Voices From a Distant War: A Collection of War Histories

Voices From a Distant War

A Collection of War Histories

Edited by

Joe Freitus

Copyright 2015 by Joe Freitus

SmashWords Edition

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PREFACE

With the completion of a World War Two history titled: Florida, The War Years; 1938-1945 staring at me from the top of the desk, the words of a World War Two bomber pilot moved in and out of my head, like a fragment of a tune that refuses to go away. Thes story writers put together is not the real story. It is that which they assemble for public consumption.

I had interviewed many veterans who had been trained or stationed in Florida and included bits and pieces of their remarkable histories in the book.

Two weeks passed, and I was afforded the opportunity to meet with the individual that started this dance of words in my brain. I asked what he meant by his statement.

"I have been interbiewed by several writers and it is always the same old story. They condense, sort out materials they do not find exciting, keeping that which they feel will sell, producing a version different from what I related. This is the same for all vets who are asked for ‘their story’. It is not their story rather that of the writer.

There is nothing wrong with the system as it is the accepted method, but it is not the war story the vet wants told. I think someone should gather these war histories and publish them as the veteran tells or writes them. It might not be one of the greatest works of English literature, but it will be told through our eyes as we experienced the war."

Unexpectedly, I was overwhelmed with personal, hand or type written war histories, as one vet told another that I was collecting them for a book. Within a few years I accumulated 443 personal histories. They still arrive by mail, tape or e-mail. Many veterans, veteran organizations and military museums submitted short histories, some published in journals.

These stories are the histories of the citizen soldiers that have stepped forward and served their country since the Revolutionary War to the present. This collection is of those who survived the ravages of Pearl Harbor, the Fall of Bataan, the Death March, the sinking of the USS Huston and the Burma Railway, the capture of Wake Island, fighting with the Infantry in Italy, being a civilian POW in Manila, surviving with the Partisans, bomb runs against the Ploesti oild fields, a nurse at a filed hospital in the Ukraine, living through the hell of bombing Germany in a ball-turret and Commander of the B-29 that dropped the last atomic bomb over Nagasaki. Japan.

With so many diverse histories, the decision was made to select representative experiences of World War Two and present them as a collection of short stories. Based on memories, the stretch of time, details may vary with each person. Some histories are short, others long, but all are the experiences as the men and women lived them. I maintain these written histories as proof and documentation of the original work.

It is understood I would become the editor, gatherer of these histories, not the writer and make minor changes such as spelling, etc. These stories would be formatted to the computer and printed as written. The reader will be presented with 44 selected war histories as written.

Each succeeding generation understands little of the events that formed World Two. It is difficult for any individual or student to comprehend the scarfices others have made to maintain our precious freedoms, when all they are presented with is a few, short paragraphs in a text book.

The United States prides itself with being a Democracy, a work in progress, not a warrior state. These men and women stepped up and served their country in its hour of need and asked nothing in return.

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ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Compiling war histories involves many hours of research, locating sources, interviewing participants, conferring with historians, and referencing through various military organizations. A list of contributory writers is provided, as well as a list of organizations that offered assistance in the evaluation of some of the histories and historical background.

I would like to thank the following organizations for their contributions to the collection of war histories:

TWU, The Woman’s Collection, Denton, Texas; Mark L. Evans, Historian, Naval Historical Center, Washington, DC; Alyce N. Guthrie, P.T. Boats, Inc, Memphis, TN.; Donald R. Gagnon, Marine Corps Tankers Assoc., Oceanside, Ca.; Edward E. Gilley, Veterans of Underage Military Service, Gulf Breeze, Fl.; Dr. Jan Herman, USN, Bureau of Medicine and Surgery, Washington, DC.; Linda Grant DePaw, PhD, Minerva Center Org, Pasadena, Md.; Lcdr. Jane L. Cubbon, US Coast Guard HQ, Washinton, DC.; Don Gagnon, USMC Vietnam Tankers Assoc, Teaticket, Ma.; Clydie J. Morgan, American Ex-POWS of War, Arlington, TX.; National Aviation Hall of Fame, Dayton, OH.; Wilma L. Vaught, Brig. Gen, (ret.), The Women’s Memorial, Washington, D.C.; and the US Army Military History Institute, Carlisle, PA.

There are very special folks who go the extra mile and they need to be singled out: James A. Kelly, Richmond, Va. for his assistance in compiling the POWS; John W. Thornton, USN, Capt, (ret.), Richmond, Va.; and a very special appreciation for the tireless assistance of Paul Stillman, Director of History, United States Naval Institute, Annapolis, Md.

