HOWARD`s MOUNTAIN

HOWARD’S MOUNTAIN
THE STORY OF A SAILOR AND HIS
SHIP…AND THE MOUNTAIN
CONQUERED AT THE CLIMAX OF
THEIR DANGEROUS JOURNEY
by Howard E. Lee, Jr.
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HOWARD’s MOUNTAIN
The story of a sailor and his ship…and the
mountain conquered at the climax of their dangerous journey
~ by Howard E. Lee, Jr. with assistance from his brother, Bill ~
FOREWORD
Life, perhaps, can be considered a series of opportunities to challenge mountains (or viceversa). Some really exist, but others – perhaps the most daunting of all – only rise to
improbable heights in the mists of our minds. Some are easy to climb, some difficult to
surmount; some impossible to conquer. But it is in mankind’s make-up to always try…
Such journeys may take place in solitude, or in the comforting presence of family and
friends. Perhaps the most unique of such adventures are made in the company of seagoing comrades previously unknown to one another - groups of young men thrown
closely together by fate, who bond in battle, under constant threat of injury or even death.
This recounting of my older brother’s perilous passage during World War Two in just
such circumstances required our cooperative transit together of a relatively insignificant
hill in 2007; i.e., the effort required to recall and record his sixty-plus year-old memories
of naval service. It is his story, in his words, as related to me – the scribe. It was a trip I
was honored to be permitted to share with him, grim as the task proved to be, in places.
It is dedicated to those who shared in his journey, but didn’t return…
What follows was created primarily to inspire his children, grandchildren and future
generations of our family whenever they face their own challenging mountains and
cannot enjoy hearing this story told firsthand. But first and foremost, it serves as tribute
to my brother’s dedication to duty, honor and country at the time he sailed in harm’s way
and became our family’s most successful and Greatest Generation ‘Mountain Climber’.
Bill Lee
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THE SEA-GOING SAGA OF LEE, H. E.,
RT 2/C, 936-52-49, USN
~ BEFORE THE BEGINNING ~
All sea stories have to begin somewhere; the trick is to decide on how far back to go to
‘set the stage’ without putting the reader or the listener to sleep! In this case, I think it
will be useful to describe the circumstances that preceded the time when I became a
sailor in Uncle Sam’s Navy in the spring of 1944.
In May of 1940, I entered the Newport News Shipbuilding & Dry Dock Company’s
world-famous Apprentice School. My starting hourly wage was 37.5 cents per hour.
Several hours a week were spent in the classroom, taking courses in math, physics,
metallurgy, and – of course – shipbuilding.
But most of my time, initially, was spent onboard ships under construction. I worked on
several passenger/cargo vessels, then a battleship, an aircraft carrier and a couple of
cruisers. I also spent some time working on a filthy French vessel that was in the yard for
repairs. When I walked home to the Shipyard Apartments (which was just a few blocks
away), I was sternly instructed to disrobe in the hall before daring to come in and get a
shower. But all that sort of thing ended in May of 1943.
At that time, I was allowed to move from being a lowly apprentice on
the waterfront to become an equally lowly draftsman apprentice in the
yard’s Piping Drawing Room. Then, in January of 1944, I was sent to
the shipyard in Wilmington, North Carolina for a couple of months to
help prepare piping drawings for the construction of Victory ships.
When I returned to Newport News, I learned that all “2B” occupational draft deferments
that had been granted to apprentices had been rescinded. Seems the Navy had enough
ships built or under construction, and what the nation needed then was more servicemen.
Almost overnight, the number of apprentices dropped from over 1,000 to less than 50.
Students went into all branches of the armed forces. Those with less than six months of
time remaining were graduated. I was not one of them.
Not only did that unexpected change in draft classification ruin my
plans to complete my apprenticeship, it also caused a change in my
slightly longer range plan to marry the love of my life, Helen
Chamblee. We had met a year or so before, while on a double date.
However, she had been paired up with my best friend Bruce Parker
by some well-meaning friends, and I with another gal.
Helen and I were instantly attracted to one another, but had to suffer,
separately, through that first ‘date’. From that point on, and to this
very day, she has been the only girl for me.
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In retrospect, the change in my draft status wasn’t all that bad. Amongst other things, it
accelerated our plans to get married. Originally, because of a strictly enforced shipyard
rule preventing undergraduate apprentices from marrying, we had been faced with
waiting until I finished my time.
The very real possibility of
being drafted into the army
motivated me to look for an
alternative.
I
soon
discovered that the Navy
badly needed men that had
the basic skills necessary to
become radar operators, and
were actively advertising
that fact.
At that time, radar was a
mystic
device
largely
shrouded
in
military
mystery. But anything that
would keep me out of the
army, where I suspected that
neither my ship design nor
my construction skills would
be
fully
appreciated,
certainly seemed to be a
more desirable course of
action.
The Navy was testing
candidates then, utilizing a
qualification test prepared in
Washington, DC by a
Captain Eddy; hence the
name ‘Eddy Test’.
Bruce and I, along with several other apprentices that were soon to be drafted, went to the
Little Boat Harbor ferry dock. We enjoyed a brief waterborne passage across Hampton
Roads to the Naval Operating Base. There, we took the Eddy Aptitude test, which mostly
consisted of solving relatively basic problems in math and physics.
But, there was a catch… BEFORE we were permitted to take the test, we had to enlist in
the Navy! Those that passed were qualified to go to the navy’s radar school. Those that
didn’t went into the Navy as unclassified seamen recruits. Bruce and I both passed, and
returned to Newport News to await our call to arms.
Which wasn’t long in coming.
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~ MY CALL TO DUTY FROM THE PRESIDENT ~
On April 5, 1944, I received some very impersonal ‘greetings’ from the President of the
United States; sent to me by some of my neighbors. From that point, events transpired
rapidly. On Friday, April 7, 1944 I resigned from the shipyard. The next day, Helen and I
– accompanied by another apprentice school classmate and his intended – drove to
Elizabeth City, North Carolina and were married.
The next couple of weeks
were spent in travel visiting
the
homes
of
my
grandparents and Mother in
New York so they could
meet Helen
Early the morning of April
28th, I made my reluctant
way to 87 Main Street in
Hilton Village. There I
boarded a bus along with
several others, bound for the
military’s induction center
in Richmond. I had been
instructed to take only a
small bag of toiletry items
and a change of underwear.
If I passed the physical, I
would
immediately
be
transported from Richmond
to the Great Lakes Training
Center.
Of course, if I had failed the
physical, I would have been
sent home. No such luck.
After passing a perfunctory physical, I was told to wait in a room full of rows of chairs,
along with others who had passed, and await assignment to a particular service. No
problem, I thought. After all, I had already enlisted in the Navy and had also been preassigned to receive specialty training by virtue of taking and passing that test in Norfolk.
So I found an empty seat in the second row and sat down to wait. Very soon thereafter, a
Marine Sergeant and two Corporals came into the room. The tough-looking and sounding
Sergeant informed us that the marines were a little behind in their quota for that day, and
needed some volunteers. Whereupon he pointed at five guys who had the bad luck of
sitting in the front row, and said “You, you, you, you and you!” Ignoring their protests,
the three marines marched the Corps’ newest members out of the room.
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I’m not sure what would have happened, if I had been selected. I had papers that
authorized me to go into the navy’s radar program, but who knows if those marines
would have cared? No matter; I successfully survived my first military misadventure!
~ BOOT CAMP AND TECHNICAL TRAINING ~
Shortly thereafter, we were sorted out, by
service. I got on a bus, and then a train bound
for Chicago. Once there, another bus took me
to the Great Lakes Training Center. I was
placed in a company of about 100 inductees,
all destined to become radar technicians. The
very first thing that happened was that we
traded in our civilian identities.
I became LEE, H.E. - Serial # 936-52-49.
One of the very next things I received was a
seaman recruit’s ‘bible’. Shots, a close haircut
and the issue of uniforms followed. Along with
a set of individualized stencils. Each and every
item of clothing we were given had to be
stenciled with our new, convoluted names and
our soon-to-memorized serial numbers. There
was a strict methodology for doing that, of
course. The Bluejackets’ Manual provided the
instructions, and the Navy very thoughtfully
provided a stencil…and a Chief Petty Officer
to make sure you did it exactly right.
