The War Years
By Willard E. Miller
F O R W A R D
The following "story" or "history" is a recording of bits, pieces, and recollections of the (42) months spent in the Navy during World War II. While my memory may be hazy, the dates listed are all accurate. Taken from various recorded data of the war.
Willard E. Miller
January 7, 1955
T A B L E O F C O N T E N T S
IX. THE NAVY ENLISTED MENS' UNIFORM
X. CONVOY DUTY IN THE NORTH ATLANTIC
XIV. HAVANA AND OTHER PORTS OF CALL IN THE CARIBBEAN
XVIII. MARSHALL ISLANDS INVASION
XIX. THE MARIANNAS ARE INVADED
XXII. THE INVASION OF LEYTE GULF
XXIII. THE BATTLE FOR LEYTE GULF
XXIV. THE INVASION OF LINGAYEN GULF
XXVII. TREASURE ISLAND ONCE AGAIN
XXVIII. MURIEL JANE AND I ARE MARRIED
Sunday afternoon, December 7th, 1941! I am headed over to Muriel Jane's parent's house for Sunday night dinner. While I wait in front of the Watch Factory for the stop and go lights to turn green, this shocking news comes over my car radio: "The Japanese have attacked Pearl Harbor!"
That terse announcement was to change my life significantly over the next four years; although such thoughts never entered my mind at the time.
I was working then at the Elgin National Watch Co., as a buyer in the Purchasing Dept. I was making $135.00 per month. At Elgin Watch we were already engaged in war work for the U.S. Government, making time fuzes for anti-aircraft shells. I was spending the majority of my time on "defense" (that was the word) activities. In fact, I had a "2B" classification (occupational deferment), a prized exemption from military service for people of military age.
The U. S. Government, under President Franklin D. Roosevelt, was and had been actively involved in war activities for at least a couple of years prior to December 7, 1941. Many of my friends were already in the Army and had been in the Army for some time (Don Clark, John Ginnell, John Gostele, etc.)
One interesting sidelight of Roosevelt's involvement in the "non-war": He gave Britain fifty World War I destroyers, the same type of ship on which I was to later serve. The thought often occurred to those of us on the Palmer, that he should have given all of them away.
Roosevelt has always been given credit for solving the Great Depression. I got out of high school in June 1934; and didn't find a decent job until January 1, 1937 (in the Purchasing Dept. at the Watch Factory at $90.00 per month). In September of that year all the ENWCo. employees took a 10% cut in wages, due to more recession. The "war effort" and the draft eventually cured all problems; and started the U.S. on the road to prosperity. So much for Roosevelt's grandiose plans to solve the depression.
At some point in time during the next few months after Pearl Harbor, I began thinking about entering military service, despite my occupational deferment. My reasons at this stage of my life are no longer clear as to "why?" Some of my thoughts undoubtedly included……. I was of draft age and an ideal prospect (young, 25 years old, single, and in good health). I disliked draft dodgers and didn't want to be known as one. I was also patriotic and proud to be an American. There was also the anticipated thrill, the potential adventure, and the proud distinction of being a military man. At any rate, regardless of the reasons, on March 6, 1942, I enlisted in the U. S .Naval Reserves. I was given a Storekeeper 3rd class petty officer rating, and the deed was done.
A few weeks later, I received notice to report April 6, 1942 for induction into the U. S. Naval Reserve.
April 6, 1942. This is the day I leave for the Navy. What will the future bring? Will it be good for me or bad? My thoughts cover a wide range of possibilities.
I arrive at the Third Rail station in downtown Elgin to a nice surprise. My brother, Allen, and Muriel Jane, are there to see me off. There are also five other inductees at the station. I can't remember who they all were, except for a tall young fellow by the name of Taylor, and Gaylon Lee, a local "fashion plate who had worked at Wentorth's clothing store.
I digress for a moment to mention that I remember very little of the weeks preceding my departure. I don't remember what I did with my car or my clothes, my belongings, etc. As I recall, I believe my Dad had moved in with me on Highland Ave.……maybe not……At any rate, he and Margaret did live there later. The Watch Factory office employees had given me a watch as a going away present. There was also an article in the paper, referring to me as a local sports star (????????) that was going off to war.
So, as Allen and Muriel Jane wave their good-byes, I board the Third Rail and we take off for Chicago. By evening I am on my way to San Diego. This is a surprise. I had been positive that I would be going to the Great Lakes Naval Training Station, north of Chicago. Such was my initiation into the logic of the military.
The train we boarded for San Diego is loaded with Navy recruits. Many girl friends, wives, dads, mothers, etc. are at the station in Chicago to see the "boys" off. It was a sight etched indelibly in my memory. I had the sad and depressing feeling, as I watched the good-byes, that some of these good-byes were forever…..that some of these recruits would never see Chicago again.
At all times in the Navy I traveled well. Always a berth in a Pullman car, and food in the regular train dining room. This first trip was no exception.
During the first evening, I got into a dice game (craps) and played until it was broken up by the S.P.'s (Shore Patrol), the police arm of the Navy. I was one of the big winners, winning approximately #75.00. It was the first and last time I shot craps while in the Navy.
The trip to San Diego was fun and interesting to me. I always did like trains; and this was my first inter-continental trip (except to Colorado as a two or three year old, which trip I don't remember). I had a lower berth and being a light sleeper, I enjoyed seeing the small towns and country-side which we passed through in the middle of the night.
The trip, as I recall, took about 72 hours. My vague recollection indicates we went south and west to Kansas City, then to Albuquerque, on to Los Angeles, then south to San Diego.
We arrive in San Diego. It's a gorgeous, sunny, warm day, a welcome change from the weather we left behind in Chicago. We're bussed to the Naval Training Station, then lined up on the "grinder", a huge expanse of asphalt that will be our outside home for the next several weeks.
We listen to an old "sarge" (Chief petty officer) attempting to throw the fear of God into us, the usual speech to incoming recruits.
Next, we are marched over to "clothing stores", where we go through numerous lines and are outfitted with the clothing and other items that we will be wearing and using from now until our discharge. The lines are run speedily and efficiently. I am fitted with a new size shoe (oxford), a 10 ˝ D. It's an excellent fit, and I wear that same size shoe for the rest of my life, with no corns, no bunions, no blisters, etc. The black socks, I subsequently find out, wear forever. I never could understand why such long wearing socks were not available in civilian life. The undershirts and shorts, all of very good quality, cost approximately three for a dollar on later purchases. All of our clothes are, of course, free. Subsequent needs had to be purchased, all at nominal prices.
We also receive two coats: (1) a navy blue "pea" coat which resembles a mackinaw except for the color, and (2) a black rain coat/top coat. We are also given blankets and a "sea bag", a large canvas bag to pack all our "stuff" in when traveling.
After collecting all our gifts, we are instructed to shed all our civilian clothing, pack them and any other belongings on our person into a container the Navy furnished, and then provide a destination address for the container. We are explicitly instructed to keep nothing, an instruction which I (and I imagine others, also) ignore. I don't recall what I saved; but I presume it included my wallet, my watch, a snapshot of Muriel Jane, money, etc.
Our new uniform for the next several weeks we now don, consisting of dungarees, blue work shirt, and sailor cap.
We then reassemble and march off to our barracks, our new home.
The barracks are brand new. Inside they are spotless…..sterile clean. We are assigned to a bunk, which will be our home during our stay. The bunks are two high. I am assigned a top one.
The "heads" (lavatories, showers, wash basins, etc.) are also ultra clean. I digress for a moment to mention that as a "rated" enlisted man (petty officer), I will never be assigned to latrine duty, kitchen duty, or any of the other onerous and hated tasks in the Army and Navy. I will be assigned more important tasks in boot camp, such as guard duty, consisting of marching around a specified area for a couple of hours in the middle of the night with an unloaded gun, when assigned this "hazardous" duty.
The "guys" I am with are a pretty good lot. (The individuals I left Elgin with I have not seen since we got off the train.) One thing about the Navy; everyone is an enlistee, so we don't have the serious malcontents who were forced into service (even though some enlistees may have just beat the draft by a day or two).
After "securing" our bunks and "stowing" our "gear" (Navy talk), we are off to the mess hall, marching, of course. The food is good…..some strange items and some exotic items. It's standard practice in the Navy to have beans and S.O.S for breakfast (S.O.S. is an abbreviation for the old Army and Navy term, "shit on a shingle", or better known in the civilian world as creamed chipped beef and toast.) I could never get accustomed to the idea of having beans and S.O.S. for breakfast; and, in fact, never ate such items for breakfast, no matter how hungry I was.
Another derogatory term was affixed to Spam, known as "horse cock".
Among the exotic items were Avocados, served frequently cut in halves the long way. However, I never saw those again after leaving San Diego.
In the mess hall, one ran into all kinds of Americans, some with strange (to me) eating habits. The Texans were big on black-eyed peas. Southerners used catsup on their scrambled eggs and pepper on their melons (cantaloupes). I presume they thought our eating habits were peculiar, also. As I mentioned previously, the food (chow) wasn't bad.
After a few days we settle into a routine. First thing in the morning, we are awakened with the ribald salutation 'Drop your cocks and grabs your socks". Our "things" are quiet and unresponsive to these vulgar remarks, due to, according to the barracks experts, the use of salt peter in our food. After morning chow, on to calisthenics, etc., including marching around on the grinder.
Naturally, we had to get the innumerable shots prescribed for all military men. Although I had heard such stories, I did see grown, husky men drop over in a faint, either before or after getting some shots. In their defense, shots were a little different than they are today. Some of them were quite painful and others left one with sore arms and occasional illnesses.
San Diego in Spring is lovely. The temperature is a little strange; cool in the shade and hot in the sun. After a couple of weeks we are given "liberty" on week-ends. I don't remember doing anything exciting, although one Sunday I went to La Jolla. That looked like a great place to live, swim, etc. Later years bore out the accuracy of these evaluations.
One week-end John Gostele came over to see me. He was in the Marines and stationed at that time in San Diego. It was a fun and welcome visit, as John was one of my favorite people. I always felt that John could have been a top-notch professional golfer, if he hadn't been so lazy. I never saw John hit a practice ball in his life, either before or after the war. To illustrate his talents, he was home on leave one year when the Illinois State Amateur was being held at St. Charles C. C. He entered and led the qualifying rounds (medalist) with the lowest score of all the entrants. He subsequently lost in one of the early rounds of the match play that followed.
The group of guys I am with all carry ratings; that is, they had by-passed apprentice seaman and first class seaman, and are all third class petty officers. To get these ratings they had to have accomplished something in civilian life. So, in general, they were reasonably well-educated and intelligent. However, these reasonably successful former civilians got the shock of their lives one day, when an old sea dog naval officer addressed the group; and told them they would soon be at sea, and to get prepared for it. The incredulous looks and shock on the faces of these newly enlisted petty officers was an amusing sight.
Our boot camp days are over! We have been here six weeks. Today's ceremonies are held on the "grinder". We march "in revue" to the music of a military band, while carrying our "no shoot" rifles. We are just one group of many other "graduates" today. Marching to the music of a military band is fun and uplifting. We all feel some pride as we perform our "left flanks", "right flanks", "to the rear", etc.
Next, we await our orders with much concern and anticipation. They are finally posted on the bulletin board. I'm transferred to Treasure Island in San Francisco. Other storekeepers are also transferred to Treasure Island. We pack everything we own in our sea bags, toss them over our shoulder, and take off.
The train journey from San Diego to San Francisco is of real interest to me, as all train trips have been in my lifetime. The fragrance and aroma wafting through the train, as we pass through innumerable orange groves is unbelievable. At that time in our "history", there was no "Silicon Valley", the great West Coast computer area and industry. The majority of California between Los Angeles and San Francisco was still agricultural land. Orange trees populated the areas where now cities and people reside.
Upon arrival in Oakland we are transferred by bus to Treasure Island, in the middle of San Francisco Bay, just off the S. F. / Oakland Bay Bridge. We find out later we can get to and from San Franciso via ferry or Navy bus.
The island is large, rectangular, and flat, except for that portion under and adjacent to the bridge. That portion of the land mass is known as Yerba Buena Island. I surmise that much of Treasure Island is man-made.
