As anyone who was on board at the time can tell you, the postwar period, from 1945 to 1947, was a traumatic experience for much of the Navy. We saw a massive migration of thousands of war-hardened, experienced junior officers to civilian life, and a consequent dearth of junior officers to man thehundreds of ships not yet decommissioned.
Early in 1946, this situation had a particularly hard impact on one branch of the Navy —the YMS fleet. The YMS—the mackerel taxi—was 136 feet of fighting wooden minesweeper, normally manned by about 40 enlisted men, a lieutenant (j.g.) as commanding officer, and two or three ensigns.
In 1946, however, there were only 20 to men on board these ships. Sometimes the was a mustang skipper, but the rest of the officers were usually ensigns of perhaps eight months’ commissioned service. Often commanding officer was also an ensign. When this was so, the situation was similar to explosion in a spaghetti factory.
I first reported aboard the USS YMS-404 anchored off Treasure Island, San Francisco Bay, in April 1946. By comparison, I was an old sea dog, having been first lieutenant on board the USS LST-7 for a period of about three months after receiving my commission. I learned that we were anchored out because everything larger than our YMS was secured snugly alongside one of all the available piers at Treasure Island. This represented a refreshing change for the YMS fleet, however, since the ride to the beach in an open LCVP Was smoother than our YMS underway.
I had visions of being named commanding officer, since the CO and third officer were being released. But a lieutenant (j.g.) was ordered aboard; thus, I became navigator, first lieutenant, and stores officer. The new skipper retained the engineer’s and communicator’s jobs. He was an ex-machinist’s mate and knew all about such things.
Within three months after reporting on board the 404, we were in San Diego, and I received TAD orders to duty as commanding officer of the USS YMS-416, tied up across the Fleet Sonar School dock from us. I was the only officer on board, and relieved the skipper of all the officer billets, including communicator. I say communicator, specifically, because it was my first look into a communications safe and the wonderful publications therein. I was fascinated by water soluble ciphers, which I dissolved frequently just for the fun of seeing the printing disappear.
Since both ships were at the same dock, my titles of N, FL, and S on one, and CO, E, N, FL, C, and S on the other presented no problems except when I was called back across the dock to assist in getting the 404 underway. This maneuver, performed once a week, prevented the ships from sticking to the piers. Unhappily, we were so undermanned that we could remain underway for only one watch.
Subsequently, I was relieved of duty in the 404 and had only the jobs normally held by all three officers in the allowance list on board the YMS-416. Things grew worse rapidly. My ship was selected as the gunnery target tow ship for the Underway Training Unit. This produced prolonged applause on the part of all commanding officer ensigns on the other three or four YMS types. I did have help, though, because each ship contributed one or two enlisted men to assist me through the 12- to 14-hour underway period.
We were out at 0800 and in at 1900 or 2100 for days on end. I was the only OOD, and naturally, I qualified myself in a hurry. Finally, though, came the day when I just couldn’t stay awake any longer. Retiring to my sea cabin in the other wardroom stateroom to catch a nap, I left the bridge in charge of one of my two chief petty officers, a boatswain’s mate. Although many CPOs had been trained as OOD underway, this was his first solo watch. Approximately an hour later, I was roused from a deep sleep by a sudden heeling of the ship. As I raced out of the wardroom, still half asleep, I looked up at the stern of an aircraft carrier which was just sliding by our port side. Somehow, my OOD had managed to miss it by inches. I was not nearly as disturbed as the aviators who had to try to land their aircraft while dodging a mackerel taxi that was dragging her sled tow some 500 yards astern.
Conditions improved, nevertheless, and in a little while I received a lieutenant (j.g.) to assist me. Since I was the CO and still an ensign, we both knew that the situation wouldn’t last. My prerogatives being what they were, however, he was assigned ship’s jobs for everything except navigator. COMIN- PAC soon discovered what they had wrought, and shortly afterward I lost my first lieutenant, engineer, stores officer, and communicator.
His departure was not before a thrilling evening at sea, however. We had gotten underway for a towing job. I had spent much of the day showing my second officer how much rudder to use when we had our tow strung astern. Seven degrees was the maximum— any more and you met your tow in a crossing situation without benefits of lights, whistles, or signals. That trip we stayed out for night gunnery practice, and the two of us stood watch and watch. Southern California coastal fog had set in, and when I was relieved at midnight, I again warned my Number Two of the dangers involved in sharp turns, particularly since we could scarcely see 500 feet ahead. About 0230,1 was awakened by the messenger —also watch helmsman, duty quartermaster, and signalman (he was taught to signal “Wait” on the searchlight when the OOD was too busy to do it himself)—and requested to report to the bridge. The OOD reported difficulty in steering plus an unusual angle on the tow wire. Specifically, it led somewhere down and around the rudder. While we stood there on our well-lighted deck staring down over the stern, a target sled loomed out of the fog and went sliding by our bow. Rapid calculations proved it to be ours—and still attached. This deduction was confirmed some three minutes later when the ship, dead in the water, took a sudden strain on the tow wire—or vice versa —and rotated her heading about 180° to port. Skilled seamanship in freeing the tow wire saved the day.