Our first uniform issue included a set of ‘dress blues’, replete with bell-bottomed trousers
that included the infamous thirteen-button fly. We also received a set of less formal (i.e.
undress) blues, two sets of dungaree work pants and shirts, two sets of white uniforms,
two ‘sailor’ hats plus one flat hat, one neckerchief, a set of leggings, two pairs of black
shoes and two sets of underwear.
All of this – except what we wore as the ‘uniform of the day’ had to be carefully folded
and ‘layered’ into a sea bag, made of heavy canvas. This we learned to do by repetitive
practice, as instructed by the CPO, who suggested that we put the things we wouldn’t
need soon on the bottom. But he neglected to tell us how we could forecast our future
uniform needs!
Our ‘boot camp bible’ also included a detailed drawing of how we were supposed to lay
out and display all the individually-folded contents of our sea bags for frequent
inspection. Our blue-backed books also provided equally detailed instructions on how the
lay out our hammocks (which we didn’t actually use, until much later) for inspection.
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Leaving nothing to chance, the manual even illustrated how to fold everything into a neat
‘bed roll’ that would have made a Boy Scout proud. Once all rolled up, our hammocks,
mattresses and mattress covers took up very little space; ideal not only for storage but
were made easier to carry. Whenever we moved from one base to another, we had to
hand-carry everything we owned, except what we were wearing.
On top of a sea bag’s contents went our personal toiletries, which were contained by a
light canvas bag with a drawstring. Called a ‘ditty’ bag, it’s the only thing I still have
from my earliest days in the navy.
NOTE: My ditty bag went to sea, again, in
1996…so to speak. After I completed
building a sailboat, I utilized this everhandy bag to stow small tools, an outboard
motor manual and other items in the boat’s
cuddy when I went sailing. I think I have
gotten the government money’s worth.
We also were issued a pea coat, which
didn’t prove too useful, later on, in the
Pacific. In addition to a hammock, we also
got two blankets, a thin mattress and a
mattress cover. These bedding items, when
not in use, were kept rolled up in a
shipshape manner. Fortunately, until I got
onboard ‘my’ ship, I didn’t have to use this
decidedly uncomfortable – but highly
portable – form of bedding for very long.
What transpired next was a month of
learning the basics of becoming a sailor.
The use of military time became automatic,
something I still use, probably to the
irritation of people around me who have not
mastered the usage of 1300 to 2400 hours.
We drilled, of course, and I learned, first hand, what ‘Captain of the Head’ and ‘KP’
really meant.
Mostly, I learned that in the Navy you have to stand in line for just about everything.
The best memory I have of that month in boot camp is meeting Lynwood P. Morrison. He
and I were placed in the same company in boot camp, destined to become radar
technicians. That chance placement resulted in our quickly becoming friends. We were
fortunate enough to be assigned to the same group, following boot camp, for all of our
training that followed. Ultimately, we even were assigned to the same ship, and served
together until the war was over.
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Graduation from boot camp
simply meant that we
marched
in
review
formation
and
had
individual photos made in
our dress whites. Thereafter,
the
prospective
radar
technicians were sent to a
junior college in downtown
Chicago for a brief period to
absorb more basic math that
would be needed in
advanced training. Then,
another train trip; this time
to College Station, Texas.
At Texas A&M, we studied
a series of subjects that can
be
summarized
as
“Electronics 101” for about
three months. The highlight
of my time in Texas was the
fact that Helen was able to
be there too. She worked
and lived in town, and we
were able to spend time
together whenever I was
granted Liberty. As I recall,
that was most weekends.
Liberty: now that’s about as apt a name as possible for being turned free from the
military, if only for a few hours at a time.
When we had completed our course work at Texas A&M, it was back on a train, bound,
again, for Chicago. Helen soon followed, finding another job and another room to rent in
Chicago.
My classmates and I went to Navy Pier, where we stayed for about three months. It was
here that we had our first ‘hands-on’ exposure to the types of radar equipment we would
ultimately be responsible for keeping in operational condition. While in school at Navy
Pier, we had the usual instruction manuals for each type of equipment.
We were given notebooks in which to record trouble shooting solutions, as we learned
them. The manuals had schematics and typical wave forms to be investigated with
oscilloscopes. All of this material was classified CONFIDENTIAL. We were NOT
allowed to take any of it with us when we transferred to the fleet. We could request to
have our notebooks forwarded to us on the ship, and I did. I never saw those notes again!
8
However, manuals with schematics and
wiring diagrams were available for each
system onboard ship. We could not have
done our jobs without them.
Once we completed our training at
Chicago’s Navy Pier, it was time for me to
go to war. The Navy granted me a few days
leave, Helen quit her job and we went (by
train, of course) back to Newport News for
a few days.
Tearfully, Helen and I said goodbye, not
knowing for how long, or… With no
reason to stay in Chicago or Newport
News, she went to Jacksonville, Florida to
live with one of her sisters and await my
return.
~ GO WEST, YOUNG MAN; DESTINATION UNKNOWN ~
As for me, it was back on a train again. This time, our destination was Camp Shumaker,
near Oakland, California. By the time we got there, I had ‘logged’ several thousand miles
of navy travel; almost all of it on trains – and absolutely none of it on ships!
Here, we were placed in a replacement pool of men, destined for unknown assignments
and stations somewhere in the fleet. All I really knew was that I’d be going to some ship
to help keep its radar equipment in good operation and repair. Because I had
completed my training in the top ten percent of my group, I had been made a
Petty Officer, 2nd Class. Officially, my designation was RT (Radar Technician)
2/C, which entitled me to wear a ‘crow’ on my uniform sleeve.
Some ship, name and type
unknown at that time, was
waiting for me - somewhere in
the Pacific. In order to get there,
I traveled for several weeks on a
transport. In late 1944, a group
of
newly
minted
radar
technicians (including yours
truly) boarded the USS ANNE
ARUNDEL (AP-76) and were
packed like proverbial sardines
in the holds of what once had
originally been a medium-sized
cargo vessel.
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All together, there were about 1,200 military passengers on board, heading to various
assignments in the Western Pacific. Which made for very crowded conditions and we
stood in line for everything. Once the ship cleared the Golden Gate, we hit the long
swells of the Pacific along with the effects of a storm sweeping down on us from Alaska.
The timing of our departure could not have been worse, for all 1,200 of us had just
polished off our evening meal – spaghetti and meatballs. As the ship rolled, twisted and
tossed, almost everyone onboard tossed their evening meal! I did just fine, for a while.
But then, the revolting sights and overpowering smells got to me, and I rushed to the
leeward rail to ‘feed the fishes’. War is hell…
On the plus side, that was the last time I ever was sea sick. However, my friend,
Lynwood, not only became deathly sick, he stayed that way – for days. I think he spent
four days in a row in his sack, only eating a few pieces of fruit that I was able to smuggle
out of the mess area for him. We were bunked in one of the cargo holds, on racks three
high. Lynwood was in one of the bottom bunks, very close to the deck. Fortunate for him,
and for the rest of us, if you know what I mean!
After several days at sea, with little to do, we arrived in Pearl Harbor. But there was no
shore leave for us, and after a brief stay to replenish stores and refuel the ship, AP-76
stood out to sea again, bound for the far Western reaches of the Pacific. After another
even longer journey, we finally arrived where a number of fighting ships were anchored
in Leyte Gulf. Once we anchored, various sized groups of people were dispatched to
other forms of transportation to enable them to reach their final destinations.
Eventually, in the company of the ever-present Lynwood Morrison, I had my turn. We
climbed down a ladder from our transport’s weather deck and got into a motor whaleboat.
Others joined us in the boat, and off we went, around the anchorage, dropping off people
at various ships. Then, the boat approached the starboard quarter of an imposing-looking
vessel. I recall, quite vividly, my first impressions.