The island is immaculate as are all the military installations that I have seen to date. One wonders why our welfare recipients can't be used in the same manner our military uses its excess manpower; that is to immaculate the inner cities. I presume such tasks are beneath the dignity of welfare recipients.
Duty in San Francisco and at Treasure Island is the "ultimate" Navy duty. First, we have San Francisco available to us. It becomes my favorite city and remains so to this day. The people of S.F. are friendly and good to the Navy personnel, which makes S.F. a great place for liberty.
Secondly, the barracks, the base, the food, and the "duty" are the best. It's like a government job in civilian life. We have an eight hour working day, and are "off" evenings and week-ends.
The 16 hours we are not on duty, we are pretty much on our own. The mess hall is open at certain prescribed hours, and we can eat anytime during these "open" hours. We can leave the island anytime we are not on duty.
The duty is minimal. As a SK 3/c I am assigned to the mammoth stores warehouse on the island. This facility stocks everything and anything for the Navy. These "stores" are doled out to ships and other Navy locations and facilities per their request orders.
The only problem, which became readily apparent, is a surplus of storekeepers. We actually had to work hard to find something to do. There is a lurking fear that, at any moment, the Navy will wise-up and transfer us to some god-forsaken location.
We subsequently learn our fears are well-founded.
While at Treasure Island, I decide to apply for flight training in the Navy Air Force. I fill out all the necessary papers, pass all the mental and physical requirements and tests, and then wait expectantly for the Navy's action on my request and application. And in true military tradition, I never hear another word about it during my stay in the Navy. At various intervals of time during the next two years, I would inquire regarding the status of my application, but "nobody knew nothing". After approximately two years of inquiries, I finally drop the subject.
As I mentioned previously, San Francisco is a lovely city, my favorite. I spend a great many of my liberties at the U.S.O., which always has something going on. Other liberties were spend seeing some of the tourist spots, including Golden Gate Park, Market Street, the Palace Hotel, and Fisherman's Wharf. I also tried out the cable cars, and visited some of the night spots, including the famous (at that time) Lefty O'Doul's, a downtown bar, owned by a former big league baseball player.
I also had my first of two "dates", while in San Francisco, with a pretty, little, blond girl, who I met at the U.S.O. We spent one evening at the Top of the Mark, a must stop for everyone visiting S. F. on a clear evening.
This was just about the time I was to depart for Chicago, abruptly ending future dating plans.
The only bad thing I ever encountered in San Francisco was the weather, especially in the evenings. "Disagreeable" describes it eloquently. Fog, mist, bone-chilling cold were the "in-the-evening" norms. I never went to S. F. without my Navy "top-coat".
I mentioned previously that there was a surplus of storekeepers at Treasure Island. So, one fine day, a notice is posted together with a list of names, stating that the individuals listed would have to transfer to some other activity. The notice further stated that the individuals listed would have to go through the necessary schooling to qualify for the chosen rating. Those not successful in passing the rating requirements would be reduced in rank to seaman first class.
My name is on the list.
At that time I again inquired about my Navy Air Force flight training application, with the usual results. I eventually sign up for Radio School, mainly because I will be sent to the University of Chicago.
And so! My idyllic existence at Treasure Island comes to an abrupt end; and sometime around the first of July, 1942 I am once again on a train, this time headed back to Chicago.
We arrive at the beautiful University of Chicago campus. I am assigned to a room on the second floor of Burton-Judson. This is unbelievable. No more barracks. Burton-Judson is on the southwest corner of the campus, and my room overlooks the Midway. I have a room-mate, Joe McGaughey, a Chicago Irishman.
There are twelve men in our group; all surplus ex-Storekeepers. This is the best group of guys I will associate with during my Navy tenure. I think the reason these "guys" are so compatible is because we are all of similar backgrounds. There are many more "groups" of similar size, all here to attend Radio School.
We select a leader. His nickname is "Irish". He is liked by everyone, talks to and knows everyone, and is a born leader. For want of a better description, he's a second Johnny Walker, my uncle. His hair is permanently gray.
All our meals are served in the Burton-Judson gothic dining room. The food is excellent.
We have liberty practically every week-end, and each week-end I take off, via the "L" and the "third rail" to Elgin to see Muriel Jane. (I do have the duty, occasionally, on week-ends.
On my trips from Elgin, I ride the "L" in the middle of the night down to sixty-third street, and then walk north to the University, without problems or fears of being robbed or assaulted. Don't try that today.
School is fun and not too difficult. I quickly settle into a daily routine. We have a drummer in our group, and we march to and from classes to the beat of our drummer.
We also have calisthenics each morning out on the Midway.
I digress to supply a little known tid-bit of information. The Chicago Bears are known as the "Monsters of the Midway". The original Monsters of the Midway were the University of Chicago football team. They were the scourge of the Midwest in the early years of this century.
I do well in school, and at the conclusion of the program, I am one of two students selected for top honors, a one year scholarship to the University of Chicago after the war. The two of us are interviewed by the head of the school; and after due deliberation the scholarship is awarded to the other individual.
The head of the school is J. B. Christ, a law professor at the University. Little did he and I know that one day I would inquire of him regarding applying to the university; and that he would be my business law professor at the University.
Our courses consist of radio theory and communication, typing, (I would reach 80 w.p.m. on some of our typing tests); and most important, receiving and sending morse code. I believe the graduation requirement was approximately 20 to 22 words per minute.
One of the "good student" awards or prizes is a trip to see the Tribune's All Star football game at Soldiers' Field. This was a game arranged by Arch Ward, the Chicago Tribune's sports editor. The fans, by vote, selected the all-star college graduates from around the country. They then played the NFL league champion of the previous season. The game was usually held near the end of August, prior to the start of the regular football season.
I, of course, spent many enjoyable week-ends in Elgin with Muriel Jane during my stay in Chicago.
Finally, sometime around October 1st 1941, our studies are completed. We receive our new assignments, say our good-byes, and depart from the University of Chicago. I leave a very meaningful and enjoyable summer to what would eventually become a precarious, dangerous, and difficult future.
My orders instruct me to report to the U.S.S. Alcor in Norfolk, Virginia.
One again I say my good-byes to Muriel Jane, family and friends, U. of C. classmates, and this time embark by rail for Norfolk, Virginia.
I debark at the end of the rail line and take a ferry to Norfolk. My destination is the U.S.S. Alcor. It's berthed at a dock in the Norfolk Navy yard. I find the ship and report aboard.
The U.S.S. Alcor is a repair ship. It has the equipment, personnel, etc. to make certain ship repairs. Much activity is taking place. I and many others like me are merely "baggage", assigned to the Alcor to await further assignment to a ship in the Atlantic Fleet.
The ship is crowded, dirty, and noisy. I am assigned a bunk amidst all the racket, and stow my gear in as assigned locker (metal box beneath the lower bunk). My duties are minimal. I frequently have liberty, and when I do I leave the noise and hubbub, and proceed to downtown Norfolk.
Norfolk is the "pits". It has a reputation as the worst city in the Navy, by Navy sailor standards. The people have no use for the Navy enlisted personnel; and in many instances, the sailors' reputations are honestly earned. It's a big Navy base, lots of war time workers, lots of old time Navy personnel noted for their drinking, fighting, and carousing, plus hordes of sharpies of every kind, ready to separate the sailor from his money.
A good example are the barbers. It was almost impossible to get a haircut without being sold a bill of goods, including a shampoo, hair tonic, and other special effects. I recall one visit to Norfolk, after a shower at the base including washing my hair. I stopped for a haircut and the first thing the barber did was to scrape his finger through my scalp, show me a blackened finger, and then insist that I get a shampoo. After a nasty exchange of words, he proceeded with my haircut only. I presume he had a can of shoe polish handy to supply the blackened finger.
Any free time I had was usually spent at the movies or the U.S.O.
My wait on the Alcor is relatively short; at the most, approximately six weeks. On a gray, dismal day in early December, at about 14:30 hours (2:30 P.M.), I receive orders to report immediately to the U.S.S. Palmer. There is another young sailor, also a radioman, receiving identical instructions.
I rush down to my locker, pack up my gear, and report to the duty officer for permission to leave the ship. My young shipmate and I wander around the docks looking for the Palmer. Nobody knows where it is. Finally we locate an individual that tells us it is tied up about a hundred yards away. We take off in the proper direction; and after more stops, discussions, and searching, locate the ship.
Our first glimpse of the Palmer is one of unadulterated shock. It's an old World War I destroyer; and it looks terrible…….a decrepit old warrior of yesteryear that appears to be on its last "legs".
I digress for a moment to mention that while aboard the Alcor, there was much discussion as to where we would be assigned. By now it was clear that we were going to sea. There were two brand new cruisers in the yard; and the scuttlebutt had it that many of us would be assigned to one of these new cruisers. In this rumor atmosphere, our shock and disbelief at seeing the Palmer was understandable.
We clamber aboard the Palmer, and within the hour we are heading out of Hampton Roads into the dark, foreboding Atlantic.
As I wander about the Palmer, stowing my gear, arranging my bunk, and becoming acclimated, the Palmer clears Newport News and Hampton Roads; and heads out into the cold, dark, and menacing Atlantic. Our destination is New York City.
It is dusk and in a matter of minutes night falls upon us. The sea is rough, and large angry waves meet the Palmer head-on. I worry about getting sea sick. I don't want to appear as a "greenhorn" sailor, which I am. I make a vow not to get sea sick. I feel will power can conquer physical problems, and with this firm determination fixed in my mind, I don't get sick. However, I certainly don't feel my best, and I skip my first meal on the Palmer. I stop smoking and have no desire to smoke.
Throughout my years on the Palmer, from this day forward, I never do get sea sick; and I gradually become a sailor who can withstand any kind of weather. On a bucking, rolling, pitching World War I destroyer, that is an accomplishment.
I report to the Radio Shack and am immediately assigned a duty watch. This means listening to and copying radio code for four hours without let-up.
It's a rough maiden voyage for me. The sea is rough. The ship is pitching and rolling. I finally complete my watch and laboriously find my way aft in the blackness of the night, to my bunk. There is a life line strung along the ship to hang onto and to guide and help the crew from flying overboard. I finally reach my bunk safely. I am filled with a certain amount of despair and depression. The future does not look good.
I survive the trip to New York.
We enter New York harbor the next morning, through the Narrows, past Staten Island and Brooklyn. We head for the upper New York bay area and the East river. Suddenly, out of the mist and sun, I see for the first time in my young life, the Statue of Liberty. It's a magnificent and ennobling sight. I think to myself that this is the only way to view the statue for the first time; just as our forefather immigrants did when they first arrived at the U. S. shores. Even though it was over 50 years ago, I can still picture in my mind that first glimpse of Ms. Liberty.
We tie up in the shadow of the Brooklyn Bridge. I and half the crew are given liberty that evening. I find my way down town and view Times Square for the first time also. In 1942, Times Square is still glamorous and busy with people, theaters, theater crowds, etc.
I see the sights, then back to the Palmer for a good night's sleep. Little did I know that this will be one of the last good night's sleep for many weeks.
By the time we had made the trip to New York, and laid there for a couple of days, I had become better acquainted with the Palmer.
My original impression is confirmed. The ship is a decrepit old heap of iron. It had been built during World War I; and launched August 18th, 1918. It was built at the Fore River Shipbuilding Co. in Quincy, Mass. Curiously enough, the superintendent of the facility at that time was Joe Kennedy, father of Jack, Ted, etc. Old Joe was a crony of Roosevelt; and Roosevelt provided his friends with their proper rewards. He made Joe ambassador to England during World War II.
The Palmer, when originally launched, was designated as a DD 161 destroyer. It was 316 feet in length, had a maximum speed of 35 knots, and displaced 1191 tons. The normal complement was 122 men. (I don't think any women would have been assigned to the Palmer, even today.) It was decommissioned after World War I (in May 1922), and placed in the "mothball fleet".
In August 1940, the Palmer was taken out of the mothball fleet, recommissioned, and converted into a Destroyer/High Speed Minesweeper. It's new designation was DMS-5.
