Captain Andrew Duncan departs LST 791
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Commanding Officer of LST 791, Lt. Andrew Duncan, wrote his memoirs of his experiences in the Pacific during World War II during his voyage from Saipan to San Francisco.
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Captain Andrew Duncan departs LST 791 |
This is written for my children and grandchildren, as a permanent memoir from the chronicle our years indict. It is of things which interest me—and I enjoy recording them—but my animating desire is that my children shall know me better. We see our parents through the distorting perspective of an age differential which at first seems immeasurable, and it is only after we have reached maturity that we may comprehend the extent to which our parents once responded to the matchless gifts of youth. Because I have had no experience in writing, I may use the simple third person in places. And as I have no talent, it is the events which will have to depict the man; but if through the means of this rough narrative my children are enabled to perceive even dimly the manner of man I was, it may deepen with a fuller mutual understanding their response to the boundless affection I feel for them. Though some of the notes antedate the end of the war, the concept and preparation of the memoirs as such began when we were steaming eastward from Saipan in November 1945. I may be useful to set out the initial passage here, just as I wrote it at that time:
My little ones, there are days when the sky is very bright and
very clear, so that instead of having a soft blue look it has a hot and shinier
appearance. Such a sky you sometimes find near the equator.
When the massive single cumulus cloud the water and the air occasionally produce towers alone against the heavens you may see him for a very long way. The clouds on the horizon usually merge into a blur near the rim of the ocean, but on these very clear days the rim is a fine etched line and the lucid brightness of the great clouds runs undiminished until cut off by the water. Hence you may see the very top of one of the high white fellows standing stiffly at the limits of your visible world, and know that his base is many miles away, far below the line that marks your horizon. It is not your cloud, really; it is part of another traveler’s sphere. It may cast its enormous glistening reflection across an empty sea, but even so you have the feeling that it is a part of that sea, whether empty or not. You see its head as you see the head of a great peak at sunset and, on a slow ship, will travel all night before seeing the port that will take you in. By chance, you are given a glimpse, but you are looking very far and into another of the little worlds through which man takes his way.
As I now course slowly eastward and out of the worlds which war wrought, there are some memories which stand alone against the western sky, up above the rim of transition, outlasting the minutiae which color the background of all recollection. In the morning I shall see these things no longer, and their memory may be vague as their image on a ruffled sea. There are things I shall never forget; but this is the last time that my human and fallible memory will see the details from the world over whose rim we now so slowly crawl. For some reason I cannot fully understand or explain, I feel impelled to set down those experiences that stand above the rest in clarity and meaning. You will be glad, my little ones, to know that I have no inclination to moralize; indeed, I have been too little given to reflection on or analysis of the incidents in which I have participated. Some of them have simply remained with exceptional distinctness and vigor in my memory, and if there is any reason for their tenacity it may be discovered in the telling.
The following statements of ship’s policy are set out so that they may be completely clear and so that you will not have to trust to your memory concerning them. They will also serve the purpose of keeping the writer from carelessly changing the rules without notice in the middle of the game.
The writer regards the obligation of officers as being a high one, especially in combat work. The lives of many men are entrusted to our care, not because of any great virtue or skill of ours but because the pressure of war has made it necessary. We need not be bowed down by our responsibility, but let us never forget it.
This is first and foremost a fighting ship. Keep this in mind when making decisions.
Department heads will have full authority in their departments. Every effort will be made to procure for them such personnel, material, and repairs and alterations as may seem desirable, with the opinion of the department head being accorded great weight in the determination of desirability. The head of the department will be fully responsible for his department’s results. He should be familiar with the Navy Regulations and ship’s orders defining his duties. All matters concerning personnel within his department will be handled through him.
If given sufficient authority and responsibility, petty officers should be of great value. As long as they carry out their assignments competently, they should be supported in their dealings with those below them. Initiative and suggestions should be encouraged. As with commissioned officers, a public reprimand or correction is not only unkind, but defeats its purpose by diminishing the stature of the person addressed.
Much information is given to a commanding officer with a specific admonition against immediate release. As soon as is consistent with security requirements, every officer will he advised in detail concerning the ship’s prospective operations. Only by full understanding of operations plans by every one concerned can they be properly carried out.
These things are important morale factors. You will receive my full support in seeing that the handling of mail and pay is prompt and efficient; and in seeing that our food is good, varied, and plentiful.
It won’t be often, but when circumstances permit liberty or leave let us be as liberal as is consistent with the safety of the ship and the accomplishment of its function.
While a man’s overseas and combat duty naturally inclines one to leniency in considering his qualifications for a rate, the policy of the ship will be to require compliance with all effective requirements as a prerequisite to rating.
Department heads will submit quarterly marks for their men to the Executive Officer, who will review them and submit them to the commanding officer with recommendations. The Executive Officer will try to see that the department heads follow a reasonably uniform system of marking.
The writer will attempt to honor any promise made by any officer to any man, feeling that the confidence of the men in their officers is involved. Because of this, no officer should make a promise to a man if he feels any doubt at all about his authority or ability to carry it out. Among things sometimes promised to men and later regretted, are advancements, intra- or inter-ship transfers, the privilege of striking, 48s, and leave.
Consistent with this type of duty, a good deal of latitude may be permitted in the matter of uniforms, with emphasis on cleanliness. There will be no latitude in the matter of cover for all parts of the body in action areas, for protection against flash burns and gas.
This duty is much more pleasant when we can see something of our friends from other ships from time to time. Consequently the friends of any ship’s officer will be welcomed aboard at any time for meals and quarters or transportation, without prior reference to the Executive or Commanding Officer. The Stores
Officer and First Lieutenant should be given such notice of guests as they may desire.
“Just tell him it’s because I’m an old fool,” I said. “It’s what they’ll think anyhow. And if you want to expand on it you can add that I think the danger of someone being drowned here is greater than the offsetting pleasure of the swimmers.”
I watched the messenger withdraw, maintaining a commendable effort to conceal the fact that the members of my prospective crew were not the only ones who would consider me an old fool. I hated the decision all the more because I felt that it should not have been thrust upon me. Either all of the formed crews should have been given swimming privileges or none of them should have. The hard experience of the preceding two years had taught me that the function of a Commanding Officer was to command, which inevitably involved hard and unpopular decisions. But there was no sense in forcing such a decision as this on a man with a new crew, especially with a new crew most of whom were softened by long stretches of coddling shore duty. I could hear Johnson now, who would come to me to complain that the best work could not be expected of the men in the deck division if they didn’t feel that the Prospective Commanding Officer was duly interested in their comfort and happiness. Johnson would say it was a matter of morale. Johnson’s conception of morale had been acquired at a base where dissatisfaction with the prevailing order had occasionally been expressed in private communications to congressmen, to the resulting discomfiture of those responsible. There might be trouble with Johnson. The amphibious training command should never have assigned him to the deck division.
I thought moodily that I should have been less abrupt with the messenger. I also thought of the manner in which my own convictions about the dangers of the sea had been acquired. We were beached now at the mouth of the Potomac, and it had been only a few miles south, at Lynnhaven Roads, that the sudden squall had caught the landing boats and drowned three men. It was two years and many thousands of miles ago that I had inventoried the effects of the one whose body had floated to the surface on the third day. Even to one who had not been very green and very junior the incident would have been pitiful and impressive.
After that had followed the other casual accidents—drownings, shootings, falls, and all the other categories—which marked naval and military life. In time one grew to accept thorn as an inevitable result of the extraordinary risks of the business, but when it was possible to reduce the risks it was wasteful and shameful not to do it. No one who had inventoried the childish effects of a young apprentice seaman could have had anything but pity for the limited powers of self-preservation which might be expected of such a one, or fail to exert the utmost effort to avoid a situation which might overtax those powers.
Far more formidable than all the other risks was the omnipresent menace of the sea itself. It was most deceptively dangerous when it was quiet and peaceful, for then it might either lash out in an unheralded storm and so trap the unwary or simply draw down into its fatal embrace the weak swimmer, the stunned, the drunken, the sick, or the careless. A growing familiarity with the sea’s vastness made some of the men contemptuous of the fact that six feet of water could drown an able man and six inches a disabled one. Swimming was fine when properly supervised (as it would not be off training LSTs), but to turn a bunch of careless kids loose in the water was making an unprofitable bet against the law of averages.