By September of that year, my ship and several other minesweepers were ordered to proceed to Bremerton via San Francisco for decommissioning. Two other ensigns were assigned for the trip. All vessels made San Francisco safely, and while there, we learned that ten of us were to sail in company for Bremerton. I was assigned as commander of the Task Unit for the trip north.
We left San Francisco in a blinding fog, without radar, but we were able to pick up the sound of the breaking surf on both sides of the Golden Gate before we ran in too close. Fortunately, there appeared to be no inbound traffic, and all ten ships zig-zagged their way to sunshine some 50 miles at sea.
Our progress down Puget Sound in the same kind of weather was a masterpiece of navigation by sounding, using the Fathometer only. We felt our way through another pea soup fog keeping track of one another by maintaining an interval of about 50 feet between ships. Abruptly, the column became a line abreast when a ferry churned past us in the mist, requiring an emergency “all back full” on my part without benefit of signal to the rest of my flotilla.
Another disturbing incident occurred late that afternoon while we were all safely at anchor off the mouth of the Bremerton River. I had decided to report in person to COM 13, since we had no radios with which to communicate, except for a low-powered VHF set which didn’t work. Another CO and I took the ferry to Seattle and reported in at District Headquarters. When I announced myself, the Duty Officer leaped from his desk and cancelled a vast search and rescue (SAR) alert for ten “presumed missing” minesweepers.
The amenities attended to, I concentrated on seeking revenge against the aforementioned speeding ferryboat. He had obviously violated every rule of the road—no fog signals, excessive rate of speed in low visibility, failure to yield the right of way, etc.—and I demanded to see the Chief of Staff. After placing the ferry on report to him orally, I waited for the righteous wrath I knew would be forthcoming.
The Chief of Staff merely looked up over his glasses at me and said, “Son, if we take that company to court, they’ll change the ferry schedule and every sailor stationed in Bremerton will be 15 minutes late for quarters. Get out!”
One other happening at Bremerton bears repeating. A quiet celebration took place the night before our mass decommissioning. One of the COs, an ensign, had not quite completed his typing of the smooth log and final inventory. He had promised to return early to his ship to finish up his paperwork since decommissioning was set for 0630, when the tugs were scheduled to tow our ships to Lake Washington for mothballing. For reasons still obscure, he never made it back to his ship until 0610. As the sun rose that morning and the tugs took their departure with our ships in tow, there on the fantail of a YMS sat a lonely ensign in raincoat and blues huddled over his typewriter pecking away.
Even to this day, however, thoughts of that decommissioning sadden me. Here was a fine little ship, eager and willing to go anywhere, anytime, with a crew who felt the same way. We had not stripped her. Food, ammunition, and fuel were gone, but these could have been replaced in a hurry. She was ready, clean, and as shipshape as half a dozen sailors could keep her while she was being decommissioned. But the piece of paper which Was handed me as we lowered her commissioning pennant and sent her off to an undeserved boneyard read “ . . . and receipt is hereby made for her hulk and appurtenances. . . . ” She did not deserve to be called a hulk.
Within three months, I was back in San Francisco as Number Two on board the USS YMS-419. One day we were paid a surprise visit by a member of the staff of the Commander, Western Sea Frontier. We were informed that two foreign cruisers were arriving, and our ship was ordered to return the salute to the senior naval officer present. We had been so honored because the only saluting ammunition on hand was 3-inch stuff, and we had the only 3-inch gun in San Francisco Bay. For the occasion, we were presented with a three-star personal flag which was to be flown on the day of the salute.
Promptly at 0800 on the glorious day, the flag was broken out at the king post, and we made preparations for getting underway. This consisted of the CO putting on his railroad engineer’s cap and calling for coffee on the open bridge.
Within seconds after breaking out the personal flag, we were visited by the JOOD of an APA tied up across the pier from us. He assured us that line-handling parties would be available to assist us. Sure enough, at the appointed time, there was a 100-man working party busily casting off the nine-thread line we used. This was a rather heady experience, since we normally had to cast off our own lines and hold with engines until everyone got back on board.
We rounded Treasure Island magnificently, smartly returned the salute of a destroyer which had manned the rails for us, returned the gun salute of the foreign cruisers, went back to the 100-man working party waiting for us on the dock, and headed for the officers’ club.