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TABLE OF CONTENTS

John H. McGoran, Signalman, Pearl Harbor

Norman J. Swanson, Wake Island

Jack Claven, USMC Iwo Jima

Kathryn Van Wagner Priban Navy Flight Nurse, Iwo Jima

Rex T. Barber 339th Fighter Sq. Shoot Down Yamamoto

Stanley D. Woody, USS Huston (CA-30)

Elizabeth Anne Delp Snyder, USMC

Logan Weston, Lt., Merrill’s Maurauders

Doris Gee, Pilot, WASP

Eugene Domienik, USS Yorktown (CV-5)

Truman Lucas, Staff Sgt. Pilot, C-47

James Downey, Philippine Scouts, Death March

Janet Marks, US Navy, WAVES

Frank G. Olsen, C-47 Hump Pilot

Claude W. Waters, 88th Inf. Div, Italy

Adam Parsons, C-47 Pilot, 94th Squadron

John Benedict, Amtrac Bn., USMC

William F. Jeffries, US Navy, Bataan/Corregidor

John Cronin, 502nd Reg Combat Team, Paratroopers at Corregidor

Ernestine McManus, US Air Force Nurse

Eddie H. Payne, US Navy UDT

William R. Cubbins, Bomber Pilot, 15th Air Force, Italy

David McCampbell, MOH, Naval Aviator

Melvin J. Bracken, Jr. 3rd Air Force

Dorothy Gleason, Capt. USCG

Hubert Perry Wells, 4th Inf. Div Battle of the Bulge

Maryann Ladic Hubbard, Civilian POW Philippines

Alvin Kemble, Jr., US Navy Armed Guard

Joseph L. Maloney 98th Bomb Group, Partisans

Flora M. Tibbs, Defense (Welder) Worker

Henry A. Strong, Medic, Persian Gulf

Gerald Ware, D-Day Plus One

George D. Harris, B-17 Bomber Radioman

William K. Wolfe, Submarine Service, Pacific

Helen Pavlovsky and Sara Marcum, Navy Nurse

Josielee V. Callahan, Army Nurse Field Hospital, Russia

Milton Abernathy, USAF Navigator, Ploesti

Homer Warren Landis, US Army Combat Engineer

Wilbur R. Richardson, B-17 Ball Turret Gunner

Ruth Erickson, US Navy Nurse, Pearl Harbor

Edwin F. Hopfgarten, Seaman, USCG

L. Peter Wren, Lcdr, Indianapolis Sinking

Dorothy Steinbis Davis, Army Nurse Field Hospital

Charles W. Sweeney, 393 Bomb Group. The Nagasaki A-Bomb

CONTRIBUTORS

REFERENCES

OTHER BOOKS BY AUTHOR

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THE VOICES

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JOHN H. McGORAN WW2

SIGNALMAN, US NAVY

BACKGROUND

On December 7, 1941, early in the morning, a Japanese carrier task force launched 408 aircraft to attack the American naval base at Pearl Harbor, Hawaii Territory. The surprise attack cost the lives of 2,403 Americans and wounding 1,178 others. Surviving the brutal attack was John H. McGoran, Signalman, U.S. Navy.

December 6, 1941, I was a signalman in Admiral Pye’s Flag, ComBatFor (Commander Battle Force) which was aboard the battleship USS CALIFORNIA BB-44.

The morning of December 7, 1941 was typical of any Sunday morning aboard the ship. My billet for meals was the Marine’s casemate #8 (an armored enclosure for an anti-aircraft gun) located portside mid-ship, just where the forecastle breaks and a ladder leads down to the quarter-deck Breakfast cover, I took the dirty dishes to the scullery below. Lamentably, that’s the way peace ended. Just then a sailor ran by crazily singing, The Japs are coming... hurrah, hurrah, hurrah! I don’t remember hearing the alarm that sounded General Quarters. I only know that suddenly I joined in a rush to battle stations.

To reach the decks below, we were trained to jump down a hatch, sliding on the hand rails, instead of using its ladder, when hurrying to our battle stations. (This is ship talk and refers to a steep iron stairway with pipe-like handrails.) Then, grab onto a bar attached on the overhead (ceiling) of the deck below and swing one’s body into a run in that lower passageway. That is roughly the way I arrived at my battle station in the lower powder handling room where a First-class petty officer, named Allen, was in charge.

Allen was one of those old time petty officers referred to as The backbone of the fleet. Now, he was busily giving orders we couldn’t carry out because no one had the keys to the powder magazines (room). Suddenly, a violent lurching shook us all, tossing us around like so many unmuscled puppets as the ship seemed to rise up a foot, then settle back. Allan grabbed at his earphones. We’re hit, he cried, A torpedo!

So what, I thought foolishly. Enjoy it! The armor plating around the USS CALIFORNIA was at least a foot thick. My idiot elation was brief. A torpedo had hit us. (Three in all hit below the armor plating and made huge holes in the hull.) The fuel tank next to our port magazine ignited in flames and there we were, surrounded on three sides by powder-filled magazines.

Immediately orders came to check the temperature of the bulkhead (wall) separating the magazine from the fuel tank. We forced the magazine lock and opened the door, then to discover that the covers had slackened off some of the cans containing the 14-inch powder bags, and the aisle was strewn with the ripped-open bags of gunpowder.

Fearfully, I entered, walking carefully over the debris to feel the bulkhead. I returned and reported to Allen that the bulkhead was still cool. Allen in turn passed the reassuring word over the mouthpiece of his headset to the bridge.

Whatever reply came back over the phones was reflected in the strain on Allen’s face. He couldn’t seem to comprehend. Perhaps he didn’t want to believe. He turned to us and almost in a whisper said, The OKLAHOMA! It capsized! Frighteningly, our ship was beginning to list dangerously.