These ships were known throughout the Navy during World War II as the Red Lead Fleet, for obvious reasons. Red lead paint was in constant use to paint over the rust spots, after the rust spots had first been scraped clean by the seamen. Other designations were World War I destroyers, "Four Stackers", and "Flush Deckers".
The Palmer was identical to the fifty ships Roosevelt gave Great Britain in 1940. Of those that remained in the U.S. Fleet, the majority never made it through World War II, victims of enemy action.
The funnels of the ship spewed forth a sickening smoke. This smoke, depending on the wind, or more correctly, the lack of wind, settled over the ship in a sickening smog. One satisfying retribution, when we laid down a smoke screen, mainly on convoy duty, we gave other ships a taste of our smog.
If one wants to get a flavor of life aboard a DMS, read the novel, the Caine Mutiny, by Herman Wouk. The Caine was a DMS, identical to the Palmer. Many things I have stated herein will be corroborated in Wouk's book.
The Palmer is small and cluttered with all kinds of gear and equipment; depth charges for anti-submarine warfare, Sonar gear for detecting submarines, Radar, two five inch guns, and batteries of 20 mm. Anti-aircraft guns.
Depth charges resemble small barrels. When used, they are power thrown into the air, away from the ship, and in the vicinity where a submarine has supposedly been detected by our Sonar. The depth charges are set to go off at various depths underwater. We fire many depth charges during the War, mainly in the North Atlantic. We were never credited with sinking a submarine.
When I came aboard the Palmer, it had just returned from the invasion of North Africa. During the invasion, she seized the French trawler, Joseph Elise, and had been engaged with enemy shore batteries during the invasion. She looked pretty battered up on her return, according to the crew. All the shore personnel who viewed her were under the impression she had suffered from enemy action hits. However, it wasn't the enemy. It was the Atlantic. The weather was so bad on the return from North Africa, that the Palmer was forced to partially back its way home.
We have one five inch gun forward (on the foc'sle), and one aft (on the after deck). We have several batteries of 20 mm. Anti-aircraft guns. This is the extent of our armament.
Our "big" guns are unbelievably crude, compared to today's weapons. Two men sit astride the barrel, one on each side. On man moves the gun vertically up and down to fix the target height. The other man moves the gun back and forth horizontally to fix the target horizontally. These movements are created by wheels with handles which the men turn. Other members of the gun crew feed the shells in and out of the guns.
The crews' and officers' quarters are all below deck, except for the captain's quarters., whose cabin is opposite the radio shack on the main deck. The radio shack is at the forward part of the ship, just behind the foc'sle and across from the Captain's cabin.
The engine room, fuel, ammunition, etc. are all located below deck, between the crews' quarters, fore and aft.
My bunk is in the after part of the ship. The bunks are two high. I have an upper bunk. Our lockers, metal boxes about the size of a large square box, open by lifting the top cover, and when closed are used as a place to sit. Our quarters are infested with cockroaches. My aversion to these bugs is dulled by time.
Approximately thirty of us are quartered in this location.
This is also our "mess", i.e. where we eat our meals. Our "dining area" consists of a long bench type table, surrounded by benches. We are seated around the table according to rank. During my stay on the Palmer, I move up gradually to the head of the table, as befitting my promotions from 3rd class. To 2nd class to 1st class petty officer. No chiefs eat with us. As befitting their rank, they have their own mess location. All of these arrangements are, of course, in tune with the non-democratic philosophy of the Navy. There are advantages to such arrangements, unless you are a lowly apprentice seaman, the holder of the lowest rung on the Navy's totem pole. The first servings of food always start at the head of the table. By the time the platters reach the lower end of the table, there is very little food left. However, life isn't all bad
for the lowly seaman, as the next platter or helping starts at the lower end of the table, so that everyone is fed properly and fairly, but not always as promptly.
A seaman called a "mess cook" delivers the food from the "galley" (kitchen). In addition he must do all the clean-up. The mess cooks also have to supply us with coffee on our night watches.
Mess cooks on a DMS, in my estimation, have a horrible existence. I have seen instances, particularly in rough seas, where the mess cook has lost all the food, as he tried to carry it and manipulate the ladder down to our quarters. These mishaps were always met with howls, insults, derogatory remarks, and vociferous complaints from the crew awaiting their "chow".
The same complaints and abuse were heaped upon the mess cook, when he made his coffee rounds in the middle of the night, although the abuse was aimed indirectly at the coffee.
One thing one could say about the coffee; it kept one awake, and that was its main purpose.
One other somewhat amusing thing about our meals was the ritual that occurred in the pouring of coffee, or whatever we might have to drink. The mess cook deposited the container (resembling an old time small dairy can with a spout) at the head of the table. It was then up to someone at the head of the table to pick up the can and pour himself a cup of the beverage. Immediately after someone picked up the can and begin pouring, all the cups on the table, as if by magic, lined up in a row next to the pourer, for him to fill.
The food on the Palmer is not the best, as evidenced by my weight in early 1945 (down to 135 lbs.).
We have one salt water shower for the entire crew. This was used extensively, not only for showering, but as a source of hot water for washing clothes. Actually, hot water is a misnomer. There is no hot water. There is steam; and beware the poor, uninitiated, greenhorn, who turns on the hot water nozzle, and is met with a barrage of steam. The trick was to first turn on the cold salt water, and then add steam from the hot water nozzle to achieve the desired temperature.
The Radio Shack is situated directly under the Bridge and just behind the foc'sle. It's about the size of a large bathroom. It's full of radio gear of all kinds and types, plus a desk high bench, two typewriters and two chairs. It is not unusual at certain times to have four or five individuals crowded into this small space. All stand or lounge against the bulkhead, except for the one or two individuals copying or sending code. At night, when one enters the Radio Shack, the lights go out. Any delay in entering results in yells and howls to shut the door.
One circuit we copy 24 hours per day. Other frequencies must be monitored when coming or going to and from ports or other Navy installations. When in port, our communications are usually "secured", and all the messages to and from the Palmer are handled at the Navy Communications office or by a larger ship in the area.
The circuit we copy continuously 24 hours per day and night is all in code, including the addressees. The coded messages are all made up of five character unintelligible words. The communications officer has a decoding machine; and to decode a message all he has to do is type it as received, and it comes out in plain English.
We do decipher, in the radio shack, our call letters for the Palmer. These change frequently. We do this so that when the Palmer code appears as an addressee in a message, we can be especially alert to copy the message correctly.
There are, of course, general messages that pertain to all ships, or to our task force, or to our division. These messages come through frequently.
The radio crew consists of a typical "old" Navy chief (he's about 35 or 40 years old), lazy, except in the Navy art of pandering to the officers, "gold bricking", and supervising the radio crew. He's an acceptable chief as far as I am concerned. He doesn't bother me, except to assign my watches. My only duties are "taking" radio code.
We also have a first class petty officer, who is small, intelligent, and an exception to my above observations about regular Navy men. The only problem: he has a mortal fear of going down with the ship, so he sleeps on the flying bridge, out in the open, in freezing, winter temperature.
We also have a college graduate naval reservist radiomen. He's smart, fastidious, coping, and at some point in time in his future, is commissioned an Ensign and transferred off the ship. Both the chief and the first class radioman are also eventually transferred off the ship. We hear later that the first class radiomen has been promoted to C.P.O.
And then there is Leon Long, a real, down-to-earth hillbilly from Arkansas.
This guy is unbelievable. He can copy code while singing or talking to you, and never make a mistake. That's how I developed my theory that to be a good radioman, the signals by-pass the brain, going directly to one's fingertips, and then to the typewriter.
The story Leon tells me is that he got involved with some girl in Arkansas, and got her pregnant. The girl's father came after him with a shotgun to invite him to the marriage ceremony, whereupon Leon decided to take off from Arkansas in a big hurry, not stopping until he reached Richmond, Virginia, where his brother resided.
His brother had a country music band and needed a bass player. So Leon became the band's string bass player. He said he played for over a year before he found out he didn't have the bass tuned properly. Leon could play any instrument that he could find on the Palmer.
Leon is street smart, but knows nothing about servicing and maintaining the radio equipment. After the transfers of the top three radio crew personnel, he is the titular head of the radio crew. We reach an unspoken understanding. He assigns the watches and hands out the onerous duties to everyone except he and I. I handle the radio shack, the equipment, and all the problems relating to the radio equipment. I am no technician, but I can read the instruction books. The arrangement works out fine. The officers tacitly understand and accept the arrangement.
The remainder of the ship's crew is also a mixture of regular Navy and reservists.
There is a large contingent of "old", that is, Navy men that enlisted prior to the war, and who plan on making the Navy their career. In general, these individuals are uncouth, and with limited education, but smart in terms of coping with life. Their main diversions, when on liberty, are fighting, drinking, and women. Many times the Shore Patrol delivered a group from the Palmer that had been carousing, fighting, and busting up bars while on liberty, usually in Norfolk.
There is a small group of reservists from Brooklyn, big talkers while we are in New York harbor, but strangely silent in the North Atlantic.
We have some "characters" aboard ship. There's "Irish", a 30 year old New Yorker, a fun-loving Irishman. He greets special people with a tap dance, then a hand extended for a hand shake.
Then there's Frog, a regular navy Frenchman. On liberty, for breakfast on shore, he usually has a water glass of green wine with his meal. Maybe it was the glass that was green.
We have one supposed homosexual on board. He's a reservist, smart, and takes no guff from anybody. I like him and enjoy talking to him; but I stay away from him when he's been drinking. He drinks anything, particular shaving lotion which is available from our small Ship's Stores.
One final "report" on the U.S.S. Palmer and its crew. This was not the spit and polish Navy you see on TV and the news. Everything was very informal; dress, actions, and non-adherence to the Navy proclivities present on large carriers, battleships, etc.
The flavor of the Palmer and its crew can best be described by this excerpt from Herman Wouk's ,"the Caine Mutiny", when Captain DeVriess was discussing the ship with new Captain Queeg……………"Between you and me, these damn buckets ought to be melted down to razor blades. They roll and pitch too damn much, the power plant is shot, all the machinery is obsolete, and the men are crowded in like animals. The men know the kind of a deal they've got. The strange thing is, most of the crazy bastards like it. Damn few of them put in for transfers. But they have to do things their own way. It's the Hooligan Navy to look at them. But give them a chance and they deliver."
IX. THE NAVY ENLISTED MENS' UNIFORM
The Navy enlisted men's uniform was considered a monstrosity by the majority of Navy reservists. It was derisively referred to as a "monkey suit", again mostly by the reservists.
If you were to talk to today's recruits "under the gun" of the regular navy officers and afraid of their own shadow, you would know what I mean……Navy hat sitting square upon the heads, four inches above stuck out ears due to the Navy haircut given them, tie hanging knotted just above the navel……..Yes, a monkey suit and it looked it.
There was great agitation by the reservists to change the uniform, and they almost succeeded. The Navy brass were on the defensive and had come up with some decent alternatives. The end of the war, however, ended that.
All reservists and long time regulars did everything possible to modify the uniform, and they could get away with it during the War. Dress blues were purchased from civilian tailors and modified to each individual's taste. The hats were worn at a rakish angle, and the ties tied tightly up close to the neck. But there was just so much you could do with the uniform, and it remains a monstrosity to this day.
Whenever I returned to Elgin during the war, I immediately changed into civilian clothes, even though it was against navy regulations to do so. I missed the opportunity to parade around in my uniform and campaign medals in my home town.
X. CONVOY DUTY IN THE NORTH ATLANTIC
At approximately 4:00 A.M. a couple of days after our arrival in New York, we headed back out to sea. Now, things are different. Our new duty hours are four on and four off, plus an hour of "general quarters" at dusk and at sunrise. (These are the times most likely to be attacked by enemy submarines.)
Everyone has a specific "general quarters" assignment. Mine is in the Radio Shack. Others man the guns, depth charges, serve as lookouts, etc.
Referring to our duty hours once again. If the dawn or dusk general quarters falls during one's off duty or sleep time, that's too bad. For example, if one has 0 to 04, 08 to 12, and 16 to 20 hours shifts; and dawn is at 06 hours and dusk at 14 hours; ones' sleep or time off is interrupted by these general quarters duties. This means 14 hours of duty in a 24 hour day. The shifts are changed periodically, however, so that one isn't constantly stuck with the worst shifts.