She was huge, even in the eye of a former shipbuilder. With guns of all sizes visible all
over her open decks. The sight of her made me wonder if she could really move, or if she
was some sort of man-made island. Either way, I thought it was going to be difficult to
find my way around without getting lost.
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~ MY MOBILE HOME – FAR AWAY FROM HOME ~
The only sign of identification was the number “40” on her stern. At this point I still did
not know the name of my new home. It was not until the boat paused briefly at that ship’s
accommodation ladder, and the four of us carried all our worldly goods onboard, that I
learned her name: NEW MEXICO. Home, as it were, for the next fifteen months.
Up to the point in time when I first stepped upon her quarterdeck and saluted the OOD, I
had never even heard of the USS NEW MEXICO. But I soon learned much about her.
Often called the Queen of the Seas, BB-40 was one of several World War I-era
battleships consigned to provide shore bombardment support for our soldiers and marines
that invaded island after island on the way to Japan. She also provided antiaircraft
defense for herself and the ships around her, both while underway in battle formation and
when steaming very slowly, and also very close to a hostile shore. As will be discussed
later, we were a very inviting target.
The following table provides some basic data that may be of passing interest.
USS New Mexico (BB-40)
Displacement: 33,000 tons (normal) / 36,157 tons (full load)
Length: 624 feet
Beam: 106 feet, 3 inches
Draft: 34 feet
Speed: 21.5 knots
Armament: 4x3 14"/50, 6x1 5"/51, 8x1 5"/25, 10x4 40mm, 46x1 20mm, 8x1 .50caliber MG; 2 planes
Complement: 2,116
Propulsion: Turbo-electric steam turbines, 4-300 psi boilers, 4 shafts, 40,000 hp
Built at New York Navy Yard and commissioned 20 May 1918
For anyone interested in more details, I recommend reading a book created by some of
my dedicated BB-40 shipmates. Entitled All The Queen’s Men, it was published in 1990
by the USS NEW MEXICO Reunion Association. That publication, in addition to
numerous other official naval history accounts, document in more detail, and better than I
can remember after sixty-plus years, all that she and her crew accomplished. Therefore, I
see no need to repeat all that has been previously recorded about BB-40 and her service
to our nation.
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All The Queen’s Men also graphically describes and depicts the horrors of war twice
visited upon us while I was onboard; things I care not to share in very much detail with
those whom I love. Suffice to say, I cannot forget those events, nor can I forget the
sacrifices made by the several hundred thousand Americans during World War Two. It is
my earnest desire that anyone who happens to read this account of my relatively
insignificant naval service will likewise pause, remember and give silent thanks to them.
We enjoy our many freedoms today because of those who served and gave their all. In
the hustle and bustle of the 21st century, we sometimes forget. Especially those amongst
us whose shrill voices of opposition to almost every thing are, ironically, able to say and
do whatever they wish because of the efforts and sacrifices of the many who have
safeguarded our country in years past.
End of sermon. For those who know me well, let me add: But just for now…
~ SUMMARY - THE QUEEN’S CONTRIBUTIONS TO VICTORY ~
What follows next is a summary of the ship’s operational history just before, during and
after World War Two.
“Extensively modernized at the Philadelphia Navy Yard beginning in March 1931,
New Mexico's work, completed in January 1933, greatly altered her appearance. Her
original "cage" masts were replaced by a then-modern tower superstructure, and many
other improvements were made to her armament and protection. In 1940, her base was
relocated to Pearl Harbor as a deterrent to Japan, but New Mexico was sent to the
Atlantic in May 1941 to meet the menace presented by German successes in Europe.
“New Mexico returned to the Pacific in early 1942 to help reinforce a Pacific Fleet that
had been badly crippled by the Japanese attack at Pearl Harbor. During most of 1942
she operated off the U.S. west coast and in Hawaiian waters, and then went to the
southwest Pacific until May 1943, when she arrived in the Aleutians to take part in
operations to recapture Attu and Kiska.
“In late 1943 and early 1944, New Mexico provided heavy gunfire support to invasions
in the Gilbert and Marshall Islands. A bombardment of Japanese positions on New
Ireland followed in March 1944, and in June and July the battleship helped in the
conquest of Saipan, Tinian and Guam.
“Following a Stateside overhaul, New Mexico took part in the capture of Mindoro and
Luzon. On 6 January 1945, she was hit by a suicide plane that killed her commanding
officer and 29 others, and injured 87 of her crew. The ship was able to remain in
action, however, for several more days.
“After repairs, New Mexico participated in the Okinawa invasion in March-May 1945.
She was again hit by a "Kamikaze" on 12 May. She was set on fire, and 54 of her men
were killed, with 119 wounded. Swift action extinguished the fires within half an hour,
and on 28 May she departed for repairs at a forward repair base.
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“Word of the war's end reached her at Saipan 15 August, and next day she sailed for
Okinawa to join the occupation force. She entered Sagami Wan 27 August to support
the airborne occupation of Atsugi Airfield, and then next day passed into Tokyo Bay to
witness the surrender ceremonies on 2 September 1945.
“New Mexico was homeward bound 6 September, calling at Okinawa, Pearl Harbor,
and the Panama Canal before arriving in Boston 17 October. She was decommissioned
there on 19 July 1946.
“BB-40 was sold for scrap 13 October 1947 and disposed of in New York the next year.
“New Mexico received 6 battle stars for World War II service”.
She walked the water like a thing of life, and seemed to dare the elements to strife.
Lord Byron
~ GETTING ACQUAINTED WITH THE QUEEN ~
I shared her life between December 1944 and February 1946. I was but a tiny cog in the
machinery of war. I never fired a weapon, nor stormed a beach. But, like so many people
in support of those who did, I served to the best of my ability; in the job I was assigned.
What that entailed is the heart of the next several pages of these reminisces. The
conditions I lived and worked in, the things I did and what I witnessed onboard NEW
MEX all formed a memorable period of time in my life. As is so often said, I wouldn’t
trade the experience for anything…but I have no desire to go that way again. This, then,
is what it was like.
Before we could really adjust to being on a battlewagon, the Officer of the Deck – who
apparently, and unfortunately for him, was downwind of us – quickly told a bos’ns mate
to show us the way to the crew’s showers before taking us anyplace else. That was
because we had been without a fresh water shower in the four weeks it took to get from
San Francisco to our ship, and we had wisely passed up the opportunity to take salt water
showers. When we got to the showers on the NEW MEX, I stood my dungarees up in the
dressing area. Literally. They were that stiff with grime, perspiration stains and heaven
only knows what else. I never saw them again, and that was quite all right with me!
13
Soon thereafter, we met the Chief Petty Officer in charge of maintaining the ship’s radar
equipment. I wish I could remember his name. All I can remember is that he once had
been the chief engineer for Radio Station KDKA in Pittsburgh before the war.
He told us that we were not ‘replacements’, but ‘supplementary’ personnel. At that point
in time, which was late December, 1944, the Navy had realized what a valuable defensive
weapon radar could be; especially when used to provide early warning of Japanese
suicide airplane attacks. Keeping all radars up and running properly had become a very
high priority, and the small cadre of sailors who had that task on BB-40 needed help.
The Chief assigned me to the care and upkeep of all radar equipment in the forward half
of the ship. My friend Lynwood was given a similar assignment for the equipment
located in the aft half of the NEW MEXICO, except that sector did not include a sky
search radar. Nevertheless, we shared information and ‘tricks of the trade’ about the
similar equipment we both were responsible for, and spent a lot of time together when we
were not busy or at General Quarters..
~ MY WORK SPACE…WHICH BECAME SO MUCH MORE ~
Some highly unusual situations resulted from my assignment. First of all, I was one of the
few sailors on that ship who didn’t stand a watch. Before you think I ‘had it made’, you
need to understand what my assignment entailed. I was on 24 hour a day/ seven days a
week constant call. If any of the radar equipment located forward of midships
malfunctioned, I had to stop whatever else I was doing and go running to the scene. As a
consequence, I did not leave the ship, even when in harbor, for a period of over nine
months.
The majority of the electronic equipment I maintained was located in a radar room that
doubled as a maintenance shop on the 04 Level, four decks above the main weather deck.