We had no time to grasp fully this impossible situation, for a report next came over Allen’s headset of a fire in the upper handling room. Our access to this space was a vertical ladder leading up the side of the column, which also contained the powder bag hoist, and which was centered, where we stood, in the lower handling room. The column was the pivot for the entire gun turret complex above. The turret complex turned from port broadside to starboard broadside, as desired, to fire the guns.

I volunteered to carry the fire extinguisher up the ladder but found it hard work hauling that heavy container with one hand while climbing vertically, with the other. When I reached the upper handling room, I found no fire, nor any people. In fact, there was no reason to stay, but on the way back down, this crazy thought struck me:

No one will believe all this when I tell them someday. And since I have no memory for dates, it will really sound silly.

So I sat down, and with my pocket- knife, scratched on the back of my wristwatch: Pearl Harbor Dec 7, 1941. Back in the lower handling room the smell of danger was in the stifling air. The ship listed heavily to port. The engine room reported that they were working feverishly, and with a sense of relief we soon felt the ship begin to check the deadly roll and slowly inch back toward a safer situation.

But the danger was far from over, for Allen received a report that our anti-aircraft ammunition supply line broke down from an explosion. The break was reported to be in the CL compartment, which happened to be my sleeping quarters, and when the call came, I said that would go. Two other seamen also volunteered for the job.

As I was about to start out, however, the lights in our handling room flickered and went out. For a few minutes we were in total darkness. Then the red battle lamps came on, dimly, but giving enough light so I could make my way about the ship.

Before leaving the handling room, I went over to shake hands with my friend Edwin Halcrow. Although Halcrow and I had been together for six months and we kidded each other a lot, when we shook hands, he started to cry. I didn’t know what to do and in my embarrassment made it worse, saying, If I don’t see you again, Halcrow, be good. Halcrow burst out in tears afresh as I turned and quickly climbed a vertical ladder to a passageway above that led forward on the starboard side to CL compartment. We never saw each other again. However, in 1990, I found his name listed in the new member section of the April issue of the Pearl Harbor-Gram. At least I now know that he survived.

The passageway was narrow with several watertight bulkhead doors to open, pass through, and close behind us. A conveyor belt system ran along the inboard side of the passageway, so when ammunition (shells) arrived by elevator/hoist, from the magazine below, into CL compartment, the men there would divide it and manually carry it to either of the two conveyors, port or starboard. From there it ran on the conveyors to other hoists which took the shells to the 5-inch guns on the boat deck.

Because of the dim lighting we made our way slowly and reached CL compartment with out trouble. But here a shock awaited us. As each of my companions looked into the CL compartment, he turned and backed off. Then came my turn and what I saw was pure horror, my first realization that the game was now for keeps. I saw bodies, many bodies, some of which I knew just by their eyes, were lifeless. We stopped to reconnoiter.

While we stood at the door of CL compartment loud explosions from above vibrated the ship and shook our senses. Each of us thought they were Japanese bombs exploding above us and that the armor deck was protecting us. However, they must have been gun- fire of the 5-inch gun on the boat deck. But, where did they get the ammunition? We were sent here because of a breakdown in the ammunition supply line. They must be using ammunition from the ready boxes, next to the guns, I said.

As I stood there looking into the CL compartment, my companion, a seaman named Smitty, called to me. I turned to see him on the opposite side of the conveyor trying to help a shipmate whose back was against the bulkhead, but who was slowly slipping to the deck. His eyes were rolled back into his head. He looked like he was dying.

This one is still alive, Smitty said calmly. Smitty was a small fellow but he managed to wrestle the wounded shipmate to me and I pulled his limp body over the conveyor into the passageway. If on December 7th anyone had asked me to help save the life of this offensive fellow, I would have answered, To hell with him. I had known this fellow since boot camp, and he was one of the most overbearing individuals I had ever met. But now, unconscious, he had no personality; his was a life to be saved.

To reach the far side of the first-aid station, Smitty and I back tracked aft on the starboard side. Now and then, we had to stop and lay him down, so we could rest. Catching our breaths, we moved on again. As we trudged along, we had to again open and close the watertight bulkhead doors while making our way back through the passageway to a ladder up, which was near the man-hole down to number three lower handling, from where we started. The hatch-cover at the top of the ladder was dogged down, another Navy term for closed and watertight. But, it was the nearest escape to the decks above. We undogged the hatch and pushed it open. Smitty took the injured man’s legs and started up the ladder; I got him under the arms again and just as I’d taken a second or third step up the ladder an explosion again rocked the ship.

Compressed air from the deck above thrust the three of us back down the ladder, landing us in a pile at the bottom. Picking myself up I found my right leg had a laceration. Blood was oozing from the shin. It stung. However, I soon dismissed the pain; there was too much to contend with at the time to be concerned about a bloody leg. We knew we were in a life-threatening situation.

The explosion frightened us. We realized that we must make a choice. We immediately closed the hatch-cover. While we debated what to do, which way to go, a nearby steam pipe blew out. In a stunning moment of chaos that followed, I heard the cry from somewhere, GAS! Unquestioningly, I held my breath until I could fit my gas mask to my face.