Shortly after arriving at the club, the CO entered into conversation with a commander, vaguely familiar as a vile tempered professor at the Naval Academy. The Commander remarked that he had received a scare from a YMS earlier in the day. He told of rounding Treasure Island to meet one almost head on. As he related it, “I turned to a signalman who was looking at that blankety-blank mackerel taxi with a long glass and said, ‘Tell that kit to get out of a fighting ship’s way.’ Whereupon the signalman lowered the glass and said, ‘But sir, she’s flying a three-star admiral’s flag.’ ” It took us some time to revive the Commander after he had heard the full story.
I was given the job of rewriting the doctrine (I think it was called Organization Book) for the YMS. I had two contributions, one of which was immaterial. But the other recommendation caused great commotion and drew a series of “well dones” from our seniors. The first contribution struck out all references to a wardroom mess and ship’s service store for obvious reasons. As to the second, I still can’t understand why it had never occurred to anyone during the entire panorama of World War II. It had to do with the Fire and Rescue party’s mission when going alongside a burning vessel. Where the book said “direct all fire hoses on the burning vessel,” I recommended “direct one-half of all the fire hoses on the burning vessel and one-half on the side of the wooden YMS exposed to such a gross hazard.”
But this period of my career was not all glory and great thoughts. I also received my first and most effective “chewing out.” It was delivered by an immediate superior, whom— up to the moment I walked in to see him—I had often referred to as “Uncle Beany.” Over the preceding weekend, my one and only reefer had broken down and ruined all the meat we had on board. I felt it was vitally necessary to get the machinery repaired and begged off from my towing job. My failure to meet an operational commitment resulted in 45 minutes of Uncle Beany’s best invective. As an uncomfortable souvenir, I had a wringing-wet suit of dress khakis.
One other repair job that was done in dark secrecy took place many months later after I had again become a commanding officer. My engineer requested permission to steam-clean our diesel fuel oil tanks. These two tanks were filled by flexible tubing extending from the main deck down through the crew’s compartment to the tanks located just below. The tanks were cross-connected by an open pipe. The tanks had been drained and the engineer had led a steam line down into one of the filler necks. The deck on the opposite side of the ship was covered with rags around the flexible tubing, and the black gang stood by to watch the steam escape through both tanks via the connecting line. After much steam had backed out of the filler neck where the steam line was inserted, the Chief Machinst’s Mate stuffed rags, wedges, and assorted odds and ends around the mouth of the tube. The small explosion which resulted from ruptured flexible tubing in the crews’ quarters was negligible compared to the noise they made when they saw the results of spraying oil in the berthing compartment. The post-mortem disclosed that there was a hitherto unknown valve in the connecting line between the tanks, which had inadvertently remained closed during this operation.
We had our problems, too, with a “flash” or low pressure boiler, used for distillation of drinking water. It hardly ever worked when the YMS rolled or pitched. Since the ship did that even in dry dock, we had to wait until we were relatively sheltered, or at anchor in calm open water, where we secured all overboard drains, waited an hour, and then commenced making drinking water. We often ran low on fresh water, and one night, while anchored in Pyramid Cove off San Clemente, we were forced into lighting off the boiler. The next morning before we got underway, I had my first cup of coffee. It tasted like straight iodine. We had anchored in almost total darkness, blissfully unaware that we were in the midst of perhaps the biggest bed of kelp known to marine science. Have you ever tasted distilled sea weed?
Early in 1947, we were ordered from the West coast to Guam to join a squadron of YMSs destined to check-sweep many of the Pacific atolls, and incidentally to strike terror into the hearts of other sailormen. There were ten minesweepers in the squadron, whose entire officer complement of 30 consisted of ensigns, until a stray lieutenant (j.g.) joined us much later on.
In the nine days from San Francisco to Honolulu, and the 13 days from there to Guam, we became quite adept at grappling a fire hose out of the water. Our escorting fleet tug trailed it for us to refuel by. It took us several tries to discover that when he said, “I’m adding 2 r.p.m.,” he would disappear over the horizon even though we went “all ahead floorboard.”
Guam, Ulithi, Ponape, Saipan, Yap, Ngulu, Palau, Mili, Jaluit—what magic names! But exploration was not our mission, and we spent one 30-day period without leaving our ships except to watch movies on board our flagship, an LST, when anchored. The mines our squadron swept, sad to report, were few and far between.
Apropos of perhaps nothing, one of the skippers had a mess cook who stuttered severely. He had begged for months to be unshackled from the job (a grand total of one cook, one mess cook, and one steward’s mate to share watch and watch). Eventually assigned to the deck force prior to a sweep through a Japanese field of two- and three- meter (under water) contact mines at Ulithi, his great day dawned when he was assigned as bow mine lookout. With the third pass at the plotted edge of the field, the skipper observed his bow mine lookout pointing frantically at the water just off the port bow, not saying a word, although obviously trying desperately to break the sound barrier. A glance in that direction showed a shallow mine bobbing in the prevailing current five feet to port. This was it! Where could the ship go except straight up? But luck was on our side, and the mine, being pulled down by a strong current, passed safely under the hull as everyone held his breath and looked skyward. Needless to say, the m-m-man who couldn’t yell “M-M-Mine!” returned to m-m-mess duty that night.