There was a knock on the door. “Come in,” I said, and looked around. “What can I do for you, Mr. Johnson?” It was not until the last evening that it happened. A messenger came in just as we were assembling in the wardroom for supper and spoke to me quietly. I walked out rapidly, followed by my Executive Officer, and in a moment one of the junior officers came in with the news that a man was missing from the swimming party at the bow of the outboard ship. The officers were to proceed with supper without the Commanding Officer.
these acts would be the ritual of investigation. If the officer in command of the training exercise had any confidence in the predictive value of past occurrences, he would not be too concerned about the consequences.
The officers in the wardroom dutifully proceeded with their suppers, and straggled out on deck. They congregated at the high, sloping bow and looked over at the place where the drowning had taken place. It looked innocent enough in the fading light. According to the story going around, a treacherous tidal current had developed on the other side of the ship and the boy had been taken out by it.
Horton was standing by me at the rail. “I hope our men have learned something from this.”
I agreed, without indicating that I considered the hope well founded. Horton hesitated. He wanted to say something he thought indisputable, but was inhibited by the sound disinclination to do anything that could be considered flattering. Finally, his innate kindliness and his confidence that he would not be misunderstood released the sentence. “They ought to be grateful.” I continued to look at the beach. “Gratitude has become one of the lost virtues.” I started to say that it involved humility, but checked myself, and the two of us watched in quiet understanding as the colors of the evening softened into night.
I entered the Quonset hut and threw my hat on the bunk. “Here are our copies of the orders, I said to Horton. “There are some extras there.” I looked at the personnel jackets, which Horton had been sorting. “Did they give you all of them?” I asked. “All except two,” was the reply. “They’re going to send two seamen second over at eighteen hundred with their own orders and jackets. We can quarter them in the Queen area tonight.
“Well, plenty of things will come up tomorrow,” I said regretfully. “They always do at the last minute. But I think we’re about ready.”
“I’ll be glad to get the men out of this place,” Horton said with feeling.
“So will I.” I sat down on his footlocker. I paused, then spoke suddenly, as if making a reluctant confession—which it was well to have over with as quickly as possible. “They’re a sorry lot.” I chose my words carefully. “Perhaps it’s difficult, without a fuller standard of comparison, to assay just how sorry they are. It’s not just that they lack spirit. Except in such a case as yours, or where a man has just come into the service, the fact that he hasn’t gone to sea by now shows how much spirit he has. Some of them are cowards. There are a percentage of them who will malinger before we get out of Pittsburgh, and some more of them will be in the hospital by the time we leave New Orleans.
“The fundamental trouble is that they don’t want to fight. There are a few men in the crowd, but by and large the crew will have to be made to fight, and to the extent that we can do it, made to want to fight. It can be done, and we can do it, but it will be hard.” I rose, and the sight of the personnel jackets inspired an afterthought. “This isn’t just my idea. I don’t have any figures on comparative discipline records, but look at the trails these men have left behind them: AOEI, AWOL, whiskey in possession, shirking duty, disobedience—the whole list.” 1 thought of the great brawl at Key West. “If there were just a few manly crimes recorded, I wouldn’t mind quite so much. Thank Heaven for the few men we have who do look as if they might be able to stand up and be counted. There are some quiet ones that we’ll hear from later on. It’s a good thing. We’ll need them.”
Horton listened to this discouraging evaluation in silence. He realized that it had been deliberately timed. Had it been given earlier, it might have prejudiced Horton, but on the eve of their departure for the shipyard, an opinion such as this had to be furnished to the Executive Officer as a clear warning of trouble to come.
“I wish we were going to sea tomorrow,” he said.
“I’ll say. In fact, I wish we had gone to sea the day we reported to this place. We’d all be better off.”
Okinawa may not be the Pearl of the Pacific, but it looks more desirable from a military standpoint than most of the places I’ve seen out here. It has a bunch of airfields, some good anchorages, and, of all things on Pacific islands, a little harbor. At this writing Naha, the harbor, is still in the hands of the Japs. But it is just a matter of time before it falls. When we start bombers working from Okinawa, the Japanese homefolks are going to have their problems. Of course, Okinawa will be bombed too, off and on, but we’ll probably hurt them worse than they hurt us.
On the way up to 0kinawa, the weather was rough, rainy, and miserable. Troops were all over the ship like ants on a piece of fruitcake. We were able to feed them well, and most of them ate, but it was a pretty hard life for them. We ran from Ulithi, right in the trough of the sea, the l200 miles to Okinawa. But a couple of days from 0kinawa, the weather broke and we had good steaming.
D-day (L-day as it was called in this operation for no reason I know of) was a beautiful, calm, cloudless day. The night before, we steamed under a beautiful moon, which the Japanese appreciated more than we did. Their attacks were light and comparatively ineffective. Our rehearsal for this operation had been excellent, and on the morning of D-day we all did our stuff as planned.
The supporting naval bombardment far exceeded our fondest hopes and was quite the heaviest I have ever seen. However, the fact that there was no counter-fire was a great surprise to me. The landings were almost entirely unopposed. The stories of the ease by which the beach and adjacent areas were secured are quite true. Apparently, the Japanese committed their entire force to a defense elsewhere, and did not man their positions where our people went in. They did have excellent prepared positions from which a small number of men could have fought effectively enough to have slowed our advance and made the securing of the beachhead costly.
The Japanese expended a great many planes in action against our naval forces—and in attacks on our ground troops—but their expenditures are so out of proportion to their results that I do not think their air power can do anything but decline as the unequal struggle goes on. They are losing far more planes than we are. Many of their planes are intercepted on the way to the place where they are going to do their bombing. It seems to me from the reports of specific engagements with which I am familiar, that at least half of the Japanese planes are being shot down before they get where they’re going. By the time they have run the gauntlet, the rest of the Japanese are disorganized and scattered, so that they are unable to launch a coordinated attack. Of course, it isn’t always like that, but I have never heard of any big air group getting past our fighter cover, maybe three or four at a time, but no more.
Once they do get in, the various weapons now carried by naval ships knock most of them down. Some are successful, but they certainly pay for their successes. The Germans got better results at less cost. We were all pleased when the Yamato was sunk. She was supposedly a very fine battleship. The Japanese have very little naval strength left.
By the way, the fine weather of D-day degenerated by about D plus 3, but by that time we had our people pretty well set-up ashore. The operation seemed to run off pretty well on the whole. It was organized intelligently, and considering its magnitude, the details of execution were adequately handled. There was a thorough rehearsal that readied us for the mechanics of the operation and familiarized us with the basic problems involved. It was the easiest invasion I have ever been in, and if we can arrange for them to all be like this I will have few harsh words for the Pacific Theater.
There was general air activity the night before the landings on Okinawa. We could keep fairly good track of the planes by the bogey reports that came in. There were several groups of ships within our horizon. Sometimes there was firing, sometimes the short bright glow that means a plane has crashed; more rarely there was the sustained flame of a ship on fire. The one attack on our own convoy was unsuccessful, but alerted the ship’s company to the full possibilities of the situation.
An increase in aerial attacks is normally expected at dawn and sunset. For a short time the planes can see ships very clearly and it is most difficult to see the planes. Just before the sun came up, we were a little north of Cape Lampa Misaki, standing down toward the area where we would launch our LVTs. There was a lovely pink eastern sky, and our battleships were ranged in their bombardment line ready to commence their work.
Astern of us, some transports were under attack. A plane went down. Some more tracer fire began to arc up from a point below the horizon and swing deliberately across the sky, following a plane. A small float plane appeared on the port side of our convoy. He was going the same way we were. When he was just abeam of the center ships, two of them opened up. Nearly all the others followed suit. Accuracy was not exceptional, but there was enough volume to do the work. The plane’s right wing went down with a gesture which seems almost animatedly to say, “I’m done for.” He burst into flames, crossed the forward port ships in the convoy, and crashed a little ahead and to starboard of the leading ship in our column. When he began to flame, our troops and ships’ company cheered wildly, and the cheering rose to a crescendo when he crashed harmlessly.
