“The Big E’s Impatient Virgins”
(See R. Bartlett, pp. 44-49, December 2006 Naval History)
Bob Brunson
Captain Jack Endicott, U.S. Navy (Retired), shared his copy of this issue with me, knowing I had been a pilot in Chick Harmer’s VF(N)-101. We were at our weekly Rotary meeting at the time, so I had plenty of friends to show the photos and brag a bit. I’m the guy on Chick’s right in the photo of our squadron’s officers.
The author did a great job of pulling Chick Harmer’s history together. Impatient Virgins was not in my memory bank, however. I am sure that the graffiti didn’t last long, as neither Chick nor Air Group 10 would approve. Chick no doubt got a chuckle out of it, but kept it to himself.
The F4U-2 Corsairs we took to the fleet were the same ones in which we had flown our practice intercepts back at Quonset Point.
I was flying with Chick on a rescue at dusk when we found the pilot in the life raft off Truk and connected him up with a sub. On our return to the Enterprise (CV-6), we had a short Verey pistol “duel.” Chick started it. (I would not have dared.) He shot a few flares in my direction through his partially open hatch and I returned fire. It was one of the few times I enjoyed him in a playful mood. I had great respect for him. We all did.
He trained us well, and we came back from the combat zone without losing a pilot. All of us were well qualified and did our share of combat air patrols and rescue escorts. We did a job most pilots didn’t want and flew the early version of the Corsair on board after they were considered unsuitable for carriers. They were the ones with the birdcage hatch and stiff landing gear. We were the first squadron to do so and did it at night. When called, we were launched; no one was bumped for a more senior pilot. It is hard to believe that any of our pilots were returned to Pearl Harbor for not being competent. It was my impression that we had too many pilots for the flight time we were accumulating. I also served as Chick’s chief engineering flight test officer at Naval Air Station Vero Beach, Florida.
“Sailors of the Battleship Navy”
(See P. Stillwell, pp. 16-25, February 2007 Naval History)
Captain Lefteris Lavrakas, U.S. Navy (Retired)
Although I pride myself as a destroyer man, I recall with much fondness the midshipman summer cruise of 1940 on board the battleship USS New York (BB- 34). In fact, I too “abandoned attempts at sleeping in a hammock” and spent the entire cruise on the wooden deck of this ship. By the way, as I recall, we didn’t scrub the deck—that was reserved for our clothes—we holystoned the wooden portion of the deck.
To add to Paul Stillwell’s fine article, I recall that the USS Wisconsin (BB-64) during the Korean War was occasionally used as a first-aid station. On two occasions I commanded a high speed transport (APD), which supported raids conducted by Royal Marines. The wounded from these raids were highlined to this mighty battleship, which was hellbent on firing her 16-inch guns during the transfer. I know that our British troops were most impressed with the salute accompanying this operation.
William R. Deeble
Mr. Stillwell rightly devotes a section of his article to the pervading dirtiness of coal, which initially made officers of the old sailing navy so opposed to bringing it on board their meticulously clean ships, even despite the obvious advantages of maneuvering under steam.
He might also have pointed out that it was as dangerous in ships’ bunkers as in mines, with the ever-present threat of spontaneous combustion and deadly gases. There were several notable examples, possibly including the sinking of the USS Maine in 1898. The necessary precautions required engineers on watch to make periodic inspections of the bunkers, even when their ship was in port and, before electric lighting, equip coal heavers with miners’ safety lamps to illuminate their heavy labors.
The change from coal to oil freed battleship Sailors from unnecessary dirt, toil, and danger. It also made possible the far-ranging task forces of World War II, refueling routinely under way in the open sea, something almost impossible with coal.
Gene M. Jinings
I served on board the USS Wiley (DD- 597) at the end of World War II. Our last assignment before the surrender was to escort a convoy consisting of the SS Esso Camden and SS Grants Pass to Okinawa where we arrived at Hangushi anchorage on Sunday, 12 August. We tied up to the USS Saugatuck (AO-75). We were at general quarters several times over the next two days. On the 12th, the USS Pennsylvania (BB-38) was torpedoed and lost 20 men. The next day, the USS Lagrange (APA-124) was hit by a kamikaze, killing 21 and wounding 89. This made the Pennsylvania one of the first battleships damaged at the start of the war and also the last to be damaged. These were the last two major ship casualties of World War II.