The gas mask was very uncomfortable and it was difficult to cope with. Finally, I lifted it a bit to sniff the air to determine whether or not it smelled OK; it did. Then I looked up in alarm. Incredibly, three negro men we had thought dead, staggered toward us from the direction of that gruesome morgue, the CL compartment, we had just left. Two of these men were helping a third who kept repeating insanely, Moses is dead. Moses is dead. (Moses Anderson Allen, STM1) Moses was a large man, an Officer’s Mess Attendant, liked by everyone onboard, and the Negro crewmen looked up to him as a leader.

Smitty and I debated whether to try for escape from this area by going back to and through CL compartment to a hatch there, or opening this hatch again and trying to escape here. Hesitatingly, we again tackled this ladder. We opened the hatch cover again and saw no evidence of damage from the explosion.

What had happened was that a bomb had penetrated the decks above and exploded in front of the ship’s store. It killed Boots, one of the Masters-at-Arms (ship’s policeman). It bent a heavy steel hatch-combing flush with the deck.

We picked up our injured shipmate, again, and carried him up to the next deck. This time we were lucky and arrived at the emergency first-aid station. Some station! It was normally the crews’ recreation room, but now a state of incredible confusion prevailed. We laid our shipmate on the deck. A chief petty officer, whom I recognized as one of the black gang (engine room crew), came over and with great authority asked if he was alive. We think so, I said. Then slide him under the table where no one will trip over him. (Later on in the week, I learned our ship mate’s back had been broken, but he would recover.) The chief went back to directing and sorting the living from the dead. As men brought in casualties, the chief would say, Dead or alive? If they’re dead, take them into the other room and throw them on the dead pile. He repeatedly made rounds of the room inspecting bodies. This man is dead, get him out of here." Normally this cold, hard manner would have been resented. Now, I could only feel admiration for his efficiency.

As I stood, trying to comprehend all this, someone handed me a bottle of root-beer and a sandwich. Ordinarily I would have retched at the sight of so much blood and carnage, but I ate and drank, completely amazed at my appetite under such conditions and decided it was all incomprehensible.

As I ate, one of the ship’s seaplane pilots hurried into the room, presumably to pass right on through and out an opposite door. Instead, he slipped on the bloody deck and fell across the wounded bodies. I watched, and feeling nothing, wondered: Does nature have the power to anesthetize? Or, am I in shock?

Then Father Maguire, Catholic Chaplain for the Fleet, strode through the doorway. In the past weeks, this priest had succeeded in getting permission for my brother’s transfer from the USS DETROIT CL-8, a light, four-stack cruiser, to the CALIFORNIA, so we could be together. Bob’s transfer, Father Maguire had told me, was due to occur around the 14th of December.

Though dirty, and looking tired, Father Maguire walked with dignity. A gas mask that looked like a strangely shaped hat was propped on his head. He passed on through toward the bomb-blasted ship’s store. Perhaps he hoped to find someone to whom he could administer the last rites.

In recent years, some video- tapes have placed Father Maguire saying Mass ashore when the attack began. This may be so. However, he was on board the USS CALIFORNIA, not wearing his vestments, about 0900 hours, December 7, 1941. During the week following the attack, word circulated that it was Father Maguire who said, Praise the Lord and Pass the ammunition!

While I was in the first-aid station, word came to abandon ship. Whether or not this was an official order, I don’t know. But instead, the Chief Petty Officer in charge, and a Warrant Officer, named Applegate, formed a work-party of ten men to search for anti-aircraft ammunition, since ours could not be reached, due to the explosion.

Our work party first went aft to the door, which exited to the starboard quarter-deck. We were about to proceed across the unprotected quarter-deck to board a motor launch when someone warned us that a wave of strafing Japanese planes was passing overhead. The planes came in low, firing their machine guns. Between sorties, men from nearby battle stations would race out onto the quarter-deck and drag to shelter the men who had been struck by the machine gun fire. Then, as soon as we felt it was safe enough, we ran for the motor launch, which was waiting for us at the port-quarter.

Normally, we used a ladder to step down to the boat, but now the ship was so low in the water, it seemed strange that we could jump from the quarter-deck, right into the boat. Swiftly we piled into the motor-launch and headed in the direction of the battleship, MARYLAND.

The USS MARYLAND was next astern of the CALIFORNIA, in Battleship Row, (the USS NEOSHO was moored at an angle at a fuel dock, between these two), and was moored inboard of the OKLAHOMA, which earlier in the attack had been struck and rolled over, after taking nine torpedoes. I’m sure the coxswain of our launch chose the MARYLAND because she seemed unscathed. Certainly she must have the ammunition that we so desperately needed.

Enroute, we could see the strange angle at which the USS NEVADA sat near the drydocks. She seemed to be out of the channel, perhaps to avoid a bomb. Our coxswain took the launch into the space between the capsized OKLAHOMA, and the port side forecastle of the MARYLAND. Shouting up to sailors on the MARYLAND’s forecastle, we tried to convey to them that we needed ammunition, but we could rouse no support. Their problems were far greater to them than that what we were shouting up to them from our motor launch. Had we approached the Officer’s accommodation ladder at the MARYLAND’s starboard quarter-deck, and spoken to an officer there, we might have been more successful.