They were almost dazed at our public-address system announcement: “You have just seen an American plane shot down. Now you understand why you were not allowed to fire.”
You have probably read in magazines about theKamikaze, or Special Attack Corps. This is a group of earnest young Nipponese who have as their primary ambition diving their planes into American ships. It seems quite a cold-blooded pursuit at first blush, and of course when you see these gentlemen in action, the lethal nature of their intentions is graphically impressed upon one.
Well, you know a lot of gossip goes around during a war even as during peace. One of the items is that a plane tried to crash one of our battleships and missed, crashing into the water close aboard, Surprising enough, the pilot lived a little while. He turned out to be fifteen years old. He had 60 hours of flying time. He had a flame resistant suit so if his plane caught fire he could pilot it to its objective anyway.
Now when I see one of these misguided citizens, I do not have an uncontrollable impulse to order the guns to hold their fire. Do not get the wrong idea. Nevertheless, I have never cheered when an enemy plane fell, and now when one of those chaps goes down, I can’t help thinking of some of the 15 year old boys I know.
A plane itself, like a ship, seems pretty impersonal, but there may be in that Japanese plane a scared little undernourished 15-year-old boy. He’s all hopped up with a lot of stuff about the divinity of the Emperor, and of course he has already had a snappy funeral and send off, but I have an idea that when the tracers start reaching up toward him he’s just a scared kid.
I saw one in the April 6th attack on the invasion forces at Okinawa; he made a bee-line for a hospital ship. He took plenty of punishment going in, but they just knocked him down a hundred or so yards short of the ship. Of course that doesn’t stimulate any springs of compassion for the pilot. Surely though, if we could arrange to bring that lad up right he would be of some use to the world. He might not exactly be a second Pasteur or Lister, but at least he probably wouldn’t be going around in an airplane trying to knock off a lot of guys who are already wounded and can’t take very good care of themselves anyway.
From the little I have seen of the suicide planes, which is not enough to qualify me as an authority, I would say they are overrated as a menace. Of course, a certain number of them may get through to hit an objective, like bombs do, but their average doesn’t seem very high. A modern ship can throw up an awful lot of lead.
The attached clipping provoked many guffaws when the April 16 TIME magazine turned up. The fellow who wrote this must have been hiding in the bilges of the landing boat, not looking out of it.
We were close enough to this incident to contribute some antiaircraft fire, and consequently feel some confidence in our observations. It wasn’t a twin bomber. He didn’t pick out a transport; he tried to crash-dive a hospital ship. (He just missed, too.) He didn’t really throw one of his engines at the reporter, either. He didn’t catch fire and start to roll over. He just put one wing down to adjust his course a little. You have to do that when you turn.
What got all of us was that the incident was dramatic enough in the most factual telling. Why these characters overlay their accounts with a lot of fantasy is beyond me. If he had sent home a factual narrative of what actually happened, he would have had a good story. One of the little fantasies we indulge in from time to time is the idea of an invasion, the first wave of which would consist entirely of reporters and cameramen. As you can imagine, we embroider and embellish this concept with great pleasure.
We felt ever so badly about Ernie Pyle. He is the one reporter who we felt was one of us. It made me feel sort of good to know he was going to be at Okinawa. We found it out at Ulithi; he was there, too. Most of us took a very personal interest in him, and considered him a semi acquaintance. I suppose that is particularly true of those who had been in an operation with him. I think his stature will increase rather than diminish. Certainly he will be remembered with great affection by a lot of fighting men.
When I was a young man and all fired up with intellectual curiosity, either I understood something that came into my sphere of activity or I belabored the subject—and myself—in an effort to find the answers. In those days I either did not know or would not admit that there were any questions too difficult for an answer.
But now that I am old and sage, I realize and confess that there are a good many things that will never be comprehended by anyone. We may guess, but not know. So when the war began, I opened up a special department in my mind entitled Things I’ll Never Understand, feeling certain that my naval career would amplify my realization of what I know not. This device has been very useful indeed. Many of my associates, envying my calm when the orders conflict, the signals make no sense, or a mild administrative muddle raises its head, have established similar devices to their profit.
One thing in particular I am convinced I know nothing about is why our enemies act the way they do. This is no great loss; the deficiency can be made up by a careful reading of Madeleine’s history books, most of which will probably have been written by conscientious objectors. Or the Atlantic Monthly or even Readers Digest may favor us with a five-page button-up of the Fascist Mind.
Of course one gets a differing perspective through a peep-sight than when viewing the enemy from the summits of Radio City. The latter view is undoubtedly more objective and detached. In fact, it is so detached that it probably never heard of a couple of incidents that I am about to drag out of my intellectual skeleton closet. Read me the answer to this:
On D-day, the Japs apparently thought we were going to land on the southern part of the island, whereas we landed on the western beaches. They concentrated their defensive units in the south. This was a simple mistake. But within a thousand or so yards of our beaches were two of the best airfields in the Ryukyu chain; they were protected by many guns and other installations. These weren’t manned. Even that, though incautious, is explicable. But when our people moved in, there was literally almost no one there. I heard there was one man on one airfield, a few on the other. Where were the maintenance personnel? They could have fought from the pillboxes there. They were not needed for the southern defense sector because they were not combat troops. The fields were under attack, but they were not unusable. Had we been delayed there, our air power would have been that much longer getting established. They say it was quite an odd feeling, to move in to those deserted areas. (Since writing that I have learned more about how many Japanese were on the island, and their failure to defend the airfields is even more mystifying.)
Here is another odd one: On D plus 1 or D plus 2 the Japanese knew we had their airfields, but all the same a plane deliberately came into one. It was a single-engine fighter plane with plenty of gas and ammunition. He strafed an LVT, setting it on fire, circled the field, and calmly landed. Our people stopped firing and covered him. The pilot got out, put his head down, and started running toward nowhere in particular. He was shot. The next day a fighter plane came in, strafed a pillbox, and landed. The pilot ran and was shot. Nobody here seems able to figure that out. Were the pilots saki’d up? Were they indulging in the Japanese gesture of contempt accomplished by committing hare kiri on an enemy’s doorstep? You guess; I just work here.
Several times I have watched Japanese planes in the rays of searchlights. The first time, the character up in the sky just cruised along looking around. A twin engine bomber, he went right over the transport area with all the large caliber guns in the place blazing away at him, and when he got almost out of searchlight range obligingly turned around and came back. He was quite high, but within range. He took no evasive action at all. The shooting was pretty bad; he went home. As far as we know he never did drop any bombs. What impressed us was the way he just streamed along in a straight line. Any self-respecting German pilot would have been cavorting all over the place. Another Jap tried the same thing sometime later and took a slug. He put the nose right down so as to get where he was going in a hurry. About half way down there was an explosion and he shed a few pieces. The plane fell harmlessly into the water. If he had been aiming for someone, I guess the explosion threw him off the target. But the question is, why don’t they take evasive action?
Remember the Sunday you said you hoped I wasn’t at Okinawa? Well, I was, but it was quiet on the whole. That day a lone Jap kept popping in and out of a cloud over the beach. Maybe he was sending a story home about us, maybe he was trying to make up his mind. He wasn’t really inexplicable, but he was an odd number. He was knocked down without having a chance to explain his intentions.
For all these tidbits about the Japanese, I would rather fight them than the “Goimans.” There has been a good deal of air activity, but they are expending an awful lot of planes, and of course they have many more naval targets in this theater. There is no use calling attention to Japanese deficiencies, but the Germans were more effective, plane for plane. When the war is over, we’ll be glad to point out the Japanese mistakes.
As you have undoubtedly gathered, there are a number of small islands near Okinawa, which seem characteristic of the Ryukyu chain. We have been lucky to see most of the ones we hold, in the course of doing a few odd jobs subsequent to the initial phase of the operation. Those we have seen are Ie Shima, Kerama Retto, Iheya, and Aguni.