Elliott Stoffregen III
Although I am no expert on American first-generation dreadnoughts, I have an opinion about the picture in the upper right corner of page 20. Conway’s All the World's Battleships, 1906 to the Present (Naval Institute Press, 1987), shows the Delaware- and Florida-class battleships each with a distinctly different profile. The Delaware-class profile was cage mast- stack-cage mast-stack whereas the Florida- class was cage mast-stack-stack-cage mast. The photograph appears to show either the Florida (BB-30) or Utah (BB-31), since the number three 12-inch turret appears to be immediately abaft a cage mast, indicating a cage mast-stack-stack- cage mast configuration. Has anyone submitted anything more definitive one way or the other?
“Historic Fleets”
(See A. D. Baker III, pp. 12-13, February 2007 Naval History)
Barbara A. Hubbard, PNC (AW), U.S. Navy (Retired)
The author states that, “By 1945, the Vulcan accommodated 53 officers and 1,244 enlisted personnel. Even at the time of her retirement, the ship had a complement of 28 commissioned and warrant officers and 745 enlisted men.” Considering that I was one of the crew that decommissioned the USS Vulcan in 1991, I can confirm there were women in this crew of 28 officers and 745 enlisted personnel.
“The Destroyer Aviator” and “Historic Fleets”
(See C. LaVO, pp. 52-58, and A. D. Baker III, pp. 12-13, December 2006 Naval History)
Captain Robert G. Oliver, JAGC, U.S. Navy Reserve (Retired)
This issue was of particular interest to me as it featured two of my late father’s ships. The first was the USS Halford (DD-480). My father, Robert J. Oliver (U.S. Naval Academy, class of 1934), then a lieutenant commander, became commanding officer in late winter or early spring 1945.1 recall that the Halford was at Mare Island shipyard in April 1945 when President Franklin D. Roosevelt died. We were living in a Quonset hut on the yard. I have always thought that she was being repaired from damage sustained in a kamikaze attack. The concluding paragraphs suggest I may be mistaken.
I do recall being told that my dad, who passed away in 1976, skippered the Halford to the Aleutians and was preparing for the invasion of Japan when the war ended.
The second ship was the USS DesMoines (CA-134). My father went on to serve as executive officer of the ship from 1951 to 1952 on one or more Med cruises as Sixth Fleet flagship. I even had the chance as a youth to spend a night on board in his cabin on a rare port visit in Norfolk.
In the late 1980s, when I was serving as a judge advocate general in the reserve, I attended a change of command ceremony at the old Philadelphia Navy Yard. I managed to gain access and go on board the DesMoines as she sat silently in mothballs at the pier near the main gate, grass growing through her teak decks. That was a sad moment.
George Clark
In January 1939, the Chance Vought Division of United Aircraft Corporation left Hartford, Connecticut, to share plant space in Stratford, Connecticut, with the Sikorsky Aircraft Division, a manufacturer of flying boats. The era of flying boats was waning. The new United Aircraft division was known as Vought-Sikorsky. Some flying boats, but very few, and the experimental XPBS-1 Flying Dreadnought were built under the new V-S title.
I went to work for Vought-Sikorsky in the Stratford plant around April 1941. Then, OS2U Kingfishers were still being built, however, the F4U-1 Corsair was being tested and would soon be rolling down the assembly line. Vought occupied practically all of the former Sikorsky plant, and Igor Sikorsky, whose interest in helicopters occupied his time, was given a fair-sized building in the complex known as the Experimental Building. I observed Mr. Sikorsky on occasion as he would sometimes wander through the Vought section, stopping to talk briefly with older employees who previously worked for him. On one lunch hour in mid-1941, I watched Mr. Sikorsky break the helicopter flight endurance record, which signaled the beginning of a new era in aviation.