Once it became clear that we could expect no help from this quarter, we gave up trying to board the MARYLAND. The coxswain maneuvered the motor launch from between the two battleships and motored around the whale-shaped hull of the overturned OKLAHOMA and went to the USS WEST VIRGINIA.

Carefully, the coxswain nudged the motor launch’s bow up to and against the WEST VIRGINIA’s forecastle, just forward of number-one turret. By keeping a little power on, he maintained position without actually tying up to the battleship.

By this time, the West Virginia had sunk deep enough so that it was with little effort that Warrant Officer Applegate, and the five men he picked, to clamber aboard. I watched as they crossed the ship’s forecastle, walking under the barrels of the sixteen- inch guns, and walk aft on the starboard side. We never saw them again that day.

Within minutes the forecastle shot up in flames and smoke. An officer in his white uniform appeared engulfed in the fire. Someone onboard shouted, Get out of there, the ship can blow up any minute! With that explosion, we became really frightened. The coxswain began backing the launch away from the burning battleship. Suddenly, I saw that our coxswain was not aware of the danger immediately behind our launch. We were backing straight for one of the large propellers of the over-turned OKLAHOMA. It was sticking high out of the water.

I yelled at the coxswain to reverse his engines. At the same time, two of us clambered to the tiller-deck, and scrambled over the taffrail. With one hand grasping the taffrail, we reached out with our legs, and with our feet, shoved against the OKLAHOMA’s propeller. Unquestionably, our effort prevented the motor launch from being damaged; but we just did what the situation required.

The coxswain now had the launch underway forward. Then we saw a man struggling in the water near the mid-ships section of the West Virginia. (A picture of this rescue was snapped and it is part of the historical record of the Japanese attack.)

We’re going in after him, he told us. But another sailor standing beside him, vehemently objected, Scared, I too, murmured disapproval. I felt that since the WEST VIRGINIA was expected to blow up as the VIRGINIA did, it wasn’t reasonable to risk the lives of the eight of us in our boat in an effort to save one?

Our coxswain was tough; he ordered both of us off the tiller-deck. I complained no more, and stayed right where I was. Actually, I was becoming so frightened I don’t think I could have moved. The coxswain maneuvered in to pick the man from the water, bringing us dangerously close to the perimeter of the burning oil that was closing in on us.

By now I was overwhelmed by all that was happening around us and for the life of me, I can’t recall whether that man made it into the boat. We headed for 1010 dock at the Navy Shipyard. He did. In October, 1985, at a Pearl Harbor Survivor’s luncheon meeting, in Berkeley, California, I stood next to my friend Joseph Paul as he related to a reporter, his experience of being picked from the water beside the USS WEST VIRGINIA, December 7, 1941. I listened carefully, and later, I asked him questions, such as, "What did you do next? Where did you go after being picked up?

He told me that the boat next went alongside the cruiser USS ST LOUIS, where we asked to go aboard. We were refused permission, so, the boat went to 1010 dock where everyone disembarked. Joe Paul’s accounting exactly matched my experience, so I let him read a narrative I had written. I am totally convinced that Joseph Paul is one and the same person we rescued from the water that day.

And there indeed, was reason to feel overwhelmed. On every side were almost unbearable sights. Battleship Row was devastated! From the direction of the dry docks, an explosion shook the harbor. This was the destroyer SHAW. Just two weeks before, I had visited my brother’s ship in that same dry dock.

As we headed for the center of the channel, we saw that the cruiser ST. LOUIS was underway, switching from sternway to headway, after backing out from the Navy Yard, and intending to make a run for the open sea.

The ST. LOUIS was gaining speed, but we were able to come alongside her starboard quarter (there is another historical picture which shows our motor launch underway alongside the ST. LOUIS), where we tried to clamber aboard the gangway, which was still hanging over the side. An officer on deck denied us permission to come aboard. Frustrated, we abandoned the attempt to board the ST. LOUIS and headed for 1010 dock, at the Naval Ship-Yard, where everyone went their individual ways.

Only one who was there could fully appreciate what took place. As a Pearl Harbor Survivor who was at ground zero on Battleship Row, the morning of December 7, 1941, I feel, if you didn’t go through it, there are no words that can adequately describe it; if you were there, then no words are necessary.

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NORMAN J. SWANSON WW2 US NAVY

Excerpt Presented from "America’s Youngest Warriors,

Veterans of Underage Military Service."

BACKGROUND

The U.S. Navy, in January 1941, constructed a forward operating base on the small atoll, in the Pacific, identified as Wake Island. Elements of the 1st Marine Defense Battalion, 450 enlisted men and officers manned the defenses. 1221 civilian construction workers plus 88 naval personnel and 12 F4F-3 Wildcat fighter air craft completed the meager defenses. The Japanese attacked within hours of the Pearl Harbor attack.