Ie Shima lies off Motobu Peninsula, part of Okinawa. It is off the northwest coast. All of the above islands are in the East China Sea. It is best known for being the place where Ernie Pyle was killed. There were still a few snipers hanging around (none sniped at us). There’s nothing distinctive about the place. Iheya is next, geographically. It is really quite pretty. There are smaller islands around it. Of course, you have seen newspaper charts of all of these. We took Iheya without opposition. There had been some Japanese there, but they apparently considered defense impracticable and went to Okinawa in boats after the shooting began on Okinawa. Some of them probably got through.
There is much disease and malnutrition among the natives on Iheya. Aguni lies off to the west of the Hagushi area of Okinawa, where the original landings were made. It has a fairly nice cliff on one end, but is otherwise undistinguished. It has the customary reef around it. Kerarna Retto is south and west of Haguishi. It provides quite the most striking scenery we have seen in the Pacific to date. It seems to be a group of sunken mountains, with their tops sticking out of the water. They are wooded and, as an intelligence report would say, “afford excellent concealment for a defending force.” Mist hangs around the tops of the hills and the general impression is reminiscent of the Trossachs. On the largest island are between 600 and 800 well-organized Japanese. Two captured Japanese volunteered to go in and talk to them about surrender. They stopped at a native village at one end of the island and got a couple of ladies to accompany them. Upon arriving at Japanese HQ, the heads of all four were carefully detached and returned to the native village. So the word has been passed, as we say, that the garrison means to fight. We have since learned that they expect to be able to hold on until Nippon wins the war and comes back to relieve them. They think it’s just a question of time. Some of the islands we hold have snipers. Those who go far from the beach alone have a good chance of not returning.
We saw a pretty little shrine on one island. It is mined; stay away.
The story about the children blowing themselves up—along with a few of our people—on one of the islands of Kerama Retto seems to be true. I thought it was very pitiful. The children on Okinawa were cute. However, I didn’t try to take any back to the ship. There was a Jap poem in TIME about the children on Kerama Retto. I guess the guy who told them whatever you tell children to make them do such things is a Japanese hero. What a bunch of bastards.
The following letter was presented to all hands by Captain Andrew Duncan and placed in their personnel jackets:
U.S.S. LST-791
Fleet Post Office
San Francisco, Calif.
4 July 1945
From: Commanding Officer
To: (each crew member)
1. Because memory is short and because recognition of your combat duty should be assured, this is written by a grateful commanding officer to serve as a permanent record of your participation in the Okinawa campaign. It will certify that as a member of the ship’s company of LST 791 you carried United States Marines from Guadalcanal to Ulithi to Okinawa, participating in the major assault on 1 April 1945. It will remind you of the useful and varied load we carried through rough seas: LVTs, pontoon causeways, an LCT, gasoline, ammunition, field rations, and other odds and ends which serve the forces of invasion. This will establish the fact that you stayed at the beachhead throughout the period of 1 - 11 April 1945, defending your ship and cargo effectively against the attacks of the enemy and delivering the goods intact.
2. On your return to the Marianas, after an availability, the ship took on a full load of Army ammunition. With a small tug in tow you returned to Okinawa, arriving on 19 May. After unloading the ammunition and dispatching the tug, you performed varied duties at Okinawa, Ie Shima, Kerama Retto, Iheya, and Aguni, leaving the area on 22 June. This was the day Okinawa was declared secured.
3. The large number of Marines and other passengers carried to Okinawa taxed the ship’s facilities and presented many problems. Your successful handling of these is affirmed by the enclosed letter from the Marine commanding officer, Lt. Colonel H. C. Woodhouse, Jr.
4. Your fine work in this campaign has made you and your ship a tempered weapon, ready for further use against the enemies of your country.
Passed by Naval Censor
(s) WBN
ANDREW DUNCAN, JR.
Lieutenant, USCGR
NOT FOR PUBLICATION OR BROADCAST BY RADIO.
One day an Army engineer was aboard for awhile. He had served in China for and had helped build some of the Chinese air bases. He said it was quite amazing what the Chinese had done in the way of building airstrips and roads by hand. They are just like ants, he had said. He had seen children building roads by carrying earth on large leaves. In time they get them built. Apparently the reason they don’t all burn out from this labor is the fact that haste is not considered essential. There are frequent conferences for this and that; and meals, while not abundant, are frequent. The Chinese evidently take a few Jap prisoners. When one of these is marched by, all thousand of the human ants will rush over and shout insults quite bravely, returning to their labors in due time. Of course all this is hearsay, but the Chinese and their part in the war do sound interesting.
Even as the bulldozer is our engineers’ favorite weapon, the steamroller is the Japanese’s. They will try to take them anywhere and over the most difficult roads, with fair success. The earth they tamp down is carried by hand, by impressed labor.
When this engineer officer left China, he went to the Philippines. He says he ran into some guerillas at a place where the Japanese had been particularly brutal and they captured a Jap soldier. They made him eat his ears then cut his head off. The engineer got in late, but said he felt the guerillas had overdone themselves a bit.
Do you recall my telling you about Dr. Pritchett, who turned up in April after setting out in November? And that the day he turned up his orders came to return to the States upon being relieved? That was 17 April (the orders were dated 12 May). Dr. Cluxton was ordered out to relieve him. Well, I didn’t tell Dr. Pritchett for about a month, anticipating what actually happened, because he was supposed to start flight surgeons’ school on 22 April or as soon thereafter as he could get back after being relieved, and I knew he would be disappointed. In May I told him, but cautioned him not to write his wife unless he wanted to take a chance on disappointing her. He wrote her anyway (he is only 24), and two days later we learned that Dr. Cluxton had hotfooted it to Washington and gotten his orders changed, a second McNulty. Of course, Dr. Pritchett was crushed, and didn’t know what to tell his wife, either. So he stewed around at a terrific rate for two months, saying “What do you think I should tell my wife?” to anyone who would listen. About two weeks ago, he finally quit stalling and told her it was all a mistake and he wasn’t coming home. But a relief was finally dug up for him, who arrived several days ago. We have packed the Doc off in a state of justifiable confusion.
We had a lot of fun out of Dr. Pritchett, because he once told Mr. Bohrer he (B.) had an abnormal startle reaction. A couple of days later, we were in Kerama Retto and got underway at first light to discharge some cargo. We had to cross a seaplane runway and at about six o’clock a twin-engine plane took off right astern of the ship, very low. The motors made a good deep roar. The Doc thought it was one of the Japanese coming aboard the hard way and got out of his bunk, rushed to the head, and flung himself on the deck, a bare and quivering mass. Mr. Bohrer came in to shave at that point, and as a consequence the subject of startle reactions was thoroughly discussed for several days to come. The new Doctor is named Wilson and is from Texas. He is quiet, a virtue in a shipmate, and any idiosyncrasies will be faithfully recorded for your amusement.
In default of mail I shall chronicle a few heavy weather incidents—which sound kind of dull but had their moments. How much the public is told about the details of carrying pontoon causeways is an indeterminate which will make me a little vague. But I suppose the numerous articles about them have informed you that they weigh 90 to l00 tons, cost the government $200,000 apiece, and are of a size that is quite in keeping with their cost and weight.
Well, we lugged a couple of these cozy little items a good many thousand miles, but they and the weather didn’t really get cantankerous until we stood out of Ulithi for Okinawa. It had been messy before, but not too bad.
The main thing an LST hates is a beam sea. She rolls so jerkily that cargo has to be constantly tended or it will come adrift. (LSTs have an 8-second roll.) We put out of Ulithi on 25 March into a nasty patch of weather and it was as bad or worse until the 31st, when it providentially broke. (That, by the way, is the third time in four invasions that the weather has turned good just before we went in.) It seemed there was a good chance that the beam sea we had on the 25th would hold, and it certainly did. We couldn’t deviate far enough from our base course to get much relief.
