A Group Photo Brings Back Memories
Vice Admiral John Nyquist, U.S. Navy, Retired
My father, Walfrid Nyquist, was a 1921 graduate of the U.S. Naval Academy and a destroyer sailor. On 6 December 1941, he took command of Destroyer Division 1 at Pearl Harbor and fought in the South Pacific until late summer of 1943 when he was ordered to the Naval Academy as head of the Electrical Engineering Department. We lived on Porter Road until the summer of 1945 when he was ordered back to sea as commanding officer of the USS Atlanta (CL-104). He later commanded the naval station at Green Cove Springs, Florida, until a heart attack in 1947 forced his retirement. He was promoted to rear admiral, having been awarded two Bronze Stars with combat Vs.
As a subscriber to your magazine, I was fascinated and delighted to read the June “Pieces of the Past” column about Chaplain William N. Thomas. Even us Navy juniors loved and admired him, and I believe he ran the confirmation program that my sister and I were students in. But what really caught my eye was the photo of the academic board headed by Rear Admiral John R. Beardall presenting Chaplain Thomas with a sterling silver cigar box on 19 July 1945. My father is in the front row, third from the right. At the far right is Captain Stokes, whose family lived next door to us at 5 Porter Road. I recognize by sight many of the other officers in the photo, but I can’t recall their names except for Captain Owen Humphries, ’22, director of Athletics (third from left). One of my greatest thrills was when he gave me a brand-new Rawlings Major League baseball glove on my 12th birthday in 1945, which I played with in Minneapolis Midget league, high school, American Legion, and plebe year at the Naval Academy. (I finally gave it rest when I made the Navy varsity team.) This must have been one of my father’s last official events before he was detached on his way to command the Atlanta.
A Generous Man
Commander Louis D. Chirillo, U.S. Navy (Retired)
Yes, “There is so much to be told in the rich history of Our Navy.” That statement is attributed to the late Rear Admiral Robert B. Fulton by Richard G. Latture, both the editor-in-chief of Naval History and the admiral’s cousin (once removed) (“On Our Scope,” June). Thus, per Admiral Fulton’s advice I am obligated to contribute this character-revealing anecdote.
When then-Captain Fulton was assigned to the Boston Naval Shipyard, he was the head of the Planning Department that consisted of the Planning and Estimating Division (P&E) and the Design Division. In mid-1954 I was assigned as the most junior officer in P&E. As a consequence of my “bottom-of-the-totem-pole” status, when soon afterward news arrived of the 1,761 deaths and extensive destruction in Japan caused by Typhoon Marie, I was appointed to solicit donations from all officers within the Planning Department. The money would be earmarked for relief of the Japanese. Knowing that he had been held as a prisoner by the Japanese during World War II, I asked, “Am I to hit up Captain Fulton also?” I received an affirmative reply.
I put off visiting Captain Fulton until after I had canvassed all of the other officers—and he graciously donated five times more than any of the other officers.
‘A Lesson in Vulnerability’
Lee Wetherhorn
In regard to John Prados’ article, “The Marines’ Vietnam Commitment” (April): On my second tour with the 7th Fleet, I was the combat information center officer on an old attack cargo ship, the USS Union (LKA-106), which had no modern equipment and no electronic countermeasures. We were lucky to have two radars and a rotary switch that allowed each repeater to select between them. I spent a lot of my time with the electronics technicians, who also worked for me. The principal problem was keeping the boat radios functioning. After each exercise we took the radios out of the boats, cleaned off the saltwater encrustation that could (and often did) disable them, and stored them away until the next time they were needed.
The next time turned out to be sooner than expected. We were sent to Da Nang to land the first U.S. combat forces committed to the Vietnam War. It wasn’t an opposed landing. The South Vietnamese army had secured the beach area identified as Red Beach One where the Marines went ashore, on the western side of bay. The airfield, where they were to set up a base of operations, was south of the city on the southeastern side. It only took a short while until the quantities of supplies and equipment coming ashore exceeded the transport capacity of the available trucks to move them to the airport. This problem was discussed between the beachmasters controlling the landing area and the flagship (my ship) in plain language on an unsecure radio.