The remainder of the radar gear was located on decks immediately above and below that
space. Electronic counter-measures gear (for jamming enemy radar and radio signals)
was also my responsibility, and was situated in a nearby space on that same level. One
particularly vital piece of equipment was on the bridge – two decks higher up.
But my berthing area was on 2nd Deck, six levels down and located far forward, on the
starboard side. So every time I was asleep and got summonsed, I had to make my way aft
and then up a half-dozen inclined ladders. To make that journey even worse, every time
General Quarters was sounded, I had to go to the radar room, which also was my battle
station. This required me to ‘swim upstream’ on ladders being used by many others
rushing down to their battle stations.
All of which led to my second unusual situation. Not only was my berthing area pretty
remote from where I needed to be most of the time, it also only had provision for hanging
a hammock – no bunks – except for a few cots reserved for use by 1st Class Petty
Officers. I hated sleeping – or trying to – in a hammock. Fortunately, that relatively
isolated radar room/maintenance shop had a wooden-topped work bench, just about the
same size as my mattress.
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You guessed it, that space became not only my assigned work area, and battle station, it
also became my decidedly unofficial sleeping quarters. A bit austere, to be sure, but other
than the Captain and a few other senior officers, I’m pretty sure I was the only enlisted
man on the NEW MEXICO to have a private ‘stateroom.’ But no one seemed to notice,
or if they did, they apparently didn’t mind. Just as long as I was always available to work
on radar equipment, I suppose.
And if that wasn’t odd enough, I even had an unlimited (albeit unauthorized) source of
hot, fresh water, piped into that very space! That was because the Admiral’s quarters
were located directly above, and the fresh water pipes that supplied his area happened to
pass through my space. Some enterprising sailor before me had bartered something – I
know not what – with some unknown shipbuilder, who had attached a small valve to the
hot water line. Tucked into a corner, and usually disguised by hanging a piece of clothing
on it, it materially added to my comfort. Fresh water was in short supply throughout the
rest of the ship and often was severely rationed, but no one ever dared turn off the
Admiral’s water. I could wash clothes in a bucket, or shave most anytime I wanted or
needed to, being careful to dispose of the waste water by dumping it overboard later on.
Most of the time, I wore dungaree shirts and pants, and wore heavy black leather work
shoes. I had two sets of these work clothes, so I could wash out one set and still be
instantly available to answer an urgent call to service any ailing radar. Whenever I went
out on deck, I had to have a ‘cover’ – a traditional sailor hat. But, one of the first things
we all had to do when we got onboard The Queen was to dye our white hats a dark blue.
Before that, these traditional sailor symbols had to be kept spotlessly clean and very
white. But onboard the NEW MEXICO, until after the war ended, we never went out on
deck, day or night, wearing any light-colored external clothing.
Well, in retrospect and all things considered, maybe I did have it made!
Of course, I had to periodically muster with the rest of I Division on the main deck, get
counted, participate in PT; routine things like that. I also made brief sojourns to other
parts of the ship to visit a head, to eat, to buy something from the ship’s store, or to seek
medical or dental attention. Otherwise, the 04 Level was where I spent the vast majority
of my time while onboard the NEW MEXICO.
If General Quarters was in force for an extended period of time, as often was the case,
sandwiches and coffee were delivered to me and others at vital stations throughout the
ship. Mostly, I stayed in the radar room, all alone, for long stretches of time, with only a
constant stream of orders that came over a loudspeaker to keep me company.
The only time I was allowed to leave that space during GQ was to respond to an urgent
call for radar repair. But not to any urgent call of nature! But then, I did have my trusty
bucket…
Before I describe my home away from home in more detail, I think I need to explain why
a ship built in 1918, long before radar was invented, happened to have sufficient space
for the numerous items of electronic gear needed during World War II.
15
~ A DESCRIPTION - WHERE I WORKED AND LIVED ~
As built,, the NEW MEXICO’s
navigating bridge was on the 04 Level,
with little else located above it. During a
major modification period that lasted two
years in the 1930s, her original, ungainly
‘cage’ masts were removed and more
modern masts were installed. A new
navigating bridge was created, two decks
higher than the original location, as
indicated on this elevational drawing,
which generally reflects what the ship’s
conning tower/bridge superstructure
looked like during World War II..
In between the new bridge and the old
one, an Admiral’s Bridge was added. The
original navigating bridge became the
chart room, which was located just
forward of the space marked on this
elevation drawing as the “Radar Room”.
Consequently, when the Navy
needed to add radar equipment to
BB 40, it was possible to do so in
the spaces immediately aft of the
chart room. Two fairly large spaces
there, whose prior purpose I have
no knowledge of, were modified to
accommodate some of the muchneeded electronic transmitters and
receivers.
Which,
inadvertently, also
accommodated one Petty Officer
Radar Technician, Second Class…
This plan view of the 04 level,
shows how it appeared when I
‘lived’ there. A brief description of
the items identified by the circled
numbers follows on the next page,
along with a brief description.
16
~ USS NEW MEXICO, 04 LEVEL, ITEMIZED DESCRIPTION ~
1. Transmitter & Receiver – Fire Control – Main Battery of 14 inch naval rifles,
turrets A & B. NOTE: Apparently, BB-40 was one of the first ships in the fleet to
receive radar equipment. I conclude that because the nameplate on this piece of
equipment read: Type FC Radar, Serial #02.
2. The work bench previously mentioned, with a series of drawers beneath, for the
storage of tools and small parts.
3. Air Search radar receiver (the transmitter, which was quite
large, was located in the space immediately below). This
was perhaps our most important radar system. Its
‘bedspring’ antenna (circled) was located high on the
foremast, to maximize the distance that we could ‘see’
over the horizon and detect enemy aircraft at far greater
distances than possible by eye.
4. Bulkhead-mounted exhaust fan (fitted with ‘light-proof’ shutters).
5. Surface search radar transmitter and receiver. Primary purpose was to detect ships
and small waterborne craft at ranges greater than possible by eye and especially at
night. Also decidedly useful to provide a visual image of land masses when the
ship had to be navigated in close quarters. Understandably, its relatively smaller
antenna, parabolic in cross-section, was located
at one of the highest points in the ship’s
superstructure; about 80 feet above sea level.
Since it rotated at a fairly high number of
revolutions per minute, one of my periodic
jobs (whenever it was safe to secure this vital
piece of gear) was to climb up there and make
sure the bearings were working properly. I sure
didn’t want to have to attempt to replace them!
6. The infamous hot water faucet previously mentioned that, officially, wasn’t there.
7. A large storage cabinet, with shelves and padding to hold and protect large
electronic components.
8. An armored tube that ran from deck to overhead. Inside it was electrical and
control cables, that were associated with the aiming and firing of the ship’s main
battery.
9. Open platform that provided the only access to the interior of the 04 Level. It also
extended aft, on the centerline, providing access to ship’s searchlights, mounted
on either side of the ship’s funnel.
10. Inclined ladder location at this level, and above and below. This was the only
vertical access to the 04 Level (and above), so when General Quarters was
announced, sailors were forced to pass one another on the narrow and steep stairs.
11. Bulkhead-mounted telephone handset; my only means of communication with the
outside world during GQ.
12. Two portholes, no glass, but fitted with hinged metal covers. During General
Quarters, the covers had to be closed and dogged tight (as did all the doors on this
level), cutting off all means of seeing outside the space, or getting a fresh supply
of air. But the covers did help to deaden the fierce sounds of battle.
17
‘My’ radar room, which doubled as an electronics equipment maintenance shop was
roughly fourteen feet wide and sixteen feet long. Unlike spaces on the ship’s lower decks,
it had a lot of headroom; about seven feet, as I recall. Everything – deck, bulkheads,
overhead and equipment, almost without exception, was made of sturdy steel and painted
‘battleship grey’. There was a constant, but not unpleasant, odor of hot metal and
activated electronic components.
There was no fresh air supply ventilation in that space; consequently, it was always hot;
especially when the space had to be ‘buttoned up’ for General Quarters. Temperatures at
such times often exceeded 100 degrees, F. Since the ship was in the Pacific for most of
1945, it was always warm in that space; even when I could open the portholes.