Only a few of the ships had their pontoons as long as we, which was a good thing because metal fatigue was setting in on the securing gear. Every now and then a big sea would kick us hard and something would break. We had a detachment of Seabees aboard whose contributions to the invasion was the care and feeding of our pontoons. They knew their job, like most Seabees, and when something carried away they were right on the scene to weld it together again. That system worked all right when only one thing came apart at a time, but sometimes more than one came apart and then we had to cross our fingers pretty fervently. Every now and then something would go overboard or be broken irreparably, and we were steadily losing ground. None of us had been able to get any spare securing gear, I guess because of the size of the operation. MacDougall, the Seabee officer, and I had talked about this and had decided that we would cut into parts of the ship that were nonessential if necessary but that we were going to keep the pontoons.
The 769 was next ahead of us and I was concerned about him. They had operated under my command at a time when I had taken four other LSTs on a little junket. We had been together for a couple of months and I suspected his situation was close. Bertini, the captain, was a good sailor, but I was afraid his pontoon might go in the drink some dark night right in my way. It must have been about the 29th, in the afternoon, that he pulled out hard and dropped back between the columns. The starboard columns saw what was happening and opened up to him go out into the sea and minimize the roll, but it was no use. We couldn’t see it too well for the rain and mist, but we got the general idea. No one was hurt or lost overboard, though. One more was lost that day by another ship and one the next day.
Poor Bertini got back in station about sunset; about ten that night he turned on his breakdown lights and hauled out again. This time it was a crane, which had parted its securing chains and was charging about like Victor Hugo’s cannon. To make it worse, it had ripped into some oil drums and there was no decent footing. Much to their credit, they were able to get it secured again. I heard his report on the radio and we certainly felt for him. About 0200 there was a sharp crash and we began to fear for ourselves. Several securing members had carried away simultaneously and the after-end of the pontoon causeway was hopping around with each roll as though it was ready to continue the voyage alone. I told MacDougall to break out his welding gear and charged back up to the conn. The convoy commodore gave us permission to weld—so the Japanese, if they were looking, were treated to the weird spectacle of an LST wallowing around drunkenly and emitting about as much blue light as the Brooklyn Navy Yard. We welded and cut for a couple of hours and were very relieved when at the end of it the causeway seemed firmly with us once more. Essentially, we had simply welded the pontoon to the side of the ship, since most of the securing gear was gone.
The next day we continued to embellish a structure which is peculiar enough as originally designed. The weather continued to remind us of the North Atlantic and there was a fairly deep kicking sea. There were low traveling gray clouds with occasional rain, and you know how salty the water gets in that weather. But at least planes couldn’t find us and it was rough for subs.
On D minus 1, the wind and sea died down, the sun shone, and life was good again. As usual, the fine weather raised our spirits greatly, and if anyone had seemed interested we would have been glad to carry the pontoons on to Tokyo.
I can see that I should have told you more about anyone I enjoy as much as Bertini. He is a little Italian, 32, and had his own 125-foot patrol boat out of San Pedro for a while. Those who have operated on small boats always have a feeling for their ships that big-ship men lack. When we meet we always spend a lot of time talking about our ships. Bertini always starts off pessimistically. He waves his hands, shrugs his shoulders, screws up his little dark face. Things are very bad. “And then guess what happened?” he will say, commencing a still more trying incident in the existence of the 769. “You wouldn’t believe it” usually ushers in some tale which sounds as though it could only end in the loss of the ship with all hands. About this time somebody usually clubs him on the back and says “Where did she go down, Bert?” So he grins wryly and says things have come out pretty well, all things considered.
The Seabees are very fine. I think they are the most competent workmen I have seen during the war. They are renowned for their ingenuity and are very industrious. They are masters at handling heavy weights. MacDougall and his crowd stayed at Okinawa about six weeks, then were relieved.
Some of the large ammunition ships that carried the stuff up to Okinawa originally had unsuccessful encounters with the Kamikaze, so some LSTs were thrown in as pinch-hitters. We were among those lucky to be so nominated, and picked up 1183 tons of plain and fancy explosives at Guam. We also got three tons of mail. Returning to Saipan, we took a small tug in tow (they threw it in for nothing) and set out. There were two other LSTs and a few harebrained escorts.
Contrary to what may be the popular view, ammunition is good cargo. They always stow it well so that it does not shift; it is clean, and it furnishes none of the small incidental problems that vehicles or general cargo present. Also, when you carry ammunition you don’t carry personnel. Carrying personnel is our job, but when we legitimately get out of it we don’t mind. Another thing is that ammunition is good and heavy and sets the hull well down in the water, making the ship ride well. We had carried ammo from Mobile to Pearl and were familiar with it. However, people who do not believe in predestination are apt to feel that such cargo causes a temporary alteration of one’s life expectancy, and sometimes other ships have a tendency to avoid you if you have the red flag flying. One’s normal care in handling the ship is increased by the inadvisability of bumping anything very hard. Most ammo is fairly inert, but in a mixed ammo cargo there is so much fused stuff that accidents are possible.
Since you (my uncle) are accustomed to the handling of explosives, I thought you might be interested in the foregoing. It also gives a little background to an accident that took place while we were unloading.
Two of the great weapons of this war are the pontoon and the bulldozer, and I often wish you could see them as they are used in the forward areas. The beaches at Hagushi were not the best in the world and it was necessary to use pontoon causeways for handling major loads In quantity. Here is how they do it. The coral reef extends some distance, say about 400 or 500 yards. On the reef there is between zero and about seven feet of water, depending on the state of the tide and the indentations on the reef. In many places the reef is above water at low tide. With dump trucks and bulldozers they push a fill out along the highest convenient portion of the reef, using oil drums filled with dirt to bulwark the sides. The top of this improvised road is above high tide. Although the road has to be repaired from time to time, it does not usually erode too fast because the reef breaks up the big seas, when there are any. However, as the road goes out, it meets stronger opposition from the sea, and ultimately it is necessary to use pontoon causeways. These are floated into place at high tide and anchored, sometimes after preparatory demolition work on the reef. Pontoon sections may be wholly or partially flooded for stability, depending on the depth of the reef. The inshore one was completely flooded, I believe, and the middle one was partially or completely flooded. They were good and stable. The out-shore pontoon was free to move at high tide, and though grounded at the inshore end, had play. Good many chains secured it to the middle pontoon.
We were ordered in there one night to unload. We beached, or rather moored, our bow to the pontoon. We had 500 feet of stern anchor cable out and had lines to the two seaward pontoons. In addition, we had chained the bow ramp to the seaward causeway because an appliance, designed to hold it steady, had been torn off by a previous customer. On the second day of the unloading, a strong wind and sea came up from about south-southwest. We put two more chains on the bow ramp, doubled our lines, and finally put a boat on the port side to push and thus help hold her still. The ammunition was badly needed, but the wind and sea increased so that under normal conditions we would have called it off. However, I asked for discretion to take any steps that might become necessary. Upon getting it (including permission to secure unloading, if desired), I felt fortified.
Just about midnight, I was standing at the bow watching our massive loose linkage shudder as each wave came in, when the messenger on watch brought a message that a cold front with high winds was expected at 0400. We stood there chewing over that item, and in about l0 minutes the conn called to say our heading was slowly diminishing. (They had orders to advise of any change of as much as one degree.) The boat was ordered to stop pushing; just then, with a great whoop the cold front arrived.
I had started up to the conn as soon as the reverse swing started, but the initial gust was so hard that by the time I got up there—and before the boat could check the swing—we had snapped the ramp-to-pontoon chains, carried away the bitts on the second pontoon, and except for one or two sets of chains, the outboard pontoon was free of the middle one. As a very heavy rain began, we closed the bow, heaved-in on the stern anchor, cast off from the pontoon, used the boat to hold our head up, and when clear dropped the bow anchor. We sat between the two anchors, with a good strain on each, until the good old Seabees had induced their errant pontoon to quiet down. The weather became calmer in about an hour and the Seabees were able to start lacing the pontoons together again. They were ready by dawn, so we reestablished connection and proceeded with the war.
My observation of Manila was of limited scope and duration, but some things stood out clearly.