We didn’t have secure voice capability, so we sent one of the officers to look for a landing area closer to the airport. He was successful. A new route was put into effect, threading through the numerous fish traps that covered the shallower parts of the bay and continuing into the river up to a point near the airfield. We diverted our boats carrying cargo to the new area, which we continued to refer to as “Red Beach.” The last boat of the last group we sent in during daylight, our landing craft, vehicle, personnel (LCVP) number 11, failed to return to the ship. Radio contact with “Papa Eleven” simply didn’t exist. We remained at anchor in the middle of the bay and worried about the missing LCVP and her crew.
That night, there was a communist attack on the west side of the bay. One of the attackers was captured. Under interrogation, he disclosed that their mission was to blow up the large quantities of ammunition that had accumulated at Red Beach. How did they know that? They had been listening to our radio conversations. This was a lesson in vulnerability I never forgot.
With the arrival of dawn, we resumed sending boats with supplies to the new Red Beach. The first group spotted one of the fish traps with a strange captive. There in the net, suspended between four poles, was Papa Eleven. She had become entangled in the net as the tide was going out and could not get free. The coxswain tried to signal with a flashlight, but no one had recognized the feeble light as an attempt to communicate. The crew was rescued, but the boat was written off as a loss.
Midshipmen’s Gift Lives On
Captain Charles T. Creekman, U.S. Navy (Retired), Executive Director, Naval Historical Foundation
Robert Cressman’s “Historic Fleets” column on the U.S. Navy’s 54-gun frigate Brandywine (June) describes her maiden voyage to return the Marquis de Lafayette to France in the fall of 1825 after his triumphant tour of the United States, and mentions the gift of a magnificent silver urn to Lafayette by the embarked midshipmen. This summer, a full-size replica of the French navy frigate the Hermione visits U.S. ports in commemoration of the 1780 voyage her namesake made to bring Lafayette to America with the pledge of French troops, ships, and funds that helped make victory in the Revolutionary War possible.
As the National Museum of the U.S. Navy prepared to mark that tall ship’s arrival and celebrate 240 years of French and American naval cooperation (and occasional rivalry) with a recently opened exhibit, Twin Destinies, the silver urn was sought as a possible display item. While that proved impracticable, its location was confirmed in a private collection in France, still emblazoned with the message “Presented by the MIDSHIPMEN of the U.S. FRIGATE BRANDYWINE as a Testimonial of individual esteem and collective admiration, a Tribute to the private Worth and public Excellence of GENERAL LAFAYETTE.”
Overlooked, but Impressive
Commander Sam C. Masarachia, U.S. Navy Reserve (Retired)
While enjoying reading Howard Fuller’s June article “From Hampton Roads to Spithead”, I was reminded of a visit three years ago to see my daughter and her family in London. One day, while my grandchildren were in school, I took an easy train ride from London to Portsmouth Harbour to see HMS Victory.
While she was indeed impressive and worth the trip all by herself, I was especially taken by another vessel on display, just down the waterfront: HMS Warrior, which is mentioned in Mr. Fuller’s article. The first iron-hulled warship? Wow, had I been ignorant. And there was this elevated metal structure approximately amidships that bridged the port and starboard sides of the vessel, allowing the conning officer to see above the structures of the main deck. The Warrior was powered either by sail or steam engine, the propeller of which could be hoisted up (by something in the neighborhood of 500 crewmen over several hours) to reduce drag while under sail. I recommend anyone of a nautical bent to visit Portsmouth Harbour, UK, for an educational experience.
More Modern Coast Artillery at Fort Pickens
Tom Hone
In the June “Museum Report”, historian Hill Goodspeed described Forts Barrancas and Pickens, focusing on their 19th-century histories. But there are three more modern coastal-defense guns at Fort Pickens. One (below) is a partially restored “disappearing” 6-inch mount.
After firing, the gun would “disappear” below the parapet and be reloaded. Then a counterweight would be released, elevating the gun so it could be fired. There are also two 155-mm guns behind shields at Fort Pickens, located near the aforementioned gun.
These guns are in remarkably good condition and well worth a visit if you’re in Pensacola.