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Charles Berlau in Cebu taxi
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Bedpan ceremony |
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Equatorial haircuts for Reed Adams and Charles Berlau |
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A building used by the Japanese headquarters received a direct hit by a 500-lb. bomb |
I live in Fort Smith, Arkansas, with my wife, Mae. I was born Sept. 8, 1919
in the historical city of Easton, Pennsylvania, founded about 1752. Easton was
called “the Forks of the Delaware.” It was here that the Lehigh River
ran into the Delaware. It was an important supply depot for Washington’s
army. He passed through the area several times although he never “slept”
here. In the early Indian days, it was the site of many meetings between warring
tribes and settlement founders. William Penn received the first grant from the
King of England. It is also the site of Lafayette College—founded in 1832
with 47 students.
Growing up during the “Roaring Twenties” and the dismal Great Depression
days, our family never lacked for the necessities of life—nor was there
a surplus of anything but love. During the depression, my father was out of
work for some time. We were fortunate that a relative owned the house and assisted
us for a while.
Our neighborhood was blessed with many boys. Our playground was the street, and our activities mostly football, baseball, kick the ricky, and playing cards on a neighbor’s porch. Cars were few and far between, which enhanced the size of our playing field. We were a frisky bunch—woe to the neighbor who gave us a bad time. When Hallowe’en came around, our antics sometimes resulted in “sprints” to escape the clutches of an irate neighbor. On occasion, the friendly gendarmes came by to remind us of our civic responsibilities.
Schools were within walking distance, which really didn’t matter since
we had no cars, anyway.
They hardly ever shut down the schools because of snow. Hills and 18-24 inch snowfalls made for great sledding. (Skis were unknown to us in those days.) I played trumpet in the band in junior high, and played football in high school. The schools in those days meant learning the “3 R’s.” Our teachers did not put up with any bad behavior. They put the fear of God in us.
When I graduated from high school in 1937, 1 got my first job—grinding coffee and slicing cheese at an A&P store. The lack of funds made the choice of college simple. There was Lafayette College in Easton and Lehigh University in Bethlehem, Pennsylvania Because I had no transportation, I enrolled in Lafayette, where good old shoe leather got me to and from the “College on the Hill.” I was in the ROTC unit the first two years but decided the Army was not for me. I graduated in 1941 with a degree in mechanical engineering, and took my first job with Timken Roller Bridge Co. in Canton, Ohio.
With the war in the background, I returned home to work at Bethlehem Steel, but after Dec.7th I decided to get in. I checked into the Navy V-7 program and then applied for the United States Coast Guard Officers’ Candidate School in New London, Connecticut. During the physical, my blood pressure was high. The doc asked me if I wanted in, and I told him yes. I lay on a bench for awhile; later, he checked again and it was okay.
I enlisted July 7, 1942 in Philadelphia. I was called to active duty Aug. 24, and sent to Groton Training Station in Groton, Connecticut. The culture shock did not take long. At 0530 the next morning we were mustered and had a mile run which damn near killed us; the transition from civilian to Coast Guard Officer had begun!
The highlight of the 4-month program was the month we spent on the Danish training ship Danmark, a 3-masted, square-rigger. Sleeping in hammocks was quite an experience, as was manning sail stations and otherwise acting like sailors. Sail stations involved handling sails while standing on ropes attached to the spars. I lucked out on the lowest, biggest sail on the foremast. Some of the big guys drew the topsails—80 feet above the deck. On the trip back to New London, strong head winds forced an anchorage off Block Island. The auxiliary engine lacked power to get back to New London.
On departing the Danmark, we were commissioned Ensigns on Dec. 24, 1942, with
orders to report to the Fairbanks Morse plant in Beloit, Wisconsin—to a
Navy diesel engine school. Obviously, diesels were in our future. That winter,
minus-20-degree temperatures were the norm, but a local pub and friendly gals
kept our spirits high!
The 6-week course ended Feb. 20 1943, and I was ordered to report to the Diligence,
a Coast Guard buoy tender stationed at Terminal Island, San Pedro, California.
Diligence was responsible for servicing buoys in the Los Angeles harbor and
the islands off the coast. My most important job, as Ensign, was to stay out
of the way. For the crew, this was hard and dangerous work. My first and only
bout with seasickness occurred in the waters between San Clemente Island and
the coast—known for rough waters.
On July 20, 1943, orders sent me to the Sub Chaser Training Center in Miami,
Florida. I lucked out with air transport to Philadelphia. Because of a delay
en route, I had time to see my parents and my ex-heart-throb (who soon became
Mrs. B). SBTC was five weeks of intensive training on PCs and on the anti-sub
simulators pilots used. On Sept. 3, 1943, new orders sent me to Norfolk, NOB
for temporary duty in connection with the assembly and training program for
DE (destroyer escort) duty. The only thing I remember about this place was Saturday
Review and guys passing out on the parade ground.
On Oct. 20, 1943, I was placed in charge of the draft (our crew) for movement
to the Brown Shipyard In Orange, Texas, for assignment and commissioning of
the USS Rhodes (DE384) under the command of LCDR E. A. Coffin, U.S.C.G. We departed
for Charleston Navy Yard and a shakedown cruise with two other DEs.
