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| USS PYRO - American ammunition ship |
"I contemplated the events of the past two years and how they surely must have changed me as I passed from youth to manhood."
Now
the long part of our voyage on SEA VITCH began. It would take us twelve days to cover the vast
expanse of the pacific between Bora Bora and the Golden Gate. After a little more than a week we were
getting out of the tropical latitudes and the nights became cool to those of us
who had been two years in the warmth of Hawaii and the South Pacific. Our deep tans began to show goosebumps. We dug into our sea bags for navy blue wool
jerseys and peacoats that had rolled and stowed for two years. We also dug out, brushed and ironed our dress
blue uniforms and flat-hats in anticipation of liberty in San Francisco.
As
the prospect of being back in the states neared, I often thought of all that
had happened in the past two short years.
On my birthday on 3 March 1943 when I turned 21, I sat alone on the
fantail as darkness fell and watched the ships wake that led off toward the
last vestiges of sunset. I contemplated
the events of the past two years and how they surely must have changed me as I
passed from youth to manhood.
All
of a sudden, so it seemed, I was a Navy petty officer first class and a “blooded
veteran” to whom laughter still came, but without the abandon of before. I was an “old salt” and had been informed at
Ile Nou that I rated three campaign bars—the American Defense ribbon with a
gold star for having been in Hawaii on December 7th, the Asiatic
ribbon with battle stars for Midway and the Solomons, and the American theater
ribbon.
Now,
I thought, I am almost phlegmatic—I seem to take things as they come and almost
as a matter of course. I wondered again
just what is was that seemed to have died during that bloody hour on December 7th,
1941. Oddly, it crossed my mind that perhaps
I had lost the capacity to love. My
physical needs were still there, but there was something in my emotions that
seemed to be lacking. The thought of
sailing into San Francisco in the next few days did not increase my pulse.
I
still had occasional nightmare about that bloody hour when the Japanese attack
came out of nowhere. Even awake the
images of the row of bloody bodies under the wing of the shot-up PBY, the
grinning face of that Japanese pilot who had circled overhead looking down ast
the fires of burning airplanes, the head-on view of enemy Zeros diving at us
with wing guns winking fire and streams of bullets walking across the concrete
ramp toward us were all too clear in my memory. It would be a long time before the snarl of
diving enemy airplanes, the chattering of machine guns, and the dull “WHUMP!” of
exploding bomb could almost be heard.
Then,
unbidden, the rather corny words my father had said to me at the bus depot when
I left for the Navy came back to me—“A
man goes where the hand of the lord leads him,” Dad had said, “and he does what he has to be done when he
get there.” I suddenly felt very
proud of my brother Dick and myself.
When the chips had gone down, we had not hesitated. We did not run for cover and hide as a few
had done. We got a gun and fought back
as best we could.
It
was not bravery. We were just a couple
of mad old country boys that were dumb enough to get into that airplane that
the Japs would be strafing trying to set it on fire. The Lord had led us there, we did what had to
be done, and He looked after us as the enemy shot that airplane to pieces around
us and left us unscathed. Fear? Yes, we felt fear for our lives, but we knew
what had to be done. It was after the battle
was over that the reaction had set in and we went weak in the knees.
I
was saddened by a sense of loss that I was no longer a part of, and probably
would not be gain, Patrol Squadron Eleven.
The spirit of VP-11 is difficult to explain. It went far beyond the normal camaraderie of
shipmates. In fact, it was almost as if
we were a “family” and were all brothers.
That bloody Sunday had a large part in drawing us together, I suppose,
but somehow it went beyond just that. I
longed to be back there with them once more on a combat flight crew; however,
that was not to happen. I sighed and
flipped my glowing cigarette butt into the wake of SEA WITCH.
(The spirit and sense of family of VP-11 did
not die in the war. Today, fifty years
later, we have regular reunions of those old VP-11 shipmates and many always
attend. We retell the old sea stories
and often there are new ones—sometimes confessions of long ago midsdeeds or
mistakes that once were idle scuttlebutt.)