It was not by design that I became an underage veteran. I never enlisted, nor was I drafted into the Armed Forces. I fought with the U.S. Marines, but was never a Marine. I wore Navy clothing for only a few weeks, yet I have documentation stating that I was a member of the naval service of the United States for over four years. Confused? Let me explain.

I was born in Chicago, Illinois, but spent much of my early life in Grand Coulee, Washington, where 1 completed high school in 1941 at the age of 16. My brother, who had gone to Wake Island to work on the construction of a naval base there, wrote to me and suggested that I join him on Wake. He said that I could earn enough in one year to get a good start at the university.

Within a week, I had contacted the Morrison-Knudsen Company in Boise, Idaho, the general contractor on Wake Island. 1 signed on with them and soon departed from San Francisco on the Matson luxury liner, the Matsonia, bound for Honolulu. After a medical checkup, I boarded a Navy supply ship, the USS REGULUS, bound for Wake Island. I was a very naive 16-year-old.

Wake Island was a Navy communications station and a refueling stop for the Pan American Airways China Clipper. Commander Winfield Cunningham, who had enrolled in the U.S. Naval Academy at the age of 16, was in charge of sixty-eight Navy personnel there, and Major James Devereux commanded 388 Marines. Six U.S. Army personnel manned the main radio transmitter. Pan American employed about seventy people to service the Clippers and staff the local hotel. There were 1200 civilian employees of Morrison-Knudsen Company under the direction of Dan Teters.

We lived much like the military, slept in a barracks, ate in a mess hall, and rode to the work sites in company vehicles. Everything was going well until about noon on Monday, 8 December 1941 (Sunday, 7 December in the United States). On that day I was working on a building at the end of a new airfield. We were getting into our vehicles to go to the mess hall at lunch time when we noticed a large flight of air planes approaching. We first thought they were U.S. Navy aircraft but soon observed that they were twin-engine, land based bombers, and our Navy did not have land-based bombers.

The first indication that they were hostile aircraft was the explosion of bombs at the central edge of the new runway where the Marine pilots of VMF-211 parked their F4F Wildcat fighters. At the time, eight of the twelve planes were parked there while the pilots were eating lunch in a nearby tent. Four aircraft were flying patrol. The first bombs destroyed all the parked aircraft, the tent with the pilots, and a large fuel storage tank. More than twenty Marines were killed while having lunch.

By the time I heard the first bombs explode, we were being strafed. The civilian camp was damaged considerably. As soon as the noise of the Japanese aircraft engines had waned, all of the civilians met to find out what had happened. We were informed of the attack on Pearl Harbor earlier in the day and told that we could probably expect help, but in the meantime, we should all pitch in and help the military personnel with whatever needed to be done. Essentially, we all joined the Marines and became active service personnel without the benefit of boot camp.

I joined Marine Gunner (Warrant Officer) Clarence McMkinstry’s troops at Peacock Point. My job was to assist in supplying ammunition for a 3-inch anti-aircraft gun battery. I was also trained in the operation of 30-and 50-caliber machine guns. Many civilians helped man the 5-inch shore batteries. In the early morning of 11 December, after four days of bombing, about thirteen Japanese ships appeared on the horizon. The Japanese planned to take the island with a small landing force, but the Marine 5-inch shore batteries opened fire and sank at least two ships. The four remaining F4F Wildcats of VMF-211 caused considerable damage to the retreating Japanese fleet and sank a destroyer.

For the next eleven days, we were bombed constantly, which resulted in many casualties. We were all awaiting the relief forces, but they didn’t come. On the morning of 23 December 1941, a fleet of more than twenty-five Japanese ships approached the island. At the break of dawn, the bombardment began, lasting for about an hour. When it ceased, we could see landing craft with hundreds, if not thousands, of enemy troops approaching the coral beach. I though, This is it! We didn’t have a chance. We were given orders to surrender.

When the Japanese troops arrived, we were ordered to remove all our clothing, marched to the center of the air port runway, and herded into a circle surrounded by Japanese sailors with tripod-mounted machine guns. We were ordered to lie down and not speak to anyone or we would be shot. We remained naked on the air strip for two days and nights. We were given a small amount of bread and some water from barrels that had previously contained gasoline. Military and civilian personnel were treated the same, since none of us wore clothing and no questions were asked. Finally, on Christmas day, we were marched to the civilian camp area where we were given a short-sleeved khaki shirt and khaki shorts and were permitted to wear shoes. We were forced to clean up the bombed area and repair the roads and airport.

On 12 January 1942, all military and all but one hundred of the civilians were ordered to board a former Japanese luxury liner, the NITA MARU. The one hundred remaining at Wake were to run specialized equipment such as the desalinization plant. I learned later that two escaped and were never heard from again. The remaining ninety-eight were executed by the Japanese, on 7 December 1943.

As we boarded, the Japanese sailors took all our belongings. We were placed in steel holds of about one hundred feet square. Sanitary facilities were square five gallon cans normally used to ship soap. The cans were not secured, so they would slide across the deck and frequently spill. We were not permitted to talk or even whisper. The punishment for disobeying the rules was death, as some of the prisoners found out. We were frequently beaten, and the bread and water provided twice each day was just enough for survival.