I cannot recall when (perhaps in 1943) the Vought-Sikorsky department moved to the South Avenue Plant in Bridgeport, Connecticut. Immediately adjoining it was another complex, which would serve to accommodate the first assembly line for the production of Sikorsky helicopters.
“Street Fight in Sunda Strait”
(See J. D. Hornfischer, pp. 16-20, December 2006 Naval History)
Captain Akihiko Yoshida, Japanese Maritime Self-Defense Force (Retired)
This battle is known to the Japanese as the Battle off Batavia. The USS Houston (CA-30) and HMAS Perth had been sighted by Japanese reconnaissance as they refueled on the afternoon of 28 February 1942. At the time, the Japanese Army Western Java Invasion Force, headquarters of the 16th Army Corps, and the 2d Infantry Division were on board troop ships in a convoy anchored with its escorts of the Navy Western Support Force east of the Sunda Strait. The force was led by Rear Admiral Kenzaburo Hara, commander of the 5th Torpedo Flotilla.
Admiral Hara never received the reconnaissance report. His forces had no warning of the Allied ships approach until the destroyer Fubuki found them.
As the author described, the Fubuki launched nine Long Lance torpedoes, which wreaked havoc among friendly ships. The torpedoes ran for five miles, then hit and sank three army troop ships and a minesweeper, all at anchor. Among them, the Shinshu-Maru carried the staff of the headquarters, 16th Army Corps, including its commanding officer, Lieutenant General Kinji Imamura. He survived the sinking despite spending two hours in the water.
“Book Reviews”
(See J. Donnelly, pp. 67-69, February 2007 Naval History)
Alex V. Mandel
This review of Ric Gillespie’s new book Finding Amelia was most interesting to me as a long-time Amelia Earhart researcher and enthusiast. I agree with Mr. Donnelly that this book is a long- awaited addition to the Earhart library, although controversial in some aspects.
The especially valuable part of Gillespie’s work is the detailed description of preparations for Ms. Earhart’s last flight, its various aspects, the flight, and the problems that appeared during the first legs. Gillespie’s discussion of navigational problems, radio communications, harmonics, post-loss transmissions, and receptions is interesting and helpful for researchers.
It is worth noting another concept presented in the book that Mr. Donnelly mentioned but without much comment— Mr. Gillespie’s criticism of Ms. Earhart’s general skills and competence as a pilot. The documented facts of Earhart’s flying career confirm that she was a competent and skilled pilot who successfully completed—solo—a number of complex, pioneering flights. In doing this, she flew in difficult weather conditions, at night, by instruments, in advanced and pioneering aircraft.
Many top contemporary aviation professionals who knew her well and flew with her—Wiley Post, Jackie Cochran, General Leigh Wade, Louise Thaden, Paul Collins, Ruth Nichols, Kelly Johnson, and Gene Vidal among them—expressed their high respect for Earhart’s piloting abilities.
Mr. Gillespie is correct that the potential value of the new radio equipment could be seriously underestimated during the planning and preparations for the flight. Earhart apparently simply had more trust in the proven skills of her navigator, Fred Noonan—one of the best of the era—than in the relatively new tracking technologies. Until the ill-fated Lae-Howland leg, this formula worked well.
“Historic Aircraft”
(See N. Polmar, pp. 14-15, December 2006 Naval History)
Commander Frank L. Shelley, U.S. Coast Guard (Retired)
I enjoyed Mr. Polmar’s article about the Grumman Albatross, but much went unsaid. The “Goat” had a lot of warts.
When I arrived for class 26 at the Naval Test Pilot’s School at Patuxent River in 1960, I was a hard-charging Coast Guard lieutenant with nearly 2,500 hours of Albatross time in my logbook. I was delighted to see a UF-1 as part of the school’s fleet until I found out it was there as a horrible example. While the Goat was virtually unbreakable—in keeping with its Grumman heritage—its flying qualities were, on paper at least, downright wretched. It violated more standards in the then-current “Flying Qualities of Piloted Airplanes” than any other aircraft in the Navy inventory. Among its many sins, perhaps the worst was stability.