The above schedules apply to most of our time at sea, unless we are in what can be considered a non-hazardous or secured area.
The scuttlebutt aboard ship as we head out to sea is that we are going to help convoy a huge merchant ship fleet across the Atlantic. Our initial destination is Argentia, Newfoundland.
This is the North Atlantic! The Palmer rolls, pitches, and bounces, as it cuts through the huge waves . We arrive in Argentia late in the day. Argentia is a cold, bleak, desolate port at this time of the year. It's located on the southwest coast of Newfoundland. Newfoundland itself, is almost directly north and somewhat east of New York City.
We dock here overnight. The next morning we rendezvous with the huge fleet of merchant ships of all sizes and shapes, plus a large contingent of Navy warships.
We take our place in the convoy. "In" is not the proper word. The Navy warships surround the merchant ships; some in front, some in the rear, and some on both sides. The idea is to protect the merchant ships from German U boats.
The Navy ships are much faster than the slowest merchant ship (which determines the speed of the convoy). This allows us to sweep back and forth in our designated area, searching for and protecting against the U boats.
We are equipped with Sonar (sound gear) and Radar. Both are now manned 24 hours per day. The sound gear will pick up objects beneath the sea. It operates on the principle that when the sound waves hit an object, they will bounce back to the Sonar's many ears. We also carry depth charges to "throw" at any presumed targets.
The trip is a difficult one for the crew of the Palmer. The seas are exceedingly rough, the weather is cold and nasty, but to the merchant ships it is a real nightmare. The U boat pack is everywhere, but mainly around during the nights. Ships are attacked nightly, a successful attack signified by a huge explosion and fire. The convoy never stops in such instances, but plods along on its unwavering course, which we are now told is Iceland.
Navy ships leave the convoy to search for survivors and enemy submarines. The temperature of the water is near freezing, so it is doubtful that anyone can survive for very long in these waters. I resolve, if the Palmer is hit and sinking, I will stay on board the ship. This will be a more pleasant death, in my mind, than that of thrashing around in the cold Atlantic. I think back to my remarks about our first class radioman sleeping on the flying deck at night. I now conclude it's not fear he was exhibiting, just a matter of choice.
We arrive in Rejavick, Iceland and our escort duty is over for the time being. The convoy will continue on to England without us, a perilous journey.
We stay in Rejavick for approximately a week. We are given liberty every other day. Most of our radio operations are shut down when in port; and any radio communications or data are collected from the Naval headquarters at the port.
The people are not overly friendly to the U.S. serviceman. The Armed Services maintain a building (quonset hut) where we can waste time, play pool, read, and buy refreshments, when on liberty.
On one of our liberty days, we take a sponsored bus trip up into the highlands to a hot springs resort area. It has an outside swimming pool. Much of Rejavick is heated with such thermal waters, which flows underground into the city from the hot springs in these highlands.
The countryside is barren and desolate. We are here in December and the weather is disagreeable…..cold and clammy. The temperature seems to hover around 32 degrees F.
After several days we leave Iceland for home (Norfolk). The trip back is uneventful except for the weather and the nasty seas.
We make one more voyage to Iceland in the months ahead. The second trip doesn't seem so bad.
Upon arrival in Norfolk, one of the first and most looked forward to events is the distribution of mail. I am, and will continue to be during the entire war, one of the top mail recipients. This is the result of Muriel Jane's letters. She writes me daily during all my years in service. In the years since the war, I often think of her dedication, concern, and love, exhibited by those daily letters during the war years.
How fortunate I am to know Muriel Jane.
Up to the present time, I have made very little mention of Muriel (age 0 to 45) and Jane (age 45 to 70+); known to some of us who have known her the longest as Muriel Jane.
I first sighted M.J. in the winter of '38 '39 at an Elgin High School basketball game. She was a 16 year old high school senior, and I a 22 year old "man about town" (?).
A group of 10 to 12 of us "guys" occupied the front row at the high school gym during the basketball season. M.J. was one of a group of "candy" girls that sold such items during the games. I presume it was a senior class money-making project.
I was attracted to this very pretty young lady, with big, blue eyes, a low/low voice, and with a perfect school girl complexion. In those days, one of the soap makers ran ads advertising their products featuring very pretty girls with perfect "school girl" complexions. This description fit M.J. exactly.
We became acquainted that winter, and before long, I, who had never had a steady girl friend, was now dating this very pretty girl, going to movies, doing this and that, and in a sense, making a major change in my life (except for golf).
We got along nicely together. I, who found it difficult to carry on a conversation, especially with girls, didn't have such a problem with M.J. She always had something interesting to say and talk about.
M.J. was also very forgiving and initiated efforts at reconciliation, when and if we had an occasional spat.
During the war years, she was unbelievably supportive and devoted in her concern for me. I believe she never missed a day in writing to me throughout the war. Needless to say, I never had to feel downhearted or disappointed at mail call.
Muriel Jane, my best friend, my lover, my confidant, my defender against any and all individuals, good or bad, right or wrong, and my link to home and the civilian world during my 42 months in the Navy.
We spend the entire year of 1943 in the Atlantic and the Caribbean.
We make our second trip to Iceland early in the year. The remainder of the year we spend in the Caribbean, along coastal waters and in the Gulf of Mexico.
In my mind the North Atlantic remains the most formidable, dangerous, and awe inspiring in its power, of any of the oceans I was destined to cross in my years in the Navy. Monstrous waves that dwarfed the Palmer; and dark, miserable, bone chilling cold weather was with us constantly. However, in defense of the North Atlantic, all my sailing these seas was during the winter and early Spring months.
The remaining Atlantic was a benign, placid sea at times, and an angry hostile sea at other times; but never did it approach the meanness of the North Atlantic.
Between trips, we return to our home port of Norfolk, this very disagreeable city, for repairs and further assignment. We are always in need of repairs.
After our two sojurns to Iceland, we spend several months of relatively pleasant duty in the Caribbean. We are usually on escort duty, but escorting only one or two fast ships as opposed to escorting the slow North Atlantic convoys.
Among our ports of call during this time period are Bermuda, Havana Cuba, San Juan Puerto Rico, St. Thomas in the Virgin Islands, and Trinidad, off the coast of South America.
We also make a run to Galveston, Texas, to pick up an oil-tanker, a trip that ends in tragedy, which happenings I will relate later.
The trips become somewhat routine in the types of activity in which we engage. Our main objective, when escorting a ship or ships, is to keep the ship or ships from getting sunk. On such trips, radar, sonar, and radio circuits are manned 24 hours per day. We spend a certain amount of time chasing sub "hearings" and occasional sub sightings. In such instances, we "throw" our depth charges at the supposed location of the sub with abandon. We have no record of ever sinking a sub. On the other hand, the subs have no record of sinking any ship that we escorted (excluding the Iceland runs).
Our biggest catastrophe during this period was the result of an accident, or negligence, or bad luck, or someone's mistake.
We were escorting a loaded tanker back from Galveston, Texas; destination, Norfolk. We were off Cape Henry, approaching Chesapeake Bay. It was approximately 4:00 A.M., and a very dark night. We had about 30 miles to go, at which time our escort duties would be over.
Suddenly, there is a huge explosion a mile or two away. It is our tanker, erupting in a huge ball of flame, unbelievable in size and intensity. We rush to the scene. Objects are bobbing and yelling in the waters. We begin picking up survivors, all with blackened and/or burnt skin from the flaming oil in the waters.
The C.O. rushed us messages which we transmit to Navy headquarters in Norfolk, with an urgent request for ambulances to meet us. We rush to the Naval base. The ambulances are waiting to rush the survivors to the hospitals. Other ships that were close to the disaster scene deposit additional survivors into the waiting ambulances.
The final "scuttlebutt" as to what happened goes something like this, (enlisted personnel never hear an "official" version of any Navy action or happening). (a) The oil tanker collided with an ammunition ship that was in a convoy leaving Norfolk. (b) The ammunition ship exploded and disappeared…..gone…..nothing to salvage.
There's a picture in one of my files that shows this episode of the war.
The scuttlebutt couldn't confirm the cause of the accident. Our captain and communications officer attended a hearing regarding the "accident"; but no word filtered back to the crew as to the outcome of the hearing.
Another time, when in Puerto Rico, we were sent off on a "moment's notice" to locate and destroy a submarine that had been sighted a couple of hundred miles of San Juan. We "hightailed" it out of San Juan at top speed, reached the area, saw no sub but picked up some sonar "blips". We then proceeded to throw depth charges around with vigor and abandon. We didn't get any sub, but we bagged a goodly number of fish. Too bad we couldn't find them, pick them up, and have a nice fish-fry aboard the Palmer. We should show some results for our efforts.
Speaking of fish, many times we sailed the Caribbean, we would pick up (I should say, they picked us up) a school of Dolphins. They would bracket the ship off the starboard and port bow; swimming along with us for miles on end. Leaping and surfacing in and out of the water as we sped through the sea. It seemed to be some kind of a game in which they were engaged. At any rate, it was a fascinating and happy sight, and did wonders for our psyches.
Another fish story! In the Caribbean and the Pacific, I would frequently take a blanket and sleep out on the foc'sle at night. (In the very hot climates, sleeping below deck on the Palmer was most uncomfortable, if not impossible). The sea, of course, had to be calm and placid. Otherwise, waves consistently washed over the foc'sle, as the ship dipped its nose into the sea.
The atmosphere on the foc'sle was delightful. The ship was moving along at approximately 25 knots, creating a nice breeze in the tropical night. Not a sound anywhere! Perfection! These calm, placid waters didn't prevent the ship from taking an occasional dip, sending a wave of water crashing over the foc'sle; and on more that one occasion, depositing a flying fish in my blanket, which fish was discovered at wake-up time, quite dead.
Sometimes, if the sea was somewhat rough, I would sleep on top of a steel ammunition locker in an open area aft of the radio shack. Due to the short length of the locker, my feet would extend outside the ship, a precarious place to sleep in some of the crew's opinion. However, it was actually quite safe, as numerous cables would keep one from flying overboard in bad weather.
At some time during the year (1943), I got a ten days leave and I return to Elgin. I stay at Muriel Jane's parents' house, and during this time we celebrate our engagement.
I had purchased a ring while still working at Elgin Watch. I left the ring with Mr. Corr. At some time during the year, I had asked Mr. Corr if he would be a modern day John Alden, and present the ring to Muriel Jane. The date was the night of her "capping", that is, the completion of her nursing education and her graduation. Mr. Corr accomplished the task, although he stated after-word that it was one of the more nervous tasks of his life. M.J. accepted the ring, which made the whole thing "official". So! I became engaged to M.J. by proxy while out at sea. We officially confirmed the engagement during my ten days leave in Elgin.
XIV. HAVANA AND OTHER PORTS OF CALL IN THE CARIBBEAN
Havana, Cuba was one of the ports of call during '43. At that time, Havana was a beautiful city, at least that portion that bordered the Caribbean.
On one such trip and lay-over in Havana, Julio Soluri and I engaged a cab driver for the day to show us the city. Both Julio and this cab driver were great guys, and it became a very pleasant and well-remembered day for me.
Julio was in his late twenties, and of course, Italian. He was a reservist like myself. There's a picture of Julio, myself, and the cab driver, taken at a rum distillery that we had toured. On the completion of the tour, we were offered a free drink of their rum, and had our picture taken.
We saw everything there was to see in Havana, including a trip down the great boulevard that fronts the ocean, and the bar or "night spot" where Hemingway and all the Americans hung out prior to the war.
One thing about the Palmer: It was so small that usually we could tie up along side of a pier or dock, making it easy to get off and on the ship. Just imagine a battleship or carrier in a port. Almost invariably they must drop anchor out in the middle of the harbor. The only way the personnel can get back and forth to shore is via water transportation.
Bermuda was another of our stops. I was impressed with Bermuda. I don't recall the time of the year we were there, but the weather was perfect.
As we approach Bermuda, the colors of the ocean begin changing to a gorgeous, sparkling, azure blue. These colors surround the island waters; and I presume are caused by the strata on the ocean floor.