We disembarked at Shanghai, China, on 24 January 1942 and marched to the WOO SUNG POW camp. We were dressed for summer, but the weather was cold and damp, like Seattle in winter. We were each issued one wet cotton blanket and ordered to sleep on straw mats on raised platforms in the barracks. My brother and I teamed together to take advantage of two blankets and our combined body warmth.

Our first work assignment was to dig a canal ten feet deep and thirty to forty feet wide, using hand shovels. The site was near where a major battle had occurred between the Chinese and the Japanese. Frequently we would dig up bodies. After three months, we were marched to another camp called KIANG WAN. The project was to build a huge model of Mount Fujiyama on the flat Shanghai plain. We used hand shovels to fill small rail cars, push the cars to the dumping area, and return for more. We excavated a lake while we were building a mountain. Our food ration was one cup of cooked barley twice a day with a bit of dikon (radish) soup occasionally.

After a year or so at KIANG WAN, some of us were taken to Osaka, Japan, where we were forced to work in a shipyard. One day, ten of us were ordered to carry a ship plate from one part of the ship yard to another. The plate was so heavy and awkward that we dropped it and my fingers were smashed. The next day the pain was unbearable. In an attempt to ease the pain I lit a cigarette, which was against the rules.

A Japanese guard caught me smoking, and as punishment he beat my sore fingers with his walking stick and ordered me not to complain or the beating would be repeated. This was typical of the treatment we received daily throughout the war.

In late winter of 1944-45, American B-29s dropped clusters of fire- bombs on Osaka, causing great destruction. Some hit our camp, injuring several prisoners of war. Because of the bombing, the Japanese moved us to the small town of Naoetsu, near the city of Niigata, where we were to work in a steel mill. This was the worst of all places because the work was harder and the food poorer, and there was less of it. The body insects were more plentiful, and the pace was very dirty from the steelworks. We were told at the camp that if any American soldiers set foot on the Japanese mainland, we would be killed immediately. One day I saw a Japanese newspaper with the headline Atom Bomb, but there was no description of the weapon or the destruction caused by it. None of us had any idea what Atom Bomb meant.

On the day that Japan surrendered we didn’t know what happened, but the Japanese camp guards disappeared. Soon, U.S. Navy fighter planes flew over and dropped duffel bags without parachutes. The bags were filled with candy bars, cigarettes, and chewing gum, the only thing that survived was the chewing gum. I was so hungry that I walked out of camp to a nearby farm to find something to eat.

I traded an old pair of shoes to a farmer for a chicken, took the chicken to camp, made a little campfire and cooked it. It was so tough that my brother and I agreed that I should have cooked the shoes instead.

A day or so later, a flight of B-29s dropped barrels containing food, clothing, and other luxurious things such as good toilet paper, something we hadn’t seen for nearly four years!

We were told that we would have to stay in camp until transportation could be arranged, and that we should stay near the camp because it was not known how the Japanese civilians and ex-soldiers would react to our presence. We were especially cautioned not to go to Niigata. The next day most of the ex-prisoners were either in Niigata or traveling around the countryside. My first desire was to get a shave, a haircut, and a super massage, which I obtained in the village of Naoestu for the price of two packs of Lucky Strike cigarettes.

About three weeks later, a train took us from Naoetsu to Yokohama, where we were fumigated to destroy body insects, given new Navy clothing and then directed to a place where there were newspaper reporters.

My brother Jim and I sought out a reporter for the Oregon Journal. The reporter got word to our relatives that we were alive. They had not had word from us for about three years.

We pulled into San Francisco on 3 October 1945, more than four years after departing from the same terminal for Wake Island! We were met by a large crowd, including wives and parents. My brother’s wife came running to meet us. When she reached us, she asked which one was her husband. We were so thin that she couldn’t tell us apart.

In 1981, forty years after World War II began, the United States Government conferred on the civilian personnel at Wake Island the status of military veterans because they had taken part in the defense of the island and were treated as prisoners of war. I was issued a DD-214 indicating that I was on military status while on Wake Island and while I was a prisoner. Shortly thereafter, I was issued a DD-215 itemizing the medals to which I was entitled as a veteran of World War II.

So in 1981, I became a veteran for service rendered from 1941 to 1945, part of which was underage. In 1995, I became a life member of the Veterans of Underage Military Service.

Norman Swanson had gone to Wake Island for the purpose of earning enough money to enter a university. In 1946, he enrolled at the University of Washington with about $2000 in savings from his work on Wake Island. Later, the government granted the ex-prisoners captivity pay, and Norman received $5,000 each year for three years, enough to complete his bachelor’s degree in chemical engineering. He worked as a civil engineer at Grand Coulee Dam for a time then accepted a position at the Hanford Nuclear Works, where he worked for about six years. He then worked for Atomics International developing new atomic power systems. Later, he went to the Argonne National Laboratory where he worked on the development of safe fuel materials for use in large power reactors.

He retired in 1983, but to avoid boredom, he worked for Southern California Edison in their power reactor program for about a year. He then retired for medical reasons. Norman and his wife Karen live on a small farm in Ridgefield, Washington. They reared seven children and have eleven grandchildren.