Part of our training—off Bermuda—involved escorting a water ship into
the island from a returning convoy. Water was a scarce commodity.
We joined the Fleet and headed for New York to join a convoy—destination, Casablanca. My buddy and I got caught, while on Shore Patrol, in the Casbah—the off-limits area not very friendly to the Allied Forces. The skipper really reamed our butts out. The return voyage was followed by our second convoy—this time, through the Straits of Gibraltar to Algiers. In the middle of the night, German planes jumped our convoy, but no casualties were sustained. On the return trip, a severe storm tested the mettle of the crew. For three days, chow was eaten on the fly (if you could eat at all). To keep my balance on a flying bridge watch, my feet found the bulkhead. One of the forward gun shields was torn loose. The old USA had never looked better. On two trips, we never had a submarine contact.
I was granted six days leave to marry Mae on May 4, 1944 and then received orders to the Coast Guard Receiving Station on Ellis Island for temporary duty. On June 29, 1944 I got orders to the Amphibious Training Base (Camp Bradford) in Norfolk for training and assembly of a crew for LST Flotilla 29. I remember this place for the Saturday review and guys passing out on the parade ground from the heat and humidity. I think we were billeted in tents.
We reported next to the Dravo Shipyard, Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, where—on Sept. 27, 1944—the LST 791 was launched. A Navy pilot crew guided us to New Orleans Algiers Base where the mast was installed and we were outfitted for sea. Even the pilot grounded us at least once on the Mississippi.
Having said our last lump-in-the-throat good-byes, we left the States fully
loaded with an LCT on deck, a 90-ton pontoon strapped on each side, ballast
tanks full of bunker C oil, and a cargo deck of ammo. What a workhorse the LST
was! Winston Churchill once said it looked like we were going to win the war
with some damned thing called an LST. The trip to San Diego helped break us
in for the job. My recall is that twin 40-mm guns were installed in the San
Diego Naval Yard.
So long, USA—hello Pearl, where we unloaded the oil and the ammo.
After spending Christmas on the beach, we headed west with a loaded tank deck to Eniwetok, Guam, and finally our first action beaching at Taclobin, Leyte Gulf. There was still fighting on the island. After unloading, it was a 2500-mile trip to Guadalcanal
The uninitiated were inducted into the realm of “Neptune Rex” after crossing the Equator for the first time. It was a welcome diversion from a boring trip. Inductees received a shaved head and a membership card to show proof of passage. I have a picture of Adams and me with our bald heads.
Somewhere during our Western passage, the fresh water evaporator froze up; the “black gang” worked their butts off to install the spare. I remember Jim Hill and Charlie Haight were involved. I was real proud of our great crew leaders, Chuck Higgins and Phil Oaks.
Our primary mission came with the boarding of elements of 2nd Battalion 22 Marine Regiment, under the command of Col. Woodhouse—destination Okinawa Ryukyu Island. The final staging area was Ulithe, where we joined a massive convoy for the final 1300-mile voyage.
An unexpected event threatened the tight security of the entire convoy. A clamp holding one of the pontoons broke loose in rough seas. The convoy Commodore approved making repairs, which involved welding braces at 2:00 a.m. Fortunately, there was a heavy cloud cover. I think a member of the Seabee crew did the welding.
We arrived on D-day—April 1, 1945—at Naha Harbor, and started unloading the LCT, the pontoons, and—sad to say—our Marine friends, into God-knows-what. General quarters was often called with kamikaze raids, some of which were downed nearby. I recall one hit the water not far from a hospital ship. Several local missions were carried out—one to Ie Shima, where Ernie Pyle was killed.
On April 11, we went to Guam for a load of ammo for Okinawa.
About the time the island was secured, orders detached the ship first to Subic Bay and then Batangas Bay for training with the 1st Cavalry Division for the first wave of the anticipated invasion of Japan. Manila was heavily damaged by the Japanese; the Allies tried to keep it an open city. On August 8, the crew was on deck watching “A Tree Grows in Brooklyn,” when Adams, the duty officer, sounded out, “Now hear this: the war is over and the Japanese have surrendered.” We all jumped up, cheered, and hugged each other, and—believe it or not—sat down watched the end of the movie. Then the celebration began! Grapefruit juice and alcohol appeared from God knows where. There were a lot of hangovers next morning.
We received orders sending us to Subic Bay and then to the island of Cebu, where we loaded an Army Engineer outfit for duty in the occupation of Japan. These guys had just arrived from France and were mad as hell.
The 791 was the first LST in Tokyo Bay—and the first Allied ship to enter Tokyo Inner Harbor—only three days after the signing of the surrender document. The Captain refused to let the Japanese pilot come aboard as we entered the Inner Harbor. It is about 15 miles from Yokohama to Tokyo, and there was not one building standing as a result of the fire bombing by the B29s. The Emperor’s Palace area was spared.
It was great to renew friendships with all the guys at the reunion in 1999 in Orlando, Florida.
