2000 Naval History)
Commander Houston Hobson Stokes, U.S. Naval Reserve (Retired)
On page 38 the author says that “the carrier spent the entire first night alongside the oiler Sabine (AO-25) and an ammo ship, the Shasta (AE-33), from which more than 400 tons of bombs and missiles were loaded.” Admiral Holloway must mean the Shasta (AE-6), not the Shasta (AE-33). I served in AE-6 from 1962 to 1964. From August 1962 to March 1963 we were in the Mediterranean during the first deployment of the Enterprise (CVAN-65). The Shasta could go only 14.8 knots, but we were able to rearm such a wonderful new ship. Later, after I left her, the Shasta was sent to the Far East—where she met up with the Enterprise in the South China Sea.
Editor’s Note: The Shasta (AE-6) was commissioned in 1942 and served until 1969, when she was sold to a Spanish company to be scrapped. The second Shasta (AE-33) was commissioned in 1972 and presently remains in commission.
“Day of Deceit”
(See M. Mandeles, pp. 66-67, June 2000 Naval History)
Robert H. Richards, III
On and on it goes as author after author extracts and refines material supportive of their theses from the mountain of data relating to the Pearl Harbor attack. Mark Mandeles quite properly taxes Robert Stinnett and his Day of Deceit to this end. Since practically any position can be thus sustained and the problem of Admiral Husband E. Kimmel and General Walter Short will not go away until a semblance of justice is done, I suggest it is time for a new approach. Contrary to current opinion, the rationale for justice being done to these officers is neither difficult nor abstruse. It needs to involve neither technical matters nor penetrating analysis of who knew what when. Rather, it consists solely of fair play based upon facts known to those familiar with the problem.
President Franklin D. Roosevelt’s decision to move the Pacific Fleet to Pearl Harbor was an essential part of his policy of hardening resistance to Japanese aggression. Both he and his military advisors were well aware that this step involved substantial risk to the fleet, now stationed in a more exposed position. Because of the lack of adequate preparedness, sufficient resources to manage this risk were not available. Thus Kimmel and Short were knowingly placed in a dangerous situation without the means to correct it. As may happen in difficult times, the fleet was at some risk to further necessary national considerations. That the risk thus assumed came to pass is hardly their fault.
The exigencies of the early war may well have precluded an equitable solution at the time, and may even have necessitated temporarily foisting fault on these officers as scapegoats for the duration. Any justification for such blame shifting, however, has long since passed. Our government—as the author of the underlying policy decision— should assume this responsibility, and both officers should have their proper ranks on the retired lists restored posthumously.
“Historic Fleets”
(See A. Baker, p. 10, April 2000 Naval History)
Robert K. Slaven, Jr.
A. D. Baker’s always interesting “Historic Fleets” feature often cannot do justice to the stories of the ships he highlights. The Isabel (PY-10) was a unique little ship with an unlikely name and a fascinating history. After she was withdrawn from the Yangtze River Patrol, a service for which she was not well suited, the Isabel was used by the commander-in-chief of the Asiatic Fleet for duties more in accordance with her “yacht” designation. She often could be found ferrying the fleet CinC on fast trips about the command. “Quite comfy,” noted Admiral Thomas C. Hart in the diary of his 1939 voyage from Tsingtao to Shanghai. “A cute little trick is Isabel." Later, as the threat of war grew, Hart sent his meager force south, moved his headquarters ashore in Manila, and flew his four-star flag from the Isabel.
An unusual episode then interrupted the Isabel’s long and unsung service to her country. Fast, lightly armed, and unarmored, the Isabel was identified by name in a significant message transmitted from Chief of Naval Operations Admiral Harold R. Stark to Hart on 1 December 1941. Opening with the phrase, “The President directs the message provided rudder orders from Washington to a four-star fleet commander. It directed “three small vessels” to be stationed off Indochina near where Japan was assembling a fleet for the invasion of Malaya. Crewing, armament, and patrol locations for this “defensive information patrol” were specified. Such instructions to an on-scene commander were unprecedented, and except for later White House involvement in the conduct of the Vietnam War, probably remain so.
Kemp Tolley, then a lieutenant, was tapped to command the second of the “three small vessels,” the Lanikai—an 83- foot wooden schooner. In Cruise of the Lanikai (Naval Institute Press, 1973), Tolley describes the effort to comply with presidential direction: the Isabel was recalled from her operations and hastily fueled and provisioned; her classified material was turned in; extra life rafts were taken on board; and her skipper, Lieutenant John Walker Payne, was briefed personally by Hart. On 3 December, without written orders, the Isabel sailed very much into harm’s way. She was on station by 5 December, and was circled promptly by Japanese aircraft. Hart recalled her that night. She was beyond harm when Hart’s PBYs saw the Japanese convoys heading south; she was saved, as Tolley and other historians suspect, from 15 minutes of fame as a casus belli.