However, all the heat that my multiple vacuum tubes generated kept things pretty much
dried out. So humidity and mold – the enemies of electrical gear and electronic
technicians – was never a problem, not even while at sea.
At night, even though we had to maintain ‘darkened ship’ conditions all the time, both of
my portholes had detachable devices that served a dual purpose. They worked like ‘light
traps’, permitting air flow in, but no light out. More importantly, at least to me, their
output could be directed around the room. On peaceful nights, I would arrange these
devices so that fresh sea air could flow over the work bench, close to where I laid my
head down. The exhaust fan, near my feet, was always in operation, and created a
constant draft. Sometimes, I even had to cover up with a blanket. Most nights, however, I
simply slept on top of my mattress, fully dressed, except for my shoes. Always ready…
All that equipment produced a constant set of various-pitched hums. Not unpleasant, and
if something stopped running, I would almost instantly become aware of the change in
sounds, even while asleep. Many a time I would wake up, knowing something was
wrong, and get up to investigate and correct. Much more often, however, I’d be
awakened by the shrill sound of the telephone, or some order – entirely unrelated to me –
on a loudspeaker located in the passageway (which I could not turn off).
All of the equipment,
piping and wiring in that
space
was
bulkheadmounted, and exposed. As
far as I know, there are no
pictures existing of that
space. But here’s a picture
of a somewhat similar
space on the USS TEXAS,
a Memorial Battleship of
the same vintage as BB
40, just to provide some
rough idea of what my
1945-era
environment
looked like.
18
I could turn off the lighting, and if it failed, for some reason, the space was fitted with
bulky, battery-operated battle lanterns that come on automatically and cast a dim red
glow. The entry hatch, along with all the others on that level (and throughout the ship),
were fitted with devices that turned off the normal lighting and energized the red lights, if
opened at night. Sounds disruptive, I know, but one quickly gets used to it.
Although where I spent most of my time onboard The Queen was seven or eight levels
above the ship’s waterline, I normally didn’t feel much pitch or roll movement, or any
vibration. The old gal, after all, was a bit broad in the beam, and weighed a lot more in
her maturity than when she first was constructed. As a consequence, she tended to ‘plow’
through the waves. But, on at least one occasion, when we unexpectedly ran into a
typhoon, her movements became pretty lively.
My descriptions make it sound like I was pretty much in charge of my own time and
actions. I did have superiors; the Chief I previously mentioned, the officer he reported to,
a Lt. Rudy, and the head of I Division, Lt. Cmdr. Wolstenhome. Shortly after I got
onboard the NEW MEX, the Chief left the ship and was not replaced. So I then reported
to Lt. Rudy, a very nice fella – even if he was an ‘offacer’. I don’t recall being in direct
contact with the head of I Division more than a couple of times, over the several months
we were on onboard together. In addition to us radar technicians, all of the radio and
crypto personnel reported to him, so I’m sure he didn’t have time for small talk.
~ DUTIES AND EXPERIENCES ONBOARD BB-40 ~
I really didn’t need much supervision. If something broke, I was expected to fix it
immediately, if not sooner. Otherwise, I spent a lot of times testing tubes, calibrating the
equipment and making sure no dust – another enemy of electronic gear – accumulated.
World War II-era electronic
equipment, which depended
on the use of vacuum tubes,
was far bigger and more
bulky
than
today’s
miniaturized solid state
devices.
Here are a couple of
souvenirs I kept from my
work at Sangamo Electric,
after the war. They are very
similar in size to those I
handled in 1945. The biggest
one is 6-1/2 inches tall and
3-1/2 inches in diameter.
And there were rows and
rows of these things in each
piece of radar equipment.
19
Although the outside of the tubes were glass, they were very durable, and were hardly
ever damaged by the shock of the ship firing her big guns, or of the impact of enemy hits.
These tubes are much bigger versions of ones that were used in older radio sets. ‘Radar’
is an acronym for RAdio Detection And Ranging, and it utilizes the principle of sending
and receiving radio waves in such a way so as to create visual images on a CRT (cathode
ray tube) – just like the screens on older TVs and computer monitors.
A different electronic principle was employed in the surface search radar transmitter. It
utilized a device called a magnetron, which produced microwaves. Because of their
higher frequency, microwave ‘waveguides’ can carry much more information than radio
waves. The principle we used then is the same as what is utilized in today’s microwave
ovens, which explains why the earliest models were marketed as ‘radar ranges’.
Whenever I was called to deal with a problem with one of the radars, I ran to the scene to
investigate, carrying the bare essentials of my trade; needle-nosed pliers and some
screwdrivers. Often, I didn’t even need those basic tools.
A junior officer who stood bridge watch at night had a bad habit of constantly messing
with the knobs on a radar repeater located there. Called a Plan Position Indicator (PPI), it
looked like a small, round television set, except it’s screen was positioned face up. It had
about 25 knobs and switches. That guy just couldn’t resist constantly ‘adjusting’ the
PPI’s controls. But he never could get those controls back to their original settings.
It looked like this, but the one we
had was larger and flatter on the
top, with a clear space next to the
screen, handy for taking notes or
comparing the PPI image with a
small chart. Most of the controls
were on the side of its cabinet.
Far too often, I got a call from
him in the middle of the night to
“Get up here on the double and
fix this damned thing!”. All I ever
did was reset the knobs. The
‘damned thing’ always worked –
it was the officer that didn’t.
Sometimes, I had to deal with real problems, often when we were under attack. Everyone
else on the ship got very nervous when I was called to look at a misbehaving component.
Those were not the days of installed spares, or circuit boards that could be quickly
changed out. In such instances, I had to go back to my shop and get more tools. I had a
whole bag – literally – of tricks: an oscilloscope, a signal generator, a tube tester,
equipment specs and diagrams, replacements for suspected bad components, a soldering
iron and that old standby for all electricians, worldwide: rolls of black electrical tape.
20
Fortunately, although the equipment was big and bulky, it also was very durable, and a
total breakdown was rare. I’m sure preventative maintenance measures helped, but they
could only be applied when we could shut down our equipment. But those times, when
we were under the protective radar umbrella of other vessels, were rare. The real credit
for equipment reliability goes to the engineers at Raytheon, GE and Hewlett-Packard.
They helped win the war just as surely as the guys who carried weapons into combat.
I don’t wish to give the impression that all we did was work. During periods of relative
inactivity, I read; mostly Western ‘pocketbooks’. They were passed around until they
simply fell apart. When anchored in a safe port, a movie screen was suspended between
the stern and the main battery, aft. A projector and chairs (for officers) were set up on one
side of the screen. Enlisted personnel were ‘privileged’ to stand on the back side of the
screen. Made for some interested, albeit confusing, scenes, at times! On other occasions,
a pick-up band would play tunes; again, only when we were in a secure port.
My monthly pay, including an extra amount for sea duty, plus a marriage allotment
totaled up to $144. I arranged to send most of this money to Helen, keeping only a few
dollars a month for buying personal items that I might need. We had to buy personal
hygiene items, like toothpaste at the ship’s store, which dealt only in cash. That also was
the place where we could get a fountain coke – for five cents.
Helen wisely put the pay I sent home into war bonds. She also worked while I was gone,
which added to this patriotic ‘nest egg’ we accumulated. That was the first of many
excellent financial decisions she made for us, over the years. Eventually, we cashed in
those war bonds to serve as a down payment on the first home we (and the bank) owned.
The food we received was plentiful, and as good as one could reasonably expect, under
the circumstances. The milk and eggs were always of the ‘powdered’ variety;
consequently eggs were always served scrambled. When we were able to go into port to
replenish, or we received supplies from a stores ship (while steaming along, close
together), we’d have fresh meat – and less frequently, fresh fruit - for a few days. The one
thing the Navy never seemed to run out of was coffee.
But the absolute highlight of our off-duty hours was mail call. Depending on where the
ship was, that would happen about once a week (in port) or only once a month (at sea).
We were at sea far more than we ever were in port. Helen faithfully wrote to me every
day, and when we did get mail, I almost always
had a thick stack of letters from home. I read,
then reread them in chronological order.