In Bermuda, we drop anchor in the harbor and are taken ashore by our "whaleboat", when we are granted liberty. We go ashore at Hamilton, the main city on Bermuda. I rent a bicycle and circle a good portion of the island on one of my liberties. No cars are permitted or allowed on the island, so cycling is a fun method of getting around. Today, cars populate the island.
There is apparently little or no water in Bermuda. The roof tops are all white tile and are used for catching rain water. There are several golf courses on the island. I spend a great deal of my leisure time around the water, which is a fun thing to do because of the clarity of the water.
We also make stops at Puerto Rico, St. Thomas, and Trinidad during '43.
In Puerto Rico, we pull up to a dock a block from the middle of downtown San Juan. San Juan is slightly different that the tourist city of today. A block off the main street, one sees small children walking and playing naked in the streets, along with pigs wandering here and there.
In St. Thomas we don't leave the ship.
We have liberty in Trinidad, and I wander "downtown". Everything is blacked out. The people with their strange customs and music seem as if we are in a foreign country. Actually, we are.
In December of '43 we depart Norfolk for the last time to join the Pacific Fleet, destination San Francisco. We head south for the Panama Canal; and after an uneventful journey, we arrive in Colon, Panama, the eastern most city in the Canal zone.
I have a day of liberty, and wander around the town. I then take a bus ride out to the golf course. In the evening, I walk through an extensive "red-light" district. The bedrooms are directly off the sidewalks, and the girls sit in the windows luring and awaiting customers. It's a carnival atmosphere. Barkers, exhibitions, etc. Civilians outnumber servicemen.
The next morning the Palmer proceeds to the canal entrance. We are leaving the Atlantic.
The trip through the canal is an interesting and enjoyable experience. We proceed through the first lock, helped by the "land tugs" that guide us and pull us through. Later in the day, we enter Gatun Lake. It takes us an hour or two to traverse the lake and to arrive in the area of the descending locks. Late in the day, we arrive at the western-most city of the canal, Balboa, and our entry to the Pacific ocean. The best thing about the trip is that we have to man only one radio circuit. I spend the day sightseeing as we traverse the canal.
We lay over in Balboa for the night. The next morning we begin our journey, heading north into the Pacific. It's a bright, warm, sunny day; our destination, San Francisco. The weather is balmy, the sea placid. It seems like a pleasure cruise.
In the evening of the second day, we pull into a small harbor on the Mexican coast. The land is barren, mountainous, and isolated. The next morning we are on our way once again to San Francisco.
Our next stop the following evening is at Santa Barbara, Calif. We tie up at a pier at S.B., and that evening are given liberty. Santa Barbara in December '43 is much different that the S.B. of today. It's a small town. I wander around the town in the darkness as the town is blacked out), but soon head back to the ship.
The next morning we resume our journey to San Francisco. We arrive in S.F. late in the day and tie up along Fishermen's Wharf; again one of the advantages of being a small ship.
A few days later we head out to sea once again, this time for Pearl Harbor. As the Golden Gate bridge recedes in the distance, I wonder with pessimism and foreboding when and if we will see it again.
The trip to Pearl Harbor is uneventful except for two things. We lose a sailor over the side the first night out of San Francisco, and for the first time since entering the Navy, I am sick.
I feel awful….some kind of flu, I presume. We proceed to Pearl Harbor and tie up at the Navy yard. The ship undergoes its usual repairs, and I gradually recover from my illness.
We are given frequent liberties; and I acquaint myself with downtown Honolulu and Waikiki Beach. During our stay, I play golf with the captain, my communications officer, and the ship's doctor. This is contrary to Navy protocol, and would never happen in the peace-time Navy; but is typical of the informal atmosphere on the Palmer. We all take the bus out to the course, which is near Waikiki Beach; and we meet later on the first tee.
Waikiki Beach at that time contained only the Royal Hawaiian Hotel. I wander around the hotel lobby on one of my liberties. The entire hotel is populated with military personnel, mostly Navy. The beach, with Diamond Head arising in the distance, is gorgeous.
While at Pearl Harbor and after our repairs are completed, we spend days around the islands practicing mine sweeping, towing targets for the target practice of the big ships, and having our (the ship's) picture taken.
This is our first experience with our mine-sweeping gear, an indication of what is now in store for us.
The picture I have of the Palmer shows Julio Soluri and I standing on the foc'sle during one of our target towing days. In the Caine Mutiny novel, there is an amusing episode concerning the Caine towing a target. The Caine, as I mentioned previously, is the same type of ship as the Palmer.
The target we towed around is attached to a line that extends almost a mile behind the ship to the target.
During our stay in the Hawaiian Islands, we make two trips to the big island, Hawaii. Each time we pull up to a pier near Hilo and spend the night. Hilo, now a glamorous city, was merely a little hamlet at that time. I recall walking along a path to the "city", dark and quiet in the evening, then returning to the ship, and not seeing a single person on my journey.
Hawaii's climate, in my opinion, is the world's best. Days in the eighties, nights cool, and sunshine constantly except for sudden showers. I think I would like to live here after the war…..just one more unrealized opportunity that I failed to act upon during my lifetime.
XVIII. MARSHALL ISLANDS INVASION
Our vacation is over. Tomorrow we head out into the Pacific. It's January 22, 1944. Back to the four on and four off plus general quarters every morning and night.
Out at sea, we find our destination is Kwajalein atoll in the Marshall Islands. These islands are held by the Japanese, and this is the first major move by the U.S. to take back the central Pacific, and to reach its ultimate goal, Japan.
The Marshall Islands are located southwest of Hawaii. It takes us several days to reach the islands.
We and the four other ships of our division are part of the screening force protecting the battleships, carriers, troop ships, landing craft, etc.
We arrive at Kwajalein atoll without incident on January 31st, 1944. We stand aside in the dusk as the battleships move in and begin pounding the island with their one ton shells.
The battleships lie broadside to the atoll, which allows them to fire batteries of sixteen inch guns at the island. At these huge guns explode and send their shells on their way, the battleships roll with the force and power of the explosion.
The barrage continues all night. In the darkness the red hot shells can be seen arching into the sky and exploding on the atoll. No Japanese planes appear, but Navy planes are thick overhead, adding to the din with their bombs and missiles.
An atoll is a relatively flat piece of land, and the ships and planes pound it into rubble. (Webster's dictionary defines an atoll as a coral island consisting of a reef surrounding a lagoon.)
In early morning the invasion begins. Landing craft and marines stream ashore. Resistance seems relatively light, compared to some of the invasions that follow.
In five days Kwajalein is secure.
We screen ships, transports, etc. in the area until February 12th. We then make an escort voyage to Majuro, one of the southernmost islands in the Marshalls. Returning to Kwajalein, we escort ships back to Pearl Harbor. After our usual repairs and mine sweeping practices, we ready ourselves to leave Pearl Harbor once again.
Our new destination is the Marianna Islands, and the impending invasion of Saipan, Tinian, and Guam, all islands in the Mariannas.
XIX. THE MARIANNAS ARE INVADED
Early in June '44, we leave Pearl Harbor once again. This time our destination is the Marianna islands.
The Mariannas are large, somewhat mountainous, wooded islands, peopled with a native population as well as immigrants, and occupied by a very large and well equipped Japanese military force. The islands lie west and somewhat north of the Marshall islands, at approximately 147 degrees longitude and 17 degrees north of the equator; 5,000 miles from the west coast of the U.S.
Our five ships precede the invasion force by two days. We arrive in the Mariannas on June 13th. We sweep out the areas around Saipan where the initial landings will take place. The fun is over. This is now dangerous business. We expect to encounter Japanese forces, planes, and much resistance. During our sweeping operations, we expect the shore batteries to open up on us, but they are silent. Presumably they do not want to disclose their locations in the hills.
The following day the bombardment begins in earnest. This time, in addition to the battleships, cruisers, etc., there is a much larger force of Navy air power. The bombardment continues for hours.
When the initial invasion force reaches the shores, the marines encounter fierce resistance. In time a beach head is established and tanks and guns reach shore. From the bridge of the Palmer I watch with a pair of field glasses as the tanks and marines move slowly up and into the mountainous hills.
The resistance on the island becomes increasingly difficult to overcome. The Japanese are everywhere; in caves, in tunnels, in underground bunkers, etc. No Japanese surrender. The invasion turns into a slow, tortuous, and expensive campaign in terms of lives lost. It will be many weeks before the islands are secured. (Saipan on July 9th, Tinian on Aug 1st, and Guam on Aug 10th).
On June 19th and 20th a major air battle occurs over the Mariannas and east of the Mariannas, in the Philippine sea. U.S. air superiority overwhelms the Japanese air force. The air battle is later characterized as the "Great Mariannas Turkey Shoot". Two thirds of the Japanese attack force are wiped out, according to official reports. Numerous Japanese ships are sunk in the Philippine sea, east of the Mariannas.
We leave the Mariannas on the 20th, in the midst of the "turkey shoot". We have been assigned to screening and escort duty to Eniwetock, the furthermost western island of the Marshall group.
We return to Saipan in late June for additional screening duties in that area. In the latter part of July, the day after the island is invaded, we arrive off Guam to screen transports for several days.
We return once again to Pearl; this time to prepare for the invasion of the Philippines.
We take off once again in late summer. Our destination is the Admiralty islands.
I digress here to tell a little about life aboard ship. Our life on the Palmer is not all invasions, liberties, rough weather and voyages to exotic places. Aboard ship there are quiet days, busy days, days of stress and anxiety, and days of boredom. We are now thousands of miles out into the Pacific, and for days on end, we see nothing but blue sky and water.
The radio crew "publish" a daily "newspaper" for the officers and crew. The news is received via morse code from the powerful Naval radio station in Hawaii. Leon Long or I do the news, as we are the only radio personnel that can receive and copy it at the speed it is sent. We can make only a few copies in the typewriter (no copy machines 0n the Palmer); and the few copies are pretty "dog eared" by the time they complete their rounds.
Once in a while, we inject some "made up" news into the broadcast, to liven things up. We once report that the Japanese have claimed to have sunk the Palmer. That brought forth lots of guffaws from everyone.
As the radio shack has all the radio gear (except that on the bridge), we provide the ship with music when we can pick it up. There is a speaker system throughout the ship, over which such broadcasts can be piped.
Secured areas have their own armed services radio stations; so news, music, etc. are readily available in these locations. However, in the vast areas of the Pacific, thousands of miles from nowhere, nothing much can be heard, except Tokyo Rose, one of our favorites. Tokyo Rose had been educated at the Univ. of So. Cal., and speaks perfect English in a seductive voice. She also plays excellent, popular American music. Nobody believes the barrage of propaganda that accompanies the music. In fact, it is enjoyable and interesting to listen to it.
After the war the U.S. convicted Tokyo Rose of something or other, probably treason. They should have given her a medal.
As I mentioned previously, due to various transfers in the radio group, I was the only individual with the slightest knowledge of how to maintain and/or repair our equipment, and my knowledge and expertise were minimal. We no longer had a C.P.O. or radio technician aboard. Leon Long and I, as first class p.o.'s were in charge of the radio shack. As Leon knew absolutely nothing of a technical nature, I became the "technician".
Our radio transmitters on the Palmer were old fashioned and pretty close to being obsolete. To "load up" a transmitter to send messages across the Pacific, I had to study the manuals, and through trial and error, ingenuity, luck, whatever; somehow get the transmitter to "put out" the necessary power on the correct frequencies. On a "modern" ship, all one had to do was push a few buttons, and the transmitter set up automatically.
We sent very few messages when out at sea as we were required to maintain radio silence. However, as we approached our destinations a flurry of messages were sent to announce our arrival and to obtain instructions on where to anchor or tie up the ship.
I remember one occasion, thousands miles from nowhere, trying to reach Hawaii without success. A powerful Australian station finally answered our calls. We transmitted our message to them with instructions to relay it to Hawaii. This was standard procedure.