“The Real Sand Pebbles”
(See B. Cole, pp. 16-23, February 2000; H. Farrior, p. 17, April 2000 Naval History)
Commander David H. Grover, U.S. Naval Reserve (Retired)
Captain Cole has done a good job in providing little-known facts about the gunboats of the Yangtze Patrol. He ventures into the realm of opinion, however, when he concludes that the Wake (PG-43) “was surrendered to the Japanese at Shanghai in December 1941 ... the only U.S. warship to strike her colors in World War II.” Surrendering—and more precisely, striking one’s colors—are actions requiring choice. There is no evidence that anyone assigned to the Wake had any opportunity to exercise choice at the time she was captured. The Japanese Marines who came on board her in the middle of the night overpowered the lone deck watch- stander, a quartermaster who had received no word of the start of hostilities. The ship was captured intact, and no effort at scuttling was made. On those counts, the captain of the Wake and his minuscule crew might have been expected to do better. But let’s be realistic about the Wake, and acknowledge that she was a sacrificial lamb so devoid of resources that she did not have even the option of choosing to surrender or fight.
Commander John D. Alden, U.S. Navy (Retired)
Captain Cole appears to have missed a pair of unusual and interesting gunboats that served between the Palos of 1871 and the new river gunboats of 1926. In 1893, Congress authorized the construction of three gunboats. Two of these, the Wilmington and Helena (Gunboats No. 8 and No. 9), were designed specifically for service in Chinese waters. With a draft of only nine feet, they had twin screws and double rudders for maneuverability in confined channels, inner bottoms under the engine rooms to minimize damage from grounding, and capacious, well-ventilated quarters to accommodate large numbers of passengers in addition to their crews. They mounted eight 4-inch guns and 12 smaller weapons. Their most unusual feature was a combination military mast and armored conning tower rising some 50 feet above the water line in order to allow the commanding officer to see over the dikes and high river banks while being protected from small arms fire. The two gunboats served until the 1930s, when they were replaced by the gunboats described in the article. The Wilmington (renamed the Dover) was re-engined and kept in service through World War II as a training ship.
“The Versatile—and Long-Lived—Corsair”
(See N. Polmar, pp. 10-12, August 2000 Naval History)
Martin A. Snyder
Mr. Polmar correctly mentions that Goodyear built FG-1 Corsairs under license from Vought. Goodyear also was contracted to build a more powerful version of the Corsair, designated F2G-1. In place of Pratt and Whitney 1,850+ horsepower R-2800 Double Wasp engines in the F4U/FG aircraft, the F2G-1 was fitted with the 3,000+ horsepower R-4360 Wasp Major engine. The war ended, however, before the F2G-1 could be evaluated fully by the Navy, and only five were built. Later, these were surplused and sold for use in air racing. They were highly modified and, at the time, were the fastest propeller-driven aircraft in the world. F2Gs placed first, second, and third in the Thompson Trophy race at the 1949 Cleveland National Air Races. The number three finisher is the only F2G still in existence. It has been restored completely to prize-winning, airworthy condition by Rober Odegaard of North Dakota.
“The Ship Killers”
(See N. Polmar, pp. 10-11, February 2000 Naval History)
Captain William C. Chapman, U.S. Navy (Retired)
Mr. Polmar’s observation that the last SBD Dauntless was retired from U.S. Navy/Marine Corps service at the end of September 1945 is contradicted by my logbook entries of November 1945. SBDs were based at that time at Chase Field in Beeville, Texas, and were used in advanced training as the final phase of flight instruction before the award of the naval aviation wings of gold. Students commonly got 20 hours or so in the SBD before going on to operational training in the combat aircraft in which they would go to sea. A few flights in the Dauntless made you feel that you had indeed finally become an aviator. Mr. Polmar may argue that the Training Command did not qualify as “service,” but there are those who firmly believe that the difference between combat and student training in those days was not that much.
Editor’s Note: The source for the retirement of the SBD from active service is Roy A. Grossnick’s United States Naval Aviation, 1910-1995 (Washington, DC: Naval Historical Center, 1996), p. 493, which states that the SBD was "last reported in squadron or inventory" on 30 September 1945.
“Tiny Miracle: The Proximity Fuze”
(See C. Collier, pp. 43-45, August 1999; R. Holbrook, p. 12, H. Sacks, pp. 12-14, December 1999; S. Koerner, p. 19, August 2000 Naval History)
Major Joseph Koss, Jr., U.S. Air Force Reserve (Retired)
I would like to point out that what is really being talked about is a fuze, which is a device that detonates an explosive charge. A fuse is an electrical device that protects circuits from overload. A proximity fuze might even have a fuse in it, but there was not, is not, and will not be a “proximity fuse.”