The enlarged tail in the modified airframes that went into the patrol- plane configuration was mentioned, but I missed the major change. The wingspan was increased by 16 feet. An eight-foot straight plug was inserted between the outer wing panel and the wing center section on either side. Because the wing started with a taper at the fuselage, the new planform was tapered, straight, tapered—from above, a truly bizarre outline. The entire Coast Guard fleet was converted to this plan, but I don’t think any of the other U.S. fleets were. Sadly this modification spelled the end for the Goat in Coast Guard service. The stainless steel doubler at the wing splice coupled with the aluminum spar web was almost a textbook example of dissimilar metal galvanic corrosion when exposed to a salt-water environment. Happily, after many years of service, the problem was observed before an in-flight failure occurred and fleet retirement was accelerated.
“Almost Warships”
(See M. Wiggins, pp. 60-64, December 2006 Naval History)
John E. Reid, CSK, U.S. Navy Reserve
I was a member of the ships’ company at the U.S. Naval Section Base, Tompkinsville, Staten Island, New York. In 1941 and early 1942, the yachts Zircon, Nourmahal, and Plymouth, Cape Cod trawlers converted to mine sweepers, and a World War I Eagle boat built by the Ford Motor Company were stationed at this base. Jokingly called the “Hooligan Navy,” the force also included the Paducah, yard patrol craft YP-8 and -9, the tug Metacom, and other small craft. That was the extent of our patrol force for the New York and New Jersey coasts. Occasionally, a four- stack or new destroyer would tie up at Pier 7.
In February 1942, the base received five World War I- vintage wooden torpedo boats that had been used by charter fisherman. These were also sent out on patrol, as the U-boats were claiming a lot of ships by then.
Captain Robert A. Moss, U.S. Coast Guard (Retired)
This article jogged my memory.
My dad, Horace W. Moss, was a Navy coxswain (boatswain’s mate, third class) in World War I. In 1940, anticipating the hostilities soon to come, he went to the Navy recruiter and said, “Take me.” “Sorry,” was the reply, “you’re too old.” Dad was 42 at the time.
We, however, owned a 40-foot powerboat named Thegra when Dad heard that the Coast Guard was offering a package deal. Loan them the boat and the owner could go along as a member of the U. S. Coast Guard Temporary Reserve (later to become the Coast Guard Auxiliary).
Just as the old Thegra got a coat of grey paint, the Coast Guard realized that my father’s maritime experience should be put to better use than bouncing around in a worn-out yacht on Potato Patch Shoal guarding the Golden Gate. So by the time the war started, Dad was a lieutenant in the U.S. Coast Guard Reserve, and by the middle of 1944, he was commanding officer of the FS-146, a 180-foot cargo ship, flying a U.S. Army commission pennant, with an all-Coast Guard crew and navigating the coast of New Guinea between Lae and Hollandia with one magnetic compass and an 1890- vintage British Admiralty chart.
By 1943, when I turned 17, it wasn’t hard to decide which service to enlist in.
My father and I both served in the South Pacific; he in the FS-146 and the patrol frigate USS Coronado (PF-38); I in the troop transport USS General William Mitchell (AP-114) and the patrol frigate USS Moberly (PF-63). Coast Guard officers and men manned all of these ships.
After the war I stayed on to earn a commission at the Coast Guard Academy (class of 1951) and served until I retired as a captain in 1975 with service that included command of a cutter in Vietnam, icebreakers in the Arctic and Antarctic, and a lot of other interesting stuff along the way.
So that package deal the Coast Guard offered my father back in 1940 had some profound life-altering repercussions.
By the way, Charlie Stamey’s “icebox” in the photograph on page 64 was actually the ready service ammunition box for that water-cooled .50-caliber machine gun.
Corrections
The December 2006 Naval History News item (p. 10) mistakenly identified the bi- hull/catamaran configuration of the Sea Shadow as a tri-hull. Also in that issue, in the article “Almost Warships” by Melanie Wiggins, the number of ships sunk by U-boats in the Gulf of Mexico was 56 with an additional 14 torpedoed (p. 61).