A lot of the mail, back then, was in the form of
V-Mail (microfilmed). When printed out, it
was still very small, and hard to read – and not
at all private, since someone had to create
small pages from microdots. The mail I sent
had to be in this form, until the end of the war,
and its contents were censored.
21
Mail that I received inexplicably, but thankfully, came in its original form, and I enjoyed
seeing Helen’s neat penmanship on paper that I knew she had personally handled. I also
got one or two packages from home, while in the Pacific. One of them, took a lot of time
to get to me. When I opened it, I found that battered box contained mostly crumbs the
consistency of dust. I think the contents had originally been cookies. At least, that’s what
the dust tasted like!
With all that background information now recorded, I’ll turn to three significant events
that occurred while I was onboard the NEW MEXICO:
•
•
•
6 January 1945 – when the ship was first hit by a suicide plane,
12 May 1945 – the date of the second Kamikaze hit, and
2 September 1945 – when the surrender documents were signed in Tokyo Bay on
a nearby battleship
My memories have recently been rekindled by reading selected passages of the Ship’s
Deck Logs obtained from the National Archives that cover these periods of time. Details
from those logs are incorporated into the following discussions for continuity, although
some of the details thus provided are not really personal memories of mine.
~ 6 JANUARY 1945, AND THE AFTERMATH ~
Just before midnight on Thursday, 4 January 1945, we were underway, steaming at 15
knots. BB 40 was a part of Task Group 77.2, enroute to Lingayen Gulf to provide shore
bombardment support for Allied landings on Luzon. According to the ship’s log, shortly
after midnight, we stopped briefly, to receive 124 survivors from the escort carrier USS
OMMANEY BAY (CVE-79) from the destroyer PATTERSON. She had been hit by a
suicide plane that afternoon, and had to be abandoned before she sank.
Although I don’t recall this
specific tragedy, I witnessed
similar scenes far more often than
I care to remember. That day, we
were at General Quarters almost
continuously, so I was probably in
my combination radar room/work
shop, with only a vague
awareness of what was going on
outside. Shortly after we got
underway again, enemy aircraft
(bogies) were detected by radar.
Sometimes they just scouted our position, often dropping float flares at night. Other times
they might attack, but not press the issue when we fired at them. Far too often, they
pressed their attacks home with devastating results. They might come as singles, or in
droves. We never knew what to expect. So the entire crew of the NEW MEXICO had to
be at General Quarters for hours – sometimes days – at a time.
22
Land was detected by radar at 0937 hours on Friday, 5 January at a distance of 32 miles.
As we moved closer, the air attacks intensified. Repeated attacks that day resulted in
major damage to two ships in our company, and one was sunk. Even in that madness and
resultant confusion, grim tasks had to be performed.
Three times on that Friday, the entire Task Group briefly half-masted colors, as three
different ships in our company – all victims of Kamikaze attacks the day before - held
burial services at sea. At such times, approaching enemy-occupied territory, we couldn’t
stop, or even slow down, much less assemble on deck to show our personal respects. It
was not until 2003 hours that evening that we were able to secure from General Quarters.
The next day, Saturday 6 January 1945, numerous radar contacts were reported after
dawn, but no enemy aircraft got closer to our formation than eight nautical miles. At
1020 that morning, we went to General Quarters. Eighteen minutes later we commenced
bombardment of enemy installations on Luzon. At 1115 hours, lookouts reported
unidentified aircraft at a distance of five miles, flying low over the water.
Shortly thereafter, the NEW MEXICO opened up with everything she had in the way of
antiaircraft defense. At times like that, while I couldn’t see what was going on, I could
sure tell when enemy aircraft were getting close. First, the 5”/51 caliber guns would fire
at a steady rate of several rounds a minute. Then, the 40 MM ‘quad’ mounts would join
in. The noise level would then further escalate and become almost continuous. Finally,
the 20MM weapons and 50 caliber machine guns would add their high-pitched,
continuous chatter.
Unlike in the movies, there was no play-by-play on the loudspeaker. Even if I had known
exactly what was going on, the only thing I could possibly do was sit there and wait for
whatever fate brought our way.
Just before noon that day, our luck ran out. Quoting portions of the ship’s log verbatim:
“1157 Four (4) unidentified aircraft observed heading in towards this vessel, from
astern. Commenced firing anti-aircraft weapons at these aircraft immediately upon
identification as enemy. 1158 Enemy suicide plane crashed destroyer astern. 1159
Enemy suicide plane, believed ZEKE, with bomb (500 lb.) crashed outboard corner,
port wing of navigation bridge, with tremendous explosion, and caused heavy
causalities to bridge and gun-deck personnel, including the fatal wounding of the
Commanding Officer. Shifted steering control to Steering Gear trick wheel.”
The log for the 12 to 16 watch starts off as follows: “1200 Steaming as before, on course
030 (T), at 15 knots, 163 r.p.m., having just been hit by Jap fighter-bomber. The
Executive Officer, in Battle TWO assumed command.”
In less time than it takes to read these passages, 30 men were dead and 87 more wounded.
Even as fire and rescue personnel flocked to the terrible scene, the battle continued:
“1236 Enemy plane diving this ship. Commenced firing anti-aircraft weapons and shot
down the plane, crashing about 400 yards off the starboard bow.”
23
A battle damage report, filed some time later, summarized the physical damage.
But that summary does not come close to revealing what we suffered, in human terms.
Therefore, I am including, next, a reproduction of the first entry in the ship’s log for
Sunday, 7 January 1945. It describes, far more unemotionally than I could possibly do,
what occurred three minutes after midnight, as the majority of the NEW MEXICO’s
crew, including me, solemnly assembled on the quarterdeck as the ship steamed into the
darkness at 15 knots.
24
The plane hit about fifteen feet from where I was, at the time. But there were two decks
and several bulkheads between my location in the Radar Room and the point of impact.
Tightly enclosed in a steel cocoon, I don’t recall feeling any heat or smelling any smoke.
I distinctly remember hearing unusual noises, above the din of our anti-aircraft weapons
firing on full automatic, but didn’t have any idea what had happened. It wasn’t until the
‘all clear’ was sounded, hours later, when I could go out on deck and see the extent of the
damage and the carnage, that I realized how lucky I had been. By that time, damage
control was well underway and there was really nothing I could do, except check out the
equipment for which I was responsible.
After only a brief pause on 6 January, we continued to fulfill our bombardment mission,
simultaneously fighting off more suicide planes while making repairs. Before that day
was over, two more ships were hit, receiving damage even worse that we had suffered.
With that grim burial at sea ceremony behind us early on 7 January, and for the next
several days, we maintained our invasion support mission. Several times more, suicide
planes were ‘splashed’ very close to us – twice as close as 100 yards.
Only after our troops were secure ashore, did we sail away. Damaged ships were sent to
forward repair bases. Badly damaged ships went back to Pearl Harbor (including BB-40).
For the second time in my life, I ‘saw’ Hawaii – but only from a distance. For the second
time, there was no shore leave for me or my shipmates. We were too busy making repairs
and preparing for our next assignment. Soon, we were back at sea again.
Our next passage took us across miles of open ocean. With the threat of any enemy attack
minimized, we were able to enjoy some simple pleasures. I often sat on the pipe rail that
surrounded the open platform on the 04 Level, just aft of my battle station and just
forward of the ship’s funnel. For some reason, I favored the starboard side, perhaps
because the series of ladders located there created a kind of little alcove. Whatever the
reason, I spent hours there; watching the waves go by, witnessing sunrises and sunsets,
and seeing the stars at their brightest (as only they can be seen at sea).
I also recall gazing in awe at the armada of ships that surrounded us. Carriers, battleships,
cruisers, destroyers, patrol craft, transports, stores ships, tankers, cargo vessels and even a
hospital ship or two often stretched for miles, all around us. A scene the likes of which
the world will never see again.