It
was full dark and the stars were bright overhead with the glory of the Southern
Cross having slipped for the last time below the horizon when Hook touched me
on the shoulder and said, “Hey, sober-sides, let’s go get a cup of coffee and
hit the sack. It’s getting pretty cool.
The
most noteworthy event of our voyage on the SEA WITCH occurred on the morning of
the day 8 March 1943, still an hour or more out, somewhere west of Seal Rocks we
were in a solid fog bank. The fog was so
thick that it was not possible to see form the bow of the ship to the
stern. Unfortunately, the SEA WITCH did
not have radar and we were traveling alone.
Since
it was chilly and damp in the fog on deck and our mess cooking duties were over
for the lat time, Hook and I were at a table in the mess compartment playing a
few hands of cards. I was just dealing
when there was a sudden violent jar in the ship and what sounded like a dull
boom forward. An alarm started going on
the loudspeakers.
Our
first thought was “Torpedo!” The cards
went flying as we came up from the table.
My lifejacket was on my bunk tow compartments away on the mess
deck. I shot through the hatches, snatched
up my life preserver, went up to ladders and out onto the main deck in a matter
of seconds—probably the fasted I had moved in my entire life.
We
had not been torpedoed. SEA WITCH had
collided with another ship in the fog. I
moved fast enough that I got a glimpse of the stern of the ship we had hit just
disappearing into the fog off our starboard bow. I saw the name of the ship in black letters
on the stern as it vanished. Of all the
ships in the United States Navy the one we had to hit was the USS PYRO, at that
time the largest ammunition ship in commission!
We
found later that PYRO was loaded to the Plimsol marks with every high explosive
in use. If the collision had set it off,
there would have been bare fragment of the two ships and all souls on board drifting
to the bottom of the ocean. Such an
explosion would have wiped out a good share of that convoy.
The
bow of SEA WITCH had hit PYRO just at the port five-inch gun platform aft. The big gun had been ripped loose and two men
died on PYRO. Inspection of SEA WITCH revealed
a hole in the starboard bow about six feet vertically and fifteen feet long;
however, it was well above the waterline so we were in no immediate danger of
sinking. SEA WITCH lay dead in the water
until the foghorns of the convoy receded then we proceeded at a reduced
speed. The fog started to lift as we
passed beneath the Golden Gate Bridge.
Two painters on a scaffolding beneath the great span waved welcome.
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| USS SAN FRANCISCO passing under the Golden Gate |
We
docked in San Francisco bay in the early evening of March 8th. All of we Navy passengers were on deck in our
dress blues and with our baggage as the ship eased alongside the pier. There was no brass band to greet the rusty freighter;
however, there was a USO coffee stand on the pier tended by American girls—the first
we had seen in two years. I recall that
Hook said to me, “Migawd—look at those wahines!
They are all as white and pale as if they just got out of the hospital
or something!” In comparison to the
brown girls of the South Pacific to which we had become accustomed they did,
indeed look a bit sickly, however, it did not take long for us to adjust to
that!”
We
did not get to talk to the USO girls. A
boat laid alongside SEA WITCH and we Naval personnel were transferred to the
Navy Receiving Station on Treasure Island.
It was after dark by then and everything on the base was secured;
however, as soon as we had been shown to a barracks, Hook and I dropped our
seabags and headed for the ODD’s office.
It took some talking to the officer, but soon, armed with special
liberty passes, we were headed for the Oakland Bay Bridge to catch a trolley
into Oakland (it was a bit nearer than San Francisco).
As
I recall, it was by then around ten o’clock.
We simply headed for the first bar we saw to celebrate our return. By the midnight closing time, both Hook and I
were gloriously drunk. We weaved our way
out to the street, singing bawdy songs.
Hook insisted on treating us to a taxi back to Treasure Island. We decided that the next night would be our
real return celebration. We would go
into ‘Frisco, get a hotel room, and really live it up.
