Less than 10 years after the end of World War II, the United States decided to transfer two U.S. destroyers to Japan. They would be building blocks for a reconstituted Japanese Navy. It fell to me—an ensign, the lowest ranking and least experienced officer in the shipyard—to make that happen. Fortunately, a random seating assignment in a Wharton Business School economics class in 1953 gave me the foundation I needed to supervise two challenging and potentially politically explosive overhauls at the Charleston Naval Shipyard.
From Enlistment to Wharton
I entered high school in September 1944, during the heaviest fighting of World War II. My older brother, Bob, had enlisted in the Navy during his freshman year at Brown University, and I was chomping at the bit to follow in his footsteps. Navy regulations allowed enlistment at age 17 with parental permission, and I could not wait for my 17th birthday.
Then the United States dropped the atomic bombs, and the war ended.
My parents supported my decision to join the Navy—undoubtedly made easier by the fact that the war was over. My minority hitch began on 2 July 1946, when I joined the Reserve as a seaman recruit. I served until I turned 21, just before starting my senior year at Brown.
I chose to study physics, with the vision of a future Nobel Prize dancing in my head. By the time I graduated, I had been disabused of that dream. Plan B was to get an MBA from the Wharton School and join my family’s manufacturing business. Unbeknownst to me, the Army had sent some Japanese bankers to Wharton to study the U.S. banking system.
Quesabero Toyohara sat next to me in an economics class. Like most Americans at the time, I still harbored animosity toward the Japanese, so our conversations were limited to hello and goodbye. One day, however, I could not understand something the professor said and asked for an explanation. The professor’s follow up was the same incomprehensible gaggle of words, just spoken more slowly. Later, Toyo asked if I had understood the professor’s response. I admitted I was still confused. He then explained the answer in simple English, and I began to look at him in a new light.
Toyo introduced me to other Japanese students who lived nearby. My prejudice dissipated, and from then on, I spent more of my free time with Toyo and his friends. In the process, I learned a few Japanese customs and expressions, and Toyo and I formed a lasting friendship.
This was 1952, and the Korean War still raged. I decided to apply for Navy Officer Candidate School in Newport, Rhode Island. Competition was stiff, so I was delighted when I received my acceptance letter in spring 1953. I joined OCS Class 14 in September and earned my commission in January 1954.
To the Shipyard
As a newly minted ensign, I was sent to Charleston Naval Shipyard. By happenstance, I was assigned to the department responsible for converting two destroyer minesweepers, the Ellyson (DMS-19) and Macomb (DMS-23), back to destroyers. Both ships had impressive World War II combat histories. The Ellyson had participated in the invasion of Okinawa and earned four battle stars in Europe and three more in the Pacific. The Macomb started on Atlantic convoy escort duty, then participated in the invasion of southern France before heading to the Pacific. She took a kamikaze hit at Okinawa on 3 May 1945 and earned five battle stars and a Unit Commendation. Two ships that fought against Japan were now about to join its Navy.
Lieutenant Commander Robert Epps was ship superintendent. I helped him finish an overhaul on the attack transport USS Olmsted (APA-188) while he worked on the DMS conversions. Shortly after work on the Olmsted was completed, he was transferred to Hawaii, and I was told to take over the DMS overhauls. Apparently, all the more-senior shipyard officers were combat veterans who wanted nothing to do with fixing two warships to give to our recent enemy.
I was overwhelmed.
Normal ship overhauls lasted one or two months, but work on the Ellyson and Macomb would take much longer. All the minesweeping gear had to be removed so we could reinstall the five-inch gun mounts. I would have to work with U.S. and Japanese officers—who did not like each other—to get the ships in transferable condition and be able to pass muster with the Board of Inspection and Survey (InSurv). I also had to work with the State Department to organize the transfer ceremony.
This would have been a difficult assignment for an experienced officer, but it seemed impossible for an ensign on his first assignment.
We began work on the ships in May. On 1 August, the Japanese destroyer crews arrived in Norfolk to train on U.S. equipment. More than 75 percent of their officers had seen combat during the war.
I met engineering officers Captain Minoru Yasunaga and Commander Nobuoshi Ohara at the gangway of DMS-19 and introduced myself as their ship superintendent. I could see the surprise and consternation on their faces. It dawned on me that assigning an ensign as their liaison officer was an insult. I also realized there were two sides to this post–World War II enmity. They also were working with a former enemy and had lost many of their friends, as well as their Navy, only ten years earlier. (I later learned that Nobuoshi’s in-laws had all been killed at Nagasaki.)
They had had to accept a one-rank reduction for this mission, and then a lowly ensign was assigned to them. They believed this was done to further their humiliation. It was a difficult pill to swallow.