Like many large cities, Manila is composed of several smaller cities, all contiguous but all distinguishable. The demarcations, though slightly blurred by the damage, are clearer than in many cities. The Chinese section is very distinctive; the poor suburbs approach in places the wretched hovels of the rural sections. The metropolitan section contains some very substantial old structures, including the inevitable cathedrals, which may be relics of the Spanish era. There is an old-fashioned business district with office buildings of the type built in the early twenties—in the midst of less pretentious structures, such as grocery stores. It is a sort of cross between Mobile, Market Street, and parts of Oran.
The entrepreneurs’ proprietary interest in the sidewalk, one of the more valuable intangible assets of any business conducted by those of Latin blood or background, is clearly manifested in this section. Then there is the part of town which was planned, and which as a consequence has broad streets, traffic circles, large public buildings, and vacant places where further luster was intended for the Pearl of the Orient.
A few buildings are relatively intact, but most of them gutted, dynamited, or at least shot-up. In some of the poorer sections, damage was haphazard and limited, but good many of the better buildings were ruined. The overall destruction is not comparable to that of a city that has been carefully bombed and subjected to artillery attack, such as Bizerte. But it is enough, and it was the result of vandalism, not war.
In June 1943, when I was getting ready for an excursion to Sicily and people at a safe distance were still talking about the soft underbelly of Europe, the l3g 3rd Engineers arrived in England. To give you an idea of how the service was mushrooming in those days, it was the 36th Engineers we took to Licata; they had come to Africa with the great old 3rd Division. So the 13g 3rd were probably pretty green when they got to England.
During the next year, they must have learned a great deal, because when they landed in Normandy on the greatest D-day of the war, they evidently gave a pretty good account of themselves. Then they followed General Patton’s wild riding 3rd Army right across Europe. They worked hard, were in five major battles, and saw the whole show.
In July of this year, they went to Marseilles and embarked for Manila. The only pause was at the Panama Canal, where they awaited their turn like every one does. In August they reached Manila, which is not a garden spot. Early the next month they came aboard us to go to Tokyo.
Some of them became eligible for point discharge while we were en route. Maybe they will get home in a few months. Their spirit is good. Except for a little routine beefing, they do not crab. They did not expect the war to be a picnic, and it isn’t. They are good soldiers; we were proud to have them aboard and we told them so.
Tokyo Bay is one of the finest bays in the world and Yokohama is a great industrial port that takes full advantage of its position on the bay. It is protected by two extensive breakwaters and has good dock space. Inlets enlarge the alongside area and it is apparent from the soundings we were getting that the bottom has been dredged out to a greater depth than that shown on the charts. Hammerhead cranes and railway facilities enable bulky lifts to be handled without great difficulty. Extensive industrial plants of all sorts line the waterfront just back of the docks. Behind the industrial section was apparently the business and residential section.
Most of the industrial plants are standing. Some are burned out, some are slightly damaged, and some untouched. Damage here was disappointing. But the business and residential section was practically demolished. Some isolated buildings stood—a few shells, and the rest a flattened waste. The rubble was of a flimsy light type and in many places the construction must have been of such a type that it was almost all consumed by fire. What remained of their architecture was undistinguished by any remarkable features. It was an imitation of conventional European and American including some of the less desirable modernistic.
The LST 791 had the distinction of being the first ship larger than a minesweeper to enter Tokyo Harbor after the peace. And it will probably continue to be the only LST ever to enter.
Tokyo Harbor is at the head of Tokyo Bay, several miles above Yokahama. Entry is made by a fairly narrow channel. The harbor itself is long and wide enough for easy maneuvering. Facilities are good, but not as extensively developed as Yokahama.
We went in one afternoon and arrived inside just as the Army discovered that the concrete ramp they had selected for us had no egress for the mechanized equipment we carried. So we tied up to a mooring buoy and Mr. Horton, Major Graddison, and I went ashore for a reconnaissance. We proceeded quite far up the river, but there was no suitable place to discharge the load. The only result of that search and a similar one the next morning was some good sight-seeing. We ultimately had to go back to Yokahama and discharge our cargo there, though the Army would have preferred Tokyo, had a suitable beach been found. The other LSTs booked for Tokyo did not even enter the harbor and all LST unloading scheduled for Tokyo was transferred to Yokahama.
Just as we were about to moor in the harbor, having managed the channel by constant use of the sounding lead and a liberal application of luck, what should come puffing up but a Japanese pilot boat and an important-looking pilot. The Jacob’s Ladder was over the side for the use of the beach master, so it was hauled up just as the pilot hove alongside. Although I was unable to see him from the conn, it is reported that he was suffering great loss of face and was requesting that the ladder be lowered. It was not, and I fear it is barely possible that some unruly members of the crew may have been unnecessarily emphatic in advising the pilot that, having entered the harbor without his assistance, we would be able to tie up to the buoy unaided.
We much regretted that we were unable to go into the interior of the city, which, like that of Yokahama, was reported to have been largely destroyed. Some portions of the business and shopping sections were reported to be in good condition, though, and I would like to have gotten some gifts. Near the waterfront there was little destruction. A few warehouses had been burned. Most of the people had been moved away from the waterfront, and the impression was almost that of a deserted city. A few people were fishing from the docks. No chimneys were smoking, no vehicles were visible. There were signs of looting and a few Japanese were seen quietly engaging in this time-honored practice.
When we went up the river, we passed under a fine-looking, 3-span cantilever bridge with white stone supports. The middle span was navigational; a drawbridge with the cantilever under the road way, bisected, rather than hinged at only one end. As it was dusk, we felt lucky not to get a fishhook in the eye from the anglers above, if nothing worse.
A ferry passing ahead of us showed that there was still life in the somnolent city; it was crowded and reminded us a little of—well, there is a ferry in Dartmouth like it, but English would resent the likeness. The occasion gave rise to much mutual rubbernecking. We were in an LCVP, which I’ll grant is odd-looking anyway, and it must have been the first American boat to come above the bridge. A number of Japanese waved, but we maintained a glum and conquering impassivity.
From the sea, most cities look alike in so many respects that the differences are easier to remark than the similarities. And now that I think of the appearance of the Tokyo waterfront, realize that most of the notable details are so purely nautical as to be of little significance to one who has not spent a good deal of time looking at cities waterfront-first. However, one thing that had a fairly distinct character was a poor part of the city where it impinged on the river. It was crowded, as all poor parts are, but worse, and even in the soft light of evening there was something evil and diseased about the flimsy mass. The stilted structures tottering above the water made me think of a glacier, as if the sinister things evolving there were from time to time cast out into the world.
The Bronze Buddha of Kamakura is easily the most impressive single thing I have viewed in Japan. Four little photographs were purchased at the site. I am completely unable to identify the objects in the three small photographs not of the Buddha. Though I did not remain long in silent communion with this bronze idol, I considered the interview very enlightening. The idol spends his time in passive contemplation of those who are energetic and curious enough to come and gaze at him. Since he keeps his great big mouth permanently shut, his reputation as a prophet is never diminished by a mistake and no one ever goes away disappointed. At the gates to the grounds, the following sign appears: “Stranger, whosoever be thy gods or whatsoever be thy creed, remember as you enter here that the ground you tread has been hallowed by the worship of the Ages.”
The Buddha was cast in sections (the seams are horizontal and just visible in the photographs.) A temple was erected around it many years ago, but a tidal wave has since destroyed the temple and is said to have moved the statue 30 feet.
Draw up your high chairs, my frowsy headed little darlings, and Fafa will tell you how he happened to visit a Japanese household. The facts are rather involved, and if you can follow them you will be doing better than Fafa will do when he is as old as the square of your combined ages; but hang on to your Jell-O cups and away we’ll go.
In the first place, Fafa is a well known sucker for kiddies. This even applies to the Japanese kiddies, if they give Fafa half a break, even though the old boy was earnestly trying to score on the Japanese just a few months back.