Monitoring our 24 hour per day circuit was sometimes difficult. The powerful Hawaii station pushed out its signals via long wave (13.2 kilocycles). Atmospheric conditions, usually at dusk, sometimes almost obliterated the signals. We would then set up additional receivers on the short wave harmonics of the original signal (for example; 4440 kc., or 8880 kc., of 17660 kc.). Sometimes we would have two different wave lengths on our ears, and one on a speaker, in an effort to get an intelligible signal.
Leon and I had a cache of cokes stored in the emergency radio shack. We had purchased them on our last trip to Pearl Harbor. The only bad thing about it was that we had no method of refrigerating them. So we made a deal with the officers' stewards… two hot cokes to them for one cold coke to us.
We had aboard ship a small ship's store, about the size of a small closet, and open at certain specified times. We could obtain such items as soap, shaving cream, shaving lotion, toothpaste, cigarets (50 cents per carton), candy, gum, etc.
I was afraid to eat the candy but would buy cartons of chewing gum and cigarets from our "stores".
To relieve the boredom on one lengthy trip, a great many of the crew, mainly from the "black" gang, cut off all their hair and grew beards. The black gang were not black. They were the personnel that slaved below decks in the engine room, keeping the ship running.
If we were in a secured area, a movie would be obtained from one of the larger ships, and it would be shown at night on the foc'sle. At such times we might get a special treat from the larger ships, such as ice cream or powdered lemonade.
One of the stressful incidents that occurred periodically included refueling at sea. It was not much of a problem if the seas were calm, but in a rough sea, it became most difficult.
In another instance, we transferred a sailor grievously ill to a larger ship via lines stretched between the two ships, a precarious trip for the ill sailor.
One of the major annoyances aboard ship was the stack gas. If we were moving at a good clip in a brisk wind, no problem; but in a quiet sea and dead calm, the gas settled over the ship in a sickening smog.
I also mention here the crow's nest, a perch at the top of the mast. Out at sea in suspect areas, a seaman was sent up to the crow's nest to search the sea with his binoculars for unknown objects. A small roll of the ship was magnified at the top of the mast to an unbelievable arc. It's lucky I was not a seaman. I could have never made it up the mast.
We had one instance which required some repairs to our antenna at the top of the mast. I told Leon Long that I couldn't do it, he would have to do it. He did it without strain or pain.
And so, we continued our sojourn throughout the Pacific I did a lot of reading in my spare time. Time magazine put out a midget edition of the magazine for overseas areas such as ours. It was in small print and measured approximately 4" x 6" overall. Every time we received mail I would receive several issues of Time. This kept me, and many of the crew, in reading matter for a considerable period.
I mentioned previously that officers and crew were an informal bunch, not concerned too much about naval regulations and formalities, except when in combat. I frequently wandered around the ship and up on the bridge, borrowed the officers' binoculars, discussed matters, etc. I was fascinated by the way one of our officers could light a match and his cigaret in the worst types of wind and weather.
Our communications officer visited the radio shack frequently, just to "shoot the breeze". I have no recollections of his ever requesting something be done with the radio shack, with its equipment, or with the radio gang. He was mainly interested in getting all the messages addressed to the Palmer; and in "breaking" them.
So! Life aboard the Palmer was sometimes pleasant, sometimes replete with boredom, sometimes with anxiety and fear, as the days and nights rolled on and on and on and on.
We arrive at Manus Island in the Admirality islands group in late September "44. There are no ships or piers to tie up to, so we anchor in the harbor, not too far from shore.
The Admirality islands are north of the eastern end of New Guinea, and north east of the Solomon islands. They are located in the Bismark sea, part of the Bismark Archipelago. We are now about 5 degrees below the equator and approximately 160 degrees east of the Greenwich meridian. I estimate we are approximately 6,000 miles from San Francisco.
Manus island was occupied by the U.S. in May, 1944.
We are now in General MacArthur's bailiwick; and indirectly under his jurisdiction. We are now also part of the Seventh Fleet, under Admiral Kinkaid.
After securing our radio frequencies and duties, I return to the foc'sle to look things over. Approaching the Palmer are two canoe loads of aborigines, dark skinned natives. It's my first view of the so-called "uncivilized" creatures of the globe. It doesn't take too long to recognize that these natives are plenty smart in the art of trading. Sailors can't wait to trade cartons of cigarets and gum for shells and other trinkets. These natives are quite friendly but speak no English. Conversely, we do not speak their tongue. After an hour or so of trading, they depart.
While at Manus we are given a day of liberty. We are taken by boat to a small island, which has been converted into an "R and R" location for the thousands of army troops, marines, sailors, etc. assembling in this area, an indication of future action to come. We are given two cans of beer and then left to our own devices. I become involved in a basketball game with others of the Palmer crew, both officers and sailors. None of the players are too good, and I score lots of baskets. Finally, some guy enters the game who has decided to take me on. He sticks to me like glue; but I have had it and laze around doing nothing except for occasional flashes of speed, which surprises my shadow and leaves him racing to catch up.
One tragic incident takes place during our stay. An ammunition ship blows up. There is a tremendous explosion, a huge fireball and smoke, and when the smoke disappears, nothing.
There are many accidents and casualties which occur in the armed services (recall the ship we were escorting, which collided with an ammunition ship in Chesapeake Bay). These accidents are probably never explained to the wives, mothers, friends, etc. of those lost in such accidents.
XXII. THE INVASION OF LEYTE GULF
Our vacation is over. It's the middle of October '44. We leave Manus and the Admiralty islands in the middle of the night, destination Leyte Gulf in the Philippine islands. We are now part of the Seventh Fleet, the Navy task force that will support the invasion attempts. The Seventh Fleet is under Gen. Douglas MacArthur, supreme commander.
Our five ships (DMS squadron 5) are alone in the Pacific, as we head north. No supporting ships, no supporting aircraft, the fewer the better and the easier to surprise the Japanese imbedded in the Philippines. The weather is gorgeous. We see nothing. We arrive in Leyte Gulf without incident early on the morning of October 21st, three days prior to the actual invasion date. Leyte Gulf lies between the islands of Leyte and Samar.
We begin sweeping operations on a placid, serene day, with the five ships sweeping in tandem. Everything proceeds normally. Mines cut loose in the sweeping operation float to the service and are destroyed by firing our guns at them until they explode. The day passes without incident, except for a Philippine native who comes paddling out into the gulf, waving at us to stop. We wave him off and continue our sweeping operations.
The next day dawns clear, calm, and eerily quiet. We continue our sweeping operations. Sometime during the morning we receive a radio message warning of a major storm headed our way. Sweeping operations are abandoned. All activity is concentrated on securing everything not bolted down. In the radio shack, this means all extraneous gear. Log books, communications data, coffee cups, etc. The radio equipment and typewriters are examined to make sure they are secure.
We are now given the ominous news that a typhoon is headed our way. Suddenly, the clouds roll in and the sky turns black as night. The winds begin to increase in intensity. The division commander instructs the ships to fall in behind his ship, in a line, one ship following the other. We are now steaming around in the middle of the minefields. The division commander now heads for the open gulf. We have no idea where we are going, except for radar. We sight on the ship in front of us via radar and hope for the best.
The storm increases in intensity. The whine and force of the wind is fearsome. The ship rolls and pitches crazily from side to side. The waves are monstrous in size. I wonder if the ship will capsize. In the radio shack we strive desperately to maintain communications. Sudden and sickening plunges into a wave trough are followed by an abrupt rise out of the trough, which instantly depresses all the keys on the typewriter, then releases them.
At some point in the midst of this dark as night day, I struggle up to the bridge to see what's going on. I watch the inclinometer, the instrument that measures the port and starboard roll of the ship. On one roll the inclinometer reads 54 degrees. That's past the halfway point. How do we keep from capsizing? I return to the main deck and into the passageway to the radio shack. Sheets of water are washing over the ship in waves. It's folly to try and traverse the deck. One would be washed overboard in an instant. I return to the radio shack.
By evening the storm has subsided to some extent. We are going to make it.
No one has eaten since early morning; and no one has given any though to it. As we begin relaxing and gabbing and assessing the damage in the radio shack, the mess cook suddenly appears with "K" rations for each of us. This is the first time since being in the Navy that I had seen or been fed "K" rations, packaged food given to the foot soldiers in the Army. This food, due to its packaging and preparation would survive anything; and, as I recall, it wasn't bad. Maybe it was the circumstances.
At some point in time that evening, the typhoon ceases to exist, and everything returns to normal. We conclude our sweeping operations the following day. The fleet arrives that night; and sea and air bombardments begin. By daybreak the landings begin. We sit a few miles off shore and watch the entire operation unfold. First, the landing craft take off with their loads of army troops. These landing craft reach close to shore, where the front ends are lowered, and the troops wade ashore. Hundreds of these landing craft are followed by bigger landing craft (LST's), bringing tanks, guns, and supplies ashore. All men and machines push into the jungle and disappear. There does not appear to be much opposition to the landings.
In a few days the area is secure; and then who should appear but General Douglas MacArthur, on a huge communications ship. The next thing we know; he is wading ashore with his staff, photographers, newsman, and other dignitaries. Then the famous words "I have returned" are being uttered for all the world to see and hear. Quite a show!
XXIII. THE BATTLE FOR LEYTE GULF
We are screening in the gulf a day or two later. As evening approaches we are suddenly instructed to "get out of here and return to Manus".
The scuttlebutt is that the Japanese Navy is on the way to run us out of the Philippines. A large force of modern destroyers, cruisers, and old battleships are lying in wait for the Japs in Surigo Straits. We are not wanted. We are too old and decrepit. We are in the way. Our egos are crushed. We race southward at full speed.
Another huge American task force, under the command of "Bull" Hasley, is way up north off Cape Engana. Some say afterword that this was a major mistake made by Bull Hasley. The reason: a second large force of the Japanese navy, accompanied by bombers from the island of Luzon, are coming through San Bernardino Straits, far south of Halsley's forces. The Japanese task force is now steaming straight southward to Leyte gulf and the landing areas at Tacloban.
Now, the only protection to Tacloban from the northern fleet of Japs is a group of Jeep carriers and their destroyer escorts. Jeep carriers are small flat-tops built by Herman Kaiser's shipyards in California; consisting of a "liberty" ship with a large flat top to accommodate airplanes. Kaiser, during the war, put out these liberty ships, or cargo ships, at the rate of one per day.
Then, in one of the most dramatic and heroic episodes of the war, these jeep carriers and their destroyer escorts take on the northern Japanese fleet. They suffer major loss of ships, planes, and men. Many of the pilots who take off in the middle of the night never find their way back to their ships. The situation is so frantic and desperate, that radio communications are being transmitted in English. We have a minute by minute picture of what's happening as we flee from the area.
We speed southward, avoiding and not participating in what is later described as the biggest sea battle of the war. The Japanese losses in Surigo Straits are tremendous. These various battles decimated the Japanese navy; and it was never a major force thereafter.
XIV. THE INVASION OF LINGAYEN GULF
After another stay in the Admiralty islands, we take off once again. This time our destination is Lingayen gulf, on the east coast of the Philippines, and north of Manila. It is approximately January 1st, 1945. The Palmer has only seven more days to live.
The Philippines are composed of hundreds of islands, some big, some small. As we thread our way through the islands to reach the east coast and the Sulu sea, we begin to encounter daily air attacks from the Japanese air force.
It is important to point out here that the invasion of Leyte gulf didn't clean out all Japanese resistance in the area. Many Japanese strongholds were simply by-passed, and left to "wither on the vine". Other areas in the Philippines, particularly on the large island of Luzon contained large contingents of the Japanese air force.
These daily harassments begin to take its toll on the Palmer and its crew, even though the planes concentrated most of their attacks on other vessels that accompanied our little division of five DMS's.
On this trip, although we had no air support, we had with us one "ace in the hole", in the form of a very modern and up-to-date destroyer. As we crept up the east coast and into the South China sea in the blackness of night, we were amazed to hear this destroyer firing their guns, presumably at the Japs. We later learn that this ship has one of the new infra-red systems, allowing them to see and fire at objects in the darkness.
I digress here to remark that new "things" were being created in the wonderful world of U.S. science that even touched the Palmer. FM radio, the ability to transmit voice messages that reached only to the horizon, revised communication methods in task groups. Our "TBS" was a major source of short range communication throughout the war. Blinkers and semaphores (flags) were still used, however.