“Galvanic Ghosts”
(See J. Delgado, pp. 32-37, February 2000 Naval History)
Commander Mark A. Jumper, U.S. Navy
James Delgado has done a fine service by demonstrating the remarkable hands- on availability of the detritus of World War II on Pacific islands. This indeed is history up close and personal. Besides the sites mentioned by Mr. Delgado, Truk, the Palaus, and Guam also come to mind. I was privileged to dive the invasion beach on Guam while stationed there from 1988 to 1990. There still is an astonishing amount of ordnance on the ocean floor. One is driven to admire the combatants all the more when one realizes that these
are merely the leftovers of the battle. The contested beach landing obviously encompassed a total firestorm. Many former Marines came to Guam in 1989 to mark the 45th anniversary of their battle. I was honored to meet them, and to tell them in person that the evidence of their bravery still speaks strongly from underneath the waves. The student of history will find that these sites provide powerful immediacy—-and memories—that are never forgotten.
Captain Robert D. Allen, U.S. Naval Reserve (Retired)
Fifty-six years is a long time, but some events are etched permanently in one’s memory, and, in my case, the three days in the lagoon at Tarawa are unforgettable. It was a pleasure to read that Betio Atoll now is a thriving population center, having recovered from the incredible carnage of November 1943. I was the operations officer on the USS Dashiell (DD-659), the fourth ship in the lagoon at the beginning of the battle. We stayed in there with one brief respite for three days, supporting the 2nd Marine Division with gunfire support. We also were one of the first- aid stations, receiving severely wounded Marines who later transferred to other medical facilities outside the lagoon. There were a lot of incidents during those three days; one I remember was receiving call for fire from a Marine sergeant standing near a Japanese pill box, talking to us on a radio and pointing to the spot he wanted us to shell. We were in so close we could see him with our binoculars. Also, according to Joe Alexander’s Utmost Savagery (Annapolis, MD: Naval Institute Press, 1995), the Dashiell is credited with the gunfire salvo that killed Rear Admiral Keiji Shibasaki as he was leaving his command center.
“Remembering Peleliu”
(See D. Caldwell, pp. 42-46, April 2000 Naval History)
Lieutenant Commander R. William Clark, U.S. Naval Reserve (Retired)
This article brought back many memories of “Operation Stalemate II.” On the morning of 15 September 1944, I too was off the Orange Beaches (there were three of them) on board the LCI(G)-77 supporting the amphibious assault with fire from our five 20-mms, two 40-mms, and 504 barrage rockets fired from 42 launchers. Orange Beaches 1, 2, and 3 were contiguous, each approximately 1,500 feet wide and 1,200 from the seaward edge to the beach. They were located about 1,000 feet from the edge of the reef.
The picture on page 43 of the article, taken from PC-1230 about a half-mile offshore, must have been shot just after we finished firing our rockets and while we were waiting for the first three waves of Marine amtracs to pass through our formation on their way to the beach. We observed no problem for them proceeding to the beach because of shallow water. They were designed to operate in the water and on land, so if they steered clear of the obvious coral heads they would make it safely. The photo on page 43 also shows square- conn LCIs just short of the reef, some turning to make their departure.
I believe the dead Marines mentioned in the article as floating near the beach were not killed when they were forced to wade ashore because the landing boats were stopped by shallow water (as at Tarawa). At Peleliu, they were on board amtracs that, if they avoided the coral
heads, would have gotten them to the beach without having to get into the water. The early casualties on Orange Beach were caused by enfilading fire from enemy positions on the point of land east of the beaches. We were ordered to suppress them as soon as we retired from the assault, which we did when our launchers were reloaded.
“An Ordeal to Forget”
(See T. Donovan, pp. 48-53, June 2000 Naval History)
Captain Thomas J. Laforest, U.S. Navy (Retired)
I served on board the Whipple (DD-217) as an ensign and communications officer during the action when the Langley (AV-3) was sunk. I also was the officer of the deck at general quarters and was on the bridge at the time. The lead photo in the article shows the Langley and a 4-stack destroyer in the distance. At the time of the attack on the Langley, only the Edsall (DD-219) and the Whipple were present. My first reaction was that the destroyer in the foreground was the Whipple, but now I am not so sure.
A few weeks earlier we had stripped the ship at Singapore and off loaded all our awnings. The overhead structure in the photo is of a poorly furled awning with the “stretchers” to keep it rigged tautly. Thus I do not believe the ship is the Whipple. In addition, the idlers gawking at the spectacle of the ship in distress are not convincing. All men should have been at general quarters except for the repair party, not sightseers as shown. The Langley never made it to Christmas Island, having been sunk the day before. Only the Whipple and Edsall made it to Christmas Island along with the ill-fated Pecos (AO-6). Both the Pecos and Edsall were sunk shortly thereafter, so who took the photo and from where?
Editor’s Note: The picture in question of the Langley in her final moments was taken from the Whipple, and the Edsall is in the distance. The men in the foreground are survivors from the Langley watching her go down.