The YMS, in addition to being a trifle low on water at times, had a habit of running out of food if not replenished with alarming regularity. It was our practice, when leaving Guam on a month’s sweeping expedition to leave a series of provision requisitions with the Supply Center there. Food would then be air-lifted to our sweep area.
On one trip to Palau, our ship, the USS Mocking Bird (AMS-27) got the short end of the rations when our requisitions were misplaced in Guam. A few days later, we were out of fresh vegetables and meat. We were forced into a series of barters with the other YMSs—e.g., five pounds of stewing turkey and eight cups of rancid rice cost us two pistons, nine assorted gaskets, an 8-inch crescent wrench, and a 50-gallon drum of lube oil. Furious, I prevailed on my CO to message the Supply Center with an information copy to Commander, Naval Forces, Marianas. I can’t recall the exact message, but there were memorable passages such as “failure to deliver . . . extreme hardship . . . dangerous to health and morale . . . forces ship to barter,” etc. Within hours, we were informed that our missing requisitions had been found and supplies were on the way.
By the time we returned to Guam for rest, and recreation, however, I had relieved the above-mentioned commanding officer myself. On anchoring in Apra Harbor, my stores officer asked me to deliver a new set of requisitions to the Supply Center. I marched into the Supply Center and plopped the requisitions on the counter. The duty storekeeper glanced at them, did a double-take, and yelled, “Mocking Bird!” A commander left his desk like a missile and hurled copies of the requisitions at people in all directions. When he came down out of orbit, he snarled, “Ensign, your supplies will be outside in a truck in five minutes. Please tell your commanding officer never to pull a stunt like that message with info to COMMAR again. We all were hung high, and I’ll hang him if I ever can.” I saluted smartly, told him I’d be sure to pass the word to my CO, and departed.
Since we didn’t have “doctors” on board— i.e. pharmacist mate strikers—as “Old Man” I was often called upon to minister to the lame and lazy. On one trip, I had listened to my chief machinist’s mate moaning for days about a bad tooth. I administered what any good doctor would prescribe—APC tablets. Finally, action was called for, since the pain of the abscessed tooth (a snap diagnosis) was unbearable and the chief hadn’t slept for two days. I could have gotten him to a doctor, but the possibility of breaking up the ship on a rocky coast just for an abscessed tooth seemed unjustifiable to me.
Fortunately, I remembered the small cardboard box of drugs I had signed for many months before, and broke a tube of morphine out of the safe. From First Aid lectures, I recalled that you should paint a black “X” on the forehead of anyone to whom you administer narcotics. It took a little arguing, but the chief finally convinced me that he was readily identifiable by his swollen jaw.
For the uninitiated, morphine comes in a squeeze tube or syrette with a hypodermic needle attached. Inserted in the needle is a thin wire with a loop on the outside end for ease in withdrawal.
I carefully swabbed off a section of my patient’s arm with alcohol, withdrew the wire from the needle, closed my eyes, and stabbed true and deep. After squeezing the tube for almost five minutes and getting only about half of the contents into his arm, I noticed that, while his color had become a nauseous grey, my patient was no longer moaning. I concluded that I had done a fine job or that he was fainting. I thereupon chucked the rest of the tube over the side and sent the Chief back to his bunk.
Four hours later, he staggered back to the bridge and told me that the effects of the morphine had worn off in half an hour. He was now in worse agony and begged for more. I broke out another tube to see if it was permissible to apply more medication within such a short period without fear of addiction. The directions, which I had ignored in my initial haste, read, “Pierce the inner seal of the syrette with the wire provided inside the needle, withdraw wire and discard. Morphine will then flow when tube is squeezed.”
Have I given you the impression that life on board a mackerel taxi, 16 or 17 years ago, was one long, uninterrupted series of comic situations? I hope not. For it is not my purpose to belittle the achievements of a fine type of ship, and the spirited, aggressive crew who sails and fights her. The MCO-AMS-YMS offers the young naval officer more challenge, more experience in seamanship, and more responsibility than other far larger ships.
Returning to my carrier off Wonsan, Korea, during the days preceding the landing there, I remember noticing minesweepers in the harbor. With a feeling of nostalgia, I spotted the Mocking Bird and the Redhead. Within weeks, I was saddened to read of the loss of the Redhead and other ships of my old squadron in that same sweep area.
Truly, they were a group of fighting ships manned by fighting crews. For those of us who served on board one of these gallant little vessels, the old Navy saying about “wooden ships and iron men” has a special meaning. Our wooden ship stood by while experience hammered strength into the soft, unshapen metal of her crew.