We slide past Manila in the middle of the night and arrive at Lingayen gulf the morning of January 6th. All but our five DMS's disappear, off to some rendezvous awaiting invasion day.
As we conclude sweeping operations in the gulf on the sixth of January, we are thrilled to see a line of battleships, cruisers, and their escort destroyers steaming by in the distance. (One of the feature photos o the war is somewhere in my files, showing this dramatic scene.)
Japanese bombers are out in force, attacking the U.S. fleet. But up in the sky there now appear squadrons of U.S. P-38 planes, the strange two bodied plane that speeds through the air as fast as lightning. This, in fact, was its name, the P-38 Lightning. Where they came from or were based, I have no idea.
There were no Japanese fighter planes in the sky, only slow Japanese bombers. The P-38's were making "mince-meat" out of them. The P-38's flew so fast, one couldn't hear them until they were gone. A silent P-38 would appear out of nowhere and knock a slow Jap bomber out of the sky with one tremendous burst of gunfire. These Jap bombers, not only lacked air fighter support, but they didn't appear to have any defense of their own.
The bombers, however, were taking their toll of the American ships. This was the first large scale Kamikaze attack of the war. A bomber would head for a battleship or a heavy cruiser, and the occasional plane that made it through the anti-aircraft barrage would crash into a ship. The next thing, one would see a huge crane pick up the plane and toss it into the sea. Yes, there was loss of life and damage; but our ships never stopped firing and attacking the Japanese bombers. The anti-aircraft barrage was so thick that shrapnel occasionally rained down on the Palmer. One time, a hunk of shrapnel burnt a hole through my shirt and nicked my arm. Did this entitle me to the "Purple Heart" award? (just kidding).
As we watched this aerial show, these magnificent ships steamed past Lingayen gulf in a long orderly row. Once again we were along in the gulf.
It's Sunday, January 7th, 1945. My birthday! I am now 28 years old.
The day dawns bright and clear, a beautiful day. The weather is perfect…..delightful. The fleet has passed us by and disappeared, with its escort of kamikazes. We are alone in the gulf with the other four ships of our division. We begin sweeping operations, preparing the gulf for the invasion fleet, including the battleships that will come in to pound the landing areas on the eighth. The landings are scheduled for the ninth. The day proceeds without incident….nothing in the seas or skies except our five ships.
At about 15:00 hours there is an explosion in the engine room of the Palmer; and the Palmer stops dead in the water. The other four DMS's disappear, continuing their sweeping operations. Repairs are commenced. The World War I Palmer is gradually falling apart. Rumors are that we will head back to the States for major repairs once this operation is over. This is just another of the usual standard rumors that appear at regular intervals on the Palmer and on all Navy ships out here in the Pacific. The more brutal facts are: we would probably go to one of the bases out here in the Pacific for cobbled up repairs. It would not be worth while to send the old Palmer back to Hawaii or San Francisco.
Current problems on the Palmer are finally repaired as the day winds down. I am off duty. It's about 19:00 hours (7:00 P.M.). It's peaceful and quiet, and it seems like a summer Sunday evening back home. The bright, orange sun is low in the western sky.
Suddenly, general quarters sounds. Rushing and activity everywhere! My general quarters station is in the radio shack; but I am not needed in there. I stay out on the deck, just outside the radio shack, to see what is going on. Suddenly, far out in the western sky, we see a lone plane. It heads for the sun. Our "big" guns commence firing. I think to myself this is asinine, an impossibility to hit a plane with these guns. The plane reaches a direct line between us and the sun. It turns. Suddenly realization arrives in our minds, at least in those that thought the plane was just flying by: it's headed for us.
It gets closer and closer, and grows bigger and bigger. Now our 20 mm. batteries open up with their barrage of shells. The racket is intense. The plane is a big,. Slow Japanese bomber. I seem to be mesmerized by the action, which seems to be occurring in slow motion. The plane is now very close, aiming at the Bridge, the heart of the ship. Our radio shack is just below the Bridge. The captain swerves the ship in the direction of the plane. The plane is afire. Two huge bombs hit and explode in the after part of the ship. The plane crashes into the sea, just beyond the ship.
The Palmer is dead in the water, all power gone. I grab Leon Long and we rush to the emergency generator and try and start it. This will restore power to the radio equipment. We get the generator going and rush to the radio shack to check the equipment. Everything is functioning. Leon runs up to the bridge to report to the captain that the radio equipment is in operation.
I suddenly decide to run down to my locker, which is just below the radio shack, to get my billfold and the $600.00 that's in it. It's a dumb move. It's dark and smoke filled below deck. I think I may never get out of here. I find my locker and billfold and head back for the deck. I make it.
Men are leaping off the ship into the water. I find out later that a whaleboat and raft have been lowered into the sea. The ship is pretty well deserted. I see one of the crew running around in a panic, half crying because he can't find his life preserver. I think to myself it serves you right. Leon tells me not to leave him, that he can't swim. I tell him we better get off the ship. We head for the foc'sle. We stand there for a second and I tell Leon, "Let's go", and I jump into the water. Leon follows. It's obvious that the ship is going down soon. I start to swim away and yell at Leon to get moving away from the ship. The two of us are alone. We get about 50 yards away. I turn and watch the Palmer disappear beneath the sea, its radar still turning. I find out later that the Palmer sank six minutes after being hit.
Darkness now descends over Lingayen gulf. Leon and I swim, float, and paddle aimlessly in the water, searching for what (?). I still have detached feelings concerning the happenings taking place. Some months later I read a newspaper account of the Palmer's sinking and the article refers to the shark-infested waters of Lingayen Gulf. No such fears surface in my mind at the time. The sea seems peaceful, and warm, and friendly.
The minutes and hours slip by. At some time in the night, we hear voices through the darkness. We yell out. They hear us and paddle over to us. It's the raft. We clamber aboard. Some time later in the night, the whaleboat appears, and a line is attached to the raft from the whaleboat. We take off in the blackness of the night.
These episodes seem to have taken place very quickly and promptly; but I find out later we have been in the water for several hours.
Our division command ship appears out of the blackness; and we get ready to be picked up. Suddenly the ship pulls away, leaving us alone in the gulf once again. I now feel concern over my fate. Will I survive this ordeal?
Within the hour, the ship returns. It's now close to 24:00 hours (midnight). We are hoisted aboard. There are numerous survivors sitting or lying on the deck, some with shrapnel wounds, some with black and burned skin over their bodies. Again I have this feeling of detachment and lack of compassion or concern for these men. However, later, and in the days, months, and years to come, I often relive this scene with feelings of sadness and empathy for the fate of these individuals. One of our radiomen, who had his general quarters assignment in the emergency radio shack on the after part of the ship, is one of these wounded and burnt sailors. He later dies in sick bay aboard the Colorado.
I find out later that the Palmer casualty list consists of (2) killed, (38) wounded, and (26) missing in action, out of a complement of (120) men. It is presumed that the (26) missing in action went down with the ship or were lost or drowned at sea.
We spend the night on the deck of our sister DMS. The next morning we are transferred to the Colorado, one of the older battleships. I am assigned to (stored in?) the after engine room of the Colorado. This is at the rear and at the bottom of the ship. The Colorado is involved in numerous engagements during the day. (This is invasion day). Troops are landing, battleships are firing almost continuously. The kamikazes are out in force. I hear nothing. This is like living in a hotel. I muse to myself that perhaps I'll stay right here if the Colorado is sunk. It's too nice here. Why leave this idyllic spot? Such is my introduction to life aboard a battleship.
Some time later in the day, when things have quieted down and general quarters secured, I wander around the ship. I find out that the Colorado had been hit twice that day, with approximately 35 casualties. And I didn't even hear the hits! One of the areas hit was a gun emplacement, which altogether with the gun crew, was wiped out completely.
In my wanders and travels, I visit the radio shack What! This is no radio shack. The U.S.S. Palmer had a radio shack. This is a wondrous communication center. It's located at the base of the conning tower, the nerve center of the ship. Sixteen inch armor plate surrounds the conning tower; a veritable, impregnable island on the ship, if there is such a thing. (After Pearl Harbor, no American battleship was ever sunk; although the British, the Japanese, and the Germans did lose such ships.)
The days aboard the Colorado pass quickly and without incident. We make one sortie out into the China sea on some mission; but nothing comes of it.
Eventually we receive word that we are going to be transferred to a troop ship and are going "home"; that is to San Francisco. The scuttlebutt has it that we will be given a 30 days survivors' leave. Great news! Forget about "Golden Gate in forty eight"!
So! On one fine day in late January we are put into a whaleboat, and we are taken over to a former passenger ship, now converted into a troop carrier. There are abut 15 to 20 of us in the whaleboat. As we approach the troop ship, we see climbing nets being lowered over the side of the ship. I look at those nets with apprehension. Are we to climb up those rope ladders, which appear to be about a four story climb? The whaleboat hits against the ship from the force of the waves, then bounces away. I calculate that I would never make this "climb" with a sea bag on my back; but I have nothing to carry…..so far so good. I watch several sailors make the leap from the whaleboat to the nets. There's a trick to it. Jump just before the boat and ship collide, and don't miss. I make my move. I jump and catch the rope ladder, and take off. I have always been leery of heights and I make a resolution not to look down, as I scramble upwards, and I don't. I reach the top and sailors grab me and pull me over the rail and onto the deck of the ship. I made it! It was nothing! (I will remember that climb the rest of my life.)
We are assigned a bunk and a time to eat. The mess hall is a huge hall. No chairs, but tables that you stand at to eat.
A day or two later, Captain McGuirk hunts me up. He's got a proposition for me. "Would you like to copy the news for the ship?" (morse code at 23 w.p.m.), he asks me. I answer "Yes". He tells me he's got a deal lined up for me. I copy the news for the ship, and he will get me into "ships' company"; that is, I'll be a member of the regular crew, will eat with them, and have a bunk in the crew's quarters. Great! It's arranged. This is the life!
Some time later during our voyage, the captain comes to see me again. He tells me that he is going to recommend me for a commission. He says we will work on the details when we reach San Francisco. That is good news. Me, an Ensign!
XXVII. TREASURE ISLAND ONCE AGAIN
The trip to San Francisco is pleasant. No watches. No general quarters. All I do is copy the news for about an hour per day. I also have $600 in my pocket. We are outfitted with new underwear, shoes, socks, dungarees, blue work shirts, razor, cigarets, toothbrush, etc. My possessions are all contained in a shoe box. Life is pleasant! Life is good!
The sea voyage passes uneventfully. We are to reach San Francisco today. I watch with interest and anticipation for a glimpse of the U.S. to appear on the horizon. Then we sight in the distance the "Golden Gate", a most impressive and welcome sight.
I recall as we pass under the Golden Gate bridge that it was fourteen months ago that we left here.
The ship ties up at one of the piers at Fishermen's Wharf. I leave the ship in my dungarees, blue work shirt, Navy hat, and with my shoe box. It's a pleasant day. There are some people at the dock welcoming the shipload of returnees; also some reporters and photographers. They pay no attention to us as we board a Navy bus for Treasure Island.
I still have the copy of the letter of recommendation referred to somewhere in my files.
We have liberty every night during our stay here. A couple of sailors and I generally take off together. We get along fine. One night we have our picture taken in some S.F. restaurant. That picture is also somewhere in my files. On another night, we hop on a trolley and end up at a bar several miles from downtown S.F. The bartender is a small, dark, Spanish type, possibly Cuban; and a very likable and friendly guy. We spend the evening drinking blackberry brandy. First, we would buy a drink, then the bartender would. Suffice to say, we have more than our share of blackberry brandy this night, but make our way back to T.I. safely.
I finally receive my leave papers and transportation chits to Los Angeles. I phone Muriel Jane and tell her my arrival date. We decide then and there on our license getting and wedding dates.
XVIII. MURIEL JANE AND I ARE MARRIED
I arrive in Los Angeles in mid morning on February 20th, 1945.