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JACK CLAVEN WW2

4th DIVISION USMC

BACKGROUND

The battle for Iwo Jima, located 750 miles from mainland Japan, was the only U, S, battle in which casualties exceeded the enemy. 70,000 U.S. Marines and naval personnel attacked 22,080 well entrenched Japanese defenders. 6,921 Marines and naval personnel were killed with 19,217 wounded, whereas the Japanese suffered 18,844 killed. The battle was immortalized by the photograph showing the raising of the U.S. flag top of Mount Suribachi.

I enlisted in the Marine Corps, at Buffalo, New York, on October 1, 1942. After the usual physical examination was completed, we were all sent to Parris Island, which is located in Beaufort, South Carolina, near the coast in the southern part of the state. The Marine Corps was really just in the early stages of gearing up Parris Island to become a major training facility for incoming Marines.

We were taken to what looked like a warehouse, ordered to take off all our clothes and then arrange them to be shipped back to our folks. From rows and rows of supplies, they issued us everything we would need to become good Marines. We had everything thrown at us; pants, shirts, underwear, belts and shoes. Being the military many of the items given to us did not fit. If possible, you tried and swapped with someone who needed your sizes. When we were naked they ran all of us through a quick shower, and I mean quick. It was in and out before you could really get wet. No one got clean, not did they want us to. Then it was on to the scalping party, where everyone got the traditional Marine haircut, the so-called high and dry! There was nothing high and dry about it, they simply ran the razor over your head and removed all traces of hair.

Within the next few days we got stuck with more needles than I care to remember and for more diseases that I never knew existed. We were immunized against yellow fever, Small Pox; typhoid fever and tetanus. They even tried to make swimmers out of us. This was one skill I already possessed, but I still had to go through the process. Recruits simply jumped into the large swimming pool, thrashed their way to the other end, climbed out and that was the end of the swimming lessons, unless, of course you did not make it to the end of the pool, as designated. Those recruits that didn’t had to go back and qualify again, for as many times as was necessary,

Parris Island also certified me as being qualified with a Springfield rifle and the attached bayonet, there weren’t many that dropped out, but a few simply gave up and I never did know what happened to them. Even though those Drill Sergeants were rough on us, we finally did graduate from the Parris Island Boot Camp Training facility. I was now a certified Marine!

I was assigned to I Company, 3rd Battalion, 23rd Marines, at Camp Lejeune, North Carolina. Lejeune is located near the town of Jackson, in the South East part of the state. Despite the fact that North Carolina is considered in the South, it got very cold at night, but for us Buffalo boys, it was considered warm. I remember the place as being mostly swampy, which I suppose the Marines considered ideal for amphibious training.

Ever since I was a punk kid, all I ever heard from my dad (militarily speaking that is) was artillery, as he was an Army Artillery Officer in the Great War, WW 1. Consequently, I began to bug my First Sergeant about transfer to an artillery unit, so much so that one day he came up to me with a BAR and said, Claven, this will be your artillery for the duration.

I immediately fel1 in love with my Browning Automatic Rifle commonly known as the BAR, and although it served me well in battle, for some reason the Japs didn’t seem to like it. They did a number on me July 4, 1944, on Saipan and again February 21, 1945, on Iwo Jima. Being wounded stinks and hurts like Hades! Never did figure out why they disliked me so much, as I had only taken out about a dozen of them and that was nowhere near my quota.

After we completed our training at Camp Lejeune, they shipped us to California, where they eventually placed us a board ships and we headed out into the wide, blue Pacific. After several rolling days aboard a converted luxury ship, we arrived at the Hawaiian Islands, Pearl Harbor. I don’t know how those folks that steamed on the liner before we got there enjoyed themselves, but we were stuffed into that hull like sardines. It was a joy just to get on land once again and walk about on something that was not in constant motion. We enjoyed the few weeks that we stayed there, especially the sunshine and warmth.

They had us set up at a place called Camp Maui, about 75 miles South East of Honolulu, where we lived in tents but enjoyed good food. Here we became a part of the Marine Fourth Division and we all knew that we were bound for combat, somewhere in the Pacific, but where? Rumors were everywhere and kept increasing in numbers each day.

Then one day we headed out as part of a large invasion force that would take the many islands of the Marshall Group. These islands had been part of the Japanese Trust Territories since World War One. Along with the Army’s 7th Infantry Division, our 4th Marine Division would invade the islands an 31 January 1944. The 4th Marines would take the twin islands of Rai and Namur, while the 7th Division took the big island of Kwajalein. There were two long days and nights of heavy bombardment by the big fellas sitting just offshore. They really tore that place up.

Rai-Narnur was reported to have some three thousand guns of all types and sizes waiting for us, on an island that was no more than a mile long. D-Day Plus-One called for us, the 23rd Marines to land on Roi. As we approached the beach in both landing craft and amphibian tractors, we could see that the entire island looked as though it had been cleared of all trees and other vegetation. Talk about being bald!

We landed on Roi with very little resistance. Most of the few defenders, that were still