Well, I was standing in this little shop in Hakkadate one morning, scowling angrily at other customers who came in leaving the door open to the wintry blast, when who should come tripping in on their tiny geta but two of the cutest little girls in the Japanese Empire. And they were just the ages of you, Mammy Pie, and you, my darling little Weezie what doesn’t even know her own Fafa. Now, I am not a great fraternizer with the Japanese, for reasons of no interest to you innocents, but there is no evil in children, and certainly these were as appealing as any you would see anywhere. For one thing, they were clean. For another, they were exceptionally well dressed. They were pretty, too; I am beginning to see the differences in Jap facial types. The two little doll-like figures stood there quietly, quite plainly abashed by thus having blundered into the presence of an American soldier. This was unusual; most Japanese children are very forward. Also, all Japanese children’s noses run. All but these two noses.
In Fafa’s complete beguilement, he kneeled and addressed the children in what he always (and always erroneously) hopes will prove to be a universal language. Why he clings to this oft-shattered illusion is not clear, but you may as well understand it now because if in later life if you ever travel with the old boy it may be a source of embarrassment. You will want to learn when to start sidling away and leaving the old codger to his own peculiar methods.
However, the smiles, grimaces, and soft tones in which I expressed myself served as a tenuous bridge over the linguistic gulf. From the interested and giggling chirp they exchanged, it was evident that they appraised me as a harmless and friendly fool who regretted that he could speak naught but gibberish.
Their approbation so bewitched me that I made a great sacrifice. From a pocket (this process was watched with fascination) I dragged a box of candy, my intended lunch, and bestowed a piece upon each of my little friends. They did not grab.
At this point the proprietor, who had emerged as the father during my harebrained conversation with the animated dolls, addressed himself to them. In response, the children turned toward me, uttered a few words, and bowed. I uttered a few words, bowed, and we all giggled cheerily. They went behind the counter and presently emerged. At the door they turned, said a passable imitation of “Good-bye” and bowed. I glowed and beamed with appreciation, said “Good-bye” and bowed as they rattled away, hand-in-hand.
Later on in the day, I was back in the shop and wanted to have something changed. The proprietor by the use of signs indicated that I was to accompany him. This I did, I knew not where. He had only one leg, so our progress was slow. We turned up a narrow street and who should come laughing down it but my two little friends. They had a package for their father, and then I realized for the first time that instead of taking me to another shop where part of the work was farmed out, he was taking me home. Presumably, Uncle Steve was working away at one of Japan’s celebrated home industries.
My prospective host insisted that I come along, because he wanted to make sure everything was all right while we were still in Uncle Steve’s neighborhood (I guess). So I consented and we walked along to an extremely unprepossessing front. Mine host preceded me by a few steps (the kiddies had already preceded him) and bade me welcome. I paused at the raised platform, which is just inside the entrance to Japanese houses, and members of the family were presented. The children had heralded my arrival well, and I was, it seemed to me, being received as a foreign devil who had a distinctly better side. Though I must say to the great credit of the occupation forces that there is very little fear of us.
There at the threshold, a Japanese Social Moment had obviously arrived. I confess that I stalled a bit and smiled a bit longer than necessary to see what they would do. They were Spartan, and did nothing, but it seemed to me obvious as they looked at me that they were thinking “Will this character have enough sense to take off his shoes?’ As I sat down and removed them, what I construed as a restrained sigh of relief was barely audible. When we left this spot, the man of the house quickly bent over and reversed my shoes so that they pointed outward. I later learned that this was a mark of respect, a courtesy.
I see it is getting late, my angels. More anon.
At the threshold with the kiddies had been two middle-aged women, apparently the mother and Uncle Steve’s wife. We proceeded inside; my host, having discarded his crutch, hopped along much remindful of a rooster, and myself following after him. In the second inner room was an elderly woman kneeling by a brazier and apparently whipping up a little tea for lunch. We bowed at each other.
The Japanese, by the way, are very practiced bowers. They can bow very gracefully from a sitting, kneeling, or squatting position. I tried this in my cabin one day (privately), succeeding only in producing an ungracious wrinkle in my ever-thickening mid-portion.
I could understand the old lady’s interest in the brazier. It was the only visible source of heat. When it gets colder, the Japanese simply put on more clothes. The effect must be quite ponderous in sub-zero weather. The braziers burn charcoal or coke. From a heat-producing standpoint they are inefficient; the radiating surface is very small.
We proceeded up a wide flight of steep wooden stairs and I noticed with interest that—arranged in tasteful graceful garlands above the stairs—were hanging strings of dried small squid, a staple article of diet. And the next time, my pampered ones, I hear so much as a squeak out of either of you about your spinachÖ.
At the top of the stairs was a passageway or narrow hail with living apartments on each side. We stopped at the second on the right and my host opened a flimsy door. He ushered me in and I preceded him as he apparently desired.
There in this little room, sitting with his back to me (at a table not over six inches high) was—who do you think? Not Hirohito’s white horse, not the Bronze Buddha of Kamakura, but Uncle Steve himself. He did not look up from his work, and merely uttered a few words. Our one-legged friend spoke with a rising inflection and Uncle Steve turned his head. Well, he was funny, my sweet ones, and very surprised indeed. Uncle Steve must have been the retiring type and it gave him quite a start to have his immaculate little workshop thus violated. However, he grinned nervously and I felt that we were at least potentially en rapport, as your Cousin Ellen is fond of saying.
The work done had been satisfactory, and after a brief sojourn I departed. The family, including Grandmother, was mustered to bid me farewell, and the lady of the house presented me with two pears. After demurring briefly, which is said to be proper, I stuffed the pears into the pockets of my parka and bowed. After putting on my shoes, I bowed again. The smaller of my two little charmers made the cutest bow I have ever seen, and I more than ever regretted my lack of the gift of tongues.
As I departed, I bore away the most wonderful idea, Why not let the children of the world act as its ambassadors, and keep the old people at home where they can’t do too much harm? For at the present time it is not the meek that inherit the earth, but the children. Certainly they are the only ones who deserve it.
On our last run to Japan, we carried a very nice guy named Captain Duffield, who had a fine artillery outfit that had fought on Saipan, Leyte, and Okinawa. The details of this story may be a little hazy, but in essence it is as he told it to me several weeks ago.
A lucky Jap shell hit the Battery’s ammunition dump on Okinawa and a first-rate series of explosions began. One of Captain Duffield’s men saw that fire had reached his pup tent and crawled out from cover to get a picture in the pup tent before it was destroyed. (We are running fast and vibrating badly, hence the wavy writing.) An explosion at this point caught the lad with a shell fragment in the leg. He was sent back to a field hospital and from there, Captain Duffield learned that he had been sent to a hospital ship.
That was toward the end of the campaign. Several weeks later, when things quieted down, Captain Duffield got a formal notification that Coker (that was the man’s name) had died. Normally, he would have written Coker’s next of kin. But he didn’t believe Coker was dead.
Captain Duffield fills the average man’s conception of a Texan. He is very large, speaks softly and slowly, and is courteous, thoughtful, and calm. He is a fine friend and the fact that he has eliminated several Japanese personally disinclines me to select him as a desirable enemy. He is a reasonable and somewhat reflective man, and for this reason is hard to sway when his mind is made up.
His mind was made up that Coker had not died. “Hell,” he told me, “He might have lost the leg but it just didn’t stand to reason that the man would die.” He certainly wasn’t going to disturb Coker’s family by telling them Coker was dead. It just didn’t stand to reason.
Well, it was his duty to write a letter. People were beginning to make a fuss about it. So he doubled himself up at the hinges and got into a jeep and went to Regimental Headquarters. They said the man was dead all right. The War Department had sent his family a telegram. Captain Duffield should write.
So he reflected upon the matter and went to the Graves Registration Service. They had Coker, all right—brought ashore from the hospital ship with another man. The records showed they were buried together, in adjoining graves, l0 days or two weeks before. Had he written Coker’s family?
Captain Duffield considered the matter anew and returned to Regimental Headquarters. An order for exhumation was what he wanted. Of course it was pointed out to him that he was taking up a lot of everybody’s time, including his own, and that a letter should be written to Coker’s family. He patiently and in his soft voice averred that it just didn’t stand to reason that Coker had died. So they gave him the order.