As I leave the train in the midst of sailors, soldiers, and civilians milling around the depot, I finally sight Muriel Jane, as lovely as ever. She looks healthy, radiant, and well-groomed as always. We embrace and hug each other. It's been a long time.
After we exchange rapid and numerous questions and answers, M.J informs me she wants to spend her honeymoon in the Biltmore, the most prestigious of the downtown hotels at the time. We find a very helpful and pretty young lady with one of the volunteer groups that aid service men. She quickly finds a hotel for me in downtown Los Angeles until our wedding day. She is not sure she can arrange the Biltmore thing; but after various phone calls, she beams "success". We thank her and depart. We now take off to get our marriage license. It's Washington's birthday. The offices are closed. (This was still the age of honoring American heroes.) Disappointed, we leave and eventually wind up at M.J."s apartment, where we spend much time and activity getting reacquainted.
Later, I take off for downtown Los Angeles and my hotel room. In downtown L.A. I stop at May's department store, and buy a silver rosary for M.J.'s wedding present.
The next day we obtain our license. We are to be married the following day, February 24th. M.J. has arranged everything, including the priest, the church, the time, and the couple who will stand up for us. Father Patrick Shear, the priest, is a very good friend of M.J.'s. They became acquainted at Queen of Angels hospital, where M.J. works.
It is Lent, a time when no marriage ceremonies are performed in the Catholic church. Father Shear, however, has arranged a dispensation. We will be married at 6:30 A.M. tomorrow in his church in Pasadena. It's at 6:30 A.M. because Father Shear has a funeral mass at 8:30 A.M. the same morning.
The attendants are Dr. C. Francis Wertz and Mary Jane Laures, both friends of M.J.'s.
On the morning of the 24th, I get up about 4:30 A.M., to get ready and to trek out to M.J.'s apartment. Everything goes smoothly. The doctor drives the wedding party to Pasadena. The marriage ceremony is performed without incident. It's done! We are married. I kiss the bride, thank Father Shear who extends his blessing and good wishes. We then return to Los Angeles for a wedding breakfast at the Biltmore.
It's been a hectic three days. We are both exhausted. Early in the evening we decide to retire to our room for R and R. Instead of sleep, we explore the mysteries and intricacies of married life. M.J. is lovely in her pure white satin gown, which seems superfluous under the circumstances.
The following evening we decide to have dinner at the Biltmore's famous dining room and night spot. This is still the era of the big bands; and Joe Reichman, a popular and well known big band leader and his band are playing there. When we arrive at the entrance to the dining room, a huge line awaits us, all striving for admission. I go up to the host, slip him a $5.00 bill as I give him my name and the number in my party. In a matter of minutes, he calls my name and escorts us to a prime table next to the dance floor and the orchestra. As we walk to our table, I contemplate that it's nice to have money; and maybe the trip down to my locker to get the $600. wasn't so dumb after all. My monthly pay at that time, by the way, was $90.00 per month.
After a few days at the Biltmore, M.J. suggests we go back to her apartment. She feels we should give other military personnel a chance to experience the good life.
We spend two weeks of my leave in Los Angeles. We visit Long Beach by trolley, Santa Monica by trolley, Hollywood Park, Los Alvarez street, and downtown Los Angeles. We take in several shows in the area, including the "Blackouts", a popular group of skits staged by Ken Murray. His most famous line, taken from a cigaret commercial, concerned his voluptuous blond foil, Marie Wilson……"so round, so firm, so fully packed". Street car transportation was plentiful and available; so we didn't have any problem getting around.
Father Shear invites me out one day to play golf at Los Angeles Country Club. This is the ritziest and snootiest golf club in L.A. No movie stars allowed.
In early March we depart L.A. for Elgin and a reunion with M.J."s and my family.
The month passes quickly. It's time to return to duty. Muriel Jane borrows John and Pat's car and drops me off at the Great Lakes Naval station; where I had somewhat expected to be stationed. I am surprised and disappointed to receive orders to report to the Receiving Station in Seattle, Washington.
After final good-byes to M.J., I take off for Seattle via rail, this time via the northern route, up through Minneapolis, and across the northwestern United States.
On all my trips via rail, back and forth across the U.S., and particularly in the west, various volunteer groups would be at rail stops to ply us with food and refreshments. These people, a marvelous group of volunteers, usually women, received little recognition for their contribution to the war effort. I recall on one occasion on the northern route, sometime after leaving Minneapolis, being supplied with pheasant sandwiches at one of the rail stops. Pheasant sandwiches! Unbelievable!
I arrive at Seattle and report to the receiving station, which as I recall, is at the University of Washington. I am only there a few days when I am transferred to the receiving station at Bremerton, Washington. This is a huge facility, processing incoming and outgoing returnees from overseas, and p.o.w.'s (prisoners of war).
This is my first sight or encounter with p.o.w.'s. I don't know what their "crimes" are; but I presume most of them are deserters, or sailors that went "over the hill", as Navy lingo describes it. The prisoners, with a huge "P" on their backs, are under the control and guard of the Marines. The Marines treat these prisoners brutally and sadistically, not a pretty sight.
Bremerton is across Puget Sound from Seattle; so all trips either way involve a lengthy ferry ride.
I run into Leon Long in Bremerton; and we decide to go out to dinner together in Seattle. It's a disaster. Leon drinks too much and turns ugly. I get him back to Bremerton finally, without any major confrontations.
I am assigned to the office at the receiving station for temporary duty. My job is to check in the stream of Navy personnel reporting for duty. I learn one unusual fact. Some people have nicknames or initials only for their legal first and second names. I store this in my memory bank of useless facts.
The Navy has taken over a hotel in Seattle. After discussing it with M.J., we decide she is to come out here, so that we can be together once again. In retrospect, this was probably a dumb decision, because I was sure to be transferred from here. On the other hand, that is probably why we did it. There was no assurance that I wasn't going back out to sea.
So, M.J. arrives and I go back to Seattle every other day via ferry to see her.
The arrangement doesn't last too long. I receive orders transferring me to the Naval Air Station at Tillamook, Oregon.
I am assigned an upper berth for my trip to Portland, with no space for M.J., who is coming with me, regardless. So……we both sleep in the upper berth!!! Try it sometime.
The train takes us to Portland; and we take a bus over the coastal range to Tillamook. On our trip over the mountain range, we travel through the "Tillamook burn", a huge forested area that was devastated by fire the previous year.
We arrive in Tillamook and search for a place for M.J. to stay. We find a motel in the middle of town. It's part of a former store, and the store front still remains a part of the motel. Not a very enticing place, but adequate in view of the times.
I report to the base, a base populated with non sea-going reservists. I am somewhat of a celebrity to the enlisted personnel, and more of a hostile interloper to the officers. I am one of the few individuals on the base that has seen any actual duty involving the enemy. However, these shore-bound officers are cognizant of their status and importance. Protocol reigns supreme.
As the days go by, M.J. searches for an apartment. It's a difficult and disappointing search. Tillamook is a small town and there just isn't any such facilities. Then, one day she strikes it lucky. An apartment is available in one of the nicer homes in town. Everyone is after it, particularly the officers. M.J. tells her story; and how I just returned from overseas. She not only gets the apartment; but the landlady provides her with dishes, pans, etc. ……all of our needs. We are in business.
My duties in the communication room on the base are easy. I'm off every other day, and go in town and "home".
There are quite a few "waves" (female sailors and officers) in the Communications sector. One of them is on with me on night duty. We play gin rummy when the teletype isn't chattering. She beats me constantly. I also play chess with another guy in the radio gang. He also beats me constantly. I go to the library in Tillamook and get a book on "How to play chess". I study it thoroughly, then take on my chess playing friend. I beat him three times in a row. He quits.
Approximately five miles out of town, I am told, there is a golf course. I hitch-hike out one day to look it over. There are no players on the course; but there are several cows roaming around on the first fairway. I talk to the owner, who I locate after a search. I rent a set of clubs and take off. The cows are down near the first green, but on the fairway. "Fore", I yell, and drive through. It's fun to be back hitting a golf ball.
I play several times during my stay in Tillamook, and shoot phenomenal scores. That's because the course is easy, with two or three par fours I can drive with a good tee shot. I like the ninth hole, a sharp dogleg with out of bounds on the left. It's easy to cut across the out of bounds, and to shoot directly at the green. My favorite birdie hole.
Tillamook has a rather large sawmill in town, and I spend time watching the trucks pull in, dump huge logs in the sawmill pond, and then watch as they are cut into boards.
Tillamook is also known for its cheese; and there is a small cheese factory just outside of town on the route to the base.
The large hangar at the base houses small blimps that patrol the coast looking for Japanese submarines, etc. They also wind up spotting fish for the fishing industry.
There is a network of these lighter-than-air stations along the coast; all engaged in the same activities.
The summer passes uneventfully. The weather in Tillamook is always on the cool side. M.J. and I take one week-end trip to Portland, which serves as an enjoyable interlude. M.J. also secures a part time job at the local hospital, a converted old, large house. Once a week we attend the local theater; but we encounter sand fleas in the theater, and finally give up on this recreation.
M.J. is gradually becoming accustomed to household duties. It's always a pleasure to come home from the base to an always clean and neat and pretty wife.
M.J., by the way, is now pregnant. She estimates the baby is due approximately January 1st. We decide that she will have to return home at some time in the near future.
August 10, 1945. The war is over! The Japanese have surrendered. Great joy and celebration all around! I think immediately about getting out of the Navy. In a matter of weeks, people began to leave for civilian life. What about me? I investigate and find out that I have been declared essential to the war effort; and will not be released at this time. I'm furious and angry, particularly after the papers make a big fuss over Bob Feller's release, because of his extended war-time service, which adds up to 42 points. (Bob Feller was a famous pitcher for the Cleveland Indians prior to the war.)
Back in Tillamook I vent my anger with M.J., and we decide to send a telegram, under Muriel Jane's name to both Illinois senators. The telegram reads: "Why are Navy commands using military necessity at latest excuse to delay demobilization? Latest dodge here is to ask for replacements which are unobtainable. My husband doesn't pitch for Cleveland but he has 44 points. Advise collect" (signed Mrs. Willard E. Miller). The two senators are C. Wayland Brooks, Republican; and Scott Lucas, Democrat.
In a matter of days, a letter arrives from Scott Lucas asking for details. Nothing from C. Wayland Brooks. M.J. replies, citing my service record and its duration.
Approximately ten days later, I get a summons to see the base commander. Everyone is agog, wondering "what's going on?" I'm concerned. I make my way to the commander's office with a certain amount of apprehension. I'm instructed to enter the office. The commander stares at me for a moment; and then says, curtly, that I will be released the following week. He then dismisses me.
I return to the barracks and announce that I am being released. Everyone looks at me with wonder and surprise. Who am I to pull strings of this magnitude? I say nothing.
In the meantime, M.J leaves for home. My new home is the base.
To prepare for my departure, I sell all my belongings except underwear, socks, etc.
The day I am to leave has arrived! The communication bunch give me a great sendoff, with hugs and kisses from the girls, as well as requests to write. I grab the bus to Tillamook, then to Portland, then the train to Chicago. My destination is the Great Lakes Naval Training Station where I will be discharged.
I arrive at Great Lakes without incident; and in a few days am processed for discharge. I collect my honorable discharge certificate, a form letter "thank you" from someone, a request to enter the Naval Reserve, which I refuse ……and then…..I take off. Across Sheridan road from the Great Lakes Naval station, I catch the North Shore electric line to Chicago; then in Chicago, the "Third Rail" to Elgin.
I arrive in Elgin late in the afternoon and prepare to leave the train. Where is the mayor and the welcoming delegation? And the cheering crowds? I see no one that I know. I contemplate that it was three years, six months, and twenty days ago that I left here on that April 6th morning for the Navy. I search for a cab. There are none. I consider calling Muriel Jane for a ride home; and then I decide to walk. It's not far. I take off, hoofing it up Chicago St. to the City Hall, north for a couple of blocks past the Post Office to Division Street, then east to Dundee Ave., north on Dundee Ave. to Park Street, up Park Street and past the Elgin Academy.
I arrive at 421 Park Street to a joyous reunion with Muriel Jane, her parents, sisters, and brothers-in-law.
I'm home once again!