25
~ EVENTS THAT CLIMAXED ON 12 MAY 1945 ~
By late March 1945, we were back ‘on the line’ again, this time providing shore
bombardment support for the invasion of Okinawa. For several weeks, we fulfilled that
mission, enduring virtually constant air attacks. Our task force was even attacked once
by some Japanese suicide boats, which were no match for our big guns. As best I can
recall, every day in that period was pretty much the same. We fired our main battery at
designated targets on the island, and filled the sky with smaller caliber shells; warding
off, for weeks, the repeated and determined Kamikaze attacks.
The United States Navy’s official history of the action off Okinawa overflows with
stories of ships being hit, repeatedly. Many of them were terribly damaged, and a
staggering number of them were sunk (or had to be sunk by friendly forces, since they
were too badly damaged to be towed back and repaired). The Queen had several close
calls, like every other ship there, but on 12 May 1945 her luck ran out for a second time.
The afternoon of May 12th we were underway at 15 knots. At 1832 hours, two destroyers
escorting us were detached, and we slowed down, in order to safely approach an
anchorage to which we had been assigned. Again, quoting verbatim from the ship’s log:
“1903 Bogie 285 (T), 16 miles. 1905 Went to Air Defense. 1909 Bogie 300 (T), 7 miles.
Identified as Bandit by Sky Control. 1910 Went to GENERAL QUARTERS. 1911
Opened fire on Bandit. 1913 Plane (probably OSCAR) splashed near stern. 1914 Jap
plane (probably OSCAR) hit amidships on the Gun Deck at the base of stack.”
26
As the dramatic photo on the previous page indicates, the resultant fireball engulfed a
large portion of BB-40. Fire and shrapnel undoubtedly swept across the 04 Level’s open
platform, where I so often spent time. But, of course, since the ship’s company was at
General Quarters, I was – again - safely inside my steel cocoon.
Based on my prior experience in January, and the unusual noises I heard, over and above
the din of automatic weapons, I was pretty sure we had been hit again. The loudspeaker
quickly confirmed this, as damage control and first aid parties were dispatched to the
scene. This time, the damage was much worse, and the number of my comrades that were
killed or wounded was significantly higher.
The final count, from the worst battle damage The Queen ever suffered, was 54 killed
and 119 wounded.
About a half hour after all that happened, I was able to go out onto that platform. Smoke
was still billowing from the starboard side gun deck, but the wind blew it from the side of
the ship, so I had a clear view of the damaged areas. I wish it hadn’t.
The gun deck was really on two levels.
The lower area was fitted with several
five inch open mounts; part of the ship’s
original weaponry. The upper area (where
ship’s boats had been located in
peacetime) had a row of 20 MM open
mounts, and had been nicknamed “The
Jap Trap”. This was our last line of
defense against suicide attacks. In this
photo, looking aft from one level below
my platform, a couple 20 MM guns are
just barely visible on the right side of the
image.
But when I looked down that day, there
was hardly anything left that I could
recognize at all. Forgive me if I don’t go
into any more detail than that.
Sometime after things settled down a bit, I noticed that there was shrapnel damage to the
armored tube (Item #8 on the Plan View of the 04 Level), located inside the aft bulkhead
that shielded me from the blast effects of that Kamikaze hit. Whatever had penetrated to
that point had only one more relatively thin interior bulkhead to go through in order to
have gotten to me! As they say, ignorance is quite often bliss…
For the rest of that day, almost until midnight, small craft surrounded our ship, lending as
much assistance as they possibly could. At 2315 the last of the wounded that could be
moved to a nearby hospital ship had been transferred. Shortly after midnight, enemy
planes were reported in our vicinity, and we went back to General Quarters.
27
In time, another official battle damage report was issued, summarizing what happened to
us on 12 May 1945.
The following excerpt from the ship’s log is included in its entirety, to honor my
shipmates who made the ultimate sacrifice and were taken ashore, to be buried on
Okinawa. From the log for the 0800 to the 1200 watch, Sunday, 13 May 1945:
Sunday, 13 May 1945 was Mothers’ Day…
The damage suffered from that second Kamikaze strike included several structural
members above the ship’s propulsion plant. The damage was so extensive, it even
reached down to some of our boilers. Consequently, we lay at anchor for two weeks,
while repair parties came aboard to patch us up enough to allow us to proceed to Guam
for more repairs at the repair facility there.
During this period of time, enemy attacks continued, and numerous other ships also had
sailors killed and wounded and suffered damage to varying degrees, including several of
our smaller ships that were sunk. On Monday, 28 May we hoisted anchor and limped
away from Okinawa; bound for Guam.
We were diverted to Luzon, where a month’s worth of permanent repairs were made by
the skilled men of the USS VULCAN (AR-5). Our next set of orders sent us to the
anchorage of Saipan, where we were supposed to participate in fleet preparations for the
support of a huge invasion of the Japanese home islands.
28
~ VICTORY AT SEA ~
Shortly after we arrived in Saipan, on 15 August 1945, we got the welcome news that the
Japanese had surrendered. As I recall, there was a lot of yelling and cheering, but that’s
about all. I’m sure everyone was thinking: “When do we get to go home?”
As it turned out, the very next day we left port, but headed west, not east. Our ship, along
with hundreds of others, had been ordered to sail to Japan to support Allied occupation
forces and to discourage any attacks on these troops. On Monday, 27 August 1945, the
ship’s log recorded the sighting of land. At 1330 hours, Mount Fujiyama became visible,
and less than two hours later we dropped anchor, along with other elements of Task
Group 35.90 in Sagami Wan (Tokyo’s outer bay), within sight of Honshu, Japan.
As we approached, everyone was nervous. We were at General Quarters and the ship was
in a high degree of readiness (called Material Condition ZEBRA). Because land was on
the port side, I violated the rules, and lifted a port hole cover just long enough to sneak a
peek. We were so close, I could see the Japanese coastal defense positions. They had
been ordered to unload, point their weapons away from the sea and keep the breeches
open. But no one trusted them, so all the American battleships had their main batteries
trained towards shore.
Over several days, a large
part of the US Navy’s
Pacific Fleet assembled
there, along with a number
of Allied ships; mostly
British and Australian. It
made for a spectacular
scene, with ‘the mountain’
in the background. Our
uneasiness continued for
several days. A condition
of readiness just short of
General Quarters was
maintained the entire time
we were there.
At night, the weather decks were patrolled by armed sentries, and the NEW MEXICO’s
boat crews shared in providing a small boat patrol for the anchorage. Each morning, just
before dawn, our main battery of naval rifles was trained on the beach, and our antiaircraft weapons fully manned.
On 30 August we weighed anchor, along with two other battleships and steamed a short
distance to be within easy range of the Atsughi Naval Air Station. Our mission was to
provide fire support for allied airborne landings there that day, in case the Japanese
resisted. I don’t recall seeing the airborne troops parachute in, but apparently everything
went according to plan, for that afternoon we moved back to our prior anchorage.
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Although we were kept in a high state of readiness, some things onboard our ship were
relaxed a bit. For example, we were given more information, over the loudspeaker, about
what was going on around us than we had ever received before. One of those
transmissions included a bit of comical ‘misinformation’ that apparently was broadcast
back home.
When the battleship MISSOURI joined us, to be the centerpiece of the surrender
ceremonies, a news commentator onboard her provided a vivid word-picture.
Dramatically, he described her majestic entry into the Japanese home waters, and assured
his audience that there was no danger because, and I quote: “The sky is dark with
aircraft!” Well, that sounded like something worth witnessing, so I rushed outside to see
for myself. There wasn’t a plane in sight!
~ 2 SEPTEMBER 1945…V-J DAY ~
On Sunday, 2 September 1945, the day World War Two officially ended, the crew of the
NEW MEXICO, except those on watch, mustered at 0800 hours on main deck. As a part
of our transition from war to peace, and to make the fleet more ‘photogenic’, I suppose,
we had been ordered to put on our dress white uniforms.
It had been months since I had worn anything except all blue work clothes, and my
‘whites’ were wadded and wrinkled up, on the very bottom of my sea bag. Others
onboard The Queen had not worn their whites literally for years. Muster that morning
revealed the results; ill-fitting and badly pressed uniforms, many of which were various
shades of yellow – instead of stark white.