The little party was assembled for the mournful task, and two of the man’s closest associates went along for identification. An annoyed representative of the Graves Registration Service located the grave, and the digging commenced. At about the right depth the spades touched something solid and uncovered a blanket. The Chaplain drew nearer and the exhumation proceeded. The blanket was uncovered. Carefully it was folded back. There was Coker’s leg.
Captain Duffield then considered it appropriate to write a letter to Coker’s family. He apologized for any mental anguish or distress the War Department’s telegram had caused. He said it didn’t stand to reason Coker could have died. But he was sorry about the leg. The family wasn’t worried, though. Coker had been flown back to the States and was sent home for convalescence. He had opened the telegram.
This is merely a shallow place in the ocean, slightly protected by a reef. We have a couple of small islands in the Palau group, but the biggest, Babelthaup, is still held by the Japanese. Kossol Passage is just north of that. So: Looks crazy, doesn’t it? Our planes bomb and strafe the big island from time to time. It’s very leisurely. The Japanese can’t seem to get planes in to their field there. We have one or more fields on the little islands We lie too far offshore to be shot at. My chart is oversimplified. The NEWSWEEK account of all this is more intelligent, but may not be right at hand. Out here you get used to having Japanese all around on bypassed island bases. Wotje, Yap, Babelthaup, Bougainville, some of the Philippine islands—all of these have Japanese on them. They are still ready to fight, too. So we just go by and don’t get too close. I have an idea that for a good many years people will be just going by some of these islands. That would suit me all right. Many have no value even now. When the Empire is gone, they will be no menace at all
Of all the places I have entered as either a liberator, conqueror, or camp-follower, Tacloban, Leyte, seemed to me the least desirable. It would be going pretty far to say it was dirtier than Porto Empedocle, a Sicilian town which I once located at night by the strong smell brought by an offshore breeze. And the people, while lacking in charm, have the sort of eyes that make you want to get back to the ship before sunset. There was mud, but there can be mud anywhere if it rains. I guess it’s just that with all the vice and decadence of the south European countries and their African offshoots, they have some remaining vestiges of the great civilizations that once flourished there. And they have some of the strength that has made the European war such a hard and brutal one. Luzon may be different. Certainly in its day Manila must have been quite a city. But Tacloban is a primitive, colorless, flaccid, squalid non sequitur. It’s really a hole.
Leyte is quite lush, and the terrain is hilly. There are flats near the sea, but the land in that and the adjoining islands is pretty rough. The climate is apparently good. Rural dwellings are very grubby.
So much fighting, both naval and land, went on around Guadalcanal that you heard a lot about it. We went in there in August of 1942, with light naval forces and too few Marines, but it was all we had. The Japanese navy was strong and plentiful. We avoided a decisive action, and the Japanese, at the end of their extended supply lines, apparently did not feel like forcing one. But they sank plenty of our ships in that area, and by making the most of what we had, we sank plenty of theirs. Because there are so many sunken ships in the area between Guadalcanal and Tulagi, it is called Iron Bottom Sound. Some of the pilots say there is a Jap carrier on the bottom there and that you can see planes sitting on her flight deck when the sea is smooth. But that may be just pilot’s talk.
The islands along the sides of New Georgia Sound, now called the Slot, are the New Georgia Group, the Russells, Vella Lavella, Bougainville, Santa Isabel, and maybe other groups, though I believe they are the major ones.
At first, we held only part of Guadalcanal. The Japanese had the rest. They would send reinforcements down the Slot. There was much air and sub activity, as well as surface engagements. Do you remember when three of our cruisers were lost there? They were at anchor near Guadalcanal. The Japanese came in and apparently were undetected because of Savo Island, the little island out by itself. They came into the clear at point-blank range, it is said. The result is referred to by some as the battle of the sitting ducks.
You hear a lot about the steamy jungles of Guadalcanal. The rainfall there is the heaviest I ever saw. When it rains, it rains hard then clears up for a while, but it isn’t especially steamy aboard ship. Perhaps ashore it is. I was ashore very little. The vegetation is dense, the terrain rugged. It is bad fighting country. Japanese have been cleaned out of most of the Solomons, but there are still some on Bougainville. The Australians are fighting them there. The Japanese are reported by learned and distant commentators to be withering on the vine. According to the Australians, “They take a bloody lot of withering.”
There are many lagoons in the Pacific, and Eniwetok seems to be fairly typical. You have heard of peaceful lagoons. So have I, but I haven’t seen one yet—maybe in another season. But in January, when we were there for nearly a week, it was almost constantly rough. The trade winds blow with no hindrance across the vast spaces of the Pacific and there is little daily change in their direction or intensity. A lagoon is merely a shallow place In the ocean, bordered in places by a narrow island amounting to nothing more than a glorified sandbar.
On the largest island we usually would put an airfield, or airstrip. In some places there are practically no facilities ashore—everything is afloat. Supply ships, repair ships, oilers—even water ships—take care of our needs. This ship has not been alongside a dock for well over three months—not since leaving Pearl.
At first sight, Eniwetok scarcely seemed worth bothering with, let alone fighting for. But it is useful as an anchorage. It is large, and offers a little shelter for afloat maintenance and supply, which could not be handled underway in the open sea. The airstrip is useful.
Kwajelein seemed much the same. We went close by there—but did not stop.
The islands of the characteristic Central Pacific lagoon seem low, seldom rising more than a few feet above sea level. The unfortunate individuals who are stationed on these islands are also low. It is a monotonous existence. One may swim, or walk around the island and gather coconuts and seashells, or drink a few cool ones at the officers’ club, but facilities are not elaborate. There are usually movies, but in all my time overseas I have never seen but one good movie or heard of but one good one being shown. Most of them are old grade B or C movies. (I have seen two movies since October—the one good one was “Random Harvest,” which I saw on a transport at Oran.) So much for lagoons. They are scrub islands with a hole in the middle.
Saipan is not an atoll, but a real island. There are coral reefs around it but it sticks right up above the water and bears trees which are not palm trees and in general looks like a self-respecting piece of land. There is no more sand than you would find on any beach. After seeing many atolls in the course of some months it is significant to report that you can’t look right across Saipan to the sea on the other side. We have moved in and enlarged the air fields greatly, as well as constructing roads and improving the harbor facilities. It still isn’t what a civilized sailor would call a harbor, but at least it is a place where you can lie in the lee of the land if the wind blows from the right direction. If it blows from the wrong direction you get the hook up to prevent being set on shore.
There are still some Japanese wandering about the island and they sometimes take a potshot at anyone foolish enough to go up into the hills. But the last time I heard a rumor concerning the subject it seemed that there was a big roundup on and there was considerable whacking of shrubbery to get the Nips out of their cover. We were at Saipan about two weeks, then moved down to Guam for a few days.
Little Pearl, as the more erudite call it, has asphalt roads with signs such as “GUAM,” like in the States. A cultural note indicating the degree to which civilization has pushed back the jungle is the fact that one of Guam’s hills is called Flush-toilet Hill, this area having the only flush toilets west of Pearl.
Guam is the scene of much activity. There is sufficient rank around so that there are many regulations. The result is that Saipan is much preferred. But both places are pretty quiet and good for seeing a lot of your friends. Phil Pelts, Jimmy Mulligan, and Bill Cain were at Saipan. Don Taylor, Frank Canker, and Al Brodkin were at Guam. Barry Bingham was at Ulithi when we were in Guam (29 June). Dave McCandless apparently left Saipan just before I got a chance to see him.
There are some Chamarros on Guam and Saipan. There is a story that these ladies have what are sometimes termed “loose” ways. Personally, I see no reason for criticizing friendship in an area where there hasn’t been much of it lately. However, even a young and ignorant Marine would have to be out here quite a long time before he would be attracted by a Chamarro charmer. Or so I would think.
Japanese are still prodded out of the Guamanian hinterland from time to time. They apparently have pretty good intelligence there. It is said that within two hours after a certain ship got to Guam Tokyo Rose broadcast it was there and charitably promised to bomb it. I was in Guam when that happened; it seems to be accepted as true. But they didn’t bomb it. Rota, between Guam and Saipan, is still held by the Japanese. Our bombers use it for practice work. What a job—being a practice target. “Hold still, please.”