Taking a deep breath, I plunged into the tour. When we reached the first hatch on the Ellyson I stepped back, bowed, and said, “Osakini Doso,” which means “After you, please” in Japanese. This may have been the first sign of respect they had seen since they left Japan. They smiled and responded in Japanese. Fortunately, Toyo had taught me another Japanese phrase, “Watshi Wa Nippon go O Hanashimasen Gomenasi,” which means “I am sorry, but I do not speak Japanese.” It was a short conversation, but it was the first step toward us becoming life-long friends.
Nobuoshi Ohara had been a ship superintendent in Japan and said he would guide me through the work. I could not have asked for a better instructor. He had been sent to Charleston to learn about U.S. shipyards, and after returning to Japan, he would head the Japanese equivalent of the Bureau of Ships.
The tour continued with Nobuoshi in the lead. I had put my boss’s instructions above the webbing in my hard hat. In each space I read them to Nobuoshi. He then explained the work for each compartment and sometimes suggested better ways to accomplish it. By the time our tour ended I had become the one officer in the shipyard who could handle the overhauls with a minimum of difficulty and no international incidents.
Commander Dolan, my boss, was amazed at how much I had learned in one day. He even accepted some of my (Nobuoshi’s) suggestions on better ways to solve problems. Not only was Nobuoshi doing the job I had been assigned, but he also had helped the commander: Dolan no longer had to train me, and he had a capable officer to supervise the conversions.
Five months later the overhauls were finished, and both ships were ready for sea trials. The Macomb went first, and after a small hiccup involving a leaking propeller shaft bearing, it went well. The Ellyson was next, and things were going well. On our way back, however, both generators dropped the load and the emergency generator failed to start. The problems were easily corrected and the ships seemed ready for the InSurv board.
The Ellyson was first. We were casting off when the main gyro tumbled. I ran to the phone at the end of the dock to arrange for the repair after we returned. As I raced back, the ship pulled up the gangway. The dockmaster spotted me, held the last lines, and hooked a bucket to the gantry crane. I jumped in and was set down on the quarterdeck, right in front of the ship’s captain and the InSurv admiral. The admiral admonished me for not saluting the flag when I boarded. Thinking quickly, the captain said, “Begging your pardon, Admiral, but he did not board, he landed, and fliers do not have to salute until they leave their aircraft.” I was still standing in the bucket.
Both ships passed their InSurv inspections, and we set 19 October 1954 for the transfer ceremony. As the U.S. crews departed from the stern gangway, the Japanese crews boarded from the bow. The Ellyson became the Asakaze (Morning Breeze), and the Macomb became the Hatakaze (Flag Fluttering Breeze).
The next morning, I was on the pier at 0600. The Navy band played “Auld Lang Syne,” and as the two ships cast off and slowly disappeared in the morning mist, I felt I was losing some great friends. I did not realize we would stay in touch and exchange visits as long as they lived.
Postscript
Over the years, I watched Minoru Yasunaga’s career. When he returned to Japan, he reverted to his rank of captain. Soon, he was promoted to rear admiral and became superintendent of the Japanese Naval Academy at Eta Jima. His next assignment was Chief of the Supply Corps. A promotion to vice admiral followed. The emperor presented him with Japan’s second-highest honor, The Order of the Rising Sun.
One day in May 1971, I received a call from the naval attaché at the Japanese embassy. Vice Admiral Yasunaga would be visiting the Naval Supply Center at Newport. Would I like to meet him at the Providence airport?
When my wife and I arrived, we were told there would not be time for us to visit because the admiral was already late for a function in Newport. When Minoru arrived, one of the captains told him there was no time to meet with his friends, but he replied, “If there is no time, we will make time.” His aide took pictures as we conversed, while the captains waited impatiently.
The following year I was invited to a reunion of the Asakaze and Hatakaze at the Officers’ Club in Tokyo. The Japanese officers were all captains with a few admirals. I felt like a real underachiever, but it was great to see my old friends again.
In 2001, Minoru wrote that he had a minor heart problem. He would not have mentioned it if it were truly minor, so my wife and I decided we should visit him ASAP. We decided to fly to Tokyo in November 2001. Despite the intervention of 9/11, we stuck with our plans. Minoru and Yoshiko Yasunaga and Nobuoshi Ohara joined us for lunch. Minoru looked well, but four months later he died of a massive heart attack.
A year later, his widow took a cruise to Hawaii and on the way asked the captain to sail past the site of the Battle of Midway. She followed Minoru’s request to sprinkle his ashes, “So he could be with the spirits of his friends who died there.” This was the first I knew Minoru had taken part in the Battle of Midway.
Many years later, I mentioned to Nobuoshi that I owned a condo at Goat Island in Newport. That is where we designed and produced the faulty torpedoes that plagued us during World War II. He told me he had been a repair officer on a tender that repaired submarines and destroyers. One day he was working below decks while anchored at Truk. A U.S. raid caught them by surprise, and he heard a torpedo go right under his ship without exploding.
“Goat Island’s failure saved my life,” Nobuoshi said.