At 0855 hours, Com3rdFlt ordered all radars to be secured, I presume to avoid
interference with the world-wide radio broadcast of the surrender ceremonies that took
place a few minutes later on the USS MISSOURI. We were anchored to port of the
MISSOURI, on the side away from where the ceremonies took place, and too far away to
see anything, anyway. But the broadcast was played on the ship’s loudspeakers, so we
could at least hear what was going on that historic day.
By 0940 hours, the relatively short ceremony was over, and the fleet’s radars were put
back into normal operation. As I recall, there was some cheering, but no wild
celebrations. History records, perhaps too dramatically, that the overcast skies cleared,
just as the surrender ceremony ended, and that a 1,000 planes roared over the fleet.
Perhaps, but I have no recollection of such.
What I do recall is that everyone’s thoughts again turned to our favorite topic: When can
we go home?
I don’t remember much else about that day, except writing home. I sent a letter to my
younger brother in a commemorative envelope that was created in the ship’s print shop,
thinking he might like to have it as a keepsake.
I was right; see the next page:
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Please note the last sentence – “I’ll have lots of things to tell you about then.” For those
who think I sometimes procrastinate somewhat, let it be observed that I fulfilled this
promise. It just took me almost 62 years to do so!
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After the surrender was signed, we remained at anchor as the occupation of Japan by
Allied forces continued. On 4 September, 37 of my shipmates (those who had the greatest
number of ‘points’ accumulated), left the ship and boarded a troop transport, bound for
home. The Navy had established a complicated point system, assigned values to a sailor’s
time at sea, exposure to battle, any injuries, and other factors. The guys with the most
points, generally the ones who had been onboard BB-40 the longest, got to go home first.
I knew, because of my relatively late appearance on the scene, that I would be one of the
last to leave the ship.
~ HOMEWARD BOUND; COMING FULL CIRCLE ~
Thursday 6 September 1945 was a more important day, to me, than the previous historic
Sunday. At 1443 hours, we weighed and set a course for HOME. Over the next several
weeks, we steamed steadily east, stopping briefly in Hawaii and transiting the Panama
Canal, before heading north, up the east coast of the United States. Ironically, on this
peaceful ‘cruise’, some high ranking officer decided we needed something to do, so – for
the first time on the NEW MEX – I had to stand watch.
My assigned watch station made as little sense as the
assignment. Three of us, two petty officers and a
‘striker’, were told to stand watch in Admiral’s “Day
Room”, one level above my normal location. We did not
have an Admiral onboard, at the time, so there was
nothing whatsoever to watch for, much less report.
Nevertheless, orders were orders, and true to the finest
traditions of the United States Navy, we skillfully
improvised.
Each night, just before we went on watch, the Striker would go down to the galley and
get two pots of coffee; one black the other with cream and sugar. He brought those up to
where another petty officer and I waited, and we proceeded to do our duty. Which was to
consume the contents of those two pots before our four-hour watch ended.
When we reached Pearl Harbor, I did – finally - get to go ashore in Hawaii; but not on
Liberty, but for business purposes. Lieutenant Rudy, my friend Lynwood and I went
ashore to replenish the ship’s radar equipment spares. Why, exactly, that was so
necessary, since we were heading back to the states, I didn’t know. But I soon found
out…
The Lieutenant, who by that time was more of a friend than a superior, had managed to
borrow a jeep from someone he knew that was stationed there. We quickly found the
right warehouse, got everything on our shopping list, and arranged to have it sent back to
the ship. Then, the three of us took off on an unauthorized tour of Oahu for the rest of the
day. It wasn’t officially Liberty in Hawaii, but it sure was nice. That was the first time I
had been ashore since joining the NEW MEXICO off Luzon in late 1944.
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Days later, after transiting the Panama Canal, which was my first time to have that
experience, our group of ships proceeded up the east coast. As we passed each seaport,
one or two of the ships with us would peel off, and go into port. By the time we got to
Boston, on 17 October, I think we were the only ship left. Other ships also went to west
and gulf coast ports, and even up some rivers. On NAVY DAY - 29 October 1945 – there
was a nationwide celebration, with all the ships open for visitation.
From then until early February of 1946, I remained on the ship, with very little to do. By
that time, we were aware that the NEW MEXICO, like many of the older ships in the
fleet, would almost certainly be decommissioned at some future date. We were given
Liberty quite often, so I did get to see some of the sights in Boston, most often in the
company of my friend Lynwood Morrison.
After the war, we went our separate ways. He returned to his home town of Rochester,
New York, and took a job with Eastman Kodak. Over the years, we lost complete
contact. Too busy being civilians, I suppose. Years later, in 1999, I attended a NEW
MEXICO crew reunion, in anticipation of seeing my old pal. Those hopes were dashed,
when I learned that he had passed away a short time before that reunion was held.
In early February of 1946, I received my discharge orders, and proceeded over land to
Norfolk to muster out of the service – on 11 February 1946. By that time, Helen had
moved back to the Newport News area, managed to find and rent a small apartment, and
had obtained a position at Fort Monroe, working as an army colonel’s secretary.
Renewing acquaintances with other
members of the Lee family was, of
course, a joyous occasion. One of the last
things I did while in uniform was to pose
with my then-little brother Bill so that
our proud “Pop’ could snap this
photograph.
A week later, I was back in the shipyard
to resume and complete my interrupted
apprenticeship. I had come full circle…
That was over sixty years ago.
Since then, I have had a happy and
enriched life, sharing my good fortunes
with Helen for over six decades. Along
the way, we were blessed with three fine
sons, and several grandchildren.
But all of that is another story.
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~ REFLECTIONS OF A BATTLESHIP SAILOR ~
As I now reflect on my navy experiences of so long ago, some events have become
mercifully dim, while others remain vivid, fond memories. I am no different from
millions of others who went into military service during World War Two. It was just
something that had to be done, so we did it. It all happened so long ago, sometimes it’s
hard to believe all that I have just related really happened. When I look at pictures of the
impossibly thin sailor I once was, it all seems even more dream-like.
Again, like countless other members of The Greatest Generation, I wouldn’t trade those
experiences for anything.
However, I have no desire to repeat them, either!
Fortunately, none of my three sons had to serve their nation in wartime, and I certainly
hope none of my grandchildren will ever have to do so. It will be enough for them to
read these recollections and, in some small measure, understand and appreciate what was
done for them in the past. Not by me, but by my shipmates who sailed into harm’s
way…and didn’t come back.
Some battleships got saved
and became combination
museum/memorial
ships.
The NEW MEXICO was
not amongst them. She lives
on,
however,
in
the
memories of All The
Queen’s Men who, like me,
have
augmented
their
memories
with
books,
pictures,
models
and
artifacts that honor her.
Some one once said: “There
are only two kinds of sailors
in the Navy; those who have
served in a battleship and
those that wish they had.” I
would not disagree.
I often think it would be nice to go to sea on a warship again. But without any duties!
However, opportunities like that don’t come along very often in the foothills of Western
South Carolina. Besides, I’m really not up to climbing lots of ladders these days.
So, I suppose, I’ll have to be content with vicariously enjoying these memories of my
youthful, nautical life. In addition, as my surroundings these days visibly attest, I also
have a lot of physical reminders of that most exciting period of time in my life.
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~ ANOTHER USS NEW MEXICO ~
But that’s not quite all, I’m delighted to report. Soon, there will another USS NEW
MEXICO in the United States Navy. Not a battleship, of course, but a nuclear-powered
submarine, SSN-779. To my great satisfaction, she is currently being constructed at
Newport News, where I once learned and practiced the art of shipbuilding.
When SSN-779 goes to sea, in the year 2008, she will undoubtedly often sail alone on
secret missions, as is the norm for submarines. But, maybe, just maybe, this 21st century
Queen of the Seas will have a ghostly guardian as an eternal escort, whenever and
wherever she has to sail in harm’s way to protect our great nation…
I certainly like to think so, and that ‘my’ old ship – like I, the Lee family’s ancient
mariner - will then have also come full circle.
Howard E. Lee, Jr.
March 2007
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